tacobacoyeet

[tacobacoyeet]

Hi to the person who just read all three installments to the Taco Bell series as well as Alligator Tears! I am so sorry for how your night is apparently going (based on your choice of fanfiction), and I hope it gets better!!

[tacobacoyeet]

babeee, more bots oh, pudge! patrick zweig, plssss?!!

Do you have any specific ideas in mind? He's quite versatile, you can do almost anything with a bot!!

[tacobacoyeet]

Do you write/make bots for scandal? I've been searching for a while trying to find someone who does

I haven't yet, but I would LOVE to. It's one of my favorite shows of all time. I'm happy to take requests!!!

[tacobacoyeet]

thinking about virgin clark x experienced reader where poor sweet clark would have literally no idea what to do and reader would be so sweet and patient with him and guide him through how to be on top <3

SMUT!

well... now i'm also thinking about this <3

poor baby would be so desperate to get it right for you. he's such a kind, giving, lover. the last thing he wants to do is do this wrong. he wants to to be good to you, make you happy. sweet little farmboy™... seriously, he'd do anything for you.

he's jerked off before, sure, as best as he could—thinking of you, what you look like, how you'd feel... and now, he's got you underneath him. finally.

he's so cute about it. "i don't want to hurt you, is this okay?" a sweet little wrinkle on his forehead. "am i doing it right?" mind you, he's still just trying to figure how to be on top of you in a way that isn't horribly awkward.

"you're doing great," you tell him, positioning one of his hands to brace next to your head, and pulling the other between your legs. "now we've got to make sure you're not going to hurt me, right?" you softly coach him.

he begins to gently rub his fingers through your folds, almost surprised by how wet you already are... but you can't help it. his inexperience somehow makes him sexier. he takes his time touching you, getting you nice and soaked before working in one finger, and then two.

"gotta get me stretched out," you quietly explain. his cheeks are flushed in a soft pink, brows furrowed in concentration as he locks in on a rhythm, his long, thick fingers filling you in a way that makes your entire body thrum with need. with a little more coaching, his fingers are finding a particularly delicious spot of sensitive tissue inside you, and his chest heaves as he listens to the noises you make as he hits it over and over again.

"y-yeah, baby. so good. you're doing so—oh, god—so well." you almost don't want to tell him to stop, but you've both decided on a mission for this evening, and it's not letting him take you apart with just fingers.

"okay. alright. ready?" you pant, cunt fluttering as he withdraws his fingers, watching as he cleans them with his tongue.

"yeah, ready. just... help, okay? please?"

you almost melt right then and there. "of course i will, baby."

you should've expected, that, of all people, superman would be ridiculously well-endowed. and, maybe you did... but this was beyond what you could've imagined. he takes in the way your eyes widen, staring at his cock, and he blushes pink again. "is there something wrong with it?" he asks, obviously panicked.

that snaps you out of it. "no. no, no. absolutely nothing wrong. quite the opposite, actually."

his cheeks somehow go redder.

after a moment more of preparation, he's pushing into you. his hands are braced on either side of your head as he holds his weight above you slightly. his mouth hangs open, broken moans escaping his throat. a stubborn curl hangs down from his otherwise perfect hair, his eyelids fluttering.

"oh sh—shoot, gosh, you feel good," he pants out. he stills once he's as far inside you as he can go.

"you okay?" you check on him. once he confirms, you keep going. "alright, baby. now roll your hips, okay? pull back and push in. slowly." you begin coaching him through it.

he's awkward at first, unable to lock into a rhythm. he mutters apologies, his face scrunched up in concentration. slowly, though he finds a groove. every utterance of praise from your lips, every noise indicating that he's doing something right, encourages him to try even harder.

"mmm... yeah, clark, mhm," you're murmuring, gently running your hand through his curly hair. his face makes its way into the dip of your neck and shoulder, letting out hot breaths and the occasional little kiss to the skin.

"f-feels so good," he stutters out. "pl-please," he whimpers, the noise heating you up. "not gonna last long. oh f—frick!"

his hips are seemingly moving of their own accord now, snapping into you with more confidence than before. "you're fantastic," you praise him. "just a little more to your le—yes!"

