Summary: Overwhelmed and exhausted, you find comfort in your boyfriend’s quiet care and the safety of being held <3
Word count: 3.2k+
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
Hey guys! I hope you enjoy this little story 🤍
Just a small disclaimer: I am not a surgeon or someone who works in medicine in any capacity, so if I used any medical terms incorrectly or if a diagnosis/prognosis isn’t 100% accurate, please know I apologize, this is all purely fictional! I tried my best, with a little help (and maybe some inspiration 👀) from Grey’s Anatomy hahahaha
Also, I just wanted to say thank you so much for reading and supporting my writing this year, it truly means more to me than I can put into words. I hope you’re ending the year feeling safe, loved, and maybe a little bit soft, whether that’s with people you care about, curled up somewhere cozy, or finding comfort in stories like this one. Thank you for being here, and I’m wishing you all a gentle, happy New Year 🤍✨
Anyway, thank you so much for reading, and I hope you’ll like it!
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
You’re not immune to distractions.
You tell yourself you are, because you don’t have a choice. Fourth year. Surgical track. The kind of exams that decide whether you get to touch a scalpel or spend your life answering pages at three in the morning wishing you had.
Your apartment looks like a crime scene.
Anatomy atlases are stacked in uneven towers. Loose papers litter the desk and floor, corners dog-eared and smudged with ink. Your laptop is open to a practice exam portal you’re actively afraid to refresh. Your whiteboard is crammed with half-erased flowcharts and arrows that only make sense if you’re already spiraling.
You need silence. You need focus. You need—
“Clark,” you say, standing in the doorway of the spare room you’ve officially claimed as your study space. Your voice softens automatically when you look at him. “Baby. Honey. I love you so much.”
That gets his attention immediately.
He stops mid-step in the hallway, keys still dangling from his fingers, glasses sliding just a little down his nose as he looks at you with instant concern.
“Okay,” he says carefully. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you assure him quickly. “I just—” you take a breath, already smiling despite yourself. “I need to study. Like, really study. For the next few hours.”
His brows knit together. “Oh. Okay.”
“And I’m begging you,” you continue, palms pressed together dramatically, “please do not interrupt me.”
He nods immediately. “Of course.”
“But,” you add, pointing a finger at him, “I mean it. No interruptions.”
“Right,” he says seriously. “No interruptions.”
You eye him. “Do you know what that looks like?”
He blinks. “I… think so?”
You sigh. “Okay. Let’s be specific.”
Clark straightens a little, like he’s about to take notes.
“No checking on me,” you say, ticking it off on your fingers. “No popping your head in to see if I’m alive. No whispering ‘sorry’ while handing me things.”
His mouth opens. Closes. “Even if it’s important?”
“What could possibly be that important?”
He hesitates. “…Hydration?”
You squint. “Clark.”
“Okay,” he says quickly. “No hydration.”
“And no—” you gesture vaguely at him, helpless. “—being adorable.”
He frowns. “I don’t know if I can control that.”
“Try,” you say firmly.
He nods again, so earnest it almost hurts. “I can do that.”
You narrow your eyes. “You promise?”
“I promise,” he says, hand over heart like he’s swearing in court. Earnest. Sincere. Devastatingly genuine. “Scout’s honor.”
You exhale, the tension easing just a little. You step forward, rise up on your toes, and kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” you say softly.
“Of course,” Clark says immediately. Then, after half a second, “Quick question.”
You freeze. “…Yes?”
“If you need something,” he says carefully, “do I knock? Or do I just—write it down and slide it under the door? Or text you?”
You stare at him.
“Texting counts as interrupting,” you say slowly.
“Oh,” he nods. “Right. Got it.”
“And if the apartment catches on fire?” he asks.
“…Then you can interrupt me.”
“Okay,” he says, visibly relieved. “Good.”
You laugh despite yourself and shake your head. “I love you.”
He smiles, bright and warm. “I love you too.”
You exhale, step forward, and kiss his cheek again. “See you in a bit.”
“Love you,” Clark says immediately.
Before you can pull away, he cups your face gently, thumbs warm against your jaw, and kisses you—soft but sure, like he’s grounding you instead of distracting you. It lasts only a moment, just enough to remind you that you’re not alone in this.
Then he pulls you into a tight hug, arms wrapping fully around you, solid and steady.
“You’ve got this,” he murmurs against your hair. “You’re so, so smart. I mean it.”
You laugh quietly, muffled against his chest. “You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” he admits, squeezing you once more. “But I’m also right.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm and serious all at once.
“Good luck,” he says softly. “I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
That’s when you finally step away.
When you shut the door, you lean your forehead against it for half a second—smiling now—before turning back to the desk.
Okay. Focus.
You sit, straighten your notes, and start reading out loud because if you don’t hear it, it doesn’t stick to your brain.
“Okay,” you mutter. “Patient presents with acute abdominal pain, fever, tachycardia…”
You pace as you talk, finger tracing imaginary diagrams in the air.
“Right lower quadrant tenderness, rebound, guarding. Differential includes appendicitis, ectopic pregnancy, ovarian torsion—rule out with imaging, labs—”
“Management: IV fluids, antibiotics, surgical consult—appendectomy. Complications include perforation, abscess, peritonitis—”
Ten minutes in, the words are flowing.
Which is why you don’t notice the door opening until—
“Sorry—sorry,” Clark whispers.
You spin around.
He’s already halfway inside, holding your water bottle with both hands like it’s sacred.
“I know you said not to interrupt,” he says quickly, “but you’ve been talking nonstop and you didn’t have this, and dehydration affects cognition, and—”
He extends the bottle. “Stay hydrated, babe.”
You stare at him.
He looks apologetic and hopeful at the same time, like he knows he broke a rule but can’t regret it.
“…Thank you, honey,” you say, betraying yourself.
His shoulders drop in relief. “Okay. I’m going. I’m gone.”
He backs out slowly, like sudden movement might upset you.
You take a long sip, press your lips together, and turn back to your notes.
Focus.
“Next question,” you murmur. “Patient presents with jaundice, pale stools, dark urine—think obstructive. Courvoisier sign—pancreatic head tumor—”
Knock knock.
The door opens before you can answer.
“Clark—” you start.
“I swear this is the last one,” he says, popping his head in. He steps forward and sets a bowl on your desk.
Fruit. Neatly cut. Colorful.
“I noticed you skipped lunch,” he says softly. “And you get shaky when you forget to eat.”
You open your mouth to protest.
Nothing comes out.
He looks so earnest. Like this is his contribution to medicine as a whole.
“…You’re impossible,” you mutter.
He smiles, dimples flashing. “But not in a bad way?”
You sigh. “Go. Before I change my mind.”
He leaves, grinning to himself.
You eat a grape while reading about cholecystitis.
“This is fine,” you tell yourself.
Thirty minutes later, it’s not fine.
Your brain feels like mush. You’re pacing again, hands in your hair.
“Okay—trauma protocol,” you mutter. “ABCDE. Airway with cervical spine protection. Breathing. Circulation—hemorrhage control—”
You stop, rub your face.
“Why is this not sticking into my brain?”
The door opens quietly.
“Clark,” you warn without turning around.
“I know,” he whispers. “But you’re doing the thing where you tug your hair, and that usually means you’re overwhelmed.”
You turn.
He’s holding his hoodie. The soft one. The old one. The one you steal when you can’t sleep.
“It’s cold in here,” he says gently. “And you tense up when you’re cold.”
Your chest aches.
“I told you not to come in,” you say, but there’s no heat behind it.
“I know,” he says. He steps closer anyway, draping the hoodie over your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll shatter. “I’m sorry. I just… wanted to help.”
You sit down heavily.
He panics instantly. “Oh no. You’re mad. I crossed a boundary, I shouldn’t have—”
You reach out and grab his sleeve.
“I’m not mad,” you say quietly. “I’m just exhausted.”
His expression softens completely.
“I can’t focus,” you admit. “Everything feels too big.”
He crouches in front of you, careful, hands resting on your knees like an anchor.
“You’re doing amazing,” he says. “You know this stuff. You just don’t see it right now.”
You swallow. “What if I blank?”
“You won’t,” he says, steady. “And if you do, you’ll recover. You always do.”
You lean forward and rest your forehead against his.
“You’re very distracting,” you murmur.
He smiles softly. “I can leave.”
“Please don’t,” you say, then groan. “Actually—go. Before I fail surgery because my boyfriend is too good.”
He laughs under his breath and kisses your temple. “I’ll be right outside.”
He finally leaves you alone.
For almost 3 hours.
When the knock comes again, you’re blinking back tears over a practice question that feels impossible.
“Babe?” Clark calls softly. “Time check.”
“Ten more minutes,” you say hoarsely.
“Okay,” he replies. A pause. “I’m really proud of you.”
Your throat tightens.
Ten minutes later, you open the door.
He’s there with dinner, eyes warm, posture patient, like waiting for you is the easiest thing in the world.
You step into his arms without a word.
His arm tightens around you, protective and warm.
