toastyrobos

[toastyrobos]

Ask Me When You Come Back

Pairing: Ben Grimm/Reader

Summary: Ben and reader talk the night before his big trip to space. Ben and reader talk the day he gets back from space. 

Word count: 2k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, capital F. Some suggestive material. Reader is she/her. Approximately two uses of y/n. Reader is college friends with Ben, Reed, and Sue. 

(My first fic EVER. Longtime x reader enjoyer, first time poster. I LOVE BEN GRIMM!! Decided to escape lurking to add to the tag. My man needs more content. Might post some John Walker x reader as well, but Ben has been clogging my arteries. NOT proofread teehee :D Thank you for reading!)

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“Do you remember the night we met?” Ben spoke softly, playing with your hair as you laid across his chest.

“Of course, I do.” Your eyes were half-closed and voice muffled from his chest. 

Neither of you could sleep. Tomorrow he would be heading off into space for who knows how long.

You always loved his drive for exploring and flying, but you couldn’t help but feel upset about this whole adventure. Your closest friends would be with him, one being the smartest guy in the world, which made you feel a bit better.

He was so excited for this, so you were too. 

But as the day drew nearer, a quiet change happened. You both slept closer, held each other tighter, and much like tonight - stayed awake longer. 

When he didn’t respond you propped yourself up with your hand and faced him. He didn’t stop playing with your hair, only adjusting his hand as you turned. You followed his eyes to where they were fixed on the ceiling. “Reminiscing about the good ole days?”

He smiled before lowering his eyes to yours, moving the hand from your hair to cup your face. “Somethin’ like that.”

You just stared at each other for a while, comfortable in the silence. His thumb rubbing circles on your cheek. 

“We should sleep.” You broke the silence after a particularly long yawn left you. 

“I know. But I don’t want to.”

“Ben Grimm scared to go into space?” You scoffed before sarcastically responding. 

He smiled again. “I’m not gonna see this beautiful face for a while. Just want to take it in a bit longer.” His smile remained, but his eyes softened. 

The sincerity melted your heart. You could feel tears forming and quickly shifted your focus to the nightstand. “Reed won’t let you bring the locket with you?” You traced your hand across his chest while reaching for the small golden necklaces placed on top of each other. Each having a photo of the other in it. 

Ben kept his eyes on you as you fiddled with the dual lockets, intent on memorizing every feature before the night was over. “Even if Reed said no, you know I’d sneak it up there.” His hand went back to your hair, twirling it between his fingers. “I really prefer the real thing, though.” 

You chuckled and tossed the necklaces back to their resting place, intent on making the most of this final night with your astronaut. “Oh yeah? You really gonna miss me that much?” Your fingers traced his chest again.

“Sweetheart, you have no idea.” He leaned forward, closing the gap between you and moving both his hands to cup your face.

You matched his lean and kissed him. His hands stayed on your face, occasionally moving your hair behind your ears as it got more heated. You kissed him like you would never be able to kiss him again. The thought flickering in your brain for a split second and taking hold of you.

'What if he doesn’t come back?'

You forgot how to breathe for a moment, heart racing, and tears forming again. You had to pull away. 

“Why’d you ask about when we first met?” You both breathed heavily, his eyes slow to open, desperate to keep kissing you. 

He took a moment to compose himself, “Because that was the night I told Reed I had a crush on you -” 

“Aww, you had a crush on me!?” You couldn’t help but interject, smiling at the thought of him liking you before you even officially met.

He smiled back at the teasing, “Yes, of course I did. And actually, Sue knew long before I told anyone.” 

This wasn’t helping get rid of the tears forming in your eyes.  

“Anyways, I told Reed and he was like, oh, interesting, Sue was right, and -” Ben paused to laugh, “and, he was just so nonchalant about it, and went right back to whatever he was doing. Of course, you were talking to Sue that night and, you know, she invited you over and -” 

“That explains why she was so insistent we met.” You interrupted again, putting the pieces together in your head. “Sue was playing matchmaker the whole time! Here I thought she was actually trying to get helping hands for my final project.”

“Right, yeah, sorry sweetheart. I still don’t actually know anything about botany, I just wanted to be close to you.”

You both giggle at the memory, but Ben goes soft again. “That’s not why I brought it up though.” He paused and you felt the heaviness on your heart again.

“See, before Sue brought you over we were just watching the two of you talk because, well, yeah - anyways, I told Reed and he just said whatever basically and then Sue said something to make you laugh. And I just knew. I told Reed I was gonna marry that girl one day.” He still had a faint smile from the memory, but his eyes were serious.

You paused. Eyes blinking for a moment at the realization of what he just said. You felt a tear roll down your cheek. “Ben…”

He brushed the lone tear away with his thumb. “Will you marry me?” 

You chuckled and smiled away the formation of more tears, “Ask me that again when you land.” 

Ben’s face dropped and he furrowed his brow slightly, sensing the lightheartedness in the response. “Wait, is that a no?” 

“No, it’s a reason for you to come back safe and sound. You come back down here and ask me again when you get home.” You gripped his face and tried your best to sound authoritative, but his wide eyes were just so cute. 

“Ohh, I see how it is.” He moved your hand off his face, “Waiting for me to leave the planet to move on instead of just breaking it off.” He smiled as his hands wandered down your body.

“Maybe.” You teased, letting his hands pull you onto his lap.

“Well, in that case, maybe I need to do something to convince you it’ll be worth the wait.” 

You were fully on him now, hands wrapped around his neck. “Oh yeah? Well it’s getting late, tough guy, better make it quick.” You bit your lip at the neediness in his gaze.

“I don’t think I can do that, sweetheart.” You yelped as he flipped you over. “I don’t want to risk losing you.” 

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You fiddled with the locket around your neck as more and more people rushed throughout the halls of ANSA headquarters. They had only been gone two weeks when the cosmic radiation cut communications with the team. ANSA finally got a reading on the spacecraft late last night. They were close.

He was almost home.

Hopefully.

Since the first sign of distress, you’d been here. Pacing the halls, asking anyone who looked at you if there was any news. The hope was that the radiation just interfered with the signals and everything was fine. Deep down you knew there was more to it though. Especially with how frantic everyone seemed. 

Touchdown was hours ago, or at least that’s what it felt like. You didn’t see any of them get off the ship, too many people blocking your view. Before you knew it everyone was rushed to different ends of the facility’s medical wing. Nobody would say anything, but your heart sank when you saw two people in full on hazmat suits exiting a set of doors. 

It was in the name after all, cosmic radiation, couldn’t be too careful.

You found a chair unoccupied among the chaos and sank into it. The exhaustion finally catching up to you as you sank down. You undid the chain behind your neck and stared at the image inside the locket. Ben’s portrait in his space suit, smiling in front of an image of the moon. You remember that day like it was yesterday. How handsome you told him he looked in the suit. How proud he was to be apart of something like this. You smiled at the thought before softly sobbing into your hands. 

You didn’t realize you nodded off until a hand gently rustled you awake. The locket was still clenched into your fist, leaving an imprint on your palm. Before you even checked who it was that woke you, you rubbed the long-dry tears from your cheeks, trying to compose yourself.

“Oh, honey…” The familiar voice of Sue Storm made you jump to your feet immediately. Your best friend was standing before you in a set of ill-fitting scrubs. 

The tears came flooding back out as you lunged at her for a hug. “Sue!” Another sob. “What happened?! Are you okay!? Where’s -” 

“y/n…” Reed spoke softly behind you, interrupting your thoughts and forcing your gaze behind you. 

You shifted with Sue, not wanting to let go of her, but still wanting to see another familiar face.

“Reed, you two are okay? What about Ben? Johnny?” 

Reed averted his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, lowering his head slightly. “Thanks for mentioning me, y/n. I know I’m the fifth wheel, but it’s nice to be remembered.” Johnny interjected before Reed could speak.

You were firmly discombobulated by now, head shifting between your three friends. You had so many questions and no one seemed willing to answer. 

As you went to pull away from Sue and properly face the others, she held you once more, but tighter. “We’ll explain everything later.” She pulled away this time. “He needs to see you first.”

Your heart sank. “Is he okay?” 

Sue nodded. “He’s okay, but… he just needs to see you, y/n.” 

You furrowed your brow at her, wondering why she was being so cryptic. Scanning the men's faces didn’t help either. Reed could barely meet your gaze and Johnny was unnervingly deadpan. 

“Okay... where is he?”

Sue led you down the hall, hand in yours as the two boys followed behind. She stopped a bit before the door and nodded to you, flashing a soft smile. You gulped hard. 

‘Is he only a torso in there? Did he lose all his limbs? Was he covered in radiation burns and blinded or deaf or mute or all of the above?’

Every thought imaginable ran through your head about what was waiting behind that door. Every scenario, of course, but the one you actually saw as you peered through the window on the door.

A hulking orange figure was sat on the edge of the exam table. 

You carefully entered the room, eyes wide at the sight before you. An attempt at an appropriately sized medical gown was crudely thrown together for the figure. 

His head was bowed, eyes fixated on the floor, seemingly ignoring or not noticing the footsteps approaching. 

“...Ben?” You stepped further in, peeking your head around to try and get a glimpse of the figure’s face. 

His head slightly perked up hearing your voice, he was still withdrawn and trying to hide himself from the shame. “Yeah... It’s me, y/n.” His voice was soft and low, but distinctly still your Ben.

All you could do was sob as you leapt towards him. You didn’t care if he was any of the hundreds of scenarios you thought up, as long as he was still your Ben. 

He jumped at the reaction, holding his arms up and away from you, unsure of how to hold you.

You sobbed again. Harder than ever. “Oh, Ben, I thought you were dead…” You muffled against his gown. You were too caught up in emotions to realize in the moment how his skin was so rough even through the gown material. 

Hearing you sob made Ben tear up himself, deciding it was worth it to cradle your head as gently as possible to try and soothe you. “Shh, sweetheart, shhh. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m … okay.” He hesitated, but with you in his arms, he did feel okay. He felt safe and loved and like he was still Ben. 

Your hands cupped his face without a hint of restraint and forced him to meet your eyeline. Seeing his beautiful blue eyes sealed the deal for you. This was your Ben. “Are you okay? What the hell happened up there?” You managed out between sobs. 

He carefully moved his hand from the back of your head to mirror your face cupping. “I’m okay now, sweetheart... I’ll let Reed explain the rest later.” He rested his head softly against your shoulder. “Right now I just need you.” 

You nuzzled back into his gown and wrapped your arms around him. Sure he was a bit… rougher than you were used to, but it was still him. That’s all that mattered to you.

You two held each other for a while, comfortable in the silence, before you interrupted it. “Please stay on this planet for a while, Benjamin. For my sanity. Please.” You chuckled, voice still stuffy from crying. 

He laughed too, the same laugh you fell in love with, and everything felt okay again. “I promise, sweetheart. Boots on the ground for all of us for a while, I think…”  He trailed off, gently adjusting his weight. “y/n…”

You pulled back, still holding him, but face to face now. It was still easy as ever to get lost in his blue eyes. “Ask me.”

He furrowed his rocky brow, “What?”

“I told you the night before you left to ask me again when you land. You landed. So ask me.”

It all clicked for him as he sat before you, wide eyed and astounded. “You still want to? Y/n, I wouldn’t blame you if -”

“Stop.” You put a finger to his lips, moving to caress his cheek, “I love you Ben Grimm. If you thought turning into a rock would get rid of me that easy, you’re going to have to try harder.” 

He smiled wide and grabbed your arms. “I love you so much.” You both leaned in, resting foreheads together, “I didn’t think it was possible to love you more.”

You giggled and pulled away a bit. “Actually, can you wait to ask me when you’re wearing real clothes… and when your family isn’t watching through a window.”

Ben pulled back, brow furrowed again, and glanced at the door. Three peeking heads dodged out of frame as he did. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “They’re lucky we love them.”

You smiled and leaned in, closing your eyes for a kiss.

“Wait, y/n, uh -”

“Ben Grimm nervous to kiss a pretty girl?” 

He smiled back “Absolutely not.” 

You leaned back in and pressed your lips to his, ignoring the chatter outside the door.

It was different for sure, but still good. 

Still Ben.

[toastyrobos]

SKY ROCKETS AND ROBOTS - part I

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance, fluff, some angst, a little bit of spicy

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Part 2

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5k

ᯓ★ TW(s): Y/N's ex left her when she got pregnant, Tony is a softie here

ᯓ★ Timeline: before the Avengers were formed

ᯓ★ Request: Tony stark × reader! single mom please? With fluff and smut 😅😅💐 ( @binsan)

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo (requests open)

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

You were once a bright young engineer, fresh out of MIT with dreams as big as the sky. You had a passion for technology, a sharp mind, and a heart full of ambition. Then life happened, in ways you never expected. You met someone, fell in love, and things moved fast. Maybe too fast. A whirlwind romance turned into an unexpected pregnancy, and before you knew it, you were a mother to a beautiful baby girl named Lily.

But your partner? He wasn’t ready. He disappeared from your life, leaving you alone to figure things out. At first, it was overwhelming, balancing work, the responsibilities of motherhood, and the heartbreak of abandonment. But you pulled through. You took up freelance work, designing software and small tech solutions from home, juggling conference calls while nursing, coding through the night after bedtime. You got used to it, became stronger, more resilient. Now, your daughter is five, a bundle of energy and curiosity who’s inherited your love for science and technology.

You’ve come a long way since those early days of struggle, but there’s still a part of you that wonders if you’ll ever find someone who’ll love both you and Lily. Someone who won’t run at the first sign of difficulty.

And then one day, you meet Tony Stark.

🚀

You don’t expect your day to take a turn like this. It’s a warm Saturday afternoon, and you’re at a local science expo — a rare treat for you and Lily. She’s dragging you from one exhibit to another, her little hands pulling on yours with excited tugs. It’s moments like these that remind you why you push so hard. Seeing her wide-eyed and full of wonder makes every sleepless night worth it.

You’re at an exhibit featuring cutting-edge AI when you feel her stop abruptly.

“Mommy, look! That's Iron Man!” Lily’s voice is filled with awe as she points to the tall figure standing a few feet away, surrounded by a small crowd. You follow her finger, and your heart skips a beat.

Tony Stark.

There’s no mistaking him, dressed in a sharp blazer and sunglasses, exuding that signature arrogance and charm you’ve only ever seen on TV. He’s in the middle of a casual conversation with someone, but even from here, you can feel the aura of importance surrounding him.

“Yeah, that’s Iron Man,” you murmur, feeling a bit like a deer in headlights. You hadn’t expected to run into someone like him.

But Lily, being the fearless little adventurer she is, takes off running toward him before you can stop her. You’re quick on her heels, heart pounding as you call her name.

“Lily, wait!”

But it’s too late. She’s already tugging on Tony Stark’s pant leg by the time you catch up, looking up at him with those wide, curious eyes.

“Hi, Iron Man! I like your robots,” she says brightly, as if she’s talking to any random adult. Tony glances down, pulling his sunglasses off to reveal a pair of surprisingly kind eyes as he kneels to her level.

“Hey there, kiddo. You’ve got good taste.” He flashes a grin, and for a moment, you see why people love him so much. There’s something disarming about his easy confidence.

You finally reach them, feeling flushed with embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry—she’s… really into tech. She didn’t mean to—”

But Tony waves a hand dismissively, standing up to his full height and giving you a once-over. His gaze lingers just a fraction too long, and you suddenly feel like you’re under a microscope.

“No harm done,” he says, his tone surprisingly light. “She’s got a future, clearly. Knows how to pick role models.”

You chuckle awkwardly, still trying to process that you’re standing in front of the Tony Stark. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, but in a weirdly magnetic way. There’s a spark in his eyes that speaks of brilliance, mischief, and something deeper you can’t quite put your finger on.

“She loves Iron Man,” you say, trying to regain some composure. “She’s been obsessed with building things since she could stack blocks. I can’t seem to keep her away from anything mechanical.”

Tony arches a brow, glancing down at Lily who’s now excitedly talking about the miniature rocket she tried to build last week.

“Is that so?” he says, crouching down again, giving Lily his full attention. “A mini rocket, huh? Did it work?”

Lily shakes her head, her pigtails swaying. “It almost did. But it went boom.”

Tony chuckles, ruffling her hair lightly. “Sometimes that’s how the best inventions start. Next time, try using a lower combustion rate. Less ‘boom,’ more ‘whoosh.’”

You’re surprised by how gentle he is with her, how effortlessly he connects with a child, that you don't have the heart to tell him that it was you who did the major part of the building process. For a moment, you just watch them, your chest tightening at the sight of Lily’s joy. It’s rare for her to interact with anyone like this, especially someone who doesn’t treat her like a kid.

He stands up again, turning to you with a smirk. “She’s smart. Gets it from her mom?”

You flush slightly at the compliment, feeling a bit tongue-tied under his gaze. “I guess you could say that. I was an engineer before…” You trail off, not sure why you’re suddenly oversharing. Something about Tony Stark makes it hard not to.

Before you can say more, he interrupts. “Let me guess — you’re still an engineer. Just doing the mom-engineer thing now. That’s no small feat.”

You blink, caught off guard by how perceptive he is. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I know a thing or two about multitasking. Running a company and saving the world — it’s basically the same as raising a kid, right?”

You laugh despite yourself, relaxing a little. He’s not what you expected. Less distant, more… human.

“Sure, except your robots actually listen to you,” you quip, and Tony grins.

“Most of the time,” he admits. “So, any chance I could take a look at that rocket project? I’ve got a thing for fixing ‘booms.’”

Your heart skips again at the casual offer, but before you can reply, Lily pipes up, bouncing on her toes.

“Can we, Mommy? Please?”

You glance between her eager face and Tony’s amused expression. This is surreal. But there’s something about the way he’s looking at both of you — like he’s actually interested, not just humoring a fan. Like he sees you.

Maybe this isn’t a bad idea after all.

As you walk beside Tony Stark, weaving through the crowd, you can't quite believe what's happening. This kind of thing doesn't happen to people like you. Yet here you are, with Lily practically skipping ahead, chattering excitedly about rockets and robots, while Tony listens with genuine interest.

“So,” he says, glancing sideways at you, “what’s your theory on the combustion failure? Too much fuel or not enough stabilization?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden technical question. You’d been bracing yourself for more of his charm or sarcasm, but here he is, actually engaging with you on a deeper level. You’re impressed, though it makes sense—he is Tony Stark, after all.

“Stabilization, mostly,” you reply, falling into a rhythm of conversation. “The design was sound, but we didn’t account for the weight distribution. It shifted mid-launch and threw everything off.”

He nods thoughtfully, like he's analyzing every detail. “Classic mistake. I had a similar issue with one of my early suits—though, you know, a little less ‘mini rocket,’ a little more ‘metal suit crashing into a building.’ Same basic concept, though.”

You laugh at the mental image, feeling a bit more at ease. “Yeah, I imagine the stakes were a little higher for you.”

Tony shrugs, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Well, let’s just say property damage and I have a complicated relationship.”

Lily turns around, walking backward as she looks up at Tony with wide eyes. “Did you blow up a building?!”

He grins, glancing down at her. “A few, but mostly on purpose. Don’t try that at home, kid.”

Lily giggles, her eyes sparkling with excitement. She’s clearly in awe of him, and it’s hard to blame her. You feel a bit of that awe yourself, though you’re trying not to show it.

“So, where’s this rocket of yours?” Tony asks, glancing around like he's half-expecting it to pop out of nowhere.

You clear your throat, feeling a bit sheepish. “Oh, um… it’s back at our apartment. We didn’t exactly bring it to the expo. I wasn’t expecting to run into… well, you.”

Tony raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing more pronounced. “What, you don’t carry failed rocket prototypes everywhere you go? Amateur move.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

Tony taps his chin, pretending to think hard. “Tell you what. Why don’t you two swing by my place later? I’ve got a full lab, and I’m sure we can find something that won’t blow up—at least not right away.”

Your heart skips at the offer. Is he serious? Inviting you to Stark Tower like it’s the most casual thing in the world? You glance down at Lily, who’s looking up at you with pleading eyes, clearly hoping you’ll say yes.

“Are you sure?” you ask, trying not to sound too shocked. “I mean, we wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “Intrude? Nah. Besides, I’ve been meaning to show off my new toys to someone who actually appreciates them. Kids are way better at that than most adults.” He glances down at Lily, then adds with a wink, “Plus, I’ve got juice boxes.”

Lily practically jumps up and down. “Mommy, can we go? Please, please, please?”

You hesitate for a moment, weighing the surreal situation. But something about Tony’s easy demeanor, the way he’s connected with Lily, and even the way he’s made you feel comfortable makes it hard to say no. It’s not every day you get a chance like this, and you know Lily will talk about it for weeks if you turn it down.

“Alright,” you say, giving in with a smile. “I guess we’re going to Stark Tower.”

Tony grins, looking genuinely pleased with your answer. “Great. Let’s make it a field trip.”

🚀

An hour later, you find yourself walking through the sleek, high-tech halls of Stark Tower. The whole place feels like something out of a futuristic movie, and you can’t help but feel a little out of place. But Tony, ever the showman, makes sure neither you nor Lily feel that way for long.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he says with a grand gesture, like he’s introducing you to some royal palace. “I was going for ‘modest,’ but you know, things escalated.”

Lily’s eyes are practically bugging out of her head as she looks around, taking in the shiny surfaces, the impressive tech displays, and the overall coolness of the place. “This is so cool,” she breathes.

You can’t help but agree. “Yeah, this is… incredible.”

Tony leads you both to his lab, where holograms flicker in the air, and sleek machines hum quietly in the background. It’s every bit as impressive as you’d imagined—maybe more so. He walks over to a workbench, tapping a few buttons on a console until a holographic blueprint of a rocket hovers in front of him.

“Alright, kiddo,” he says, crouching down to Lily’s level. “Let’s see what we’re working with. Tell me about your rocket.”

Lily beams, launching into an enthusiastic explanation of her project, complete with wild hand gestures. Tony listens intently, nodding at all the right moments, occasionally throwing in a comment or suggestion.

You stand back, watching the two of them interact. It’s surreal, seeing Tony Stark—the Tony Stark—so genuinely engaged with your daughter. He’s patient, encouraging, and—despite his usual sarcasm—there’s a warmth in the way he talks to her that catches you off guard.

As Lily finishes her explanation, Tony stands up and looks over at you. “Sounds like you’ve got a real prodigy on your hands.”