"can i come inside you?" he pants out, his face now hovering directly over yours, expression completely changed by the pleasure and desperation coursing through his blood. you feel his cock twitch inside of you. "gonna come," he repeats. "need to—"

"yes, yeah, inside me," you quickly, breathlessly nod. "go on. come for me, clark."

letting his head fall back down to your shoulder, he releases with a whine that reverberates through your skin, his hips jerking as he fills you, thick and warm. "oh, fudge—ngh!"

he collapses on top of you, panting. "good job, clark," you praise, rubbing his back. "you did so well. super, even," you add, chuckling at your own joke. he lets out a breathless laugh, lifting his head to press a tender, sensual kiss to your lips.

"thank you," he murmurs. "i had quite the teacher," he smiles into the kiss. after a few moments, he rolls off of you, turning his head to look at you, a slight frown on his face.

"what about you?" he asks. you blink.

"what about me?"

"you didn't finish!" he remarks, seemingly upset with himself.

you reach over, gently cupping his cheek. "that's okay," you tell him. "there are plenty of other things we can do to fix that," you grin. he catches the glint in your eye.

tonight is certainly going to be... educational.

-----

superman taglist:

@loverofmine99 @wintersoldierenthusiastt @Chamorunsmiles @challengers4ev @imperishablereverie @lacelottie @animegamerfox @bluestrd @officialparentofadrien @viktor-enjoyer

[tacobacoyeet]

hnng- bsf!patrick being way nicer than normal when you go through another breakup.

he says it's because you don't deserve to be treated that way. and you don't see the way his cock throbs with each sniffle or sob.

he knows it's wrong. he knows he's a terrible person and a terrible friend. but as soon as you drift off to sleep his hand is down his boxers, moving desperately.

yeah he's definitely going to hell, if it exists.

🐼

no cause he’s so unexpectedly sweet when you come to his dorm room sobbing over your most recent ex. He says he’s tired of the losers you date breaking your heart because you’re just the sweetest and most trusting person. He hates that they take advantage of you. Could he be any sweeter, right now? You wonder what’s gotten into him. He gets up from his desk chair and approaches you.

You’re sitting on his extra long twin bed and stands over you, taking in the view. You’re looking up at him through teary eyes, your lashes are webbed, your mascara all smeared, your is face streaked with makeup and its all just so… so wet. Even your lips are puffy and shiny, wearing that sad little pout.

One fucked up little part of him wants to ask you to open your mouth as wide as you can. “Oh don’t worry, it’s not for any reason.”

Thankfully, you can’t read minds and right now you’re so emotional that you’re completely oblivious to the line of his cock as it starts to swell and become more visible in his sweatpants. More tears drop from your eyes and he gently brushes them away with his thumb, he has to fight the urge to suck it into his mouth after.

You think he’s being so sweet when he offers to let you sleep in bed with him, for old times sake. The way you used to do when you were kids.

You curl up close to him, rest your wet cheek on his bare chest, he rubs circles along your shoulder and upper back as you quietly cry yourself to sleep. And then, when your breathing evens out and slows into that unconscious rhythm, he quietly slips his hand into his boxers. Jerking himself rapidly while he tries to stifle his soft grunts and moans. He’s already so fucking close he knows he’ll be finished in no time. He’s probably the worst person in the fucking world but nothing gets him harder than watching your pretty eyes fill with tears. Fuck. He’s going to hell.

Your head is on his chest and you’re somewhere in a lucid state, watching his hand move inside the fabric of his pants and hearing his heart beat rapidly. Certain you’re dreaming, you let the hypnotic movement and his stuttered breathing lure you into a deeper sleep. Your panties still damp with your slick when you wake to use the bathroom a few hours later. What a crazy dream.

[tacobacoyeet]

can't stop thinking about pussy spanking w patrick... godd!!

Being tipsy with patrick and talking about your desires in the bedroom, leaning on each other, coaxing giggles from him as he nurses his beer. Maybe you let it slip that you think it would be really fucking hot if he spanked your pussy. And you haven’t been talking to patrick long so you’re worried you might scare him away; of course you’ve fucked before but it was all pretty normal stuff.

Patrick runs a hand through his hair and huffs.

“Fuck,” is all he says.

“Is that okay?”

Patrick nibbles on his lip and leans into you. “Is it okay with you? ‘Cause I’m all in.”

And the juxtaposition between how syrupy sweet he was being, laughing and rubbing tiny circles on your thigh to this—is almost the hottest part of it.

His eyes are darkened as he shoves three fingers in your mouth, slightly hooking them to get them soaked. He grabs your jaw as he runs his hand down your body, pushing his fingers into your cunt. He realizes you didn’t even need the spit; you’re fucking soaked, your legs instinctively shaking as he presses his fingertips against your g-spot, curling them upwards.

