I'm in love

old man Logan enthusiast, but branching out, 20, she/her, Minors please don't interact main is @freythecrazyfae

[totallynotashieldagent]

OKAY OKAY OKAY WALK WITH ME HERE!!!!!

canonically we know that Jason went to heaven when he died SO WHAT IF!!!!! what if jason meets reader in heaven because she died for like 3 minutes or something because she got into an accident and when jason comes back, he can't seem to get her out of his mind at all and then through PURE COINCIDENCE he sees reader again and it's literally a match made in heaven !!!! cue love !!! meet cute in heaven!!! Aahhhh!!!

[thelittledaily-deactivated20260]

REBLOG THIS TO GIVE THE PERSON YOU REBLOGGED THIS FROM A GOLD STAR BECAUSE THEY’VE BEEN STELLAR TODAY AND THEY DESERVE IT ⭐️

[yousummonedme]

Just thinking about reader who loves Simon

(CW: mentions of death, childhood neglect)

She’d barely loved before, never been loved before either. Starting with a father who hated her and a mother too busy surviving him, she didn’t find love later in life either. She was always bullied or the replaceable, unexciting one in the group. Even her friends might not have mistreated her, but they reciprocated her overflowing devotion with disinterest or pity at best.

She might as well go to the army. None better to die for their country than someone no one will miss. She kept to herself mostly; there wasn’t any point in exhausting herself with people who would never care.

Somehow, amidst dozens of others, though, Simon noticed her. Maybe it was some sort of magnet, joining two souls who didn’t say much, who hid in their shells. He’d come sit next to her. He’d speak a sentence or two of small talk. Occasionally, he’d give her his portion of a cookie or apple. She ignored him. Once, she lost her cool and snapped at him to fuck off instead of toying with her emotions. She had no energy left to let herself be hurt again. Simon seemed to understand. He’d back away, but unlike what she expected, it was always to give her space, not to abandon her. After a day or two, he’d be back.

She loved him before she even became acquaintances. It crept up on her, soft and sweet. It was like being blindsided by summer. One minute, she was barely surviving a blizzard. Frigid winds around her flayed her to the bone and froze her frail heart. The next, she was consumed by the blazing passion of a love so warm it brought her to life.

She was wise enough to know better. Years had taught her cynicism addressed as common sense. Which is why it bewildered her that she never truly saw Simon’s love for Johnny coming. She’d observed all the signs, of course. She was a soldier, and a good one at that. It didn’t take a genius to see that Simon talked and laughed more with his teammate than anyone else. But there was other evidence her brain gathered no matter how much she tried to turn a blind eye.

She noticed the way Simon’s gaze lingered on Johnny and the way Johnny’s lingered back. She saw the way they’d sit close and brush against each other— innocent to a clueless eye. She observed the subtle way Simon’s entire body bloomed like a flower before sunlight when Johnny was around. She somehow caught Simon leaving Johnny’s room. Her breath caught when she realized Simon pulling his mask on outside the door meant he’d let Soap see his real face— something he wouldn’t let anyone else do.

But her own longing for him had blinded her to that final conclusion, the slotting of the puzzle pieces together. It was easy to persuade herself that Simon’s kindness meant he loved her in that way. Her affection-starved heart was so easy to persuade that maybe something good was finally happening to her. She hadn’t accepted the truth. Rather the truth had slammed itself on her like a tsunami.

It happened right before a mission. She’d gone to secure her equipment, and she walked in on Johnny and Simon. Their lips met in a tender kiss, and their arms clung to each other in case it was their last. “I love you,” Simon whispered. And her world was devastated. Her ears were ringing, her eyes a blur. Her head pounded while her heart was charged with agony like she’d never felt before. She stumbled out too far gone to hear Johnny whisper his love back.

She had two choices. Her or Johnny. Johnny or her. The mission had gone wrong… drastically. Johnny didn’t know he’d stepped on a mine while downloading files. All he knew was that time was ticking, and the enemy was closing in. She stepped a bit too close. She could feel the trigger plate under her feet, and that mattered more than the slightly judgmental look Soap gave her.

“Why don’t you start heading out? I’ll wipe the computer and be right behind you.” Her voice was shaky, barely more than a whisper. Soap didn’t think odd of it. “Sure, lass. Don’t take too long, eh?” He patted her gently on the head. Her heart bled a little. How she wished she could hate him!

Soap left her behind so easily. But she told herself to be grateful. Simon’s affection would have soured into hatred if she was the one who made it out alive. And maybe it would be easier for him to look back fondly at her if Johnny wasn’t eaten up knowing she’d given her life for his mistake.

She wanted to tell Soap so many things as he disappeared out of sight. She wanted to tell him she wished he were dead. She wanted to tell him she wanted Simon to know she loved him. She wanted to tell him she wished them well, that they’d share the love she’d longed for, that it would grow into love she couldn’t even dream of. But it was imperative Johnny didn’t know. Simon would— she knew him well enough to be sure he’d figure it out. But maybe that would make him love her a bit more. And that had to be enough for her.

So she closed her eyes and stepped off the trigger plate with the whisper of Simon’s name on her lips.

[lostinlovingrevery]

He deserves nothing but kisses and snuggles and blowjobs

[archiveofsnow]

robb stark marrying a frey girl and not meeting talisa. robb marrying a frey who is perhaps not all that appealing appearance wise, but she is kind and sweet to him. she cradles his cheeks and kisses his forehead when he's stressed. she puts down everything to help him. drags him out on little strolls, grey wild trotting at their feet. and he finds he does not care if she has a pretty face or not because she loves him wholly and he loves her so much too

[tired-biscuit]

you know that trope where it’s princess + knight, but they’ve both been captured by the bad guys and the princess is now gripped by the jaw by the villain, receiving a thin cut to her cheek while remaining completely still with a defiant look in her eyes even as a droplet of blood begins to trickle out of the wound, all while 3 people AT THE VERY LEAST need to have their hands locked on the knight because he’s thrashing around like a wild animal, trying so so so desperately, violently, to get to her?

yeah, that’s porn to me.

[tsaheylutales]

Mystery Girl

Pairing: Clark Kent x Loser!Reader

Summary: You finally meet Jimmy and Lois.

Warnings: change of scenery!? mentions of food, she's nervous, lmk if there's anymore! <3

a/n: gang please forgive me this is the first time i've posted a fic since november ik it's really short but i'm slowly getting back into it please please please don't hate me please. not prrofread this is coming out my ass at 10pm

Word count: 1.3k

Series Masterlist

“Listen…” Clark starts, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes soft and focused. “Me and some friends are gonna meet for lunch tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to join us.”

You blink at him like he’d just spoken another language. “Oh. Um…”

“They really want to meet you.” He adds quickly, a small, sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “I mean, they kinda think I’ve made you up.”

That gets a tiny, involuntary smile out of you. “That’s not good.”

“I talk about you.” He says, then softer. “You’re easy to talk about.”

Your stomach twists, not entirely unpleasant, just unfamiliar, nerve wracking. “I don’t know…”

“It’ll just be me, Lois, and Jimmy.” He continues, keeping his tone light and reassuring. “You know Lois, right? And Jimmy, the photographer.”

“Yeah, I know who they are.” You mutter, shrinking slightly. Of course you know Lois. She’s amazing, pulling out article after article, all worthy of pulitzers. You even had her articles plastered over your third year dorm, annotated and highlighted, littered with little notes of appreciation and admiration. And Jimmy…Jimmy was the office womanizer, and of course the culprit of many front cover shots. 

Clark seemed to notice the way your shoulders tense, the way your fingers start picking at the edge of your sandwich crust.

“We’re meeting at my desk at twelve.” He says gently. “If you’re not there by five past, we’ll go and I won’t be offended.”

Your eyes flicked up to his like trying to figure out if that was a trick, if he’s bluffing and he’ll be sat across from you here in this closet, same time tomorrow.

“No pressure.” He adds, softer now. “Just thought you’d like a change of scenery.”

Silence settles for a second, filled only by the faint hum of the light. You look around the cupboard, at the shelves covered in junk, the boxes piled to the side, taking in the slight smell of dust. You look back at Clark. He’s not pushing, he’s not begging. He’s just waiting, steady and warm and patient in a way that makes your chest feel tight.

Maybe he’s right? Maybe some change of scenery will do you some good.

“…Okay.” You say finally, voice small. “Maybe.”

He smiles softly, not too big or overwhelming, just enough to show he’s there, but quiet enough like he didn’t want to spook you, put you off and scare you away.

“Okay. Maybe’s good.” He says, nodding slightly. “I can work with that. We’ll see.”

The next day, you spend twelve whole minutes standing in the bathroom staring at yourself in the mirror. Not fixing anything, just staring. You’ve spent the whole morning convincing yourself to go. ‘It’ll be nice’ you think. 

You look over your outfit one last time. Your sweater is a soft blue, slightly big around the arms, sleeves pulled over your hands. You changed three times this morning because all your other clothes suddenly felt wrong. Too loose, too yellow, too formal, too desperate. 

Your stomach hurts.

At 11:56, you’re walking back towards the newsroom, bag hooked over your shoulder, resting against your hip. The bullpen is obnoxiously loud today. Phones ringing, keyboards tapping, someone laughing too hard near the coffee station. You swallow softly, then you spot him.

Clark’s still sat at his desk, glasses slipping down his nose as he flips through his notes. He’s talking to Lois. She’s definitely telling him a joke, and he’s very obviously trying to get his work done before lunch.

As you round his desk, he looks up like he can sense you, and he smiles as you stop in front of his desk, awkwardly clutching the strap of your bag.

“Hey,” Clark says, standing up from his chair. “You made it.”

“…Hi.”

“How’re you doing?” He asks gently.

You give a tiny shrug. “I’m okay.”

“That’s good.” His smile is so gentle you want to cry. “Come here a second.”

You step closer hesitantly.

Clark gestures toward the woman beside him. “This is Lois. Lois, this is [Y/n].”

Lois Lane smiles immediately. “So you’re the famous mystery girl.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Yes?...” You're kind of in awe.

“Clark talks about you constantly.” She says. “It’s really nice to finally meet you.”

Heat crawls up your neck and you glance over toward Clark, who suddenly looks very interested in the papers on his desk.

“You too…” You mumble softly.

Lois’s expression softens a little, like she can sense how nervous you are, and you really appreciate her patience. “Don’t worry, we’re normal. Mostly.”

Clark snorts quietly. “That’s debatable.”

That earns the faintest twitch of a smile from you and Clark notices immediately.

“Jimmy got sent out on assignment this morning.” He explains as he grabs his coat from the back of his chair. “He’s meeting us there.”

You nod once. “Okay.”

Clark steps beside you. “Ready?”

You hesitate for half a second before giving a tiny nod.

Lois grins. “Perfect. Let’s go before Jimmy orders for everyone again.”

The restaurant is louder than you expected.

Not in a bad way, just very slightly overwhelming, a stark contrast to your cupboard, cutlery clinking, chairs scraping, people talking over each other in a way that consumes your thoughts. You stay slightly behind Clark when you walk in.

He notices, of course he does, but he doesn’t comment. Just slows his pace and brushes the small of your back with his palm. At the table, Jimmy is already there.

He looks up instantly.

There’s a beat of silence where his eyes land on you, and then his face lights up like he’s finally taken the perfect shot.

“Hi…I’m-” You start, voice small.

“I already know your name.” He interrupts immediately, leaning back in his chair with a smug grin. “Clark does not stop talking about you.”

Clark exhales sharply. “Jimmy.”

“You were right, bud. She’s very pretty.”

You freeze. Clark goes still.

Your brain short-circuits slightly at the casualness of it, the way he says it like it was nothing more than commenting on the weather.

“Oh um…” You manage, unsure where to look.

“Jimmy…” Lois warns, pulling out a chair next to him.

Jimmy waves a hand. “I’m joking. Mostly. Don’t look like that.”

“Jimmy.” Clark warns again, almost hissing at him.

“Sorry about him.” Jimmy adds quickly, still grinning as he gestures to the empty chair. “How about you, what are you getting?”

You blink at him. “I…what?”

He tilts his head. “Lunch? Menu’s there.”

You glance down like you forgot food was part of the situation. Clark pulls out the chair beside you, quieter now. “Come on, sit down.” He says gently. You do.

As Clark sits down, he leans towards you, opening his own menu. “Don’t worry about him.” He says quietly. “He’s always like this.”

Jimmy gasps. “Wow. Rude.”

“Come on Jimmy, just look at the menu.” Lois points.

“So...” Clark says, softer, just to you while Jimmy and Lois bicker. “What are you getting?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the menu. “I…don’t know yet.”

Clark glances at you, patient as ever, and then, it just slips out before you can stop it:

“…You think I’m pretty?”

He pauses, then he nods like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, yeah. You’re gorgeous, honey.” He gestures lightly to the menu again, completely unbothered. “But what are you getting?”

Your brain stalls again, and you don’t know what to say. Clark looks completely unfazed now, simply flicking his eyes between the lunch offers and your face. You stare at him for a second longer, then quickly drop your eyes back to the menu. When you’re not looking, you miss the way his expression softens, like he’s seriously considering how easy it would be to tilt your chin up and kiss you silly.

Taglist:

@suzysface @smzyyx @theoraekenslover @amandinhagg @iyskgd @renegadebirch @punksnotdeadbutiam @bear8585 @orcasoul @alexandritte80 @stupendousmusiclistener @teheabrams @bunnyredgirl @idkwhattocallmyselfanym @chronic-fangirl-222 @marsbars09 @dlifhwa @spooderk @Little-dancing-marchmellows @mistbornsstuff @lovessen @bearzherbert @tomsparkyr @lostinthestreamofconsciousness

[ohclaire]

Ghost is the type of person to wait for you to tie your shoes.

Not because the rest of the team is neglectful, but Simon just lives life a little slower than the others.

When you fall back to kneel down and fix the untied laces, everyone else is still chattering excitedly about the time off and end up getting a bit ahead. But when you look up from your shoe, Simon is right there, body tilted toward you and waiting.

“Ready?”

Kyle is the guy who will bring the conversation back to your point after you’ve been interrupted.

Some bar fight breaks out and everyone gets drawn away from the conversation, and you don’t expect to be able to continue where you left off until,

“What were you saying, love?”

Price will make physical space for you. Hanging out with some of the buffest guys the UK has to offer sometimes means they get a little pushy. Especially at the pub with alcohol in their system. So, John will shove his broad shoulders around to broaden the circle for you, making sure you don’t get pushed out.

“There ya are, sweetheart.”