Clark doesn’t say anything either. He just wraps you up, slow and sure, like he’s afraid sudden movement might crack something fragile inside you. One hand settles between your shoulder blades, the other warm and solid at your waist, anchoring you.
For a few seconds—maybe minutes—you don’t move.
You just exist there.
Your cheek rests over his heart, the steady rhythm beneath your ear a constant, grounding presence. It’s slow. Even. Confident. Like it has never once doubted what it’s meant to do. Your own pulse, frantic and jagged only moments ago, starts to follow it without you trying.
In. Out.
In. Out.
You breathe him in—clean laundry, soap, something unmistakably Clark—and feel the tension in your shoulders loosen in small, reluctant increments, like muscles that forgot how to relax.
“I didn’t realize how tense I was,” you murmur quietly. Your voice sounds different now. Lower. Less brittle. “Until just now.”
He hums above you, thoughtful, chest vibrating slightly beneath your cheek. “You were holding yourself together with sheer willpower.”
You let out a small, tired sound that might almost be a laugh. “That sounds… unhealthy.”
“Temporarily heroic,” he corrects gently. “Long-term unsustainable.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “Figures.”
His hand keeps moving along your back—up your spine, slow and steady, then back down again. He never rushes it. Never stops. Like he’s afraid if he does, all the panic you’ve been holding at bay will come flooding back in.
And maybe he’s right.
Your eyes drift open, unfocused at first, then land on the dining table.
Your notes are still there. Stacks of paper, flashcards, printed questions. Colorful tabs jut out at uneven angles—pink, yellow, blue—each one marking something you told yourself you had to remember. Seeing them now doesn’t make your chest tighten the way it did before, but there’s still a dull ache beneath your ribs.
“I kept mixing things up,” you say softly, more to the room than to him. “Like, I know the difference between hypovolemic and septic shock. I know that. But suddenly my brain was like—” you huff quietly, “‘What if we simply forget everything we’ve ever learned?’”
Clark lets out a quiet laugh against your hair. Not mocking. Fond. “Brains love dramatic plot twists.”
You nod, pressing your cheek a little more firmly into his chest. “I started doubting things I’ve known since first year. Like… basic anatomy.” You pause, embarrassed even now. “I was halfway through saying ‘the femoral artery’ and then panicked because—what if it’s not there? What if I just… made it up?”
“It’s definitely there,” he says immediately, voice warm with certainty. “I promise.”
You scoff softly. “Thank you. Very reassuring.”
He shifts slightly, tilting his head so his cheek rests against the top of yours. It’s a small, intimate gesture, protective without being possessive.
“You’re allowed to not be perfect all the time,” he says quietly.
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t want to be perfect,” you admit. The words come out softer than you expect. “I just don’t want to fail.”
His hand stills.
Not because he’s pulling away—just enough to make you notice.
“You won’t,” he says quietly.
There’s no emphasis. No dramatic reassurance. Just calm, unshakable certainty.
You lift your head and look at him. “You don’t know that.”
He meets your gaze without hesitation. His eyes are steady, sincere, impossibly kind. “I know you.”
Something in your chest pulls tight, sharp and aching all at once.
“You’ve handled patients at their worst,” he continues gently. “You’ve stayed up all night studying things most people couldn’t pronounce, let alone understand. You’ve walked into exams terrified and walked out stronger.” His thumb brushes a small circle at your side. “One test doesn’t get to erase all of that.”
Your vision blurs. You look away quickly, blinking hard, jaw clenched.
Clark notices immediately. He always does.
“Hey,” he murmurs, shifting so you’re fully facing him now. “Come here.”
You go without thinking, melting into him again, forehead pressing into the warm curve of his neck. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.
“I don’t want to disappoint anyone,” you whisper. The words feel heavy, like you’ve been carrying them for weeks. “My attendings. My family.” A pause. “You.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you, brows drawn together—not with worry, but with something firmer. Protective. Certain.
“You could never disappoint me,” he says. “Not like that. Ever.”
Your voice wobbles. “Even if I mess up?”
“Especially if you mess up,” he replies without missing a beat. “Because that means you’re human. And you’re learning. And you care.”
A shaky breath leaves you. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not simple,” he says honestly. “It’s just… true.”
Silence settles again.
But it’s different now.
Softer. Safer. The kind that wraps around you instead of pressing in. You don’t feel the need to explain yourself further. You don’t feel like you’re wasting time by resting here.
Clark shifts first, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to break the moment.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Sit with me.”
His hand stays warm and steady at your back as he guides you toward the couch, easing you down beside him. You go willingly, legs folding beneath you as you curl into his side without thinking, like this is where you’re meant to be.
Only then does he reach for the plate on the coffee table.
“Okay,” he says gently. “Eat something.”
You groan, burying your face briefly against his shoulder. “You sound like a nurse.”
He smiles, unmistakably proud. “I’m dating a future surgeon. I’m adapting.”
You accept the fork, take a bite, then another. Each one feels like it grounds you a little more, anchoring you to the present instead of the spiral in your head. When you’re done, you lean back into him automatically, your head resting against his chest.
Clark sets the plate aside and reaches for the blanket draped over the back of the couch. He pulls it over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders with almost comical care, smoothing it down like you might disappear if he doesn’t.
Your eyes flutter shut.
“I should go back,” you mumble, guilt creeping in despite yourself.
“Not yet,” he says softly. “Your brain needs rest to consolidate memory.”
You crack one eye open. “Is that real, or did you just make that up?”
He shrugs, entirely unapologetic. “Little of both.”
You smile, too tired to argue, and let yourself sink fully into him.
Time passes. You’re not sure how much. Enough that your breathing evens out. Enough that the tight knot in your chest loosens into something manageable.
Then Clark clears his throat thoughtfully.
“Actually,” he says, voice carefully neutral but with a hint of mischief curling underneath, “I might have another case for you.”
You lift your head, squinting at him. “Clark. I’m off duty.”
“Just a quick consult,” he says, clearly enjoying himself now. “Patient presents with sudden onset tachycardia.”
You sigh, playing along. “Symptoms?”
“Rapid heartbeat,” he continues solemnly. “Shortness of breath. Mild dizziness.”
You narrow your eyes. “Triggers?”
“Occurs almost exclusively when patient sees his girlfriend,” he says, lips twitching. “Especially when she’s exhausted and wearing his hoodie.”
You stare at him.
Then you laugh—really laugh. The sound bursts out of you, bright and unguarded, like something unclenched inside your chest.
“That’s ridiculous,” you say, smiling up at him. “Sounds psychosomatic.”
“Highly possible,” he agrees. “Chronic condition.”
You tap his chest lightly, right over his heart. “Prognosis?”
He leans in, forehead resting against yours, voice dropping warm and fond.
“Lifelong,” he murmurs. “But manageable. Especially with close contact.”
Your smile softens, heart aching in the best possible way.
“Well,” you say quietly, curling back into him, “I suppose I’ll allow it.”
His arms tighten around you, smile pressed into your hair.
“Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
You let out a slow breath. It leaves your chest in a long, shaky exhale, like something finally unclenches. His words don’t feel dramatic or overwhelming. They just settle. Sink in. Find a place to rest.
You shift closer, tucking your face into the hollow of his shoulder. His arm adjusts instantly, tightening just enough to keep you there, fingers curling at your side like muscle memory. Your hand finds his shirt without thinking, fingers curling lightly into the fabric.
“Stay,” you murmur, even though you already know the answer.
“I am,” he says easily, without hesitation. “Right here.”
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The apartment has gone quiet in that late-evening way—no notifications chiming, no pages of notes rustling, no ticking clock demanding productivity.
It’s grounding. Reassuring. Almost hypnotic.
Your thoughts drift—inevitably—back toward your notes, toward the exam waiting for you tomorrow morning. The facts, the lists, the pressure. But the panic doesn’t spike the way it did earlier. It hovers somewhere farther away now, dulled by warmth and closeness, like a storm you can see but don’t feel trapped in anymore.
“I might fall asleep,” you admit quietly, your voice already softer.
“That’s okay,” he says at once. “I’ll wake you up if you drool.”
You smile faintly against his chest. “How noble of you.”
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through you. His hand starts tracing absentminded patterns along your arm—slow, soothing, repetitive—like he’s not even thinking about it. Like he’s memorizing you in this moment: exhausted, wrapped in his hoodie, curled into him like this is where you belong.
You tilt your head slightly, peeking up at him. “So,” you murmur, teasing creeping into your tone, “what did you do all day while I was banishing you from my study room?”
His brows lift, innocent. “Wow. ‘Banishing.’ Harsh.”
“You were exiled,” you say solemnly. “For the sake of medicine.”
“Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I took my exile very seriously.”
You hum. “Oh?”
“I did laundry,” he starts, counting on his fingers. “Cleaned the kitchen. Made sure you ate something resembling nutrients.” His mouth curves into a small smile. “And I might have spent a little time worrying about you.”
You snort softly. “A little?”
“Okay,” he admits. “A lot.”
