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adrian chase - vigilante

masterlist • dc • 07/15/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs II gif credit - @/myrcella-lannister

here are some adrian chase stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡

ꨄ︎ complex simplicity pt2 I @bingoboingobongo

Adrian has to share a room with her, and he’s not sure how he feels about that.

ꨄ︎ large iced americano pt2 pt3 I @plzu

Adrian needs a pick-me-up before he can scout the night as Vigilante. The barista in the new coffee shop is someone he hasn't seen since high school.

ꨄ︎ sauced I @/plzu

Turns out the busboy you work with is surprisingly beefy.

ꨄ︎ hot to go I @seancekitsch

Rick knows he shouldn't shit where he eats. Rick knows Waller would demote him in a second if she knew he was letting you and your de facto guard dog have special privileges on this mission. Rick knows he shouldn't take you up on your offer to play a game. (rick x reader x adrian).

ꨄ︎ can i ask you a question? I @/seancekitsch

ꨄ︎ it’s his birthday I @lysenfeu

The 11th Street kids take Adrian out to celebrate for his birthday and try to set him up with the cute bartender.

ꨄ︎ helluva drug I @/lysenfeu

A civilian gets caught in the crossfire as Vigilante busts a drug operation outside Evergreen and they both get exposed to a strange new substance.

ꨄ︎ slumber party I @bippot

Had Vigilante intended to find the missing Mayor's daughter? No, but he wasn't going to admit that. He'd completed the 11th Street Kids' mission entirely by himself and found himself caring for the kidnapped girl.

ꨄ︎ vigilante hotline I @vigilvntes

You text in to Vigilante's 'vigilante hotline' after a bad encounter at the club.

ꨄ︎ dude, where’s my underwear? I @/vigilvntes

your relationship with Adrian is exposed after Harcourt discovers a not so welcome surprise on her desk.

ꨄ︎ stop talking I @/vigilvntes

ꨄ︎ deadly nightshade, cherry tree I @/vigilvntes

reader and Adrian have been together for a while and she finds out about his identity, freaks out and threatens to leave but he begs her to stay and says he cant live without her. she feels awful for making him cry so they have makeup sex and it ends with him saying he'll kill her if she pulls this shit again.

ꨄ︎ the first first date I @/vigilvntes

ꨄ︎ be my valentine? I @/vigilvntes

ꨄ︎ cheesy couple I @/vigilvntes

ꨄ︎ my favorite girl I @/vigilvntes

vigilante pays you a visit at work.

ꨄ︎ i got so fucking romantic, i apologize part 2 I @/vigilvntes

Adrian lays his cards out on the table after a night at the bar. They say a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, after all.

ꨄ︎ cold hands, warm heart I @/vigilvntes

ꨄ︎ late nights I @/vigilvntes

Adrian calls late at night with a little more than casual conversation on his mind.

ꨄ︎ doctors orders I @/vigilvntes

you're pissed at him, so what better opportunity does adrian have to break out some of his best (worst) pick-up lines?

ꨄ︎ negotiations I @/vigilvntes

recruiting adrian chase into A.R.G.U.S. was never going to be a breaze, but it becomes less of a task once you figure out his weakness.

ꨄ︎ now or never I @whirlybirbs

you patch adrian up. feelings come to a head. adebayo just hopes you two don’t fuck on her desk, y’know?

ꨄ︎ never been kissed I @training4theapocalypse

You're a PI who joins the 11th Street Kids after a chance meeting with John Economos on the dark web. Unfortunately for you, your ex-friend-with-benefits Vigilante is here too.

ꨄ︎ 5+1 I @tropes-and-tales

Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and the One Time He Does)

ꨄ︎ bet on it I @golden-grapes

You bet that there’s no way Adrian’s oral sex skills measure up to his boasting. He takes you up on it. (pt2&3 linked on first part)

ꨄ︎ home is wherever you are I @multifandomfanficss

After accidentally time traveling to the year 1994 you try to lay low until you’re rescued, so you don’t change the future. When an overworked newly divorced waitress asks you if you would like to nanny her kids and their friend in exchange for food and a place to sleep you wonder what’s the worst one family could do to effect the timeline. You never expected to find your boyfriend’s 3 year old self, his 12 year old brother, 13 year old Christopher Smith.

ꨄ︎ fuck you? I @/mutlifandomfanficss

Adrian has his own secret way of asking you to sleep with him.

ꨄ︎ the bet I @jeysbvck

You and Adrian make a bet during a drunk night out.

ꨄ︎ dinner and diatribes I @ichorai

the two of you only brought the worst out of each other, but you just couldn’t stay away.

ꨄ︎ when you become untouchable I @starforgedthor

After earning yourself several life sentences and a one-way ticket to Belle Reve in your early 20s, you've spent the decade and a bit since then establishing yourself as a loyal and effective tool for Waller and her team.

ꨄ︎ you frustrate me incredible I @berrieluv

Adrian is used to talk a lot, and for his good luck, he found someone who can keep up with everything he has to say. He knew his girlfriend would never get tired of him, but sometimes he has to listen too, something he doesn't know how to do.

ꨄ︎ laundry girl I @zo3mess

Laundromat is usually empty so late at night except for Adrian, until it isn’t. But there is no reason for him to get nervous around his new laundry buddy, right?

ꨄ︎ secrets I @sandy-the-glader

Adrian is going through a box of your guy's old stuff and comes across your old assassin suit. He asks about you and your past with crime and he just has one question. Why?

ꨄ︎ fennel fields forever pt2 pt3 I @lunaticsandidiots

you’ve worked at the same restaurant as adrian chase for a long time. it turns out the both of you have been harbouring some pretty big secrets.

ꨄ︎ vigilantes hot I @theowritesstuff

You tell Adrian what you really think about Vigilante

ꨄ︎ hot venom pt2 I @jangofctts

ꨄ︎ insult to injury I @strangelure

ꨄ︎ friendship I @violetrainbow412-blog

ꨄ︎ a horrible nightmare I @/violetrainbow412-blog

ꨄ︎ forks part 2 I @/violetrainbow412-blog

ꨄ︎ there's no wrong time to rock part 2 I @/violetrainbow412-blog

ꨄ︎ as long as you love me I @honeycombstrawberry

adrian goes out of his mind with jealousy, but it's his own fault nobody knows you're together in the first place.

ꨄ︎ another ruse I @/honeycombstrawberry

you and adrian hatch a scheme to steal food for the team, but things don’t go quite according to plan when adrian gets jealous regarding your choice of bait.

ꨄ︎ answer the call I @/honeycombstrawberry

when adrian gets home and you aren't there, he can't assume the worst, because if the worst has happened, then he thinks he might lose his fucking mind.

ꨄ︎ no time for smart choices I @strangelure

ꨄ︎ i was made for lovin’ you I @nghtwngs

it’s hard to admit that you may like adrian a little more than you want to, but kissing him just comes so easy for you

ꨄ︎ angsty request I @moon-fics

Can you really call this relationship a routine? Or is it insanity?

ꨄ︎ the four times adrian almost discovers your identity and the one time he finally did. I @thevampirekeke

The four times Adrian accidentally almost saw your face and the one time he actually accidentally discovers your identity without you even knowing.

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lowkey... all this mess has me inspired a bit... like.. what about adrian kissing you to make chris jealous after the orgy? but the second he does its like his brain tips out of his head because jesus fuck you taste amazing? and you're so willing? and when he pulls back, your eyes are shiny and dazed and he kind of can't breathe. shit he may need to kiss a third person to make you jealous, now, too.

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here comes the sun.

clark kent x fem reader. (3k)

clark faces his first failure as superman, and he runs right back home to you.

content: childhood bsfs to lovers, fluff, comfort, he screws up and his automatic reaction is to fly all the way back to Smallvile to see his best friend?, idiots in love, you’re metaphorically his sun, to those who read eyes like pretty lights wink wink this is for you too

Clark finds you waiting in the fields.

He doesn’t recall much of the last twenty-four hours. It was all a blur when he had taken off, flying back to Smallvile after the incident. He's sure the news has already invented creative ways to scrutinise his impulsivity. He wishes he could drown out the yelling- the utter disappointment in the faces of strangers who looked down on him from the crater he made for himself in the cement. He did his best to scrub off the dirt from under his fingernails, and yet, he still smells the scent of soot and brick.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. There is no better critic than the one inside his head, chastising the naive dream he wanted to accomplish as Superman. To use his strength for something he believed would do good. He pulls at the edge of the shirt his Ma had left on the edge of his bed absentmindedly, heading off in the direction his parents had told him to go. To find the one person he needed to see.

He would be lying if he said he didn’t remember the first time he saw you. Wild eyes, and crazy, uncombed hair staring at him, mouth gaped open the first time he crashed into your barn, at the ripe age of five, a wild flying incident gone wrong. Despite the soreness of his limbs, it doesn’t deter the speed that he drags himself across the open fields. Distance makes the heart fonder, some would say, but he's gone too long without you. His best friend. God, he missed you so much.

The limp in his gait subsides as he makes his way towards you. He knows it's not because of the sun that soaks the grass blades he wades through, healing the cuts in his skin. No, it's the sight of your unruly hair, coated by the sun- painting you as a perfect vision.

You turn to him, and for the first time since he woke, he allowed himself to breathe.

"Hey, Big Blue." You barely manage it out before he's tackling you in his arms, lifting you up above the ground. Your feet dangle, but you don't complain- not like you usually do in a teasing way, kicking him at his knees. Maybe you've already seen the news, he hopes you didn't.

"Just Clark today." He murmurs.

"Yeah?" Your hand rests on the nape of his neck, brushing the waves that gather at the ends. "Didn't know there was a difference. Was always just you to me."

He holds you tighter, eyes squinting shut to focus on your breathing and the sway of the wind against your hair. "You’re here."

"Where else would I be?" You answer so easily, and he likes the idea of you being a constant. When everything has gone so wrong, he thinks that holding you like this, hearing your voice- it's one of the few things left keeping him sane, from flying off to the sun and far away from Earth. He has never felt so unwelcome in the planet he calls home, but here- he's starting to rework on what that word means to him.

Settling at the bench, he stares out at the fields as you shift in your position to look at him, head leaning against your knuckles, arm rested on the wooden back. Maybe he's oddly sentimental in your presence, but he swears he can hear your light-hearted shrieks- running through the fields as he flies to catch you, tumbling both of you into the grass. The past and present intertwine with the familiar position of the sun raised right across the acres lined with trees in the distance.

"You'll find yourself, Clark." You find his fears through the jumble of his thoughts, you always did. With all the warmth of a summer's morning, your hand drops from the bench to take his into a comforting squeeze. "Don't let the world tell you who you are." Pressing your other hand to his heart, it beats steadily against your palm. "You don't owe them this."

"But I'm supposed to protect them." His voice cracks. "Who will trust me to protect them now?"

"I do." For a moment, it's as if only your figure exists in his preliminary vision. Could the world feel so small compared to the very existence of you? As if your very presence, reminding him that he has someone who sees all of him, and is okay with that- soothes him to forget about the disdain that has been cast onto him. "In time, the world will see it too, that there's no one they should trust more than Clark Kent, to keep the goodness in this world."

"How good can I possibly be to make up for it?" He mutters. "They don’t want me."

"You don't need to make up for anything.” There’s a grip in your voice, trying to convince him. “The effort you pour into this world, it’s more than enough, Clark. It's human, to put in all you can give every day- even if it isn't perfect."

“Human?” He huffs in amusement, bitter to himself. “If only you knew the names they wrote about me.”

There’s a sharp inhale from you, and he turns in time to see the way the sun reflects in your irises, the press of your brows. "You are human, Clark. One who I'll always have the pleasure of calling my best friend. You don't need to save everyone to prove that you are one of us."

"Thank-" His voice catches. He can't look away from you, but his vision blurs. You pull him in for a tight hug, and he can only hold on as he tries to swallow past the tight lump in his throat.

"I owe you this much." You reassured him. "You are so kind and so good, Clark. You don't deserve this." He feels the heavy-weighted sigh in your chest, and your genuine want to take away his pain.

"Can you stay with me?" He asks, even if he knows your answer. When the world has thrown him off his feet, his heart claws for one selfish act- just one greed to keep.

"Always."

"This has been a very unlucky week." He sighs.

"Very." You chuckle softly, pulling away and resting your forehead against his.

"It's worth it if I have you." He whispers. A quiet, soft admission- but honest and sweet, just like him. "I'll take one you over the world liking me any day."

"Careful." You warn playfully. "You’re cutting close on our unspoken limit of three cheesies per month."

"Cut me some slack." He huffs, though it breaks off into a laugh of his own.

"Fine." You whisper, shuttering on eye shut. "I'll close one eye this time."

"Want to make breakfast together?" He asks. His hand itches to have you in his kitchen again, to hear your footsteps across the creaky wooden boards as you parade around with his Ma's apron tied around your back. To forget anything of who he is except the boy he was growing up beside you.

"Think your Ma's got some of that strawberry jam from the farmer's market." You assume. "Want to make pancakes, and some strawberry toast?"

"Yes." To all of that. He wants to tell you how much he wants to, how grateful he is that you'll let him have this- but like you said, he's hitting his three sentence limit, and the month isn't close to over yet.

"Alright." You grin, breaking away from the close proximity to leap off the bench. "First person to reach the kitchen gets the remaining lemonade."

He barely registers what you've said before you're off, a smoke of dust left in your trail. He can't help the laugh that shakes out of his chest. The sun is bright, it's fullest potential in the clear skies of Smallvile, but it wasn't the brightest thing here.

He runs after you, through the open backdoor into his kitchen where he sees you, whispering to his Ma who has a concerned expression. He watches as his Ma's wrinkles melt into a relieved smile, and she pulls you into a hug, whispering words of gratitude.

His heart stutters at the scene, and he doesn't think he'll ever find a girl his Ma loves as much as you. He's never thought of bringing anyone who wasn’t you into his home, to his parents- and at that thought, he realises he doesn't want to. It feels right for you to be here.

He towers over you as you turn around, craning your neck to meet his gaze. His hand reaches out behind you, opening the fridge door by the clasp and grabbing the pitcher of lemonade. “Guess I won." He hums.

"I let you win."

"I know." He smiles, his dimple tracing the edge of his cheek. "I'm still taking it as a win."

"Course you do, you loser." You tease. "I know you'll share it anyways."

"You lovebirds take your debate out of my kitchen." His Ma cuts in, though her teasing, warm smile tells him she only said it to call them so, not out of actual annoyance. "I need my stove for lunch's soup special."

"Sorry, Mama Kent!" A good, sweet-natured smile stays on your lips as you move aside and out of his reach. Taking two plates with toast and the remaining strawberry jam into the crook of your elbow, you tilt your head towards him, gesturing to the living room. He watches as you plop down at the sofa, legs up and comfortable. He follows after you, course he does- with two cups of lemonade.

Handing one to you, he ignores your knowing smirk and takes a sip.

"So, what does Mr. Metropolis want to do today for his special visit?” You ask. "I think my Ma could use some help tidying up the farm if you want? I was planning on feeding the chicks too."

"Sure." He answers. "I'm up for anything."

"Yeah, guess you're kinda temporarily unemployed."

He tosses a pillow at you and you raise your hands just in time so it doesn't hit your toast or lemonade. "Too soon?"

He rolls his eyes, but he can’t stop the quirk of his lips. "I'm doing it for your Ma, not for you."

"Right, right." You swirl your glass, using your legs to shift the pillow that landed into your lap. "Why don't we switch the telly on? Maybe we can find some old cartoon networks still wired in."

He obliges, taking the remote and turning on the television. He skips through a weather forecast, an old black and white film (you claim to have watched it before and according to your words, it's awfully bad), but his hand freezes when he toggles to the news report station.

'Metropolis Under Fire - Where Is Superman?' scrolls through the headliner, and his eyes can't believe the destruction he's seeing while he had been away. That anxiety seizes in his chest, and his grip tightens on his glass- almost enough for it to crack.

Helpless, that’s the feeling that consumes him as he stares, frozen to his indecisions. He has to help them, but his thoughts seem to scream — they don’t want you.

Yellow polka dots block his vision before he can see anymore. He forces himself to look up from the fabric of your dress, and sees his suit in your arms, cape in hand. "Come on, Big Blue." You usher. "You've got a city to save."

"But-"

"The farm can wait. Smallvile can wait." Your eyes are sparkling, and you raise a brow in challenge. "The world needs you, whether they like it or not. Go show them who you are, Clark."

Something snaps in him, and he rises up, taking the suit from your hands. "I'll be back." He promises.

"I know." There are a few things that have become certain to him since he became Superman. The world can be cruel and impossibly hard to please, but it’s still his home. It doesn’t change the fact that when the world needs help, he’ll do anything to give it.

Taking in your smile, steady and reassuring, it tells him all he needs to know. Distance hasn’t made the heart grown fonder, he’s just been an idiot. He could never put together the words for why you matter to him the same way he needs the sun, but coming back home to you, it all pieces together. You’re right, the city needs saving, but there’s something else he has to tell you when he’s back. With a promise to keep and a city to protect, he takes on the suit and leaves for Metropolis.

It's nearly midnight.

You wait anxiously on the phone, pacing back and forth as you wait for something- anything from the news or his cellphone. It’s been more than fourteen hours since you last saw Clark- and it’s killing you.

The man heals from the freaking sun, he’s practically invisible. Yet, the crickets are chirping with no sun rays in sight, and no Clark either.

Maybe he's resting at his place in Metropolis, you try to console yourself. The journey back to Smallvile isn't easy after a fight, especially at night when his energy is depleted. You know he promised he'd be back, and he always did keep his promises. Pressing at your heart, you tried to take deep breaths to calm the intense marathon your heart was trying to accomplish, when you hear a sudden ‘ping!’

Jumping at the notification, you check it to see an update from Metropolis News, an account you’ve only begun following since your idiotic best friend decided to move to that horrid city.

‘Superman Saves The Day - Metropolis Miracle!’

You nearly cry tears of relief, and you turn to tell Ma and Pa Kent, who must have already deduced the good news from your delight- only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. All three pairs of ears perk up, but you’re first to react, on your feet as you unlock the bolt of the door.

Clark stumbles through the frame, nearly falling if it weren’t for you using your hands to catch him- well, more like stop him from face-planting the floor. You stumble with him, but your arms steady him enough for him to shift some of his weight back on his feet so you weren’t bearing it all.

“Clark!” Ma and Pa Kent exclaim at the same time, showcasing the strange synchronicity they have over the worry of their super-powered son. They rush on over, engulfing him into a hug, trapping all of you into a suffocating, bear squeeze.

“Ma- Pa.” He gasps. “I’m okay. I’m okay.”

“You worried the life out of us!” Pa Kent weeps, pulling away to rub his arm over his eyes.

“Pa- I’m fine. I’m sorry for worrying you.” Clark's expression is twisted in guilt, but his voice only seems to make his father more emotional.

“Don’t feel sorry, son. It’s normal for your Pa to be worried.” Ma Kent cuts in, giving a kiss to Clark’s cheek, brushing over her son’s hair and cupping his face- expression filled with relief. “She’s been waiting for you all day. I’ll give some time for the two of you and take your Pa upstairs, alright? We’ll talk in the mornin’.”

Clark nods, squeezing his Ma’s hand before his gaze lands on you. You’ve been his best friend since practically forever, but something’s different in his gaze when he looks at you. It’s not the fondness you’re used to, or his teasing expressions. It’s serious, rare- and utterly beautiful.

“Hey, Big Blue.” You whisper into the night. The crickets outside compete with your voice, but there’s something so tender about this moment that you can’t risk breaking with one of your jokes.

Your words seem to snap him out of his stupor, and he approaches you, boots heavy on the floorboards as he pulls you in gently, resting his head into the crook of your neck.

“I’m glad.” He sighs. “That you’re here.”

“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.”

He shushes you softly, telling you he’s not done. “It’s not just that.” Pulling away just enough to meet your eyes, the warmth in his gaze soaks you in nothing else but clear blue. "I always knew growing up, that I wanted to help others. But what happened yesterday, it nearly made me forget why I started all this.” His voice is guilty in admission, a crinkle in the center of his brows.

"Then you just came in with all your belief in me.” He breathes out, as if he still can’t quite believe it. “That I sometimes don't even have in myself. You didn't question me, you just knew. You reminded me why I do what I do, even if it's hard."

"I'm so thankful that you're my person." He confesses. "You have no idea how thankful. I don’t think I’ll ever get to express how lucky I am to have met you.” Brushing the side of your face, he’s taking you in as if it were the first time.

The silence holds onto the atmosphere as you take in his words. He’s always been honest, but tonight, he’s close to tearing out his heart and offering it to you for keeps.

“You’re my person too, Clark.” Your heart is beating so loud, you hope he can’t hear it. You try convincing yourself it’s just your relief from seeing him unharmed, and not how different he feels, towering over you, expressing the words akin to a love letter to your bond.

Hearing your words, he lets out a held breath against your skin. A satiated smile crosses his lips as he looks down at you, head slightly bopping against yours, mushing his curls flat. “I’m so tired.”

You laugh. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“But I have so many things to-” A yawn cuts his words midway. “-tell you.”

“Then we can wait for tomorrow.” You reassure him, pulling back despite his groans of protest. “I’ll be here to let you boast all about your acts of heroism.”

“Promise?” His sleepy expression is adorable, even as he tries blinking a few times to open his eyes. The dark circles beneath his eyes wears your heart out just by looking at them. He's overworked himself, to no one's surprise.

You lift your hand, holding out your pinky. “Promise.”

He smiles a silly grin as he links his pinky with yours, locking them together. "Tell your Ma I'm sorry I couldn't help out at the farm today." He murmurs, and you can't help but laugh.

"Who's the one telling me to cut him some slack?" You chastise lightly, holding onto him as you brought him to his room. "You're the one beating yourself up over nothing."

"I was really looking forward to it." He admits to you. "I wanted to spend the whole day with you."

"Well, you can make it up to me tomorrow." You coerce. "Consider it the penalty for going over the 'three cheesies’ policy."

His mouth parts open, blinking before he groans. "Thought you forgot about that."

"Sure didn't." You tease, pushing open his door into his room. It hasn't changed one bit, since the days of childhood. It’s a little smaller, somehow, but maybe that’s the room adjacent to the size of him as he lands roughly onto his bed.

"Fine, deal. We're still having pancakes tomorrow, we missed out on that today." His stunning smile, crinkled and bright, relieves you from all the worries that swirled in your mind. Here in his childhood room as he rambles on what the itinerary was for tomorrow, surrounded by his punk-rock posters and science fair projects littered across the walls — the framed picture of you and him on the nightstand, it really hits you.

Clark was finally home.

a/n: i'm going to be honest i completely wrote this dedicated to the reader & clark dynamic in 'eyes like pretty lights'. this is set in their past, before she moves to metropolis, and when he's just started out and the public was still skeptical on Superman. love exploring their dynamic and past together, my cuties. might write about her moving in next, but some good ol history together is always my favourite hehe. hope you enjoyed reading!

taglist: @kissmxcheek @canyon-moon-carly @superiorbyfar @mauvesmax @trulovekay @me-by-my-lonesome @puppyseungm0 @ririxxbat @ax-alienated @yeonalie @itsjusta-prank-han

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tiny clark blurb! if you have any requests for clark, please come to my inbox <33333 love u (my clark kent masterlist)

david corenswet!clark kent x reader, fluff

- you wash clark's hair and praise him until he turns red

"It's fine like this," you say, softly. "You can lean back."