Soap will make sure you are explicitly invited to plans. When everyone is talking about going out after work and you’re just kind of…also at the table, you might be inclined to think you’re just an eavesdropper of the conversation. That is, until Soap turns to you with his excited eyes.

“Yer comin’, aren’t ya? We want ya there!”

It’s these little habits that you don’t think they even realize they do. The ones that heal that bit of your soul from when you were a kid and felt invisible. You never thought you would find a home in a place like this, but they keep making space for you.

[lesserthan-3]

Johnny Soap Mactavish who bets sex with his girlfriend for the winner of no nut november without you knowing, confident that he’ll be the one to make it out on top.

What he doesn’t expect is the rest of the team giving their best performance to date.

He starts sweating by the last week, seeing Gaz going as far as to take cold showers or Simon volunteering for basic training just to avoid alone time in his room.

And throughout the month, you notice them make odd comments to you that you push aside. Social skills werent on the top of any of their lists by any means.

“You know my last girlfriend said I was the best head she’s ever gotten,” says Gaz. Weird brag. But alright.

Or price, “Should I buy more mirrors for my room? You like looking at yourself?” To which you respond, “it’s your room. do what you want.”

And then there’s Simon who doesn’t say much but who’ve you noticed has recently started getting into knot tying. Perhaps a new hobby.

It’s not until November, 29th does Johnny come up to you with that goofy nervous look and thin sheen of sweat on his neck that he gets when he’s hiding something. “Listen, lass. Y’know how I think yer so sexy…?”

You nearly punch him when he tells you his silly little bet.

“Oh c’mon, don’t be mad, hen. Y’know that turns me on and I still got one more day.”

His comment doesn’t help you calm down. If anything it does the opposite to which Johnny goes into damage control.

“It won’t be that bad! Ghosts a good lay! Ask the nurses, they love ‘em. A-and did ya hear gaz gives hell good head?”

Johnny sleeps on the couch that night which is probably for the best. But it doesn’t stop all the men crowding your door early on December 1st- coming to collect their reward.

[metal-armed-muse]

NEIGHBOUR BUCKY HEADCANONS

CONGRESSMAN ! BARNES X FEM! READER

IN WHICH congressman Barnes is your neighbour.

WORD COUNT. 4.7K WARNINGS. Implied age gap, smut, MDNI, 18+, grumpy!bucky, sunshine!reader, insecure reader, innocent reader, inexperienced reader, implied to be a virgin, ugly duckling reader (that a thing?), reader is implied to be plus sized a couple of times, body worship, tit worship, reader has a bush, bucky likes it when reader doesn’t shave, unprotected pnv, oral (f receiving), dom!bucky, big dick!bucky, crying during sex (good kind), praise kink, size kink, no use of y/n. NOTES. gif credits @myhandsrtied thank you Stevie! Idek if you call them headcanons atp, I went straight off rails more than enough number of times, apologies in advance. Inspired by @lunexiax’s soldier boy hcs.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you first meet when your sink decides to fuck shit up at 9 PM on a Tuesday. Water's everywhere, the plumber you called three hours ago is a no-show, and you're this close to just accepting your fate as someone who lives in a swamp now.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who answers his door looking like he just got back from something important. His suit jacket's half-off, tie loosened, hair a little messy. There's this beat where he just stares at you, an awareness creeps in, that you're in pajama shorts and a tank top with the world's messiest bun, along with the fact that you closely resemble a wet rat than a human right now. "My sink exploded," you blurt out, softening his expression.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who doesn't even hesitate. He's in your apartment within minutes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You try very hard not to stare at his forearms while he’s elbow-deep under your sink, only to fail. Your gaze slips, you might possibly drool if you don’t get it together. "Pipe's cracked," he mutters, more to himself than you. "You got a wrench?" You don't. He disappears back to his place and returns with a whole toolbox. He is efficient, making it seem like it's effortless, like he's done this a thousand times. You don't know he's broken many things, only this time he's fixing something. When you try to thank him, he just grunts and says something about how the building super is useless anyway.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you learn is a congressman, which explains the suits and the late nights. "You're a congressman and you're fixing my sink," you say, a little awed, delighted. He glances up at you, a tiniest quirk in his mouth, "well, the sink don’t care about that."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you start running into more after that. In the hallway, in the lobby, at the mailboxes. You're all sunshine and bright greetings, asking how his day was, if that bill he mentioned passed, did he see that the bodega down the street had started carrying those good empanadas? And he's... grumpy. Tired. Answers in grunts and short sentences. But he always answers. Always looks at you.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you bake cookies for the next week, chocolate chip with sea salt, still warm when you knock on his door. He opens it looking suspicious, like it might be someone selling him something. Only for his face to visibly soften when he learns it's just you holding out this little plate covered in foil and saying, "thank you for saving me from my sink last Tuesday." He takes them. Stares at them, and then at you like you've just done something completely insane. "You didn't have to do this," he says. With a smile in your lips, you're backing away already, telling him to enjoy. What you miss is the way he stands there in his doorway holding those cookies like they're precious, a redness creeping up to his neck and a smile curving his lips.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who mentions the cookies the next time he sees you. You're both getting mail and you're rambling about your day, about your coworker. When he says, "the cookies were good," you light up so bright he has to look away. "Yeah? I wasn't sure if you'd like them, I know some people think the sea salt is weird, but I think it really brings out the —" Mid-sentence, you stop flustered, recognizing your rambling. Bucky's almost smiling. "They were good," he repeats. If you were smiling the rest of the day, well, he doesn't know that. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you end up staying with when your power goes out during a storm. The whole building's dark except for his place. Backup generator, he explains when you knock, shivering a little in the hallway. "Sorry, I just — my phone's dead and I have this work thing tomorrow morning. I really need to set an alarm, so if I could maybe just..." He's stepping aside, before you even finish the sentence. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who makes you tea while you sit on his couch, wrapped in the throw blanket he'd tossed at you without a word. His apartment is nice. Lived-in but neat, books on the shelves, a few photos you can't quite make out from here. "Sugar?" he asks. Cocooned in the warmth, you nod. When he hands you the mug, his fingers brush yours and linger there for just a second, heat spreading up your arm. You fall asleep halfway through some documentary he put on to fill the silence, head lolling against the armrest. Bucky drapes the blanket over you and spends the rest of the night pretending he isn’t watching the way your face softens in sleep. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who helps you with grocery bags one afternoon when he catches you struggling with six bags at once. His phone is pressed between his ear as he takes all six bags from you, the metal arm making it look easy. He follows you to your door, while still remaining on the call, giving you this look like he can't decide if he's mildly annoyed or happy to help. The person on the phone is talking about polling numbers, when you mouth thank you, starting to leave, to get out of his hair, but he catches your wrist. Metal fingers wrap around, cool against your skin, a proper smile on his face. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you sometimes through your window without meaning to. It's not intentional, not at first anyway. His window faces yours across the courtyard and you never close your blinds. He just happens to glance over one evening, nursing a whiskey, contemplating how badly his day went. You're just existing. Dancing a little to music he can't hear, oversized t-shirt hitting mid-thigh. You're so unselfconscious it makes his chest tight. His mind blanks for one whole second, seeing you bend over to pick something up, thinking you're not wearing anything underneath. The blood in his body heads south so fast he feels almost lightheaded. Then, he realises you're indeed wearing panties, just that they're the same colour as your skin. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who gets irrationally angry about it. If he can see you like this, anyone can. What if someone else is watching? What if someone sees you like this, sees what's his — He has to stop that thought right in its tracks, the possessiveness of it, the wanting. You're not his. You're his neighbor who smiles too much, brings him cookies and doesn't seem to notice that he's fucking obsessed with you. Your sunshine warmth seeps under his skin, makes the grumpy exterior thaw, until he feels what is … softness. He hates it. He craves it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who shows up at your door three minutes later, knocking maybe a little too hard. You answer looking confused and adorable, still in that t-shirt, so pure he has to actively force his eyes to stay on your face. "You need to close your blinds," he says, voice rough, desperation slipping past. You blink at him in confusion. "Your blinds. You need to close them," he clarifies. You look even more confused, glancing back at your window and then at him. Now Bucky is scrambling. He's never scrambled for words in his fucking life, but right now his brain isn't working and all he can think about is the curve of your thighs and — "Too much sunlight," he blurts out. "It's bad for your furniture. The sun damage. And your eyes. Light pollution. It's a problem in the city, you should really —" He's rambling. Bucky never rambles.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you watch him, this little furrow between your brows like you're trying to figure him out. Soon, a smile breaks into your face, metal fingers flexing against his side. Were you always this pretty? Where were you all his life? "You're worried about my furniture?" You sound delighted, charmed even, at your neighbour apparently worrying about your coffee table and couch. You reach out to pat his bicep like he's an overgrown puppy with muscles, this affectionate little gesture that makes him stop breathing completely. "That's really sweet, Bucky." Your hand is so small on his arm, the heat of it, he feels through his sleeve. "I'll close them, okay?" You're laughing a little. Bucky needs to leave before he does something absolutely dumb like kiss you or push you back into your apartment and show you exactly why those blinds need to stay closed.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who lies in bed that night, a bed he'd made, staring at your window, dark now. Blinds closed, like you promised. He can't see you now because of his stupid jealousy. He lies there like an idiot thinking about the glimpse he got of your legs, the soft skin of your inner thighs, wondering if you're as soft everywhere else, what sounds you'd make if he — He groans and throws an arm over his eyes. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who decides to just drop by the next day. No reason whatsoever, he's just being neighborly. All of it dissolves when you open the door in one of those oversized hoodies that swallows you whole, legs bare again, inviting his gaze like a touch. He's definitely staring. "Bucky, hi!" You seem happy to see him, stepping aside to let him in. "Just wanted to check on you," he mutters, a lie. He wanted to see you, but he can't exactly say that, can he? Your voice is chirpy as you move towards the kitchen, insisting him to drink something. He should say no. He should leave. "Coffee's good."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who sits in your kitchen while you make his coffee, unable to stop looking at your legs. You're padding around barefoot, humming under your breath. Every time you reach for something, your hoodie rides up a little more, testing him. When you sit down across from him on the couch, your legs stretch out, thighs spreading against the cushions. Bucky has to take a long drink of his too-hot coffee just to have something to do with his hands. He tries not to think about the way your thighs spread, thicker at the top, skin he wants to sink his teeth into.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you catch staring after a while. You glance down at yourself before bringing your eyes back to him, "is there something on my thighs?" You sound so genuinely confused, a little concerned, trying to look for whatever he's seeing. It's so frustrating, he wants to put his head in his hands. He wants you to be at least doing this on purpose, to know exactly what you're doing to him, for you to be some kind of temptress in disguise. At least then this would make sense. But you're not. You're just you, perfectly maddeningly sincere and innocent, asking if you've got something on your legs. "No," he forces the word out. You're still looking at him, waiting. He sighs, "there's nothing on your thighs." He needs to get out of here before he confesses that he'd indeed like there to be something on your thighs — specifically, his hands, his mouth, his cum. He finishes the coffee in one scalding gulp and stands up, thanking you. Already resigned to the fact that he'll be jerking off to the mental image of your thighs later. Again.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who gets invited to quiz night at some bar. He knows he should say no, he has early meetings, a PR team that would have a stroke if he just showed up somewhere unvetted. But you're looking at him with those bright, hopeful eyes, saying it would be good for his campaign, he could mingle with constituents, show them he's approachable and present. "They'd love you," you say, like it's that simple. He wants to tell you it doesn't work like that. He wants to tell you no. "What time?" he asks instead, your smile worth every headache this is going to cause.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who shows up, and immediately regrets showing up, not because of the people there. They're fine, he can do this in his sleep. But you're there with your stupidly cheerful friends, smiling bright and unapologetic. There's some bartender who keeps finding excuses to talk to you, giving you free drinks, leaning across the bar when he hands them over, smiling too much, getting on his nerves. You come back to the table with armfuls of cocktails, setting them down and tell your friends, "the bartender's so nice, he gave us all of these for free." You've got this soft, awed expression like you can't quite believe in human kindness.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who has to watch one of your friends lean over and say, "babe, he was hitting on you." You just laugh, shaking your head, "no, he was just being nice." "He was definitely trying to score," your other friend says. You're still shaking your head, taking a sip of your drink. "Why would he hit on me? I'm just... " you trail off. Bucky's gripping his beer so hard he's surprised the glass doesn't shatter. Nothing about you is just. You're the most magnificent creature he's ever seenc, charming without trying, perfectly sweet, this sunshine thing that makes him want to be better. And you don't even know it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who can't be in love with you. It wouldn't be fair. You're too innocent for someone like him, someone who's been through what he's been through, done what he's done. You deserve better. You deserve someone who doesn't have his history, doesn't have this much blood on his hands, and someone who isn't already thinking about all the ways he wants to ruin you. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who you cook for one evening, insisting he needs a real meal, something other than the takeout containers you've seen in his trash. He sits at your kitchen and watches you move around your space. You're telling him about someone who apparently hit on you at work. "But I don't think he was, you know? I think everyone's just seeing things that aren't there." You glance back at him, laughing a little, real confusion over your face, "like, why would someone hit on me?" He's heard girls do this before, back in the forties. Batting their lashes, playing coy, fishing for compliments. But you're not playing. You’re perplexed, brow furrowed, like the idea of someone wanting you is genuinely baffling.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who stands up, comes around the counter to pull you toward the couch. You make a little surprised sound but follow him. When he sits you down and faces you, there's an intensity in his eyes he's not had in years, never having cared enough. "What's so unbelievable about a guy hitting on you?" You blink at him, still confused, "have you seen me?" "Yes, that's why you gotta explain it to me," he says immediately, leaning closer. You're flustered, from his words or the proximity or his mere presence, he doesn't know. Words tumble out of you, about high school, about always being the friend, the ugly duckling, guys talking to your prettier friends instead. "I was just sorta there, you know. So I just… can’t believe someone would want to talk to me willingly."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who feels something crack in his chest. "I talk to you plenty," he says. You smile at that, soft and a little sad, "yeah, but you're Bucky." He's always wanted to be Bucky. Having lived many lives, having taken more, he's wanted nothing to be called just Bucky. But, his heart clenches at the way you say it, like he's somehow different, separate, not a real option. "I'm also a guy," he says, the words slipping past him. You go still, "well, yeah. I guess you are. You have... male stuff." He can't help it, can't help the way a laugh tears out of him. With you joining, the tension breaks for just a second. Bucky reaches out, finger hooking under your chin, tilting your face up to his, "do you know how much I like you?"