You let out a hybrid moan and grunt, throwing your head back.

“Look at me.” A small slap to your cheek. “That feel good? God you look fucking pathetic.” And then he takes his fingers out, all at once. You whine, empty and small beneath him. Then you’re embarrassed, because you almost think he’s being serious, that he didn’t actually want to do it—and then he does. A firm smack to your pussy and it feels like an electric shock through your legs and spidering up to your flushed cheeks.

“Keep your legs open.” He pries them wide. “Unless you want more? Are you a dirty slut?”

You look up at him, defiantly. “‘M not. No.”

Patrick slaps your cunt again. This time, you whimper, pushing your legs up to your chest.

“You’re not?”

You shake your head. He fights back a smirk.

“Then I’ll just stop, how’s that sound?” He pulls his hand away and you grab his wrist, pressing his fingers against your pussy. He leans in, hardened cock flush to your body. “‘S what I thought.”

[tacobacoyeet]

NEW THEME SO COOL AND SEXY<333 exploring all parts of your new layout and frothing at the mouth, it’s so well-curated mmm ava you have done it again

YOU are so cool and sexy Sage!! I love you!! Thank you!!

[tacobacoyeet]

[tacobacoyeet]

Important PSA

fuck WAIT josh o’connor ginger beard with the earring… can’t forget the earring. important. anyways. as you were

[tacobacoyeet]

idk if you listen to Coi Leray but she just dropped a song called We Time that has been on replayyy like the first part + chorus of the song is sooo catchy and I lowkey was thinking of a scenario with reader x patrick where the reader is a lil tipsy maybe they went to the club together or reader went out with her friends and the liquor is going straight to the kitty and she wants her man BAD! Ready to fuck as soon as she gets home and just pounces on patrick LMAO this song is giving that. anyways thanks for reading, i hope this isn't corny LOL (im an art girl but art is more of a slow/making love type of guy imo, and the vibe of this song gives pat to me, but if you ever end up doing this, ask, you can pick whoever)

smut, not proofread! - listen here!

well, yes!!

it's difficult to keep your composure when you're on the arm of the hottest man in the world, and it's even harder when you're several shots in, sweaty from the club, pressed up against him, and drunk out of your mind. to be fair, he's about there too... but he can hold his liquor a little better. but he's a good man, and he knows when it's time to take you home.

unfortunately, your uber driver might have seen a little bit more than they should've, but you can't take that back now. you're not even going to remember it in the morning, despite the fact that you were in the backseat of the car, dress riding up your thighs, leg sloppily hitched over his lap as you drunkenly made out with him. eventually, you're stumbling into your apartment. the second the door shuts, all bets (and clothes) are off.

you're pushing him to stumble to a seat on the sofa, getting stuck in your clothes as you rush to take them off—he helps, though. he's a gentleman... ish. and without so much as a few minutes passing, the living room is littered with clothes, you're straddling him on the couch, and his mouth is alternating between sucking each tit and murmuring random things you can't be bothered to understand while you bounce on his dick, your pussy swallowing it over and over again as you struggle, in your drunken state, to find a consistent rhythm.

your thighs are burning. your knees are slipping. everything’s off-tempo and sweaty and sticky, but it doesn’t matter. he doesn’t care. he’s too busy mouthing at your tits, alternating between sucking and softly biting, his hands sliding from your waist to your ass and back again like he can’t decide what part of you he needs more. you’re a mess. moaning without meaning to. mumbling his name into his hair as your head drops against his. you’re trying to ride him properly, but it’s just not happening. you’re drunk and shaky and fucked out already, bouncing in these clumsy little circles that don’t make any sense—except they do, because every few seconds he hits that spot that makes your eyes roll back and your mouth fall open like you’re about to cry. he groans every time you squeeze around him. says something like “just like that” or “god, baby,” but you’re barely registering it. you’re too busy hanging onto his shoulders and fighting for balance like you’re drunk off his dick instead of six shots of tequila. you feel it building in your stomach—hot and tight and way too fast. you’re going to cum, and it’s going to be fucking embarrassing how hard you do.