Clark is hesitant. His legs don't fit properly in the tub as he's very tall, and leaning his head back might not help. He tries to move as gracefully as possible, slides down in the tub to do as you told.

You offered to wash his hair for him, not because it's not clean or he can't do it himself, but because it's a great way to relieve stress. Clark's been carrying the world's worry, a lot harder these days than ever, and he's trying to be nonchalant about it. He tries to be cool so that you don't worry about him too much, but you notice. You notice more than what he shows. He needs some relief. He needs someone to take care of him. Poor, lovely sweetheart.

"Is it okay?" he asks. His shoulders are tight.

"Perfect." you respond. You kiss his shoulder, he relaxes visibly.

His hair's already wet, you push it back from his forehead with kind fingers. Clark closes his eyes. You get closer to his face, your hand cupping his cheek and your thumb pressing on his dimple. He has a lovely smile, your favorite thing to see each morning. Your thumb draws an invisible circle on his cheek as he leans into your touch. He takes a deep breath and releases it.

"Okay," you say, softly. You have a job, you can't be too distracted by his beauty. "Let's begin with the shampoo."

Clark nods. He hears the sound of shampoo being squeezed to your palm. Then he feels your hands, applying the shampoo on his scalp and using your fingers to let it reach everywhere on his head. You move your fingers until bubbles appear, the familiar scent of cleanness fills the air.

He doesn't have to do anything besides laying down and enjoying the treatment. It's weird, Clark thinks, how natural this feels. Or maybe it's not, since he's been yours the moment you first looked into his eyes. Nothing ever felt absurd since that moment, you were a part of him. Your touch felt safe, your arms were always open when it was hard to sleep at night. He listened to your heartbeat to keep going, he kept reminding himself that he can't give up. There's this urge now, right there in his chest, to protect you. To keep you safe. To keep you smiling, laughing at his stupid jokes. He worries too much, sometimes, what if he fails? What if he's not strong enough? What if he falls?

"You're gonna get wrinkles if you keep frowning," you say. "Can Superman get wrinkles? I'm not even sure."

Clark smiles. You kiss the spot between his brows.

"I'm gonna stop frowning," he says. His eyes are still closed. "Promise."

"Good," you tell him. He feels warm.

Your fingers are heaven in his hair. So soft, like he's gonna break if you press any harder. You massage his scalp, your hands finding his neck often, you put pressure on tight spots. He smells so nice, that dopey smile on his lips makes you grin. Precious. He's so precious.

"You're so pretty." you whisper, unable to stop yourself.

"You're only saying that 'cause you're trying to make me smile." Clark blushes.

"I mean it, though," you say. You kiss his cheek soundly. "You're the prettiest person I know. I think about it every time I see you. Every time you look at my way, I'm like- Wow. Does he even notice how lovely he is?"

Clark feels his cheeks heaten. How can you say such nice words and expect him to stay still? He wants to leave the tub, to hold you in his arms and squeeze you until you laugh. He opens his eyes to see you, such a bright blue pair, they look right into your soul.

"I love you," he whispers. "I- I'm so confused, I've never been told such nice things. By someone I love, like I love you."

You bite your bottom lip. Your fingers still move in his hair.

"That's okay," you tell him. "Close your eyes. I'll say even nicer things that I think of every time I see you."

He closes his eyes. He never knew such comfort could exist in the world. You praise him through shampoo and conditioner, when you're done, he's a beautiful mess. He looks at you with sparkly eyes. You let him pull you into the wetness of the tub. He wraps his arms around you so tightly, you're sure he's never gonna leave.

[midniqhtt]

only eyes for you

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: When feelings run deeper than friendship, one confession changes everything between Clark and you.

Word count: 5k+

Warnings: fluff, jealousy

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 elevator dings open with its usual sluggish charm, a mechanical groan that signaled the start of yet another long day at the Daily Planet. Clark stepped out, surprisingly early, a rare but intentional move, as if beating the morning rush might somehow settle the nerves that had been fluttering in his chest since 5:47 a.m. He held a coffee in one hand—black, no sugar, lukewarm by now—and his other hand kept drifting to his collar, adjusting it with increasing frequency. Tug. Glance. Tug again. The shirt was new, pressed so neatly it still bore the faintest imprint of its packaging folds, but it hung awkwardly on his frame like it didn’t quite belong to him. It would have looked sharp—confident, even—if he hadn’t already tugged at the collar three times from just glancing toward your desk.

You weren’t there yet.

Your monitor blinked idly, in that faint, tired way of machines that knew the rhythm of their owners. It waited for you like it always did—patient, unbothered—until you’d arrive with your usual combination of sleep-blurred eyes and dry wit. Mornings with you were a ritual: a soft yawn, a stretch that always made your sweater ride just slightly off one shoulder, and a half-sincere “I’m quitting this job today” muttered in the general direction of Lois, who always smirked in reply without looking up from her keyboard. Then you'd sit down, scoot your chair in with that same little sigh you always made, and start your day with stubborn fire and the faintest smell of coconut shampoo trailing behind you like a secret.

Clark sighed. He adjusted his glasses, more for something to do than any real necessity, and tried not to look like he was waiting.

He totally was.

“You know,” came a voice beside him, casual and sharp like a knife dressed as a butter spreader, “most people just ask the person out instead of brooding around their desk every day like a sad Victorian widow.”

Clark startled, nearly spilling his coffee. Lois stood there, arms crossed, eyes glittering with the thrill of good gossip and the subtle satisfaction of knowing she was absolutely right.

“I don’t—brood,” he said, voice going tight, almost defensive. It might’ve carried more weight if his eyes hadn’t flicked once more toward your empty chair.

Lois raised an eyebrow, her smirk stretching wider. “You write award-winning exposés about criminal empires and government cover-ups, and yet you can’t even say ‘hi’ without turning into a tomato when she smiles at you. Face it, Smallville. You got it bad.”

Clark opened his mouth to protest, but the words stalled. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He didn’t know when it had happened, exactly. Maybe it was that first time you made a face during one of Perry’s rants and caught his eye across the room. Maybe it was the way you always talked to interns like their names mattered. Maybe it was the way you swore under your breath when your computer crashed and then apologized to it like it could hear you. Maybe it was all of it—small, ordinary things that slowly pieced themselves together into something extraordinary.

Whatever it was, you’d gotten under his skin. Into his mind. Into his everything.

You were in the quiet spaces—between assignments, in elevator silences, in the stretch of minutes between getting coffee and returning to his desk. You were there in his half-written headlines, in the songs he didn’t remember liking until you hummed them one afternoon. You were the warmth behind his ribs that made winter seem less cruel. You’d crept into his life like sunlight through dusty blinds—soft, steady, and entirely impossible to ignore.

He tried to tell himself it was just a crush. Something small and manageable. A passing thing.

But that was a lie. Clark Kent was many things, but when it came to you, he was no longer capable of half-measures. His feelings weren’t neat or polite or easily brushed away. They were sprawling. Messy. Alive.

He thought of the way you once laughed so hard at something he said that you snorted—just a little—and then looked horrified until he started laughing too. He thought of the day your eyes were red from crying after a phone call, and how you insisted you were fine even as you stayed late to finish your article, your jaw set like stone. He thought of all the moments he’d watched you without realizing, only to catch himself and quickly look away—flushed, guilty, and somehow lighter.

It was terrifying, how much space you already took up in his world.

And yet, the only thing scarier was the thought of never finding the courage to tell you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, far too quickly, and took a sip of his coffee like it might shield him from the truth—or from Lois, who was still watching him with the smug delight of someone who knew she’d won this round.

“Sure,” she said, drawing out the word like it tasted sweet. “Just do me a favor and try not to sigh so tragically when she walks in today, okay? You’re giving the copy interns ideas for fanfiction.”

Clark opened his mouth for a comeback that would probably make him cringe the moment he said it—something dry and sarcastic, a little too defensive to be funny—but shut it the second Perry White’s unmistakable voice boomed across the bullpen like thunder in a newsroom sky.

“All right, everyone—pause your aimless tweeting and come meet our new tech and security correspondent, Jason Walsh. Just hired him from Metropolis Tech Today. Let’s pretend we’re a welcoming environment for five damn minutes.”

A few heads popped up. Chairs squeaked. Lois leaned back in her chair with a raised eyebrow, already assessing the new hire like she was picking apart a résumé with X-ray vision. Clark barely registered the name. New hires came and went. Usually eager, ambitious, a little too quick with coffee orders. He didn’t pay them much mind unless he had to.

At least, not until you walked in.

You came in from the other side of the bullpen, arms full with a laptop and half-finished iced coffee, balancing both like you’d done it a hundred times. The usual: a soft breeze of coconut shampoo, a distracted little smile meant for no one in particular. Clark felt his spine relax instinctively at the sight of you—until you looked across the floor, toward the newcomer, and stopped mid-step.

Your mouth dropped open slightly. “Jason?”

Clark turned, slow and blinking, as if someone had hit pause on his world.

The guy—Jason, apparently—turned at the sound of your voice, and his eyes lit up with recognition. He grinned like he’d just spotted the sun after years of rain.

“No way. Y/N?!” he said, already moving.

You met in the middle of the bullpen, your things nearly tumbling from your arms as he scooped you into a hug. Not a polite, corporate hug. A real one. Long. Tight. Familiar in a way that made Clark’s stomach flip unpleasantly. It was the kind of hug that said history, that said closeness. That said something Clark didn’t know.

He blinked.

What. The. Hell.

You pulled back just enough to laugh, your face lit up like it had its own gravity. “Oh my god, it’s been—what—five years? Since that awful senior internship?”

Jason chuckled, and Clark hated the sound of it instantly. “Awful for you,” he teased. “Best summer of my life.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin that softened the sarcasm. “We used to pull all-nighters in the lab and prank the TA. Remember the Diet Coke incident?”

“How could I forget? That man still probably flinches when he sees Mentos.”

Clark’s jaw tensed.

Then Jason turned toward Perry again, still grinning. “This is wild. Y/N and I were inseparable back in college. Same program, same projects—”

“Same internship, same professors, same caffeine addiction,” you chimed in, laughing, and Jason joined in like it was an inside joke still fresh.

Clark’s stomach twisted. Hard. It sat in his gut like a bad lead story, the kind that wouldn’t quite come together no matter how many times you rewrote the headline.

“Cool,” he said flatly, standing just a few feet away.

You turned toward him, your eyes brightening when you saw him, oblivious to the tightness in his jaw. “Clark! This is Jason Walsh. We were friends in college. He’s—well, I guess we’ll be coworkers now.”

Clark nodded once and extended a hand. The handshake was meant to be quick, professional.

It wasn’t.

He didn’t mean to squeeze. Not really. But somehow, the pressure built anyway, like gravity collapsing inward. Jason blinked and gave a polite chuckle as he tried not to visibly wince.

“Wow,” he said, flexing his fingers as Clark finally let go. “You work out, huh?”

You laughed a little at that, clearly missing the tension—or ignoring it. “Clark’s just a big guy,” you said fondly, nudging him gently. “Don’t let the glasses fool you.”

Clark’s ears burned. He forced a smile. But his thoughts were anything but calm.

Who the hell is this guy? Why didn’t you ever mention him? Why do you look so happy to see him?

The bullpen settled again, the crowd dispersing like a tide rolling out, but something inside Clark stayed standing on that shore, caught in the undertow. He moved back to his desk, trying to focus, typing half a sentence and then deleting it, starting again, forgetting what he meant to write. It was all background noise now. Except you.

Always you.

He kept stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking—watching the way you leaned into Jason’s shoulder when he showed you something on his phone, your laughter lighting up the space between you like a flickering neon sign in a dim alley. The kind of laugh that cracked wide open, the kind you couldn’t fake.

Clark had heard you laugh before—sarcastic, warm, polite, sometimes sharp. But not like that. Not like something being remembered. Not like something returning after a long time away.

You never laughed like that with him.

Something sharp and unfamiliar settled beneath Clark’s ribs—hot and stupid and painful. Jealousy was supposed to be beneath him. Petty. Human. And yet here it was, thrumming through him like the static before a lightning strike.

He glanced again. Jason said something that made you snort through your coffee. You leaned closer.

Clark’s hands clenched under the desk.

He hated this. Hated how small he suddenly felt in his own skin, how large the newsroom seemed around him, like it had reshaped itself to make more room for Jason. He hated how your body language told him more than your words ever had—that there was history there, real history, the kind built in dorm rooms and library corners and late-night coding marathons. The kind Clark couldn’t compete with. The kind that terrified him.

And most of all, he hated that he didn’t know how to ask.

Because asking would mean admitting. Admitting he felt something. That he wanted something. That he wanted you.

And wanting you meant risking everything.

So instead, Clark just sat there.

Silently writing a story he could no longer concentrate on. Trying not to look your way. Failing.

Again and again.

Later on, Clark was typing an article. Or—more accurately—pretending to.

His fingers hovered above the keys, still, uncertain, as if frozen mid-thought. The document on his screen blinked expectantly, cursor pulsing beneath the mockingly unfinished title:

“Untitled Draft 2.”

It glowed in front of him like a neon accusation. The screen had been open for over an hour. Not a single line written. Not a single word formed. Just that blinking cursor, rhythmic and relentless, tapping out a beat that mirrored the low thrum of his growing frustration.

He wasn’t even trying anymore.

Not when you were twenty feet away. Not when you were standing there, leaning casually against the bullpen’s central table, posture loose and open, a coffee cup in one hand and that easy, off-duty kind of smile on your face—the one you only wore when no one important was watching, when the job was momentarily in the background and it was just you, relaxed and real.

And of course, he was there too.

Jason.

Clark didn’t even have to turn his head. He could see everything reflected in the glossy black border of his monitor. Jason was leaning in close, casually close, his body angled toward yours like gravity was pulling him in. He said something—Clark did not want to hear it—but whatever it was, it made you laugh.

Not the polite kind, not the practiced, social chuckle you sometimes used when a source said something awkward.

No, this was your real laugh. The one that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made you throw your head back just slightly. The one where your hand went to your stomach like the joy had surprised it out of you. The laugh Clark had heard only a handful of times and never stopped thinking about.

His fingers curled lightly into fists over the keyboard.

He closed his eyes.

Tried to will the jealousy away, tried to remind himself that he had no claim over you, no right to feel this sharp, bitter thing clawing behind his ribs.

So he did what he always did when his emotions threatened to outrun his composure.

He listened.

Not to the conversations around him—not to the tapping of keyboards, the ringing phones. None of that mattered. He tuned in deeper. Past the distractions. Past the noise.

To you.

Not your voice—he already knew that like a favorite song. No, it was something else. Quieter. More intimate.

Your heartbeat.

It was subtle, just beneath the surface of the world. He hadn’t meant to notice it, months ago, when it first began. But there it was—constant, gentle, and warm. A familiar rhythm in the chaos. He never listened for long. Never intruded. But sometimes, when the newsroom was too loud and his thoughts were louder, he’d find calm in the steady sound of your life.

And lately, he’d noticed something.

When you were near him—close enough to speak, close enough to brush shoulders or share a passing joke—there was a shift. A slight uptick in your heart rate. Barely there, but real. A flutter.

Like nerves. Like anticipation. Like… hope?

He didn’t let himself name it. Not fully. But he noticed it, and every time, he held onto it like a secret.

So now, he listened.

You were laughing. Smiling. You looked… happy.

And yet—

He focused harder. Just for a second. Blocking out everything else.

Your heartbeat.

It was steady.

Too steady.

Calm.

There was no flutter, no gentle race of blood behind your ribs. Nothing like the way your pulse quickened when your fingers brushed his during a shared notepad or when you caught his eye across the newsroom.

His jaw tensed before he could stop it. Something inside him tightened. Then—

He exhaled.

Relieved.

The guilt came next. Immediate and heavy. What kind of person felt relief over someone not being excited about someone else?

You were allowed to laugh. To feel at ease. You were allowed to have history with someone. You were allowed to reconnect, to smile like old memories were good ones.

But still.

God, he hated that guy.

“Hey, Kent.”

Clark jolted.

He’d been so focused on the rhythm of your heartbeat—so tangled in the sound and the silence—that he hadn’t heard Jimmy approach.

He turned, startled. “Yeah?”

Jimmy narrowed his eyes, brow furrowed like a concerned older brother trying to read an alien language. “You good, man?”

Clark blinked once. Then again. He straightened his glasses unnecessarily. “Yeah—why wouldn’t I be?”

Jimmy cocked his head, lips twitching in that way that meant trouble. “You look like you’re either solving a murder… or trying to melt Jason with your brain.”

Clark scoffed quietly, turning back to his screen. “I wasn’t—what? I wasn’t even looking at them.”

Jimmy arched a very Lois-like eyebrow. “Kent, you’ve been staring at your reflection in the monitor for five minutes. Not typing. Not blinking. Honestly? Kinda serial killer.”

Clark turned quickly and tapped at his keyboard like he was definitely working, like he’d been working the whole time. The result was a chaotic string of letters.

fjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfj

Subtle.

Jimmy leaned over to glance. “Impressive prose. Pulitzer’s gonna love that one.”

Clark exhaled through his nose. “It’s nothing.”

“Uh-huh. You sure? Because you’re doing the thing with your jaw again.”

Clark frowned. “What thing?”

“The flexy thing. Like you’re chewing invisible gum and trying not to say something dumb.”

Clark muttered, “I’m fine.”

Jimmy didn’t push. He just grinned, clapped him once on the back, and said, “Alright, man. But if you’re gonna brood, at least do it with snacks. I’m grabbing chips. Want anything?”

Clark shook his head, offering a tight-lipped smile. “I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” Jimmy disappeared toward the breakroom with the casual ease of someone who had no idea how hard Clark was trying not to super-punch a wall.

And once he was gone, Clark looked up.

One more glance.

You were listening to Jason again, head tilted slightly, hair falling over one shoulder. Your expression was interested, but not enamored. Not swept away. Your body was relaxed, but—Clark noticed—angled toward his desk. Not Jason’s.

It was subtle. Probably unconscious.

But it was real.

And then Jason said something else, something you smiled at politely—but the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Your heart didn’t skip.

Not once.

But then you glanced up, almost instinctively, across the room—and your eyes found him.

And for the briefest second, your heart did something it hadn’t done all morning.

It skipped.

Just once.

Clark’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t let it show. He simply turned back to his screen, eyes softening.

And he smiled. Just a little.

Almost imperceptibly.

Not because he had proof. Not because anything was certain. But because in a room full of noise, he could still hear you.

And he knew.

She’s not in love with Jason.

Not even close.

Over the next few days, Clark told himself he wasn’t paying attention.

And then promptly proved himself a liar every time you stepped into the room.

At first, it was unconscious. Reflexive. His gaze would flick up from his computer the moment your voice echoed through the bullpen—light, casual, familiar. You laughed more around Jason now. Not in that infatuated way Clark had feared—at least, not always—but in a comfortable, well-worn rhythm that made Clark feel like he was standing on the outside of a joke he didn’t understand.

Jason had settled in fast. Too fast.

He walked around like he’d been born between cubicles, like the place belonged to him. Charming. Effortless. Clark watched from behind his glasses, jaw tightening imperceptibly each time he saw Jason drop by your desk like he owned time itself.

One afternoon, Clark glanced up to see Jason handing you a flash drive. You took it with a quiet grin and leaned in to read something on his laptop.

You were close. Shoulders nearly touching. Your faces tilted toward the same screen like you were orbiting the same sun.

Clark’s stomach sank. Again.

Later, he caught the two of you sharing a bag of chips during a late-night edit session—your chair dragged closer to Jason’s desk, knees nearly brushing. You laughed at something he said and mock-threw a pen at him. It bounced off his shoulder.

Clark didn't even pretend to work after that. He just stared at his screen and let the words blur again.

The worst part was that you never did anything wrong. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t leading anyone on. You were just you. Bright, kind, endlessly warm.

The problem was: Clark wanted to be on the receiving end of that warmth so badly it ached.

He hated how easily Jason seemed to slot into your life. Like a puzzle piece Clark hadn’t even realized was missing. Like someone who already knew your rhythms and quirks. Like someone who belonged.

Clark didn't know how to compete with history.

And yet—

He still noticed the things Jason didn’t.

Like how your leg bounced slightly when you were frustrated. Or the way you always twisted your ring when you were thinking too hard. Jason never seemed to catch those things. But Clark had memorized them like scripture.

He tried not to think about it too much. Tried not to hope.

Until thurday night.

The bullpen was nearly silent—just the low murmur of distant city traffic and the occasional noise of an overworked printer across the floor. Most of the lights had dimmed to their overnight setting that made the Daily Planet feel less like a place of urgency and more like a room catching its breath.

Clark stayed behind. It wasn’t unusual—he often worked late, the noise of the newsroom more comforting than the silence of his apartment—but tonight, he wasn’t exactly working.

He sat at his desk, shoulders slightly hunched, fingers resting on the keyboard like they were waiting for the right words to drop into his lap. They didn’t. The document on his screen stared back blankly, its blinking cursor at the top of Untitled Draft 2 like a dare. The story in front of him was routine—city council budget hearings, boring but necessary—but everything in his chest was anything but routine. His focus fractured every few seconds. Words blurred into fragments. Thoughts drifted.

Drifted to you.

As they had all week.

You’d been different lately. Or maybe you hadn’t changed at all. Maybe it was just that Jason’s presence threw everything into sharper focus. Maybe Clark had simply been watching more carefully—how could he not, with the way you glowed when you laughed, even when you tried not to?

He’d told himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t his business. That whatever past you and Jason shared was yours to carry, not his to question.

And still, the jealousy sat in his chest like a storm cloud that refused to break.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyes stinging from the monitor light.

Then he heard it.

Not the click of heels or the shuffle of papers. Just a voice.

Yours.

Low. Soft. Threaded with fatigue and something quieter beneath.

“Hey, handsome.”

He looked up.

You stood just outside his cubicle, leaning against the divider with your arms crossed loosely, your cardigan wrapped around you like it had been a long day. There were faint creases under your eyes, the kind that said it had been a long week, too. But there was something in your expression—wary, maybe, or hesitant. Like you’d been circling the idea of walking over for a while, trying to decide if you should.

And then you had.

“Hi sweetheart,” Clark said, clearing his throat. He straightened instinctively, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Still here?”

You nodded, glancing toward your empty desk behind you. “Lois bailed. Jason’s off charming the IT team.” You smiled faintly. “I figured I’d get a head start on tomorrow’s edit pass.”

He smiled back, small and tired. “Of course. Overachiever.”

You shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

The silence stretched for a second—longer than either of you usually let it.

“You okay?” you asked.

He blinked.

You weren’t asking out of politeness. You didn’t ask that way. You were studying him now, the same way you studied interview subjects when you were trying to get them to open up. Not forceful. Just... there. Present. Listening.

“I…” He faltered. “Yeah. Why?”

You gave him a half-smile. “You’ve been weird this week.”

He frowned slightly. “Weird how?”

“I mean—you’re always a little weird.” You teased gently, giving him a look. “But this week? You’ve been distracted. Like, staring-into-space, forget-your-coffee weird. Broody weird.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t carry far. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You didn’t laugh with him. Not fully. You just kept looking at him. There was something different in your gaze now—quieter, more searching. The soft edges of humor had faded.

He knew that look. It meant you were giving him the chance to say something, to be honest with you. And that if he wasn’t, you’d let it go. You never pushed. That was part of what made it worse.