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches your breath catch, your pupils dilate, "...no." Your voice is so quiet. "Do you wanna know?" He asks. Pulse flutters in your neck, the soft skin hiding nothing to his eyes, you nod. "Can I show you?" His fingers are still on your skin, holding your gaze. "Yes," you breathe. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who kisses you like he's been thinking about it for months, hungry, possessive and a little — no, a lot — desperate. Your hands come up to his chest, fisting in his shirt, making this sweet little sound against his mouth that he swallows and pulls you closer. Into his lap, legs on either side of his hips. The second you're straddling him, he can feel how hot you are through the thin fabric of your leggings.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who keeps kissing you the next day, and the day after that. It takes nearly a week before things go further. Both of you on his couch, making out like teenagers, his hands roaming you everywhere, your waist, your hips, sliding under your shirt to feel your skin. When he lays you back and settles between your legs, you're already breathing hard, already wanting. He kisses down your throat, across your collarbone, down to your breasts. When he gets your shirt off and sees you in your simple cotton bra, he's never wanted anything more in his life.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who takes his time with you. Kissing every inch of skin he reveals, sucking marks into your shoulders and the tops of your breasts, licking across your nipples until you're whimpering. Your hands are in his hair, tugging. When he bites down gently on the underside of your breast, you gasp so pretty he has to do it again. Harder. He mouths at your tits, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers pinch the other, gentle then firmer when you arch and moan his name. You let him, shy but trusting, fingers threading through his hair. He doesn't slow his ministrations until you're squirming beneath him.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who works his way down your stomach, kissing and biting, leaving a trail of marks that he wants to see later, wants to see blooming on your skin as proof that you're his. When he gets to the waistband of your shorts, he looks up at you. Sweat beading at your temples, you're panting and so fucking beautiful. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is about to hook his fingers in your shorts when you sit up a little, catching his wrist. "Wait, let's not... not that." His smile drops, searching your face, as he asks "are you scared?" "No, of course not. I just — I haven't shaved," you sound so embarrassed, won't quite meet his eyes. Bucky's trying to figure out what the problem is, because he doesn't see one. "I don't care about that, sweetheart." "No, Bucky — I mean, I've never shaved. Like, ever. So it's probably —" He kisses you, cutting off whatever you were about to say. Kisses you until you're breathless and melting back into the couch. "That's even better," he murmurs against your mouth, sliding your shorts down, enthralled by the soft damp spot covering your panties. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who parts your thighs to look at your bare cunt, slick, swollen, soft hair covering your mound, glistening in your arousal. Bucky feels like he's going to lose his fucking mind, heart trying to beat out of his ribs. He leans down to press his nose against you. You smell like want, sleep and something uniquely you. When his lips brush against the soft curls, you make a choked sound above him. He parts your folds with his thumbs, tongue tracing the seam before exposing them more to his eyes.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who licks through your cunt slowly, tasting you for the first time and groaning at how sweet you are, how wet. Your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard, thighs trying to close around his head but he holds them open with his hands, spreading you wider. A needy, desperate sound parts from you when his mouth finds your clit, hood pulled back with his thumb, as he sucks it in. The sound goes straight to his cock, so he does it again. And again. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who eats you out like he's starving for it. Tongue fucking into you, lapping at your entrance, circling your clit and then flattening his tongue against it, while you writhe and sob, all the while his nose is buried in your curls so he can smell and taste everything. You're so responsive, so sensitive, already so close. When he slides one thick, calloused finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he has to close his eyes and breathe through it.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who works you through your first orgasm with his mouth and fingers, feeling you pulse, gush, actual tears streaming down your face while you sob his name. He keeps licking you through it, gentler now, until you're shaking and pushing at his head, overwhelmed. Only then does he pull back, kissing your inner thighs, the soft mound with curls of hair now impossibly wet, resting his head there while you come down.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who doesn't push for more that night. He holds you while you catch your breath, curl into his chest, hide your face in the crook of his neck. He wordlessly presses a kiss to your temple, understanding that whatever happened here was above needing words. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is fucking obsessed with your body now that he's tasted you, seen you bare. The soft curves, the way your thighs shake when you cum, the dark hair between your legs that he wants to bury his face in every single day for the rest of his life. He makes you promise not to shave, ever, tells you he loves you like this — natural, soft, real. "Please don't change a thing," he murmurs against your stomach, kissing the slight swell there. "You're perfect. Every inch of you is fucking perfect." He maps your body with his hands, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you moan. The weight of your breasts in his palms, the give of your hips when he grips them, the way you taste when he licks the sweat from your collarbone. He's never been this obsessed with someone, never wanted to memorize every detail, every sound, every reaction.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who invites you over the next evening, cooking for you, feeding you. You know where this is heading. So does he. When he kisses you this time, it's softer. Sweeter. He takes his time stripping you down, kissing every new piece of skin he reveals, whispering things against your body about how beautiful you are, and how good you are for him. He stresses how long he's wanted this, since the day you knocked on his door. "I was a wet rat that day," you say. "The prettiest wet rat," he replies. 

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who lays you out on your bed, admiring your naked form, wanting and looking at him with so much trust, he forgets what he was doing for a second. "You sure?" Collecting himself, he asks you, even though he's so hard it hurts, even when he wants you more than he's ever wanted anything. "I'm sure," you whisper, reaching for him.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who fucks you — no, makes love to you — for the first time like you're precious. Slow and deep, watching your face the whole time, reading every micro-expression. You're so tight around him, wincing when he first pushes inside, walls clamping, soft tears bordering your eyelashes. He freezes, your tears stopping him, voice pained he asks, "you okay?" "Yeah, just — you’re a little big," you try to laugh, though a sniffle follows. He kisses you, stays still until you relax around him, until you're the one rocking your hips and asking for more.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who starts pumping into you that has you clutching at his shoulders, his back, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks. He wants them, your marks. He wants to wear your claim on him. When you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him deeper, he groans your name, "fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. My perfect girl."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you fall apart underneath him, face contorting with pleasure, tears gathering in your eyes again. He wants to memorize this. Committing to memory, exactly how you looked when you came on his cock for the first time. He glances down where you're joined, sees his cock disappearing into your cunt, the way your soft curls touch his everytime you join, glistening with your combined arousal. The sight makes him groan, thrust harder. "Look how pretty you are, takin' me so well." When he feels your pussy fluttering around him, squeezing him so tight he can barely move, he buries his face in your neck and groans. Three more deep thrusts and he's cumming too, spilling inside you with a low growl.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who stays inside you after, both of you panting and clinging to each other. Pulling back when he thinks you've come down from the high, he brushes the hair sticking to your forehead, and says, "I love you." Simple, truthful. You just... stop. Stop breathing, stop blinking. He can see you buffering, trying to process what he just said, and he huffs a quiet laugh, running his hands up and down your sides, touch both cold and warm on your skin. "Breathe, sweetheart."

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who watches you come back online slowly, and you're smiling. This huge, incandescent smile that covers your whole face, making him fall even harder. "You know, I have a huge crush on you," you blurt out. A soft smirk plays up his face, "yeah?" "Yeah. I think — I think I'm in love with you too." His smirk becomes a real smile, soft and genuine, as he kisses you again.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who turns into someone completely different after that. His staff notices too. He's less grumpy now, less short-tempered. He smiles more. He takes lunch breaks at home, which he never did before, and comes back looking suspiciously relaxed. When someone finally gets brave enough to ask if he's seeing someone, he just grunts and changes the subject. But there's a lightness to him now that wasn't there before.

NEIGHBOUR!BUCKY who is completely domesticated by the end of the first month. He cooks you breakfast, fixes everything in your apartment without being asked, carries your groceries, rubs your feet when you've had a long day. You walk into his place like it's belongs to you too, steal his hoodies, leave your things scattered around his apartment. He loves the evidence of you in his space. So much that he sometimes find it absurd, the need for two separate apartments, why he should be your neighbour still. 

BOYFRIEND!BUCKY who you catch staring at you constantly, while you're reading, while you're cooking, while you're just being you. "What?" you ask, laughing. He shakes his head, mirroring your laugh, "nothing. Just lookin' at my girl." You smile every single time, the soft one that says you're flustered, happy, even though he says it almost daily now. He loves that he can still make you react like that, how it gets to you even now. He especially loves that you're still a little shy with him sometimes, even though he knows your body as well as you do now, maybe more. 

BOYFRIEND!BUCKY who goes from grumpy congressman to soft, devoted partner, and everyone who knows him is baffled by the transformation. But he doesn't care what they think. He's got you, curled up on your shared couch in one of his shirts, smiling at him like he hung the moon. And for the first time in longer than he can remember, he's not anything else. He's just... happy.

MY MASTERLIST!

EXTRAS. Are these hcs? Are these porn with plot? Are these kie’s yet another dumb way of saying she loves Bucky? Who knows…

TAGLIST. @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @ornateglass @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment @ladymiseryy @wherewinterblooms @avgdestitute @lunexiax @jamesbbcrnes + TO GET ADDED TO THE TAGLIST!

[heldbybarnes]

Can you please write a fic about Bucky wanting to spoil his girl even though she’s always hesitant to ask for anything or insists she doesn’t need anything? But he works so he can spend money on her and not have to see her deny herself so often😭

As a girl who is financially independent, but not well off at all, and is used to seeing friends be able to afford the things they want and understanding that I’m not in a place to do the same for myself, I would love a man who’d want to spoil me, but I know I’d feel bad asking for something or expressing my wants

combined with: Can you write Bucky noticing over time that his girlfriend wants to be taken care of but tries to keep being independent because she’s used to taking care of herself? I know you’ve written similar ones but I just can’t get enough of soft Bucky wanting to be everything and taking pride in caring for his baby😭

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Bucky notices it in pieces.

At first, it’s small—so small he almost misses it. You lingering by a shop window a second too long before pulling yourself away. The way your fingers trace the seam of your coat when you think something is pretty but unnecessary. How you always say “I’m good” when he asks if you want anything, even when your eyes linger on the menu a beat longer than they should.

You never complain. You never ask.

And Bucky Barnes, who has learned to read rooms for threats and tension and danger, slowly realizes he needs to start reading you more carefully.

You’re not struggling—not in the way the world expects struggling to look like. You work hard. You pay your bills. You’re independent in a way that’s bone-deep, stitched into you by years of knowing that if you wanted something, you had to earn it yourself—or go without.

But you deny yourself so often that it makes something ache in his chest.

It hits him fully the night you’re curled up on the couch, scrolling through your phone while he cleans up the kitchen. You’re quiet, thoughtful, that faraway look on your face that usually means you’re calculating something in your head.

“What’re you lookin’ at, doll?” he asks casually.

You tilt your phone away almost instinctively. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t push. He never does. But later, when you’re brushing your teeth, he picks up your phone from the coffee table to plug it in—and the screen lights up.

A pair of boots. Nothing outrageous. Nothing flashy. Just practical, beautiful, sturdy boots that would last you years.

The price isn’t insane. But he knows you well enough now.

You didn’t buy them because you decided you didn’t need them.

That night, he lies awake next to you, listening to your breathing even and soft, and feels something settle in his chest—not anger, not frustration, but a quiet, resolute determination.

Bucky Barnes has lived a life where everything was taken from him.

He refuses to let the woman he loves keep taking things away from herself.

The first time he tries to spoil you, you catch him immediately.

He comes home with a bag from your favorite little bakery—the one you only go to on special occasions because it’s “kind of expensive.” He sets it on the counter like it’s nothing.

“For you,” he says.

You frown. “Bucky, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You hesitate before opening the bag, guilt flickering across your face before joy wins. You smile, soft and grateful, and it nearly undoes him.

But later that night, you try to make up for it. You insist on paying for dinner the next time you go out. You cook extra meals. You downplay every little thing he does for you like you’re trying to keep the scales balanced.

That’s when he realizes this isn’t about money.

It’s about permission.

You’ve spent your whole life being responsible for yourself. Needing help feels like failure. Wanting things feels selfish. Letting someone take care of you feels dangerous.

So he changes tactics.

Instead of grand gestures, he starts with consistency.

He fills your gas tank when he borrows your car. He replaces the worn-out hoodie you love with a new one—exact same style, just warmer. He keeps extra groceries at his place that he knows you like so you don’t feel like you’re “using his stuff.”

And every time you thank him, he smiles and says, “I like takin’ care of you.”

Not you should let me. Not you owe me.

Just: I like this.

The moment everything finally spills over is stupid and small.

You’re in a store together, wandering aimlessly, when you stop short in front of a display. It’s something simple—a cozy sweater, soft fabric, perfect color.

Bucky watches your face light up… and then dim.

You step back. “It’s cute,” you say lightly. “But I don’t need it.”

He doesn’t argue in the store. He waits until you’re back in the car, seatbelt clicked, hands folded in your lap like you’re bracing yourself.

“Baby,” he says gently. “Can I ask you somethin’?”

You nod, wary.

“Why is it so hard for you to let me give you things?”

Your throat works. “Because I don’t want to be a burden.”

The word hits him like a punch.

He turns fully toward you, metal hand warm where it rests over your knee. “You are the farthest thing from a burden I’ve ever known.”

You swallow hard. “I’ve always had to take care of myself, Buck. I’m used to it. Wanting things just… feels irresponsible.”

His voice softens, drops into something reverent. “And I’m proud of you for that. Truly. But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

You blink fast, eyes shining.

“I work hard,” he continues, steady and sincere. “And yeah, part of that is for me. But part of it—” He squeezes your knee gently. “—is because I want to make your life softer. I wanna see you have the things you deny yourself. I wanna be the man who makes it easier.”

A tear slips down your cheek.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re losing your independence,” he adds. “I just want you to know you’re allowed to rest sometimes. You’re allowed to want.”

Your voice trembles. “You really don’t resent it?”

He smiles, slow and warm. “I take pride in it.”

That’s when you finally lean into him, forehead to his shoulder, and let yourself be held.

Later, you learn how to meet him halfway.

You still work. You still pay your bills. You still stand on your own two feet.

But sometimes, you let him buy the sweater.

Sometimes, you let him spoil you—not because you need him to, but because he wants to.

And Bucky Barnes? He’s never been happier than when he gets to look at you and think:

She chose me. And she trusts me enough to let me take care of her.

[danitecx]

Still Yours, Still Mine

Nota: I wrote this and just thought, “Damn, Clark Kent would be so hot with a beard.” Well, haha, read it.

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: A strained marriage between Clark and his wife begins to fracture under the weight of his responsibilities as Superman, leaving behind broken promises and quiet heartbreak. Yet even in separation, their love lingers.