You smile, feeling a swell of pride. “She’s pretty special, yeah.”

Tony taps his chin thoughtfully, then flashes you a grin. “You know, I don’t usually offer internships to five-year-olds, but I could make an exception.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Maybe in a few years.”

“Fair enough,” Tony replies, still grinning. “But seriously, if she ever wants a tour of the lab—or you do—just say the word.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised by the offer. “You’re full of surprises today.”

Tony shrugs, nonchalant. “What can I say? I’m a generous guy. Plus, I like hanging out with people who don’t try to sell me on their latest ‘groundbreaking’ invention every five minutes.”

The three of you spend the next hour tinkering with the rocket design. Tony gives Lily some gentle guidance, teaching her a few tricks of the trade while making sure to keep things light and fun. You can tell she’s having the time of her life, and honestly, so are you. You’ve never seen her this animated, this confident.

As the afternoon winds down, Tony walks you both back to the lobby, hands in his pockets, his usual easy smirk back in place.

“Well, that was fun,” he says. “I’ll have my people send over the specs we worked on. Maybe next time, we can tackle world domination.”

You chuckle. “I’ll let you know if we’re free for that.”

Tony winks at Lily, who’s practically buzzing with excitement. “And hey, kid—next time you’ve got a rocket that goes ‘boom,’ give me a call. We’ll fix it together.”

Lily grins, waving enthusiastically. “Okay! Bye, Iron Man!”

As you leave Stark Tower, you can’t help but glance back at Tony one last time. He gives you a casual wave before turning back toward his lab, and you can’t shake the feeling that today was more than just a chance encounter.

It feels like the beginning of something. Something new. Something… different.

And you can’t wait to see where it goes.

🚀

Over the next few weeks, your life takes on a surreal, almost dream-like quality as Tony Stark begins to weave his way into your world. What starts as a few casual meet-ups, mostly centered around Lily’s fascination with all things tech, turns into something much more.

The first time he invites you both back to Stark Tower, it’s under the pretense of helping Lily with her latest invention—a robot that she’s determined to build from scratch. You sit back, watching as Tony patiently explains complex concepts to your five-year-old daughter, all while making it fun for her. There’s a tenderness in the way he interacts with her that surprises you. Tony Stark, the world-renowned billionaire with a reputation for being difficult, is kind and patient with a child, in ways you never would have expected.

You’re impressed, of course. But more than that, you find yourself drawn to the man behind the Iron Man persona.

It starts with little things. The way Tony catches your eye when Lily says something particularly cute or brilliant, the small smirk he gives when he knows you’re trying to hold back a laugh. He makes a habit of throwing sarcastic comments your way, but you soon realize it’s his way of flirting—teasing you in that playful, witty way he’s known for.

"You know," he says one afternoon while you’re watching him help Lily with a mechanical arm for her robot, “I think I deserve some kind of award for this. ‘Best Teacher to a Mini-Engineer.’ Maybe a medal. Or a statue.”

You smirk, folding your arms across your chest. “Oh, absolutely. I’m sure the world’s been waiting for a bronze Tony Stark to grace Central Park.”

He grins, that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “I knew you were smart.”

It’s in these small moments that you find yourself opening up to him. You’ve always been independent, not allowing yourself to lean on anyone for help, but Tony’s different. He’s been through his own struggles, carried his own burdens, and while you’re still cautious, you find comfort in the fact that he gets it. He doesn’t judge you for being a single mom or for the sacrifices you’ve had to make. If anything, he admires it.

"Raising a kid and working as an engineer?" he says one night over dinner—yes, dinner. He’d invited you and Lily over for what he called "a Stark special," which turned out to be takeout pizza and some ridiculous dessert made by his AI assistant. "That’s a superhero gig right there."

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m pretty sure saving the world in a metal suit still beats making school lunches and fixing leaky faucets.”

“Hey,” Tony says, his tone light but serious, “you do both. No suit needed.”

That night, when you leave, you find yourself thinking about him long after Lily has fallen asleep. There's something about Tony that lingers. Maybe it's his charm, or maybe it's the way he looks at you like you’re more than just a mom balancing a million things—like he sees the person you were before all the responsibilities took over.

As time passes, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm. You, Tony, and Lily have your little routine now, with frequent visits to Stark Tower becoming almost a weekend tradition. What surprises you most is how seamlessly Tony has integrated into your life—and not just with Lily. He asks about your work, your passions, the things you’ve had to put on hold since becoming a single mom. He pushes you to take up some of your old engineering projects, even offering his lab space if you ever want to tinker.

“You could use the space when I’m not around,” he says one evening, nonchalant as ever. “There’s always room for another genius around here.”

You laugh it off, though your heart skips a beat. “I’m pretty sure one genius is enough.”

Tony arches an eyebrow, his smirk deepening. “You’re right. With you here, we might be over capacity.”

As the weeks turn into months, you realize you’ve grown used to having Tony around. He’s no longer just the famous billionaire who showed up at a science expo one day. He’s become a friend, someone you can talk to, someone you can rely on.

But there’s more to it than just friendship. You feel it in the way your heart flutters when he leans a little too close during one of his sarcastic quips, or the warmth that spreads through your chest when he smiles at you—really smiles, with that soft, almost vulnerable look in his eyes. You find yourself looking forward to the moments when it's just the two of you, standing on the balcony of Stark Tower late at night, talking about everything and nothing while Lily sleeps soundly in the guest room.

One evening, after one of those long, late-night talks, something shifts. You’re standing on the balcony, the city skyline stretched out before you, the cool breeze brushing your skin. Tony’s beside you, quiet for once, just watching the city lights. There’s a rare stillness about him, and you feel the weight of it, like he’s on the verge of saying something important.

“You know,” he says after a long pause, his voice quieter than usual, “I didn’t expect this.”

You glance at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He turns to face you, and for a moment, he’s not the confident, sarcastic Tony Stark. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable. “This. Us. You and Lily.” He swallows, as if the words are difficult for him. “I’ve spent so much time being Iron Man, or the guy who fixes problems, that I forgot what it’s like to just… be with someone. To care about people who aren’t expecting me to save the world.”

Your heart skips. His honesty catches you off guard, but you can tell it’s not something he shares often. And suddenly, you realize that you feel the same way.

“You’ve been… different for us, too,” you admit, your voice soft. “I wasn’t looking for anyone, and definitely not someone like you, but…” You trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence. How do you explain that Tony Stark has become more than just a fixture in your life? That you’ve started to fall for him, for all his quirks and complexities, for the way he’s seamlessly become part of your world?

Before you can find the right words, Tony steps closer. His eyes hold yours, that familiar spark of mischief still there, but tempered with something deeper. “I think,” he says, his voice low, “you and I are a pretty good team.”

You smile, feeling the weight of what’s unspoken between you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “We are.”

And then, without another word, Tony leans in. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, as if testing the waters. But when your lips meet, there’s a spark, an electric current that runs through you both, confirming what you’ve known for a while now.

This is real. This is something worth holding on to.

🚀

The decision to make your relationship with Tony Stark official doesn’t happen in a single moment—it’s a gradual shift, one that feels inevitable after months of stolen glances, lingering touches, and nights spent talking on his balcony. But when it does happen, it’s perfect in its simplicity.

It starts one morning in his penthouse, a few months after that first kiss. You’ve been spending more time there, with Lily (who Tony affectionately refers to as "the little genius") practically making his lab her second home. The three of you have fallen into a comfortable rhythm, a little makeshift family that somehow feels like it’s always been meant to be.

On this particular morning, you wake up tangled in Tony’s sheets, the warmth of his body pressed against your back, his arm draped lazily over your waist. You turn your head slightly, smiling to yourself as you hear the soft hum of his breathing. For a man who seems to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, he looks surprisingly peaceful when he sleeps.

As you shift to move, Tony tightens his arm around you, pulling you back against him with a sleepy grumble. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You chuckle, your voice hushed in the early morning quiet. “Trying to escape before your little apprentice wakes up.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “Let her tinker. She’s practically running the lab anyway.” His lips graze your shoulder as he speaks, and you feel a familiar spark of heat ripple through you at his touch.

“You’re terrible,” you murmur, though there’s no real bite in your words. You’ve gotten used to Tony’s brand of affection—playful, but with an edge of intensity that never fails to make your heart race.

“Mmm, terrible, but irresistible.” His voice is still thick with sleep, but there’s a hint of mischief in it, the same mischief that always makes your pulse quicken. He shifts slightly, his hand trailing from your waist down to your thigh, fingers brushing lightly against your skin in a way that’s both teasing and possessive.

You turn in his arms, meeting his gaze. His eyes are half-lidded, but there’s a familiar hunger there that sends a thrill of anticipation through you. “You’re definitely full of yourself,” you say, though your voice is softer now, breathier.

Tony’s smirk grows, his hand slipping beneath the sheets to pull you closer. “And you love it.”

Before you can respond, his lips capture yours, and any thought of protest melts away in the heat of the kiss. His hand grips your thigh, pulling your leg over his waist as he deepens the kiss, the familiar intensity building between you. It’s slow at first, a lazy sort of desire, but it doesn’t take long before you’re both lost in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Later, as the sun filters through the curtains and you’re both tangled together in the sheets, a comfortable silence fills the room. Tony’s fingers are tracing absent patterns on your arm, and you can’t help but smile at how natural it feels, how easy.

“Have you thought about… telling people?” you ask softly, your head resting on his chest.

Tony raises an eyebrow, though he doesn’t seem surprised by the question. “Telling people, as in the media?”

You nod, suddenly feeling a little vulnerable. Being with Tony Stark comes with a certain level of exposure, and while you’ve been okay with the low profile you’ve kept so far, part of you wonders what it would mean to go public.

Tony is quiet for a moment, then he tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. “Hey, I don’t care what they say out there,” he says, his voice firm but gentle. “If you want to keep things private for now, we can do that. But if you’re asking if I’m ready to go public…”

His thumb brushes over your cheek, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Your heart flutters at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. “I don’t care about the media,” you admit. “I just… I want to make sure we’re ready. That Lily’s ready.”

Tony’s expression softens at the mention of your daughter. “Lily’s already got me wrapped around her finger. I’d be more worried about how I’m going to survive that.”

You laugh, but the sincerity in his words brings a lump to your throat. Tony’s relationship with Lily has grown in ways you never expected. He’s been patient, playful, and completely devoted to her. And seeing them together has only deepened your feelings for him.

“Okay,” you say finally, smiling at him. “Let’s do it. Let’s go public.”

When the news breaks, the media goes into a frenzy. The headlines scream about “Tony Stark’s New Flame,” and “Iron Man’s Mystery Woman.” Paparazzi photos of you and Tony walking hand in hand through Central Park with Lily are splashed across every tabloid and news outlet.

To your surprise, the response is largely positive. While some outlets speculate about Tony’s past relationships and his infamous bachelor reputation, most seem genuinely intrigued by the idea of Tony Stark settling down, especially with someone who isn’t from the celebrity world.

The tabloids nickname you “The Genius and the Heart” and seem fascinated by how “normal” your life is compared to Tony’s glamorous lifestyle. There are articles praising you for balancing being a single mom with your engineering career, while others focus on Tony’s softer side, now that he’s seen as a father figure to your daughter.

You try to ignore most of the noise, but Tony, of course, has fun with it. One morning, you catch him scrolling through a gossip site, shaking his head in amusement.

“They think I’m domestic now,” he says, pretending to be offended. “I mean, can you imagine me, Tony Stark, settling down with a family?”

You roll your eyes, sitting beside him on the couch. “You do realize you’re proving them right by reading that, right?”

He grins, tossing his phone aside before pulling you into his lap. “Let them think what they want. I’ve got everything I need right here.”

The moment you realize how much your relationship with Tony has changed comes one evening when you’re back at the penthouse after a long day. Tony’s in the kitchen with Lily, helping her with a science project that’s somehow turned into an impromptu baking session. The sound of Lily’s giggles fills the space, and you’re watching them from the doorway, a warm smile on your face.

Tony’s crouched down, talking to Lily as they decorate cupcakes—his version of “science.” You’re about to step in and join them when you hear it. Lily looks up at Tony, eyes wide with excitement, and says, “Can I put the sprinkles on, Daddy?”

Your breath catches. It’s the first time she’s ever called him that, and for a moment, you freeze, unsure how Tony will react.

But Tony doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles, ruffling her hair and handing her the sprinkles. “Go for it, kiddo. Just don’t get too carried away.”

Your heart swells, a mix of joy and disbelief washing over you. Lily’s words hang in the air, and when Tony glances up at you, there’s a softness in his expression that takes your breath away. He’s not just playing a part—he’s become a part of your life in ways you never imagined.

Later, when Lily’s asleep, you and Tony find yourselves curled up on the couch, the weight of the day settling into a comfortable silence. You rest your head on his chest, your fingers tracing absent patterns on his arm.

“She called you ‘Daddy,’” you murmur softly, still processing the moment.

Tony’s hand tightens around yours, his voice quiet but filled with warmth. “Yeah, she did.”

You glance up at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation, but all you see is a man who has found his place—who has chosen to be here, with you and Lily.

“Are you okay with that?” you ask, your voice a little unsteady.

Tony looks down at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “I’ve never been more okay with anything,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m all in. With both of you.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but they’re tears of happiness, of relief. You reach up, cupping his face as you pull him into a kiss—slow, tender, and filled with all the emotions you’ve been holding onto for so long.

When you finally pull away, Tony brushes a thumb across your cheek, his smile soft but full of promise. “So, what do you say? Think you can handle me as part of the family?”

You laugh, your heart feeling light. “I think we’ve been handling you just fine.”

And as you settle back into his arms, you know that this—this—is exactly where you’re meant to be. Together. A family.

Forever.

okay, this was so cute to write <3 I love writing Tony as a softie, because I know deep down he is one.

[toastyrobos]

Requested: No

Warning(s): Overall fluff, hints of insecurity.

Pairing(s): Ben Grimm x Gender-neutral reader.

A/n- I need him, idc, and lemme know if anything doesn't look right!

You've known Ben since the beginning, before the space trip, before he got his powers. As Reed's assistant, it meant you were able to get close to everyone in the family, soon becoming one of them after years of friendship and loyalty. But Ben? he was everything you didn't know you needed. You both spent countless nights together, staying awake to talk about anything and nothing at all, even after his transformation.

You were always there for him, especially after what happened out in space. It was a huge adjustment, at first, Ben could barely meet your gaze, his usual friendly touches dwindling down to nothing, treating you as if you were made of glass. To be fair, he probably could snap you in half without even trying, but you trusted him more than anything, and he knew that. Which is what lead you to now, years later, standing on the balcony together and watching the night sky.

It was a comforting silence, a gentle blanket of warmth that enveloped the both of you. You're sure you could've stayed like this, just basking in his presence, but of course, everything has its end. "Can I uh- Can I ask ya' something?" His question caught you slightly off guard, head tilting as you observed him closely, "Yeah, what's up?"

"Do you think the beard looks alright?" Now that question caught you even more off guard, and for a moment you couldn't help but just stand there and stare. Poor Ben looked even more anxious the longer you stared, his hand trying not to break the railing that he was holding onto. "What kind of question is that?" You breathed out, shifting to lean against the railing as you looked at him, "You look handsome, Ben."

Ben let out a shuddered breath, his shoulders slumping a little as he looked at you. So you decided to be bold, taking a small step forward and raise your hand, fingers gently brushing against his stone beard, "More than, honestly." His jaw tightened but he didn't pull away, instead he looked right back at you, sending a small thrill through your body, "You mean that?"

"Course I mean that, Ben you're-" The words got caught in your throat, letting out a slightly shuddered breath as you looked at him, "You're everything."

Time seemed to still for a moment, gazing at each other in silence, the growing tension over the years seemingly reaching its boiling point as Ben hesitantly reached out. His hand hovered near your face, careful and uncertain, "Y'know I'm not the same, right? You really want this? All of this?" His voice trembled as he spoke, his finger just barely brushing against your cheek.

"Of course I do" You breathed out softly, leaning into his touch. His touch was cold, lacking the warmth it once had when he was flesh and bones, but you didn't care. "You're still the same man, Ben, rock or not" You whispered softly, hand carefully resting over his, "You're the kindest man I know, strong and determined, and a heart of gold."

"You sure-? I-"

"Ben" You stopped him by moving closer, hand still on his as you smiled softly. "I want you" You whispered softly, "I've always wanted you."

"Then you got me" He sighed out, his blue eyes staring at you with love and adoration as he leaned in, his stony head gently resting against yours, "You've always had me."

[toastyrobos]

Sunday was my birthday, and I finally got my hands on a black series Captain Rex. Wish it was from the Bad batch show, but that one is a bit more expensive (as it’s older). The one in the picture is from the Ahsoka show.

Even still he looks so freaking cool next to the bad batch figures. I also thought why not include a photo with my current Star Wars collection. Thought some of you would be interested in seeing it.

[toastyrobos]

𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 ₊˚⊹♡

synopsis: you and ben have the marriage talk before he goes on the mission that changes his life forever.

pairings: ben grimm/fem!reader

warnings&tags: a very slight suggestive moment, but nothing too detailed! hurt/comfort (i think?), romantic fluff, established relationship, not canon compliant? (idk, i’m new to the fantastic four fandom), appearance from Reed, Sue, and Johnny!

word count: 2.0k

a/n: i walked into Fantastic Four knowing i would leave loving ben, and i was right! so here's a little one shot i wrote for him ♡ i'm trying to actually finish fics so i'm glad i got this done in a couple days, more to come :D

⋆⭒˚｡⋆

“What on Earth are you doing?” 

You asked, giggling as Ben played with your fingers, your left hand in particular. 

You two had been cuddling, trying to fall asleep but failing miserably, all too excited about what was going to happen in the morning. Ben was going to space, and you couldn’t be more proud of him. 

He had his arm wrapped around you, your body molded against his side, your calves tangled beneath the sheets. A domestic bliss you couldn’t live without anymore. 

“I’m trying to measure your ring size,” he said under his breath, a cocky grin on his face. 

“And why is that?” you teased, nuzzling your cheek against his chest, watching as he ran his thumb over your ring finger.

“Just making sure my gramma’s ring will fit.”

An unbridled excitement settled under your skin. You propped yourself up on your elbow, raising an eyebrow as you locked eyes with him. 

“You gonna propose when you come back?”

“I might,” he whispered, gently pushing some hair behind your ear. The big dopey grin that formed on your face made him chuckle. “You gonna say yes?” 

“I might.” 

A smitten, love sick sparkle flickers in his gaze, something that only happened when he was with you. He had known from the moment he met you that you were the woman he wanted to spend his life with. Hearing you reciprocate that nearly made his heart burst. 

You giggle as he presses his lips to yours, hard. Like he’ll forget how you feel when he’s outside of Earth’s atmosphere and he needs to burn it into his skin. His hand slid under your shirt, pulling you against him, smiling as you wrapped your arms around his neck. 

“I love you,” he murmured between kisses, his leg tangling with yours. 

“I love you too,” you breathed back. 

That moment replayed over and over again as you sat outside the medical wing. 

Your foot bounced on the tile with every one of your heartbeats, never giving your anxiety any kind of relief. 

All they would tell you is something went wrong while they were in the air. No one could get you an answer about Ben or anyone else, other than that you needed to wait. That killed you more than anything else. 

You were the only next of kin they needed to call, which meant you were sitting in this hallway alone. Your thoughts were conjuring dark outcomes of what could have happened, and it only made you want to cry more. 

Your only solace was when Reed stepped out to join you, looking completely fine. 

Reed gently held your shoulders as you stood, a hesitant look on his face. 

“I have tried to cure him, and I can’t,” he blubbered, genuine disappointment pouring from his eyes. “But I will not stop looking, I promise.” 

You looked up at Johnny as he exited the lab, thankfully unharmed too, the solemn expression feeling foreign on his features. 

“Is he okay?” you asked frantically, your eyebrows furrowing with worry. 

“He’s as fine as he can be,” Johnny assured you gently, glancing back into the lab through the window, sighing. “He’s just scared.” 

“Scared?” you breathed out, almost in disbelief. Your Ben Grimm? Scared? “Of what?” 

“He’s just…kinda hard to look at right now.” 

“Did he get hurt?” you pushed, your stomach knotting over itself. 

“No, he’s just…” 

Johnny and Reed fumbled for words, not making you feel better in any way whatsoever. 

“You guys suck at this,” Sue’s voice cut through the noise, firm and steady. She took your hands in hers, grounding you like an anchor in a storm. “He might look a little different, but he’s still your Ben.” 

“It’s more than a little,” Johnny muttered under his breath, recoiling as Reed hit him upside the head. 

The conviction in Sue’s gaze was the only thing that calmed the anxiety running through your nerves. After a beat, you took a deep breath and nodded, pushing the lab door open with your shoulder. 

You tried not to let your thoughts run wild. 

Was he missing a limb? Was he horribly scarred? 

Nothing could have prepared you for what you actually saw, and maybe you should have let your thoughts get wilder.

A big, orange, rocky form in the shape of a man, sitting in the biggest hospital gown you’ve ever seen. He seemed to be caving in on himself, hanging his head in shame. 

As you got close enough, you heard him breathing, shaky and shallow. 

You recognized him off that alone. 

“Ben?” you asked quietly, and you watched him physically tense. 

He hated that you had to ask. 

That you couldn’t be 100% sure that the freak he had turned into was actually him or not. He would rather die than live through this moment. 

You watched him close his eyes as you rounded the corner of the bed he was sitting on. He turned away from you like he’s waiting for you to yell, or cry, or run away in terror. 

But you would never. 

The man you loved was sitting in front of you ashamed, and it shattered you. 

You slowly padded to stand in front of him, swallowing the lump in your throat as you looked at him. Cautiously, you reached out to hold the side of his face, only worried about how he might react. You weren’t scared of touching him, he was the love of your life. 

He flinched, but he let you touch him anyway. Like he was grappling with the urge to run and the need to feel your touch again. 

What met your hand wasn’t the soft, stubbled skin you were used to. It was warm, smooth rock, and it broke your heart even more. 

You’d hoped this was a cruel nightmare, that Ben wouldn’t have to live what had been cursed upon him, but no. 

Only when your thumb ran along his cheek, over cracks and uneven pieces, did he look you in the eye. 

There they were. 

Those blue eyes you’ve been admiring for three years straight. 