Clark sat back slightly in his chair, hands falling still. “I guess I’ve just had a lot on my mind,” he said.

You tilted your head slightly. Your voice dropped, softer this time. “It’s not about Jason, is it?”

Clark stiffened.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just stared at the blinking cursor on his screen.

“…What makes you say that?”

“You tense up when he walks into the room,” you said plainly. “You stop talking when I mention him. And you glare at him when you think no one’s watching.”

He finally looked up.

“…Are you… are you guys together?” Clark’s voice broke like fragile glass, cracking with panic that barely masked something deeper—something raw, vulnerable, like a man on the edge, daring to hope but terrified to ask. His eyes flicked up, searching yours desperately, as if the answer would somehow rewrite the story he’d been telling himself. He couldn't believe that he asked you that question, that he was so straightforward. That he even had the nerve to go over the line that he created in his head.

You blinked, completely thrown by the sudden bluntness. The question hit you harder than you expected, slicing through the silence like a spotlight in a dark room. For a moment, you hesitated, your breath catching just a little. Then, a short laugh escaped you—half surprise, half disbelief—but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. There was something fragile in your smile, like you weren’t sure if this was real.

“No,” you said, voice steady but firm. You stepped forward, closing the space between you, uncrossing your arms like you were tearing down a barrier that had kept you both at arm’s length for too long. “Jason and I? God no. We’re not together. We never were. He’s not even my type. And, honestly?” You took a breath, letting the weight of the words settle between you. “It’s not him that I have feelings for.”

Clark’s throat tightened so much it was a struggle just to swallow. His heart started hammering against his ribs, a thunderous beat drowning out everything else in the room. “Then—” He stammered, words catching and tumbling over themselves like a child caught in a lie, fumbling for the truth. “Then who do you…? Who do you have feelings for?”

You smirked, the edges of your lips curling in amused disbelief at the pure, unfiltered panic spilling off him in waves. There was a flicker of warmth in your eyes, a soft light dancing with the humor of the moment—and something else, something tender. “It’s you, silly.”

For a second, the world seemed to stop. The air thickened and froze, as if every atom was holding its breath, waiting. That simple, unguarded sentence hit Clark like a thunderclap—shaking the ground beneath his feet, flipping his entire universe upside down.

His breath hitched, a shaky exhale slipping out, relief flooding through him like a sudden downpour—but it was fleeting, replaced instantly by a rising panic that roared louder and hotter, scrambling his thoughts. “Wait—wait. You mean—” His voice cracked again, climbing higher in disbelief and hope. “You have feelings for me? For me?” The last word barely a whisper, like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Your eyes sparkled with laughter, that teasing, warm light mixed with something softer—something deeper and more profound. You leaned in just a little, lowering your voice until it was a breathy secret shared only between the two of you. “Yeah bubby,” you said slow and deliberate, savoring the moment like it was the most precious thing in the world. “I do.”

Clark’s heart exploded in his chest, pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it—a frantic, desperate rhythm of hope and fear and everything he’d been too scared to say aloud until now. He swallowed hard, feeling a rush of courage like electricity surging through his veins, igniting every nerve ending until he was trembling with the truth he’d held inside for so long.

“Okay. Okay, listen,” Clark blurted, his voice trembling but fierce, like he was both terrified and determined all at once. “I—I like you. Like, a lot. More than I probably should admit without sounding ridiculous or—” He stopped, swallowing hard, then ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide and raw with desperate honesty. “I’ve been pretending for weeks that I’m fine just working next to you, that it’s all professional, but—no. It’s not. Not even close.”

His gaze locked onto yours, unflinching and intense. “I think about you all the time. When I’m supposed to be paying attention in meetings, when I’m writing my articles, when I’m just standing here waiting for the elevator. I—I want to know everything about you. Your stupid coffee order that you always change, your favorite song that you hum when you think no one hears, the way your laugh sounds—especially when you don’t think anyone’s watching.”

He took a shaky breath, voice lowering, almost breaking with the weight of it all. “I want to be the reason you stay late. I want to be the reason you smile on a bad day, the reason your eyes light up when someone walks into the room. I want to be the person you think about when you’re not here.”

You watched him, breath caught, feeling the walls you’d built around your heart slowly crumble, brick by brick, with every word. The busy noise of the newsroom faded away, like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you. His raw vulnerability was breathtaking.

You took a step closer, closing the last bit of distance until the space between you was charged, electric. Your voice was soft but steady, a tremor beneath the certainty. “Clark,” you said, “it’s not weird. It’s not complicated. It’s real. And I like you. Probably more than I should, too.”

His grin was shy but full of relief and disbelief, cheeks flushed in a way that made him look impossibly endearing. “So… um, would you maybe want to go out sometime? On a date? I promise I’ll try to behave.”

You rolled your eyes with a teasing smile, warmth flooding your chest. “Try is definitely the key word there.”

He laughed—a light, hopeful sound that filled the space between you like a promise. “I can’t promise I won’t mess up,” he said, stepping closer, his voice dropping low, “but I can promise I’ll show up. Every single time.”

Your hand reached out almost without thinking, fingers brushing lightly against his arm. The touch was electric, sending a thrill sparking through both of you, raw and alive.

Clark’s breath hitched, and without another word, he leaned in. There was a brief pause—just a heartbeat—as if he was asking for permission without words, then his lips met yours.

The kiss was tentative at first—soft, exploring, uncertain. But it quickly deepened, growing more urgent, more desperate, fueled by months of secret feelings and quiet longing. His hands moved to cradle your face gently, thumbs tracing the curve of your cheeks as his lips pressed harder against yours.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, craving every inch of him. The world around you melted away until there was nothing but the heat of his mouth, the steady beat of his heart pressed against yours, the breathless electricity buzzing through your veins.

Clark’s hands slipped down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. Your bodies molded together perfectly, every nerve ending ignited with the thrill of finally being this close, finally letting the feelings you’d kept hidden burst into the open.

When he finally pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek, he whispered, “I’m glad you like disaster… because you’ve just signed up for a lifetime of it.”

You laughed softly, heart pounding wildly. “You’re such a weirdo.”

His grin turned wicked, full of promise and relief, his eyes sparkling with everything you needed to hear. “And yet,” he said, voice low and full of warmth, “here I am.”

[midniqhtt]

TOO GOOD FOR ME ★ CLARK KENT

꩜ pairing ━━ fem!childhood bsf!reader x clark kent

꩜ summary ━━ everytime you remember your life, clark is always there, and now after everything came crashing down, clark thinks he has loved you from the very start.

꩜ content ━━ 3.3k words | angst, fluff, confessions, reader is a bit oblivious, clark calls her 'honey', ma and pa call her 'peach', they grew up together in smallville, LOIS AND CLARK AREN'T DATING, lois kinda have feelings for clark but she didnt do anything with it, i just wanted to put an extra pov!

꩜ a/n ━━ HI!!! introducing my fav trope, i loved writing this so much i hope yall like it as much as i do <33

as always comments are very deeply appreciated ♡

masterlist | navi | buy me kofi <3

You and Clark are close. 

No one really asks how close but even from a distance you can tell. 

Growing up together is Smallville with a Superhero as a best friend has not been the easiest, but you would not change it for the world. 

Because it’s Clark. 

The first person who stood up for you in front of bullies, who shares his lunch because ‘sharing makes food taste better', who was your first ever best friend, who picked you up with his parent’s truck after you got shitfaced at a party, who entertains your weird ideas on how he can use his superpowers, who shows up.  

Okay, maybe you are thinking twice right now considering that you almost got stuck in a portal to a pocket universe. 

Your heart is beating out of your chest, staring at the portal in horror. You could hear groaning from the other side, seeing Clark laying on the floor, heaving.

“Clark,” you pant, feeling his pale and sweaty skin as black veins emerge from his neck, “Krtptonite.” you conclude, hands cradling the sides of his face as his tired eyes try to stay on you. 

A lazy smile stretched on his lips, “Hi.” dazed eyes trailing over your face, “You here to rescue me?” 

Scoffing you lightly shove his chest back, grin threatening to be released, “You’re lucky I like you, Kent.”

Suddenly he springs up, body still weak as you try to keep a hold on him, “There’s more people being held prisoner in there.” he breathes out, “We need to go get them.” 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

“Hey, hey,” your hands grabbing his bicep and torso, “Are you insane? You can’t even stand up.” you scolded, keeping him up from falling flat on his face. 

“Get him some place safe.” Mr Terrific turns to you and Lois, “Take the T-Craft.

You nod, Lois grabbing the other side of Clark to help, the three of you walking towards the vehicle. “Krypto!” you call out, “Come on boy.” nudging your head forward. 

Lois turned to you, “You know the dog?” 

You scrunched your nose, “Kinda.” looking to see if the fur baby is following, “He’s a menace tho, so be warned.” you chuckle. 

The three of you went into the ship, dropping Clark onto the seat, “You know how to drive this thing?” you asked Lois, leaning forward to assess the countless buttons and levers. 

“Should be fine,” she looks up at you, “Right?” 

Smiling, you give her a pat on the back, “I trust you.” 

A shaky smile was given, “Okay, let’s do this.”

.

.

.

The ride was shaky but everyone is still in one piece so that’s something.

You turned to the side and looked at Clark.

He looks awful. 

You don’t mean it in that way but he truly does.

His skin is all wrinkly and pale with black veins decorating the sides, his eyes tired and his body weak. The sight of him makes your stomach twist in all the wrong ways. Not the usual way it does with Clark.

Lois was still driving, every bump and swerve of the vehicle made you more nervous than before.

“I’m gonna be fine.” the man beside you croak out. 

Your heart stutters, “I know.” you sigh deeply. Voice betraying any sort of confidence you have.

Clark coughs loudly, body shaking in his seat. You jump up, unbuckling yourself, “What’s wrong? You okay? Do you need water? I’m gonna get you water.” your nervous rambling trails off, moving with shaky legs as rummaged through your bag.

The sick man grunts, “Sit down.” he gruffly said, droopy eyes trying to stay on you as his hand reaches out, but the kryptonite poison is still very strong and the absence of the yellow sun made it worse in every way imaginable. 

His tiredness took over as his eyes shut and arm flailed down.

You sigh, listening to his movements, your own hand reaching out to hold him. He immediately intertwined your fingers together as try to find a water bottle. You gave his hand a squeeze, his fingers weak and loose around your own, “Gimme a sec, yeah?”

He grunts. You take that as a yes. 

You unclasp your fingers, continuing to look through your very full bag and maybe this is your mind playing tricks but you could hear him let out a small whine with the absence of your hand. 

You didn’t even realise the curious look Lois sent to you both. 

“Found it.” you try to stand up but the ship swerves aggressively making you latch onto Clark’s seat to stabilise yourself. 

“Sorry.” Lois said from the driver seat, guilty for being distracted by the interaction between you both. 

“It’s okay!” turning around, you open the bottle of water, hand on Clark’s jaw to help tilt his head up, “Drink.” you softly said, bring the water to his chapped lips. His tired eyes flickered open slightly, and even from far away you could see how it softened at the sight of you. 

Obvious to everyone, but you, apparently.

The man ended up finishing the whole bottle, gulping it down so fast that he chokes.

You chuckle, “Slow down, Clark.” bringing the bottle away, and putting it in your bag. You wipe off the stray drops of water that fell on his chin and neck, “Knew you were thirsty.” and shook your head, hands resting on his jaw, feeling his hot skin under your touch. Your heart sinks.

“’m gonna be fine.” he coughs out, weak hands still trying to latch onto you. As if he craves the contact, the feeling of you right here in front of him. Warm, soft, real. It brings comfort to him. You bring comfort to him. 

“Still worried.” you say, sitting back down on your seat and buckling in. Worry never leaving your face. 

“Hand.” he quietly requests.

Your stomach flutters but goes with his request, your hand reaches out to hold onto his. He’s still weak, his grip not strong but you can feel how hard he’s trying to reciprocate your grip. 

You would give him your hand as many times as he wants. 

.

.

.

The ride wasn't long but it felt like days when you finally reached Kansas. Accompanied by Clark’s shaky breaths, it didn’t make you less at ease. 

The sight of the small town from the air tugs on your heart strings, memories of growing up flashing in your head. And every single one of them, Clark never fails to be there. 

Him, and his shy smile, dazzling dimples and his big heart. 

You didn’t even know what would’ve happened to you if he wasn't there.

The aircraft finally lands, you rushing to help Clark stand up, “Ma! Pa!” you frantically yell out, just as the door opens. You support one half of Clark as Lois helped with the other side, feet a bit wobbly with his weight, he was not light in the slightest bit and you can’t even remember the last time Clark was this weak.

You miss the way Lois turned to you, eyebrows scrunching, deep in thought. Ma and Pa? Really how close are you with Clark?

“Peach?” Martha comes rushing out, John following behind. 

“It’s Clark, he’s sick.” you beg tiredly, eye bags illuminating your worry. Tears gather in the corner of your eyes as everything comes crashing down. Kryptonite is not something to underestimate. 

Martha's eyes widened, as she nodded her head, “Okay, honey. He’s gonna be okay.” she softly said, guiding you both back to the house. 

The smell of the house reminded you of your childhood, good memories that you don't have time to dwell on. The four of you slowly lay Clark down on his bed, his hand immediately reaching out for yours, as he started to babble. 

“Ma, they sent me here to rule over. They sent me here to kill people.” he says with shaking breaths. 

The sight shatters you. 

You look away and turn to John, “I’m gonna get some towels and water. Is it still in the same place?” 

He nods, “Yea, Peach.” 

You quickly walk to the kitchen grabbing the stuff as the parents crowded over their son in worry. 

Lois’ eyes survey all over Clark’s room, his childhood room. Posters, trophies, awards, pictures all filling in the space. Her eyes zeros on the Mighty Crabjoys posters, noticing the small frame picture on the shelf at the side. 

It was a undoubtedly a picture of the two of you. Younger versions. You're on Clark's back posing in the famous Superman pose with one arm out like you’re flying, as the boy smiled so brightly she could see his missing teeth as he carried you with pride.

“I got it.” you come back to the room with warm water in a bucket, towels already submerged and a cup of water in the other hand. You got to work, making sure Clark is comfortable as he absentmindedly nuzzles closer to you, head already lolling out of consciousness. 

Lois stares from the side, eyes softening when she realises how much stress you are in. She underestimated how close you were with Clark because this type of care must've taken years to build, to strengthen. 

Her eyes stray away to Clark’s bedside table, 2 picture frames neatly placed. One is his Ma and Pa and the other one is undeniably you. Just you. 

You look a bit older in this one, maybe 2? 3? years younger than you are now. Smiling like you won the lottery, you’re wearing an apron and the background looks like the kitchen she saw when walking in, your hand messy and so is your hair, there’s flour residue on your nose and you look…happy. That’s the only way that she could describe it as. 

So so happy. 

She now understands why Clark is so protective of you sometimes. 

.

.

.

The morning sun feels nice on your skin. 

It had been a rough night, the constant worry if Clark will wake up healthy claws in your chest, planting seeds of anxiety. You had slept on the couch, waking up at random hours of the night to make sure his chest was still raising up and down.

When Clark woke up he felt like he had been reborn. He feels stronger, lighter, his vision is clearer and he’s breathing better. His eyes immediately met with the furball that laid comfortably on his chest. 

He sighs softly, hand reaching up to scratch behind his ear, “Hey bud.” after a few seconds of staring up at the ceiling, he slowly stood up, walking to the living room only to be met with the sight that made his chest ache. Your sleeping figure illuminates under the sunlight, creating a halo that makes you look like an angel. And maybe that’s what you are to Clark. 

His guardian angel.

Feet pattered against the floorboard, he crouches down to be eye level with your head, fingers grazing along your cheek with such light touch you thought it was just in your dreams. 

“Thank you for looking after me.” Clark quietly whispers, staring at your features for a long second, eyes taking in everything. You look peaceful, he thought. Good. You deserve it.

He kisses your forehead, adjusts the blanket layered on top of you. He recognises it immediately, it’s your blanket. The one in his house that’s stored and bought specifically for you when you would have a sleepover at the Kents. 

You’re intertwined in his life in so many ways. 

Now, Clark has changed into more comfortable clothes, a bowl of cereal in hand as he sits on the bench outside soon accompanied by his Pa. 

“That– that Luanne, she seems nice.” 

“Lois.” Clark corrected, “Her name’s Lois. Yeah, she’s- she’s nice.”

John nods, head turning to look at his son before a fond smile makes its way to his face, “You worried Peach to death you know?” 

Clark freezes, guilt gnawing at his ribs, “Yeah.” he pauses, “Sometimes I wonder how easy her life would’ve been if she didn't meet me.” his voice is low and scratchy. 

The older man furrows his eyebrows, “Oh, don’ be like that Clark. You guys are attached to the hip. Quite impossible to separate you two.”

Clark doesn’t meet his eyes, “I don’t deserve her, Pa. She’s too good for me.” hands nervously fidgeting as he thinks about everything he put you through. 

The silence stretches, and now John understands what Clark was putting down, “You’re a good man, Clark.” he starts, “I saw you both grew up together. Trust me son, no one in this world deserves her more than you do.”

Biting the inside of his cheeks, Clark sniffles, “I don’t know what happened, she’s my best friend and then I woke up suddenly and saw her, and I wanna be more for her.”

John chuckles, “What’re you talkin’ ‘bout? Everyone knows you have a crush on ‘er.” 

His cheeks went warm, “No, you guys don’t.” 

The door creaked open, “Clark!” you exclaim, running towards him. He whips his head around at the sound of your voice and stands up immediately, bowl forgotten as he wraps his arms around you, face nuzzling into your neck. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay.” you sigh, arms tightening around his neck. 

His arms reciprocated, lightly lifting you up from the ground, “I’m okay.”

For a moment you two stayed like that before the little bubble was popped by Martha’s news, “Clark there’s something on the box that you might wanna see.”

Clark furrows his eyebrows, looking at Martha and turning to you. He detach you from his grip and walk back into the house with your hand in his. 

John stare at you both and roll his eyes, “Sure we don’t, Clark.” a soft smile on his face. 

.

.

.

You’re beyond exhausted. 

This whole week has been nothing short of stressful and the near-death experience on top of that made you want to curl up in your bed –that was lucky enough to survive the portal rip– and sleep for days.

You’re freshly out of the shower, hair still dripping wet, skin smelling like strawberry body wash and you’re drying your hair, towel in hand when the doorbell rings. You check your phone for any current messages, nothing new popped up making you confused. You pause the movie that was playing and look through the peephole.

Clark on the other side was sweating bricks, flowers tuck behind him as he stare down at your door. 

“Clark?” your voice laced with confusion, “What’re you doing here?” opening the door for him. 

The man coughs out his nerves, glasses perched up on the bridge of his nose, his hair looking soft and bouncy and he’s dressed in a sweater that makes him look huggable and warm. Your heart flutters. 

“Hey.” he mumbles, soft eyes casted downwards to you, “Sorry I didn’t tell you I was gonna show up but,” he brought his hands up, “I bought your favourite.” 

Your eyes lit up, only now recognising the familiar smell of chicken and pasta. Your stomach grumbles, “Oh, why didn’t you lead with that then.” snatching the paper bag from his hand and opening the door bigger.

The man chuckles, moving into your space as you make your way into the kitchen. Now he has the time to fully take you in. You're humming in joy, pajamas making you look soft, eyes pretty in the kitchen light. Clark could feel how at ease you are, and that makes him feel at ease too, “You look happy.” he teases. 

You giggle, unboxing all of the meal and letting out a happy shriek as the smell invaded your nostrils, “How can I not? My favourite person brought my favourite food!” your grin stretched out so big it hurt your cheeks. 

Clark swallows nervously. The flower that he’s been hiding behind him suddenly feels heavier. 

“I actually have something to tell you.” he walks closer to you, standing behind as he waits for you to turn around. 

“Hm?” you looked up to meet his eyes. Backing away slightly when you realise how close he was, “You okay?” the rustle of the paper the flowers were wrapped in took your attention away, “What’s that?” your smile teasing, “Is that for Lois?”

Clark groaned inwardly. For the smartest person he knows, you sure are pretty dense. 

He shakes his head, “No, these are for you. Why would it be for Lois?”

You tilt your head in confusion, “Why would you get flowers for me?”

If you weren't looking up at him so pretty right now he would’ve lost it. But you smell sweet, your eyes are shining and your cheeks are round and pink. He couldn't even be mad at you if he tried. 

“Honey–” his fingers press against his temples, “Just take the flowers.” 

You nod dumbly, “Oh– okay.” you take it from his grasp, a small smile on your face, staring at them in awe, “They’re lilies. My–” 

“Favourite.” Clark finishes your sentence, eyes softening at the sight of you. 

“What’s really going on Clark?” you questioned, putting the flowers on the side. 

The tall man stopped fidgeting and let out a deep sigh, “You have been the most constant factor in my life,” he starts, “from when we were kids, teens and now adults. You have always been there. You believed with me when no one else will, you stayed by my side and I can’t imagine my life without you.” a pause, “And I love you.”

You melt, “I love you too, Clark.”

He groans, “No– I mean, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Goddamn it. I am in love with you.” he pants out, frustrated, “I don't know when it changed but according to Pa, I have always had a big fat crush on you and apparently everyone knows.” he shrugs, “And you’re so beautiful, your kindness blows mine away and I want to be there for you, always. Will you let me be your boyfriend?”

His speech spills out in nervousness, the back of his neck is hot and there’s sweat prickling his hands. 

You stand frozen, taking in his whole confession. A part of you cannot believe this is even real, the Clark Kent wants you. The person you have been harboring feelings for God knows how long, likes– no loves you.

“Clark, I– uhm,”

His heart drops, “It’s okay if you don’t feel the same, I completely understand and respect that.”

“No! No, Clark, it’s just–

“I’m not trying to push or force anything on you or–” 

“I’m just new at this!” you explode, panicked eyes looking up at him, “I don’t really know how to do this, no one has ever really liked me let alone confessed.” mouth opening and closing as you try to find the words to say, “What if I’m bad at this? What if I make you hate me and you don’t wanna be friends anymore? I can’t live that life!”

Clark’s warm hands rests on your jaw, bringing your head up closer to him and he leans down, voice serious, “You’re gonna be great at it. You wanna know why?”

“Why?” your voice muffles as he squishes your cheeks together. 

He kisses your nose, “Because I love you and you’re great at everything you do. Especially being my girlfriend.” 

Giggling, you place your hands on top of his that are on the sides of your face, “So you made the decision for me, huh?”

He stutters, “No! I– I mean, do you– you want to? Be my girlfriend?” 

“Mhm.” you nod.

“Mhm?”

“Mhm!”

Clark laughs, gorgeous dimples making an appearance, “Kiss?” 

Your stomach fills up with butterflies, “Yes, please.” 

“My angel.” he whispers into your awaiting mouth, groaning as your lips connects, “Wanna grow old with you. Wanna do everything with you.” 

You whimper as he carries you up to the counter, situating himself in between your thighs, "Want that too."

Smiling lips press against each other, Clark can't help himself from feeling giddy as his big hands grip your thighs, "Can't believe I can have you all to myself. Been thinking about this for so long." he backs away, taking you in, your lips now swollen and red, "You're so pretty. All mine."

reblog for a superman style kiss 😘

[midniqhtt]

LOVE,TEMPTATION

The first time Superman meets a telepath and nearly gets his secret revealed.

cw: 18+, smut, situationships, mutant telepath!reader, flirty teasing/banter, f!receiving oral, clark eats her out while talking to her through her mind-reading ability, movie content is mentioned, but not big spoilers (2.3k wc)

Jimmy was halfway rambling to Clark when you peer in from the receptionist area.