Warnings: Emotional distress, implied separation/divorce, broken promises, jealousy, suggestive sexual content, adult themes

WC: 7,400 words approx.

The separation was something you never imagined when you had just married Clark. Back then, when you were just starting your life together, everything seemed so beautiful, so full of hope. You believed you could handle it, that both of you could have a good life despite everything. You thought love would remain strong enough that there would be no need to think about separating, about divorcing. But it happened. It happened when you began to notice, little by little, like something breaking without making a sound, that Clark seemed more overwhelmed with saving the world. His stress kept him away from you. It was no longer just that he came home late for dinner or fell asleep on the couch with his superhero suit still on. It was that when he was with you, his gaze drifted elsewhere, as if he were always listening to something you couldn’t hear, someone who needed him more than you did.

You remembered that night every single day. That night in the Metropolis apartment. You see yourself there, standing by the window, watching your four-year-old asleep in the living room. He had waited all day for his father. All day. He had woken up early, eaten breakfast quickly, counted the hours one by one. Because that was the day he was supposed to dance at school. Little Jonathan, the one you had named after Clark’s father, had spent the entire week practicing. But the day before, Jonathan had walked up to Clark with his arms crossed and his lips pressed together.

"I don’t want to be in the performance, Dad," Jonathan had said, looking down at the floor.

Clark had crouched down to his level and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Of course you’re going to be in it, son. You’re going to do great. And I’ll be there, we’ll be watching you," he said with that big smile he always used to encourage him.

Jonathan had looked at him with those serious eyes of his. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," Clark had said.

And the boy believed him. You believed him too, even though he had already been late to anniversaries and birthdays before. You understood, of course you did. Superman had to save everyone. How could you be angry at him for helping people? But that night, while Jonathan was still sitting on the floor with his little dancer outfit still on, you asked yourself something you had never dared to think before: who was saving your little boy from the disappointment of not seeing his father? You thought you were being selfish, that you weren’t thinking about the world, about people’s needs. But your little boy cried. He cried quietly at first, his shoulders trembling, and then it all came out at once.

"Dad broke a promise again!" he shouted between sobs.

You had heard it on the TV. A sunken ship. People in freezing water. You knew he would be late, of course you knew. But your little boy believed that maybe, if he watched the recording of the performance later, he could forget it. He sat on the couch with his legs dangling, his dancer outfit wrinkled, and waited. He looked at the door over and over again. An hour passed. Then two. Then three. And when the door finally opened, Jonathan was already fast asleep on the floor, his cheeks still wet.

You looked at Clark. He was tired, his blue suit stained with water and something else you didn’t want to look at. And you said it.

"This isn’t working anymore, Clark."

You said it that night, your voice calmer than you actually felt inside. And he knew. He looked at you, and you knew he knew. Because when he saved people, his hearing could pick up his little boy crying because his dad didn’t come. He could hear every sob, every "where’s Dad?" that Jonathan whispered to his teddy bear. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair to anyone. But he understood you.

Clark lowered his head. "I can do better," he said, with that dim voice he used when he didn’t know what else to say.

You smiled, but it was a sad smile, the kind that hurts. You shook your head slowly. "Again? This is the fourth time you’ve said that," you said, and your voice cracked just a little at the end.

Clark nodded. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

They cried, of course they did. In silence, so they wouldn’t wake Jonathan. They cried standing in the middle of the living room, without touching, like two strangers who shared too much sadness. Then you got angry. You got very angry, but you stopped yourself. You thought about Jonathan. You couldn’t scare him. You couldn’t make him watch his parents shouting at each other like other families you had seen. So it just stayed like that. At some point, you would get divorced. There were no big fights, no broken plates, no doors ripped off their hinges. Just an enormous exhaustion that weighed more than any scream.

You left the apartment first. You packed your things and Jonathan’s into boxes that Clark carried up the stairs because the elevator was broken. Clark left afterward too. He moved into a place near yours, just three blocks away. It didn’t bother you. On the contrary, it even felt right for Jonathan. Sometimes, when you crossed paths on the street or at the school entrance, you smiled. And he smiled back, though his eyes looked more tired than before. Clark looked at you. He missed you so much. He missed his little boy. Losing you, losing the house, losing the nights together—everything made him realize what he had been leaving aside without noticing.

Jonathan, as he grew, would repeat it every time he came to pick him up at your apartment. He hugged him tightly, with those skinny arms full of determination not to let go.

"When are you coming back, Dad?" he would whisper, hugging him, his face pressed to his chest. "I don’t like spending so much time without seeing you."

Clark closed his eyes every time he heard that. He hugged him tighter and said, "Soon, son," even though they both knew it wasn’t true. Clark knew it well. At home, at least he carried him at night when he stayed over. Whenever he could, he spent as much time with him as possible. But now all that was left was to wait for weekends to see him, or an occasional weekday when you were busy. You tried to split yourself between being a mother and working. You had gone back to teaching at the university, like before Jonathan was born. You liked being in front of students, explaining things you knew well. You took Jonathan with you when there was no one to leave him with. The boy stayed beside you at a small desk the university lent you. He was disciplined like Clark—you couldn’t deny that. You watched him reading children’s books, collecting dry leaves he found in the courtyard, quietly playing with his toys while you taught a class. And in those moments, chalk in hand and your eyes on your son, you felt that maybe, somehow, you were okay.

Clark, for his part, kept working at the Planet. But he wasn’t the same as before. He arrived a bit more distracted, as if his mind were somewhere else while his hands wrote the news. Sometimes he would stare at the computer screen without seeing anything, lost in his thoughts. He also had a bit of a beard, from those days he didn’t bother shaving because he no longer cared as much about looking good. But if you looked closely, if you walked up to his desk, you could see that he still had photos of your wedding and your son in small spaces on his desk. He had placed them carefully, in simple frames, right where he could see them every time he looked up. And most importantly: he still wore his wedding ring. That silver band he never took off—not to sleep, not to shower, not to save the world. That’s why no one approached him. If a woman tried to flirt with him or ask him out, he would simply reply that he was married. Because he was. Because the divorce papers were still there, unsigned, tucked away in a drawer in his new apartment, as if both of you wanted to go back but neither dared to truly take the first step.

One ordinary day at the office, Ellie, the woman who worked at the Planet, approached his desk. Ellie was kind, always smiling, and one of the few people who knew Clark was separated from his wife. She leaned against the edge of his desk and looked at him with eyes that tried to seem casual but didn’t quite manage it.

"We’re going out to dinner today, Clark. Why don’t you come?" Ellie asked, playing with a pen between her fingers.

Clark looked up from the computer and smiled, but it was a short, quick smile, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. He glanced toward the window, as if there were something more interesting out there.

"I can’t," Clark said, his voice low but firm.

"No? But Clark, we’ll have fun," Ellie insisted, leaning in a little more, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was a soft, friendly touch, but Clark still tensed. His shoulders stiffened and his jaw tightened for a second.

"I’m spending the day with my wife and my son," he announced, standing up. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and began putting a few things into his briefcase.

Ellie frowned, as if she didn’t quite understand. "Really? I thought you were already divorced. You know, she probably already has someone too. That’s how it goes," Ellie said, shrugging as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Clark looked at her. He looked at her with those blue eyes that could be so gentle, but in that moment turned hard as ice. He didn’t say anything harsh, didn’t raise his voice, but his look was enough for Ellie to take a step back without realizing it.

"I’ll be with my son," Clark replied, his voice so cold it seemed to come from somewhere else.

Just then, his phone vibrated on the desk. The screen lit up and Clark saw it. It was you. Your name appeared on the screen, and something in his face changed completely. The hardness vanished, his shoulders relaxed, and even his eyes grew brighter. Clark answered immediately, not letting it ring more than twice.

Ellie watched him. She couldn’t stop watching him. She saw how Clark hunched slightly, as if he wanted to get closer to the phone, as if your voice deserved all his attention. She saw the smile that appeared on his face—not just any smile, but one of those real ones that come naturally, without control. For a moment, Ellie saw the old Clark again. The one who came to the office clean-shaven, shy, with slightly messy hair and immense kindness in his eyes.

"Hi..." Clark said into the phone, and his voice softened, almost tender. He listened to what you said and nodded, even though he knew you couldn’t see him. "Yeah, I’m on my way out. Do you want me to pick anything up?" he asked, grabbing his briefcase and slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced at Ellie and gave a small nod goodbye without stopping listening to you. "Do you still have soap? Last time I saw you were out. And toothpaste, just one," Clark said, then fell silent, listening to your reply. He listened as you told him you needed a few things, and you began dictating a list. Clark took a pen from the desk—the same one Ellie had been using—and began writing everything down on a piece of paper torn from a notebook. He wrote quickly, in that slightly messy but confident handwriting of his. "Soap, toothpaste, bread, milk..." he murmured as he wrote.

Clark loved those moments. He loved them with all his heart, even if he didn’t say it out loud. Because your voice was never sharp with him. Of course you got angry—it was your nature, you had always been like that. But even so, you smiled at him. And that was what he held onto, those small smiles you gave him when you crossed paths at the door or when he dropped Jonathan off at your apartment. Even if everyone else thought you hated each other, that you only saw each other out of obligation because of your son, the truth was very different. Clark cherished every moment alone with you. At night, when little Jonathan was already fast asleep in his room, Clark would come close to you. He kissed you—not just any way, but with a softness so beautiful it hurt. He placed his hands on your waist, with those big, strong fingers that could bend metal but touched you as if you were made of glass. He pulled you close, pressing his body against yours, to the point where you wanted to ask him to stay, not to leave, to sleep beside you like before.

Maybe that was why Clark sometimes left clothes there. A shirt in the closet, a pair of socks in a drawer, a jacket hanging on the coat rack by the door. Maybe that was why his favorite mug was still there, that white mug with a small newspaper drawing that he had been given when he started at the Planet. Every time he went to your apartment, he looked for it on the same shelf and poured himself coffee into it, as if he had never left. Maybe that was why Clark had learned to create a small field of silence around Jonathan’s room, a trick he had discovered by accident, so his little boy wouldn’t wake up and wouldn’t hear anything. So that the quiet laughter, the sighs, the movements of the bed—everything stayed trapped in a bubble that only the two of you could hear. Maybe that was why there was a locked box of condoms at the back of your closet, hidden behind old sheets and sweaters you no longer wore. A box neither of you mentioned, but both of you knew was there. Because you still loved each other. Because you still needed each other. Because you still punished yourselves with that lie of being separated, when at night, hidden from the world and from your own son, you were still husband and wife.

Clark went down the elevator with a heart a little lighter than it had been all day. The doors closed and he watched his reflection in the metal—that beard he hadn’t bothered to shave, those slightly tired eyes still shining from within. When the doors opened on the ground floor, he walked quickly out to the street. He headed to the supermarket a few blocks away, the usual one, the one he knew by heart because he had gone there hundreds of times when you still lived together. He walked through the aisles confidently, grabbing a basket and then switching it for a cart because he would need more space. He bought everything you had told him: soap, toothpaste, bread, milk. But he didn’t stop there. He also picked up a board game Jonathan had said he wanted the last time they talked on the phone. He had seen it at a toy store the previous week and the boy hadn’t stopped talking about it. "It’s pirates, Dad, it has a map and everything," he had said with wide eyes. Clark took it with a smile that wouldn’t leave his face. He also bought dessert, one you liked—a chocolate cake with cream that he knew the three of you would share after dinner.

The truth was that his apartment—the one he had moved into after the separation—felt like a place he only went to rest when he had to return. It didn’t have much of him. The walls were almost empty, the kitchen barely had the essentials, the fridge held only basic items and some fast food. There were no photos on the walls, no plants, none of the warmth your home had. Because your home, even if you no longer lived together, still felt like his home. That’s why every time he went there, every time he crossed that door, something in his chest relaxed, as if he could finally breathe properly after a long time.

He carried the heavy bags with one hand, because he was that strong, though he tried to hide it so people wouldn’t stare. In the other hand he held his briefcase and his jacket, and with the fingers of that same hand he carefully held the dessert so it wouldn’t fall or get crushed. He walked the three blocks separating his building from yours, took the stairs because the elevator was occupied, and when he reached the door, he knocked twice with his knuckles, soft but firm.

You opened. You had your phone in hand, pressed to your ear, talking to someone while you gestured with your head for him to come in. Your hair was slightly pulled back and you were wearing the long-sleeved blouse Clark had bought in Smallville years ago, that light blue one he had always liked because it made you look calm and beautiful. Also simple black pants, the kind you wore at home. Clark looked at you for a second too long, as he always did, storing the moment in his memory.

"Come in, Jonny’s in his room," you whispered, closing the door carefully behind him.

Clark smiled and stepped inside. He left the bags in the kitchen, his briefcase and jacket on the dining chair, and the dessert carefully on the table. He had barely set everything down when he heard the sound of small feet running down the hallway. His son, Jonathan, now six years old, came straight toward him like a bullet.

"Dad!" Jonathan shouted, full of excitement, arms open wide and a huge smile taking over his entire face.

But you, from where you stood, told him with a smile to lower his voice, placing a finger over your lips. Jonathan looked at you, nodded, and then kept running toward his father, just a bit quieter this time.

Clark lifted him into the air effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing, and held him tightly against his chest. Jonathan wrapped his arms around his neck and buried his face in his shoulder, happy. Meanwhile, Clark began putting everything away. He took things out of the bags one by one and placed them where they belonged: the soap on the bathroom shelf, the toothpaste in the cup by the sink, the milk in the fridge, the bread in the pantry. He did it so naturally, so confidently, as if he knew exactly where everything went, how, in what order. As if it were his apartment. Because deep down, to him, it was.

Jonathan, still in his father’s arms, saw you walk into your room to leave your phone on the nightstand. As soon as he saw you disappear down the hallway, the boy leaned closer to Clark’s ear and whispered softly, in that little voice of a child keeping an important secret.

"He talks to the man who always tells her she’s pretty," Jonathan said, swinging his feet happily.

Clark froze. His smile wavered slightly, like a leaf trembling in the wind. He blinked twice, processing what he had just heard.

"A man?" Clark asked, his voice calmer than he felt inside.

Jonathan nodded seriously, looking at him as if they were sharing a secret meant for no one else. The boy’s eyes sparkled with that mix of innocence and mischief only children have.

"He buys me candy, Dad," Jonathan said, lowering his voice even more. "But I tell him you’re Mom’s favorite."