you can feel how wet you are every time you move. it’s obscene. loud and sticky and leaking down the insides of your thighs, making a mess all over him and the couch , but who fucking cares? your skin is hot. your makeup is melting. your tits are shiny with spit and your pussy’s making sounds you’re gonna pretend weren’t real in the morning. he’s just watching you now, eyes low and hungry, lips parted like he wants to eat you alive. one hand grabs your hip and presses down, hard, forcing you to take him deeper. the other slides between your bodies, fingers slipping between your folds like he owns it. and he does. you let him. you’ll let him do whatever he wants. he rubs your clit slow and lazy, just to watch your face change. just to see your jaw drop and your body stutter and your thighs shake even harder as you whimper something breathy and pathetic. you’re already so close. you’re already falling apart. and he’s just sitting there underneath you, hard and deep and smug and a little drunk, letting you use him like your personal toy while he plays with your pussy like he’s got nowhere else to be.

soon enough, you don’t even mean to. it just happens. your whole body locks up, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent moan that only turns into sound once it’s already too late. you cum like you’ve been waiting all night for it—loud, shaking, hips stuttering as your pussy clenches so hard around him it almost hurts. your hands claw at his shoulders like you need to hang onto something, like you’ll float away if you don’t hold him down with you. your thighs tremble. your stomach tightens. your chest arches into his mouth as he keeps licking and kissing and biting you through it, whispering some filthy string of praise that doesn’t even register because your brain is gone. wiped. empty. all you can think is more. all you can feel is him, still hard, still inside you, still smirking like he knew you were gonna fall apart the second he touched you like that. and you did. you’re still twitching in his lap, cunt fluttering around him like she’s not done yet. and maybe you’re not.

he doesn’t give you a second. just grabs you by the waist and flips you over like it’s nothing, like he’s not drunk off his ass. your face hits the cushions, your knees landing on the center of the couch, and then he’s fucking into you from behind like he’s been waiting all night to ruin you. just a filthy slap of skin against skin, your cunt still spasming from the first orgasm, already being fucked into a second. you yelp, actually yelp, try to lift your head, but he just presses a hand between your shoulder blades and keeps going. rough. fast. focused. like he needs to cum and your pussy’s the only thing on earth that can make that happen. you’re babbling again. slurring words that don’t mean anything, tears starting to slip from your eyes because it’s too much, it’s so much, and he’s not letting up. his other hand comes around to rub your clit again, and you jerk under him, whining out his name like it might make him stop, but it only makes him groan and fuck you harder. the wet sounds are nasty. you’re soaked, squelching around him with every thrust, your thighs shaking uncontrollably now. you’re pretty sure your makeup’s gone, your legs are done, your brain is soup. but he sounds close. he’s breathing heavy, saying fuck under his breath, muttering how good you feel, how tight you are, how he’s gonna cum. and then he does—buries himself deep and groans so loud it echoes off the walls, holding you in place while he fills you up, cock twitching inside your messy, overstimulated cunt.

the next morning, you wake up with your face mashed against the couch cushion and one of his socks stuck to your thigh. everything hurts. your mouth tastes like tequila and regret. there’s glitter on your tits and dried spit on your neck and your dress is half-under the coffee table like it tried to crawl away in the night. patrick’s still asleep behind you, one arm flopped over your waist, his face buried in your hair, snoring like he didn’t absolutely rearrange your guts just hours ago. you try to roll over and sit up and immediately regret it. your thighs are sore, your head is pounding, and the sun is so fucking bright. you groan and flop back down, dragging the couch blanket over your chest just in case your neighbors suddenly develop x-ray vision. patrick stirs, groans into your back, and mutters, “another round?” he sounds like he's still drunk. you let out the weakest laugh of your life. “never giving you tequila again,” you mumble. he hums. “but you will give me head.” you slap his thigh without looking. he kisses your shoulder. and then you both fall back asleep.

-----

@kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @hisdumbbu@antxnxlla @patrickzweigsdefender @cha11engers @imperishablereverie

[tacobacoyeet]

The Social Network (2010) x Challengers (2024)

ARE WE STILL FRIENDS? - Tyler, the Creator

[tacobacoyeet]

AUGUST 4TH

1 2

The Taco Bell hasn’t changed.

It still hums with the same tired fluorescence, still smells like fryer oil and hot sauce, still wears its grease stains like a uniform. But on August 4th, it glows. Not brighter, not louder—just softer somehow. Like it knows.

They walk in together, the door catching behind them with a soft thud. The air inside is a shock of fryer heat and artificial chill, thick with the scent of cumin, scorched oil, and Baja Blast syrup. It clings to their skin like something remembered.