"You're here! Give me one second. Let me brief Perry and we'll go." He's fumbling around for his files, throwing a quick, "keep her company for me, Kent!" over his shoulder. Clark is momentarily taken. You were radiant in a way that made everyone do a double take. Not particularly because of what you were wearing, but because you were carrying an easy, carefree warmth that seemed out of place that was caffeine-run.

Definitely not the sort of girl anyone would assume Jimmy Olsen hung out with.

He offers you a tight smile, as he stands, about to introduce himself when your hand extends out, palm down, wrist tilted. A princess shake. Clark takes a second, and awkwardly grabs both your hand to shake your hand. The sheer size of him has you craning your neck all the way up, eyes widening a fraction.

"I've…heard that you're a pretty good help to Olsen." He begins, watching as you retreat your hand with an intrigued quirk of your brow. "Says you're something of a mind freak."

You frown immediately. Tucking your hair behind your ears and looking around for Olsen. It's clear he's lost your attention. "He calls me a freak?"

"No! Gosh no, something like, you know…a mentalist of sorts." The man seems flustered, and his attention draws to the commotion outside. You tip your head back, squinting to see a plume of smoke and shrieks from afar.

Your don't pay much attention to it. Except, you hear something.

(Crud. Doesn't look like a fire. Could be an explosion?)

You turn your head to look around, pin pointing the source of the thought. Then, another one —

(Need to get there before the second floor collapses.)

Clark's grabbing at his bag, not quite looking at you. And finally, he says out loud this time, "Uh — I have something to tend to."

"Like stopping that building from collapsing."

His eye twitches. "What…do you mean?"

(She can't possibly know, can she?)

"You're Superman." You affirm. With a bemused grin.

Clark hand snaps out around your mouth immediately. You're muffling your giggles against it before he's grabbing and pivoting you out of the bullpen and into the fire escape stairways.

He turns you into the the rusty & rain-scented stairwell. Cornering you close enough for your back to hit the wall. You're still muffling your laughter over his palm — not because you were scared, but because he was trying to hide what you already knew.

"Who sent you?"

You leaned back, licking a strip up his palm. Clark staggers back, in pure and utter shock, his voice increasing a pitch. "Woah what the — what the hay was that?!" "You were smearing my lip gloss."

He looks at you in exasperation, shoulders stiff and wiping the remnants of pink gloss off on his slacks. But his gaze trails over you, and back to his hand. There's a variant of thoughts flittering through his mind, but you isolate one particular one.

"You think I'm pretty."

It doesn't register in his head fully, a busy mind it was, so he answers without thinking, "what? gosh — yes, that goes without saying." He gasps, snapping his head back at you when you announce the most loud thought in his mind.

"Stop that." Clark points at you accusatorily, "but wait — how on earth are you…"

It takes a solid second, before his shoulders go slack.

"You're…a mutant."

You grin with a shrug, "Jimmy doesn't know." Clark visibly winces when you 'answer' him. "He just thinks I'm reeaaal good at reading people." You're rocking on your heels, filling up with an intense curiosity for this revelation — this befuddled man, turning out to be one of the best discoveries of her life.

Clark wants to ask more. Head tilted, the words on his lips — but the roar of the building collapsing in the fire has his expression changing into something less Clark & more Superman.

"I gotta —" He groans. Running his hand through his hair while side-stepping you. Clark gestures at you with both palms, and then pointing between the two of you hastily while slow-jogging backwards.

"This — we, this isn't over!" He rasps, while sprinting full speed out of the corner.

The speed leaves your dress fluttering, a look of amusement etched onto your features.

Clark doesn't see you again for a few weeks.

Not that he was avoiding you. (Okay, well, maybe a little.) You had a habit of popping up in the weirdest places. Once, in the lobby of The Daily Planet asking concierge if people could claim insurance for super-hero related accidents. And the other, when he was mid-interview with the mayor and you were waving all perky at him, mouthing the words — "He's thinking about meeting his mistress."

You were airy, to put it simply. The sort of person who said whatever floated first into her head, or his. That was the problem, he supposed. You'd so brazenly slipped past the polite wall he kept in place for everyone else. After you were officially a civilian consultant for the paper you were around constantly. Which also meant you'd often catch him mid-thought.

It should annoy him. And gosh it had. Except it loosened something in him. Because with you, there wasn't a need for him to act the part. You got to know every one of his chaotic, burdened and messy thoughts — you didn't run away from it, you'd just leaned closer into it.

The first time the lines were blurred, it's raining impossibly heavily. And you're standing in his doorway, hair damp, clinging to his neck. Before he can even ask you what you were doing here, you're smiling.

"You're thinking about kissing me."

Clark groans, dragging his hand down his face. "I wasn't — you seriously need to stop doing that."

"You were. And now you're thinking about more. I'm down if you are." You skirt past him, leaving behind a trace of your rain-washed perfume, while you hop out of your strappy heels.

He exhales slowly, shutting his door behind you. "That's not — …it isn't a good idea." He mutters, softer.

"Yet you're still thinking about it."

It wasn't a bold declaration, or even something the two of you officially talked about. Sex just happened — once, and over and over again.

Enough times that you both had a slipped into an unsaid arrangement.

Krypto was missing.

Clark had been pacing his apartment since Lois had left. Muttering plans that were flimsy at best to himself. Jaws & shoulder tight. He's halfway to the door when a rustle from his couch has him spin.

There you were, shoes in hand, setting them to the side of his table. "How did you get past concierge — actually, no. Forget it. I'm not in the mood right now." Clark lets out a deep exhale, not wanting to let it show that he was just a little relieved to see you.

"Was that your girlfriend?"

His eyes narrow with a shake of his head. "What? Who, Lois? No. She's…someone close." Clark grabs around your elbow, and then pauses to think, looking at you offended. "And do you really think I'd be doing…what we were doing…with you, If I did have a girlfriend?"

You shrug slightly, letting yourself be walked closer to the door while his thoughts were loudly thinking about how you'd managed to sneak in and overhear his conversation with Lois. And then, he thinks about Kara's dog again.

"…I can help you, you know."

That seems to stop him in his tracks, and he studies you for a moment too long. "This isn't a game."

"When did I say it was? I'm offering because I can."

He almost considers it. But he shakes his head. "No." It was resolute. He backs away from you, arms folded and tense. "I'm not bringing you to Lex Luthor."

(I'm not putting you in danger like that.)

You don't point it out this time. Merely leaning back onto his counter tops, cheeks warming at that. You mirror his posture, folding your arms. "Superman." And you tone drops, a gently lilt to it, "Clark."

"We're perfect together. It's a shame you don't wanna accept it."

He takes in your words, and then his head lolled to the side in thought. But you don't hear a thing.

Clark steps closer, trapping you where you stood, before his palm curls around your hips to set you on the counter. His palm holds the top of he cabinet, so you wouldn't bump into it.

Then, his hold on you eases, turning his attention to dragging his thumb mindlessly along the edge of the tiles.

"I..don't need the added headache."

"Au contraire." You gasp out, melodramatically while you tip his jaw to face you. "If anything, i'm a head-ease. You don't even have to open your mouth." Clark's letting out a exhale when your fingers card through the back of his head as he steps between your thighs.

"They really let anyone be Superman these days. Not exactly man of steel right now. Man of kiddy-bedsheets, maybe."

He quirks a smile at that, and looks up at you. "You're…really just a goddarned Swooper."

"What the hell is a swooper?"

"Something…my parents used to warn me about when I was a kid. A scary lady that would swoop me up if I'd wandered out in the farm on my own in the dark — hey. Don't laugh."

He croaks in exasperation, cheeks flushing at the sound of your laughter. "I'm not!" You protest. Raising your palms in a mock surrender. You lean in, pressing a quick peck to his cheek. "It's endearing. I like it. I'm your swooper."

Clark groans. "Don't even joke about that. I've had nightmares over it." His eyes soften when he looks at you, letting your lips meet his again, and again. You mumble in annoyance when his glasses bump into you. Frowning, you slip them off his face.

"Ohhh lookit. It's Superman."

"Hardy har har."

He leans in and noses at your cheek, kissing down your neck. And back on your lips. Clark closes the distance,tugging you to the edge of the counter top. "I promise, I won't get hurt." You offer, catching his quick glance at you when he kisses down your chest.

"I can be places without being seen. Part of the…mentalist stitch." Clark thumbs at your cheek, kissing the apple. "I'm not keeping you around just so I could use you."

"You might just be the only man who doesn't."

Clark huffs out a laugh at that, taking a knee while he ruched your skirt up your hips. "What happened to not using me?" He looks up at you with a lopsided smile, kissing up your ankles before pulling your thigh closes to his edge.

"You're not exactly the one being used in this scenario." You jolt against his face when he kisses up your inner thighs, his thumb skirting the string of your thong. A soft content sigh leaves your lips, lifting your hips just enough for him to tug at your underwear down.

"For someone who refuses.. —mhh—…to cuss, your mind is sure…full of filth.." You mutter, and Clark drags his tongue over your soft pussy. Sucking at the bud. You whine louder.

"Why say things when I can just do them?" He mutters low into your cunt, tongue dipping into your hole with a teasing intensity. Your hand grips around his curls, nudging his face just a little closer. "Oh—shit." You curl your thigh over your shoulder, seeking the friction of his curls against it.

(Greedy little thing. Do you plan to suffocate me?)

You jolt when you hear him, letting out a huff of laughter. Looking at him with a glint in your eyes. "Isn't…Superman able to hold his breath for super long?" You're biting your lip when he drags the curve of his nose along your slit.

(So you did your research. Cute)

"Jesus…I-I can't believe I'm saying this but shut up." Clark laughs against your pussy, the reverberation of it having you clutch around his head to drag him back. He hooks his arms underneath both your thighs, burying his head into your pussy. The kitchen fills with an obscene mixture of noises, his sucks, grunts, and your moans that were only growing more intense.

"Clark —" You rasp out, hips already moving to grind on his face.

(Yeah, baby?)

"T-Talk to me."

You feel him smirk at that, alternating to a deeper suck, lapping at your clit until they lift from the counters.

(Always knew your pussy would be fuckin' divine.)

Your cheeks grow warmer at his use of a curse word for the very first time. Your other palm snaps to grip around the counter, your pussy instinctively pulses around his tongue.

(Clenching around my tongue like that, dirty girl.)

You choke out a strangled cry, and Clark notices your chest rise and dip at a faster pace. He adjusts you rougher, manhandling you tad until you're curling your thighs around his neck. Clark doesn't stop, despite you trying to squirm away, he lets you hump at his tongue, all up till' you're gasping. "Yes, god, yes!" Your hips arching in heavy, forceful jolts into his mouth at the final suck of your clit.

He continues his assault on your pussy, making eye contact with you while you gush into his mouth. And then, only then, does your body finally go slack. Falling lip against the cabinets. Clark pulls away slow, his hand holding you entirely up right while he rises. Cradling your jaw until they rest on his cheek. Your pussy throbbed in the wake of loss, letting your head fall to the safety of his chest.

"How's that for using someone?" He murmurs into the side of his head, as he lifts you on the counter. The slick of your pussy smearing against his chest with every movement.

"Clark." You manage, barely.

"Mhm?"

"Shut up."

[midniqhtt]

thoughts about clark kent having a source like lex luthor’s girlfriend is for jimmy? maybe she’s an ex or mutant like your villain reader.

Clark has to enlist the help of his mutant ex for an interview.

✶ nonnie. you are so onto something. bcs heck yes?? i love mismatched couples this is scratching an itch i didn't even know i had. cw: 18+, smut, pwp, reader is described to be ditzy/flirty, ex gf mutant!telepathic reader, m!receiving oral, deep throating, push & pull dynamic (1k wc) 𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

clark swipes over contacts list over his phone. thumb hovered over the profile picture of arguably the most volatile relationship of his life. he'd paused to consider if it was really worth it.

the interview last week had been a complete bust. it was clear that mr clinton wasn't budging, and was giving obviously textbook, filtered answers. clark needed his story to be pushed through the pipeline, but just didn't have enough information to work with.

he makes a decision with a defeated groan — clicking the thread.

July 27

psycho (DO NOT ANSWER): clarkie. u always do this. 😑 psycho (DO NOT ANSWER): you are so chickenshit!!!!!!!!!! 🖕🖕🖕

August 2

psycho (DO NOT ANSWER): r u really going to just leave me on read psycho (DO NOT ANSWER): hello???

Today

clark kent: hi… clark kent: sorry. i've been busy. i need a favour from you. psycho (DO NOT ANSWER): INCOMING CALL 5 Minutes Later. psycho (DO NOT ANSWER): 💋💋 see u.

he slumps back into his chair with a groan. arms covered over his eyes. his jacket pocket had already been vibrating with a barrage of texts, no doubt from you. far accepting defeat and letting it buzz away.

clark makes his way down to the lobby to pick you up, and he thinks back to how you'd been quite possibly the most mind-numbingly beautiful and aggravating person he'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.

he hears you before he sees you, the all familiar clacking of your heels sounded from the marbled tiles. though he doesn't account for the smaller fury speed up from a distance.

when clark lifts his head, he nearly chokes, "woah hey —" groaning, he catches you in the very last second, stumbling back before taking a composing breath. you're already all over him, arms thrown around his neck.

"clarkie!~"

he grunts, subconsciously taking in the sweet scent of citrus and bergamot he'd always liked on you. you'd already been yapping away about what was going on for you in the past week, and he pivots, palm steadying your lower back. only a mhmm offered, acknowledging your rambles.

clark sets you down in the elevators, briefing away on what you were about to help in on, flipping through a folder and droning on and on about the task. what he doesn't notice, was the growing angry pout on you when he hadn't even looked down to properly see you.

it's only when you both head down hallways to the conference room that he notices you've stopped following him. he turns, quizzically looking around. only to spot you seated on olsen's desk, with a swam of his colleagues around you.

"are you…kidding me…"

clark rubs his temples and stomps over, awkwardly side-stepping the crowd, grabbing you by the arm. "sorry. i need to borrow her."

you let out a prolonged ow, which only makes him tug at you harder to walk in step with him. "i leave you for one second —"

"well you weren't looking at me. clearly someone should."

he sighs, whipping his head to look at you finally. "i did look at you —" clark chokes at his breath, his eyes fixated on your very unbuttoned top. he's pulling you into the interview room before you can even protest, looking around quickly before locking the door behind him.

"what the hay are you wearing?!" you look down at your spilling cleavage, and back up at him. "what? it's office casual." clark damn near doubles over into the ground as he aggressively buttons your top up.

he ignores the giggles from you when his knuckles nudge at your tits at every button. "i know right? how soft."

"what? oh — geez." he shakes his head, looking away. "quit lookin' into my head."

"how can i not? you're practically shouting it."

clark lets out what is definitely a sigh of regret, his gaze meeting yours. it briefly drags down to your perfectly glossy lips, and then back at your eyes. he's never liked looking directly at you for on very specific reason.

you'd always known what was on his mind.

and that horrified him.

you're already tipping your head, lips curled up into a knowing smile.

"we…we don't have time." he manages barely, but he already knows that there isn't really anything he could say to have stopped you from sinking to your knees before him.

the clink of his buckle fills the room, and he lets you tug at his zipper. his hand rested on your cheekbone, thumbing the your hair away from you face as you kiss up his length, that was quickly hardening.

"you can say it, you know." you mumble against his cock, gloss smearing onto the prominent vein there. clark lets out an audible groan,relaxing his fingers through your hair.

"i missed you."

your tongue flicks over the tip of his cock, and clark's thumb traces over your lips, gently nudging his fingers into your mouth, letting you coat your drool on it before he drags it over his length. "you've…always been good. at this."

he clutches at the doorframe when your mouth sinks into him in response. humming into his cock as you suckle at his tip, marveling at how it's pokes at the inside of your cheek. "o-oh..g..gosh. yeah." his head tips back to rest on the wood.

you bob up and down, damn near gurgling on his cock as you take him in fully. his hand blindly finds your jaw, hissing at the way your teeth grazes just barely to keep him alert and on his toes.

clark grunts out when you pull apart from his cock, a string of your saliva following from the thick mushroom head. he smiles just a little, seeing the way your gloss was smeared messily, he angles his cock, rubbing it on your lips.

"tap me if you can't breathe, okay?"

you're nodding, dazed while he guides you back onto his cock. his grip tightens on your head this time, hips rocking into your mouth steadily to set the pace, your whines are drowned out, with your throat stuffed full of him. clark's groaning a louder with how you're doing your best to meet his thrusts.

"mm—mmhm…" he lets out a stuttered gasp, jaw clenched as he tries not to bury your face flush onto his cock. you're choking his cock, thighs squeezed as you focus on getting him off. "g-god..ugh—"

you hear him before he even says he's close. clark yanks you back roughly, stroking his cock with heavy pumps. spurts of his cum land onto your waiting tongue. "are..you alright?"

his chest is heaving, hand covering his mouth to pace himself, the other, you're nodding, grabbing around his arms while he helps you get back up onto your feet. clark leans in to the quick pecks you're placing at his jaw, letting you nose his neck before he returns your kiss. hand snug on your waist. your panties are ruined with your slick, and you're rubbing your thighs together, dazed as he licks over your lower lips.

"i'll buy you some time." he mutters between kisses, before he mouths at your pulse.

"mmhkay. will you come over tonight?" you hum, head tipped to let him drag his nose up your cheek.

clark shakes his head, sighing into your shoulder. "no. i'll drop you off at my place after this."

you're already humming happily, letting him swoop you up into a gently carry with one arm into the adjoined bathroom.

[midniqhtt]

TERRITORIAL

Superman has a bad day.

TAGS: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, clark is injured, reader helps clark to shower, reluctant caretaking, romantic/sexual tension, flash back that depicts p-in-v/creampies, clark accidentally 'laser beams' during an orgasm - smallville ref! (2.8k words) 𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

PART ONE It'd taken a full rehabilitation period for you to get back into your original state after getting pounded by Superman. Comical as it seemed, you were feeling him even after days. As proven by the bruised hand marks you had, particularly around your hips, and deep purple hickeys littered over your torso. He even had the audacity to try to cook breakfast for you the following morning. (Though you'd kicked him flat when he tried to have you 'join him'. The pancakes were great, you were pretty sure you didn't have any of those ingredients at home.)

By day four, you were feeling much better. All cooped up in your couch, knees tucked to your chest. You mindlessly cruised through the channels, all while your laptop screen flickers between surveillance footage of your next job.

The TV was more for ambient noise. It was a mindless routine for you, checking and scoping out blind spots for your jobs often meant staring at absolutely nothing, just looking for patterns and weaknesses you could very well exploit.

You were half-distracted with a pint of strawberry swirl ice cream, nothing but the dim halos of the digital screens keeping you company that evening.

The news breaks through your bubble of concentration with its' current subject.

BREAKING NEWS: Superman spotted earlier in downtown Metropolis, intervening with some sort of iron-like beast. Not winning, it seems.

Snapping for the remote, you increase the volume, watching him get flung and ricocheted through buildings. "Oooooooohhhhhh." You wince, a laughter stifled through your fists. "That's gotta hurt."

It'd turned into your half time show, and you'd ensued giving your own commentary. "Oh, oh, oh!" You slapped your hands together, throwing your head back in glee when he was practically flicked through memorial park. Unfortunately for you, good things never lasted for long.

"What? Come on!" You slump back, blowing raspberries in your cheeks. "The Justice Gang? Really?" Groaning, you'd shut the TV off in annoyance, of course he'd have people coming to bail him out. So much for the protector of earth.

Sometimes, you did wonder if he should've just done what his apparently parents sent him to earth for. It would work wonderfully considering he was pretty much big enough to do an IVF manually.

You had a full body shudder to that idea. The memories returning to you like war flashbacks. You drag yourself up, still a limp to your steps. Mostly from muscle aches on your thighs like you'd done an intense workout. Except they weren't. God knows you spent days dealing the phantom sensation of Superman's dick haunt your pussy in the weirdest moments.

Just as you open the fridge, the spoon from your pint clatters to your floor, clattering underneath. You sigh, flopping down to your knees to peek at where it tumbled to. "Just my luck…" Your hips arch uncomfortably, and the second you relax in said position, the deja-vu hits you.

"Oh, my, god!"

Your voice is hoarse from overexertion, you aren't even sure how many times you've cum by now. Clark had his entire body weight pressed onto you. Fucking you in deep thrusts while holding you in a firm headlock.

He's babbling incoherently, jumbles of you'resosoftandprettyandwarmoh!'s spilling into the shell of your ears. Incessant, is what it is. You're damn near relieved when he opts to grab your jaw up, tipping your head to him so he could kiss you. Drinking in all your mewls and drool. But it gives you away, the way you're clenching and kegeling on his cock when he's back to muttering even more praises into your mouth.

"Mhng—ah..mh. You're so, gosh darned perfect. C-Could do this, forever. S-She's squeezing me so tight.." He's licking a stripe at the corner of your lips, collecting the tears that drip.

"God, could you just say normal s-shit like pussy. Or whatever!" You ground out, cheeks falling limp on the security of his biceps.

"I can't do that." He mutters sheepishly, his face buried at the expanse of your neck. You'd never expected a man like Superman to be a whiny-little-mess, but it was starting to get to you, blooming godforsakened butterflies in your gut you desperately wanted to kill.

Clark lifts his head off you, feeling the all familiar tension in his gut, but it was another throb in his head that follows. He groans, snapping his hips into you deep, and slow. "O-Oh gosh, I'm gonna —"

The walls leave a long line of crackled indents at the string of laser beams he lets out between thrusts. Burning the surrounding paintings. You look up defeatedly. Sighing.

It barely surprises you this time. Considering the three other, still smoldering line of charred concrete following his eye line. You'd really rather he be a crier. Or premature ejaculator. But no, laser-beams-while-cumming was now apparently a thing.

You can hear Clark panting behind you, soothing the reddened marks on your hips apologetically. You don't offer him a response, merely burying your face in your sheets, voice muffled.,"stupid…fuckin'…alien ass.."

Your thigh still twitches from your overstimulated orgasms. Reddened pussy now pushing, gushing with his seed. "Y…ou're awfully quiet. You're not looking at my ass are you?" You throw your words over your shoulders.

The sight you offered him was pornographic & Clark was mesmerized.

He'd never considered himself to be the kind who'd want to breed a woman. Especially not after he'd found out his parents true intentions. But the way your pussy was pushing out his cum, in slow dribbles, it was stirring something innate in him.

"I swear supershit, if you're planning to poke that thing into my asshole I'll kill you." Your voice was croaked, but the point still got across. It doesn't hold much bite, you weren't completely against it, but not with Clark.

His thoughts instantly snap back to reality. And his head drops. Clark shakes his head with a groan. "Good gosh."

"Do you ever hear yourself speak? Actually?"

"Have you seen your dick?"

Obviously, you weren't bothered to take his criticisms to heart. "I take that as a no, then," he grunts when you swat at him with your ankles.

You were feeling better, considering how much easier it was for your body to snap back in shape. But even super-power-mutant bodies needed a goddamn break. A long, prolonged whine leaves you as you stretch — arms reached out. Your hip lifts, arching at the waist.

"Nnnngh—ohhh…that hit the spot."