Clark didn’t quite know how to respond. He just nodded, stroking his son’s hair while his mind raced. What man? Who told you that you were pretty? Why hadn’t you said anything? But before he could think further, Jonathan unintentionally extended his hearing. Children with powers didn’t always control those things well, and Clark understood that better than anyone. Suddenly, both of them heard your voice clearly from the room.

"Yes, thank you very much, I received the files, Harleth," you said, and they could hear you typing on your computer as you spoke.

The voice on the other end of the phone was audible too—a man, with a friendly, familiar tone. "No problem. I already told you to drop the last name. I know both you and your son. Call me Nate."

Clark frowned. Nate. This Nate bought Jonathan candy. This Nate told you that you were pretty. Clark’s fingers, the ones holding Jonathan, tightened slightly, though he immediately noticed and loosened his grip so as not to hurt his son.

You kept talking, unaware that they could hear you. "Of course. I have to go, my husband just got here," you said, your voice sounding completely normal, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Clark smiled. He truly smiled, with his whole being, because you still called him your husband. Just as he called you his wife when speaking to others. It was a small detail, but to him it meant more than anything.

"Husband? You still call him that even though you’re divorced?" the man on the phone asked, sounding surprised, as if he couldn’t understand why you would do that.

Clark almost laughed sarcastically. A dry, short laugh that didn’t quite come out. Of course, to an outsider, to someone who didn’t understand what the two of you had, it must have seemed strange. But he didn’t care what that Nate thought.

"I’ll send you the meeting link. Thank you for the documents. Have a good afternoon," you said, hanging up without further explanation. Your tone had been polite but firm, setting a boundary without needing to raise your voice.

Clark turned slowly, setting his son down on the dining table while he continued putting away the rest of the groceries. But his mind was no longer on the soap or the milk. It was on Nate. On Jonathan’s words. On that man who told you that you were pretty and bought candy for your son. Clark took a deep breath, once, twice, and kept putting things away in silence, waiting for you to come out so he could look you in the eyes and ask, as calmly as possible, who the hell Nate was.

"The man asked Mom out," Jonathan said, with that honesty only children have, the kind that blurts out the truth without thinking about the consequences.

At that exact moment, you walked out of your room, having heard none of what Jonathan had just said. You had a smile on your face, that calm smile of knowing Clark was there, in your kitchen, putting things away as if he had never left. You walked over to the table to see how everything was going.

"Really?" Clark looked at the boy, his eyes a little wider than usual, then at you. He tried to put on a relaxed expression, one that didn’t reveal what he felt inside. "Someone asked you out?" Clark asked innocently—or at least trying to sound innocent—because his son was right there at the table, swinging his legs, watching both of you with curious eyes.

You looked at Jonathan. Of course, the boy—identical to Clark—was far too jealous, even more than his father. You knew that well. Seeing someone who wasn’t his father trying to be kind never seemed funny to him, despite his young age. Jonathan was intelligent, far more than most six-year-olds, and his Kryptonian heritage allowed him to feel people’s heartbeats when they were near you. He could hear if someone’s heart sped up when looking at you, if their blood rushed faster, if their hands grew sweaty. That’s why he didn’t like that man. That’s why he always looked at him with suspicion.

"Yes, but I won’t go," you said, looking at Jonathan with an expression that was half affection, half warning. "I thought I made that clear," you added, pursing your lips slightly.

Jonathan looked down at his hands, which were playing with the edge of the table. He knew he had been caught saying something he probably shouldn’t have. But he didn’t regret it entirely, because deep down, he didn’t want his mom going out with anyone who wasn’t his dad. Simple as that.

You sighed, then looked at Clark, who still had his hands halfway inside a grocery bag. "And… what is he like?" Clark asked, his voice trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. "I’d like to know. I mean… it’s your life," he added, shrugging as if he didn’t care, though you found that hard to believe.

"He’s a university doctor," you answered in a normal tone, as if you were talking about the weather or what you would eat. Then you added, without giving it much importance, "but you know I’d never date someone from my field." You said it as if it were the most obvious rule in the world.

Clark turned to place the cans of tuna in the pantry. He did it slowly, carefully, and as he arranged them, he smiled. He almost laughed, but held it back. Of course, he told himself, you were his woman. His wife. The only one. No matter how many unsigned papers sat in a drawer, no matter how many separate apartments, no matter how many nights alone in his empty bed—you were still his, and he was still yours. That Nate could buy all the candy he wanted, could tell you that you were pretty every morning, but you would never date someone from your workplace. And Clark had known that rule since you first started dating. It was one of the things he loved most about you: you knew how to set boundaries.

"Let’s eat," you told Jonathan, changing the subject with the ease of someone used to avoiding uncomfortable conversations.

Jonathan nodded, relieved that he was no longer being looked at like that. You helped him down from the table, holding him by the waist and setting him down carefully so he wouldn’t get hurt.

"Go get the games ready to play with Dad," you said, giving him a gentle push toward the hallway.

The boy jumped excitedly, completely forgetting about Nate and secrets and everything else. He ran to his room, his shoes tapping loudly against the wooden floor, shouting something about a pirate game and a treasure map.

You stayed there for a moment, looking down the hallway, making sure Jonathan was no longer nearby. When you saw that he was gone, that his bedroom door had closed behind him, you looked at Clark and called him. Not angry, but with something in your voice that wanted to sound casual and didn’t quite manage it.

"Hey," you called, crossing your arms over your chest.

Clark looked at you with that “what did I do?” expression he always wore whenever he noticed that tone in your voice.

Before you could continue, Clark glanced toward his son’s room for a moment. You saw him do it, like he always did. It was his habit. He focused, stretched his senses toward Jonathan’s room, and created that small field of silence he had learned to make over the years. An invisible shield around his son’s room, so the boy wouldn’t hear anything the adults talked about. So he wouldn’t hear arguments, or if you talked about the divorce.

He gave a slight nod, as if saying, “it’s done, we can talk.” It was a power he used every time he came to your apartment. Every time he stayed for dinner.

"Who is Ellie?" you asked, and your tone came out sharper than you intended. "A few weeks ago I called to tell you Jonathan had a dentist appointment, and she answered your office phone. She said, ‘Mr. Clarkie can’t take your call.’ I told her I was your ex-wife," you said, frowning at the memory. That woman’s voice had been too sweet, too comfortable, like she had a right to answer Clark’s phone. And that “Mr. Clarkie” had annoyed you more than you were willing to admit.

Clark looked at you. He froze, a can of tuna still in his hand. He didn’t know. He knew nothing about that call. Sure, he had found a note on his desk a few days later, one that said he needed to pick up his son from the dentist. But he hadn’t known it was you who had called. No one had told him anything. He glanced toward his son’s room, where the boy was rummaging through boxes and scattered cards, looking for his game. Then he looked back at you. He took a step, then another, until he stood right in front of you. He placed a hand on your waist—that large, warm hand that always made you shiver. But this time his hand didn’t stay still. It slid down slightly, just a centimeter, brushing the curve of your hip, stopping right where your ass began. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t do anything else—just left his hand there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he had every right to touch you like that. And he did. Because that same hand had traced your body the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. Because he knew every inch of you by heart.

You looked at him, still frowning, even though inside your anger was already melting. You could feel the heat of his fingers through the fabric of your pants. You could feel his thumb making small, almost invisible circles on your lower hip. It was always the same with him. Always his little grumpy wife, as he used to say just to make you blush.

"That’s why," Clark said, whispering, looking straight into your eyes up close. His breath brushed your face and you felt your cheeks flush. "You said ex-wife. I don’t have an ex. I have a wife," he said, his voice so certain, so firm, that you hesitated, not knowing how to respond.

His hand tightened just a little. A soft but firm squeeze, the kind that said “tonight I’ll remind you who I am.” Because Clark was like that. During the day he was the loving father, the shy man putting cans of tuna away in the pantry. But at night, when the bedroom door closed and the silence field wrapped around the bed, he was something else. He was the man who grabbed your hips with strength, who whispered in your ear how much he had missed you, who made you burn from the inside out until you forgot your own name.

Your lips parted to say something, but no words came out. Clark kept talking, in that tone of his that could be so sweet when he wanted it to be. "Everyone at work knows it. You’re my woman," he said, his fingers moving again, brushing the fabric exactly where he knew you felt it most. "I don’t care about Ellie or anyone else. I only care about you. I only think about you. When I’m in my apartment, all I think about is coming back to this one. Coming back to you. Your legs around my waist. Your mouth saying my name. The way you move under me when you can’t take it anymore."

You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling, from moaning, from making any sound Jonathan might hear from his room. You really tried to keep your serious expression, your anger, your frown. But Clark knew you better than anyone. And before you could say anything else, he kissed you. Not a quick kiss this time. It was deep, with tongue, teeth catching your lower lip, one hand gripping your ass firmly and the other at the back of your neck holding you in place. You accepted it without resistance, like you always did. Your hands moved on their own up into his curls, those dark strands you loved so much, tangling your fingers in them, tugging gently the way you knew he liked. Clark groaned against your mouth, a low sound that ran down your spine.

When you pulled apart slightly, both of you were breathing faster. You looked at his beard. That beard he didn’t have before, and that now suited him so well. You knew exactly how it felt against your skin, against your thighs, against that place only he touched.

“Shave,” you whispered, running your fingers through his stubble. “You look better with a beard, and people might fall in love with you,” you added, and that last part sounded more jealous than you’d intended.

Clark smiled. That wide, calm smile that always undid you. "My wife likes it like this," he said, shrugging. Then he lowered his voice into a murmur only you could hear. "Besides… don’t you like feeling it between your legs? Don’t you like it when I go down there and make you moan into the pillow so no one hears us? Don’t you like it when I bite your thighs and leave marks so you know who you belong to?"

You nearly burst from how red you turned. You felt the heat rise from your neck to your face, to your ears, to somewhere much lower that made your legs press together without thinking. You hit his chest lightly, more out of embarrassment than anything else.

"Clark," you whispered, pulling back a little because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else.

But he didn’t fully step away. His hand was still on your ass, squeezing softly, tracing circles. His other hand had moved up to your waist, fingers slipping slightly under your blouse, brushing your warm skin. You both knew what happened at night. You both knew that when Jonathan fell asleep, Clark stayed. That he took off his shoes quietly, turned off the lights, and found you in bed like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. That you wore his old shirt, the one he had left in your closet months ago and that now smelled more like you than him. That you didn’t talk much because words weren’t needed. That all that remained were hands, mouths, bodies pressed together until dawn.

"Can I stay tonight?" Clark asked, his voice rough, his lips close to your ear. His warm breath made you close your eyes.

You looked at him. You looked into those blue eyes that saw you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world. You swallowed and whispered, your voice trembling but trying to sound firm:

"Do you deserve it?"

Clark smiled. But it wasn’t the shy smile from before. It was darker, more certain—the kind that runs down your spine. He leaned closer to your ear and whispered something so low only you could hear.

"Tonight I’m going to prove whether I deserve it. You’ll end up begging me not to stop. Like always."

Your face turned so red you had to look away. You bit your lower lip—the same one he had just kissed—and said nothing. You didn’t need to. Clark knew you. He knew you had accepted. He knew that when Jonathan fell asleep, you would be waiting for him in bed with that look only he knew. He knew you would open your legs for him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. Because no matter that the divorce papers remained unsigned, no matter that everyone thought you only saw each other because of your son—you both knew the truth. You weren’t separated. You were just waiting. Waiting for the moment to be together again, for good.

A divorce? It would never happen. They both knew it, deep in their hearts, even if sometimes it was hard to say it out loud. Clark loved you with a force that went beyond what words could explain. His heart beat in rhythm with yours, as if you both shared the same pulse, the same blood, the same need to be close. His life was for his son, yes, but it was also for you. Maybe it was just a matter of adapting. Of learning to live with the absences, with the late arrivals, with the broken promises and the reunions in the darkness of the night. Maybe real love wasn’t that fairytale where everything turns out perfect, but this: two people who hurt each other, who separate, who sleep in different beds but never stop looking for one another. Who keep wearing their rings. Who keep saying “my husband” and “my wife.” Who keep creating fields of silence so their children won’t hear what happens when the sun goes down.

And just when everyone thought the divorce would finally come, that the papers would be signed once and for all, that each of you would go your separate ways, life gave you news that changed everything. Clark arrived at the Planet one ordinary day, a little more distracted than usual, his beard slightly more grown out and his eyes shining in a way his coworkers hadn’t seen in months. He sat at his desk, looked at the photos of your wedding and Jonathan, and then dropped the news without much buildup, in that voice of his that grew small when he talked about important things. You were going to have a second child. You were pregnant. Again. As if fate had laughed at everyone who had bet on the divorce.

Lois and Jimmy, who were nearby, heard him and went silent for a second. Then Lois let out a laugh so loud the whole newsroom heard it. Jimmy joined in, shaking his head as if it were the best news he had heard in years.

"Wow, so the reconciliation must have been pretty intense," Lois said, with that mischievous smile that defined her, raising an eyebrow and looking at Clark playfully.

Clark blushed all the way to his ears. He shook his head, bringing a hand to the back of his neck like he always did when he felt embarrassed. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew those divorce papers were still unsigned in some forgotten drawer. Everyone knew Clark still went to your apartment almost every night. Everyone knew the love between you hadn’t gone out—it had just hidden for a while, like the sun behind a cloud.

"Your wife must be thrilled," Jimmy said, giving Clark a warm pat on the back.

Clark smiled. That wide, calm smile only you truly knew. "She is," he said, and his voice trembled just a little with emotion.

Not long after that, Clark made a decision that many didn’t understand at first. He left his job at the Planet. He left Metropolis. He left the skyscrapers, the noise, the sirens, the fast pace of the city. You moved to Smallville, the town where he had grown up, where the roads were dirt and neighbors waved at each other from a distance. The idea was to stay there at least until your children came of age. Until Jonathan, and the baby on the way, and any others who might come after, were old enough to decide if they wanted to go to college, travel, or build their own lives. But in the meantime, Smallville was perfect. Clark’s parents were there, Jonathan and Martha, a little older but still as warm as ever. The farm was there, with its endless fields and the barn where Clark kept memories of his childhood. The peace you had never found in the city was there.

You began teaching history in town, at the same school where Clark had studied as a child. You loved standing in front of the board and telling students about the past—about wars and revolutions, about people who had fought for a better world. And Clark taught literature and writing at a Smallville high school, just a few blocks away. He taught his students to love words, to write beautiful letters, to find beauty in simple stories. It was a quiet life, the kind that might seem boring to some but, for you, was everything you had ever wanted. After work, you came home to the farm you had fixed up together, spending afternoons watching Jonathan run through the fields, feeling the baby move in your belly, cooking together while the sun set behind the cornfields.