Your chest warms at that. You shift, resting your chin lightly against him so you can look at his face properly.
“The food was delicious,” you add. “Thank you. Really.”
His expression softens instantly. “Of course.”
“No,” you insist gently. “I know it seems small, but… it helped. More than you know.”
He shrugs a little, embarrassed but pleased. “I just wanted to take one thing off your plate.”
You smile at the phrasing. “Even surgeons appreciate good support staff.”
He laughs quietly. “I’ll take that as high praise.”
Silence settles again, comfortable and unhurried.
After a moment, he speaks, voice quieter now. “You scared me earlier.”
You blink. “I did?”
“Yeah,” he admits. “You looked like you were carrying the whole future on your shoulders. Like you thought if you stopped for even a second, everything would fall apart.”
You swallow. “It felt like that.”
He nods, thumb brushing gently over your wrist. “I know. I just… wanted to remind you that you don’t have to carry it alone.”
You look at him then, really look—at the concern in his eyes, the steadiness, the way he never tries to fix you, only support you.
“You’re really good at this,” you say quietly.
“At what?”
“At loving me,” you answer honestly. “Even when I’m… like this.”
His brows knit together slightly. “Especially when you’re like this.”
Your throat tightens again. You duck your head, pressing a small kiss to his collarbone like it’s the only place that makes sense right now.
“Tomorrow’s going to be hard,” you admit.
“I know,” he says softly. “But it’s also just one day.”
You nod slowly. “One day.”
“And after,” he continues, “you come home. And we eat something comforting. And you tell me everything you remember—or nothing at all.”
You smile. “That sounds… really nice.”
“It will be,” he says with quiet certainty.
Your eyelids start to feel heavy. The blanket, his arms, the steady rhythm of him—it all conspires gently against your remaining resolve.
Just before sleep fully claims you, you feel him press a careful kiss to the top of your head.
“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper, “you go in there and show them exactly who you are.”
Your lips curve into a faint smile.
And for the first time all night, the future doesn’t feel so frightening.
summary - clark kent has a secret… but, not that one.
pairing - clark kent dcu x reader
word count - 2.1k
Clark had been poisoned with Kryptonite and that wasn't even the worst part of his day.
Finding out that his parents had sent him to Earth to build a secret harem that would take over the planet and its' people, when he'd so blindingly trusted and loved them, had broke him so badly he wasn't sure he would ever recover.
Clark loved the people of Earth. Served them.
But now it felt like that love and trust that he had earned from the people had shattered. How would he come back from it?
"Clark can you hear me?"
Clark groaned as he tried to focus on what was in front of him. The room was spinning and his entire body felt like it was on fire.
Clark looked to the side and saw Lois knelt beside him, reaching her hands out to hold his face carefully. Her skin felt cold and he could feel her hands shaking.
"Y/N..." Clark whispered.
"Y/N? Who's?... No, Clark, it's me - Lois."
Clark's head rolled again as he focused in and out of consciousness. He tried sitting up, pushing up from his arm with pain and difficulty. Once he was sat up, he noticed how the pocket universe portal was crushed but not necessarily broken.
Lois positioned herself in front of him.
"Clark..." She tried to reason, knowing he was already thinking about doing the next thing.
"There's people still in there. Trapped. I need to..." Clark tried standing up, but fell back to his knees with a groan. Lois tried helping him, but his weight was too great for just her.
There were so many people left in that prison. People he owed to try and help.
"You can't Clark." Lois argued.
"She's right." Mr Terrific sidled next to him, taking his arm to stabilise him. "You need to take him someplace safe to rest."
"Where?" Lois exclaimed. There were few places that would not detect Clark.
Clark watched as Mr Terrific looked down as he tried to think of something.
Y/N, Clark mentally thought.
But he couldn't. He'd already compromised that part of his life enough. He couldn't show up their like this. Not now.
"He mentioned a safe house one time." Mr Terrific said.
No.
"A safe house where?"
"Somewhere out in Kansas, I think."
No. No, no, no.
"Okay, yeah. I think I know the place." Lois said.
"Okay, c'mon." Mr Terrific sighed as he draped one of Clark's arms over his shoulder. Lois did the same on the other side. "On three. One, two..."
Clark screamed as he was lifted up, blowing out a pained breath as he left upright. Lois could tell Clark was leaning his weight further onto Mr Terrific, but he was still heavy.
Clark hadn't given up yet, but he could tell his body was starting to give up on him.
The Kryptonite running through his veins would wear off eventually, but his body was screaming for him to just rest. Clark knew he was nowhere near full capacity at the moment, but that didn't make him any less desperate to save those people.
"I'll stay here and you take him." Mr Terrific said.
Clark zoned out as they conversed another few moments, before he walked with Lois towards the T-craft. He tried his best to manage his full weight off of her, but with every moment he could feel himself slipping.
Lois eventually got him into the T-craft and settled into a seat.
Clark couldn't even manage to ask where she was taking him - tell her where he didn't want her to take him - as the darkness claimed him all too quickly.
"Clark." Lois was shaking him gently awake.
They had landed.
He could tell where he was just by the quietness of it all. There were no busy traffic noises or constant police sirens. The world sounded still and at peace.
He hated that he was here, though.
He hated that he had been brought to the one person who
"Okay." He whispered, picking himself up with great discomfort and allowing Lois to help lead him out of the T-craft carefully.
Clark could see his parents walking towards him as quick as they could. Clark could’ve cried as he watched them, clearly having stayed up late just to see him.
Pa reached him first, helping Lois keep him upright.
“Pa…” Clark croaked.
“Ssh, Clark. Everything’s g’nna be okay.”
“Y/N…”
“He keeps saying that name.” Lois added.
“Yeah.” Ma sighed with a smile.
The four of them walked towards the house slowly - Clark doing his best to keep up when all he wanted to do was stop and rest.
It was dark and cold out, but nothing felt worse to Clark than the feeling of inconveniencing everyone around him. He felt like he should be stronger than this.
The house felt in reach after five minutes.
The warm house lights were on in the main room and he could see his bedroom window from down here. So many memories - only good - from this house.
Clark’s heart nearly started crying when he saw you running down the porch steps.
“Clark!” You shouted, doing your best to run towards him.
“Y/N…”
Clark gathered as much of his strength as he could to push on and get to you. He didn’t want you seeing him like this and never had, but he was also so grateful that he had you here.
You ran to him with tears streaming down your face and that’s when Clark started crying too. He couldn’t keep in the overwhelming relief of seeing you.
You crashed into Clark’s awaiting arms and he kept himself steady.
Clark cried quietly into your neck as you cried against his dirty suit. Your body shook with every cry and he felt the emotion in every movement.
You hugged him so tight.
But ten seconds later and you let him go, because you could tell without him having to say anything that he needed to lay down.
“C’mon.” You hiccuped, guiding him up the porch steps and into the house.
Clark could feel his parents were close behind and Lois just behind them. He loved that they were all here, but all he really wanted was you.
Now that he’d had you in his arms once, he didn’t feel the need for anyone else. Not in a malicious way. Just, in a way where no one could make Clark feel as safe or as comforted as you do.
You led him to his bedroom and helped him down onto his bed.
The bed creaked under his weight, but ultimately held.
Clark kept one of his hands tightly clasped in yours. There was no way he was letting go now.
Clark heard Lois whisper from the doorframe, “Who is that?”
“That’s Clark’s wife.”
Clark tried to keep his eyes open on you.
Wife.
You looked so pretty, even when crying.
You were sat on the edge of his bed, still weeping, whilst pushing his curls off his forehead with one hand and letting him hold the other.
Clark’s parents knew not to intrude on this moment, because they were far and few nowadays.
“I love you.” You whispered. “Get some rest, honey.”
Clark tried to smile, “You… too.”
His other hand came across to meet the large swell of your stomach, his fingers just managing to caress over the area before dropping back down as he re entered that darkness.
Clark woke up to sunlight and a heavy dog on his chest.
“Morning.” Clark said to Krypto.
He pulled himself out of bed and stood in the middle of his room. It was exactly the same as he remembered it; full of his favourite stuff.
Clark walked over to his dresser and took ahold of the photo he’d framed of you and him at high school prom. Felt like light years ago now.
He thumbed over your face, wiping away the small layer of dust off the glass, before putting the photo back.
It took Clark a little while to take off his suit and throw on some comfy trousers and t-shirt, but once he was ready he took himself downstairs.
“Morning Ma.” Clark kissed his Ma’s head.
Clark didn’t stop, though.
“She’s outside.” Ma responded, already knowing who he was really looking for. “I’ll get breakfast ready.”
Clark opened the porch door and stepped outside, casting a quick glance to where Krypto was playing with the cows, before noticing you cuddled up in a ball on the hammock.
A blanket was placed over you and there was a half-drunk mug of coffee next to you, which told Clark you hadn’t been out here long.
“Hey.” You spotted him.
You were about to throw your blanket off and greet him, but Clark bear you to it. He quickly gathered you up in his arms and placed you to sit sideways on his lap. Your arms looped around his neck whilst his went around your waist.