Clark damn near doubles over. His cock twitching back to life. Nevermind that he was watching cum begin to trickle down your thighs in slow motion. It was the tremble of satisfaction of your left thigh that had him pawing at your hips once more.

"Woah —" Your head perks up, and you look back at him. A feeling akin to an electric shock takes you when he tugs you flush to the length of his cock. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

His snaps a palm out to rest on your headboard that splinters and crackles beneath his grip. Your head follows the sound. A feeling of utter dread fills you, and you shut your eyes in defeat.

"No, I am not."

You snap out of your daze with a stuttered breath.

Springing back up to sit on your thighs. Ridiculous was what it was? He was taking over your mind in the most annoying ways possible. Superman turned into a day-nightmare that plagued you even when you were awake.

You opted to grab the discarded utensils with your toes this time. Standing up and staring where your bed was, it was proper wrecked, walls painted with streaks of concrete melted and charred by his laser beams.

"This is has to be some divine punishment. Just has to be." While rubbing your temples, you reached out to water bottle on your kitchen island.

You choked mid-sip.

Water sputtering down your chin when sharp cracks and splintering glass ricochets entirely into your living room. You snap your head up to look at the dome skylight, shards raining into the room before your actual problem followed.

A blur of red and blue comes crashing into your floors. The impact of it rattling you to your core. A dust cloud blooms around the figure and you're wearily approaching it.

You cough once, and then twice, waving away the dust cloud to see a literal concrete crater beneath a broad-shouldered figure in its' center.

"Are you — " you stop, staring at the way he was breathing slow and heavy with his cape draped over him. Curls were fallen on his face in a frustratingly perfect manner, though his pretty face was bruised and bloodied, "— Out of your fucking mind?"

Clark was talking. Or at least that's what you were able to see with his mouth moving. "Couldn't make it to fortress…this…was closest…"

Your eyes are completely narrowed, knees bent in an awkward stance to try to haul him out of the apparent Superman-sized-crater in your living room. "Fortress. Manslaughter, Avunculicide, yes. You're saying words. I have no idea what the hell you're on about."

It's then you recalled from earlier that he was pretty much chewed and spit out by steel bewilder beast out there. You sigh, hooking your arms beneath his torso. Even with your strength, it was like carrying the dead weight of a building-adjacent alien. "UGH. C'mon, Big Blue. Can't —…"

Dead weight was dead weight, you supposed.

"Fantastic—ugh—I—mff—have—haaah—a..dog I..didn't..adopt. A six foot…" you grunted, dragging his body in shuffles, "possibly concussed..ugh—dog!" With a exhausted groan, you collapsed behind him halfway on your way to the foot of your bed.

"If you're dead. Tell me now. I'm just gonna just turn you into a campfire here."

Clark grunts at that, "…hey…that's real messed up…" he's mumbling in almost a boyish, whiny tone, before slumping his head onto your lap.

You're glaring at him with a disgruntled look. A tinge of pity at his state. You could leave him on the floor. Or. You wince at your thought of kindness.

"Hey." You snap twice before his face, "there's no way in hell i'm letting you on my sheets on your…" you paused. Raking over his rubble, grime coated super suit. "Outside clothes."

Clark makes a sound, a mix between a groan and a laugh. "..Didn't…think you..were a clean…freak.."

"Ohhh—hohhh supershit. I'm SO close to just throwing you out my front porch." With a mumble of encouragement to yourself, you drag maneuver him towards your bathroom.

"Move your freakin' feet!" You hiss when he nearly tips you over in your warm copper tiled shower.

"…They're movin'…" He manages, absolutely making no effort to move a muscle.

"You are THE worst patient." You huff out through gritted teeth. Propping him up against the glass doors.

"…Y'say that…as if…you had others.."

"Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't." You rolled your eyes, humoring him as you grabbing your shower head. "You're not special, you know."

Clark tilts his head to look at you, bruised & semi-conscious. It makes your heart twinge, but then, "liar." Lips quirking up just enough to be irritating.

You spray him point blank with water. "Oops. Itchy trigger finger."

He lets out a pained whimper at that, shielding himself. "You're mean." He whines out, and you kneel down. Fingers hooked around the waist band of his super-suit.

Clark catches your wrist and you raise your brows. "Are you seriously getting shy? When you've literally fucked the life out of m—"

He squeezes your cheeks, cutting you off. The effort to do that alone clearly costs him, and his head tips back against the glass. He finally relents, slumping as you peel the suit off of him. It lands in the corner in a wet, heavy slap.

It's different. Seeing him in daylight. You're hesitating, traitorous eyes raking down his sculpted body, heaving and exhausted from over exertion. Hear prickles at your neck when you drag your gaze up his slim waist, and his broad shoulders. Curls a little damper from your 'pre-mature' spray. You shake your head. Ignoring the fact you were taking a scenic route of assessing the extent of his injuries.

You grab his arm, lifting it while you press the purple blooming around his muscles. He lets out a yelp, his reflexes kicking in. "Okay. So it isn't broken. Quit moaning. You're fine."

It takes Clark a second to register that you weren't just hurting him for the heck of it. (He just couldn't prove that you were in fact enjoying seeing him in pain.) "…You try getting flung through a building." He mutters, defensively.

Rolling your eyes for what seems to be the tenth time for the night, you reach out for the soap. Letting it lather in your palms before you coax it through Clark's hair. The dust & grime, suds up and rinses out. He leans into your touch, his shoulders visibly loosening. It was getting familiar. The care. And it'd been a long time since he was cared for like this.

Clark looks up, slightly dazed. Meeting your gaze. Your breath stutters at that — at the vulnerability of it, mostly. So you yank his head to whip his face away. "Don't look at me." The damage was done, your cheeks were warming up at an alarming rate.

A stubborn smile quirks at his lips. He hears the quickening of your pulse. But chooses not to point it out.

You're halfway through rinsing his back that his limbs were slack. "Hey." You grip around his bicep, shaking it. A groan rips through you when you realise that he'd passed out.

You haul him up once more, cursing every god that ever existed while you dragged him to your bed, muscles straining with his weight.

And in an even more uncharacteristic move? You put him in fresh clothes, and tossed him under your sheets.

Clark slowly blinks awake. Muscles feeling lighter, but aching still. His eyes flick around to see that he was in a bed that wasn't his. And then it drifts, to your silhouette, eyeing the soft curve of your waist and neck, asleep next to him.

He swallows thickly, trying to move, but it all feels restricted. Clark glances down to see a tight shirt spanned around his chest. He's squinting, faintly recognizing a profanity on it but not being able to read it with his hazy vision. Riding up enough to act like a crop top on him. It's then you stir beside him, frowning as you look over your shoulder at movement behind you.

A flicker, barely, of relief graces your expression.

"Wow. Seventy two hours of you being passed out. Impressive. Get out of my bed." You mutter, scratchy from sleep.

Clark grumbles under his breath about still feeling weak. And then a bunch of nonsense about not having enough plant, like he was a freaking plant. You're dismissively waving it off before curling into yourself.

"Hey," he mutters, and for a moment you think he might thank you for all you'd done for him. "What…do the words on this shirt say?"

You sigh. "Dad Fucker."

"…Yeah. That checks out."

Clark shifts, scooting closer to you. Instinctively, your butt lifts to scooch away. Before you were entirely successful, a heavy hand lands on your hips. Dragging you back and flush to his chest. You gasp in annoyance, heart stuttering in a mix of irritation and a flutter of a butterfly long overdue a stampede to death in your belly.

But then you still.

"…Is there a reason why you're hard." You breathe out incredulously, your lower back being poked that could only mean one obvious thing.

Clark is quiet, "…morning wood." Mumbling with a tinge of embarrassment, but shamelessness with the way he's bucking up against you. "Your 'morning wood' is about three days late. Idiot."

He's nosing at your shoulder. His lips grazing just your neck.

"…I'm still sore." You admit quietly. He nods against you, thumbing at the waistband of your shorts.

"I won't put it in."

You bite the inside of your cheeks, the gravelly need in his voice making you falter in your resolve. Slowly, you tug your shorts down enough to toe it off. Clark's follows suit, adjusting his cock free. You bit down on your lips tight, holding back your moans as he slips his cock between your thighs. Snug on your folds.

"Go to sleep." He murmurs. Not exactly moving. "Just need the warmth."

Your eyes fluttered shut. Taking a composing breath.

Yeah. He's fucking nuts.

[midniqhtt]

clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.

cw: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, hate fucking, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of blood & violence, clark has a massive cock (ofc), sexual tension, tummy bulge, multiple orgasms, dub con, clark fucks HARD in this (2.4k wc)

𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

PART TWO clark kent had only ever dreamt of days where he'd meet his match.

he'd accepted that he was physiologically different that the humans that he kept company with. and that meant compromising. which was a multitude of things. he could only every use one percent of his actual strength in his daily tasks for starters — taking a boatload of mental fortitude to contain himself.

that applied to his sex life. an act he indulged in often.

maybe it was written in his DNA, or maybe having a significantly larger body to muscle mass meant your sex drive left you unbelievably insatiable. he couldn't tell. there wasn't much of a reference point he could compare to.

even then, it was…unfulfilling.

the women he fucked weren't to blame for it. truly. he'd learned after a couple of partners that his cock was disconcertingly massive in 'human' standards. to quote the most recent, he had a 'monster cock.' something he took literal offence to initially, but later learned that was a generic term for far exceeding 9 inches. and that meant only ever being able to fuck barely halfway in before most of them tapped out.

it was okay. he was okay with it. being superman had perks, doing good, keeping people safe. being sexually fulfilled wasn't on the forefront of his mind at all. but that didn't mean he couldn't dream of meeting someone who could keep up with him.

and that was why, clark kent was obsessed with you from the second you threw the first punch to his jaw.

"are you — … are you freakin' smiling?"

you had your knee pinned to his pulse point, knuckles flexed with clark's dried blood. other hand squishing his jaw when his smile tenses against your thumb. bloodied pearly whites peeking through. that wasn't the expression you expected from a man who was panting, bruised, and bleeding from cuts on his lips and nose.

"it hurts," he manages through a laughter of amusement, "like, actually hurts." your brows raise quizzically. it was a no shit sort of moment, because well, you'd swung at his face. repeatedly. but the crooked smile he was giving you, made your cunt clench. "okay. i do not have time to figure out what bullshit you're on. stay out of my goddamn way, superman."

he doesn't chase you when you'd gotten up, free-falling off the museum's building, thumb drive in hand.

after that, getting rid of him was near impossible. he was everywhere you were, disrupting your plans. and for some absurd reason — taking hit after hit, as if testing how much you could deal, and how much he could endure.

the next time you see him, he's skulking in your apartment, rotating a relic that didn't seem like it was from this earth.

"do you have a death wish?"

clark doesn't turn when he hears you approach him, tossing the armored headpiece up and down in his palms. "you're hera," he muses, eyes glinting when your footsteps cease where you stop short of him. the mention of your past alter-ego, sends a dreadful chill down your spine. his gaze drags over your civilian state, formal, a lanyard around your neck, pencil skirt, and a thin black rectangular framed glasses.

you snatch the item from him. dusting it off before putting it back in its' place. "i don't go by that anymore." clark stumbles backward when you shoulder past him. you don't wait before you swipe him clean off his legs, the cement floors crackling beneath his fall. "i'm giving you about twenty seconds to get out before i fuck you up, supershit."

clark reacts to that nickname instantaneously, pointing at you accusatory. "do not —" he grumbles. shaking his head before pulling himself up to his feet. you weren't paying attention to him, wrist twisted to look at the second hand tick on your watch.

"look. miss hera, i'm here to talk —"

"times up."

the force that sends him crashing into your bookshelf cracks the walls of your converted loft. you sigh, unwinding your wrist from hitting that brick wall-like chest. he doesn't want to attack you, and you see it in the way he's standing up, not getting into a defensive stance.

clark raises his palms to surrender. "please, i'm really not here to turn you in." you listen to him for a second, but you wind up to throw another. this time, he catches your fists, a crackle heard before he twists you around, pressing your fist to your back. "would you listen?" you swallow thickly, his voice blooming a warmth in you.

he grunts at you headbutting him, and you take the moment to loop your arm around his, throwing him in the direction of your television console. you briefly hear him mutter a quick 'oh geez that one hurt' in a tired boyish tone. clark looks up to the figure already charging at him. he catches you by your hips when you pounce on him, legs locked around his chest. "ow, ow, ow — i'm serious! just let me talk!"

you huff, holding him in a tight headlock where you were straddled. in the split second you hesitate, he blindly grabs around your back, holding you by the scruff of your neck before slamming you down like he was getting a feral cat off of him.

"that does it." gritting through your teeth, your heels meet the base of his jaw, and it cracks beneath the weight behind the kick. clark whines out loudly, stumbling back. his senses are attuned now, your head whips to the side when he strikes you for real, the glasses you had on flying right off.

"i really don't want to hurt you. " he pants, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. you attempt to knee him, but he catches you, the whiplash of him grabbing you by your throat has your hand grasping around his wrists. his cape flutters when clark catapults onto the other side. you let out a yelp when your back slams into the paintings behind you. he's close now, your chest heaving hard enough to graze his.

you spit out the blood that collects in your mouth, sizing him with a deadly look, "as if you can." clark looks at you intently, gaze flicking to the smear of scarlet on your lips. his jaw tightens, trying to figure out how he could get you to listen to him.

and then — he licks a stripe over your sliced bottom lip.

your whimper ghosts his jaw, and clark holds you still in place by the neck. large hands spanning your entire throat. your eyes dart to his, flitting left and right. his thumbs shift, just slightly, your pulse slowing beneath.

"you done?" he's close enough that you can feel the hum in his voice. your eye twitches at the smug tone.

"the nerve you've got…" you mutter, your own tongue catching your lower lips. he tenses at the sight of you licking over the glossiness he left.

the thrum in your chest is palpable. he feels it, and doesn't let go. the adrenaline of both the pain and closeness turning into something much more twisted.

"you're strong." clark leans close and you tip your head to the side to avoid him. he takes the opportunity to drag his nose down your neck. "as strong as i am." your breath stutters, thighs thrashing helplessly next to his hips.

"so?" you feel him sigh into your collar bone, his forehead rested on the shifted painting behind you.

"so…you can take it. take…me."

your brows furrow at that, but the answer comes in the form of the monstrosity pressed up against your abdomen, that was twitching. "is…is that what this is about? you needed a super-powered criminal fuck buddy?" the deliriousness in your tone is evident, and it seems to embarrasses him.

"this isn't ideal," he snaps in a hushed whisper. pulling back enough to turn your jaw to face him. "i know you want it too. i can…i can feel your heart rate picking up." he points out.

his face is laughably apologetic considering the span of events so far. "well, it's a given with you humping me."

clark's jaw flexes, "gosh you — the mouth on you." he sputters, the grip around your neck tightening a fraction. "you're so damn crass. this is ridiculous. what am i doing?"

you laugh in his face, and he perks up, staring blankly at just how pretty you looked when you smiled. "are you joking? you have your dick pressed onto me and you're questioning my language?"

clark winces, hips bucking into you when you point out the irony in the situation. "don't…talk like that," he's trying not to acknowledge the fact that he was quickly hardening, but your entire presence was a catalyst. "talk like what?"

he's almost certain you're being obtuse on purpose, but in the off-chance you weren't, "saying stuff like dick, and…humping so brazenly." a smile curls at the corner of your lips, and your hand drops, two of your fingers spreading apart to trace over the outline of his bulge.

"o-oh geez," he gasps, followed by a breathless "give-me-a-goddamn-warning."

the hold on your throat loosens. so you grab around his cock firmly, thumbing where his tip would be. "you're here to fuck me, right? so act like it."

clark looks to you, brows pressed into a knit. his arm snakes around your hip, "…very well, then."

you gasp at the shift in positions, where he now had you pinned on your unmade bed.

his hand curls around your wrist, slipping them underneath his suit bottom. clark jumps when your softer hands grip his bare length, it surprises you "oh."

"i-it's…not exactly small," he grits, panting into the side of your head when you stroke him with his guidance.

"no kidding. you're hung, big blue."

clark grunts at that, breaths turning heavier the more you're dry rubbing his cock. "like that. yeah... that's good."

you hum, lifting your hips to accommodate his bigger frame while he tugs his suit off. the impressive size of him comes to your view, and you let out a stuttered breath. your pussy clench almost as a pre-warning.

he drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. "g..osh.." he mutters, looking up to see that you've unbuttoned yourself enough to reveal the curvature of your tits beneath a lacy blue bra.

"like that we're matching?"

clark huffs out a strained laughter, head dropping lower. "that's not funny."

the smirk on you turns to a gasp when he drags his thumb over your panties, wetness slowly blooming where your slit would be. your hips tilt to his touch, and he hooks his thumb around the edge of the fabric, letting his finger dip into you just enough. you moan brokenly, looking down at the erotic sight before you.

his body was definitely as formidable as his cock, biceps visibly flexing at your ministrations. "the point…of this is so you can do what you want. right? just stick it in then."

the tremble in your voice gives away your nervousness.

clark rolls his shoulder, pushing a finger into your cunt, sounding unintentionally smug, "to fuck you…without tearing you. i need you to take at least four fingers." you clench, on instinct, when he says that. it seems to draw a cocky smile from him.

you aren't sure how long had passed.

somewhere between your second and third orgasm, you lost track of time. clark had his mouth latched around your breast, plunging his fingers deep into you, relentlessly pulling whimpers out of you.

"enough — fuck." you claw at his back, slick with sweat sticking to your cheeks. "just do it already." clark's still diligently stretching you out, marvelling at how your pussy accommodates his digits.

"okay, okay…"

you feel the loss of him all at once and with a flutter, his thighs pushes yours further apart where they were hoisted beneath your thighs. clark angles his thick tip at your entrance. "take a deep breath for me" he whispers, easing himself into you while thumbing at your clit. the reaction was immediate, you squeeze around him, hips already attempting to squirm away.

clark holds you down, feeding you his cock inch by inch and all you can do is brace yourself. "you feel — so.." he groans out, lips pressed at the corner of your parted ones. you're letting out choked, heavy breaths into his mouth, rendered mute, "so soft, a-and wet." you're teary, blinking through the blur that prickle the corner of your eyes. he feels your it wet his cheek, and he pulls back, like he'd been burnt.

"sorry, i'm sorry." his hip still. and somehow, the sting grows even more painful when he isn't moving. "are you okay? should i stop?"

your nails dig into clark's arms, dragging them down his bicep, leaving angry red marks behind. he doesn't expect it, when you grab around his neck, flipping him beneath you. you steady yourself on his chest and fully sheath yourself. the two of you groaning out in unison.

"fuck. oh fuck." clark gasps when your hips lift, and snap back down. he grabs around your thighs, stabilising you as you bounce on his cock.

"god, oh my god, it's like, you're in my…throat.." you're whimpering into his mouth, body falling limp after your brave showing of just having him fully in you. clark holds you up your jaw, drowning your moans in his mouth. his other hand slides down your ass, parting them with a finger, hold firmly around the fat. he takes takes charge to thrust up into you, deep.

"mm—ff..i-i know. it's a lot." he's blabbering in your lips, securing his hold, feeling your tight hole clenching when fingers spanning enough to graze past it, the tip of his finger rubbing where his cock meets your pussy.

it's too much, and clark knows. "y..ou're doing so g-good."

your breath stutters in his mouth, drooling into him helplessly. fuelled by the praise he gives. "so goddamn good." your cheeks presses onto his, panting when the white hot flashes take you to what's now your fourth orgasm.

it comes with no warning. he jolts once, heaving, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into you. never-ending, seemingly. clark turns you over in a fluid motion, cock still pulsing into you with deep spurts. he presses his hand flat onto your abdomen, where the outline of him pokes at your belly.

he's in awe, fully in the depths of a newfound pleasure. a heavy palm swiping the sweaty strands of your cheeks.

clark readjusts his hold on you, a finger tearing your blouse fully apart. you jolt when the buttons clatter to the ground. you gasp out when he presses deeper into you. his palm cradling your jaw.

"wait...what are you…—" he tuts, pressing a kiss on your parted lips.

"i haven't even begun fuckin' you yet."

[midniqhtt]

“while his world took a hit” my heart can’t take that line!

san you did it again! just absolutely love the way you write clark!

boyfriend?

clark kent x fem!reader, wc 900

cw: reader is concussed, clark worries, idiots in love, lots of fluff

summary: post-concussion, you fall in love with your boyfriend (again)

Clark didn’t consider himself a worrywart. He knew he was often exceedingly, overbearingly kind, and it wasn’t something he was ashamed of. You’d told him once it was your third favourite thing about him, after ‘his love for you’ and ‘his kisses’. He couldn’t deny that those were two areas he did put a lot of effort into.

But the sight of you like this, bruised, battered, and passed out on a hospital bed — it made him want to worry his brains out.

It wasn’t a major injury, Clark knew that. Just a concussion. No blood, no internal damage, no severe pain.

Yet the tiny voice at the back of his head kept blaming him, cursing him for flying around saving the rest of the world while his world took a hit. He didn’t think he could stop feeling guilty till you fully recovered, maybe a while longer.

The feeling of your hand twitching in his snaps Clark back to the present.

He glances over at you, downturned lips and tightly squeezed eyes, peeling them open. Your gaze darts around for a moment before landing on him.

“Hi, honey.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Hi.”

Clark hums in response, brushing his thumb over your palm. “How’re you feeling, sweetheart? Your head, does it still hurt?”

You don’t respond, eyes glued on him. Your brows pinch together, and your nose scrunches up, like you’re awfully confused but can’t figure out why. Suddenly, you try to sit up.

“Hey, woah,” Clark chuckles nervously, hand immediately jumping up to fold around your shoulder, gently pushing you back down. His other hand slips under the back of your head, a safety cushion as you deflate back onto the bed. “Easy there. You’re not supposed to sit up for a few more hours, remember?”

Blood rushes to your head. “Really?”

“Yeah, really,” Clark nods, palm moving up to cup your jaw. He presses his thumb into your skin.

Like a ripple, redness spreads throughout your face from the spot, bright and shy. He frowns. “Are you okay?” The back of his palm comes to rest on your temple, concern etching itself into his features. “Is it a fever?”

“No,” you say immediately, a little too loud for your liking, grabbing Clark’s wrist as he moves to pull away from your face. You cringe. “I mean, no, sir, I’m fine.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Sir?”

Your shoulders creep towards your ears, shyness written all over you as you let go of his hand. “I don’t… I dunno. Sorry, um, what do I call you?”

Clark realises. He softens, brushing his thumb under your eye. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?” you ask stupidly, a pathetic mess from the way he’s touching you. You feel like the sheer amount of prettiness in front of you was going to make you throw up, or maybe pass out again.

“What you call me,” he murmurs, smiling. “Or who I am.”

“Who are you?”

You looked so innocent, so sweetly anxious, that Clark has to stop himself from kissing you dizzy. He loves you, and he’ll have you any way, but the meds made you horribly soft and lovely. Affection felt like an ache in his palms.

He presses both palms to your cheeks. “You like to call me darling, or babe, sometimes. Clark when you’re mad at me, though.”

“Who’s Clark?”

He grins. “Me, silly.”

“Oh.” You pull your bottom lip between your teeth. “Why babe?”

“‘Cos I’m your boyfriend,” he chuckles, love in the crinkle of his eyes. At the horrified look on your face, he can’t help but laugh again. “What, is that so bad?”