The divorce never came. Much less when your belly grew again in the third year with your second daughter. Because that’s how it was: after the second child, who was a girl, came a third. And suddenly you weren’t three anymore, but five. A big, noisy, lively family. Jonathan, the eldest, with his six years, then seven, then eight, always running everywhere, always asking questions, always wanting to be like his father. Little Lena, who came into the world with lungs that seemed Kryptonian, so strong and so beautiful like her mother, growing up in her father’s arms, clinging to him like a shadow, laughing every time Clark lifted her above his head. And the youngest, Clark, named after his father—a quiet baby who cried when he was hungry, slept when he was full, and seemed to eat all the time. It was unusual, Grandma Martha would say, such a calm baby, but no one complained. The three children grew without pressure. Without Superman’s shadow. Without the obligation to be perfect. Without the burden of saving the world. Just living. Just being children. Running barefoot through the farm fields, climbing trees, scraping their knees, laughing loudly while their parents watched from the porch.

Clark became a devoted father to his children. He woke up early to make them breakfast, drove them to school in the truck, taught them how to ride a bike, read them stories before bed. He didn’t have to save the world all the time anymore—the world could manage on its own for a while. He didn’t have to arrive late to school performances anymore, because now he was the father who recorded everything on his phone, the one who clapped the loudest, who brought balloons and cake and a huge smile. And at night, when all three children were fast asleep in their beds, Clark still created that field of silence around their rooms. But it was no longer to hide arguments or sadness. It was so the two of you could love each other in peace, as you always had, as you always would, without anyone hearing you, without anyone judging you, without anyone reminding you that once, you had almost signed papers that now lay forgotten at the bottom of a drawer, covered in dust and memories.

And sometimes, you would watch Clark as he played with the children in the yard. You would see him run after Jonathan, lift Lena up toward the sky, carry little Clark in one arm while holding a ball with the other. And you would smile. Because that was the man you had fallen in love with. Not Superman. Not the hero. But Clark. The father. The husband. The man who had learned, through mistakes and a broken heart, that what mattered most wasn’t saving the world, but being home.

And the divorce—that ghost that had hovered over your lives for so long—faded like mist under the morning sun, until one day it ceased to exist altogether. Because it had never truly been real. Because you had never stopped loving each other. Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t break over papers or distance. It transforms. It adapts. It waits for the right moment to bloom again. And you had waited. And you had bloomed. And now you had a big family, a home full of laughter, and an entire future ahead of you.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko

[luvlypresley]

how jason jerks off to you

jason slumped onto the worn out couch in his dingy apartment, the city's distant hum filtering through the cracked window. it had been a week since he'd last seen you. you were out a girl trip with your friends.

he pulled out his phone, thumb scrolling through the gallery he'd curated just for nights like this. pictures of you, one from last month's date, your lips curved in a smile as you leaned against him in that tight black dress, cleavage spilling just enough to make his mouth water. another from your shared bed, your hair tousled, sheets barely covering your bare breasts after a lazy morning fuck.

his cock twitched in his jeans at the sight, already half-hard from the mere thought of you.

"fuck, i miss you so much, baby." he muttered to the empty room, voice rough with need. "your tits look so perfect—i wanna suck on those nipples until you're soaking wet for me." he unzipped his pants, freeing his thickening cock. it sprang out, heavy and veined, the tip already glistening with pre-cum.

wrapping his calloused hand around the base, he gave it a slow stroke, eyes locked on your image. in the photo, your eyes sparkled with that playful fire, the same one that had you begging for more when he'd pinned you down and thrust deep into your pussy.

"yeah, just like that—remember how i fucked you hard, stretching that tight little pussy?" he growled under his breath, his strokes picking up pace. he switched to your social media, heart pounding as he found your latest post. there you were, in a bikini by the pool, the fabric clung to your curves, nipples faintly visible through the wet material, your ass arched just right as you posed on all fours.

"goddamn, look at that ass. i wanna bend you over and ram my cock into you right now, make you scream my name while i pound your dripping cunt." jason groaned, pumping his cock faster. he imagined flipping you over right there, spreading your legs and burying his face between your thighs, tongue lapping at your clit until you screamed his name.

his hand moved in steady rhythm, slick sounds filling the air as pre-cum lubed his shaft. "fuck, you'd taste so good—i'm gonna eat that pussy until you cum all over my face." he whispered harshly, thumb circling the sensitive head of his cock. he zoomed in on your face, that soft, parted-lip expression making him think of how you looked when he fucked you from behind, your moans muffled into the pillow.

"you have no idea what you do to me, slut—taking my dick like a good girl, begging for me to fill you up." the tension coiled low in his gut, building with every stroke, every stolen glance at your body.

he opens his photo app again. you on your knees, looking up at him with those wide eyes, mouth open and ready. he'd snapped it mid-blowjob, your lips stretched around his cock, saliva dripping down your chin. jason's breath hitched, his free hand gripping the phone tighter as he jerked harder, hips bucking up into his fist. "suck it, baby—deepthroat me like you did before, choke on my thick cock while i fuck your throat." he pictured your warm mouth sucking him deep, throat contracting around him while your hands fondled his balls.

sweat beaded on his forehead, muscles tensing as the pressure mounted. a video jason took played next—a short clip of you dancing in a short skirt, hips swaying, teasing glimpses of your thighs. "that's it, baby, shake that ass for me. i'm gonna grab those hips and slam into your wet pussy until you can't walk straight." he growled, stroking from base to tip with urgent twists.

the orgasm hit him like a freight train. jason's head fell back, a guttural moan ripping from his throat as ropes of cum shot across his abs, hot and thick. "fuckkk yes, take my load—i'm cumming for you, imagining shooting it deep inside your pussy." he panted, his cock pulsing in his hand, spilling more with each aftershock.

the release doing little to ease the longing. panting, he stared at your photo, wiping his hand on his shirt before typing a quick message. "miss you baby. can't wait to see you again."

sorry guys im ovulating

©luvlypresley2026 - do not translate or copy in any way. ˗ˏˋ ✉ - @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @malewifefckr, @batmilani, @justanormalpersin, @batslilwhore, @j-blackout8, @foivetimesacharm, @vanillakirstein, @ablondehoe, @soggywhore, @maxcalore3, @lillie1320, @thecomethearted

[danitecx]

Still Yours, Still Mine

Nota: I wrote this and just thought, “Damn, Clark Kent would be so hot with a beard.” Well, haha, read it.

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: A strained marriage between Clark and his wife begins to fracture under the weight of his responsibilities as Superman, leaving behind broken promises and quiet heartbreak. Yet even in separation, their love lingers.

Warnings: Emotional distress, implied separation/divorce, broken promises, jealousy, suggestive sexual content, adult themes

WC: 7,400 words approx.

The separation was something you never imagined when you had just married Clark. Back then, when you were just starting your life together, everything seemed so beautiful, so full of hope. You believed you could handle it, that both of you could have a good life despite everything. You thought love would remain strong enough that there would be no need to think about separating, about divorcing. But it happened. It happened when you began to notice, little by little, like something breaking without making a sound, that Clark seemed more overwhelmed with saving the world. His stress kept him away from you. It was no longer just that he came home late for dinner or fell asleep on the couch with his superhero suit still on. It was that when he was with you, his gaze drifted elsewhere, as if he were always listening to something you couldn’t hear, someone who needed him more than you did.

You remembered that night every single day. That night in the Metropolis apartment. You see yourself there, standing by the window, watching your four-year-old asleep in the living room. He had waited all day for his father. All day. He had woken up early, eaten breakfast quickly, counted the hours one by one. Because that was the day he was supposed to dance at school. Little Jonathan, the one you had named after Clark’s father, had spent the entire week practicing. But the day before, Jonathan had walked up to Clark with his arms crossed and his lips pressed together.

"I don’t want to be in the performance, Dad," Jonathan had said, looking down at the floor.

Clark had crouched down to his level and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Of course you’re going to be in it, son. You’re going to do great. And I’ll be there, we’ll be watching you," he said with that big smile he always used to encourage him.

Jonathan had looked at him with those serious eyes of his. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," Clark had said.

And the boy believed him. You believed him too, even though he had already been late to anniversaries and birthdays before. You understood, of course you did. Superman had to save everyone. How could you be angry at him for helping people? But that night, while Jonathan was still sitting on the floor with his little dancer outfit still on, you asked yourself something you had never dared to think before: who was saving your little boy from the disappointment of not seeing his father? You thought you were being selfish, that you weren’t thinking about the world, about people’s needs. But your little boy cried. He cried quietly at first, his shoulders trembling, and then it all came out at once.

"Dad broke a promise again!" he shouted between sobs.

You had heard it on the TV. A sunken ship. People in freezing water. You knew he would be late, of course you knew. But your little boy believed that maybe, if he watched the recording of the performance later, he could forget it. He sat on the couch with his legs dangling, his dancer outfit wrinkled, and waited. He looked at the door over and over again. An hour passed. Then two. Then three. And when the door finally opened, Jonathan was already fast asleep on the floor, his cheeks still wet.

You looked at Clark. He was tired, his blue suit stained with water and something else you didn’t want to look at. And you said it.

"This isn’t working anymore, Clark."

You said it that night, your voice calmer than you actually felt inside. And he knew. He looked at you, and you knew he knew. Because when he saved people, his hearing could pick up his little boy crying because his dad didn’t come. He could hear every sob, every "where’s Dad?" that Jonathan whispered to his teddy bear. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair to anyone. But he understood you.

Clark lowered his head. "I can do better," he said, with that dim voice he used when he didn’t know what else to say.

You smiled, but it was a sad smile, the kind that hurts. You shook your head slowly. "Again? This is the fourth time you’ve said that," you said, and your voice cracked just a little at the end.

Clark nodded. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

They cried, of course they did. In silence, so they wouldn’t wake Jonathan. They cried standing in the middle of the living room, without touching, like two strangers who shared too much sadness. Then you got angry. You got very angry, but you stopped yourself. You thought about Jonathan. You couldn’t scare him. You couldn’t make him watch his parents shouting at each other like other families you had seen. So it just stayed like that. At some point, you would get divorced. There were no big fights, no broken plates, no doors ripped off their hinges. Just an enormous exhaustion that weighed more than any scream.

You left the apartment first. You packed your things and Jonathan’s into boxes that Clark carried up the stairs because the elevator was broken. Clark left afterward too. He moved into a place near yours, just three blocks away. It didn’t bother you. On the contrary, it even felt right for Jonathan. Sometimes, when you crossed paths on the street or at the school entrance, you smiled. And he smiled back, though his eyes looked more tired than before. Clark looked at you. He missed you so much. He missed his little boy. Losing you, losing the house, losing the nights together—everything made him realize what he had been leaving aside without noticing.

Jonathan, as he grew, would repeat it every time he came to pick him up at your apartment. He hugged him tightly, with those skinny arms full of determination not to let go.

"When are you coming back, Dad?" he would whisper, hugging him, his face pressed to his chest. "I don’t like spending so much time without seeing you."

Clark closed his eyes every time he heard that. He hugged him tighter and said, "Soon, son," even though they both knew it wasn’t true. Clark knew it well. At home, at least he carried him at night when he stayed over. Whenever he could, he spent as much time with him as possible. But now all that was left was to wait for weekends to see him, or an occasional weekday when you were busy. You tried to split yourself between being a mother and working. You had gone back to teaching at the university, like before Jonathan was born. You liked being in front of students, explaining things you knew well. You took Jonathan with you when there was no one to leave him with. The boy stayed beside you at a small desk the university lent you. He was disciplined like Clark—you couldn’t deny that. You watched him reading children’s books, collecting dry leaves he found in the courtyard, quietly playing with his toys while you taught a class. And in those moments, chalk in hand and your eyes on your son, you felt that maybe, somehow, you were okay.

Clark, for his part, kept working at the Planet. But he wasn’t the same as before. He arrived a bit more distracted, as if his mind were somewhere else while his hands wrote the news. Sometimes he would stare at the computer screen without seeing anything, lost in his thoughts. He also had a bit of a beard, from those days he didn’t bother shaving because he no longer cared as much about looking good. But if you looked closely, if you walked up to his desk, you could see that he still had photos of your wedding and your son in small spaces on his desk. He had placed them carefully, in simple frames, right where he could see them every time he looked up. And most importantly: he still wore his wedding ring. That silver band he never took off—not to sleep, not to shower, not to save the world. That’s why no one approached him. If a woman tried to flirt with him or ask him out, he would simply reply that he was married. Because he was. Because the divorce papers were still there, unsigned, tucked away in a drawer in his new apartment, as if both of you wanted to go back but neither dared to truly take the first step.

One ordinary day at the office, Ellie, the woman who worked at the Planet, approached his desk. Ellie was kind, always smiling, and one of the few people who knew Clark was separated from his wife. She leaned against the edge of his desk and looked at him with eyes that tried to seem casual but didn’t quite manage it.

"We’re going out to dinner today, Clark. Why don’t you come?" Ellie asked, playing with a pen between her fingers.

Clark looked up from the computer and smiled, but it was a short, quick smile, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes. He glanced toward the window, as if there were something more interesting out there.

"I can’t," Clark said, his voice low but firm.

"No? But Clark, we’ll have fun," Ellie insisted, leaning in a little more, placing a hand on his shoulder. It was a soft, friendly touch, but Clark still tensed. His shoulders stiffened and his jaw tightened for a second.

"I’m spending the day with my wife and my son," he announced, standing up. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and began putting a few things into his briefcase.

Ellie frowned, as if she didn’t quite understand. "Really? I thought you were already divorced. You know, she probably already has someone too. That’s how it goes," Ellie said, shrugging as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Clark looked at her. He looked at her with those blue eyes that could be so gentle, but in that moment turned hard as ice. He didn’t say anything harsh, didn’t raise his voice, but his look was enough for Ellie to take a step back without realizing it.

"I’ll be with my son," Clark replied, his voice so cold it seemed to come from somewhere else.

Just then, his phone vibrated on the desk. The screen lit up and Clark saw it. It was you. Your name appeared on the screen, and something in his face changed completely. The hardness vanished, his shoulders relaxed, and even his eyes grew brighter. Clark answered immediately, not letting it ring more than twice.

Ellie watched him. She couldn’t stop watching him. She saw how Clark hunched slightly, as if he wanted to get closer to the phone, as if your voice deserved all his attention. She saw the smile that appeared on his face—not just any smile, but one of those real ones that come naturally, without control. For a moment, Ellie saw the old Clark again. The one who came to the office clean-shaven, shy, with slightly messy hair and immense kindness in his eyes.