You had watched them cry, darken, fall in love. They were the only part that was still really him, honestly. 

Right then, they were filled with sorrow, and anger, and fear. You hated seeing his blue irises showing anything but joy. 

“Are you okay, baby?” you asked softly, your other hand moving to his shoulder. 

He let out a pained breath, a half-chuckle. Like you just asked something painfully obvious. He slowly lets his forehead rest on your sternum, his whole body tensing as you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“I’m so sorry,” you choked out, tears gathering in your eyes as you hugged him tight. A sting crept up your throat at the way his body didn’t give with your embrace. It stayed taut, firm instead of melting against you. “I’m sorry, Ben.” 

His hands form into fists at his sides, like he was holding himself back. He wanted to hug you, so badly, but he forced himself not to. He didn’t know his strength. He didn’t think he deserved it. He felt like a monster, and he didn’t even understand how you were hugging him in the first place. 

“You can say no…” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear. 

Your eyebrows furrowed, your cheek pressing into the top of his head, your hands idly running over his shoulders. 

“What are you talking about?” you asked quietly, your hands moving to cradle the back of his head. 

His hands gently settled on your waist, barely pushing you away from him, which just made your stomach drop further. The pain on his face was palpable as you pulled away. 

“I wouldn’t…blame you,” he stopped mid sentence, as if it nearly killed him to say it. “If you didn’t want to marry me…” 

Your face contorted with more hurt than you thought was possible. 

Your breath shook as you wiped tears off his cheeks, your heart aching against your ribs as he looked at you again. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you sniffled, your lip shaking as you pressed your forehead to his.

“Honey,” he rasped, his hands tensing at your sides. 

“No, Ben,” you insisted, pulling away just enough to look at him. “I love you so much, and I’m not leaving you, even if you think I should. I’m not.” 

He finally broke hearing you say that. 

He pressed his face into your hand, a jagged sound escaping him. Half breath, half sob. 

His mouth trembled as it met your palm, his lips forming into a crumbling line. You gently guided him to look at you again, offering a soft smile as tears slid down your cheeks. His breath hitched in his throat, like it was cracking him from the inside. 

Finally, finally, he wrapped his arms around you. 

Surrounding you in warmth as he pulled you to his chest. That was familiar. That was your Ben, warm and comforting. 

You sucked in a soft gasp as he pulled you off the ground, not even letting out a grunt of struggle. He tucked his head into your shoulder, the uneven edges of his shoulders hunched in on themselves, his body collapsing in silent devastation. 

“I love you so much,” he whispered into your skin. His jaw tensed as his tears fell onto your sweater, his hand slowly running over your spine. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you know that.” 

Before his mission, he was sure he had fallen completely in love with you, but somehow, he’s fallen even harder. You were this piece of heaven he’s been lucky enough to have. So, he was going to ensure every waking second of his life was spent making sure he loved you unconditionally. 

“I don’t know how to do this…” he whimpered into your collarbone, his hands clutching to your shirt like it was the only thing grounding him. 

“We’ll figure it out,” you reassured him, your hand running over his back, trying to comfort him the best you can. 

God, you were perfect. 

If he ever prayed for a miracle, you must’ve been the one that showed up. He didn’t consider himself a good enough person to be with someone as lovely as you, but he’d be thanking God every day that he was blessed to have you anyway. 

He pulled back, still close enough to feel your breath on his skin. He stared at you like you were something sacred, his hand hesitant as he reached up to cup your cheek. Something that used to be his instinct. 

You knew what he was considering.

A lot has changed. What if it felt wrong now? What if he ruined it? 

“Ben,” you whispered, catching his hand and guiding it to your face. “I’m right here.”

He held you like you were made of glass, hesitant even now. But he couldn’t stop himself when you leaned in, slow and tentative, so desperate to feel you again. 

It wasn’t the kiss you remembered. It was rougher, firmer, like kissing stone. But, it was still him. 

Still full of warmth, of every piece of love he’d ever given you.

His lips quivered against yours as the two of you tried to find your rhythm. After a few kisses, you knew he was getting in his head, pulling away before he could mess it up, but you didn’t let him get far.

“Cut it out,” you murmured, holding either side of his neck as you pulled him back, your lips pressing into his harder. 

A barely there smile quipped on his lips.

That snappy attitude he was so used to felt like a beaconing light of safety.

He mumbled “sorry” between kisses, his hands sprawling over your back as he finally relaxed. 

“You still have to ask me,” you reminded him, your nose nudging with his as you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I’d like to have pants on when I propose to you,” he remarked, his thumbs running over your ribcage. “Even if I sell out a tailor.”

You let out a snort, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Sue was right. 

He might look a little different, but he was still your Ben.

[toastyrobos]

|| haven’t got the chance to say ||

Pairing: Ben Grimm/Reader

Summary: Ben meets a girl at his favourite shop, but he's convinced she’s only being nice to him because it's her job. He tries to figure out his feelings, while Johnny secretly plays messenger.

Word count: 5k

Tags and warnings: The fluffiest thing I’ve written in a long time, Ben is the biggest sweetheart, Johnny’s a menace (affectionate), reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. The teensiest spoilers for the movie, technically? It's literally the name of the place and the street name, that's about it.

(Is there an audience for Ben? Well, there damn well better be, because I’m in love with him. He cooks and gardens and dresses well and he's the sweetest guy on Earth? He’s the best.)

Fic Masterlist || Taglist

If you were to ask anyone who lives within a two block radius where Ben's favourite place to eat is, they'd all give you the same answer.

Maisie's Delicatessen, down on Yancy Street.

He's there so often that even the paparazzi who dedicate themselves to following the Fantastic Four around have given up staking it out.

'The Thing Spotted at Maisie's for the Twentieth Time This Month' isn't exactly a big scoop.

Ben doesn't care. He's a man of routine, always has been. People might think he's boring, but after everything that's happened to him, he needs some things to stay the same.

And then you came along.

You must be new, because Ben's sure he would recognise you otherwise. He's on first name basis with everyone here. They even have a framed photo of him with the staff on the wall. He was embarrassed when they first showed it to him, but now, he finds it endearing.

"Morning! What can I get for you?" you say, as he steps up to the counter.

Your voice is a little too loud, the cheerful expression on your face just a touch manic. He smiles to himself. First day nerves.

"Morning. Can I get three half-moon cookies?"

He points to the display's middle shelf.

"And uh, throw in one of those little lemon things."

He watches you rush around, trying to find everything. The glass door on the display jams when you try to open it, one of the cookies falls apart the second you try to lift it with the tongs, and the paper bags are all stuck together and end up scattered all over the floor when you try to pry them apart.

"God, I'm so sorry-" you start, but Ben just shakes his head.

He bends down to gather up the bags that have fallen at his feet, placing them back on the counter.

"Don't worry about it," he says gently. "First day?"

You let out a shaky breath.

"Yeah, and I'm so nervous," you admit in a whisper. "There's just so much to remember."

Ben nods knowingly. He gives you a smile, hoping that he looks reassuring.

"Don't beat yourself up, alright? You're doing a great job," he says. "We all make mistakes. You should see me before I've had my coffee in the morning. Trust me, it ain't pretty."

You laugh, wiping your hands on your apron.

"Okay, let's try this again," you say resolutely.

You lift another cookie from the tray, sliding it into the bag with the others. You take your time with the lemon slice, careful not to disturb the swirl of icing at the top as you box it up.

Ben can't help but think how sweet it is that you're trying so hard, even if it is your job.

"Can I tell you something?" you ask. "You're gonna think it's so silly."

You press the paper bag closed, running your thumb along the fold to flatten it.

"All the guys have been telling me about you. You're like a celebrity here," you tell him, gesturing to the picture on the wall.

"Nah, I'm just a guy with a sweet tooth who doesn't know when to call it quits," Ben replies with a chuckle.

He hands you a couple of bills, lifting the box and bag from the counter. He shakes his head when you try to give him his change.

"Don't worry about it," he says, gesturing towards the tip jar. "I just realised I never asked you your name."

You introduce yourself.

"It's nice to put a name to a face," he says. "I'm Ben."

He knows he doesn't have to say it - of course you already know who he is. But sometimes he likes to pretend that there are some people left in the world who don't know him. That you only know him from the picture.

"It's nice to meet you too," you say with a warm smile.

He stops for a moment, finding himself a little taken aback. He can't for the life of him figure out why.

"Okay. Well, uh, I should get going," he says, wincing at how awkward he sounds. "Thanks again. And good luck for the rest of your first day."

"Thank you, I think I'm gonna need it," you reply, fussing with the mess of paper bags in front of you. "Hopefully I'll see you again?"

"Yeah, 'course. You too," Ben says, with a stiff little wave as he heads for the door.

He could kick himself. Really, he could.

Get it together. What's the matter with you?

It bothers him all day. Granted, he's never exactly been a socialite. Thankfully, he has Sue and Johnny to help with fielding most of the talking.

But he can handle a bit of small talk. He might not like it - who does, really? - but he can get through it, at least.

He tries to push it to the back of his mind. Really, he does. But it keeps coming back.

Or rather, you keep coming back.

It's when he's getting ready for bed that night that it finally hits him. The toothbrush drops out of his hand, hitting the sink with a loud clatter.

He stares at himself in the mirror.

"Oh, no," he whispers, letting out a long groan.

It's been about a month since you started working at Maisie's, and almost every morning, Ben stops by.

At first, it was for his usual order - the cookies that put the shop on the map. Then he started asking for your recommendations.

And now, more often than not, the two of you get to chatting for so long that he ends up causing a line right out the door.

He can't really explain what it is, you're just so easy to talk to. Despite what you said the first day you met, you don't treat him like a celebrity, you don't ask him questions about what happened or "what it's like". You're just...you.

And the scary thing is, he could kid himself into thinking you actually like him. That you're not just being kind, or worried about keeping your job. That you actually care.

He knows how dangerous that thought could become if he's not careful, and so he keeps trying to squash it down as best he can. But it's persistent, and he's finding himself struggling with it more and more as time goes on.

It's not long before it starts to become obvious.

"Ben, you okay?" Sue asks him one evening, while they're preparing dinner.

He flinches, almost sending the chopping board flying off the kitchen counter.

"God, Suze, you scared the hell outta me," he says with a wheeze.

Sue gently pats his arm in apology.

"You've been chopping that same piece of potato for about five minutes now," she says softly. "I think it's about as small as it's going to get."

Ben looks down. The potato is practically mush now. He sets the knife down with a sigh.

"Sorry, just...had something on my mind," he admits quietly.

"You wanna talk about it?" Sue asks, taking the board from him and tipping the potatoes into a pot of water on the stove.

Ben turns around to face her, leaning his elbows against the counter. He knows better than to tell her that he doesn't want to bother her.

Because he's never a bother to Sue. And he knows by now that she's not just being kind. She means it.

"It's just..."

Where does he even start?

"You and Reed. You've known him for about as long as I have. How did you know that...?"

He falters, unsure as to how to word it.

"That he was the one?" Sue offers.

Ben nods. Even when he can't say it, she always knows. He's always admired that about her.

"Honestly? I didn't," she says. "Not right away. It took some time, and then it was like..."

She pauses for a second, giving the potatoes a stir.

"I had this moment. We were talking, I can't even remember the conversation now, but I looked at him and I thought..."yeah". That was it. But that's when I knew."

She smiles to herself, before turning her attention to Ben.

"I wish I had a better way of describing it. But sometimes it's not always as romantic-sounding as the movies make it out to be."

"I dunno, sounds pretty romantic to me," he says with a shrug.

"So, what's got you thinking about me and Reed, hm?" she asks.

Suddenly the floor has never seemed more interesting.

"Oh, y'know, I was just wondering..."

Sue tilts her head, levelling him with that look - the one that says "don't even bother". He sighs.

"There's no point in me lying to you, is there? Okay, look, I, um..."

He lowers his voice.

"I might have met someone. There's a new girl at Maisie's, and...well, she's really nice."

"Oh my God, is it my birthday?" comes a voice from behind him, and Ben's elbows slip right off the counter, almost sending him crashing to the ground.

He turns around, gripping the counter with a glare in his eyes that would send a man twice his size running in the opposite direction.

Johnny just gives him a big smile.

"We need to put a damn bell on you," Ben grumbles to himself as he straightens up.

"So, what's this I hear about you having met someone?" Johnny asks, undeterred.

"It's none of your business," Ben retorts. "Your sister and I were in the middle of a private conversation."

"In an open-plan kitchen. In the house I live in," Johnny says, pulling a face. "Yeah, real private."

Sue rolls her eyes with a sigh. "Johnny, do you think you could give us five minutes? Alone?"

Johnny slides his hand along the counter nonchalantly as he walks past.

"Oh, sure, sure, no problem," he says airily.

He looks directly at Ben.

"But you're gonna tell me everything afterwards, right?" he mutters to Sue.

"No, I am not."

Johnny shrugs, arms raised theatrically as he backs out of the kitchen.

"That's fine, I'm going," he says, too loudly. "I know where I'm not wanted."

"Do you?" Ben asks. "Coulda fooled me."

He doesn't move, watching until he's satisfied that Johnny's completely out of earshot.

"Ignore him," Sue says.

She takes the pot off the stove, setting it to one side.

"Tell me about this girl."

Ben lifts a tea towel, worrying one of the corners between his fingers.

"I don't meet many people who seem to see me for me, y'know? But it's like...I'm just a guy to her. I'm not a superhero. I'm not..."

He makes a vague gesture towards himself.

"It's been a while since I've felt like this. To be honest, I've missed it."

"And that's got you worried," Sue prompts gently.

Honestly, her ability to do that is a superpower in and of itself.

"Yeah. Yeah, it does," he admits quietly.

Sue crosses over to him, placing her hands on his arms.

"You, Ben Grimm, are one of the most amazing people I've ever met," she says earnestly. "And I've met a lot of people. So trust me when I tell you that anyone would be lucky to have you."

She looks at him with such kindness in her eyes, and Ben forces himself to nod.

He knows she means it. But it's not as easy as she makes it sound. They all came back from that mission different, but at least they can hide it, pretend that they're "normal" for a while.

Ben doesn't have that luxury. He tries not to dwell on it, he's been getting so much better at it, but now? He can't let it go.

He likes you, he's finally said it out loud. But to say it to you? And for you to reject him? It'd break his heart.

But he can't stop thinking about you. About what could happen.

What if it goes wrong?

But what if it goes right?

Despite everything, he can't stop himself from going to see you. He makes sure to go at a time when the shop's not as busy, so at least he knows he's not getting in the way of other customers. The last thing he wants is to get you in trouble.

Your always seem so happy when he stops by, and it's getting harder and harder to convince himself that you're not just being nice to him.

He's tormenting himself, he knows he is, but somehow it feels even worse when he's not with you. Either way, he can't win, can he?

"There he is, my favourite customer," you call, as he steps through the door. "How've you been?"

Is it any wonder Ben's heart feels like it does, when he hears you saying things like that?

"About the same as I was yesterday," he jokes, with a little wince the second he says it.

Way to ram it home that you're never out of here, huh.

You laugh, none the wiser.

"I like that you're here so much," you tell him.

The way you say it, it's so casual, and yet it makes Ben's chest feel tight.

"Oh, yeah? Why's that?" he dares to ask.

"Because you're a regular. And if you haven't been put off by me, then I can't be doing too bad a job, right?"

Ben stops for a moment. You're joking, he knows you are. About how nervous you were on your first day.

And yet-

"How could I be put off by someone as nice as you?" he says, before he can stop himself.

His eyes widen. It's too late, he's already said it. He can feel himself starting to panic, and you're just staring at him now. Your lips part, and Ben cuts you off before you even get the chance, desperate to change the subject.

"What, uh, what are you working on?" he asks quickly, gesturing towards the notepad sitting on the counter.

You frown slightly, as if thinking, a look of confusion on your face.

"'Working on?' Oh, right, this. Well, I've been listing some ideas for new specials," you say, tapping your finger against the page. "It's good timing that you came by, actually. I could do with some suggestions."

Ben nods. Anything to get as far away from what he just said.

"Of course. What have you got so far?" he asks.

You lift your pen, absentmindedly fidgeting with it, as you read down the list.

"We've got sandwiches covered, cakes, some new pastry ideas...But I'm wondering if there's something else we're missing. Any thoughts?"

Ben thinks to himself for a moment.

"Y'know, I've always had a bit of a soft spot for those chocolate slices, the ones with the biscuit and marshmallow inside them. Y'know the ones I'm talking about?"

"Rocky Road?" you offer.

Ben clasps his hands together.

"That's it! That's the ones."

He chuckles to himself.

"I know, I know. The big guy made of rocks likes Rocky Road. I heard it."

"No, no, it's good," you say, as you scribble it down. "It's a pretty easy one to make too."

Ben does his best to scan down the list, in spite of it being upside-down.

"What about you?" he asks. "You put down anything you like?"

"Yeah, I wanted to," you reply. "You know those little sponge cakes, with the jam and cream in the middle? The mini ones, about the size of cupcakes. But we already sell slices of the regular cake, so it seemed a bit pointless to write it down."

"What's wrong with the regular cake?"

"Nothing! It's so good, it's just..."

You trail off.

"It's a me thing, but sometimes a full slice is a bit much, you know? The cream gets a bit sickening after a while."

You glance at him then.

"I'm rambling on, aren't I?" you ask nervously.

"Hardly," Ben replies gently. "I asked, didn't I?"

You cast your gaze down, wiping your hands on the end of your apron. Ben could swear you looked a little flustered. Wishful thinking, maybe.

"Okay, well, I think I've kept you waiting long enough," you say, a bit too loudly. "What can I get for you?"

Ben frowns, then he realises.

"Oh...just my usual," he replies weakly.

He can't bring himself to tell you the truth, and he feels like a coward.

But as he's leaving, a little idea starts forming in his head.

The next few days, Ben puts himself to work, trying to figure out how to make mini sponge cakes. The regular-sized cake he can handle no problem, but the little ones are a bit tougher to figure out, in terms of adjusting the ingredients.

And a certain someone is not helping matters at all.

Ben made the mistake of stumbling over his answer when Johnny asked who the cakes were for. And true to form, he will not drop it. He's spent the better part of the day making a nuisance of himself.

"Haven't you got something better to do?" Ben grumbles, as he spoons jam out of the pot in his hand.

"Nope," Johnny immediately replies, dragging out the 'P' sound to make himself as irritating as possible.

Even when Ben does finally get rid of him, he just can't resist poking the bear cage one last time.

“I’m headin’ out,” Johnny says, swiping his finger through a bowl of cream as he passes.

Ben glares at him, but says nothing. He's better than that.

“Might stop by Maisie’s while I'm out,” he adds, turning to give Ben a big, shit-eating grin. “See how your friend’s doing.”

Ben just waves a hand at him, trying not to take the bait.

But Johnny being Johnny, he makes it so damn difficult.

“You think she’s free?” he asks, making an annoying show of sucking the cream off his finger. “‘Cause I got nothing on for Saturday night. And she’s cute. Don’t you think she’s cute, Ben?”

Johnny just manages to slip out the door as a whisk goes flying across the room.

Sue gives him a sympathetic look from where she sits at the dining table, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Try not to let him get to you,” she says. “Johnny’s harmless, you know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Ben sighs tiredly.

“I know, he’s just…He’s infuriating, Suze.”

Sue shakes her head with a smile.

“You're preaching to the choir there.”

Ben manages to get a full two hours of peace and quiet, completely Johnny-free. The latest batch of sponge cake experiments were a success, and he was able to add the finishing touches and box them up neatly.

Now all he has to do is gather the courage to go and actually give them to you.

Which he can definitely do. Absolutely. No problem at all.

He's leafing through a book, trying to keep his mind occupied, when he hears the door open. He glances up, before lifting the book closer to his face with a sigh.

Well, it was nice while it lasted.

"Stopped by Maisie's, like I said," Johnny says, as he shrugs off his jacket and sits down.

He just can't read a room, can he?

"That's nice," Ben says, with an air of total disinterest.

He hears what sounds like a paper bag rustling, as Johnny sets something on the table.

"And I got you a little something."

Ben hums noncommittally, turning the page. Being ignored never deters Johnny. He should know this by now. Doesn't stop him from wishing.

"Or rather, I, um, was given something. For you."

That gets Ben's attention. He peers over his book, spotting the paper bag.

He'd know that paper anywhere.

"Oh, yeah?" he asks airily. "What is it?"

Johnny pushes the bag across the table.

"Open it."

Ben tries to keep up the façade, but he's struggling. He forces himself to take his time, pretending to mark his page before setting the book aside.

When he opens the bag, he can't help the smile that spreads across his face.

Inside are four big squares of Rocky Road. You remembered.

Johnny leans in to take a look too. The colour immediately drains from his face.

"Okay, I know what you're probably thinking, and yes, this definitely looks like one of my jokes. But for once, I swear to you, it's not-"

Ben holds up a hand, to stop him before he winds himself up any further.

"I know," he says softly.

He's still smiling.

Johnny waves a hand in front of Ben's face.

"Hello?" he calls impatiently. "Earth to big guy. You okay in there? I don't think I've ever seen you look this happy before. It's weird, if I'm being honest."

Ben hasn't moved, hasn't said anything. Johnny sighs, letting his hand drop down onto the table.

"Listen, I know I've been giving you a lot of crap about this...whole thing. And I'm not gonna apologise for it, by the way, because it would be against everything I stand for. But..."

He stops for a moment, as if to figure out what to say next.

"You really like this girl, don't you?" he asks.

Ben gently drums his fingers across the table top, before he finally nods.

"I do," he murmurs. "God help me, I do."

Johnny slings an arm over the back of his chair.

"Have you considered the possibility that she might like you back?"

Ben grits his teeth. "No, actually, I haven't," he snaps.

"Why not?" Johnny asks, and Ben wonders if he's being stupid on purpose.

He gestures to himself in frustration.

"Because look at me, Johnny!" he says, exasperated. "I don't exactly have people lining up 'round the block to date me. I'm not her type. I'm..."

He sighs. God, he's tired.

"I'm not anyone's type."

Johnny bangs his fist down on the table suddenly, and Ben almost falls out of his chair.

"You cut that out right now," he says lowly.

His eyes are so intense, even more than usual. Ben doesn't think he's ever seen him so serious.

"Look, you know how much I love annoying you. If it was a paying job, I'd be CEO. But I can't listen to you talk about yourself like this. You're "not anyone's type"? Seriously? You're..."