Clark rested his forehead against yours.
He watched you close your eyes as you breathed him in, probably smelling fresh shampoo from his shower.
You tilted your head and Clark went the opposite direction, leaning up to kiss him softly. Your fingers scrunch the back of his neck and one of his hands traveled up to cup your jaw.
Clark gave you as much passion as you gave him - which was a lot considering the circumstances.
He tilted his head a little further to angle the kiss deeper, earning a soft moan from you. That earned a smile of out Clark and he pulled away softly, your lips smacking against his.
Clark watched a rogue tear fall across your cheek.
“Hey.” He said softly, catching it with his thumb and then kissing the spot it had just been. “No tears.”
“Sorry.”
“No apologies either.”
Your eyes were so pretty from this distance. If he wasn’t careful, this conversation would get lost by him getting distracted by you.
“I… I was.. so scared, Clark.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, no apologies counts for you as well.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He kissed your cheek in apology instead.
“Don’t scare me like that again. When I got the call from Pa.. I… Well…” Clark watched you fumble for words. He could tell this was a hard conversation for you to try and express.
“I can’t imagine how you must have felt, because if anything happened to you or–.” Clark brought his hand away from your face to rest on your bump.
“That would never happen, because we have you Clark.” You smiled at him and then down to where his hand practically covered half of your bump. You brought one of your hands down to place on top of his, relishing in the movement of your belly together.
“I know.”
“But who has you, hmm? We have you, but who do you have?” You questioned, your eyes shiny with tears again.
Clark answered simply, “I have you.”
“But I can’t protect you the same way you can.”
“I’d argue otherwise.”
“Be serious.” You gave him a look. Normally that look would get him into trouble, but today he was willing to risk trying you.
“I am. I feel protected by you all the time. Sure, it might be through love or touch o-or even just your voice, but you make me feel safer than I could be with any metahuman.”
“Clark…” You pouted.
“It’s true. That’s how I feel, or should I say how you make me feel.”
Clark wasn’t surprised by your kiss, but he didn’t expect you to be giving away so many after such a messy night. For some reason he had expected lots of long conversations and potential arguments, but instead he was being received by love and kisses. Perhaps the best medicine in the world.
“That’s how you make us feel too.” You responded after breaking away from his lips again.
“How is she?” Clark looked down at the swell of your stomach, smiling to himself. “She’s so big already.”
“She’s good. Appetite just like her father.” You chuckled.
“Hey!”
“Am I wrong?” You teased.
“Just… Hey.”
“Can tell she misses you. It’s like missing a limb.”
“I feel the same.”
“Then let us come to Metropolis and live together.” You tried, knowing this one argument with him was the reason you gave him the silent treatment sometimes.
“Sweetheart—.”
“Please. I can protect you better from there.”
Clark chuckled, “You’re always protecting me. Right here.” He tapped his heart.
“Can you at least think about it, again? I know it’s not a safe city, but I’ll be safe because you’re right there.”
“Okay.” He promised.
“Lois knows I exist know, anyways, so it’s not like I’ll be a secret for much longer.”
Clark groaned, “She’s probably already told everyone.”
His head collapsed in the crook of your neck, breathing out heavily. That’s where he stayed for the next hour or so, breathing you in and feeling safe from the world - a feeling only you would ever bring him.
hii! i love ur work <3 could you write something about chubby fem reader and clark pls? they work together and reader has a huge crush on him but is so insecure (maybe cos of her mom constantly bringing up her weight if ur comfortable writing some family dynamic angst) and fails to notice he’s in love with her because of that?
basically a friends to lovers with smut if it’s okay with you! thank u <33
See Me Like You Do
clark kent x reader;
friends to lovers, body image & self-worth struggles, negative comments about weight (verbal, from family), anxiety, family conflict, workplace romance, sexual content: oral (f! receiving), piv, creampie, body worship
a poetic ish snippet that got.... long bc this topic is very personal to me so i hope i did it justice
-
The newsroom hums with its usual symphony of phones ringing, the faint clack of keyboard keys, the rumble of the printer that always sounds like it’s trying to lift off. It’s barely nine and you’re already two coffees deep, cigarette-smudged headlines and half-formed ledes scattered across your desk like fallen soldiers.
Clark sets a third coffee down on the corner of your blotter. The cardboard sleeve is labeled with your name and a doodled smiley face that looks suspiciously like it’s wearing glasses.
“Extra cream, two sugars,” he says in that warm, low voice that always finds the softest part of you. “And a blueberry muffin because you forgot breakfast. Again.”
“I did not forget,” you say, then catch his look, and amend, “I postponed.”
“Uh-huh.” His mouth tilts like he’s swallowing laughter. “Eat the muffin.”
“You can’t just boss me around, Kent.” You peel the lid anyway, the steam curling up to your face. It smells like mercy.
He drags his chair closer with a low scrape and leans into your space, arms folded over the backrest. It should make you flustered. It does make you flustered. “I read your draft,” he murmurs. “You buried the lede.”
“I did not.” You poke a manicured finger at the screen. “That’s style.”
“It’s sabotage.” He taps the top of your monitor with one knuckle, gentle enough to make the glass barely shiver. “You’re smarter than your structure.”
“Are you flirting or editing?”
“Why not both?”
Across the bullpen, Lois Lane lifts her coffee in your direction without looking up. “Stop baiting her, Smallville. The last time you two started this, the features desk had to file from the stairwell.”
Jimmy spins in his chair so fast a stack of polaroids on his lap flutters like a flock of startled pigeons. “Wait, if you two break up, who gets custody of me?”
You roll your eyes. “We’re not together.”
Clark, almost simultaneously, says, “We’re not breaking up.”
Jimmy points at both of you like he’s calling a foul. Lois snorts. A copy editor sticks his head over the partition, smirking. Warmth blooms low in your throat, mortifying, fizzy, not unlike the first sip of hot coffee, so you bury your face in your screen and pretend that none of it lodges under your ribs.
He’s kind to everyone, you remind yourself. He’s thoughtful. He’s… Clark. The way he looks at you, soft and attentive, must just be his farmboy customer service face. It can’t be anything more. People like Clark fall in love with people who look like bylines come alive: sleek, effortless, camera-ready. People like Lois. Not people who make mental seating charts at restaurants to avoid chairs that might groan under them. Not people whose mothers can turn Sunday dinner into open season with a single raised brow.
“Eat,” Clark says, mouth tipped toward your muffin, voice gentled. “Please.”
You break the muffin in half and push him the bigger piece without thinking. He blinks. “Sweetheart, seriously, you don't have to—”
“I want to.” It comes out sharper than you mean it to. You soften it with a smile. “Besides, this is the only way you’ll stop hovering.”
“I don’t hover,” he lies, and hovers there another minute, like he’s reluctant to leave the orbit of your desk.
-
The first call from your mother comes just before lunch. You should let it roll to voicemail. You don’t. You still haven’t learned how to stomach the guilt of ignoring her, how to live with the knowledge that she’ll call your aunt to lament about how you’re too busy for family.
“Are you wearing the blue dress I bought you?” she says without preamble. “It’s flattering. Black is slimming, but blue’s better on you. Brings out your eyes.”
“I’m at work, Mom.”
“You can wear a dress to work. You know, if you… tried a little more. You’ll feel better when you start making healthier choices. I was talking to Linda about a cleanse—”
“I like my choices.”
She tuts, a sound like a nick to the quick. “You’ll thank me when you’re confident. When people look at you and see discipline.”
You swallow, tight. Another postcard pinned to the corkboard of your chest: discipline equals beauty, equals worth. “I have to go.”
“Dinner Sunday. Don’t be late. And be prepared to say no to potatoes. You know how you get.”
How you get. Like you’re a storm gathering at the horizon. You hang up, jaw aching from the way you’ve clenched it. The newsroom sounds like it’s under water. You concentrate on breathing, on steadying your hands over the keyboard.
A shadow drifts over your desk. Clark’s voice is low. “You okay?”
You don’t look up. If you look at him you’ll fall apart. “Fine. Deadline.”
He hums, skeptical, and leaves without pushing. Minutes later, a yellow sticky note appears on your desk, sliding like a small sun beneath your fingers.
Breathe. Lunch on me at one. — C
You don’t go at one. You go at one-thirty because you pretend to forget and then hate yourself for taking up space, for taking up time he offered so easily. You expect him to have gone without you. He hasn’t. He’s sitting in the lobby with a brown bag and two waters, broad shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller to fit the vinyl chair.
He stands when he sees you. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you echo, breathless from the elevator and the impulse to run away from who you are.
“I got you the grilled cheese.” He lifts the bag, the motion almost sheepish. “With tomato. Don’t yell at me about the tomato. It wasn't extra.”
You hear yourself laugh. “I wasn’t going to yell.”
“You were going to give me the 'don't spend money on me' look.”