“No, no, not bad, it’s just —“ you splutter, looking dazed. You shake your head. “You’re my boyfriend? Mine?”

“Yeah, honey.”

“But you’re so pretty,” you murmur, embarrassed and starstruck all at once, gazing at him like a child would at a lollipop. You reach out to trace the slope of his nose with your pinky, awed. “Really? Are you sure you’re mine?”

It’s Clark’s turn to blush. He bends forward, trying not to grin too wide, and a honeyed kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah, all yours.”

You pull your hands to your face to cover it, curling away from him. Maybe he’s seeing what he wants to see, but Clark swears you’re smiling. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, lovely?” He laughs, fingers wrapping around your wrists to tug them off. “That’s not fair. Let me see your pretty face.”

“Stop!” you giggle, letting your hands drop in favour of letting his come to rest on your cheeks instead. You’re unbelievably bashful, teeth showing in your dopey smile as you gaze up at Clark with the love of a thousand suns. Clark wants you forever.

“I love you, silly girl.” He presses a kiss to your nose, one, two, three to your eyes and lips. “I love you.”

Stunned, you look like he’s just given you the world. He would, if he could.

You happily gather his palms on your cheeks to press onto your lips, your voice into them like a kiss in itself. “I love you, too.”

[midniqhtt]

*throws this at you and runs away* its hard to sit here and be close to you and not kiss you for clark kent PLEASE IM BEGGING-

broken down and hungry for your love

a/n: this has ruined me. has me yearning in ways that i never thought humanly possible. and yes the title is absolutely from a jeff buckley song, because this is all i could listen to as i wrote this. just utter fluff and romance for this man. it's what he deserves. i kept it more fluffy than smutty just cause he's such a perfect man for pure fucking romance. i hope you enjoy babes!

summary: late at night you find yourself sitting across from clark kent. a friend, a colleague, and much to your detriment the man you're in love with. OR a conversation leads to kissing him on his couch until oxygen becomes secondary.

word count: 2.1k+

pairing: clark kent x reader

warnings: semi-explicit so minors DNI, tension, romance, fluff, friends to lovers trope, clark being the obvious one, reader being stubborn, mutual pining, making out on his couch, kissing, he begs for it cause i say so.

There were moments in time you wished to document each shadow and glimmer of light. How the lamp glowed in the corner of your apartment, the darkness cast along his mess of curls as his bent head was all you could see—fingers clasped and arms propped against spread knees. Fragments in time that stole what breath remained in the depths of your already barely working lungs. Shallow breaths, unsteady heartbeat, and he could hear each shift along the leather chair.

“What are you thinking about?” he muttered, fixing the smudge on his shoe already scratched to fucking hell.

You smiled at the obvious tension in his shoulders. “Wondering how long it’s going to be before you look at me.”

His eyes rose…barely. Neck still bent and knuckles white, but you could finally catch a glimpse of that haunting blue. Piercing and perfect and unfathomably beautiful in the yellow light of your shitty living room lamp. The same one he helped you carry home three months ago. As friends.

A word you made sure to emphasize, drill into his head with the tenacity of a good reporter.

Now you could feel the regret burrow in your stomach, curling remorse in the notches in your spine until you were unable to run away from that fact. You couldn’t fall for a coworker. Let alone a fellow reporter. But that was the fickle thing about romance—you would never see it fucking coming. A quick timed slap in the face you fought against, battling emotions layered in the betrayal of a stress free love life.

“I’m lookin’ at you,” he breathed—what little oxygen you had catching in the base of your throat at the sight of him. Free of glasses welcoming you to take on all that he way, accept him without secret weighing on his shoulders—help him carry the weight of a god among men.

That was the scary part.

Clark Kent was…Superman.

Clark. The man who spilled coffee on your blouse the first day you met, turning it sheer in seconds as he melted into a puddle of crimson hued apologies. The friend who brought you soup from your favorite spot in the city when you were sick two months ago. The person you counted on to stay during long nights at The Daily Planet, hunched over your desk with you, pen in hand as he searched for mistakes you never caught.

Yet simultaneously the one who saved Metropolis. The hero people called for in their most desperate hour. The same person who swooped in and saved you from a car wreck three weeks ago—depositing you on the very same rooftop Clark met you on during lunch for small conversations and cookies he swiped from the kitchen.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes I am.”

“Clark-”

“My eyes are on you sweetheart. What more do you want?”

Your gaze narrowed, nails curling into the arm of the chair. “I want you to face me. Talk to me like you used to.”

The sigh was thick enough to shove another brick in his wall of anxieties; you could see his thoughts churning as he fiddled with his watch. What if you didn’t want this? What if you chose to disregard all you could be to run away from the chaos he brought with him? What if…he wasn’t enough for you?

“You know how I feel,” he said softly, leaning back. “You’ve always known.”

Swallowing past the stone in your throat, you finally relented—allowing months of emotion to spill into your fluttering chest. “Yes…I do.” You shifted, allowing your bare feet to touch carpet and your hands to fall to your knees. “Then tell me about it.”

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me about…saving people. What made you want to do it in the first place?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he replied, lips curling. “Because my parents from Krypton told me to protect the people of Earth. And because my parents from here raised me to be good. Hopeful.”

You smiled and for the first time in thirty minutes the tension diffused—ease settling back into your bodies with the flick of a switch. “That explains a lot.”

“I should have told you after I saved you-”

“I would have run,” you confessed, fingers tangling together as he settled back onto his knees, closer than you’d been in days. “I—uh—I’m not good at this.”

The dimpled grin he flashed demolished the trepidation in your heart, a flicker of hope—of warmth—wrapping tight around the unsure organ. In the time since meeting him you found peace in his presence. Comfort in his gaze and promise in his touch. He was unafraid to love, unashamed to wear his heart on a rolled up sleeve. But that’s what terrified you.

Not Superman, certainly not his sheer willingness to fall head first into love. It was the thought of finally giving in—showing all the broken parts that no longer worked beneath the already fractured skin. You were clawing along the ground, seeking warmth in the pitfalls of a lifeless winter, until the sun entered your life and burned your skin with something unfamiliar. He cradled your heart in his still palms and you were unsure how to relinquish the final bits that you clung to.

The side of you that reeked of someone who had been victim to false hopes and broken promises.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said with an air of ease you tried not to be jealous of. “‘M yours baby. Since the day I met you.”

You dropped the pieces in his hands with a sigh, your hands shaky and body hot at how his eyes latched onto your parted mouth. That soft blue disappearing in favor of something darker. A hunger you never knew he could possess.

All that filled the room was the tick of your desk clock and shared breaths. His were annoyingly calm, your were…barely there. As if he could see through your lungs, he grinned—cheek caving in—as he caught the quick glimpse of a sputtering heart processing the flurry of emotions. He settled closer, eyes latching onto yours as the clock faded in favor of your own blood rushing in your ears.

“What are you thinking about sweetheart?”

You sucked in air. “That it’s hard to sit here and be so close to you…and not kiss you.”

Half expecting him to profess emotions that were practically scrawled in the extra supply of ink at The Planet, he chose to smile instead. His chin propped in a broad hand, lips pulled wide as he watched you fidget on the seat—unable to meet his gaze for longer than a few seconds.

This would be—to date—the furthest you’d gone in speaking your emotions aloud. Sure the words were barely a puff of air on your lips, but to Clark you might as well have shouted them off your fire escape. Loud enough for the whole of Metropolis to hear.

You wanted to kiss him. You.

The person who clutched his heart in your palm without even knowing it. Didn’t you know he’d bring you the moon if you asked that of him? He’d traverse galaxies and solar systems to find the perfect stone to fit on your left hand. He’d worship the very ground you walked on.

“You can kiss me,” he assured you, blue eyes sparkling in the dark.

“It’s not so easy.”

He huffed. “I want you to kiss me all the time.” A hand, or more a proposition, was thrust in your direction and you forced yourself to take it. Give him the reigns and walk you in between his legs, your hands pressed into the wrinkled white button down that was always one size too big. “You can kiss me whenever you want.”

The flutter in your heart ricocheted throughout the whole of your already nervous body, eyes falling to his lips with a shuddered breath. “Really?”

“Yes,” he murmured, voice a low rasp you could practically feel through the air. “Please kiss me.”

Tentatively you leaned down, cupping his jaw even as he tilted his head up to meet you halfway there. His back straight and hands a heavy weight on your hips—the only thing that kept you upright when his lips touched yours. And suddenly you understood. Why romance bloomed between two souls. How it could cling to others with a tragic necessity—the very thing that allowed people to breathe easier at night.

It sparked in the base of your stomach, stretching along veins and tendons, curling like vines into your stiff body that practically melted into his touch. You sighed into his mouth, lips a soft press to his soft ones, and Clark met your breath with a gasp of his own—fingers a sharp press into your flesh. His anchor in the middle of a raging sea.

He tasted like home. Like the honey biscuits he favored in the afternoons and coffee that was more cream and sugar than bean. Like a man who was ready to collapse to his knees at the sight of your smile, devotion clawing at his chest and ripping at his heart.

You sunk into him, tongue sliding wet along his bottom lip to taste more of him, memorize the grooves of his teeth and roof of his mouth. He opened up with a moan that shot a hole through your chest—breath coming in quick and shallow. As if you could barely get enough before he stole it for himself.

Somehow your arms looped around his neck, knees practically ready to sink to the floor. He caught you halfway and dragged you gently into his lap. Your knees pressed into the cushions of the couch and thighs spread around his—fingers burying in his thick curls until you could feel your nails scrape his scalp. Unfathomable warmth built between your bodies, sinking deep into your trembling chest as he licked into you with a soft groan—his hands respectfully latched onto your waist.

Never higher, never lower. Always the perfect gentlemen.

“I like kissing you,” you whispered against his swollen lips. At this point you were certain that yours didn’t fare any better.

He smiled, large and wide and accented with dimples you wanted to press your thumb into. “I love kissin’ you baby.”

The flutter of your heart didn’t go unnoticed by him if the crinkle around his eyes told you anything. “You make it so easy.”

“What’s that?” he mumbled, dragging his lips along yours, tongue peeking out to slide along your bottom lip.

You shivered. “All of this. Being with you. Somehow it’s like breathing to you.”

“I like you.” That seemed to be all he could say, the only explanation that made the most sense to someone who welcomed love with each sunrise and sunset. He shrugged, pulling back to watch your fluttering lashes as you toyed with the collar of his shirt. “If this is moving too fast-”

“No.” If only you possessed half his talent of expressing his feelings, the sunshine that poured off his body with an air of ease. “I just…I want to be with you.”

“So be with me.”

“But what if it goes wrong? What if we find ourselves stuck? What if-”

He cut you off with a chaste kiss, lightly pinching your chin to tilt your eyes up. “We won’t know until we try.”

“So corny,” you huffed, eyes pricking with the threat of tears. “Are you sure?”

Another kiss to your lips, your cheek, the curve of your jaw until you were caught in a laugh that spread warmth to the tips of his fingers and toes. If only he could show you what he saw. The light that poured from your eyes when you turned your gaze on him. The beauty always meant to steal his breath the moment you met.

This was always meant to be. Even if he had to write it in the stars himself.

“I’ve never been this sure of anything in my life.” You could tell he meant it, every syllable and letter was punctuated with the blinding certainty in his gleaming eyes. “Well except being Superman.”

You laughed, finding his lips as he finally wrapped his arms tight around your waist. “Well of course. It’s Superman.”

“Of course.”

“I guess…we’re doing this huh Kent?”

Clark beamed, nose pressed into your cheek and lips poised over yours with that tender smile that caught you in his snare in the first pace. “I guess we are sweetheart.”

[midniqhtt]

Would you still love me if I was a worm?

Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader Word Count: 2.7k

Description: There’s nothing better than making out with Johnny, until he’s exactly where you want him: breathless, flushed and distracted just enough for you to make some silly questions.

Tags/warnings: heavy make out, biting Johnny, that maroon shirt <3, making him melt, Johnny being dramatic, silly questions. No movie spoilers.

Note: Adding a new version to the worm question trend🔥Had to make this one for my boy because you know he’s a dramatic king lol. Enjoy 🫶🏼 divider by @saradika-graphics

john’s version | bucky’s version | archive | masterlist

On the rare nights Sue actually convinced Reed to go out for dinner, and Ben was probably trying to get a conversation with that lovely redhead he was crushing on, it was bliss having the whole Baxter Building to yourselves.

It was no secret you spent most of your time there in Johnny's bedroom, straddling his lap while drowning him in messy kisses, with some old record playing just loud enough to muffle the exaggerated gasps he made on purpose when you kissed his neck.

Not loud enough to muffle your giggles or your totally non exaggerated gasps, though, so his family always heard, and you'd want to hide the next morning when Ben and Sue gave you a knowing smirk.

Since you got together, and even before that, it's always been hard to keep your hands off each other. Johnny makes it particularly hard. Especially when he wears that shirt he knows you want to rip off his body as soon as you see him in it. 

That goddamn maroon t-shirt. 

He totally walks into a room wearing it knowing you're already thinking at least five ways to make him groan.

Funny enough, he hadn't even been the one who picked it out, it was Sue who gifted it to him a few years back. God bless his sister and her extremely good taste. Back then, it didn't fit him quite like it does today. But lord, you were grateful to the stars for how these days his toned biceps and firm chest seemed to scream against the fabric. 

And how they also seemed to scream for you to get a taste. A bite. Just a little nibble to know how his muscles feel on your mouth.

And tonight? you might just listen to your intrusive thoughts. Especially since you were home alone for at least a couple of hours. 

For once, being able to kiss Johnny breathlessly in the living room, not worrying about being embarrassed in front of Sue the next day after moaning her brother's name ... was perfect. 

And my god, there was nothing like making out with Johnny Storm. 

He'd even made the effort to set the mood. The lights are dimmed low, a slow romantic record plays softly in the background, not to conceal this time, but to enjoy. He'd even sent Herbert to count all the tools in Reed's lab so you two don't end up "traumatizing the innocent droid". And two untouched glasses of wine sat forgotten on the coffee table, because Johnny's lips tasted infinitely better. 

You're lying on top of him on the couch, his back pressed to the seat's cushions. You kiss him as you grind your hips slightly, just enough to cause some friction, earning a groan for him. You smile against his mouth, nibbling his lower lip so his groan dies in your throat.  

The moonlight coming through the large glass windows shines over the disheveled blonde hair you've been pulling, his red, kiss swollen lips, and the dilated pupils taking over the blue of his eyes. 

Johnny's heaven. Your personal heaven. 

His tight maroon shirt is surprisingly still on, but your hands are under it anyways. Your fingertips trace the heat of his abs, going up over the lines of his ribs, barely grazing his chest just to feel him melt under you. His hands travel all over your thighs, your waist, your ass, anywhere he can reach under the fabric, wishing he could burn all the clothes still covering your body. 

Your hands push his shirt up further, enjoying every inch of hot skin. You don't bother pulling it over his head yet, you're too focused on the way his muscles flex under your touch, on the way he grips your hips like he's barely holding on. 

"God, you taste so good," he mumbles, voice ragged between kisses.

"Better than wine?" you tease, brushing your lips over his before he can pull you back in.

"Better than anything," he says, catching your mouth again like he can't stand the distance. 

In between kisses he looks up at you, with that half lidded gaze he only gets when he's totally at your mercy. 

Perfect. 

Without a second thought, you lean down and bite his pec through the dark fabric.

"Hey, kinky!" He gasps, laughing, lifting his head from the couch to find you looking up with innocent eyes. "Are you trying to mark your territory?" he teases, raising an eyebrow at you. 

"Don't need to mark what's already mine," you mumble, leaning down to bite the other pec, a little harder, keeping your eyes on him the whole time.

Johnny lets out a low whistle, dropping his head back dramatically, one arm drapes over his eyes like he can't bear the pleasure. You laugh at his reaction, now nibbling the forearm shielding his face. He let out a groan. 

You know he loves that. 

One time you caught him low key checking in the mirror to see if you left any marks, because he wants them there.

Johnny loves women, yes. But Johnny loves being wanted, too. 

And you biting him is pure unfiltered want. Every mark is a 'you're mine' flag being planted on him. It's physical praise, and Johnny lives to carry that praise proudly.

"You know I like it when you get all mean," he says, peaking under his arm. "So are you gonna keep torturing me, or–" 

Johnny stops mid sentence when he sees the glint in your eyes. He grins like a man who knows he's seconds away from heaven. He swears it's happening, you're about to say something filthy. You open your mouth and he's already thinking he's gonna take you right there and then–

"Would you still love me if I was a worm?" you ask.

Silence. 

Three full seconds of stunned silence, then the arm over his eyes drops abruptly, and he pushes up onto his elbows to look at you.

"Babe ... what?" 

His expression stuck in pure, utter horny confusion almost made you laugh. You place your hands on his chest to rest your chin on them, looking up at him expectantly. 

"Johnny, if I was a worm ... you know, a regular worm in the dirt, would you still love me?" you ask again, like it's the most natural thing in the world. 

"Babe–but we were ..." He gestures between the two of you. "... we were this close to a life changing make out, and now you want to talk about worms!?" He whines, eyebrows still furrowed in disbelief. 

"Just answer the question, Storm," you tease,  biting back a grin, fingers playing with the fabric of his shirt. "It's pretty simple, would you?"

Johnny throws his head back with a groan so dramatic you'd think you just killed all his hopes and dreams with a harmless question you saw on a teen's magazine. 

"It's not simple at all, we were having a moment! You were literally just biting my chest two seconds ago," he complains, his voice pitching higher when he lifts his head and sees your unamused expression. "What? I'm literally just a man!"

You do laugh this time, which only deepens his wounded look. The hard bulge pressing under your thighs makes it very clear how invested he was in the moment, but you can torture him a little bit longer ... for research purposes. You shift your hips just enough to make him twitch, while giving him your best serious look. 

"Johnny…”

"Babe, I swear to God ... first you turn me on, then you play with my heart, and now you turn yourself into a hypothetical worm that could never kiss, or bite me again," he presses a hand over his heart, right where he wished you would just continue your little nibbling activities instead of ... this. 

"So that's a no?" you squint, head tilting. 

"I didn't say that! I just–give me a minute, alright? This is emotional!" 

"Johnny, come on..." you chuckle, smacking his chest lightly, which makes him laugh too. 

He can't believe this is where half an hour of making out has brought him. Not even when he picked his most romantic record. Not even when it was actually him who ended up convincing Reed to take his sister out so you could be alone. 

"Alright, alright," he says, running a hand through your hair as his gaze softens, though you catch the playful glint still in his eyes. "Of course I'd still love you. Even if you were a tragic little worm who couldn't kiss me back," he teases, his other hand still placed tragically above his heart. 

"Wait, really?" You ask excitedly, and Johnny can't help but grin wider. "Even if I was a disgusting little creature?"

"You wouldn't be disgusting, you'd still be you," he argues, "and you know boys actually like worms, right?" 

"Yeah, when they're like five. As a toy!" You laugh, and he chuckles, nodding along. "Not as their girlfriend. What would you even do then?"

He frowns, looking up in playful concentration, tapping a finger against his chin. 

"I'd have to ask Reed to turn me into a worm too," he says finally, nodding like it was the only option he'd have left.

"What? Johnny, you wouldn't be the human torch anymore..."

"Sweetheart, I'd totally give up my fire powers for dirt if it meant I got to be near you," he says, tone completely serious, and for some reason you wholeheartedly believe he would. 

He totally would. 

Now you are the one getting emotional, and he's suddenly very into the topic now, eyes lit up like this is his new life plan.

"Think about it, babe, just you and me. We'd nap under leaves–oh, wait, I wouldn't be able to keep you warm anymore..." His face brightens again. "Oh but I know! I'd roll you up in rose petals when you get cold. We could build a little house with twigs, fall in love under a daisy or something and..."

He just keeps going, building an entire fantasy in his head. And somewhere between his dramatic monologue and ridiculous imagery, it turns... kind of sweet.

"You're insane," you laugh, even as your chest fills with warmth at all his absurdly cute ideas.

"No, I'm in love," he corrects, eyebrows wiggling. "But seriously, worm or not, sweetheart, you're still you. Still out of my league. And I'm still gonna be obsessed with you."

You just bite back a smile trying not to melt, because the way he says it, like it's silly but completely real at the same time, like he's never loved anything more than this completely made up version of you. 

"I'd love you. Always," he smiles, brushing his thumb along your cheek. "You're gonna have to think about other ways to get rid of me."

"I don't wanna get rid of you," you gasp, feigning offense, leaning down to place a kiss right in the center of his chest. "And that, baby, was the right answer." 

"Oh, thank God," he exhales, dropping his head back to the cushions, making you laugh. "I thought I was gonna have to write you a whole poem."

"You still could, you were very enthusiastic about the idea of us having a honeymoon in the dirt," you tease, making him roll his eyes. 

"Babe, don't patronize me ... you kind of ruined the best makeout session I've had all week,"

"It's Monday, Johnny." 

"Exactly! We could've had a better one every day." 

You laugh as he flops back, defeated, so you lean in and nip at his jaw. He pauses, eyes narrowing immediately, because he knows what happened last time you leaned in like that.

"Would it make you feel better if you got a reward?" you ask teasingly, fingers drumming lightly along his collarbone.

"A... reward?" He smirks immediately, though he pretends to clear his throat and be serious. "Babe, it'd have to be one hell of a reward to heal my heart and … something else.”

"Oh, it's a very good one. Trust me," you assure playfully. “You’d be up in no time, fire boy.”

"Really? Because last time you looked at me like that, I was in heaven and then–boom, worms."

You chuckle.

"Let me make it up to you, Johnny" you mumble before kissing him, and he smiles against your lips. "Can I, angel?" You whisper, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

He nods eagerly, eyes gleaming as he places his hands on your waist to lift you back slightly, so he can take his shirt off. He sends it flying across the room, a huge grin on his face as he brings you back to lay on his bare chest. You laugh at his enthusiasm, but yours is just as quick, your hands instantly tracing the lines of his toned chest. 

And now your mouth is back on him. 

You hum against his warm skin, lips tracing the curve of his collarbone, "I have to say ... aside from the dramatics ... you handled the question pretty well," you say between kisses. 

"Babe," he breathes, tilting his head back as you kiss your way lower. "I should get a medal. Or, you know, more of this ... way more." 

"You want more of this?" You kiss the center of his chest. "...or this?" You bite gently at the same spot.

"God, babe." His voice shakes with a laugh. "You can't talk about worms and then do all that. It's emotionally confusing."

You smile against his skin, alternating between kisses and nibbles as you trail your mouth across the heat of his chest, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses over every inch you can reach. You pause over his heart, feeling it race beneath your lips.

"Still beating," you mumble.

"Only for you, sweetheart" he says, melting when you nip at the skin just below his pec. 

Your cheeks are warm against his ribs, you kiss even lower, down his stomach, just above the waistband of his sweatpants. His muscles twitch under your lips. You look up at him, your chin resting just below his navel, and that devilish look when you're about to ask him something. 

Oh no. Not again. 

"Would you still love me if I made out with you like this every day for the rest of your life?"

"Are you kidding?" He props himself on his elbows, grinning. "Kiss me again and I'll marry you tomorrow babe ...or right now!"

You laugh, pressing your lips to his stomach again, slower, deeper, letting your hands slide up his sides. His breath stutters when you bite the V of his hips.

He starts making the most shameless noises, as your teeth graze over his skin, running his hands down your back and whispering, "Yeah... bite me, baby, c'mon..."