They’d all come in one car. Patrick driving, Art navigating, Lily in the backseat playing DJ with a cracked phone and half-working aux cord. The windows were down for most of the drive, the air thick with cicadas and golden hour heat. Lily’s voice rose above the music, dramatic as ever, debating the perfect nacho cheese-to-Crunchwrap ratio. Tashi had just leaned back, her hand out the window, half-smiling in that way she only did when no one was looking.

Now, inside, they move in practiced rhythm: Patrick balancing soda cups like second serves, Art steady with the food tray, Tashi carrying the cinnamon twists and napkins, Lily cradling her cheesy roll-ups like rare jewels. No one tells anyone where to sit.

The booths are mostly empty. A nurse in scrubs picks at a burrito beneath a too-bright light. Somewhere behind the counter, a mop slaps lazily against tile. Their booth—far corner, patched with duct tape and the lingering emotion—is waiting.

Art kicks the table leg to steady it. Patrick sets the cups down. Lily slides in first, ponytail swinging. Tashi joins her, legs crossed at the ankle. A paperback lands on the table, facedown. Her nails tap the lid of her drink like a metronome. She doesn’t eat here, not really. But she always comes. Orders a soft drink, picks at cinnamon twists. Sometimes she reads. Sometimes she just watches.

It started with just Art and Patrick.

The year of the match. 2019. They showed up without speaking, parked without planning. Ate too much, said too little. Something settled that night. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But the beginning of something quieter than hate. A bruise softening. The next year, they came again. And brought the rest of the story with them.

Now it’s tradition. Not something they say aloud, but something lived. Lily had called it an annual pilgrimage last year, which made Art laugh and Patrick fake a swoon. Tashi had rolled her eyes and said, "Next time, we get matching t-shirts."

They sit the same way every time: Lily next to her mother, who steals the occasional cinnamon twist. The boys—well, men, now, though the word has always seemed far too clean to describe them—sit across, shoulders pressed together. There's enough room to scoot. They don't. The table is too small for their legs, too low for their knees, and the seats squeak when they shift. There’s a crack in the Formica that Lily always runs her thumbnail along without realizing. Patrick drums his fingers against his soda lid. Art folds the napkins, always, into neat triangles before unfolding them again.

Everything smells like salt and fryer oil, but there’s a sweetness under it—like cinnamon. Lily takes a bite of her roll-up and says it tastes like childhood.

Tashi snorts. "You’re thirteen."

Lily shrugs. "Exactly."

Art steals a bite of Lily's Fiesta Potatoes, and pretends it was an accident. Patrick doesn’t hide the way he watches them all.

At some point, someone mentions a match from years ago. Someone else misremembers the score. Lily insists she’s faster than Art was at her age. Patrick agrees too quickly. Tashi hums like she’s weighing the math.

The rhythm finds itself. Always does.

The overhead lights buzz and flicker, casting a pale sheen over scuffed tile. The fryer crackles. The soda machine spits. It smells like a carnival that stayed too long. No one minds. Not today.

Patrick wipes nacho cheese from his thumb with a napkin and leans back in the booth like he owns it. He doesn’t. But he did, once, in the way boys think they own the nights that wreck them. He looks over at Art, who’s chewing quietly, gaze unfocused, the sunset bleeding in streaks of rust behind his profile.

Eventually, Art turns. Meets his eyes. Doesn’t look away.

There’s no fanfare. No epiphany. Just a glance held like breath. Like proof.

Lily kicks Patrick under the table. “You’re hoarding the fries again.”

He gasps, affronted. “I would never.”

“You always.”

He slides the tray toward her. She takes one. Passes the rest to Art. The baton toss of affection, absurd and sacred.

Tashi watches them like she’s seen it before in a dream. Patrick catches her eye.

"You want anything?"

She shakes her head. "Just admiring how you're a father-figure to a teenager who could smoke you on court."

Lily snorts soda. Patrick chucks a napkin at Tashi, who dodges it with grace that would be infuriating if it were anyone but her. Art doesn’t speak, but the corner of his mouth lifts—familiar, instinctual.

They sit like that for a while. The stillness feels earned. Someone exhales. Ice shifts in a half-empty cup. A receipt lifts, flutters, settles.

Lily leans forward, voice soft. "What was it like? That first time you came here. Just the two of you."

Patrick’s hand stills on his cup. Art blinks. Then, after a beat: "We didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. It was like… we were still figuring out if we hated each other or not."

He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to.

“They didn’t,” Tashi says. Her voice is even, but her foot brushes Patrick’s under the table—quick, grounding.