"Hi..." Clark said into the phone, and his voice softened, almost tender. He listened to what you said and nodded, even though he knew you couldn’t see him. "Yeah, I’m on my way out. Do you want me to pick anything up?" he asked, grabbing his briefcase and slinging it over his shoulder. He glanced at Ellie and gave a small nod goodbye without stopping listening to you. "Do you still have soap? Last time I saw you were out. And toothpaste, just one," Clark said, then fell silent, listening to your reply. He listened as you told him you needed a few things, and you began dictating a list. Clark took a pen from the desk—the same one Ellie had been using—and began writing everything down on a piece of paper torn from a notebook. He wrote quickly, in that slightly messy but confident handwriting of his. "Soap, toothpaste, bread, milk..." he murmured as he wrote.

Clark loved those moments. He loved them with all his heart, even if he didn’t say it out loud. Because your voice was never sharp with him. Of course you got angry—it was your nature, you had always been like that. But even so, you smiled at him. And that was what he held onto, those small smiles you gave him when you crossed paths at the door or when he dropped Jonathan off at your apartment. Even if everyone else thought you hated each other, that you only saw each other out of obligation because of your son, the truth was very different. Clark cherished every moment alone with you. At night, when little Jonathan was already fast asleep in his room, Clark would come close to you. He kissed you—not just any way, but with a softness so beautiful it hurt. He placed his hands on your waist, with those big, strong fingers that could bend metal but touched you as if you were made of glass. He pulled you close, pressing his body against yours, to the point where you wanted to ask him to stay, not to leave, to sleep beside you like before.

Maybe that was why Clark sometimes left clothes there. A shirt in the closet, a pair of socks in a drawer, a jacket hanging on the coat rack by the door. Maybe that was why his favorite mug was still there, that white mug with a small newspaper drawing that he had been given when he started at the Planet. Every time he went to your apartment, he looked for it on the same shelf and poured himself coffee into it, as if he had never left. Maybe that was why Clark had learned to create a small field of silence around Jonathan’s room, a trick he had discovered by accident, so his little boy wouldn’t wake up and wouldn’t hear anything. So that the quiet laughter, the sighs, the movements of the bed—everything stayed trapped in a bubble that only the two of you could hear. Maybe that was why there was a locked box of condoms at the back of your closet, hidden behind old sheets and sweaters you no longer wore. A box neither of you mentioned, but both of you knew was there. Because you still loved each other. Because you still needed each other. Because you still punished yourselves with that lie of being separated, when at night, hidden from the world and from your own son, you were still husband and wife.

Clark went down the elevator with a heart a little lighter than it had been all day. The doors closed and he watched his reflection in the metal—that beard he hadn’t bothered to shave, those slightly tired eyes still shining from within. When the doors opened on the ground floor, he walked quickly out to the street. He headed to the supermarket a few blocks away, the usual one, the one he knew by heart because he had gone there hundreds of times when you still lived together. He walked through the aisles confidently, grabbing a basket and then switching it for a cart because he would need more space. He bought everything you had told him: soap, toothpaste, bread, milk. But he didn’t stop there. He also picked up a board game Jonathan had said he wanted the last time they talked on the phone. He had seen it at a toy store the previous week and the boy hadn’t stopped talking about it. "It’s pirates, Dad, it has a map and everything," he had said with wide eyes. Clark took it with a smile that wouldn’t leave his face. He also bought dessert, one you liked—a chocolate cake with cream that he knew the three of you would share after dinner.

The truth was that his apartment—the one he had moved into after the separation—felt like a place he only went to rest when he had to return. It didn’t have much of him. The walls were almost empty, the kitchen barely had the essentials, the fridge held only basic items and some fast food. There were no photos on the walls, no plants, none of the warmth your home had. Because your home, even if you no longer lived together, still felt like his home. That’s why every time he went there, every time he crossed that door, something in his chest relaxed, as if he could finally breathe properly after a long time.

He carried the heavy bags with one hand, because he was that strong, though he tried to hide it so people wouldn’t stare. In the other hand he held his briefcase and his jacket, and with the fingers of that same hand he carefully held the dessert so it wouldn’t fall or get crushed. He walked the three blocks separating his building from yours, took the stairs because the elevator was occupied, and when he reached the door, he knocked twice with his knuckles, soft but firm.

You opened. You had your phone in hand, pressed to your ear, talking to someone while you gestured with your head for him to come in. Your hair was slightly pulled back and you were wearing the long-sleeved blouse Clark had bought in Smallville years ago, that light blue one he had always liked because it made you look calm and beautiful. Also simple black pants, the kind you wore at home. Clark looked at you for a second too long, as he always did, storing the moment in his memory.

"Come in, Jonny’s in his room," you whispered, closing the door carefully behind him.

Clark smiled and stepped inside. He left the bags in the kitchen, his briefcase and jacket on the dining chair, and the dessert carefully on the table. He had barely set everything down when he heard the sound of small feet running down the hallway. His son, Jonathan, now six years old, came straight toward him like a bullet.

"Dad!" Jonathan shouted, full of excitement, arms open wide and a huge smile taking over his entire face.

But you, from where you stood, told him with a smile to lower his voice, placing a finger over your lips. Jonathan looked at you, nodded, and then kept running toward his father, just a bit quieter this time.

Clark lifted him into the air effortlessly, as if he weighed nothing, and held him tightly against his chest. Jonathan wrapped his arms around his neck and buried his face in his shoulder, happy. Meanwhile, Clark began putting everything away. He took things out of the bags one by one and placed them where they belonged: the soap on the bathroom shelf, the toothpaste in the cup by the sink, the milk in the fridge, the bread in the pantry. He did it so naturally, so confidently, as if he knew exactly where everything went, how, in what order. As if it were his apartment. Because deep down, to him, it was.

Jonathan, still in his father’s arms, saw you walk into your room to leave your phone on the nightstand. As soon as he saw you disappear down the hallway, the boy leaned closer to Clark’s ear and whispered softly, in that little voice of a child keeping an important secret.

"He talks to the man who always tells her she’s pretty," Jonathan said, swinging his feet happily.

Clark froze. His smile wavered slightly, like a leaf trembling in the wind. He blinked twice, processing what he had just heard.

"A man?" Clark asked, his voice calmer than he felt inside.

Jonathan nodded seriously, looking at him as if they were sharing a secret meant for no one else. The boy’s eyes sparkled with that mix of innocence and mischief only children have.

"He buys me candy, Dad," Jonathan said, lowering his voice even more. "But I tell him you’re Mom’s favorite."

Clark didn’t quite know how to respond. He just nodded, stroking his son’s hair while his mind raced. What man? Who told you that you were pretty? Why hadn’t you said anything? But before he could think further, Jonathan unintentionally extended his hearing. Children with powers didn’t always control those things well, and Clark understood that better than anyone. Suddenly, both of them heard your voice clearly from the room.

"Yes, thank you very much, I received the files, Harleth," you said, and they could hear you typing on your computer as you spoke.

The voice on the other end of the phone was audible too—a man, with a friendly, familiar tone. "No problem. I already told you to drop the last name. I know both you and your son. Call me Nate."

Clark frowned. Nate. This Nate bought Jonathan candy. This Nate told you that you were pretty. Clark’s fingers, the ones holding Jonathan, tightened slightly, though he immediately noticed and loosened his grip so as not to hurt his son.

You kept talking, unaware that they could hear you. "Of course. I have to go, my husband just got here," you said, your voice sounding completely normal, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Clark smiled. He truly smiled, with his whole being, because you still called him your husband. Just as he called you his wife when speaking to others. It was a small detail, but to him it meant more than anything.

"Husband? You still call him that even though you’re divorced?" the man on the phone asked, sounding surprised, as if he couldn’t understand why you would do that.

Clark almost laughed sarcastically. A dry, short laugh that didn’t quite come out. Of course, to an outsider, to someone who didn’t understand what the two of you had, it must have seemed strange. But he didn’t care what that Nate thought.

"I’ll send you the meeting link. Thank you for the documents. Have a good afternoon," you said, hanging up without further explanation. Your tone had been polite but firm, setting a boundary without needing to raise your voice.

Clark turned slowly, setting his son down on the dining table while he continued putting away the rest of the groceries. But his mind was no longer on the soap or the milk. It was on Nate. On Jonathan’s words. On that man who told you that you were pretty and bought candy for your son. Clark took a deep breath, once, twice, and kept putting things away in silence, waiting for you to come out so he could look you in the eyes and ask, as calmly as possible, who the hell Nate was.

"The man asked Mom out," Jonathan said, with that honesty only children have, the kind that blurts out the truth without thinking about the consequences.

At that exact moment, you walked out of your room, having heard none of what Jonathan had just said. You had a smile on your face, that calm smile of knowing Clark was there, in your kitchen, putting things away as if he had never left. You walked over to the table to see how everything was going.

"Really?" Clark looked at the boy, his eyes a little wider than usual, then at you. He tried to put on a relaxed expression, one that didn’t reveal what he felt inside. "Someone asked you out?" Clark asked innocently—or at least trying to sound innocent—because his son was right there at the table, swinging his legs, watching both of you with curious eyes.

You looked at Jonathan. Of course, the boy—identical to Clark—was far too jealous, even more than his father. You knew that well. Seeing someone who wasn’t his father trying to be kind never seemed funny to him, despite his young age. Jonathan was intelligent, far more than most six-year-olds, and his Kryptonian heritage allowed him to feel people’s heartbeats when they were near you. He could hear if someone’s heart sped up when looking at you, if their blood rushed faster, if their hands grew sweaty. That’s why he didn’t like that man. That’s why he always looked at him with suspicion.

"Yes, but I won’t go," you said, looking at Jonathan with an expression that was half affection, half warning. "I thought I made that clear," you added, pursing your lips slightly.

Jonathan looked down at his hands, which were playing with the edge of the table. He knew he had been caught saying something he probably shouldn’t have. But he didn’t regret it entirely, because deep down, he didn’t want his mom going out with anyone who wasn’t his dad. Simple as that.

You sighed, then looked at Clark, who still had his hands halfway inside a grocery bag. "And… what is he like?" Clark asked, his voice trying to sound casual but not quite managing it. "I’d like to know. I mean… it’s your life," he added, shrugging as if he didn’t care, though you found that hard to believe.

"He’s a university doctor," you answered in a normal tone, as if you were talking about the weather or what you would eat. Then you added, without giving it much importance, "but you know I’d never date someone from my field." You said it as if it were the most obvious rule in the world.

Clark turned to place the cans of tuna in the pantry. He did it slowly, carefully, and as he arranged them, he smiled. He almost laughed, but held it back. Of course, he told himself, you were his woman. His wife. The only one. No matter how many unsigned papers sat in a drawer, no matter how many separate apartments, no matter how many nights alone in his empty bed—you were still his, and he was still yours. That Nate could buy all the candy he wanted, could tell you that you were pretty every morning, but you would never date someone from your workplace. And Clark had known that rule since you first started dating. It was one of the things he loved most about you: you knew how to set boundaries.

"Let’s eat," you told Jonathan, changing the subject with the ease of someone used to avoiding uncomfortable conversations.

Jonathan nodded, relieved that he was no longer being looked at like that. You helped him down from the table, holding him by the waist and setting him down carefully so he wouldn’t get hurt.

"Go get the games ready to play with Dad," you said, giving him a gentle push toward the hallway.

The boy jumped excitedly, completely forgetting about Nate and secrets and everything else. He ran to his room, his shoes tapping loudly against the wooden floor, shouting something about a pirate game and a treasure map.

You stayed there for a moment, looking down the hallway, making sure Jonathan was no longer nearby. When you saw that he was gone, that his bedroom door had closed behind him, you looked at Clark and called him. Not angry, but with something in your voice that wanted to sound casual and didn’t quite manage it.

"Hey," you called, crossing your arms over your chest.

Clark looked at you with that “what did I do?” expression he always wore whenever he noticed that tone in your voice.

Before you could continue, Clark glanced toward his son’s room for a moment. You saw him do it, like he always did. It was his habit. He focused, stretched his senses toward Jonathan’s room, and created that small field of silence he had learned to make over the years. An invisible shield around his son’s room, so the boy wouldn’t hear anything the adults talked about. So he wouldn’t hear arguments, or if you talked about the divorce.

He gave a slight nod, as if saying, “it’s done, we can talk.” It was a power he used every time he came to your apartment. Every time he stayed for dinner.

"Who is Ellie?" you asked, and your tone came out sharper than you intended. "A few weeks ago I called to tell you Jonathan had a dentist appointment, and she answered your office phone. She said, ‘Mr. Clarkie can’t take your call.’ I told her I was your ex-wife," you said, frowning at the memory. That woman’s voice had been too sweet, too comfortable, like she had a right to answer Clark’s phone. And that “Mr. Clarkie” had annoyed you more than you were willing to admit.

Clark looked at you. He froze, a can of tuna still in his hand. He didn’t know. He knew nothing about that call. Sure, he had found a note on his desk a few days later, one that said he needed to pick up his son from the dentist. But he hadn’t known it was you who had called. No one had told him anything. He glanced toward his son’s room, where the boy was rummaging through boxes and scattered cards, looking for his game. Then he looked back at you. He took a step, then another, until he stood right in front of you. He placed a hand on your waist—that large, warm hand that always made you shiver. But this time his hand didn’t stay still. It slid down slightly, just a centimeter, brushing the curve of your hip, stopping right where your ass began. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t do anything else—just left his hand there, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if he had every right to touch you like that. And he did. Because that same hand had traced your body the night before, and the night before that, and the night before that. Because he knew every inch of you by heart.

You looked at him, still frowning, even though inside your anger was already melting. You could feel the heat of his fingers through the fabric of your pants. You could feel his thumb making small, almost invisible circles on your lower hip. It was always the same with him. Always his little grumpy wife, as he used to say just to make you blush.

"That’s why," Clark said, whispering, looking straight into your eyes up close. His breath brushed your face and you felt your cheeks flush. "You said ex-wife. I don’t have an ex. I have a wife," he said, his voice so certain, so firm, that you hesitated, not knowing how to respond.

His hand tightened just a little. A soft but firm squeeze, the kind that said “tonight I’ll remind you who I am.” Because Clark was like that. During the day he was the loving father, the shy man putting cans of tuna away in the pantry. But at night, when the bedroom door closed and the silence field wrapped around the bed, he was something else. He was the man who grabbed your hips with strength, who whispered in your ear how much he had missed you, who made you burn from the inside out until you forgot your own name.