He totally lives for it.

"You're gonna kill me one of these days," he pants, shaking his head, already halfway gone to the gates of your heaven.

"Maybe," you smile, lips brushing his V again. "You'd die happy, though."

"Oh sweetheart, the happiest! Death by makeout, with the most beautiful woman in the universe. Tell Sue to put it on my tombstone."

You look at him with a glint in your eyes, not trusting your breathless voice so you just straddle him leaning forward, finally giving him the kiss he's been waiting for. His hand slides up your back instantly, gripping like he's afraid you'll pull away, and he groans into your mouth like it's oxygen.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you tight against him, and you lose yourself in the sound of him, the way he gasps when your hands go lower, the way he exhales like he's finally home.

His hands roam freely again, sliding under your shirt, fingertips tracing patterns and dragging fire along your skin. The kiss deepens, your mouths meeting in that messy pattern you both adore. His tongue finds yours with that perfect mix of hunger and rhythm, and you can feel the smirk against your lips every time you gasp when he squeezes your skin with his hands. 

Yeah, there was nothing like making out with Johnny.

"You know what?" he pants, pulling back just enough to catch his breath. "Forget the worm thing."

"Yeah?"

"Next time, just bite me again."

[midniqhtt]

The Domestic Clause (#1)

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Word Count: About 5.3k. - Masterlist

He didn't want the cleaning service at first.

Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.

The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.

Didn’t think he needed it.

And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.

Then something changed.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.

And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.

He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.

Found himself breathing deeper.

And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.

He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.

But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.

----

It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.

Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.

That was four years ago.

The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.

So she cleaned.

Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.

Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.

When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.

“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”

She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.

It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.

The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.

A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.

Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.

It wasn’t a dream job.

But it was good enough.

And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.

----

She hadn’t meant to snoop.

It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.

But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.

Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.

Barnes, James B.

Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.

Her stomach gave a weird little flip.

She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

James Barnes.

It couldn’t be-

But it was.

She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.

And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on.

Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.

And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.

A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.

So he was her boss.

It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."

She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.

She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.

He was just a man.

A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.

----

She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.

Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.

She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.

A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.

And the food.

She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.

No complaints.

So she kept going.

On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.

A small cake.

A batch of oatmeal cookies.

A little apple pie tucked into a glass container, still warm.

Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.

----

It started with the pie.

He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.

The apartment smelled like something sweet.

Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.

He set his keys down and found it on the counter.

Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.

He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.

But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.

And it was good.

He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?

But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.

By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.

And it did.

Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.

He found himself trying to imagine her.

Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?

He started looking forward to Thursdays.

Started coming home earlier, if he could.

And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.

----

He nearly stepped on it.

The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.

But it was a chain.

Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.

He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.

Definitely not his. No one else had been here.

His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.

She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.

The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.

He found himself thinking: She must be older.

The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.

He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.

He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.

He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.

And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.

Just until Thursday.

----

She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.

Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.

She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.

Her throat closed.

The pendant.

A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.

The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.

She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.

It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.

She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.

Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?

The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.

We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.

That was it.

She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.

She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.

It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.

It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.

Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.

Almost poetic, really.

The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.

----

He looked a it longer than he meant to.

He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.

When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.

He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.

The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.

It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.

He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.

The necklace, and beside it, the flower.

No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.

For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.

For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.

For the food that tasted like memory.

For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.

----

She wasn’t expecting anything.

By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.

Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.

That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.

Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.

It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.

She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.

There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.

He’d found it.

She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.

She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.

----

The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.

It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.

Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.

He moved toward the kitchen.

And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.

He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.

He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.

He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.

It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.

And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.

They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.

He reached for a second slice.

And for the first time in days, he really smiled.

----

He should’ve checked the schedule.

The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.

No session.

A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.

James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.

He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.

Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.

She’s there today.

He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.

But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.

The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.

He reached the hallway.

He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.

Not what he had expected.

As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.

Baby, I'm preying on you tonight

Hunt you down eat you alive

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals

Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-

Maybe you think that you can hide

I can smell your scent for miles

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals-mals

It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.

A very suggestive prose, by the way.

He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.

But I get so high when I’m inside you-

She turned.

Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.

Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.

They stared at each other.

Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.

Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I-  I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”

“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.

He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”

The lie passed his lips smoothly.

She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.

She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”

She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.

He looked away.

The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.

----

She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.

Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.

Not even close.

In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.

And now… this.

Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.

She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.

He didn’t seem mad. That was something.

Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.

But that didn’t mean anything.

People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.

Fuck.

She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.

The pendant. The flower.

Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.

But that was before this shitshow.

Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.

What if she got fired?

What the hell was she going to do?

The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.

She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.

And the thing that made it worse?

She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.

And now all she wanted to do was vanish.

----

He tried to read the bill.

The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.

Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.

His eyes scanned the same sentence again.

Still nothing stuck.

Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.

The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.

She hadn’t fled.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.

He hadn’t meant to scare her.

He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.

What if she requested a transfer?

What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?

He wouldn't complain.

He’d never say a word.

But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.

He looked at the time and did some quick math.

She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.

If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.

He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.

So he waited.

Just long enough.

Let the minutes tick by.

And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.

----

She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.

He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.

But she knew better.

She straightened her back and made herself speak.

“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.

He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.

He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”

A beat.

“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”

He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”

There it was. A quiet request.

Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.

The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.

“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”

He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.

“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”

There was a pause.

His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.

“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”

His voice was rougher now, gentler.

“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”

She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.

He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”

Her answer came gently, but sure.

“Thank you, sir. It was nice to meet you, too.”

Next Chapter

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[midniqhtt]

suit & tie.

Jason Todd absolutely refuses to dress up in a suit. He's all leather and worn t-shirts, practicality with a little flair. If anyone were to ask what's his deal with suits, he'd just answer that the only way a suit could possibly fit him is if he had it tailored. God forbid he resembles Bruce in the slightest, who occasionally spends his morning hours with Gotham's finest tailors in his polished shoes and pressed suits.

Still, when you asked him if he could accompany you to a formal event, how could he say no? There was no way he was embarrassing you either by putting in minimal effort, so he forces himself to dress up, tailored suit and all despite the discomfort of being measured and poked at.

It's all worth it when he sees you.

Dressed in a silk dress that hugs you in all the right places, he wonders if you're trying to lure him into dropping this entire thing, so he could bring you back up those steps to hide you away from the rest of the world.

Eyes roaming over you and taking you in, he notices your widened eyes from his appearance. He likes that look, like you're seeing him for the first time again.

"Told you I clean up nice, sweetheart."

His smirk and the knowing look in his gaze does wonders for your racing heart.

You can't deny his words. You're used to his usual ensemble, mask on or off. Jason carried this rough edge to him, but there's nothing about him now that screams 'out of place', even with his well-fitting tux and gelled hair.

Maybe it's the shock of seeing him in a different light that's making you light-headed, but you can't stop eyeing the way his sleeves hug his arms, or that red shade beneath the black that makes his eyes pop.

Moving closer to him, you can't resist. Your hands roam over his shoulders, then drag down his chest, feeling the way the buttons are snug tight from holding the fabric together.

"Easy." He teases, though his grin barely conceals his delight.

Twisting your fingers around his tie, you pull him closer with a sudden tug, catching him off guard.

"You do clean up nice." You murmur. "But I like you a little undone."

His eyes darken, and you see the gears turning in his mind. You smile teasingly, breaking the distance.

"Come on, we better get going before the Gotham traffic hits."

Tightening his tie again to prove your point, you move past him only for his hand to grab yours, pinning you close to him, chest to chest.

"On second thought." He breathes out. "I can find other more suitable events for this suit."

You blink innocently, pretending not to understand. "Oh, really? Where would that be?"

"Just my favourite location." He leans in, lips brushing your skin as he whispers near your ear. "Second floor, your bed."

Safe to say, both of you don't make it to the event. At the very least, the suit was definitely put to good use.

[midniqhtt]

୨୧ ── Stream with me!

› Pairings: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne x Streamer!Wife!Reader

› Scenario: What more could a wife who streams want other than streaming with her husband? Nothing! Maybe. It depends. But in this universe—best believe that it is all you've ever wanted! What does your husband think about it, though?

› Notes: English is not my first language + Reblogs and likes are very appreciated! + almost 6k words that's why it took me days to write TT + Cringe and unhinged alert + big poo and goobert stole the show

Bruce Wayne

Bruce lets out a deep sigh as he watches you set up before starting the stream. A warm smile adorns his face, but he's still reluctant to show up as a guest. Just why did someone suggest a wife and husband bonding time in your streams? You were overjoyed that you ended up calling him in the middle of your stream to ask him about it.

Bruce excused himself and let an executive continue the briefing. His gruff voice sounded soft when he called your name, asking why you suddenly called—not even the slightest bit of annoyance in his voice at the fact you called during a meeting.

"Honey, look at the picture I sent!" He questions what could possibly have his wife over the moon. With the monitor in his lens, the picture popped in front of him. It was a 5 dollar donation from UnkissedBrick that said—in all caps—

"MAKE A STREAM WITH YOUR HUSBAND AND MY LIFE IS YOURS !!!$%5@5@"

It started a spark within the community that they were BEGGING you to make it come true. 

A stream to make money, have fun, and be with your husband at the same time? Of course you'd agree. Best believe that Bruce had no way out of this, you barely asked anything from him—would he have the heart to decline a simple request such as this?

No! And that's why he's here sitting beside you, wearing your adorable, pink headphones. It was something entirely new in his life. Never, and I mean never, has Bruce imagined he'll be wearing this godforsaken headphone for millions to see. The only thing stopping him from taking it off was obviously you—his wife.

"Wow! Thank you all so much for coming to see this stream. There's a lot more of you today."

Bruce snaps his head in your direction, giving him a clear view of how you marveled at the screens in front of you. A thought slips into his mind, whispering thoughts that made him worry about you. 

A lot more today? 

How many more were there than usual?

He'll let anything happen, just not this. Stealing the light from you is a scenario he didn't want to occur in this very video. It's your stream, it's your channel—not his. His blood pressure spikes at the thoughts flooding his head. And yet, you didn't seem to mind, you're just thanking them.

Bruce looked at the rapid comments piling up on the screen, amazed by the speed of people commenting. Nothing's too quick for his eyes, though. Who do you take him for? He reads every single one. Despite his worries, it was drastically different from what he thought. Your fanbase was literally fighting the viewers who only came for him.

BigPoo: Coming here ONLY for the husband is soooo embarrassing

isayholAcomosta: Scram your asses outta here man

IAMBatman: LMAOO IMAGINE WATCHING FOR BRUCE WAYNE

InstantoPreggo: either support her (and him ig) or face the consequences of my 16-inch-thick, fat, JUICY HUMONGOUS D!LD0 UP YOUR ASS.

Bruce had to flinch himself away from the monitor after reading that last comment. 

He looks at you with disbelief. So this is what you were laughing at... To be fair, it is rather amusing, to say the least. The look on his face makes you laugh even more now that you've spared some time to actually look at your husband's worry corner beside you.

The chat stops when you scold them to support both of you, also instructing the mods to delete any negative comments about Bruce. Which is odd since you remember telling them to do so beforehand.

"Don't worry about them, honey. Let's just have fun."

The kiss you give on his cheek eases Bruce, his bigger hands take yours to caress it in a comforting way. But really, we know it was for him. A deep sigh escapes his lips, knowing he has nothing to worry about anymore aside from getting through this stream with you.

You've noticed him being quiet again. He should try focusing on the game you're playing so he could see how fun it is. You told him to have fun, and Bruce is trying, believe me. 

Bruce folds his arms and directs his attention to the monitor where you're playing some kind of simulator game about supermarkets. The store layout is nice, though it looks cramped, the prices are lower than the market price, the other products are understocked, and the bills were due in-game. 

"Honey, are you playing this right?" 

"Am I not?"

He's spent years managing businesses, come on. Bruce is shrewd. And seeing his dear wife fail at this supermarket simulator, no can do. He's just lucky this game is right up his alley. You let go of the keyboard and mouse unattended to listen to his suggestions. 

What was hotter than the fact that there's a hot man explaining business tactics to you? Correct, he's your husband! And a smart husband is a hot husband.

Bruce was so concerned with his strategies that he suddenly went on autopilot and grabbed the controls to show you instead of using words. You stifle a laugh behind your hand. When did he learn all those controls? He wasn't just moping around beside you, and he actually was paying attention? You might just want to request another wedding again.

His only intention was to show you how you were supposed to manage the shop. Bruce demonstrated that perfectly. So why is he still in control? His mind wants to let go. And letting go would mean he'll have to leave playing this game. The escaped chuckles from you reached his ears. With a tentative glance and muted rosy cheeks, it was like he was asking permission to keep playing.

"Go on, dear. I'll just watch you play." You mean it. Watching Bruce play a game was more enjoyable than playing, he understands it more anyways. You don't think your heart will ever feel cold when you look at him. Not ever while you're still breathing and alive to keep on loving him.

Your eyes narrow with every part of Bruce that your eyes land on. A subconscious gulp was made when you took notice of the few strands of hair that hung on top of his forehead, the way veins would pop in his forearms with a few movements when he used the keyboard and mouse, and the musky scent of his cologne that perked your senses up—you'd wonder to yourself why you didn't have at least one child with him already.

The overflowing amount of comments in the corner of your eye catches your attention. You scoot closer to read it.

Tin-a-pie: Miss ma'am is so DOWNBAD

Big Poo: "Eaaasy white chocolate"  AHH TYPE SHIIT

MMONEYY: Bruce Wayne's gonna melt 

Goobert: ON EVERYBODY'S SOUL WE ALL WANT TO BE IN BETWEEN THEM

You snort, hitting Bruce's shoulder repeatedly. The man loses focus on his game, amusement in his eyes as you stood up to sit on his lap. He catches you in his arms, holding your shaking body in amusement. Guess he didn't have to excessively worry, after all—spending time and making you happy is his priority today.

"Are you happy, my love?" Bruce pressed his forehead against yours. His forearms had a grip on your waist that felt so secure and warm that even if you melted, you'd still be in his arms.

"Very. Thank you, Bruce." Oh, how your laughter gets his heart kicking and running.

The chat floods once again with teaseful comments. Too many for you to read without getting blown by another. Not that it matters, your husband is too busy being pampered in your kisses.

Bruce's phone vibrates nonstop in his pocket. You fished it out for him and opened it to see Dick's face with an image attached to it.

I hope Mom doesn't mind the new sticker I added to the chat. Tell her I told the other mods about it. ;]

Bruce was in the middle of questioning what his first son said only to be caught off guard with you abruptly shifting your body weight against him, laughing uncontrollably. The chat was spamming a photo of Bruce from earlier when he was so focused on the supermarket simulator game.

"I didn't look like that, did I?" He stares at you deadpan, making you laugh harder.

Dick Grayson

Is this even your stream at all? How was he acting like close friends to your viewers after a few minutes? You stare at your husband dumbfounded. Although you know that Dick has a charming aura and personality, you didn't expect it to leak through the screen and into their hearts within minutes of knowing him!

When you asked Dick if he wanted to do a stream with you, he basically almost leaped with joy. Just almost—because he suddenly hugged you before he could jump up into space from the ecstasy of his dear, loving wife if he wanted to do a gaming video with you.

Actually, Dick has always wanted to. The thought of having millions see how loved you are in his arms—OH THE SEROTONIN—Dick can't wait to do so. He just waited and waited and waited—until you finally invited him.

You can't actually hide your jealousy well about the fact that he's paying more attention to the chat than you.

Goobert: I suddenly feel like a mistress caught in the act with how the missus is looking from behind you

Big Poo: NAH HE'S OUR HUSBAND NOW

TheAMAZINGpie: She's so jealous LMAOOO tease her more

Good thing Dick was staring intently at the chat, he couldn't see your secretive middle finger you're flashing at the viewers. He laughs and takes a quick glance at you over his shoulder, then back to the chat. A scoff of disbelief leaves your mouth. Those snitches!

"Yes, chat, these are the true colors of my wife. She's more barbaric when it's just us two here." The playful tone has you pinching his sides. Dick laughs and flinches away from your hand.

"See? She keeps on hurting me."

"Quit the baby voice, Dick, oh my God! Eww." 

You gag at your husband, earning yet another heartfelt laugh. It was hard to pretend you were annoyed when everything felt so warm and natural. Dick is lucky he's your husband, or else you would've strangled him out of annoyance by now.

"Horror games are overrated, let's play simple ones." He pouts at you.

"What do you suggest then?"

And that's how you found yourself playing dress-up games at the old girl games website, where you can find all of the low-quality yet nostalgic games for girls in the world. You both competed in a game where the game picks who made the better outfit.

Imagine the look of disbelief in your face when he keeps winning 5 times in a row—5 times! Dick has got to be cheating, because in no way Dick Grayson has more fashion sense than you, right? Fight him, girl!

"You are so cheating, babe! How are you the winner every round?"

Dick raised his arms in a smug way, shrugging you off to annoy you. "Ah, the loser is barking. Face it, babe. I'm better." He blows you a kiss that you playfully shooed away, pinching your nose after. Dick gasps at your action, fighting the urge to laugh and just play along.

"Still can't beat me, honey."

"Pick another game. You'll taste defeat, Grayson."

"Whatever you say, Mrs. Grayson."

That's a blow to your pride. Imagine getting flustered in the middle of your bickering. Now you let a smug grin slip on your husband's face. Girl, you better stand on business cause you are losing FACE to your viewers right now.

5 girl go games later and you're still somehow losing to Dick. It feels like your sex has been reversed because what the hell? Maybe you are a man... at heart. How are you losing to a full grown man who—mind you—suggested that you play these games! Dick might be playing these at night when you're asleep.

It was a cooking game this time. You both need to beat each other with higher scores and more satisfied customers, obviously. It was just a mystery how he still wins when you both clearly see the big, colorful letters in bold saying that the dish you prepared was perfect—and he still wins!?

"That's it! I'm convinced you are cheating." You point a finger at him.

"It's just a matter of skill, hun." He smirks at you.

The last resort—your faithful, loyal, loving chat will support you on your accusations, right? Oh no, that smile on your face was wiped when you saw an ongoing poll on the stream. Scratch what you used to describe your chat, they are being the total opposite right now.

Overthrow the queen and appoint Dickie as the new ruler!

It's worst enough that it was 99% over 1%. You look at the camera with a death stare, in disbelief that your dear fans would overthrow you like this. Is it because Dick was more charming and had a larger ass than you? Okay, maybe keep that last thought to yourself because they cannot see the down half of your bodies.

And an annoying donation comes in the heat of the moment...

Daywalk donated 5$  

I'm looking at the most breathtaking, marvelous, amazing, pretty, kind, majestic, beautiful, attractive, sexy, hot, and gorjus (idk how to spell) right now and oh—I didn't realize you were here, sweetheart

Dick was giggling uncontrollably beside you with his phone in his hands. You saw the stream on his screen split seconds before he hid it beside him where you can't reach it. Did he really think you wouldn't notice it was him with this shitty ass username?

"Really, Dick? Daywalk? That's the best you could come up with?" You bury your face in your hand, imitating a facepalm to hide your laughter. You hate how he can easily make you laugh with the stupidest things.

"I am a fan of Nightwing, Babe. He has such good hair, good facial features, and that goddamn juicy ass of his. Have you seen his—"

"Dick."

"Okay, okay, sheesh, God forbid a man uplift his fellow man." He raised his hands in mock defeat. Backing away from that look of yours.

Dick Grayson is audacious. Partly one of the reasons why you married this man. 

You gave up, rolled your eyes, and just gave him a kiss to shut him up.

Jason Todd

"Oh come on, baby, you know you're happy to be here." 

You snicker at the scowl on his face. Jason looked like he wanted to drop a smoke bomb to escape the stream, but of course he wouldn't! What you said is true—he is ecstatic to be here. He refused your offer several times before caving in... and just a little secret, he just wanted to see how bad you want him to be in one.

In fact, he had the stream planned out already. In the span of the 3 days where you begged him to stream with you, Jason used it as a time to search for games to play, imagine scenarios, and other cute stuff that he wants to make happen today.

First things first, seem tough enough to place boundaries through his stare and seem friendly enough to joke around with him. Check. The chat was respectful to Jason and some joked around that this looked like Doomguy and Isabelle looking relationship.

"Oh please, it's more switched. This guy's a baby." Jason's eyes widen when you pull his chair to ruffle on his hair like a little kid. He glares up at you. Okay—maybe, this is tolerable, it has a loving effect to the viewers. Yes, this is fine. 

"Jason, don't bob your head like that onto my boob." You snort and push his head away. Ah, he thought he was nodding inside his head.

Big Poo: He's kinda weird... I like him

Goobert: We accept weird big guy and queen dynamics

Ignoring that small weird display of his, it's time for phase 2—urge you to play horror games of his choice. He didn't binge watch couples playing horror games last night just for you to play other games. A mischievous grin is fighting it's way to make itself appear on his lips. Jason expects you to get scared, cling to him, and show off the muscles he spent the few days toning. 

And as if he wasn't toned enough, Jason plans to show that this muscles of his won't be just for show if they decided to mug you in the streets while he's around. Anyone who's watching this stream would be a warning for parasocial freaks who'll try something with you.

"How about we play this one, babe?" He points at the game he searched up.

With a look of disbelief, you could only sigh at your husband's antics. He couldn't have been more obvious than this. The longer reps of his biceps workouts? Yeah, he's definitely planning something to show it off.

You sigh, and start the game up. The chat snitches on him smiling widely behind you as the game starts. It quickly disappears when you turn around, then reappears when you don't look. He gives the chat a playful motion of slicing his neck then points at the camera with a finger placed on his lips.

With a discreet glance behind you, there, you saw your husband doing a face that could kill that's accompanied by creepy giggles. In all of the years you've been together, not once could a sight like this ever cross your mind. Why is he having internet beef with your viewers?

Does he also think you can't see him through your stream view at your other monitor? You also stare at the gummy smile on your face, still having no resistance in finding everything he does as cute.

Heck, even if he snapped someone's neck in front of you with a sassy remark after, you'll still find it cute. Fucked up, yes, but hey, it's not like you haven't had body counts of your own in your other line of work.

Jason lets out an amused scoff at your unwavering focus to navigate through the dark cellar. There hasn't been a single jumpscare since you started. But because of his horror game video marathon, he's got every single one memorized. 

It'll take some time before the first one. In the meanwhile, he knows what to do to get you to warm up for the big scare.

His hands snakes itself downward, right past his own chair. You were focused on getting out of the sealed room that the chat's warnings fell to deaf ears... or eyes. Jason inches his chair closer to yours, carefully, so that his chair won't bump into yours.

An annoying habit of his that once made his teeth bleed from your punch. He waits until you're about to turn around a corner to strike—Jason bolts your body with an abrupt push on your shoulder. "Boo!"

The most he got from you was a loud curse and your middle finger in the middle of his face.

"Jason—We agreed on never doing that again. Fuck you, honestly." You glare at him through the monitor, not wasting another second to look back at the game. Your ears perk at the loud laugh that seeps through your headphones. 

"Oh please, you're not too much of a pussy to get scared from that, aren't you?" 

"Is that a challenge?" 

Jason waits for suspense, waiting until he knows you're almost near the first jumpscare of the game to throw you off. His hands once again find the liberty to make you jolt, making you lose focus and lightly smack your husband beside you.

Once you get back to the game, a horrifying figure appears on the screen, taking almost all of the pixels it offers. You flinch back and shield your eyes away the moment Jason tries to cover you from the screen.