You sit beside him. You don’t deserve him. You devour the grilled cheese anyway because hunger and shame are two wolves who never stop circling each other, and because he’s watching you like every bite is a string he’s untying around his own heart. He talks about nothing, about a weird elevator guy, about the copy desk’s war against serial commas, about Jimmy’s newest camera, until your breaths match the rhythm of his sentences.
“Thanks,” you say when most of the grease-speckled paper is gone.
“Anytime.” He tilts his head. “You sure you’re okay?”
You tell the truth because with him, you always do. “Mom called.”
He doesn’t push. He just nods like a metronome keeping time in a song you’re both learning to play. “We can work late together tonight,” he offers. “I’ll bring takeout. You can tell me about the blue dress.”
You inhale, shaky. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, soft, attempting to cover his slip up. “I just… like when you tell me things.”
-
The second call is after eight, after the newsroom has thinned and the artificial light has turned everything flat. You’re alone at your desk; Lois left hours ago, tossing a smirk over her shoulder that said don’t be dumb, and Jimmy trailed after her for a stakeout that sounded like code for “getting tacos.” Clark’s somewhere nearby, drafting a story at the desk across from yours, a twin island of mess and focus.
Your phone lights up with Mom, and you swear you won’t answer. You answer anyway, and admonish yourself for being a glutton for punishment.
“Your cousin’s down three dress sizes,” she says, like hello is a luxury. “She cut carbs. You should ask her for tips. She looked radiant today when I saw her. You could look like that. You’ve got a pretty face.”
The words land like pennies, light, relentless, collecting in a jar that bends your neck with its weight. “I have to work.”
“I know this is hard to hear. But I say it because I love you. Because I want you to be your best. You’ll never be happy if you—”
“Gotta go.” You hang up. Your hand shakes. You set the phone face-down and stare at the blank wall across the aisle until the tiny black dots in your vision scatter.
“Hey.” The word is a whisper. Clark kneels by your desk like you’re a spooked animal he’s trying not to scare off, one big hand steadying your rolling chair. “Talk to me.”
You press your tongue to your molars until the ache distracts you. “It’s dumb.”
“It’s you. It’s not dumb.”
“She thinks...” You break off, hating the waver in your voice. “She thinks if I were thinner, I’d be… better. Easier to love.” There. It’s out where it can’t fester. It looks uglier in the light. You brace for the reflexive no, that’s not true platitude you’ve heard from well-meaning people before.
What you get instead is a question. “Do you think that?”
Your laugh fractures. “I think I… don’t forget it. Even when I know it’s arbitrary. Even when someone’s kind. I just...translate everything back into her language.”
He absorbs it. You can feel him become even stiller, like stillness is a muscle he has to flex. “Do you want to keep talking here?” he asks. “Or take a walk? Or… I brought food. It’s cold by now, but I can microwave it.”
“You brought food?”
“Lo mein.” He smiles, tentative, like he’s offering a hand into a crowded subway car. “It’s not the same unless you burn your tongue on it, but—”
You stand. He stands with you. He doesn’t touch you until you reach for him first.
You anchor two fingers in the sleeve of his shirt and tug. That’s all. That’s enough. He follows your lead to the break room, reheats the cartons, pours water, sets the chopsticks the way he knows you like: one half splintered in two so they’re shorter, more manageable. You eat at the far counter where the window shows you the building’s brick flank and the slice of city beyond it.
“Does she know what you do?” he asks finally. “Does she read you?”
“Sometimes. She’s proud, in her way. She brags. She also asks if there are… more flattering headshots.”
Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before, a sharp inhale like he’s choking on his own restraint. “I wish I could put her in front of my desk for one day. Just one. And make her watch the way this whole floor stops when you stand up to pitch. The way your phone rings with sources who trust you. The way you make copy sing so hard it haunts the building after you leave.”
You stare. The lo mein tastes like nothing.
His throat moves. “I wish you both... could see you the way I see you.”
Silence pools between you. You can hear your heart in it. You can hear his.
“I don’t know how to do that,” you confess, small.
“I do,” he says softly. “I can help.”
The words hang in the fluorescent light. You’re not sure how you leave, only that ten minutes later you’re in your apartment with a couch littered by the jacket you shrugged off and the keys you tossed where they shouldn’t go. Clark toes out of his shoes at the door like he’s done it a hundred times, even though he hasn’t, and sets the takeout on your coffee table. He isn’t here to save you. He’s here to sit with you while you save yourself.
He doesn’t crowd. He asks where your plates are, where your blankets live, whether he can make tea. You let him. You sit with your knees tucked under your chin and let chamomile fog your face while a documentary plays with low volume and softer rhetoric than the one your mother speaks in.
At some point your head tips onto his shoulder. At some point his arm drapes over your back, careful at first, then firm when you don’t flinch. At some point you cry without making a sound. He doesn’t say shh or it’s okay. He says, “I’m here,” and he is.
When the credits roll, he doesn’t move. Neither do you. The tea has cooled. Your eyes feel swollen.
“You can say it,” you whisper to the dark. “The thing you didn’t say.”
“What didn’t I say?”
“That she’s wrong.”
He exhales. “She is wrong.”
“Say more.”
He tilts so he can see you, the streetlight leaking through your blinds washing one side of his face in amber. “You’re not a problem to solve. You’re not a work in progress. There isn’t a finish line called ‘worthy.’ You’re worthy right now. You’re…” He swallows, throat bobbing, the tendon at the side of his jaw tight. “You’re the best thing about my mornings. And most of my afternoons. And every night I try to go to sleep and don’t, it's because I keep thinking about what it would feel like to…”
“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, even as your chest expands to make room for the words you ache to hear.
“I do.” He looks at your mouth. He looks away. His voice goes quiet in a way that makes the world feel like a church. “I’m in love with you.”
It takes a full second for the sentence to land. Then another for the meaning to bloom.
“No,” you say automatically, reflexively, the denial learned young and practiced often. “No way. You can't be. You could have anyone.”
His laugh is small and disbelieving. “I don’t want anyone.”
“Clark—”
He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t reach. “Can I tell you the things that made me fall in love with you?” he asks, and when you nod, he starts counting them like beads on a rosary. “The way you circle the last sentence you write before you send it, like you’re blessing it. The way you pretend you don’t like my jokes and then write worse ones in the margins of my drafts. The way you always leave my desk with one object straighter than you found it, just one, like you’re pretending not to care. The way you take the stairs when you’re angry because you like how the burn in your legs sounds louder than the voice in your head. The fact that you put your hair up in the same messy bun when you’re thinking hard, and it looks like a sun I can put my hand against without getting burned.”
Your eyes sting. Your breath shakes. “Stop.”
“I can’t.” It’s almost a laugh; it’s almost a prayer. “I love your laugh when you’re not trying to be polite. The loud one.”
You rub your face. “I’m not… I’m not the fantasy. I know that.”
He doesn’t blink. “You’re my favorite reality, and every fantasy I have ever had in one.”
The room goes very still. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. On the screen, the menu loops.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
You nod because you cannot do anything else. He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid of startling you, like you’re a fawn who might bolt. His mouth brushes yours once, a feathering touch that splinters you at the seam. He tastes like tea and lo mein and something you can’t name that feels like a house you haven’t lived in yet but already remember.
You make a sound, small and astonished. He catches it with his lips. The second kiss is deeper. The third is a promise. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t slot you beneath him, doesn’t take. He asks “okay?”, and again you say yes.
When the kiss gentles, he rests his forehead against yours. You feel his breath on your lips, the curve of his smile against the edge of your mouth.
“Tell me what you need,” he whispers.
“Stay.”
“Always.”
It doesn’t happen that night. You could let it, easily. You could let him tip you back and swallow you whole and then take the pieces home like a magpie collects bright things. But Clark is made of patience, and you are made of a thousand little don’ts and shouldn’ts and not-yets that have taught your body to brace.
You fall asleep with his arm around you and wake to sunlight and the smell of something toasting. He’s in your kitchen with his sleeves pushed up and your rodeo clown of a toaster wheezing out heat like it’s asthmatic.
“I didn’t know if you do full breakfasts,” he says, sheepish. “So… toast. And fruit. And coffee, which I can be trusted with.”
You stand in the doorway in an oversized T-shirt and watch a man you want cut a strawberry in half and then in half again, reverent, like he’s opening a locket. He looks up and the expression on his face, open, warm, a little shy, turns your bones to warm wax.
You touch him because you can. Your fingers push into the soft cotton over his spine. He shudders, slight, like touch is a language he’s fluent in but has learned not to speak out loud.
“Hi,” you say against his shoulder.
“Hi,” he says into your hair.
He leaves at nine because you have a late morning meeting and he insists on giving you space to get ready. He kisses your cheek at the door and looks like he wants to say something huge and dangerous and true. You squeeze his hand like you heard it anyway.
At your desk, Jimmy swivels into your orbit like a planet with too much curiosity. “You look well-rested,” he sing-songs.
“Don’t be weird,” you say.
“I’m never weird,” he lies.
Lois drops a file folder on your desk and both of you jump. “Tell him to stop narrating your personal life. It scares the interns.” She leans in, voice low. “You good?”