Johnny blows out a long breath, as if he's gearing himself up for something difficult.

"I'm never gonna forgive myself for anything I'm about to say, just FYI, but you...You're like the perfect guy, Ben. Stop looking at me like that, I mean it. You cook, you don't leave your shit everywhere, your dress sense is...Well, you try."

Ben doesn't know whether to kiss him or kick him. He decides he'll let him finish first.

"That girl likes you, Ben. And I'm not messing with you on this. That's too far, even for me. You know the first thing she did when I went down there? She asked me how you were. She was so excited to give me those too."

He taps the paper lightly.

"I could have been anyone, it wouldn't have mattered to her. Because all she cared about was you."

Ben runs a hand over his face. He doesn't know what to say.

"The way I see it, you've got two choices here," Johnny says. "One, you can just sit there and be miserable for the rest of your life. Or two, you can take a chance. Go down there and talk to her. It might be the best thing you've ever done."

Ben sits quietly for a moment, letting it all sink in. Finally, he nods.

"Yeah. You're right," he murmurs. "Thanks for that. Seriously."

Believe it or not, sometimes Johnny's not so bad.

Johnny gives him a warm smile. "Anytime, big guy."

He stands up, swiping a Rocky Road slice before he leaves.

"Thanks for this, by the way," he says with a mock-salute.

Ben glares at him as he goes.

Sometimes.

It takes a little - okay, a lot - of coaxing to push Ben into going to see you the next day. He spends most of the day pacing about the house, grumbling to himself and getting on Johnny's nerves.

"Not so fun when the shoe's on the other foot, is it?" Ben gripes, after Johnny tells him to knock it off for the third time.

He finally decides on going down just before closing time. That way he won't be bothering you too much, he thinks.

He hopes.

It's been threatening to rain all day, and as luck would have it, not five minutes after Ben's set foot outside, the skies open up. He picks up the pace, tucking the box in his hand safely under his coat.

He sees you standing under in the doorway of Maisie's, holding a newspaper over your head. You look as though you're contemplating making a run for it in the rain. He's halfway across the street when you spot him, and he'd have to be completely oblivious not to see how your face lights up when you spot him.

"Forgot my umbrella this morning," you say with an awkward laugh. "The one day I leave it at home-"

You gesture to the rain that's still coming down in sheets.

"-and this happens. Just my luck."

You glance up at him.

"Glad I got to see you, though," you say.

Ben can’t help but smile at that. He holds his umbrella out over you.

“Where do you need to go?" he asks. "I can walk with you.”

You shake your head.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that-“

“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” he insists gently.

You adjust the strap of your shoulder bag, tapping the wilted newspaper against your leg before you make up your mind.

“My car’s just down the street, if you could walk me there.”

Ben gestures in front of him.

“Lead the way.”

It’s a little awkward, with the height difference between you, but he manages to get you to your car at least somewhat dry.

“Thanks so much, I really appreciate it," you say, rummaging in your bag for your keys. “I’d, um, I’d offer you a ride home, but…”

You trail off with an apologetic look. Ben waves a hand dismissively.

“Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t fit in that tiny thing anyway.”

He saves you the trouble of saying it.

“Listen, before you go…I wanted to say thank you. For the Rocky Road."

Your face lights up at that.

“Oh, yeah? How were they?”

“I think I need to ask you for the recipe, because otherwise I'm gonna have you hounded for more," Ben replies with a chuckle. "Best I’ve ever had.”

The smile on your face right now is going to be the end of him.

"Actually, I, uh, I wanted to repay the favour," he says.

He manages to take the box out from underneath his jacket without dropping it. It's a bit dented, but otherwise fine. He holds it out to you.

"You were saying about those little sponge cakes, and I thought since I had some free time and all…"

He's trying to make it all sound so casual, like it's not that big a deal, but he can feel his heart hammering against his chest.

Because it is a big deal. At least, to him.

You carefully take the box from him, staring down at it. The rain's still pouring down around you.

"I...Oh my God, I don't know what to say."

Worry starts to creep in then. Was he too forward? Was this a weird thing to do? Realistically, he doesn't even know you all that well.

What if he's ruined everything? What if-

"Do you wanna go for coffee sometime?" you blurt out, peering up at him.

Rarely is Ben ever really taken aback, considering everything he's been through in his life, but this...

This leaves him struggling for words.

Eventually, he manages to make himself nod.

"Yeah, I'd...I'd love that," he replies.

He can't help himself from thinking it, but you're so cute when you smile like that, the way it reaches your eyes.

"Great! Stop by when I'm working, and we'll figure out a time and place, okay?"

"It's a date," Ben says, before he can stop himself.

His eyes widen. Probably about as wide as yours are right now.

"Sorry, I meant like- It was just-"

"It's a date," you echo.

You both stand there for a moment. Ben's about to tell you to go, so you can't catch your death of cold, but you beat him to it.

You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, before turning to unlock your car.

"See you later," you say, completely flustered. "And thanks again for these!"

Ben just waves, closing the car door for you as you get in. He stands there for a while, not caring that his shoes and the bottoms of his pants are soaked through now, before he heads home.

His hand is pressed to his cheek the entire time.

There's a flower shop on the route Ben takes to Maisie's. He can't remember how many times he's passed by it and barely taken notice of it, but this time, he finds himself slowing down.

He buys a bouquet of sunflowers before he can talk himself out of it, practically marching himself down the street out of sheer nerves.

But when he sees you through the window, it all just melts away. You're laughing, and it warms his heart like nothing else ever has. He's never seen anyone as pretty as you.

Your gaze meets his when you turn, and you look so happy, giving him a smile and a big wave.

Ben waves back, with a small smile of his own.

He'll never admit it. But Johnny was right.

Clutching the sunflowers a little tighter in his hand, he lets out a small, contented breath, and opens the door.

Taglist: @getaapologist @alexxavicry @keeryhours @punkrockmlchael @peachyproserpina

[toastyrobos]

First we did Tech. Now we have a Hunter. I think he turned out pretty nice. Looks great next to Tech. And now I kinda want to do the others plus Rex. Might have to do that.

[toastyrobos]

Fandom: Gargoyles Characters: Brooklyn x Cop!Reader (Elisa’s Friend)

She had been friends with Elisa for years, they went to The Academy together. She served in a different city before coming to New York, she spent three months there before she found out about the Gargoyles. To be more accurate, she found out about Brooklyn.

Brooklyn was coming back from Elisa’s when he found her in trouble and saved her. Afraid she would freak out he dropped her off with Elisa so she could explain the situation better. Two nights later she met all of the Gargoyles and was welcomed into the clan.

Now, months later, Brooklyn understood why Goliath followed Elisa around when she was working. He was constantly terrified someone could hurt her. With a sigh he focused back on the street and gasped when he couldn’t see her.

“I saw you waiting there, surprised you didn’t see me come up the fire escape.” She laughed, making him jump. He looked over and smiled. “You were watching me again, Brook.”

“I know [Nickname],” he walked over, smiling down at the cop much shorter than him. “Can you blame me? You see how much trouble you and Elisa get into when we’re not around.” She gave a chuckle, putting her arms around him.

“I know, you just worry.” She smiled, kissing him softly on the cheek. “Tonight I’m fine, I just have to watch this apartment.”

“Why?”

“A friend of mine is in trouble, he just needs protection.”

“He?” Brooklyn tried not to question.

“Brook…” she tsked, she never heard him sound jealous before except for when he still had a thing for Angela before she chose Broadway. “Trust me, he is not into me. I am not his type. Lexington might be.” She chuckled, watching him put it together.

“Oh,” he smiled, kissing her forehead. “Well, I still want to stay if thats okay?” 

“If you must.” She chuckled.

[toastyrobos]

A Princess and a Pirate

A/N: This lil thing makes sense but also kinda doesn't? Uh- I was working on this many months apart so I probably forgot some stuff and had to come up with a lil sumn to replace but I think overall, the plot is pretty easy to follow...? IDK, ANYWAYS ENJOY-

Pairing: Harry Hook x Reader Word Count: 5k Warnings: refers to intentional harm? idk if that counts; OH! I usually write Harry with his accent, so that's why his dialogue may look weird, and then highkey a warning for this plot!

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Ever since the barrier on the Isle had come down, inviting all the VKs to the wonderful kingdom of Auradon, things were changing around here. 

You had to admit, it was interesting and fun to see new people getting to experience what Auradon had to offer for the very first time, and meeting all of the Isle kids was pretty enjoyable.

Especially a certain group of pirates. 

You had heard about Uma and her crew through your sister, Audrey, who essentially heard about them through all of Mal’s prior ramblings about her, but you never got the chance to see her in person during the Cotillion, since you went off with Chad right before it started to pick your sister up from the Fairy Cottage. 

However, now that her and her crewmates were here and settling down in the land, you found yourself running into them around the school grounds, and frankly, you had quite a fascination. 

Specifically, a fascination with Harry Hook, Uma’s first mate. 

There was something about the son of Captain Hook that was just so…enticing. His eyes, his hair, his voice. The crazy thing is, you’d never exchanged words with him. Like, ever. Yet somehow, what started off as an innocent fascination turned into a full-blown crush.

Unfortunately, though, not everyone was as…open and welcoming to the new VKs as you were. 

There were still some royals and nobles (including your grandmother, Queen Leah) who felt that people like them didn’t belong in Auradon. To top it off, you were friends with one of them. 

For instance, Jania, who was the daughter of one of the men on Ben’s council, made constant little jabs and comments at the new arrivals, showing you a whole different side of her. 

“I give it a couple more weeks before they go and screw something up around here,” she mumbled as the two of you were walking from a class. 

“Well, they’re bound to make a mistake, Nia. They just got here,” you replied, confused to where the conversation was coming from all of a sudden. “They’re still learning the ropes.”

Jania rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right. You really think they’ll stay out of trouble?”

“You had trouble when you first started too, remember?” 

“At least I actually belonged here.”

You frowned a bit at the insinuation. “That’s not fair.”

“Whatever,” she scoffs. “ I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.” 

You do just that, seeing as you were right beside your locker, anyways. When she’s out of eyesight, you turn your body, letting out a gasp as you accidentally bump into someone and stumble. If it weren’t for them grasping your arms to steady you, you probably would’ve been on the floor. 

“Oh!” you stammer with wide eyes, immediately forming an apology on the tip of your tongue. “I’m so sorry!”

When you actually register who it was you bumped into, your eyes widen some more. 

It was Harry. 

“Aye, no worries, lass,” he says, amusement dancing in his bright blue eyes. “Yeh got some quick reflexes.” 

You laugh a bit, a mixture of both nerves and awkwardness, because how could you possibly fumble that bad? Eyes darting around a bit, you look for something to say, before realizing that there was a hook wrapped around one of your arms instead of his other hand that was holding you up. 

“I, uh… I like your hook. It’s very…shiny.” 

Harry tilts his head, a grin playing on his lips. “Thank yeh? No one’s ever said that ta me before.”

“Yeah,” you force another weird laugh as he straightens your body back up, giving him little finger guns. “And thank you for catching me.”

Not even a full five seconds later and you cringe. Why am I so lame about this? 

Instead of making an even bigger fool outta yourself, you purse your lips and quickly crouch down to pick up the books you dropped. The boy above you keeps his eyes trained on you, gaze flitting to the front of the notebook you now held. 

“Yer name is (y/n)?” he asks, examining the personalized decoration of the notebook that included your name. 

“Yep,” you nod, rocking back and forth. “You’re Harry, right? Uma’s friend?”

“Tha’s right,” he smiles, giving you a dramatic bow that just fits him for some reason, your brain concludes. “A pleasure ta meet yah.”

Matching his energy, you offer a polite curtsy. “And you as well.”

The two of you are staring at each other with little smiles before the sound of footsteps break the moment. You turn around, finding that Jania had returned, and she was currently eyeing Harry with a hateful gaze. 

“Hey, pirate boy,” she sneers, yanking one of your hands into hers. “Go and terrorize someone else, my friend doesn’t wanna talk to you.”

“Wha- hey, no, Nia, don’t-!” your confused protests fall on deaf ears as she continues to drag you away with her, and all you can do is look back and mouth an “I’m sorry” to Harry before you turn a corner. 

“I can’t believe you were talking to that guy, (y/n)!” She hisses. “Didn’t we just have a conversation about this?”

“What are you so worked up for?” you murmur, trying to regain your footing because it feels like she’s dragging you away even faster. “You saw him, he’s nice, he has a sweet smile, he wasn’t terrorizing anyone-!” 

“Are you even listening to yourself?!” Jania stops abruptly just so she can give you a stare full of disbelief and disapproval. “Those villain kids aren’t out for anything but themselves. I mean, just look at Mal. She’s going to be Queen now. And look what that did to your sister!” 

“Don’t bring Audrey into this,” you frowned, getting defensive over the fact that she was speaking your sister’s name in a conversation she didn’t even need to be a part of. “And please stop talking like that. You sound like my grandma.” 

“Well, maybe you should start listening to her for once,” she mutters under her breath. “Just stay away from them, alright?” 

That didn’t happen. 

Ever since that day, it was like the two of you kept on running into each other. Not that you were complaining. In fact, it was further fueling your attraction towards Harry. Whenever the two of you saw each other, you’d stop to say hi, maybe even have a brief conversation. And of course, you’d always hear Jania’s mouth about it, but it’s not like she could control your actions. 

One day, sometime during lunch, Harry spotted you sitting alone at a table, and decided to make his way over to you. 

“All by yerself?” He asks, grabbing your attention. 

“No,” you told him with a smile, sitting down your phone and sitting upright. “I’m waiting on someone. But you can sit till she gets here. If you wanna.”

He gladly accepts the offer, taking a seat next to you. 

“Let me guess, th’ one tha’ hates my guts?” 

Even though the look on his face shows that he’s only joking, you can’t help but feel sheepish. 

“Right,” you sigh. “I’m really sorry about that. She’s just a little…hard to soften up.”

“Are yeh bein’ nice about it?” he smirks. 

“…‘Lil bit.” The two of you share a laugh for a few seconds. “But to answer your question, no. I’m waiting for my sister.” 

His eyebrows lift slightly. “Yeh have a sister?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Audrey.” The realization clicks in Harry’s mind. 

“Aw, yer a Beauty kid~” he coos, resting his chin in the palm of one of his hands. “I ‘ave sisters too, actually.” 

“Really?” 

And so from there, he begins to delve into random tales with him and his sisters, even describing them for you so that you’ll know who they are if they ever pass by you around school. The stories have you so interested that you forget that your sister was supposed to be there until she actually showed up with both your lunches. 

She takes the spot next to you after Harry leaves you alone with her, waiting for a little while before speaking. 

“You like him, don’t you?”

The topic almost makes you choke on your food. 

“Hm?” 

“You. Like. Him,” she emphasizes, flicking you in the shoulder. 

“Where’d you get that idea?” You scoff. 

“Are you serious? As soon as I walked over here, you were just staring at him like-” she copies your attentive gaze, batting her lashes for dramatic effect. 

Rolling your eyes, you deny her claim, “ I didn’t even do all that.”

“But you do like him, right? You never said no.”

“I never said yes, either,” you retort. 

“You totally do, though,” she giggles. “I'm your sister. You can’t lie to me. I know these things.”

With a groan, you shake your head. “Fine. A little bit, yes.”

“A little?” 

“That’s all you’re getting,” you tell her, pushing her back with a laugh when she leans closer to you. “Get outta my face, Audrey!” 

=

Getting closer to Harry was fun. 

You found yourself constantly seeking him out, whether in school or in certain social settings, holding longer conversations with and getting to hang around both groups of friends with him, both yours and his. 

A favorite memory of yours in particular was when he sought you out after the sunset upon Auradon, so that you could join him in stargazing. 

“Yeh know, I’ve never actually really seen the stars before,” he comments as he sits beside you on the soft grass. 

“Really?” You said with surprise, to which he nodded. 

“It was a big dark cloud above the sky. Not much ta see like tha’.” 

“…Huh. And now that you can see them? What do you think of them?” 

He takes a moment to think before responding. “They’re…a lot brighter from ‘ere. Ye can even see the light reflecting off the lake.” 

“Uh-huh,” you nodded, noting how the sparkling dots of light twinkle in the water of the lake. You lean over a bit, getting a closer look when, all of a sudden, you feel water splash your side, making eye contact with a grinning Harry. 

“Hey!” Splashing him back, you watch him practically run away from the water, giggling along with you as a back and forth water war was waged. 

Once the two of you settled down, you started a game of creating your own constellations in the night sky, occasionally arguing about what they did and didn’t look like. As much as you would’ve liked to stay like that all night, the time of student curfew was approaching. 

“Thanks for this,” you said, smiling at him. “I had a lot of fun.” 

“Yeh don’ have ta thank me,” he replies, draping your sweater over your shoulders since it was getting cooler out. “I…like yer company.” 

“…I like your company, too.”

You’re gazing into his eyes, and he into yours. You can feel the way you both lean in, ever so closer to each other, until your faces are remotely close. Just when you feel the urge to make a move and go for it, you hear the clock chime, signaling that it was time to go. 

Pulling away slowly, you let out a soft exhale before smiling again, clutching the front of your sweater. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you murmurs. “Night, Harry.” 

“…G’night, darlin’,” he bids before you go your separate ways. 

The entire way back to your dorm, you’re grinning so hard your cheeks start to hurt. Even your sister and friend notice as they peep your giddy demeanor when you walk in. 

“Aahhhh, someone’s date went well~” Audrey squealed, clapping her hands. Jania was sitting beside her, dead silent but attentive. 

“It wasn’t a date, Audrey,” you chuckled, putting away your things. 

“That’s your opinion, anyways! Was it nice? Did you have fun? Did you two kiss?”

”Slow your roll! Yes, it was nice. Yes, I had fun. And we…almost kissed?” 

You can see the way her eyes light up, clearly invested in your first romantic experience. Jania, on the other hand, finally decides to say something. 

“Wait, wait, so this little thing of yours is getting serious?” 

“Uh…yes?” You say, unsure if that was even the right answer. Probably not. “No? Ugh, I dunno…he’s so sweet, you guys, and I really, really like him, but maybe I’m reading into this too much-?” 

“Better enjoy it while it lasts,” she mutters, getting up to go and lay in her own bed. 

Her words catch you off guard. “Huh? What does that mean?” 

“Nothing at all. Good night.” 

Both you and Audrey look at each other, not understanding what just happened, but shrug it off as she pats the spot across from her so that you can tell her everything that’s occurred during your time with Harry. 

The following morning, when you wake up, the first thing you notice is that it was only your sister in there with you, who was curling her hair in the vanity mirror. 

“…Where’s Nia?” You inquire, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes. 

She looks your way, then towards Jania’s bed. 

“I have no idea,” she says thoughtfully. “She just said that she was getting an early start on the day.” 

You scrunch your face up. “That doesn’t sound like her at all, but hey, what do I know?” Yawning, you plop back down, trying to see if you could squeeze in another 15 minutes of sleep. 

=

During your first passing period, you’d taken Harry along with you to go see Ben in his office. Neither of you had addressed nor even slightly mentioned what happened last night, just going on as if it never happened. Which was good, because you didn’t think you could handle the awkwardness of a “hey, did we almost kiss?” conversation. 

You knock on the door, waiting for the green light before walking inside. 

“Hey, Ben,” you greet, placing a pamphlet down on his desk. “Someone dropped this off for you today.” 

“Oh, thank you,” he says, glancing up at you and doing a double take when he sees who’s accompanying you. “Did, uh, did you need something too, Harry?”

He shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m jus’ here f’her.” 

Your eyes drift over to a tray sitting on one of the spare tables. 

“Ooo, candied apples?”

“Yeah, someone dropped them off earlier,” he responds. “I didn’t get a chance to see who it was.” 

“Mm.” You were too distracted with the one you’d already picked up. 

“Hey! How do you always get into my stuff before I can?” 

“You weren’t even gonna eat these.”

”Maybe I was,” he retorted, and although you didn’t believe that because he almost never ate the treats that people would drop off for him (not because he didn’t like them, there would literally just be so many), you decided to play along anyways. 

“Fine, fine,” you sighed, looking down at the tray to examine all of them before picking one up from the middle, passing it to them. “Here, this one’s more red than the others. I think it’s more candy coating on it or something.” 

Ben laughs before tapping his apple against yours and taking a large bite out of it. 

“Harry, d’you want one?” You pick up another apple and offer it to him, but he declines your offer. 

“I don’t like those things,” he tells you. 

“Who doesn’t like candied apples?” Ben asks, happily chowing down on his. “They’re so good.” 

“No, the best kind are the ones they dip in caramel and peanuts,” you add, taking a small bite out of your own. “You have to try one of those.” 

“Oh, yeah, those-” Out of the blue, Ben just stops talking. You focus your eyes back on him, brows furrowed in confusion. 

“…What? What happened?” He shakes his head, trying to readjust himself. 

“Uh, nothing- sorry,” he says, but his words and movements are getting slower and slower. “I…don’t know what happened, I just…”

”Ben…?” You say, eyes soon widening in horror when his roll back and flutter shut, causing him to fall out of his chair. 

“Ben!!” Rushing over, you catch him just before his head hits the ground, patting his cheek to get him to regain consciousness. “Ben!!” 

Harry knelt down at your side, mouth agape because he’s just as confused as you as to what happened to the young king just that fast, but neither of you know what to do. 

“Somebody help!!” 

=

“And you’re sure that’s all that happened?”

“Yeah!” you told Belle, hands clasped together as you saw your friend lying unconscious. “H-he just ate the apple and then passed out.” 

When help finally came, Fairy Godmother was called, along with Ben’s parents, and close friends who were alerted like Audrey and Jania. Mal and her friends were in the middle of something when she was called, so she was rushing to get here now. 

Harry had stuck by your side the entire time, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly as you were now starting to panic. 

“May I see the apple?” Fairy Godmother asks. “Did you bring it?” 

“Yeah.” You reach into your bag, pulling out the apple by the stick it was secured upon, unraveling it from the napkin and passing it to her. 

She examines it thoroughly, turning it in all directions to search for anything out of the ordinary. “All the apples looked like this?” 

“...For the most part,” you murmur. “That one was a little darker than the others. It’s why I picked it out. I figured maybe it had more candy coating on it than the others.” 