It all happened suddenly. But it was if time moved slower for Jason.

One minute he was about to hug you.

The next, your fist connects with his face.

Jason didn't budge but hell—your punch still hurts as when you first met!

"You promised to never punch me again!" Jason whines.

Another promise was broken. As if Jason didn't break his earlier? He's sure his jaw also is. With a grimace and a guilty heart, you caressed his face softly. It was your way of apologizing. Oh well, it's both of your faults so let's just get back to gaming.

Big Poo: Leave Doomguy and Isabelle, bro. They're Mr. and Mrs. Smith at this point

Goobert: They're both tryna survive from each other

So what if Jason's plans failed? His jaw is aching—that's fine! He still has other ways... A plan B if you will. As long as his biceps will have a spotlight. He asks you, sweetly, if he could play instead. Jason smirks triumphantly as he knows you can't resist his weirdly adorable, beaten-up face.

He was actually doing so well for someone who's allegedly never saw or played this game before. Jason passed through each trial with flying colors.

When another jumpscare had shown itself, you were suprised to see your husband inch his shoulder closer to the monitor.

"Not flexin! But look at these chills man." He's definitely flexing.

The chat goes crazy! Comments pile up regarding your 'done-with-the-bullshit-face' at the back and mostly about Jason's muscles. He yaps about the non existent chills on his biceps that the chat eats up.

Big Poo: HOLY MOTHER OF GOD—PLEASE HEADLOCK ME

Goobert: I was unfamiliar with your game, Jason. Forgive me (pls flex more)

TheCrowbar: The crowbar approves of this marriage.

"We already are married, bud. If you wanted to say no, you could've done so 4 years ago." Jason rolls his eyes at the comment.

Yeah, he's definitely not warning everyone with that sass.

Tim Drake

"How is everyone mistaking me as your brother?"

Tim glares the chat through the screen. Evidently pissed at the teasing comments towards him. They knew who he was. How could they not? You always mention him and even introduced him at the start of the stream.

He gently grabs your left hand, raising it to show your matching rings.

Big Poo: AWWW! Such a cute sibling promise rings

Goobert: He loves his sister so much. ackk its so cute!!1!!

You try your best not to laugh. It might set Tim off and make him leave without creating any content. Despite wanting to see him get teased and pissed, you had to stop the chat with a few words.

"That's enough teasing my husband, guys. He doesn't like it." But you do. Your viewers seem to caught on your interest from the way you smile and stare at him earlier. Thankfully, they play along at the moment.

"What game do you guys want to see us play?"

Ah, you shouldn't have asked them. Your husband is a geek for video games! He's better than you at every game you guys play. He was more a tower defense, strategic, and board games type of guy. Doesn't make him any less of a weak player when it comes to games like Nekket, Super Smash Sis, though.

You drag Tim along with you to read some comments. He's impressed at the rapid comment speed your viewers have. Can you read a lot from this on a daily basis? There's a lot of unhinged comments slipping through his eyes too.

"Horror games? That sounds good."

What!

Tim snaps his eyes beside you, wide with surprise.

Before you could even ask for his opinion, your husband was already shaking his head sideways. He even had his arms crossed to match with his disagreement towards the suggestion. Tim does not want horror games this late at night. Absolutely not. Not inside this household when he's around.

He knows you're questioning him. But Tim can't tell you he watched the new horror movie you've been getting him to watch with you—alone. In his defense, he didn't want you to waste money on another shitty movie like last time, so, he scavenged alone to determine if it is as good as they say.

This is the result of his little secret mission from you. It's not his fault he hasn't recovered! You didn't see how terrifying it was for yourself... and not that he plans on letting you know.

Your viewers feed on his terror, already laughing to themselves behind their screens. Tim is just unlucky that you have wealthy viewers ready to make an offer you both can't resist. Like what do you mean two people named Big Poo and Goobert paid $10,000 each just for Tim to play?

And that's how the unlucky Timothy Drake found himself hiding behind your frame, occasionally peeking behind your hair to see how his wife is doing.

Everytime you turn into a corner, flashes of that horrible face appear in front of him. God, why are the lights turned off in your room? He doesn't even want to stand up to turn it on. He's aware he's a grown man, but God forbid a man like him can't get scared.

He takes a peek at the comments at the side.

HoelessRomantic: You shouldn't go there if I were you...

Tin-a-pie: GIRL DON'T

Goobert: You're purposely going there to scare baby bro

Baby bro?! This Goobert did not just say that. It felt like all his fear went away. He pushed himself away from your back. You weren't kidding that saying anymore brother jokes will tick him off.

"You may have beaten me at suggestions, but you won't defeat me in terms of winning over my wife!" He scowls at the monitor, taking you and your viewers aback. "I'm looking at you, Goobert... This is a threat." He smiles maniacally.

Tim sweetly smiles at you. One of the things you can't resist.

"Okay... okay.. calm down, Baby. What game do you want?"

"Oh trust me, you'll love it, honey." Tim presses a kiss on your forehead as he takes control.

You love Tim.

You know him well enough considering he's your husband for 4 years now.

But you guess you didn't know him well enough to expect him to suddenly exit the game and pull out a whole ass board game between you guys. Was it sitting there unnoticed the whole time? No matter, you recognized it to be one of his favorite board games.

He excitedly sets it up on the desk for the chat to see. A smug grin on his face to show off his pre-ordered game with freebies. Tim's so excited to share a game he's mastered.

"I bet you kids don't know this. Back in my days, this was the bomb." He proudly boasts.

Big Poo: Bro pulled out his last resort

Goobert: He had to gain back some aura obv

MMONEYY: Are you sure he gained some?

Ignoring their comments, Tim starts on the basics on how to play the game. Here comes the hardest part in being his wife—listening to his long, heartfelt explanation of Dungeons and Reptiles for the second time.

Nonetheless, you were blessed to hear his voice chip at every detail of the game. To see how the love of your life's eyes gleam to share facts to the viewers you tell about Tim everyday. They knew he was a nerd from your stories—but to see and hear it real time is something else.

Tim looked like a grandparent telling stories of his youth. The stories that seemed boring, but you can't help but listen in to. Although the comments complained that it was boring, and he's like an old man, the viewer count didn't decrease. 

They all listened intently with you. Do they see the vision on why you fell in love with Tim? Definitely.

Big Poo: All in vote of Tim being promoted to Husband, say aye.

Goobert: AYEEE

HoelessRomantic: Aye.

Tin-a-pie: Aye!!!

and a million others more.

"Oh so now I'm officially seen as the husband?" Tim laughs, stopping his yap about the game. He gives you a warm look and pulls you towards him. "I guess it's better than being the little brother, babe." He kisses you passionately while covering your eyes to raise his ring finger alone to the chat.

Tim must have the last laugh after all that teasing.

Damian Wayne

Damian has never been this clingy before. Is it because he's finally out in the open with you for millions to watch behind the safety of their screens? He doesn't know—only that he needs to make sure you're his only.

You can see how red his ears are on the monitor, his body boiling at the simple, cute gesture of having you in his lap while you introduced yourself and him to your viewers. This isn't PDA, he knows you're both technically alone in your shared room. 

Still, he isn't used to it. He's been in the spotlight several times, sure—he's Damian Wayne, hello! Son of Bruce Wayne? You get my point, but, he hasn't really been out with you to the media except the time you got married. Damian's more of a private, but not secret type of guy, you know? 

It wasn't difficult to make him agree. With a simple kiss, doe eyes, and a sweet smile, Damian would say yes without a thought!

Oh, but your chat was the mischievous type. One look at Damian and they all knew he was a guy who'd go boom for his lady. And what type of Boom you may ask? Well...

Big Poo: She is NOT going anywhere blud, calm dowwwnnnnn

Goobert: Acting like a damn dog who doesn't want to share the tree he peed on in 2025 is crazy

HoelessRomantic: Let OUR wife go you madman

"Our wife?" He growls, glaring at the camera. Damian would've stood up from his seat if you weren't on his lap. 

He had ignored the first two comments above that, choosing to focus on a comment about his wife. Like—that's his wife! Not hard to understand. He had everything to prove it. Pictures of your wedding day, legal certificates, your wedding rings, and a lot more!

Instead, he snaps his head to the side, acting like he was looking at a physical body to scan up and down with a warning glare. Possessive and explosive... The chat likes that. They'll have the night of their lives dedicated to set Damian off.

"They're normally like that. Don't mind them, Honey." 

He would've let it pass, and listened to your coo. And yet you let him hear you use the word, normally. Normally—as in, you listen to these goofs call you their wife? He doesn't want that. He'll create online beef for you.

And so it began, the chat and Damian's cold war.

The purpose of gaming is gone. Only Damian's sassy remarks and the viewers saying flirty stuff to get on his nerves becomes the content and entertainment. So much for the games you thought you were gonna play today.

But this? You'd pay to watch the whole day. Judging by that smug smirk on your husband's lips, he's aware that they were just teasing him. What can you say... after being with a wife who ragebaits for fun can train you into tolerating bullshit.

And what's a good way to tolerate bullshit? Fight it with your own bullshit, of course. And laughs—to show that he and you are joking. We're trying not to get banned here. So much for the millions of followers if it all ended because of his unhinged comments.

Big Poo: Pull up on roblox right now old geezer or lose husband rights to the whole chat

Goobert: OOOOOH SHITS GOING DOWN

HoelessRomantic: Millions of games and you choose roblox

Tin-a-pie: Imagine losing husband rights to a roblox game...

As soon as you read the chat's algorithm, you shake your head no at Damian. He shouldn't pick a fight over a game he doesn't know. 

It was too late though.

"Challenge accepted." Damian points at the camera. 

Hold on—his smugness falters. You raise a brow over the abrupt change of mood.

"Babe, do you have a roblox account?" He was so adamant in that petty challenge, it was hard to say no at this point. "You better win, loser."

"Do I look like one?" If he has the energy to roll his eyes at you, he might have the energy to kick butt on a game.

You're still appalled that it's roblox of all games. How old was this Big Poo viewer of yours to pick this one specifically? You sure hope it's not a 15 year old... or worse, they could be in the single digits! Oh God, where are this kid's parents?

"In what game will we settle this, Big Poo?" 

Big Poo: Tower of hell :>

Goobert: I honestly thought you'd pick murder mystery 

Big Poo: Let the old man get a taste of the... OBBY MASTERRR

Hey, hey—is this even your stream anymore or Big Poo and Goobert's private chats?

Tower of hell isn't hard. You've played it before. It was just a matter of skill to climb the tower. Damian listens intently to your instructions while waiting for the game to load where Big Poo's avatar was waiting.

"Listen, Dami, just jump over the glowing blocks and shiftlock when needed, okay? You got this, dear!" 

Damian pats on his lips repeatedly until you figure out his motions. With a sigh and a chuckle, you move closer to give him a peck—just a peck! But your beloved had other plans. He pulls you by your hand and smashes his lips against yours. Your quick reflexes immediately covered the camera.

"I can't fathom how I'm in need of a kiss over a lego game."

"Me too. I feel so stupid."

You both laugh, parting away from each other when Big Poo starts to countdown in game.

It was going so well! Damian was in the lead. He's actually pretty good with obbies even if he's a noob. Mind you, he had no practice before the match. Did his training in life transfer to your roblox avatar right now? How is he moving and advancing so fast.

The chat goes crazy with a notable presence—Goobert. The poor guy was screaming their bestfriend's name so bad. They almost looked like a desperate wife wishing their soldier husband to come back home safely.

The whole chat was amazed to see Damian—a noob—winning. And he knows he is.

Goobert: USE THE SECRET WEAPON HERMANO

Damian arrives at the last platform. You marvel at the close gap between him and Big Poo. He's actually gonna win this stupid roblox bet? But what—why did Damian suddenly stop? Don't tell me he's about to—

He types fast in-game, a smug smirk on his face as he watches Big Poo's avatar inch closer to his. In just a few thumbs away, Damian sends his message.

Husband rights defended! ;p

And it was silent—the time went slow. The crowd was astounded when Big Poo suddenly had a stick with a hand at the end. It happened in slow motion. Especially for Damian who worked his way up to the top. 

No matter how fast his reflexes are... it wasn't the same with the wifi.

As your roblox character fell, Damian looked dead in the camera.

"Big Poo..." 

Uh oh

"I BETTER NOT SEE YOU HERE IN GOTHAM OR ELSE I WILL—"

The stream has ended.

extra scene!

In another universe...

In the timeline of Young Justice...

Jaime and Bart were laughing their asses off. Each had their own unique device that hasn't been seen by humankind other than them. It's a mystery how they even got it. Well, it was just on the table... so, it won't hurt to touch, right?

They've both been at it all day long. Lucky for them to have the day off, honestly. Or else they would've missed this multidimensional device that shows different universes. Never in their life would they see 5 of the batfamily like that.

Although 1 of them is unfamilliar, and the second Robin has changed so much.

In a span of 18 hours, all they did was watch the streams.

"How'd you even come up with Big Poo, Ese?"

"You don't wanna know what happened yesterday." Bart snickers. "Well, how about you, Goobert?"

"Don't ask me, it was Scarab's idea."

They both went silent—reminiscing the streams they just watched.

"Do you think M'gann will notice the missing $20,000 from the funds?"

"Don't worry about M'gann, worry about—"

"What $20,000?" Tim's voice springs behind them.

Great.

It just had to be the Robin who the $20,000 went to in another universe.

They better explain well or else they'll be in an interrogation room with the whole Bat Family listening in.

[midniqhtt]

blueberry muffins

frank castle x reader

You find a way to pay Frank back; blueberry muffins. When you deliver them, though, you discover a worrying hint into Frank's life. Well, technically, you catch him red handed.

notes; frank trying to hide the bad parts of himself from you!! thank you all so much for your feedback and sweet words I appreciate you all so super much! this is where things start to get a liiiittle real but nothing crazy guys not yet

wc; 2.3k

part 2 of Just Across the Hall

prev | next

Your apartment’s perfectly cozy, what with the heater humming normally again and the oven just now cooling down from 400F. The warmth carries through the kitchen along with the wafting smell of blueberries and sugar– if Frank wouldn’t let you give him any money, you’d just pay him with something sweet. How could he turn that down?

It’s been two days since you last saw him. Secretly you’ve been hoping your paths would cross in the hallway, or the stairwell (now that the elevator is officially not getting fixed until the 30th of the month), or even on the street. You think maybe the universe is giving you some time to wean yourself off him. Y’know, remind yourself he isn’t a fixture. He’s just.. Your neighbor. Which is good in it of itself, isn’t it? Why push?

Maybe you’re pushing it just by knocking at his door uninvited. You chew on the inside of your cheek, looking down at the plate you hold in your hands, with the four most picture-perfect blueberry muffins of the batch. Did he like blueberries? Did he even like muffins? He didn’t look like he had a sweet tooth, but people had a way of looking one way and being the opposite, you guess. You’re half considering turning ‘round then, retreating to your apartment after being humiliated by waiting outside his door for a whole minute, but your stubbornness keeps you planted. Surely he was home by then, it was 8 PM on a Tuesday. You were absolutely determined to pay this man back for doing you a probably-atleast-$300 job.

You reach up to rap your knuckles on the door again, second time… could be the charm, right? Right. But the door pries open, a little less than halfway. Enough to reveal Frank, that unwavering, brooding expression on his features. Just his face, and the right half of his body visible. His arm is across his middle, hand probably on his opposite side, and his black henley looks.. Wet. As does his hair, curls suddenly defined as they stick to his forehead. You don’t have more than a second to wonder why he could be so sweaty, or why he won’t open the door all the way– you’re too blinded by the twinge in your gut, like you knocked at the exact wrong moment. It’s on his face, in those tired yet almost painfully aware black eyes, screaming what bad timing you have.

His jaw feathers when you don’t speak, and he says your name, low, simply. You remember yourself, following his glance down at the plate you hold. “Uhm, I just.. Wanted to thank you. I know you said you didn’t want me to.. uh, y’know, pay you, but this isn’t really anything, and I meant it when I said I don’t like debt, besides I like baking anyway, and I really am super grateful so it’s no big–”

You stop rambling when you notice Frank’s big, calloused hand in your face, lifted up in a ‘that’s enough’ gesture (maybe its the light, but they look stained, like he only had time to drag a washcloth over them.) His eyes are stern, but weirdly warm. He doesn’t speak for a lingering moment. When he does, he sounds like he’s been chewing on rocks. “Thank you.” That hand brushes the tips of your fingers almost imperceptibly as he takes the plate (Are his hands wet?). Maybe he just accepts it to get you to shut up. He nods and his lips turn downward approvingly, eyes flicking back up to yours with something cloudy swirling in them. “Look good.”

For a second you think he’s talking about you, and you feel the stupidest swell in your chest. You smile shyly, embarrassed as if he could read your mind when you register that he’s talking about the sweets. You shrug. “The real problem’s if they taste good, so..” A faint smile pulls at one corner of his lips, he nods again.

“Sure they will.” Why was he so strained, in every movement, every word? Maybe you were weirding him out. Maybe you were making him uncomfy, pushing a boundary– but, no, wasn’t this was neighbors did? In the shows, the movies, don’t they borrow sugar, and gift candied apples, or a tray of cookies? He told you he wasn’t good at the ‘whole neighbor thing.’ You try not to feel dumb.

Frank grunts, averting his eyes and recoiling behind the door a bit. Another curt nod and he lifts the plate, like he’s saying thanks. “G’night.”

“Night.” You turn, blowing the air out your cheeks as silent as you can and resisting the urge to drag your hands down your cheeks before that door has clicked shut, so that Frank doesn’t see your typical post-social-blow-up routine.

Except that it doesn’t, not for a good moment. His voice comes again, rough, “Stay safe.”

It’s only when your own door hits the frame, that you rub your palm over your cheek and sigh. That was embarrassing enough to throw you back to middle school. But you get over it pretty fast. Just since, when you pass the mirror hanging over your entryway bench, beside your coatrack, you spot distinct splotches of red on your face. Crimson smearing over the dip between your undereye and cheek.

It comes to you all at once. His voice, that weird restraint to it, only now you realize it had been out of pain. Maybe he had been sweating, but the darkness at the hem of his shirt was too dark, the color too rich for it to just been sweat. His palm as he lifted it to cut off your rambling, the one that had been across his middle, it had been stained just the same shade. When his fingers brushed yours on the plate– touching your face– smearing blood, probably his own, on yourself–

You know now why Frank didn’t open his door all the way. You just have no idea what to make of it.

–

You wipe your hands on a washrag beside the sink, dashing muffin crumbs off your fingers and getting ready to face whoever could be knocking at your door before you’ve even changed out of your work clothes. It’s been a day since you’ve seen Frank. Something nestled between your ribs is delighted to pry the door open and see his face; not for excitement, not because of the tiniest, really most insignificant, lets-not-even-mention-it crush you’re developing. But because you’re eager to grill the life out of the brooding man who stands at your door now, pushing down the hood of his sweater.

“Hey.” He squints a little, his brows are tight. Your eyes immediately move to his left side. He shifts on his feet, maybe from your stare, but probably because you haven’t said a word.

“Hi.”

“Your uh, your plate.” Frank explains, holding out the china to you. You forgot that you even gave him a real plate and not a paper one. You smile, taking it from him.

“Were they any good?” His eyes move over your face before they dart away and he nods, letting out a faint chuckle. The smile that tugs at his lips is toothy, and thats enough for you to pivot in an unspoken ‘come on in.’ He hesitates and his brows twitch again.

“Yeah. Yeah, you uh, you got a talent, you know that?” You close the door after him. Because, really, he couldn’t deny that the air of your apartment was starting to tug at him lately.

You laugh, the kind where your chin tips back a little just from the surprise, and you don’t notice how his dark eyes linger. “Not talent, just a blog recipe.” You watch him settle against your counter, his hands bracketing the granite and his arms stretched out to his sides. Just a reminder of how much bigger he was; how much damage he really could do, if he had the mind to. But never do you even consider that he might. He seems too… gentle. Like a big dog trying to gently handle a bird (are those videos even real? And is it rude to compare him to a pitbull, the gentle giant he was?). He seemed hesitant, restrained in everything he did, Frank. Maybe thats what a man like him had to do, to counteract how intimidating he could come off.

Never, though, did you feel intimidated. Even recalling the literal blood on his hands.

Curious, maybe.

“Can I ask you something?” You wring your hands. He makes an indifferent sound in his throat.

“…Maybe for a cup of coffee.” His brows push up, like he’s wounding you personally by asking you for anything at all. “If it ain’t–”

“It’s not.” You throw him a look over your shoulder as you pop a pod into your machine from the jar you kept them all in. “It’s 6 PM though. You know that?” You huff. He grunts affirmatively.

“Yeah, yeah, I can read clocks too, sweetheart.” It’s the closest thing to a joke you’ve heard out of him, and you cover your mouth against a laugh. Not that your palm does much to hide the sound, or the little tilt backward your head does. The pet name, no matter how common for, y’know, just friendly neighbors— it still stirs something delightful in your stomach. Frank clears his throat, turns his cheek and looks at the far wall. “You uh, you wanted to..”

“Oh, uhm. Yeah.” You turn, steaming mug in hand. No sugar again. He takes it by the hot bottom without a wince, maybe those callouses were thick enough. “About yesterday.”

Frank sighs through his nostrils. But he doesn’t say a word. Stubborn. “You were acting weird. I know I shouldn’t pry, but.. Uhm. I saw your hand, and I was just worried if you were, I don’t know, hurt? Or something?” It’s the fact that Frank’s expression is stoic as ever that makes you ramble on nervously. His eye dart everywhere but you, he turns his face and sips that coffee. It’s like you’re talking to a wall; until very suddenly you’re not, and his eyes land on you, his brows furrowed and the muscle of his jaw working. Like he’s silently telling you to knock it off. But you’re just as stubborn as he is.

“Frank, if you're not gonna say anything, at least just tell me you aren’t some.. serial killer.” The corners of your lips tug up in an attempt to lighten things, but you feel so awkward that even your skin feels too tight and the slightest twitch of his lips relieves you a little. But thats the most he gives you. His silence doesn’t hang, it drapes, it covers the tiny space of your kitchen thickly, like an old knit blanket that smells vaguely like smoke. “Frank.” You repeat. He couldn’t be a murderer, you try and smile the idea off, as if to remind him how ridiculous he was being by leaving you hanging.

He turns his bearded cheek, setting down his coffee half-drank. “I better head out.” Your heart sinks to your knees at the finality in his voice. But your feet stay planted, and you watch him cross the room to your door, boots thumping heavy and in much better rhythm than your racing heartbeat. Frank looks over his shoulder at you, fingers wrapping around the handle. “Stay safe.”

“Yeah.” You mutter. He lingers another moment, though his eyes are on the ground as he grunts softly. You watch his jaw feather with a curt nod. Like he’s sealing this conversation off, for good. The door hitting the frame has a similar effect. Except that you can’t get it out of your brain.

The fact that Frank wouldn’t explain a thing, it only deepened your interest. It couldn’t even be called interest– It was a need, to know what was going on. You weren’t sure why you cared. He clearly didn’t want you to; clearly, you crossed some invisible line.

It’s not a good feeling. You cross your arms. Stare at your socked feet on the tile, and press your lips. You hoped it wasn’t the last time he crossed the hall and knocked on your door.

You try not to think so hard about why the notion that it might be puts a hole in your gut.

taglist: @dungeons-bat, @thuul-box