Lily shrugs. “It’s weird. I can’t picture you two ever hating each other.”

Patrick laughs, quiet. “Tashi’s right. We didn’t.”

Tashi’s looking at him like she remembers something she hasn’t said aloud in years. An alleyway. "I want you to be my coach." A slap that never stopped echoing. She grins.

Art shifts, brushing his knee against Patrick’s beneath the table. It’s not a gesture. The feeling lingers.

Patrick digs through the bag for another sauce packet. Finds one. Flattens it.

He doesn’t read it aloud. Just holds it up.

Art glances.

I knew you'd come back for me.

He takes it. Folds it once. Tucks it into his pocket.

They don’t rush. They never do. Art finishes his Cheesy Roll Up. Tashi flips a page. Lily leans into her mother for a moment—just long enough to feel it—and pulls away before anyone can say a word.

This is just what they do now. Every year. No ceremony. No performance. Just four people who made it through both fire and ice. A family.

Patrick stands. His thighs stick to the seat, leaving a crease in the cushion. He doesn’t smooth it out.

He gathers the trash. Leaves the tray. The booth is empty, but still warm. He presses his palm to the tabletop—flat, steady—then lets go.

Outside, the dusk folds gently around them. Lily spins the keys on one finger. Tashi says something about leaving on time—Lily has to go school shopping. Art turns just enough to meet Patrick’s eyes. An upturn in the corner of his mouth. He waits.

Patrick steps into the heat. The air smells like melted cheese and something gone sweet with time. He shuts the door behind him.

The sign buzzes overhead, steady.

And that’s enough.

-----

@kimmyneutron @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @soulxinxthexsky @voidsuites @elsieblogs @deeninadream @nozhdyved @hisdumbbunny @jesuistrestriste @hangels @gibsongirrl @destinedtobegigi @peachyparkerr @lov3lylxvender @gelo-time @Reverie-and-roses @Cxltlamb1 @loverofmine99 @wintersoldierenthusiastt @antxnxlla @patrickzweigsdefender @challengers4ev @imperishablereverie @lacelottie @cha11engers @bluestrd

[tacobacoyeet]

omggg the theme!!!! it's so iconic, loved it

thank you!!! <33

[tacobacoyeet]

ur new theme is so cute!!! ugh i need to watch the social network idk how i've managed so long without seeing it

THANK YOU!! and yes!! you have to!! one of my favorite movies of all time, and the score is written by trent reznor and atticus ross, the same guys who scored challengers!!

[tacobacoyeet]

https://x.com/digitalblath/status/1952159469288427826?s=46 this is the clark from your fic <3 :)

HELPPP yes that's him!!

[tacobacoyeet]

SUPERMAN BOT DROP

Clark Kent - Not Quite a Villain

You are not a villain— well, except for on paper, in police reports, on the news, on Lex Luthor's payroll, and in the Justice Gang's files... but aside from all that, Clark Kent knows that deep down, you are not a villain. You just need to be saved. And that's Superman's job.

Clark Kent - Girl Dad (m4f)

Clark is the dream husband: kind, fantastic with your kid, helpful, gorgeous... the list goes on. He's like your own, personal, Superman! Well, he's everyone's Superman. But he's your husband, your daughter's father, and an absolute dream come true.

Lois Lane - Double Agent

It's not like you wanted to work for a villain... you thought you were just getting a well-paying job, which is hard to find in this economy! Unfortunately, you signed your life away to Lex Luthor. But... you do have access to a lot of information... and a certain investigative journalist is very, very interested.

Lois Lane - Media War

Lois is truly the ultimate package: beautiful, intelligent, full of a fire that challenges you every single day and makes life worth living—but sometimes that fire can get a little too hot to handle, especially considering that you're rivals by daylight. It's not easy being a news anchor and being in a relationship the most infamous journalist in town, but neither of you have ever been interested in easy.

Jimmy Olsen - Sunshine and His Rays

You and Jimmy are the Daily Planet's in-house sunshine. More than that, you are the absolute light of his life. You're the best of friends, the ultimate duo, and there's hardly a second in the day that you aren't in each other's orbits. But... you're shy of one little thing: defining the relationship. And he's finally worked up the courage to fix that.

Superman Taglist: @loverofmine99 @wintersoldierenthusiastt @Chamorunsmiles @challengers4ev @imperishablereverie @lacelottie @animegamerfox @officialparentofadrien @viktor-enjoyer

[tacobacoyeet]

i'm 4 years old!