You look past her to where Clark is pretending to read an email and failing to hide his smile. The grin finds its echo in your ribs. “I’m good.”
Lois’s mouth does a small, satisfied tilt. “About time.”
Sunday dinner comes like a dare. You almost cancel. You almost don’t. You go because not going feels like letting the wrong narrative win, and because Clark texts you do you want backup? i can be there at six with a pie and a bad joke and you say no. but tell me the joke anyway.
He sends back i used to hate facial hair but then it grew on me. You groan. Then screenshot it.
Your mother hugs you at the door and says, “You look nice,” and then, “Did you try that blue dress on yet?” and then, “Bread’s on the table,” in the same breath, each phrase a bead on the same string.
You sit through it like a pro. Your uncle asks about your job, your aunt asks about your love life, your cousin shows you pictures and you say all the right things while something in you scrapes its nails against the inside of your skin.
You survive. After, you stand at the sink with your mother, hands slick with suds, the dull white light buzzing overhead, and she says, “I only push because I care.”
You say nothing. She adds, as if it’s kind, “You could be so breathtaking if—” and you set the dish down with a clatter.
“Mom.”
She blinks at the tone.
“I am breathtaking,” you say, voice even and shaking, new muscle burning clean under old scar. “And I don’t need to be smaller to be loved.”
Her mouth opens. Closes. The silence redraws the room’s outlines.
“You’re sensitive,” she says finally.
“I’m done,” you say, and mean it.
You walk to your car with your hands shaking and the night air slick against your throat and the streetlights scattered like punctuation over the dark. Your phone vibrates before you get the key in the door. How’d it go? from Clark.
I told her the truth, you type. I’m at my car. I’m okay.
He responds, Proud of you. Then, a beat later, Open your trunk.
You frown. You pop it. There’s a pie inside, wrapped in a tea towel. There’s a note taped to it with a doodled smiley face definitely wearing glasses.
Backup, in case you changed your mind. — C
You laugh, wet and unbelieving, alone under a streetlamp, and you want him so much it feels like you might split.
You wait until Friday to invite him over again. Not because you’re uncertain; because certainty deserves ceremony. You tidy the apartment. You light a candle that smells like rain on pavement. You wear the soft black shorts you sleep in and a camisole that shows a slice of collarbone that’s always felt like a letter you were too shy to mail.
He knocks exactly when he said he would. He has flowers, not roses, but a messy bouquet that looks like a field at noon, and wine, and that patient expression that says he’ll go as slow as your body needs.
“Hi,” you say, smiling so wide you feel absurd.
“Hi.” He looks at you like you’ve stepped into a spotlight. “You look...” He stops, breathes, starts over. “You look like yourself. So, incredibly beautiful. I love that.”
You pour wine. You eat pizza on the floor. He tells you about a story he wants to chase and you tell him about a city councilman whose smile never reaches his eyes. You laugh at nothing and everything. The candle burns lower. The apartment settles around you like a cat does: in increments, with trust.
You kiss him first. He’s on the couch and pulls you into his lap like it’s a place that was always meant for you. He makes a sound into your mouth, surprised and greedy, and his hands lift to your waist, hover, and then settle, warm and big, fingers splayed like he’s mapping you.
“Okay?” he asks against your lips, the word a pulse.
“Yeah,” you breathe, and drag your hand through his hair, fingers catching at the nape in a way that makes his breath hitch.
The kiss deepens, unspooling, not frantic. He doesn’t try to slot you under him, still. He lets you choose the angle, the pressure, the rhythm, and when you rock once, slow, the heat that skates over his face is almost reverent.
“God,” he says softly. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“Me too.” You brush your mouth along his jaw. “So long.”
He exhales like relief has weight. “Tell me if you want to stop, or slow down, or if you want...” He breaks off when your mouth finds the soft spot under his ear. “anything,” he finishes, voice high pitched and a little wrecked.
You take his glasses off before you lead him to your bedroom. It isn’t a movie moment; you bump your hip against the dresser and say ow and burst out laughing because you’ve been bracing for a grand failure, for proof that you’re not built for soft lighting and slow hands. But he laughs too, and he touches the place you bumped with a thumb like he can soothe it through the fabric, and the fear loosens.
“Lights?” he asks.
“Leave them,” you say nervously, the fear of letting yourself be seen only outweighed by the desire for Clark Kent. Your words, to you, feel like its own kind of vow.
He kisses you standing, then sitting, then not quite lying down. His hands learn you like a language he’s studied and finally gets to speak out loud. He doesn’t skim over the parts of you you’ve been taught to hide. He lingers. He kneels and drags his mouth over your shoulder, down your arm, along the slope of your breast where your camisole slips, and murmurs, “Beautiful,” like the word is a boundary he’s crossing back to bring you with him.
Your body talks to you in your mother’s voice sometimes: careful, careful, don’t take up more space than necessary. He answers in his own: take up more. He strokes reverent circles over the soft of your belly and bends to press a slow kiss there that undoes you at the hinge.
“Clark,” you say, and it comes out a plea.
He lifts his head. “Yeah?”
“I want...” You pause, searching for the right words. You’re not used to voicing desire; you’ve learned to ration it. “I want you to see me. All of me. And still...”
He’s already shaking his head, eyes gone bright. “I don’t know how not to.”
He helps you out of your camisole like it’s silk even though it’s old cotton, his hands steady, his mouth soft. He kisses each shoulder, the notch of your collarbone, the tender place where your pulse thuds. He looks at you like time could start right now and he wouldn’t miss anything important.
“Tell me what you love,” he says, voice hoarse.
You’re not sure you can. He helps anyway. He drags his lips down your sternum, pauses to nuzzle the curve of your breast, to breathe you in; when you arch, he mouths you there with a care that makes your knees go loose.
“I love this,” he says, and his hand cups you whole, no rush, no squeezing you into smaller shapes. “How you feel in my hands. I love that when you sigh, your whole body sighs, like you don’t hold back even when you think you do.”
You could cry for how gently he names you. Instead you touch him back. He’s solid under your palms, warm and broad and steady, and the way his breath stutters when you trace his chest is new and addictive.
“Can I?” He motions at your shorts, then back at your face. Consent is his liturgy.
“Yes,” you say, and when he slides them down, he does it like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been thinking about for months, hands shaking only a little.
He looks. Not a devouring look, not a greedy one. A witnessing. Your thighs, your hips, the places that are soft and spill a little, the stretch marks like pale lightning, the places where you carry yourself. His mouth opens. Closes. He makes a quiet sound like awe.
“You’re...” He shakes his head, like the word he wants is too big for his mouth.
He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher. Then higher. He doesn’t rush. He murmurs things you’ll remember later like a song, so pretty, so warm, I’ve got you, I’ve got you forever, and when he finally settles between your thighs, he looks up to check again, one palm steady on your hip.
“Please,” you whisper, and his mouth falters into a smile you feel against your skin.
The first drag of his tongue is slow and sure, a question and an answer. You say yes without speaking. He learns the angles you like by the sounds you can’t stifle, by the way your hand laces in his hair, by the way your hips try to leave the mattress and he brings you back with a firm, anchoring hand and a there you go, that’s it. He doesn’t flatten you into something neat. He lets you be a chorus.
When the pleasure finally crests, you say his name the way you’ve wanted to say it, the way you’ll say it for the rest of your life, syllables broken and made new. He stays with you through it, breathes you down with kisses, with praise that sounds like the opposite of apology.
“Still okay?” he asks when you can breathe again.
“Yes,” you say, and take his face in both hands, thumb skimming his lower lip. “I want you.”
He pauses like he’s trying to memorize the shape of that sentence. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The first brush of him against you is careful, almost chastened, like desire is a horse he refuses to spook. He lines himself up with one hand and braces beside your head with the other, eyes on yours. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me to stop if you want.”
“I won’t,” you say. “I’ll tell you anything but stop.”
He eases in by inches, patience like a rope you both hold. Your breath hitches; he stops; you nod; he inches. The stretch is sweet and aching, the urge to hide and the urge to be ruined warring in your throat until the latter wins, and when he’s finally fully inside you, he drops his forehead to yours and laughs, helpless and quiet.
“You okay?” you murmur, even though it’s obvious he is not.
“I’m...” He inhales like another life just opened under his feet. “I’m sp in love with you.”
He moves like the word deserves, slow and thoughtful, like he’s trying to write I love you in a language made of hips and breath. He doesn’t look away. Every time you gasp he follows the sound like a tide, stays where you need him, shifts when you say please, murmurs yes, yes, yes like he’s agreeing to your body’s terms.
You don’t worry about angles. You don’t worry about the way your stomach softens, about the way your thighs spread. You worry about the way you feel like a prayer caught mid-air, the way he says good, the way he says look at me, the way he says your name like it’s both question and answer.
When you cum again, it’s not fireworks but weather; inevitable, sweeping, a front passing overhead and making the leaves on all your inner trees turn their faces upward. He follows with a shudder and a low groan that vibrates into your mouth when you drag him into a kiss.