Pursing her lips, she gives you a solemn look. 

“This apple was enchanted. It’s laced with a sleeping curse.”

Your eyes widen, the feeling of your stomach dropping almost making you stagger. 

“Oh, god,” you whispered, covering your mouth with your hands. “I fed Ben a poison apple, oh my god…”

“Easy, lass,” Harry said softly, gripping your shoulders. “It wasn’t yer fault.” 

“Yeah, (y/n), he’s right,” your sister agrees. “You couldn’t have known. Your intentions were good when you gave it to him.” 

“Were they?” Jania’s words have you looking over at her. “You deliberately picked out that apple, (y/n). Are you sure you didn’t have a trick up your sleeve?” 

“Wha… Jania, what are you talking about? I would never do something like that to Ben! He’s like a brother to me!” 

“Maybe then,” she argues. “But things can change after you start spending all your time with Auradon’s newest group of troublemakers.” 

You  furrow your brows just a bit, because you begin to see exactly where this is going. 

“Nia, they had nothing to do with this,” you state firmly, pointing to Harry, who seemed a little uncomfortable with the accusation. “He had nothing to do with this! Will you get that out of your head?”

“How do you expect me to?! He’s the only one out of the three of you that didn’t eat an apple!”

“Because he doesn’t like them! If I gave you something you didn’t like and you told me you didn’t wanna eat it, would that make you suspicious?” 

“This is different!” Jania insists, standing up from her chair. “You know villain kids have a track record with poison apples. He’s the perfect suspect!”

“When ‘ave yeh ever seen me touch an apple?” Harry asks, perplexed by the words coming out of her mouth. 

“It doesn’t matter! You know it’s true!”

“Okay,” you say frustratedly. “Let’s say maybe that is true. Why would Harry try poisoning Ben?”

“I don’t know! A power trick? God, Ben wasn’t even supposed to get to the stupid apple!”

“Oh, really? Why not?”

“Because you were supposed to eat it!!”

The outburst puts everyone’s actions on pause, struggling to grip onto what had just been said. 

When sense reforms in your mind, all you can work out is a small, “…Excuse me?”

Even now, Jania looks shocked by what’s come out of her mouth, covering it promptly as her eyes dart between each one in the room. 

“What did you just say?”

“I- nothing- I didn’t mean-” she stammers, shaking her head as she takes a small step back. ”I didn’t mean for that to come out.”

“No,” your sister stands as well, her suspicions beginning to rise as yours did. “But you sure meant for this to happen. And to my sister?”

“Aud, listen- I was only trying to help-” 

It’s obvious that the young girl is becoming anxious, fumbling to try and find a proper response. 

“It all makes sense,” you mumbled, mulling over her strange behavior in the past few days. She’d let go of your association with Harry for the most part, but you hadn’t thought anything of it, assuming she’d finally had enough of berating you over it. 

But now things have become clearer. 

The oddly vagueness of her words last night, when she said “enjoy it while it lasts,” the unusual morning disappearance, and the fact that she was more concerned with pinning the blame on Harry than she was about Ben’s unexpected state. 

Because it wasn’t unexpected. She had planned this all along. 

“You knew that I would try to get to them first,” you continued on as you looked at the one you thought was your friend. “And that I would’ve probably picked that exact apple. You wanted me to eat it so that you could find a way to make it seem like Harry was the one who did it. Didn’t you?” 

Her eyes widened, astounded that you had figured out every inch of her plan.  

You feel Harry’s grip tighten slightly on your shoulders, and when you glanced up, he seemed pretty agitated at the revelation. 

“...Yeh tried ta poison her? Just ta set me up?” 

“Yeah, okay!” Jania finally confesses. “It may seem bad to you, but-”

Audrey’s about had enough of it already. “Don’t start trying to make excuses! You tried to put my sister’s life in danger, and all for what? Because you have some unspoken grudge against someone she’s in love with?”

Woah. Pause. 

“I- Audrey,” you whisper, trying to get her to retract that statement in an instant. However, she’s too concerned with getting on Jania’s case, so you can only pray and hope everyone else was also too distracted to hear what was just said. 

Especially Harry.

“I made a cure!” Jania tries to defend herself. “She wouldn’t have been asleep forever, she would have woken up eventually-” 

“Eventually?!” 

“Oh, god,” you hold a hand to your mouth for a second, unable to find anything that could help stop the argument before it escalates any further. 

Even though, truthfully, you didn’t want to. Jania got herself into this mess. She deserves more than being yelled at, another person’s life was at stake here. 

“Don’t you know that cures to sleeping curses have never actually worked?” Your sister continues. “Ever! Your silly little ‘cure’ would’ve failed, and then what? Then my sister would have been cursed for who knows how long!” 

“No! No, it wouldn’t- why are you so mad? I- I was only trying to help!” 

At that point, you step forward, too. “Help? I never needed help, Jania. You keep saying how- how the villain kids shouldn’t be trusted, but you were willing to risk my life and ruin someone else’s to prove a point. And rather than worrying about if Ben was actually gonna be okay, you keep overlooking it like it doesn’t even matter!”

You look at the adults in the room, knowing they would have much to say as well. Ben’s father notices your eyes, clearing his throat. 

“There will be consequences,” he says. “This was both an act of injustice and carelessness. It will be handled accordingly.”

Jania keeps her head hung low, knowing there was nothing she could do or say to shy away from the consequences of her actions. 

“As for you, Harry, we’re terribly sorry about this incident. If there’s anything we can do to make up for it, please let us know.”

The boy nods, and right as the statement is made, Mal comes rushing through the doors, followed by all her friends. 

=

Two weeks have passed since then, and everything has been cleared up. 

Jania had been suspended for 4 weeks, a week for Ben’s endangerment, a week for your intended endangerment, a week for attempting to frame someone, and a week for the unpermitted use of dangerous magic. 

You and Audrey got to remove her as a dorm mate, and although the offer was made to request a new one, you both found it pretty nice to have the extra space all to yourselves one Jania’s bed was out of there. 

Ben was doing fine as well, Mal had woken him up and broken the sleeping curse like everyone expected, and he even said that the whole thing felt like a really great nap, so he wasn’t too upset. 

As an apology for all that had happened, you had invited Harry out for ice cream. You hadn’t really gotten a chance to say sorry for him almost being kicked out of Auradon just for hanging around you, and even though it technically wasn’t your fault, you felt the need to say it anyway. 

So while the two of you sat out on a bench in the castle courtyard, you laid the spoon down in your half eaten cup of ice cream, shifting awkwardly. 

“So, I, um…” you begin, pursing your lips as you try to form a complete sentence. “I don’t think I ever got the chance to apologize for…everything that happened. I knew Jania was making it out to be a big deal, but…I didn’t think she would take it that far.” 

He turns to you with a soft smile, shaking his head. 

“Yeh know there’s no need for an apology, right?”

Blinking, you let out a small huff of breath, staring back down at the delicacy. “Well, obviously not if I’m doing it.” 

Harry giggles, nudging your arm with his. “It wasn’t yer fault, I’m not mad. I like a bit o’ drama every now an’ then.”

“Only you,” you retort, unable to hold back the smile that pulls at your lips. 

But you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Right as you begin to settle down from your internal conflict, something hits you like a brick.

Your sister may or may have not revealed that you were starting to fall in love. With him. 

What should you do? Should you say something? Maybe bury it in a box and hope it never sees the light of day?

“Yeh know, it’s cute how yeh go from super talkative ta super quiet,” he remarks, interrupting your train of thought. 

“Sorry,” you say. “...We’re still friends, right?”

The look of confusion on his face shows that that was not the response he was expecting. 

“...Aye? Why wouldn’t we be?”

“Good.” Your head bobs along with your words. “Great. Yeah, no, I just… y’know, just clarifying.” 

Oh no, you were being super awkward again, like how you were when the two of you first met. 

Although this time, you might actually go dig a hole for yourself if you hit him with finger guns again. 

“This isn’t clarity enough?”

Groaning inwardly, you shove the spoon in your mouth. “No, that’s not how I meant it, just…give me a second to think.”

You can tell he wants to laugh again, but he tries not to for you, so you can spit all of this out. 

Finally, it spills, “I was just…hoping what my sister said the other day didn’t make things…weird?”

Honey, you’re making it weird!

He takes a moment to think back on what it was exactly that Audrey had said, and every second of silence makes you want to be dragged in front of a road. 

“…Ohhh,” he says, forcing down a grin. “Yeh mean when she said ye were in love with someone? An’ tha’ someone might possibly be me?”

It’s an obvious tease. He knew exactly what your sister said, he’s been quoting it word for word in his head for the past two weeks. 

You want to run away from this situation and never look this guy in the eyes again, no muscle in your body wants to actually move. 

“…Well, since we’re tellin’ secrets…” he sits down his ice cream, reaching a hand over to focus your eyes back on him before holding your face in his cool palms. “Guess wha’?”

Clearing your throat to settle the leaping in your chest, you bite, “…What?”

Harry’s eyes sparkle, which should’ve been your first indication that he was up to something. Still, you will yourself not to move, even as he leans ever so closer to your face, though not completely as he’s trying to gauge your reaction.

With no sign of rejection, he finally closes the gap between you, leaving you stunned for a moment as your lips are captured in a soft kiss. You soon melt into the feeling, hands abandoning the cup of ice cream on your lap in favor of grasping the front of his jacket. 

It feels just as magical as you’d imagined it when you thought it would happen all those nights ago. Although, you’re glad it’s longer to become reality. It makes the moment feel even more special, more meaningful. 

When the two of you pull away, his forehead rests against yours, a blissful silence wrapping around the atmosphere like a warm blanket, the warmth spreading through your chest. 

You can’t help but smile, looking up with eyes that shine just as bright as his do, unable to stop the giggling that bubbles in your throat, but soon, he’s laughing along with you. 

The two of you were an usual pair, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Just a princess and her pirate.  

[toastyrobos]

Pirates charm

Summary: You’re the daughter of Meg and Hercules, everyone always compares you to your mother saying your exactly like her. You couldn’t deny it either especially with how you wouldn’t let yourself swoon for Harry hook.

Requested

Masterlist

-

Being the daughter of Meg and Hercules wasn’t easy. On one hand, you were expected to live up to your father’s reputation. The strong, brave hero of Olympus who could move mountains and defeat titans. People looked at you like you were supposed to be just like him- noble, pure, a shining example of what a demigod should be. But on the other hand, you were also Meg’s daughter. And that meant you were sarcastic, quick-witted, and more than a little cynical. If your dad was all about heroism, you were about surviving in a world where happy endings didn’t always happen. Your mother had made sure you understood that. She’d been there, done that, and wasn’t about to let you fall into the same traps she had.

You were, as people liked to say, the spitting image of Meg. From your sharp wit to the way you carried yourself, always with a knowing smirk and a hint of sass in your voice. You weren’t a wide-eyed optimist like so many people in Auradon. No, you knew better than that. Which was why Auradon Prep had become.. a little boring. The whole "perfect world" thing? Yeah, it got pretty old fast. Sure, there were plenty of bright, smiling faces and happily-ever-afters, but after a while, it all felt a bit fake. Like everyone was just pretending everything was perfect all the time. You needed something different. Something real. And then… Harry Hook showed up.

The first time you met Harry, you were standing by the docks, watching the Isle of the Lost kids as they arrived on their ship. Ben had done his whole "integration" thing, and now, here they were, villains' kids walking the pristine streets of Auradon. It was all very dramatic, with people whispering and staring at the new arrivals, like they were some kind of dangerous animals let loose in a zoo. You didn’t care about most of them. But then, you saw him. Harry Hook.

With his long coat, swaggering walk, and that trademark hook hanging from his hand, he made quite the entrance. His sharp blue eyes scanned the crowd, taking everything in like he was already planning his next move. His smirk was lazy, but there was a dangerous glint in his eyes that made you raise an eyebrow. And when his gaze landed on you? Oh, he noticed you too. His eyes flicked over your figure, taking in the sharpness of your features, the confidence in the way you stood. Unapologetic, like you didn’t care what anyone thought. It was enough to make him pause for a second, his smirk faltering before returning even wider.

“Aye, what do we have here?” he murmured as he sauntered over to you, his voice dripping with a Scottish lilt that sounded both amused and intrigued. “Didn’t know Auradon had girls like you”.

You crossed your arms, eyeing him up and down. “What? You thought we were all sunshine and rainbows?” He grinned, his hook tapping against his side as he stopped in front of you. “Somethin’ like that. But I think ye’re more storm clouds, lass. And I like that”. You gave him a dry smile, the corner of your lips lifting. “I aim to disappoint”. Harry’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it grew wider. “Ah, ye’re trouble, aren’t ye? I can tell”. You shrugged, glancing at him with a bored expression. “If you’re looking for damsels in distress, you might want to look elsewhere”. “Damsels?” He raised an eyebrow, his smirk full of mischief. “I don’t do damsels. I like girls who fight back”. You tilted your head, feigning interest. “Good, because I’d rather throw myself off a cliff than need saving”.

He laughed, a deep sound that was rough around the edges, like he wasn’t used to laughing much. But there was something about you that seemed to break through his usual bravado. “Aye, I can tell”. After that, it was like a game between the two of you. Wherever you were, Harry wasn’t far behind, and every time he tried his usual pirate charm on you, you gave it right back with a smart remark or a sarcastic quip. He’d call you “lass” and you’d call him “Hook” with a roll of your eyes, but beneath all the teasing, there was something else. Something you weren’t quite ready to name.

Because despite all the back-and-forth banter, Harry Hook was different from the others. He wasn’t like the perfect princes of Auradon, who threw themselves at you with grand gestures and shining armor. No, Harry was raw. Real. He didn’t pretend to be something he wasn’t, and he didn’t expect you to either.You liked that about him, even if you’d never admit it.

One afternoon, you found yourself sitting by the lake, enjoying some peace and quiet when you heard footsteps behind you. You didn’t need to look to know who it was “Should’ve guessed you’d be here” you said, not even turning around as you leaned back on your elbows. Harry sat down next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body. “Can’t help meself” he said with a grin. “Ye’re just too much fun to annoy”. You glanced over at him, eyebrow raised. “If this is your idea of fun, you need a hobby”.

“Oh, I’ve got hobbies” he replied, his voice teasing. “But ye’re definitely the most interestin’ one so far”. You rolled your eyes, fighting back the smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. “You must be really bored”. Harry chuckled softly, but then his expression shifted, turning more serious. “Ye know, ye’re different from the rest of ‘em”.

That caught your attention. You turned to him, curious. “What do you mean?” He tapped his hook lightly against his leg, looking out at the water. “Auradon, it’s full of people pretendin’ to be somethin’ they’re not. All smiles and pretendin’ everythin’ is perfect. But you?” He looked at you with those intense blue eyes. “Ye don’t pretend. Ye’re real”.’You blinked, not expecting the honesty in his words. For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You’d spent so long deflecting with sarcasm and wit that someone seeing through you like that threw you off balance. “I’m just me” you finally said, shrugging as if it didn’t matter. “Nothing special”. Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s where ye’re wrong, lass”.

There was something in his voice that made your heart skip a beat. You weren’t used to this, this raw, unfiltered honesty. People didn’t talk like that in Auradon. They didn’t look at you like they could see right through the mask. But Harry did. And, gods help you, you liked it. You cleared your throat, breaking the tension. “And here I thought pirates only cared about treasure”. Harry smirked, his teasing nature slipping back into place. “Aye, well, maybe I found somethin’ better”. Your heart did another unexpected flip at that, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you gave him a lopsided smile. “If you think I’m going to swoon, you’ve got another thing coming”. Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t want ye any other way”.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence after that, the sound of the water lapping against the shore filling the space between you. For once, there were no quips, no banter just a quiet understanding. Maybe you and Harry weren’t so different after all. Maybe, beneath the sarcasm and smirks, you were both just looking for something real. And maybe, just maybe, you’d found it in each other.

-

Thank you for reading!!

[toastyrobos]

mystery of love

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: clark is light in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here. word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane. content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.

Well, that's the joke, anyway. 

You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.

It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.

But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country. 

The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.

You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”

He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”

“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”

That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”

“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”

After that, it became a thing.

He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"

But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.

Because it isn’t.

You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.

And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.

You do.

They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare. 

You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.

And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.

You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.

Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating. 

Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.

And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?

But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?

And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.

That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.

You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.

Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The way the light pools around his ankles. The way his shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.

He doesn’t turn.

“Guess what,” you say.

He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”

You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.

“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”

“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”

“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”

“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”

He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”

You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.

And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.

This is how he tells you.

Not with words. Not yet.

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.

And you love him.

And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.

(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)

.

Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them. 

But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day. 

The way he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. The way he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. The way he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.

And then there’s the orange.

You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.

Clark doesn’t push. Never does. 

He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to. 

But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.

An orange.

Already peeled.

Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.

You blink at it.

Then at him.

He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”

Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.

It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.

You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.

Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”

“You peeled it for me?”

He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”

And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”

You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.

When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.

Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”

You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but the way he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.

“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”

You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”

“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”

“Mhm.”

“I was seven!”

You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.

“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”

You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.

“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”

He shrugs again. “Only for you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”

You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.

It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For the orange?”

“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”

He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”

You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”

He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”

“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the way the light hits his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”

He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”

You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:

“I won’t.”

.

You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows. 

In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent. 

A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.

Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.

He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.

You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:

“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."

That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”

God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way. 

And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook. 

Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.

“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”

“You Googled my flu?”

“Yeah. Also called my dad.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”

“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”

You blink at him slowly. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”

He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.

“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.

“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.

He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.

When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.

You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”

“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”

He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.

“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”

You blink at him.

“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”

He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.

When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.

Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.

There's a book in his hands.

You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View.  It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”

You blink slowly. “You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”

Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”

“Clark.”

“It’s from Jimmy.”

“Clark.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”

You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”

“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”

You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again. 

The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, after a beat:

“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”

“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”

“Exactly.”

He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”

You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.

“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.

“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”

He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed. 

You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there. 

So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.

.

It was supposed to be a date.

Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.

Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner. 

You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.

Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.

“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.

“You do own a belt.”

“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”

You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.

Just dinner.

Just you and him.

Just—

The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.

You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—

Flinches.

Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.

You stop. Narrow your eyes.

“Kent.”

He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.

“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”

“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”

Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.

“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him.

“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I even color-coded it!”

You cross your arms. “Clark.”

“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”

“…The one on the microwave?”

“She dusts them twice a week.”

You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.

“I liked this dress,” you say.

“I love that dress,” he says, almost reverent. “I’m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”

A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”

You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”

Then he’s gone.

“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.

You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.

He texts you twice:

CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED. CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨

You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.

It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.

He taps gently on the window.

When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.

“You’re late,” you say.

“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"

Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.

“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”

You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”

“Yes?” he tries.

“…You’re not wrong.”

You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I can—”

“Clark. Couch. Now.”

He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.

After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you, by the way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.

When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.

“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.

You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”

He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”

You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.

“I know,” you say.

He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”

“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.

Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”

He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”

There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because I always mean it.”

You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”

That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”

So you lean in.

The kiss starts off like a warning.

Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.

When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.

He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

You smile. “Flatterer.”

His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.

And Clark lets you. 

He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing slowly unraveling under your hands.

“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.

“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”

Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”

He says it so quietly you almost miss it.

“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.

You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up, slow, deliberate, and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.

Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it slow. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.

But you want the man. Not the symbol.

“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”

He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.

The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.

“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."

He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."

Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it. 

When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"

You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact. 

"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."

He nods. Serious. "Of course."

You lead him back to the bedroom slowly. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.

He sits.

Then waits.

Clark just looks so… perfect like this. 

Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.

You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.

A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers slow and thoughtful.

"Okay."

Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time. 

It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.

Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—

He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.

You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"

All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."

"Ball park?"

He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"

"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"

His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed. 

A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."

There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.

All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"

He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.

You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery. 

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."

This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him.  You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life. 

But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.

"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"

.

It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first. 

That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds. 

Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.

There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness. 

A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.

Smallville wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d pictured something more… stylized. Romanticized. 

A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”

Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.

You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you. 

“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”

You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”

Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.

One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”

Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.

“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”

You blink at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”

You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”

He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives  but make it cornfed?”

“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”

"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”

You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."

“See?”

The days fall into a rhythm, eventually. 

You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished. 

You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.

“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.

Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”

It’s not fancy. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction. 

There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.

You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”

He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.

So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”

You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away. 

You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.

“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”

He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“She’s smarter than I am.”

“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”

“See? Pattern holds.”

You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. The way the light gets caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.

He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.

You glance over.

“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”

You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”

You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.

Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.

It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.

“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.

Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”

He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”

“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”

He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous in the way only someone so gentle and kind can be.

“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”

Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”

“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.

You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”

“Eight.”

You bolt.

The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.

Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.

“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”

“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.

You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You cheated,” you gasp.

“I didn’t even use my powers.”

“That’s worse.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.

“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”

You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.

Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.

“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”

Clark’s breathing stutters.

“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.

Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”

Now that—that—does something to him.

His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.

The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters. 

Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.

It doesn't take long for it to escalate. 

You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will. 

You will. 

Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders. 

"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"

"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"

"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."

Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."

He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance. 

A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.

You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"

Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."

His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.

He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.

And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.

The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."

"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"

He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.

You love him.

It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore. 

Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.

You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.

“I—”

But then his hand’s on your cheek.

Soft. Certain.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.

“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”

“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine. 

He laughs under his breath. "No.”

You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology. 

You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.

And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.

Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.

You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.

He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"

You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid. 

The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.

.

He’s on the fire escape again.

You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.

You step closer.

And there he is.

Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching. 

Or maybe just when you are.

His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.

You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool. 

You followed the pull of it until it led you here.

He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.

It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.

Not a spark, but a sunrise.

His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple. 

Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.

He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.

Palm up.

Fingertips flexing.

“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”

You don’t hesitate. 

You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.

And you just sit like that, folded into him.

His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.

And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.

“You been out here long?” you murmur.

He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”

You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”

There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”

You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark. 

Which is to say: it’s safe.

The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm. 

You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.

“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”

You hum, eyes slipping closed.

“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”

“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”

He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”

“That and the swing?”

“That and the swing.”

You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.

And it is.

But it would’ve been, anyway.

You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright. 

And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.

You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.

He’s quiet a long time.

Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”

Just that.

Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.

Eventually, you turn, slow and sure.

“I love you too.”

His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.

“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”

You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”

You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.

Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.