Your lips parted to say something, but no words came out. Clark kept talking, in that tone of his that could be so sweet when he wanted it to be. "Everyone at work knows it. You’re my woman," he said, his fingers moving again, brushing the fabric exactly where he knew you felt it most. "I don’t care about Ellie or anyone else. I only care about you. I only think about you. When I’m in my apartment, all I think about is coming back to this one. Coming back to you. Your legs around my waist. Your mouth saying my name. The way you move under me when you can’t take it anymore."

You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling, from moaning, from making any sound Jonathan might hear from his room. You really tried to keep your serious expression, your anger, your frown. But Clark knew you better than anyone. And before you could say anything else, he kissed you. Not a quick kiss this time. It was deep, with tongue, teeth catching your lower lip, one hand gripping your ass firmly and the other at the back of your neck holding you in place. You accepted it without resistance, like you always did. Your hands moved on their own up into his curls, those dark strands you loved so much, tangling your fingers in them, tugging gently the way you knew he liked. Clark groaned against your mouth, a low sound that ran down your spine.

When you pulled apart slightly, both of you were breathing faster. You looked at his beard. That beard he didn’t have before, and that now suited him so well. You knew exactly how it felt against your skin, against your thighs, against that place only he touched.

“Shave,” you whispered, running your fingers through his stubble. “You look better with a beard, and people might fall in love with you,” you added, and that last part sounded more jealous than you’d intended.

Clark smiled. That wide, calm smile that always undid you. "My wife likes it like this," he said, shrugging. Then he lowered his voice into a murmur only you could hear. "Besides… don’t you like feeling it between your legs? Don’t you like it when I go down there and make you moan into the pillow so no one hears us? Don’t you like it when I bite your thighs and leave marks so you know who you belong to?"

You nearly burst from how red you turned. You felt the heat rise from your neck to your face, to your ears, to somewhere much lower that made your legs press together without thinking. You hit his chest lightly, more out of embarrassment than anything else.

"Clark," you whispered, pulling back a little because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else.

But he didn’t fully step away. His hand was still on your ass, squeezing softly, tracing circles. His other hand had moved up to your waist, fingers slipping slightly under your blouse, brushing your warm skin. You both knew what happened at night. You both knew that when Jonathan fell asleep, Clark stayed. That he took off his shoes quietly, turned off the lights, and found you in bed like a man who hadn’t eaten in days. That you wore his old shirt, the one he had left in your closet months ago and that now smelled more like you than him. That you didn’t talk much because words weren’t needed. That all that remained were hands, mouths, bodies pressed together until dawn.

"Can I stay tonight?" Clark asked, his voice rough, his lips close to your ear. His warm breath made you close your eyes.

You looked at him. You looked into those blue eyes that saw you as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world. You swallowed and whispered, your voice trembling but trying to sound firm:

"Do you deserve it?"

Clark smiled. But it wasn’t the shy smile from before. It was darker, more certain—the kind that runs down your spine. He leaned closer to your ear and whispered something so low only you could hear.

"Tonight I’m going to prove whether I deserve it. You’ll end up begging me not to stop. Like always."

Your face turned so red you had to look away. You bit your lower lip—the same one he had just kissed—and said nothing. You didn’t need to. Clark knew you. He knew you had accepted. He knew that when Jonathan fell asleep, you would be waiting for him in bed with that look only he knew. He knew you would open your legs for him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because it was. Because no matter that the divorce papers remained unsigned, no matter that everyone thought you only saw each other because of your son—you both knew the truth. You weren’t separated. You were just waiting. Waiting for the moment to be together again, for good.

A divorce? It would never happen. They both knew it, deep in their hearts, even if sometimes it was hard to say it out loud. Clark loved you with a force that went beyond what words could explain. His heart beat in rhythm with yours, as if you both shared the same pulse, the same blood, the same need to be close. His life was for his son, yes, but it was also for you. Maybe it was just a matter of adapting. Of learning to live with the absences, with the late arrivals, with the broken promises and the reunions in the darkness of the night. Maybe real love wasn’t that fairytale where everything turns out perfect, but this: two people who hurt each other, who separate, who sleep in different beds but never stop looking for one another. Who keep wearing their rings. Who keep saying “my husband” and “my wife.” Who keep creating fields of silence so their children won’t hear what happens when the sun goes down.

And just when everyone thought the divorce would finally come, that the papers would be signed once and for all, that each of you would go your separate ways, life gave you news that changed everything. Clark arrived at the Planet one ordinary day, a little more distracted than usual, his beard slightly more grown out and his eyes shining in a way his coworkers hadn’t seen in months. He sat at his desk, looked at the photos of your wedding and Jonathan, and then dropped the news without much buildup, in that voice of his that grew small when he talked about important things. You were going to have a second child. You were pregnant. Again. As if fate had laughed at everyone who had bet on the divorce.

Lois and Jimmy, who were nearby, heard him and went silent for a second. Then Lois let out a laugh so loud the whole newsroom heard it. Jimmy joined in, shaking his head as if it were the best news he had heard in years.

"Wow, so the reconciliation must have been pretty intense," Lois said, with that mischievous smile that defined her, raising an eyebrow and looking at Clark playfully.

Clark blushed all the way to his ears. He shook his head, bringing a hand to the back of his neck like he always did when he felt embarrassed. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Everyone knew those divorce papers were still unsigned in some forgotten drawer. Everyone knew Clark still went to your apartment almost every night. Everyone knew the love between you hadn’t gone out—it had just hidden for a while, like the sun behind a cloud.

"Your wife must be thrilled," Jimmy said, giving Clark a warm pat on the back.

Clark smiled. That wide, calm smile only you truly knew. "She is," he said, and his voice trembled just a little with emotion.

Not long after that, Clark made a decision that many didn’t understand at first. He left his job at the Planet. He left Metropolis. He left the skyscrapers, the noise, the sirens, the fast pace of the city. You moved to Smallville, the town where he had grown up, where the roads were dirt and neighbors waved at each other from a distance. The idea was to stay there at least until your children came of age. Until Jonathan, and the baby on the way, and any others who might come after, were old enough to decide if they wanted to go to college, travel, or build their own lives. But in the meantime, Smallville was perfect. Clark’s parents were there, Jonathan and Martha, a little older but still as warm as ever. The farm was there, with its endless fields and the barn where Clark kept memories of his childhood. The peace you had never found in the city was there.

You began teaching history in town, at the same school where Clark had studied as a child. You loved standing in front of the board and telling students about the past—about wars and revolutions, about people who had fought for a better world. And Clark taught literature and writing at a Smallville high school, just a few blocks away. He taught his students to love words, to write beautiful letters, to find beauty in simple stories. It was a quiet life, the kind that might seem boring to some but, for you, was everything you had ever wanted. After work, you came home to the farm you had fixed up together, spending afternoons watching Jonathan run through the fields, feeling the baby move in your belly, cooking together while the sun set behind the cornfields.

The divorce never came. Much less when your belly grew again in the third year with your second daughter. Because that’s how it was: after the second child, who was a girl, came a third. And suddenly you weren’t three anymore, but five. A big, noisy, lively family. Jonathan, the eldest, with his six years, then seven, then eight, always running everywhere, always asking questions, always wanting to be like his father. Little Lena, who came into the world with lungs that seemed Kryptonian, so strong and so beautiful like her mother, growing up in her father’s arms, clinging to him like a shadow, laughing every time Clark lifted her above his head. And the youngest, Clark, named after his father—a quiet baby who cried when he was hungry, slept when he was full, and seemed to eat all the time. It was unusual, Grandma Martha would say, such a calm baby, but no one complained. The three children grew without pressure. Without Superman’s shadow. Without the obligation to be perfect. Without the burden of saving the world. Just living. Just being children. Running barefoot through the farm fields, climbing trees, scraping their knees, laughing loudly while their parents watched from the porch.

Clark became a devoted father to his children. He woke up early to make them breakfast, drove them to school in the truck, taught them how to ride a bike, read them stories before bed. He didn’t have to save the world all the time anymore—the world could manage on its own for a while. He didn’t have to arrive late to school performances anymore, because now he was the father who recorded everything on his phone, the one who clapped the loudest, who brought balloons and cake and a huge smile. And at night, when all three children were fast asleep in their beds, Clark still created that field of silence around their rooms. But it was no longer to hide arguments or sadness. It was so the two of you could love each other in peace, as you always had, as you always would, without anyone hearing you, without anyone judging you, without anyone reminding you that once, you had almost signed papers that now lay forgotten at the bottom of a drawer, covered in dust and memories.

And sometimes, you would watch Clark as he played with the children in the yard. You would see him run after Jonathan, lift Lena up toward the sky, carry little Clark in one arm while holding a ball with the other. And you would smile. Because that was the man you had fallen in love with. Not Superman. Not the hero. But Clark. The father. The husband. The man who had learned, through mistakes and a broken heart, that what mattered most wasn’t saving the world, but being home.

And the divorce—that ghost that had hovered over your lives for so long—faded like mist under the morning sun, until one day it ceased to exist altogether. Because it had never truly been real. Because you had never stopped loving each other. Because love, when it’s real, doesn’t break over papers or distance. It transforms. It adapts. It waits for the right moment to bloom again. And you had waited. And you had bloomed. And now you had a big family, a home full of laughter, and an entire future ahead of you.

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko

[freiys-fics]

I'm crying actually this was so good

[moonmiiu]

pairing: baby daddy!jason todd x reader

word count : 0.9 k

Content: fluff, milf reader x dilf jason, exes to lovers, sick baby, coparents to lovers

a/n: this is shorter than i would have liked it to be but my laptop broke and im so bad at writing on my phone. Anyways theres a high chance of this being ass. Sorry for kinda ghosting you guys….ill be more consistent after my exams end in the summer

Sofia’s sobs echoed throughout the living room.

You had her in your arms, pacing back and forth, trying to lull her to sleep. However all your efforts were in vain as your little girl kept crying and whining in distress, unable to feel any sort of comfort .

She’s been like this since the afternoon. You knew something was wrong when she didn’t rush out and greet her big brother with a thousand questions about school like she usually would. Instead she just curled up next to you on the couch, shaking and coughing.

You assumed she caught something viral from daycare but still you worried. Your baby girl refused to eat anything, even her favorite sugar cookie her brother offered her. The medicine you gave her doesn’t seem to be helping much, her tiny body still burning. You can feel the heat against your own skin as she’s fisting the collar of your sleep shirt tightly and letting out soft sobs.

At this point you feel like you’ve tried everything but nothing was working. You and your girl were both beyond exhausted.

“Mama I don’ like it.” Her voice is shaky and your heart aches at the words.

“I know baby, Mama’s doesn’t like it either.”

She lets out a few more sniffles, “I wan’ Jay.”

You pause for a second,still rocking the girl, your arms growing tired but you know her cries will grow louder if you put her down. She keeps asking for Jason at every turn.

“Jay’s in his house baby, he’s probably sleeping-”

Sofia lets out a distraught cry, “I wan’ Jay please!”

Her cries were getting harder, her whole body shaking as she sobs.

You don’t know what you can do except pick up the phone and dial his number.

He picks up almost immediately. “Hey is everything okay?” His voice is hoarse with sleep and you feel terrible for waking him but Sofia’s cries get louder.

Immediately his sleepy tone is replaced by something alert and concerned and you hear sheets shuffling in the background..

“Is that Sofia? Why’s she crying? Are the kids okay? Are you ok-”

“I’m okay, it’s Sofia.” You reply, interrupting his frantic questions. “She’s been sick all day and I’ve been trying to put her to sleep but she keeps asking for you and I don’t-”

“I’m on my way.” He doesn’t even let you finish before he’s jumping out and getting ready, which can be assumed from the noises coming from the phone.

“Give me 10 minutes.”

You hear a knock on your door in 7.

You know because you’ve been staring at the clock above your mantel place since he cut the call.

The door opens and he practically runs inside. Sofia immediately raises her head from where it was on your chest and she extends both of her tiny arms towards the huge man.

“Daddy!”

He immediately takes her from your hands and your tired arms are so happy that you don’t even acknowledge the unexpected term Sofia uses.

To his credit, he doesn’t falter even for a second.

“Yeah baby, Daddy’s here,” He pats her back, in an effort to comfort her. “I’m here, my baby.”

Sofia snuggles into his soft shirt, her cries quieting down. Her tiny fingers tightly interlock behind his neck. He keeps moving, similar to the way you were pacing before.

You're grateful for the respite and you just want to finally sit down. As soon as your body hits the sofa, you realise how bone tired you are. Jason realises as well, his eyes following the way your chest is moving, as you take frantic breaths.

“Hey,” he calls out, wanting your attention. “Go to bed.”

You start to say no but he stops you before the words can leave your mouth. “You’ve done your job. Now let me do mine.” His tone is stern but in a way that you’ve learnt means that he cares.

“Take a shower, change into your pajamas and go to bed. I’m not going to say it again.”

You would be a bit annoyed(and turned on) at his command if you were less tired but you found yourself listening to it.

Sofia’s still clinging on to him, no longer crying loudly but still shivering. Jason sits down next to you and grabs the throw on the couch, positioning her on his chest so she’s comfortable and covering her body with it.

Maybe it’s because of the soft kiss he leaves on her hair or maybe it’s because Sofia’s finally calming down in his arms. Whatever it is, it just makes you feel so emotional. You chalk it up to being overwhelmed and overextended, taking care of a sick baby all alone.

But you weren’t alone. You had Jason. All of you had Jason. Even little Sofia who wasn’t his blood daughter, but he took her in his arms the second she called him “daddy”.

He always took care of you, Leo and Sofia, no matter what. They were his first priority, no matter the circumstances of your relationship. Even you were. He would do anything for you all.

You can feel the tears well up in your eyes but you refuse to let them fall. You were so grateful. And so happy.

A soft thank you leaves your lips and Jason turns his head to face yours. He gives you a pointed look, feigning annoyance.

“Go.” He says, irritation lacing the word, but you can see the corner of his lips lifting upward.

You roll your eyes and start making your way to the bedroom when you hear his soft voice.

“You don’t ever have to say thank you okay? I’m always here for my family.”

reblogs + comments are always appreciated!

taglist: @notabomberr @its-me-mila @valinat

[freiys-fics]

I love him so much

[freiys-fics]

So I'm definitely writing the bridgerton clark au. The real question is.

Should reader be a debutante or a maid?

A debutante

A maid

Oh what the heck, write both and post both

Voting ended onMar 6

[freiys-fics]

Would anyone, perhaps, be interested in a Clark Kent Bridgerton au? Anyone?