After, he doesn’t roll away. He doesn’t laugh and make a joke to break the tension. He breathes with you. He cups your cheek with one big hand like he’s holding a lantern, thumb sweeping once, twice, three times against the soft under your eye.
“You okay?” he asks again, because it’s his nature to keep asking.
“Yeah.” Your voice is rough. You clear it. “I’m… more than okay.”
He grins, boyish and proud. Then sobers. “I know you’ve learned to brace,” he says, careful. “For comments. For looks. For hands that only touch certain parts. I want to be a place where you don’t brace.”
You inhale, a little broken. “You already are.”
He kisses you slow. “Then we’ll keep choosing it. Every day.”
In the weeks that follow, your mother tries again. People like her always do. She says something at brunch about a dress that “doesn’t do you any favors,” and you brush hollandaise over asparagus and say, casual as a knife, “The favor it does me is that I love it,” and then change the subject without offering her a chair at the head of your confidence.
She blinks and recalculates. You don’t do it for her. You do it because you have finally remembered how to be on your own side.
At work, the place that has always been home develops new rooms. You write cleaner. You pitch harder. You walk through the bullpen like you belong in your own life. Clark still brings you coffee. He still leaves sticky notes. He still hovers, as a verb, as a vow.
Jimmy keeps asking about custody, and now, when you two will take him to the park. Lois winks at you and smiles so hard you’re worried she pulled a muscle. Perry starts muttering about office romances and HR in a tone that suggests if you make him happy on a Thursday he’ll forget to be annoyed. You and Clark don’t make a show of anything. You also don’t hide. What would be the point.
One late evening, weeks after the first time he worshipped you into believing, you’re both the last ones in the newsroom again. The city’s lights spill through the bank of windows in streaks. The copy desk is a ghost ship. The vending machine hums like a tired bee.
He looks up from his screen and finds you already looking at him. The smile that moves through him when your eyes catch would be embarrassing if you didn’t wear an identical one.
“Break?” he calls.
“Custody hearing?” you call back.
“Jimmy’s yours on weekends,” he says solemnly.
“That’s fair.”
You meet at the middle aisle, both of you reaching, briefcase-full of reasons to touch. He slides his hands over your hips and you fit yourself against him like a sentence finding its period.
“You doing okay?” he asks, even now, like the question itself is a devotion.
“Yeah.” You tip your head. “You?”
“Yeah.” He kisses your forehead and then the corner of your mouth. Then, because you still surprise each other, he whispers, “I brought pie.”
You laugh quietly into his shirt. “Backup?”
“Always.”
He looks at you a long moment like he’s memorizing a byline. You let him. You let yourself be seen, big and bright and untrimmed, and it feels better than any finish line you were promised.
“Not breaking up,” he murmurs against your hair.
“We’re not even...” You pause, then tilt back, eyes searching his because you already know the answer. “We are.”
“Yeah,” he says, relief and wonder braided through the syllable. “We are.”
Back at your desks, you work in tandem, words pouring clean, the newsroom’s hum once again your favorite song. At some point, a sticky note skates onto your keyboard without you seeing his hand. You flip it open.
You’re breathtaking. — C
You roll your chair back and he meets you halfway and the kiss you share there in the hush of the empty bullpen is slow and soft and certain.
SUMMARY: After a grueling day at The Daily Planet, Clark returns to his apartment surprised to find more than just Krypto waiting in his bed.
WARNINGS: Contains NO Superman spoilers! Established relationship, no angst at all, SO much fluff, domestic bliss, Krypto being a menace, flirty/suggestive banter, lovesick!Clark, reader knows he's Superman, slight hurt/comfort, a rushed ending (sorry)!
A/N: I hope this makes up for all the angst from my last two Clark Kent one-shots! This will probably my last update for a while, so I hope y’all enjoy it! Divider by @bernardsbendystraws <3
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After the grueling day he had at work, Clark wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed. Between looming deadlines, a spat with Lois, Perry’s sudden decision to pile on even more assignments, and Jimmy’s untimely jokes that grated harder than usual, it was safe to say his patience had been stretched thinner than newsprint. His ears still rang faintly with the hum of clacking keyboards and voices constantly calling his name.
For once, Metropolis would have to survive a night without Superman, because tonight, Clark Kent needed rest more than air itself. The moment the key turned in the lock, some of the tightness in his shoulders eased slightly. He slipped inside, nudging the door shut with his heel. The apartment was dim, touched only by the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the curtains.
He didn’t even bother with his usual neatness; instead of setting his messenger bag carefully on the hanger, he let it drop to the floor with a dull thump. The strap slid across the hardwood, forgotten. Clark tugged his glasses from his face, rubbing at the sore bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. His eyes burned with fatigue, his body heavy from hunching over a desk all day. He had one thought, one plan: shower, then bed. Nothing else.
But as he stepped further inside, his sigh caught in his throat. Scattered across the floor, like breadcrumbs, were the faint impressions of paw prints leading down the hallway. “Krypto.” Clark muttered, though his voice held no real bite. The dog had never mastered the concept of personal space. No matter how much Clark tried to enforce boundaries, Krypto always managed to worm his way into the places he wasn’t supposed to be, beds, couches, sometimes even the kitchen table.
Normally, Clark would brace himself for chaos. A hyperactive ball of fur and joy, ready to pounce. And tonight, when all he wanted was silence, it felt like the last thing he had the energy for. Still, he reluctantly followed the trail. Trudging toward his bedroom, Clark’s suspicions proved correct when the paw prints ended right in front of the door. He let out a weary sigh and pressed his palm to the frame.
“Krypto, buddy, I’ve had a long day, can we not do this right—” The words fell away, vanishing before they ever left his lips. His eyes softened instantly at the scene before him. Sure enough, Krypto was sprawled across his bed, but instead of chaos and overturned pillows, there was a stillness he hadn’t expected. The room, usually in disarray whenever Krypto claimed it as his own, looked untouched. And Clark knew exactly why.
Because of you.
There you were, curled delicately against Krypto’s side, as if the giant pup were nothing more than a plush toy. One arm looped loosely around his neck, your fingers sunk gently into his fur, your face pressed into the soft expanse of white. Your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, lashes resting against your cheeks in a serenity that seemed too good for this world. And Krypto, his normally restless, bounding, overzealous companion, was still as stone.
Clark’s tension dissolved in an instant, shoulders loosening, lungs drawing in a deeper breath than they had all day. The ache in his muscles seemed less sharp, the exhaustion that weighed him down was replaced by a quiet warmth spreading through his chest. His lips tugged upward, slow and helpless, at the sight of the two beings he loved most in this world tangled together like they belonged nowhere else. For a fleeting second, he simply stood there, taking in the scene in front of him.
Krypto’s ears twitching as he dreamed, your soft hair tousled against his pillow. It was domestic, pure, almost painfully tender, and for Clark, it was everything he never thought he would deserve. He exhaled, the sound closer to a laugh than a sigh. Careful not to disturb you, he stepped closer, moving with the same reverence he used to cradle fragile lives as Superman. He slipped off his tie, his shirt untucked in a rare act of disregard, and lowered himself gently onto the edge of the mattress.
As he toed off his shoes, the mattress dipped beneath his weight, and before he could settle, a small, warm hand slid around his waist. Clark froze for a heartbeat, then his lips curved into a smile. “You know,” He scoffed softly, voice laced with teasing. “As gorgeous as you are, this still counts as breaking and entering.” Tilting your head against his shoulder, you blinked up at him, eyes heavy with drowsiness but bright enough to pierce through the haze of his exhaustion.
“Not when I have a key.” You whispered back, sass curling in your tone. You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the cheek where his dimple had just begun to show. Clark chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he melted into your touch. The tension of the day unraveled further when your hands slipped beneath the hem of his rumpled button-up, tracing warmth across his skin. Your lips brushed down the line of his neck, featherlight, and the heat pooled in his chest.
“Got off work early,” You murmured between kisses. “And I missed you.” The words, so simple yet so sincere, made his heart trip over itself. Six months. It had only been six months since you came into his life, and never, not once, would he have believed he could be so completely undone by someone’s mere presence. He wrapped an arm around you, drawing you closer, careful not to jostle the peacefully slumbering Krypto at your side.
Your head tucked perfectly beneath his chin, your breath warm against his throat, your fingers idly brushing patterns against his ribs as though you’d been doing it forever. “This,” He whispered into your hair, the single word carrying every ounce of awe he felt. “Is exactly what I needed.” Your hum of agreement vibrated against his chest. Clark smiled into your hair, closing his eyes, allowing himself, for once, to stop carrying the weight of the world. No deadlines, no responsibilities, no voices demanding Superman.
Just the sound of your breathing, the warmth of your body pressed to his. But of course, almost as if sensing he was being excluded, Krypto drowsily lifted his head. The second his eyes caught sight of Clark, the calm serenity in the room shattered. His tail thumped so hard against the sheets it rattled the nightstand, and with a burst of enthusiasm, he shoved himself between you both, his little red cape rustling as he barked loud enough to rattle Clark’s tired skull.