“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like you belong in it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.

Then, “You’re not wrong.”

You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”

But he just shakes his head, slow.

“No. Just… I think it’s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”

And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.

Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.

[toastyrobos]

I'm printing Transformers bookmarks this year!! They're taller than this, but here is the character art on each of them! <3 I hope you like them!

[toastyrobos]

hc that percy and jason grace specifically don't get wet during storms/rain so everyone else is sitting there dripping wet, miserable, and absolutely pissed off and then we have these two losers taking a casual stroll for fun in a literal hurricane

[toastyrobos]

The bois <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

[toastyrobos]

who let rodimus have such a big bow

I’m absolutely obsessed with @madamadamiu ‘s lost light cat shelter au and swerve with his little bow, so i drew some of the others getting dressed up :> (or being forced to)

[toastyrobos]

NONSENSE

Johnny Storm X Female!reader || WC: 5.6K

SUMMARY: Being best friends with Johnny Storm had always come naturally, maybe a little too naturally. Somewhere between late-night movies and whispered secrets, your feelings began to shift. But you kept them to yourself, tucking the crush away and convincing yourself that friendship was more than enough. So when Susan and Reed ask you to help Johnny watch Franklin, you agree without hesitation. What could go wrong?

WARNINGS: Contains minor Fantastic Four: First Steps Spoilers! Established friendship, eventual friends to lovers, cursing, oblivious idiots in love, fluff galore, flirty banter, Reed and Susan are unintentional matchmakers, domestic uncle!Johnny, slight angst, suggestiveness but no smut!

A/N: The way Johnny acted whenever he interacted with Franklin had to be one of my favorite parts of the entire movie! Men that are good with kids are just INCREDIBLY attractive. So this one-shot is purely self-indulgent! Hope we get more of them in the future!! Divider by @saradika-graphics <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ johnny storm masterlist

The Baxter Building had practically become your second home. Between late-night movie marathons, joining impromptu family dinners, and Susan’s gentle insistence that you never needed an invitation. It's safe to say you’d spent more time there than in your own apartment lately. The elevator doors gave a gentle chime before gliding open, revealing the sleek, interior of the Fantastic Four’s private floor.

H.E.R.B.I.E. zipped into view the moment you stepped out, whirring cheerfully with blinking lights and enthusiastic beeps that filled the hallway like confetti. You laughed and crouched down slightly, holding out your hand as the robot spun in a delighted little circle. “Hello, H.E.R.B.I.E., you miss me already?” You grinned, giving the top of his head an affectionate tap.

Before you could ask about the others, a familiar figure emerged from around the corner in a whirlwind of motion. Reed Richards looked like he'd just walked out of a scientific hurricane, shirt slightly wrinkled, tie askew, and hair in the kind of tousled state only existential stress could cause. “Oh, thank goodness.” He breathed, already halfway across the hall and closing the distance with long, purposeful strides.

In a rare show of affection, he wrapped you into a brief but firm hug, clinging like a man about to board a rocket. “Jeez, Reed,” You chuckled, stepping back as he released you. “Don’t you look thrilled for date night.” His expression twisted with half a smile and half a wince as he ran a hand down his face, fingers tugging at the collar of his shirt like it was suffocating him. Behind him, H.E.R.B.I.E. let out a low, sympathetic beep.

Reed pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded a lot like a plea to the universe. “Johnny.” That was all you needed. One name, and the entire situation became crystal clear. Your best friend was a whirlwind of chaotic energy, and wherever he went, trouble wasn’t far behind, usually smiling, charming, and completely unapologetic.

Almost as if summoned by name, or more likely because he had been eavesdropping, Johnny Storm burst into the room like a one-man parade. “There’s my favorite girl!” He announced, arms already open wide. Before you could react, he was scooping you up in a familiar, dizzying spin, his laughter rumbling against your ear. You couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped you, the sound bubbling up like it always did around him, effortless, easy.

Only when he seemed satisfied with the display of affection did he finally set you back down, but even then, his hands lingered on your waist like he hadn’t quite decided to let you go. You didn't exactly mind. When the room stopped spinning, you looked up, and instantly regretted it. God, he looked good. Too good. A maroon bomber jacket was thrown over a white tee, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows with casual flair, displaying his veiny forearms that never failed to make your mouth water.

His blonde hair, annoyingly perfect as always, caught the light just enough to look sun-kissed, and those blue eyes sparkled with mischief, like he was already planning his next stunt. Behind him, Reed cleared his throat meaningfully. Johnny glanced over his shoulder with a grin that was all innocence and zero guilt, as if he hadn’t just been encouraging a toddler to weaponize household objects moments prior.

“Causing trouble already?” You asked, folding your arms with mock sternness and one raised brow. “Me? Never.” He winked, oozing charm, though the mischief in his eyes betrayed him completely. At last, his hands dropped from your waist, and even that small absence left your skin tingling. You tried to focus as he dashed off, already on a mission to corral the minefield of toys strewn across the living room floor.

You watched as he picked up a stuffed alien by one leg, then a miniature drum, and then immediately dropped both to make a siren noise with a plastic fire truck. Unsurprisingly, the room was destined to be chaos again the moment Franklin reentered it, but Johnny was at least pretending to tidy up, which was worth something. “How do you deal with him?” Reed asked, sounding as exhausted as he looked.

He stood there taking in the sight of his brother-in-law playing with his son's toys, rubbing at his temple with the air of a man who knew he’d never truly be free of the chaos. You offered a shrug, casual but fond. “Years of practice. He grows on you, eventually.” You didn’t even have to look to know Johnny had heard you. A dramatic gasp echoed behind you, followed by the sound of him stumbling backward as if wounded.

“Hey! I can hear you!” He cried, one hand over his heart like you’d mortally offended him. Grinning, you stuck your tongue out at him like the mature adult that you were. Before Johnny could retaliate, probably with a pillow launched in your direction or another lecture about how everyone secretly loved him, a small blur shot around the corner like a pint-sized comet.

“Y/N!” You turned just in time, crouching down with open arms as Franklin launched himself at you. His tiny body slammed into your chest, and you caught him easily, steadying the both of you with a laugh. “Whoa, careful there, sweetheart.” You chuckled, pulling him in tight. His little hands curled around your neck as if he hadn't seen you in years, and you pressed your face into his soft hair.

“My goodness,” You whispered, leaning back to take a better look at him. “You have got to stop growing.” You showered his chubby cheeks in kisses, laughing as he giggled uncontrollably, little legs kicking in excitement. The sound lit something up in you, pure, uncomplicated joy, and for a moment, the rest of the world faded out. All that mattered was the warmth of Franklin’s hug and the sound of his happiness echoing off the walls.

Which is why, you didn’t notice Johnny had stopped moving. Across the room, he stood frozen mid-step, a toy truck dangling forgotten from one hand. His usual smirk had softened into something quieter, eyes fixed on you and Franklin like he was watching a dream he hadn’t dared name. There was something in his expression, something fond, unguarded, maybe even a little stunned. For once, Johnny Storm was speechless.

“Y/N, hello darling.” Susan’s voice broke through the chorus of giggles still echoing in the room. You glanced up to find her walking in with effortless grace, powder blue dress nipped at the waist, pearl earrings, blonde hair pinned up in soft curls. Even when wrangling genius husbands and precocious toddlers, Susan Storm somehow made it look easy. You shifted Franklin on your hip, his arms still looped loosely around your neck as you rose to greet her.

“Hi, Sue, you look gorgeous.” You grinned, wrapping one arm around her in a warm hug. “Thank you.” She returned the smile, her eyes softening as she squeezed your hand with that calm, nurturing energy only she could exude. Her gaze drifted to Franklin, then flicked briefly toward Johnny, who was now pretending to inspect the bookshelf but had clearly not stopped watching you since you walked in.

A knowing glimmer sparkled in her eyes, but she let it pass with only a subtle lift of her brow. “Are you sure this isn’t an inconvenience?” She asked gently, though the hesitation in her voice told you she already felt guilty. “I know watching a toddler on a Friday night isn’t exactly ideal.” You scoffed before she could finish the thought, pulling Franklin a little closer. His sleepy weight pressed against you like he belonged there.

“He’s my godson, there’s really nowhere else I’d rather be.” You replied easily, brushing a bit of hair from Franklin’s forehead before placing a loving kiss on his forehead. “Get outta here, lovebirds.” Johnny chimed in, slipping an arm over your shoulders with the casual ease of someone who’d been doing it since childhood. His other hand waved dramatically toward the door. “Franklin’s in fantastic hands.”

You rolled your eyes, snorting at the awful pun. “Really?” You muttered under your breath, elbowing him lightly in the ribs. He grinned, utterly unapologetic, and leaned a little more of his weight against you like he had no intention of moving anytime soon. “Both children will be in one piece when you two come back.” You promised, giving Johnny a pointed side glance.

Susan let out a quiet chuckle, her eyes flicking toward her brother, clearly amused. “We won’t be out too late,” She assured again, though her tone had softened, more relaxed now. “If he gets fussy, there are snacks in the kitchen, and his bedtime is around eight.” Reed reappeared from the hallway, his composure mostly restored, tie straightened, coat neatly draped over one arm.

With his usual efficiency, he helped Susan into her coat, adjusting the shoulders with a care that made you momentarily forget he was the world’s most distracted genius. Before leaving, Susan turned one last time, her gaze resting on you and Franklin, and just briefly, on the way Johnny’s arm still lingered around you, fingers absentmindedly tracing idle patterns against your upper arm.

She mouthed one final thank you, before slipping through the front door with Reed in tow. The soft click of the latch left behind a hush that settled over the room, which left just you, Franklin, and Johnny. “So,” He drawled, quirking a brow, blue eyes fixed on you. “You, me, and one dangerously powerful toddler. What could possibly go wrong?” You smirked. “Everything.” And somehow, you were looking forward to every second of it.

As predicted, the moment you set Franklin down, he making a beeline straight for the living room. Without hesitation, he scooped up as many toy cars as his tiny arms could manage, cradling them to his chest like precious cargo. He dropped to his knees with all the focused determination of a world-class engineer, lining up the miniature vehicles in a meticulous row alongside the winding, high-tech racetrack Reed had crafted in the lab.

Johnny wasted no time. He vaulted over the back of the couch like a kid on Christmas morning, skidding into place beside Franklin on the rug. Within seconds, he was deep in the throes of an imaginary race, arms outstretched, making high-pitched engine noises, mimicking tight turns, screeching tires, and dramatic crashes. At one point, he even narrated the race in a terrible British accent, which made Franklin laugh so hard he rolled backward into a pile of pillows.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded, unable to wipe the smile off your face. Watching Johnny with Franklin was unfair in every way. He looked too good like this, lit up from the inside out, eyes crinkled with laughter, hair slightly mussed from all the movement. Your ovaries were overwhelmed with joy, hormones, and entirely inappropriate thoughts that you had absolutely no business entertaining while a two-year-old was in the room.

To distract yourself, you busied yourself in the kitchen. The warm light over the counter glowed like amber as you set out apple slices, crackers, and a juice box, arranging them on a plate shaped like a cartoon spaceship. But, toddlers are nothing if not delightfully unpredictable. “Uncle Johnny’s loud.” Franklin announced from the floor before trotting over to you, toy car still clutched in one hand. “Book now, pwease.”

With zero resistance, you scooped him up and headed for the couch, already grabbing the well-worn copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar from where it laid on the coffee table. Franklin nestled into your side like he belonged there, head on your shoulder, thumb in his mouth. You flipped open the book, voice gentle as you began to read. Or at least, you tried to read.

You stumbled over words you’d read a hundred times before, tongue tripping more than you’d like to admit, not because of Franklin, who was happily turning pages too soon, but because Johnny was watching you. His gaze hadn’t left you since you sat down, blue eyes softened with something too warm, too intense for casual friendship. You refused to meet his eyes, cheeks burning hotter than any of his fire tricks.

After dinner, Franklin was back to racing around with his cars. Only now, he wanted you and Johnny to play too. Which is how you ended up cross-legged on the living room floor again, mid-race chaos, with Franklin assigning you very serious car duties, like “crash dis one” and “make dis one fly.” Johnny, of course, took it way too far.

He zoomed his car off the edge of the coffee table with a dramatic explosion noise, tossed Franklin gently in the air, which earned him a fierce scolding glare from you, and then proudly unveiled a mini Johnny Storm action figure from one of the toy bins. You groaned, the moment it crackled to life with a mechanical, over-enthusiastic: 'FLAME ON!'

“Bet you didn’t think I’d let this masterpiece go out of production.” Johnny puffed his chest out like he’d won a Nobel Prize. “It talks? “Why on Earth does it talk?” You deadpanned. “Because it's genius,” He stated matter-of-factly, holding the tiny figure like it was sacred. “And because the world needs more me.” You opened your mouth to disagree, but Franklin grabbed the figure from his hand and hugged it to his chest like it was made of gold.

"Uncle Johnny, cool!" Johnny beamed, smiling from ear to ear. “See? The people agree.” You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw another dimension. You wanted to argue, saying Franklin was clearly biased, but the truth was, watching him, with Franklin curled up against you and laughter echoing around the room, you couldn’t remember the last time your heart had felt this full.

Seeing as Johnny had playtime thoroughly covered, complete with dramatic reenactments and the occasional sound barrier being broken, you took the opportunity to slip away and handle the aftermath of dinner. The dishes weren’t going to wash themselves, and frankly, you needed a few minutes to cool down. Watching Johnny be good with Franklin, be soft, had your heart doing things that felt mildly illegal.

You stepped into the kitchen just as H.E.R.B.I.E. glided up beside you, silently offering the now-empty plate Franklin had used for his macaroni masterpiece. With a fond smile and a quiet thank you, you reached for it, and that’s when all hell decided to break loose. “OW! Buddy, not the hair!” Johnny’s voice cut through the room, followed by a shrill, high-pitched wail that had every maternal instinct in your body firing at once.

You sprinted the short distance from the kitchen to the living room, nearly slipping on one of Franklin’s rogue race cars. The scene that met you was peak disaster, Johnny was crouched on the floor, a frazzled mess with a toy still in one hand and Franklin squirming in his arms, red-faced and wailing. Johnny’s blue eyes snapped up the moment he heard your footsteps. His expression was a mix of panic and guilt.

“Give him to me.” Your voice was calm, instinctive, even as your arms reached out without hesitation. The moment Franklin caught sight of you, he lunged like a rocket, practically leaping into your embrace. You caught him easily, cradling his small frame against your chest. His sobs were still jagged and hiccupy, but they began to slow as you rocked him gently from side to side, your fingers drawing soft, rhythmic circles against his back.

His little fists clung to your shirt like lifelines, breath hitching in that pitiful post-cry rhythm that tugged at every heartstring you had. You murmured soft nonsense into his hair, words that didn’t matter so much as the tone, reassuring, steady, warm. Gradually, the tension left his body, replaced by that heavy-limbed drowsiness that always followed a toddler meltdown.

Over Franklin’s head, your gaze drifted to the wall clock, it read 7:58 PM. Of course, his body knew. Right on cue, the crash before bedtime. “Can you finish cleaning up?” You murmured, glancing over to Johnny, who was still sitting there, looking like he’d just been emotionally sideswiped. “I’m going to try and get him settled for bed.” Johnny nodded, standing quickly, carefully. As he stepped closer, he placed a gentle kiss on Franklin’s tousled head.

Then, his hand came to rest on your shoulder, warm and grounding, fingers giving the faintest squeeze as he brushed past you and disappeared into the kitchen. The touch lingered even after he was gone. And for a second, just a second, you let yourself close your eyes and breathe in the moment, Franklin's weight against you, the quiet settling over the room, and the echo of Johnny's tenderness still trailing behind him.

As you disappeared down the hallway, cradling a drowsy Franklin against your chest, Johnny let out the breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding. It left him in a slow, uneven exhale, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, not because of exhaustion, but because watching you like that wrecked him in ways he couldn’t begin to explain. The sight of you, arms wrapped protectively around Franklin, murmuring in that soft voice that made even the toddler’s screams quiet down.

He dropped into a chair at the kitchen island, elbows on the counter, scrubbing a hand over his face as if it might shake off the feeling tightening in his ribcage. God, he was so screwed. It wasn’t just the way you looked tonight, though, yeah, that was enough to short-circuit him on a good day. The soft, lived-in familiarity of your smile, the way you rolled your eyes when he got too cocky, the gentle way you brushed Franklin’s hair back like you’d done it a thousand times before.

It wasn’t new. The feelings had been there for a while now, growing in quiet corners between inside jokes and late-night calls, rooted in the unshakable way you just got him. But this? Tonight? Watching you soothe his nephew like it was the most natural thing in the world, while he just stood there helpless, hair askew, ego bruised by a toddler? Yeah. That cracked something open.

Johnny leaned back, staring at the ceiling like maybe the answer to his emotional ineptitude was hidden in the plaster. He wasn’t good at this part, the messy, vulnerable, heart-in-his-throat stuff. Flirting, he could do blindfolded. Grand gestures? Easy. But feelings that mattered? Feelings that made his pulse stutter and his brain go fuzzy and his mouth forget how to be clever? That was harder.

But no matter how loud his heart got, there was one thing louder: the fear of ruining everything. You were his best friend. The constant in his chaos. You just got him, ego, flaws, fire and all. And the thought of letting these feelings consume him, of risking what you already had for something that might never work out? That terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he said something, did something, and it changed the way you looked at him? What if the easy laughter and casual touches turned awkward? What if he lost you? He looked toward the hallway where you'd disappeared, the quiet hum of your footsteps still echoing faintly in his ears. You’d taken Franklin like he was yours. Like you belonged here, in the middle of this family chaos, perfectly slotted into a space you hadn’t even asked to fill.

And somehow, everything felt quieter with you in it. He glanced toward the sink, eyes landing on the half-finished dishes, but his mind was still on you. Your hand on his shoulder. The way you didn’t flinch when things got messy. The way Franklin launched himself into your arms like it was instinct. Johnny rested his chin in his palm, staring at nothing in particular, lips curving just a little despite himself.

He was in love with you. Completely, stupidly, irrevocably in love with you. And the most ridiculous part? You probably had no idea. So he did what he always did. He swallowed it. Pushed it down, tucked it behind a grin and a joke and a wink. He’d take the way you looked at him now, fond and familiar, over losing you entirely. Even if it meant sitting here in the quiet, heart full of things he didn’t know how to say.

“Finally got him down.” You sighed, stepping back into the kitchen with your shoulders drooping slightly, weariness and warmth both lingering in your expression. You set the baby monitor on the kitchen island with a quiet clink, the soft static crackle filling the space just enough to remind you he was still only a room away. Johnny blinked, snapping out of whatever tangled thoughts he’d been drowning in.

“Sit.” His voice was gentle, coaxing, already rising from his chair. One hand brushed the small of your back, a fleeting touch, but enough to make your breath catch. He pulled out the chair next to his, guiding you into it with a casual attentiveness that never failed to send a zoo of butterflies stampeding through your stomach. You dropped into the seat with a sigh that was part exhaustion, part resignation. “But the dishes—”

“Herbert and I got it.” He interrupted smoothly, shooting a smirk toward H.E.R.B.I.E., who rolled up at just the right moment with mechanical precision. Johnny bumped fists with the robot, taking a bowl from his outstretched arm. You raised your hands in mock surrender, lips curling into a tired smile as you leaned back against the chair. Your eyes followed Johnny as he casually peeled off his bomber jacket and tossed it over the back of the chair.

Without it, he was all forearms and muscle, the short sleeves of his t-shirt hugging the defined curve of his biceps and the broad stretch of his chest like it had been designed with malicious intent. You glanced away quickly before your gaze betrayed you, but not fast enough to stop your face from flushing. You could feel the warmth blooming at your cheeks and cursed him, silently, lovingly, for existing so effortlessly.

The room fell into a quiet rhythm: H.E.R.B.I.E.'s faint whirring, the occasional clink of dishes, the lullaby-soft hush of a house winding down for the night. Then Johnny’s voice broke through, soft and unguarded. “You know…” He began, fingers still lingering on the edge of the countertop, but his eyes now fully on you. “You’re going to make an amazing mom one day.” The words landed with more weight than you expected. Not just because of what he said, but how he said it.

Not as a joke. Not as some offhand compliment. It came out quiet, earnest, a whisper of a truth he couldn’t stop himself from saying aloud. Your lips parted, but nothing came out at first. For a beat too long, you stared at him, trying to read what was hidden behind the usual mischief. There was no mask this time. No smirk. Just Johnny, bare and sincere in a way he rarely let himself be. You smiled, small and surprised, a flutter stirring in your chest. “You think?”

He shrugged, but the smile he wore was warm enough to melt through any doubt. “I know.” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, heart full and aching in a way you hadn’t expected. That look in his eyes, bright, a little reverent, maybe even something closer to love, it made the air feel too thick, too still. You wondered if he felt it too. That quiet hum between you, the one that had been there for years but now felt impossible to ignore.

And then, without even trying, the words fell from his mouth as if he’d been fed a truth serum. “I think about it a lot, honestly. More specifically, you being the mother of my children." Your breath hitched. Time slowed. Even H.E.R.B.I.E., bless him, seemed to sense the gravity of what had just been released into the room and rolled discreetly out of the kitchen. Johnny stood frozen, one hand clenched around the dishcloth, knuckles white, eyes wide.

Like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but now that it was out, he couldn’t take it back. And frankly, he didn’t want to. A nervous laugh escaped him, breathless and uneven. “Shit, that sounds way more intense when it’s not just in my head.” You turned to face him fully, your heart beating so fast you were sure he could hear it echoing in the silence. “I mean it.” He added quickly, voice dropping, sincerity bleeding through every word.

“It’s not just some passing thought I get when I see you with Franklin, or when you laugh, or when you fall asleep during movie nights and drool on my shoulder.” You made a quiet noise of protest, heat blooming across your cheeks. He grinned softly at that, but it faltered just as quickly, replaced by something more hesitant. “I try to ignore it, y'know?” His fingers fidgeted with the hem of the dish towel, eyes focused on the counter like it might help him stay grounded.

“Because I didn’t want to mess this up. You and me... we’re good. We work. And I kept thinking, if I opened my mouth, I’d ruin it all. That I’d lose you.” His eyes finally met yours again, open, uncertain, completely unguarded. “But lately? It’s like... I can’t not feel it anymore. It’s everywhere. You're everywhere. Every time I look at you, I think about what it’d be like to wake up next to you. To build something real. I think about how natural it feels when you're here, like you're already part of the family.”

His hand hovered near yours on the counter, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat between your fingers. “I’m tired of pretending it’s not there. Tired of pretending I don’t—” The words caught on his tongue. “Tired of pretending that I don’t love you, Y/N.” And there it was. Simple. Raw. Undeniably real. The air between you felt electric, charged with everything that had been buried under years of stolen glances, long talks, missed chances, and the quiet kind of love that grows too strong to ignore.

"Oh, fuck it." Before you could react and before he could talk himself out of it, Johnny rounded the kitchen island with a kind of reckless purpose, his restraint unraveling in real time. And then, he was there. He surged forward, big hands finding your waist, as his lips crashed against yours. Your eyes flew open, shocked by the force of it, by the sheer heat, but your body answered before your brain could catch up, instinct overriding reason.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his t-shirt as you kissed him back, years of pent-up tension igniting like gasoline meeting flame. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you flush against him as his mouth moved hungrily against yours. When his tongue pushed past your lips and brushed against yours, a soft moan slipped out of you before you could stop it, swallowed by his mouth like it was the very thing he’d been starving for.

You felt him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips and sending another wave of heat straight down your spine. His hands roamed, one sliding up your back, the other briefly gripping your hip before pulling you impossibly closer, like he needed to feel every inch of you to believe this was really happening. Your hands had a mind of their own, smoothing up the planes of his chest, over his shoulders, fingertips trailing across the warm skin of his neck and into his hair.

He shuddered beneath your touch, deepening the kiss like he never wanted to come up for air. It was messy. Intense. Every press of his mouth against yours was filled with every stolen glance, every suppressed feeling, every unsaid word that had sat between you like a live wire for years. When he finally did pull back, breathless and wide-eyed, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving, and so was his.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” He breathed out, voice low and wrecked with emotion, his forehead pressing gently to yours. His thumbs stroked your hips, like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started. You nodded, still catching your breath, eyes searching his face for anything, regret, hesitation, but there was none. “I thought I was dreaming,” You whispered. “I’ve been in love with you since I can remember.”

The words, settled over your skin like a warm blanket, uncomplicated, long-overdue, and unmistakably true. “Say it again.” He begged, voice hoarse, like he needed the sound of it more than air. Like your confession might be the only thing tethering him to reality. “I love you, Johnny.” That did it. He surged forward again, but this time there was no urgency, no crashing wave of desperation, just reverence.

His lips met yours with a gentleness that threatened to undo you entirely. No rush, only the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. One hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your cheekbone as his mouth moved against yours, patient and aching, as though he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips and the rhythm of your sighs. Your hands curled around his wrists, anchoring yourself to him as he kissed you like it was sacred.

His breath hitched slightly when your fingers threaded back through his hair, but he didn't press further, didn’t deepen the kiss like before. This was about worship. Like he'd spent years imagining this, and now that he had it, he wanted to slow time down and savor every second. When he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes remained closed, like he was afraid they’d snap open and find it had all vanished.

You couldn't stop the airy laugh that left you lips. "You've seriously thought about me as the mother of your children?" You raised a brow, hand absentmindedly tracing the veins of his forearm you ogled more than you'd like to admit. "Baby, seeing the way you act with Franklin always gets me all hot and bothered. Anything you do really." He stated matter-of-factly, smirk breaking out onto his face. You rolled your eyes, but the heat crawling up your neck betrayed you.

"Why do you ask, want to practice?" Johnny huskily murmured in your ear, his breath hot and intoxicating as it fanned across your skin. The low rasp of his voice sent a shiver down your spine, awakening something dormant and long-suppressed. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against the sensitive curve of your neck before pressing a deliberately slow, kiss just beneath your jaw. The heat of it bloomed across your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, and your breath hitched involuntarily.

Years of unspoken desire and stolen glances rushed to the surface, threatening to unravel your composure. As much as you wanted to surrender, to drown in the fantasy you had nursed for so long, a quiet voice inside pulled you back. You placed a gentle but firm hand on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. The tension between you crackled, heavy with want, but you pushed him back, just enough to create distance, not rejection.

"Not with the two-year-old were supposed to be watching less than ten feet away." Johnny pulled back with a dramatic groan, his expression pure betrayal. You watched as his eyes had darkened considerably, but they still sparkled as he opened his mouth to throw out another flirty one-liner your way, only to be cut off by a familiar, high-pitched wail echoing from the baby monitor that made both of you freeze.

“Traitor.” He muttered, narrowing his eyes at the tiny screen like it had done it on purpose. You placed one more chaste kiss to his heated cheek, patting his chest sympathetically, before you were already on your feet, chuckling as you padded toward the hallway. He followed with reluctant steps, grumbling under his breath but unable to stop glancing at you with that soft, besotted look he probably didn’t even realize he was wearing.

Later that night, when Susan and Reed returned to the Baxter Building, they were met with an unfamiliar but very welcome sound: silence. Brows furrowed, Susan kicked off her heels and made a beeline toward Franklin’s room, her mom instincts already stirring. Her heart skipped as she peeked into the dimly lit nursery, only to find the crib empty. “Reed?” Her voice was barely a whisper, nerves creeping up her spine.

“Hold on.” Reed called quietly from down the hall, standing in front of Johnny’s bedroom with the door slightly ajar, light from the hallway spilling just enough to illuminate what was inside. Susan joined him, brows raised in silent question. He merely tilted his head toward the crack in the door. Inside, Franklin lay curled on your chest, tiny hand fisted in your shirt, lips slightly parted in sleep. Your head rested against Johnny’s shoulder, your breathing steady and deep.

Johnny’s arms wrapped around both of you, one across your waist, the other lightly covering Franklin’s back in a protective cocoon. Susan exhaled slowly, something warm blooming in her chest. “Looks like you were right.” Susan’s smile was nothing short of smug as she crossed her arms. “I’m always right.” She quipped, fully planning to tease both of you relentlessly at breakfast. But for now, she simply stood there, soaking in the quiet proof of what she’d suspected all along.

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[toastyrobos]

𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗜 𝗞𝗻𝗼𝘄

You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.) fem, 8k

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

You never thought you’d get to talk to Superman. You've never been in that kind of danger, and you never hoped to be. You hadn’t wanted to talk to Superman because you know this is weird. You can’t have a crush on someone you don’t know. It’s idol worship, a celebrity fixation, and Superman is the perfect target. You’re not alone in loving everything about him —it’s easy. You aren’t ever confronted with the bad in his good. 

And then he’s standing in front of you with his hands braced on your shoulders, and there’s blood running down your face from your temple and you’re crying, because it hurts, because you’re in the panic of your life and not sure what to do next. 

He frowns at you with an unwavering gentleness. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “take a deep breath, ma’am. Deep breath.” 

“It’s bl– bleeding.”

“I know.” 

You shudder through tears as Superman brings his cape up and rips. It startles you, sending fat tears plinking down your cheek. You hold your breath as he brings his scrap to your face, dabbing the wetness from your cheeks before turning the fabric and holding it to your temple firmly.

You gasp painfully under his touch, desperate for air.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice a new shade, “it’s alright, you’re going to be fine, I promise. I’m gonna press this to your head, and we’ll see if we can get this bleeding stopped. As soon as it does, I’ll take you down and we can get you some real help.” 

You nod, skittish as a scared deer, eyes as wide as they’ll go to follow his movements. It doesn’t hurt any more than the injury itself as he presses down on your head wound. He sighs in sympathy anyway. A broad hand spreads behind your back, familiar in a way, or maybe it’s the way he’s talking to you now. Like he knows you as you know him. 

The photos of him online don’t do him justice. 

“It’s not bad. I know it hurts, but,” —his hand finds your shoulder, squeezes lightly— “it’s because it’s so high up, alright? They always bleed more. It doesn’t mean this is anything to worry about beyond fixing you up and getting you some pain relief.” 

“You– you’re real help.” 

He holds your gaze. “Yeah?” 

You wonder if he can feel the heat of your blush. It’s all over. He’s lucky your head wound doesn’t start spurting. “Yeah– yeah, I– Superman.” 

His smile is everything. “What?” he asks patiently. 

“I’m a big fan of– of yours.” 

“You are?” 

“You’re so brave,” you breathe out in a rush, though it hurts your head. “So brave. And– and…” 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, putting a little more pressure on your temple. “Thank you for being a fan. All I want is to keep everyone safe.” 

“You’re so gentle with everyone, even the aliens, and– you’re pretty…” 

“Pretty?” he asks, pure surprise in his voice, his hand falling off of your arm. 

You wince. “Yeah. Yes. Handsome. Sorry, you must get told that so much.” 

“It’s okay. I won’t hold you to anything you say. You’re injured, after all.” 

His teasing tone pretty much flies over your head. “No, I’m not lying. I mean it. You’re really lovely, and what you do, it makes you lovelier, it does–” You nearly choke on your enthusiasm. He has to know.

“Don’t get wound up, I’m sorry. I believe you. Let’s try to stay calm.” 

Your head is aching in a new way, now. Less the sting of a wide cut, more beating, like a whirl in your own brain twisting and shaking, dizziness alive behind your eyes and threatening to knock you over. You clutch at Superman’s arm and he knows what you need, slipping his free arm behind your back before you can collapse. 

“I don’t usually get crushes on people,” you inform him. “But it was hard not to get one with you. You’re even nicer than I thought you’d be.” 

“It’s easy to be nice to you. Easy as breathing.” 

Superman hugs you. You swear he does. But when the concussion begins to clear up and your confusion wanes in a hospital bed outside of the battle zone, you realise that he was holding you upright. Superman doesn’t know you, he never will, and you’re okay with it in the grand scheme of things. If you had to meet him, you’re glad it was while he was keeping you safe. He really is a good guy. 

—

A week later, Clark Kent is waiting for you at the doors to the Daily Planet. 

“Are you sure you don’t need more rest?” he asks, forcibly removing your handbag from your shoulder to carry himself.

“I’m sure.”

“It’s okay if you need more time to recover. You’re still wearing a dressing.” 

“It’s a bandaid, Clark, and it’s to hide the scar for now, it’s–”

“It’s still a wound.” 

“It’s fine! You saw it, you know it’s fine.” 

Your overbearing best friend had surprise-visited you the day after your injury despite a text to tell him to stay home. You’re fine. It was a cut and the mildest concussion you could’ve had. You didn’t throw up, or collapse, you’d simply gotten confused and bled all over Metropolis’ finest super hero until his hands were more red than white.

“It looked awful, it still does.” 

“It looks fine. Even the nurse said it was a small cut, in an unfortunate place.”

“Very unfortunate.” 

You follow him to the elevator bank with a frown. “Clark, you don’t have to sulk.” 

“I’m not sulking! I just don’t see what’s wrong with staying in bed for now.” 

“I have stuff to do, babe. I have to work. I have to move forward, it barely hurts anymore.” 

He likes being called babe, simpering accordingly. “Well, you’re sitting down all day. Doctor’s orders.” 

“Show me your oath and I’ll consider it.” 

“Please?” 

He looks like he could cry. Not that he will, but like he could if you keep saying no to him. And despite all your grievances with being treated like you’re fragile now, you decide to take it easy, if only to give Clark the peace of mind. “Okay, sure. You can wait on me all day.” 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Clark’s your best friend because —no matter how much it might confuse you— he seems to really love you, maybe from the moment he met you. You started at the Daily Planet and he took to you like a duck takes to water. Everything you said made him laugh, every recipe you wrote was one he had to try. And you figured it was something boys tend to do, right? Pretend you‘re interesting until they get what they want from you, but Clark’s never asked for anything else, loving you wholly and expecting nothing in return. 

You let him swing an arm around your shoulders, a mirror of himself those few nights ago where he’d come shaky and sorry to see you. He apologised for not being there when you got hurt, as if he could’ve stopped it. 

“I’m sick of working already,” you say. 

“Then let’s go home.” 

“Clark. I’m being conversational.” 

“Don’t tease me,” he pleads, sounding all sudden and whiney. You squirm out of his arms to poke his side. Gets more solid by the day. Idiot boy. 

“Have you been working out?” 

“Can you stop?” 

“Can I stop? You’re a nightmare.”

Clark threatens to superglue you to your deskchair, but he titters around you hopelessly all day. 

— 

You’re laying on the gravel roof of your apartment on top of a sun lounger, trying to decide if getting some sun is worth all the noise. Beeping, birds, cars, doors, the wind, this high up and occasionally curving through buildings to kiss your skin —noise, noise, noise. Your phone is ringing while you ignore it, desperate to get through the last chapter of your book without interruption. You have thus far been foiled, and figured nobody’d be able to find you up here. 

The quick, awful zip of a high impact sounds somewhere close. You nearly topple from your lounger, a hand pressed to your chest, your heart racing near painfully at the surprise. You whip your head to the horizon looking for smoke, but there’s nothing. For a few minutes, you can’t hear anything at all. 

The shape of him descends before your mind can catch up. Then, he’s there in one piece. A touchable dream, Carol Ann Duffy at work and torturing you in passing. You’ve seen a ton of photos of him, hundreds, videos of girls recording to ask him sweet questions, and you’ve never seen him smile so shyly. You shiver violently down your arms, but Superman isn’t here to hurt you. 

“I’ve been looking for you.” 

“You were?” you ask.

“I wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” 

You sit up properly. The book in your lap makes a crunching noise that you happily ignore. “I’m fine. I’m fine, did you– You’re here to see if I’m okay?” 

His smile strengthens. “Is that okay?” 

You stammer, “Of course it’s okay!” A flush rises from your chest to your cheeks as he stays there. He’s not leaving until you answer. Holy fuck. “I’m great, Superman. All healed up.” 

“Are you sure? You still have–” He gestures to your bandaid. 

“It’s to keep it clean in the daytime. I take it off before bed.” 

“Does it hurt?” 

“No, of course not.” 

“Why of course not?” 

Your heart makes a funny pulse. Handsome isn’t the right word for him. There’s something special about it, otherworldly, literally, the cut of his jaw somehow sharp and soft at once, his pert nose, his eyes gone light in the sunshine and framed by dark lashes that beg to be touched. You imagine running a fingertip along them, gently brushing them up for no reason at all, and he narrows his gaze at you in your silence. The shorts you’re wearing have you worrying you’re underdressed in his eyes. They’re pajamas, pink with black polka dots and edgings. You’d had the forethought to wear a short-sleeve rather than a vest lest one of your neighbours find themselves up here with the same quiet idea. Superman’s fully clothed in comparison. 

His boots look formidable next to your puppy dog socks. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promise, half-lying and uncaring. Superman saved you. He’s perfect, so your head doesn’t hurt. 

“You seem a little flustered, is all.” 

“Oh. Oh, well, it’s hot out, and I’m not like, super used to being in your company. Or any company, um, like yours.” 

“You’ve never met a metahuman?” 

“No, never.” 

“We’re just like everybody else.” 

You laugh. 

“No, really,” he says, idling toward you, red boots treading the gravel down flat. “I’m just like you, you don’t have to be nervous.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Now what do you have to be sorry for?” 

You laugh again, a giggle you’d never admit to. He’s strangely intimidating; a presence, but not an imposing one.

“What are you reading?” he asks, nodding to your lap. 

“Oh, uh. Uh, it’s called The Ocean?” You straighten up the book to show him the cover. “It’s good, uh, the main character is a young boy who wants to find his father, I think it’s supposed to be a take on The Odyssey,” 

“Why is he looking for his father?” 

“He’s missing after a terrible war. It’s one of those ones that hurts the entire time but the ending has wrapped it up so nicely, it was worth it.”

“Maybe I’ll read it, too. You look like someone who has great taste.” 

“You can borrow my copy.” 

Superman’s gaze narrows again. “You’re finished?” 

“Yeah, I finished it before you got here.” 

He waits in the quiet. You’re sure he’s going to call you out for your lie. It's not as though a Kryptonian truth-radar would be outside of the realm of possibility. 

Superman finally smiles. “I promise to bring it back,” he says simply. 

“Sure. Well, take your time.” 

—

How long can it possibly take a superhero to read one book?

You shouldn't be thinking about it again. Poor Clark is sitting in the corner of the couch with your feet stuck under his thighs, telling you about the grocery store widow who asks him for help to take her groceries out to her car whenever she sees him. She’d spotted him at the produce section today and dibsed him, and Clark doesn’t mind (though she leaves her car at the back of the parking lot no matter the weather). In fact, Clark doesn’t bring it up to complain. He’s sympathising with her, how lonely she must be. 

You try to shake Superman from your head while Clark is talking, but the thoughts of him won’t budge. 

You’d made a fool of yourself on the roof. Superman had taken your book to be polite. He probably won’t come back. 

“Hey.” 

You lift your head. 

Clark’s looking at you. Big blue eyes in a classic face, the line of his glasses dark and heavy against his brow. They trace your expression, searching for the misery you’ve failed to hide, until he finds it in the creases of your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. His voice is weak with worry. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.”

“It’s really not.” 

“It definitely is. You can tell me about anything, you know. Or you don’t have to tell me, but I’ll be here for you no matter what. Some food for thought.” 

“Food for thought. Eat this, Kent,” you say, jabbing him at the top of the thigh with your heel. 

Clark grabs your foot. “Come on. I know something’s wrong, and I don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me, but…” He lets your foot smack down into the top of his thigh to grab his tea instead.

“Isn’t that cold?” you ask. 

“It’s tepid,” he allows after a sip.

You laugh, so he laughs. It’s a lovely sound.

“Again. Again, you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but I’d listen if you wanted me to.”

“Don’t try and make out like you’re not keeping secrets.” 

Clark goes slack-jawed. “Sorry?” 

“You don’t tell me everything. I know exactly where you disappear to all the time.” 

“You do?” 

You climb up on your knees and settle in front of him. You’re wearing those pink polka dot shorts like you were on the roof with Superman, in hopes they’ll summon him to you like a talisman. Clark presses his lips together, watching you closely as you take his face into your hands. 

“You’re dating Lois Lane,” you say. 

His fingers dust your elbow. “What?” 

“You’re sweet on her, aren’t you? Plus, you’re busy all the time. You’ve cancelled movie night three times this month, did you know?” 

“I’m sorry–”

“I’m not. I’m happy for you.” 

Clark shakes his head. “But Lois and I… I mean, not for months. We were almost something, I think, but no. Not for a while.” 

You let your hands fall off of his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry, Clark.” 

“Don’t be. I should’ve told you, but it was new and then it was over.” 

“You should’ve told me,” you agree, “but I sort of get why you didn’t. I’m your girl best friend. That’s a thing.”

“You’re my best friend,” he promises, no ‘girl’ prefix necessary. “That’s not why it ended, Lois isn’t like that. It was… we disagreed on so many things. Looking back, I think she was right about most of it.”

“Well, she’s a girl.”

“That she is. You’re all the same, aren’t you? All dazzling.” 

He says it with an earnestness that reminds you of the other half of your friendship-equation. Clark’s your best friend because he loves your work and your jokes and your company, and you’re his best friend because he’s good as gold, inside out, just awfully lovable.

“You’re ’dazzling’ too,” you say. “You are.”

Clark offers you his mug of tea. You take a sip for something to do. 

“Not that cold,” you murmur. 

“I never realised you were such a liar.” 

“I don’t really lie to you, Clark.” 

He leans up to kiss your head, chaste against your purpling scar. “I know.”

—

“So, this book–”

You jump hard enough to send your groceries five different ways, oranges and kiwis for Clark flying up in the air. They never hit the ground —Superman catches them in two hands. 

Your loaf of bread lays cradled in his arm like a baby. 

“Fuck,” you complain. 

“I’m sorry.” Superman laughs at you. Laughs. “Sorry. But this book, is there a sequel?” 

“What?” you ask. Superman tips your groceries into your waiting paper bag. 

“I think I need a sequel.” He pulls The Ocean from a pocket and squeezes it unkindly. “I think it ruined my life.” 

“There’s no sequel. But–” don’t spoil the ending for me, you almost say. “Did you enjoy it at all?” 

“It was good. Do you read a lot, or are you down to the real heart-achers?” 

“Uh, I guess. Well, no, I used to read more, but I didn’t have time for a while ‘n now I’m usually too stirred up to settle down.” 

“You cook.” 

You blink. “You googled me?” 

“No, how could I? But I did see you on the third page of the Daily Planet. You have a little author’s window. You made pumpkin pie.”

“For Thanksgiving weekend, yeah. They only ever put me near the front or on the main page of the website if it’s the holidays.” 

“Is that true?” 

You shake your head. Not to say no, to say, let’s not talk about it. Silly insecurities are unnecessary conversation. At least, they are with him. 

Someone gasps from behind you. With one comes a few. The people near the crosswalk are starting to notice Superman’s tall figure standing in the sun, and though you’d wish he’d managed to hide in the shadows, you admit to yourself that there’s nowhere else he could ever be. He looks right in the sun. 

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks. 

Do you want to go with him? What the fuck does he think? said in your head ecstatically, not a lick of derision against him. Your excitement nearly blinds you. 

“Yeah,” you say, practically mumbling, wanting to come off nonchalant and instead sounding painfully shy, even to your own ears. 

“Yeah?” He offers an arm. “Come here.”

Your charmed little laugh makes him grin. “Alright?” he asks, locking an arm around you vice-tight. 

“Where are we–”

The air leaves your lungs in one fell swoop. There and gone, breathless and weightless in tandem.

The sky is more than blue when you’re in it. 

There’s nothing you can say about it. You’re terrified Superman is going to drop you, you can hardly breathe from the sudden speed at which you’d been taken up with him, but beyond that, there’s nothing to say. Wordless, endless sky. Blue, blue—

“It’s not as scary as you think, right?” he asks, his head angled down to yours. 

“I expected you to have to shout. I don’t know why.” 

“It’s windier in the air, but we’re close. I don’t need to yell.” 

“You’re lucky I didn’t get many groceries.” 

“You aren’t heavy.” 

You’re delighted. “This is a paper bag, you realise! I’m surprised it didn’t explode the second you got me up here!” 

“I’ll be careful. You’re precious cargo, and you deserve a better experience now than the one you got when you first came up here with me.”

“I don’t remember much of it.” 

“That’s okay. I do.” 

You should feel ridiculous, but strong arms hold you steady. Blue eyes like someone familiar pour over your face, as though they need to see you clearly, with all this perfect light. Your few groceries are squeezed between your chests as you squeeze him by the neck, desperate for the extra security, that he won’t simply let you go, and have you fall. 

“This is amazing,” you breathe, your eyes sweeping down to take in beautiful Metropolis beating away beneath you. The cars look like ants. The buildings cast shadows you’d never noticed from the ground. 

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s something.” 

You glance up to find him still staring at you. 

The girls on SuperClub would never, ever believe you if you tried to tell them what passes between you, then. (Not that you frequent SuperClub. Often. You see it while scrolling, and you tend to scroll past it with a fond eye roll.) They wouldn’t believe that Superman brings his hand to your head to touch your temple, as though your small scar is a personal affront to him. They wouldn’t believe the way that he pauses when you shudder. Wouldn’t believe how he lets his fingertip tumble down your cheek, or the soft incline of his head. The slightest kiss of his eyelashes meeting in the very corners of his eyes as they almost close. 

“Don’t feel guilty, please,” you say. 

“What?” He sounds as though he’s woken up from a nap. 

“About what happened. It wasn’t your fault that I got hurt. I wanted you to know that. You saved me.” 

Superman lets the distance between your two faces grow. “I…”

“If this is what that is, if you feel like you owe me something, well. You don’t… I don’t know you, Superman, but sometimes I think I do. It’s like… someone I've met before? I can see your bleeding heart.” You offer a brash smile. “But I’m just fine. You promised me that I would be, and I am.” 

“You’re not making this any easier for me.” 

You shift in his grasp, his hair tickling you and the little hairs on your arms. 

“I’m not a very easy person,” you say. 

Superman presses his nose to your cheek. 

“I think you’re giving me tachycardia,” you whisper.

He hears it. Doesn’t answer for a while, and when he does, it’s to neither of the things you said before.

“Let me take you somewhere new,” he says.

—

A day later, Clark asks if he can bring you dinner. Like and unlike himself, to care enough to ask but to forgo his usual boisterous lack of respect when it comes to taking care of you. Clark recognises that you like to be cared for aggressively. That you want someone to care so much that they won’t stop at the first hurdle. You want someone to take it at a sprint, and Clark’s a show off loser-dork who likes taking care of you. 

He meets you at the door, where you show him your small picnic basket kitted with two plates, knives, forks, and a hidden dessert. “Too hot in my apartment,” you say. 

“What’s wrong with the AC?” 

“It’s leaking.” 

“I’ll take a look at it. What happened to that fan I got you?” he asks, his fingers at your wrist trying to steal the basket. 

“Oh, Clark, can’t you just leave me alone?” you plead. 

He laughs like a kid. “I love when you do that.”

“What?” 

“I don’t know, is it sarcasm? I don’t think that’s apt. Whatever it is, when you act like that? You’re really convincing. It’s funny.”

“I can be funny.”

“I know, that’s what I’m saying. You’re really funny. Can you do it some more?”

“Now it’s not natural, though.” 

“Please?”

“Leave it alone, Clark. You’re such a beg.” 

He laughs again. It peters off to a quiet you’d like to live in. His takeout bag rustles, your picnic basket rattles, his fingers brushing the back of your arm as he follows you down the street to the wooded path. 

There’s a small park not far from your apartment that’s been divided into two halves. The playground for the neighbourhood kids, and the picnic tables made of strangely shaped wood. They’re all rounded. One table is shaped like an ‘S’. Another like a filled in ‘8’. 

You sit at the one furthest from the playground, coincidentally shaped like a ‘C’. “For Clark,” you say, pleased. 

“Adorable.” 

You set up your plates, dividing up the food squarely. Clark had the wherewithal to bring two cans of soda and a big bottle of water. He asks which one you want, cracking it open accordingly. “Gonna pour it into my mouth, too?” you tease. 

“Do you not want me to be nice to you?” 

And the night slips away. You eat your takeout at the picnic table and linger until your legs are numb. The grass around the park is damp, but you sit, and you shoot the breeze until the sun starts to go down. It must be hours out there together. 

Clark takes his jacket off and spreads it over your shoulders. “This is your only bad trait,” he says happily. “You never tell me when you’re cold.”

“I’m not that cold.”

“Sure you’re not. Look, come here,” —he pulls you bodily into his side, his voice turning silky as angora— “you act like you’re such a plague, like– I don’t know, like I wouldn’t wanna know that you’re cold.”

“I don’t act like that.” 

“You do. You could rely on me for more, you know? I want you to lean on me.” 

You lean on him.

Clark presses his nose to your temple, his glasses digging into your skin.

And you think, I know you. 

But you don’t know why. 

—

Clark can't believe this is happening again. 

He woke up this morning with a scary yet firm plan: he’s going to get himself together, pluck up what he has in the way of courage, and be honest with you about Superman. If only so he can stop lying to you. He should’ve told you months ago that he was Superman. Hell, he might’ve told you from the moment he met you, that’s how sure he was that he’d love you. As a friend —his best friend, half of his life. There’s this ease, like he’s known you for far longer than he truly has, like he could know you for the rest of his life. 

And lately. 

Oh, lately. Clark can’t get a handle on things. He hadn’t realised he was falling in love with you, isn’t even sure that’s the way to describe it; far from a sharp plummet downward into love, this has felt like a slow and steady ascent, but now suddenly he’s at the mountain top and the air is thin, and he’s looking for you, aching for relief, and you’re sitting in the snow with your book and your shy smile, cross-legged, just waiting for him to get there and open his cowardly mouth. 

Or that’s what he’d like to think. 

Fact of the matter is, Clark would like to kiss you. Hold your hand, have your head rest on his shoulder. He’d like to pull you into his lap and squeeze. Clark could die happy if he got just one shot at it, no matter the outcome. 

He knows he won’t lose you, but he’s worried you don’t want what he wants. He’s gotten so close to having you, he’s not sure he can take being any further apart than this. 

Clark takes the tramline to the rich part of the city with the best florist. There are buckets and buckets of flowers; orange tiger lilies and white orchids turned green in the sun; roses as big as his fist, unfurling; sweet peas kissing pinkest camellias all tangled up with baby’s breath. He chooses the sweet peas. They really are sweet, their hemmed edge petals curling in and nearly blue. They’re beautiful. He can see them in a glass on your nightstand by tonight if he’s lucky.

It’s on the walk to your apartment (tramline too busy to risk, lest your flowers get hurt) that the trouble begins. 

The light goes out. 

It doesn’t make logical sense. He’s outdoors. It’s the early morning, the sun should be shining for hours to come. 

He looks up and finds a singular dark rectangle over Earth. 

It blots out everything, disapears the clouds, turns the blue sweetpeas in his hand a tired shade of grey. 

Clark wonders if he should’ve told you how he felt when he had the chance. Then, he leaves his glasses, his jacket, and his sweetpeas in the hedgerow at the park with alphabet picnic tables and throws himself upwards into the sky.

—

What emerges from the spaceship (and it is a spaceship, made of an element humans aren’t want to touch) are creatures shaped like spinning asterisks, wisps of their angel-white bodies bending the shadows they’ve cast down onto Metropolis. It’s like smoke. 

The dark makes it hard to breathe. 

You sit huddled in your bedroom looking out through the window, despite a desperate urge to hide somewhere further inward. Sirens echo throughout otherwise quiet streets, discordant wailing that wavers for long, sharp minutes. There had been screaming and crying and the splintering sounds of glass. It’s not —not unseeable, out there, but anyone with poor vision will find themselves stranded.

You open your phone. Your theory is that the aliens have been able to dampen sound as well as sun, leaving the battlefield dangerously quiet. Clark’s not answering your texts because he never has his phone, but you’re sure he’s out there somewhere. He told you he was coming. The last message he sent this morning blinks at you from the bottom of your screen: Coming by soon if you’re not busy, do you want me to bring breakfast? 

You’d said, just some eggs please if you want eggs 

You’d said, hey, are you safe? What’s with the dark? 

You’d said, clark please text me back right now, I’m freaking out, do you need me to come get you? 

He won’t answer the phone. Outside, up in the sky where it’s darker still and the white shadows have begun to ripple, the occasional red beam of heat slices into whiteness, turning it to shadows again. There are two sets of red if you watch carefully. Green light flickers at the ground. 

And Clark Kent is out there all alone. 

You crawl to your shoes under the bed and put them on, pajamas and all. Clark’s blue hoodie lays on the back of your deskchair. You shrug it on. 

He’s gonna lose his entire mind if you do find him out there. Can friends ground you? Because Clark’s going to ground you. But you’d rather be grounded than all alone. 

—

Superman groans into the floor, his tongue coated in dust. 

He has far better vision than a person feasibly needs. He wore a pair of glasses once that are supposed to approximate what it’s like to have legal blindness, and he’d felt suddenly, achingly sorry for the human race. But then he’d found the glasses stand beside it with all their different prescriptions and shrugged it off. Humans are brilliant. He’s in awe of their persistence, their resilience, and their strength. He knows he can find it in himself to go on because they can, too. 

He has better vision, and still he finds himself batted away from the entities like a bothersome fruit fly. 

“Krypto?” he asks into the smog. 

His borrowed dog flies at him with impressive speed, pressing his snout straight into a bruise. 

“Ow!” 

Krypto snuffles and hits at his arms with both paws. 

“Krypto, stop! Jeez, stop. You’re such a pai– Ow! Get off.” 

Krypto nibbles his shoulder. 

Clark forces himself to sit up. At least he hasn’t killed the dog. Kara would probably eviscerate the planet country by country if something happened to her dog, not mentioning the aliens that started this whole thing. And he is good at bringing the suit when Clark needs it. 

He rubs at his eyes and drags himself to his feet, back aching, eyes like sand. Nothing is healing because he can’t feel the sun, but he’s not too hurt. He can take a bad landing. He can take twenty of them. 

“Krypto, stay.” 

Krypto tilts his white blurry head. 

“You’re not helping.” 

Arf! Clark rolls his shoulders and shoots back into the air. 

Krypto stays down, for now. 

Clark takes a lap through the air, searching for signs of life with his ears. The eery quiet is beginning to fill with catastrophe.

“Clark?” 

He stops dead in the sky. 

“Clark?” you call, ten miles below him, shouting all clipped and scared. “Clark Kent! Are you out here? If you can hear me, call back to me!”

He says your name.

“Clark? I’m here!” 

Clark looks up into melted-sugar shadows as they begin to curdle and makes a choice. Damn the aliens, they can have the sky, so long as Clark gets to keep you safe. 

He has to keep you safe. 

—

You’re watching a shadow plummet toward you when the sky opens up into shards of Technicolor. Concentrated around a single point of red and blue and moving so fast it turns puce.

—

There’s a scene in The Ocean where the main character realises his father has been dead before the beginning of the book. Dead for years. He goes searching for him because he’s scared to be alone, brave enough to realise it, and young enough to misunderstand the danger of the world. He treks sandbanks, ferries favour, turns in promises and follows the footsteps of a man long dead across the world. Clark told you once, privately, quietly, in a moment that immediately panicked him, that his parents had adopted him, and that his birth parents had left him with a letter after they both died.

What did it say? you’d asked. 

To be good. 

You find your copy of The Ocean cradled in familiar hands. You recognise its secondhand cover, the bends in the front where a previous owner had tented it for a long period of time. The spine is loose and lax with age. The pages are yellow with time. 

Clark is sleeping quietly in the plastic-wrapped chair beside your bed. He doesn’t have a bruise or cut. He doesn’t look anything like Superman had as he’d flung himself at you, two seconds too late, his body a shield against an explosion that lit your body with fire and colour alike. The whole world had been red, and then yellow, and suitably blue. There was pain. 

Not a darkness as people often say. Just hurting and now this. 

You take a scary breath. Hitching and pained, you search for comfort and find none of it. There’s a needle in the back of your hand secured with a teddy bear wrapping. The sheets have been drawn to your chin and choke you as you try to sit. 

After a moment of struggling, you sink back and try for another breath. Deep, aching breaths. You do it until your lungs burn, these awful, stringing breaths, eyes to the ceiling and fighting the spots of nothingness that cloud your vision. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, softer hand pressed to the curve of your neck. “Oh, hey, sweet girl, hey… it’s okay. The pain won’t last, they gave you a little more morphine a few minutes ago, it’ll kick in.” 

“Uh–”

Clark makes a sound. “Oh.” 

You let your eyes slide to him. He’s checking his wrist where it’s resting on you. 

“I was sleeping for a long time, I… Honey, I’ll get a nurse.” 

“No,” you breathe. 

“Yeah, honey, I’ll get a nurse,” he repeats, stroking your neck with his thumb. His eyes are their usual calm blue, bearing down into your own with an emotion that’s somehow palpable and implacable. “It’s no good, you being in pain like this. I’ll come right back.” 

“Clark, don’t go,” you whine. 

It’s like the world has been placed heavy on your head. 

Clark offers you relief. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to. Tell me what’s hurting, and I’ll fix it.” 

You shake your head at him. Fuck, nothing hurts. It’s not pain you’re being smothered in. 

“Okay,” he murmurs.

For a while, you don’t talk. Clark stays stooped over you, too tall and careful anyhow to stay out of your light. He holds your cheek, rubbing at skin with his thumb until it’s tickled into numbness, your body begging you to move away from his touch and your brain knowing you can’t. You’ll never duck away from his fingertips ever again. 

Where he’d been unhurt, he isn’t unharried. His hair is in a complete disarray, curls in places pulled straight and greasy behind his ears. His face is pale. His eyes flicker obsessively between you and your monitor, as though he can decipher the information it displays. He must see something there that he trusts, sitting down again in the chair dragged quick and easy to the side of your bed. His hand stays at your face. He’s long. It’s simple work. 

“You read The Ocean,” you whisper. 

“I read all your annotations, too,” he tells you, turning his hand to run it down your cheek, his fingernails especially silky against the line of your jaw. 

You turn your face toward his touch. Your eyes flutter closed as he indulges your deepest fantasy. 

“I didn’t–” Oh, you can’t say it. You hadn’t meant to want him like this. You hadn’t known he was Superman, and isn’t that awful? Something cruel. Your best friend kept a worst secret. 

He doesn’t rush you. 

You’re ready to try again a few minutes later. His fingertips have started to draw a flower into your neck. 

“I’m embarrassed that Clark knows what I said to Superman,” you say plainly. 

“Superman didn’t tell Clark anything,” Clark says. His voice is light in contrast to your hesitancy. 

“But you know it all.” 

“I know you,” he agrees. 

“I’m really… sorry. I’m sorry, I–” You search for his touch and he immediately cups your cheek again. “Clark, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come out looking for you. I didn’t realise you could look after yourself and I made things worse.” 

“Do you even remember?” he asks. 

Mildly. You’d woken once before and found a less fixed Clark covered in blood above you. A part of you had understood that it was Clark, even without his glasses, and a different part knew it was Superman. Then things had blurred, half-replaced by a memory of his hand behind your back in the middle of a meadow halfway across the world, that beautiful quiet valley where the water had been ice and the grass emerald velveteen under your legs. 

In the dream, Superman (and this had been real until it wasn’t), turned to you, and said, with Clark’s dorky intonation, “That’s seriously beautiful, huh?”  

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But–”

“You don’t. I won’t argue about it with you. You have no apologies to make, you did everything right and nothing wrong, and I lied to you, and I got you hurt, and…” He has the gall to pink in the cheeks, like you’ve taken the skin between your knuckles and pinched. “I wasn’t honest with you about my feelings. I almost kissed you as Superman, and that wasn’t fair.” 

“You really are… him?” you ask weakly. 

“Yeah, I am.” 

Clark sits up as a doctor opens your room’s door. 

“Everything okay?” she asks. When she sees you awake, she smiles broadly. “Hey, you’re up! Can we get you some dinner now?” 

“You skipped breakfast,” Clark tells you. 

“I was awake for breakfast?” 

“Barely. We had you on some pretty gnarly painkillers,” the doctor says. She adjusts her white coat. “I just wanted to check in with your nurses and your lovely partner here that you hadn’t thrown up again.” 

You flush. “I’m fine.” 

Clark simply rubs your chest like a wave of his hand against your heart. 

“I’m worried you haven’t gotten enough sustenance this past day, but we try not to hook you up with too many things,” the doctor explains, “much better for you to settle and then eat. And to drink some water!” 

“I don’t feel very hungry.” 

“The painkillers you’re on can make some people feel quite sick. But try your best, okay? I’ll come back after dinner to see what we can do about those broken fingers.” 

You follow your arm down to your hand. Your pinky and ring finger on the non-dominant hand have been splinted but not casted. 

“Oh.” 

The doctor takes her leave, abandoning Clark to your questions. 

“What’s wrong with me?” you ask. 

“You got concussed again. It made you sick, and your hand is very nearly broken, but they think it’s just your fingers from the look of your x-rays. And you have a long cut.” He puts his hand on your stomach gently. “Here. Almost as long as your arm, but it’s a surface cut. You landed on debris. I’m sorry, my– honey. Sorry.” 

You can’t fight the chills or your bewilderment. “What for?”

“I didn’t get to you fast enough.” 

“Clark.” Your mouth is dry. He’s pretty. Your head goes round and round and aching and then with a dash of clarity, the world snaps back into place. Your hospital room is empty and bright, with a vase filled to bursting with sweetpeas in pride of place on your nightstand. There are voices drifting in from the hallway, and Clark is handsome even as he tears himself apart. The silver lining his bottom lashes doesn’t go unnoticed. “I’m okay, babe.” 

He laughs wetly. 

“I’m fine,” you promise, quieter now. “How couldn’t I be? You’re so gentle.” 

Clark finds your hand, pulling it to his forehead, his body bending forward like a marionette on loosening strings. He shakes his head vehemently, his grip on your wrist tight but far from cruel. 

“You’re gentle,” you promise under your breath, “I told you that before, didn’t I? You’re kind, and brave, and– it’s not your fault I went looking for you.” 

“I should be comforting you. I should be helping you,” he whispers. 

“You won’t catch me crying on your shoulder twice, Superman.” 

His head flinches up, like he’s realising for the first time that you know who he is. 

Whatever he sees in your face helps him to settle down. He curls long, thick fingers around your hand. You can’t help noting how adversely tender they feel while he holds your hand. 

“What did you think of the book?” you ask finally. 

“I didn’t know you liked to read,” he says. 

You shrug. Let your head fall back into a thin pillow, wondering how you might go about getting a better one, and beginning to feel the effects of the painkillers they’d been talking about. “It’s not like it’s the most alarming secret, between us.” 

He lets out a wounded whine. “Why do you hate me?” he asks. 

“You’re due some hazing.” 

“Can’t you take pity on me?” he asks. 

You curl your fingers around his where they’d otherwise been limp. “I’m not really half as cool as I’m trying to act, Clark.” 

He sulks beautifully. “I think you’re lying to make me feel better.” 

Only a little. 

—

Being cool around Clark Kent lasts about as long as the morphine does. The reality is this: Clark Kent —best friend extraordinaire, sweetheart farm boy who’s vetted all your worst ideas, held your hair back in the smallest toilet in Metropolis bar history after a too-happy happy hour, knows all your holey socks and questionable medical queries— is Superman. 

And Superman? 

He’d been courting you. 

The word is antiquated and accurate. Superman had been cautiously courting you with his sparse visits, shy and brave at once, brash but remarkably put together. It is after you know the truth that you realise Clark had been not so secretly courting you simultaneously. 

“Is that why you were bringing me dinner and stuff?” you ask, lured into the conversation by accident, now deeply curious. 

“No. I did that stuff before I wanted you. It was hard to sort the feelings into boxes, like– platonically, I’ve loved you since you came into the office with your miserable laptop and– and romantically, I don’t know. I guess I didn’t realise until I tried to kiss you and you wouldn’t let me.” 

“Sorry?” 

“I tried to kiss you, and you thought it was a pity kiss.” 

You hold him by the shoulder. “That was real?” 

“Do you dream about it?” he asks knowingly. 

“It was really going to be a kiss?” 

He softens. Clark, big on your smaller couch, in his pajamas with his hair finally washed again and your hand in his lap, rests his shoulder into yours with a long-suffering sigh. “Best kiss of your life,” he promises. 

“Prove it.” 

“What?” 

It’s been four days since the hospital and Clark is horrifically chaste. “Do you not want to kiss me?” 

“You know I do.” 

“So kiss me.” 

He pinches your chin. “If you wanted a kiss, you could’ve just taken one,” he tells you, looking you straight in the eyes. 

“From Superman?” you ask with a little scoff. 

He moves his head from left to right. “From me,” he says. 

There has been so much to tell him. So little space to hide from him. Lines of books you’d underlined for him, lines for Superman, for both of them. The guilty way you’d watched Clark Kent take off his shirt at the public pool in summer heat and the loop of Superman under your thumb as you’d fallen asleep scrolling SuperClub. You’ve been more honest with him than you’ve dared to be previously. 

Clark has repaid you in kind. 

Did you know, he’d confessed, when you were still grody from the hospital and he’d demanded you let him stay, that night, that everything I’m good at is because of the sun? I can function without it. I can store up the energy in my cells and I don’t need much to stretch it far, but without the yellow sun, I’m just like you? 

How could I know that? you’d thought. Why are you telling me this? you’d asked instead.

I want you to know. 

Clark loves the sun, you realise now. He turns his face up to it often, soaking it in silently. He gets this look whenever he stops to take it in. Perfect contentment. Trust, that it will make him feel better. 

Clark tilts his chin against yours, nudging your face gently inward, giving you the shortest glimpse of that content stretched across a smile as it presses into yours.

You hyperventilate your way into an open-mouthed, gasping sort of thing, and find Clark a fiercer kisser than you could’ve imagined. All those daydreams about Superman saving you from another day copyediting your own messes, you’d never thought to picture the boy sitting at the desk across from you, how his hand might slide behind your neck like water. How he’d take the breath from your lips and offer his own in a shaky, wanting gasp. 

Superman, breathless under your touch. No one would ever believe you. 

“Did you want me to tell you how it ends?” 

You break away from him, panting, vaguely confused. “Sorry?” 

“The Ocean? You never finished it.”

“Oh. Maybe you can read it to me. You know, afterwards.” 

Clark grins. “After,” he promises, leaning down for another kiss. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

thank u Bec for proofreading ur brains are irreplaceable <3 and thank u everyone else for reading!