Clark’s shoulders stiffened immediately, his body going rigid as the weight of the dog pressed insistently against his ribs. His mouth flattened into a thin line, blue eyes narrowing at the canine who seemed to thrive on chaos. “Krypto—” Clark started, voice sharp, but before he could finish, the dog launched himself off the bed. His paws hit the floor with a thud, and he immediately latched onto the hem of Clark’s pants, tugging with surprising force.
Clark let out a strangled howl of pain as the fabric tightened against his leg, nearly toppling him sideways. “Krypto!” His tone was half warning, half plea, but the pup was relentless. You reacted first, slipping upright in bed with that soft, commanding tone Clark could never quite manage. “Krypto, lay down, boy.” You patted the empty space beside you, coaxing him with an ease that left Clark dumbfounded.
To his utter shock, Krypto froze, ears perking up at the sound of your voice. Then, in a heartbeat, he released Clark’s pant leg and bounded back up onto the mattress, on your side, of course. He curled against you obediently, pressing his snout into your hip with a pleased huff, tail swishing happily now that he had regained your attention. Clark blinked, utterly floored. Never in his life had he seen Krypto respond so quickly, so… politely.
The only person who ever managed to get close to that level of control was Kara, and even then, mayhem always followed. “What the hey, dude!” Clark exhaled, running a hand down his face in exasperation. He shot his dog a look that could have cut steel. “You never listen to me.” Krypto’s response was nothing short of smug, his big eyes half-lidded in contentment as he snuggled deeper into your side, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
You laughed, the sound light and bubbling, and reached out to ruffle his shaggy white coat. “Such a good boy, aren’t you, Krypto?” You cooed, and the superdog responded with an enthusiastic lick across your cheek. Clark’s eyebrows pinched together, his lips tugging down into a pout. He looked every bit the picture of a man betrayed by his own best friend. “Unbelievable.” He muttered, watching the way Krypto basked in your praise like royalty.
“Stop pouting, you big baby.” You teased, shifting to face him fully. Your hand left Krypto’s fur, warm fingers finding Clark’s cheek instead. The contrast made him shiver. Your touch was featherlight, the pad of your thumb brushing along the stubble that had shadowed the edge of his jaw after a long day. Clark’s lips parted slightly, the protest on his tongue withering away under the tenderness in your eyes.
Your thumb traced higher, softly ghosting over the edge of his dimple, a spot only you seemed to know by heart. “There’s that smile.” You whispered softly, coaxing it back. Clark let out a breath that trembled more than he meant it to. His hand came up instinctively, covering yours where it cupped his face. The warmth of your palm bled into him, grounding him more than any anchor ever could. His gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up, eyes soft but wanting.
You closed the distance first, pressing your mouth gently to his. The kiss wasn’t rushed or urgent, just slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss meant to soothe rather than ignite. Your lips molded against his like they were made for him, a familiar shape he could sink into endlessly. Clark sighed into you, the sound low and reverent, his free hand curling around your waist to pull you flush against him. Krypto gave a disgruntled huff, squished between you both, but Clark ignored it entirely.
A grin tugged against his mouth mid-kiss, mischief breaking through the softness as he shifted his grip and lifted you effortlessly onto his lap, a deliberate act of spite. You laughed into his lips, the sound muffled but bright, your hands framing his jaw as if to anchor him there. For Clark, the world could have fallen apart outside that bedroom and he wouldn’t have noticed, not when you were this close, not when you tasted like comfort, like home.
When you finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Your noses brushed as you lingered in the quiet aftermath, your breath warm against his lips. His forehead pressed to yours almost instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut. “You, sweet girl,” He murmured softly, his voice gravelled by exhaustion and something deeper. “Are dangerous.” You smiled at that, brushing a thumb across his cheek. “Go shower, Smallville.” He groaned, clinging onto you tighter.
But when you gently pushed yourself off his lap and patted his chest, urging him toward the bathroom, his feet dragged like a child being told bedtime had come too early. To his dismay, you declined the teasing offer to join him, answering with a kiss to his temple and a promise of endless affection waiting when he returned. Luckily for you, that was all the incentive he needed.
Clark took what was arguably the fastest shower in recorded history, steam still curling from his damp hair as he stepped back into the bedroom. He hadn’t even bothered with a shirt or pajama pants, just a fresh pair of boxers clinging to his hips, skin smelling faintly of soap. As he stepped back into the bedroom, the sight waiting for him made his chest tighten. You were curled beneath the blankets, head propped on one hand, the curve of your lips hinting that you had been waiting just for him.
As he stepped back into the bedroom, the sight waiting for him made his chest tighten. You were curled beneath the blankets, head propped on one hand, the curve of your lips hinting that you had been waiting just for him. Krypto, of course, had claimed the end of the bed, stretched long across the sheets like he paid the rent. The dog cracked one eye open at Clark’s return, then promptly buried his nose back into your side with a self-satisfied sigh.
Clark rolled his eyes, yet he couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips as his gaze swept across you, drinking in every detail. The shirt you had slipped on was one of his old college tees, faded blue, stretched loose at the neckline, slipping lazily down one shoulder. It hung on you in that way only worn cotton could, soft and lived-in, clinging faintly in places it had no right to.
The hem barely grazed the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs tangled in the sheets, bare and inviting. Meanwhile, your eyes had already begun their own slow, appreciative journey across him. You bit down lightly on your lower lip, gaze tracing the way water still clung to his damp hair, then drifting lower to his chest. Even relaxed, his pectoral muscles flexed with the easy rhythm of his breathing, leading down to the carved lines of his abdomen.
Your stare lingered shamelessly on the sculpt of his biceps as he reached up to run a hand through his wet hair, muscles shifting beneath his skin almost like he was a marble statue brought to life. Heat coiled low in your stomach, the simple sight of him making your mouth water despite how many times you’d seen it before. The novelty of Clark Kent in all his half-dressed glory had never worn off, and you doubted it ever would.
Clark caught the way you were looking at him, the subtle drag of your teeth against your lip, the flicker of hunger that softened immediately into warmth when your eyes met his. His heart gave an unsteady lurch, not from lust but from awe, because you looked at him like he was something worth wanting, worth waiting for, and he still didn’t quite know how to process that.
A crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Careful,” He teased, voice low and playful despite the weariness still clinging to him. “If you keep staring at me like that, I’ll start thinking you only keep me around for the view.” You huffed a laugh, stretching out your hand toward him from beneath the blanket. “Maybe I do,” You countered, tone sly but softened by the warmth in your eyes. “But lucky for you, I happen to like the man attached to the muscles too.”
Clark’s cheeks flushed, the bashfulness you loved so much bleeding through the confidence of Superman, and it made your grin widen. He stepped closer, the mattress dipping as he climbed in beside you, damp skin brushing against your bare legs beneath the sheets. Without hesitation, you shifted closer, molding into his chest like you’d been waiting for this moment all along.
His arm immediately circled around your waist, pulling you flush against him, the weight of his palm pressing firmly yet tenderly into your side. His thumb traced lazy, absent-minded strokes over the soft fabric of his old t-shirt draped on your frame. He buried his face into your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo and perfume that had long since clung to his pillows, and for the first time all day, he exhaled without restraint.
You nestled deeper, one hand resting on the solid expanse of his chest, fingers curling instinctively into the smooth lines of muscle beneath his damp skin. His heartbeat thrummed steadily under your touch, strong but calm, grounding you in the way only Clark could. Just as the two of you settled, a soft whine broke the moment. Clark cracked one eye open to find Krypto sitting upright at the foot of the bed, tail wagging, gaze fixed expectantly on the small space between you both.
Clark groaned, shaking his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Before he could protest further, Krypto gave a determined hop and wedged himself right into the narrow gap burrowing between your bodies. His cape bunched up against Clark’s ribs, his cold nose pressed insistently into your side before he finally sighed, utterly content. You laughed, reaching down to scratch behind Krypto’s ear.
“Spoiled.” He scoffed, though the fond smile tugging at his lips betrayed his words. With a resigned sigh, he shifted his arm so that it draped over both you and the superdog. Krypto’s tail wagged once before he stilled, his warm body pressed like a living barrier between you two. Clark's arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer, and he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You tilted your head up, catching the look in his eyes, the exhaustion still lingering there.
Only now, his features had softened, the tautness in his muscles finally slipping away. He kissed you again, this time slower, his lips brushing tenderly against your forehead. You felt as Clark’s body finally eased, the last traces of tension bleeding out of him as he sank deeper into the mattress with you tangled in his arms. For the first time all day, he wasn’t Superman. He wasn’t Clark Kent, the overworked journalist. He was just yours, wrapped up in love and the quiet comfort of home.
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this comes from the fact that clark saved a squirrel in the movie. literally, that's the inspo. i fully believe if clark could, he'd probably start an animal rescue of his own with animals he's saved from being superman
warnings/tags: fluff, clark is a softie, gn!reader, no use of y/n
The front door creaks open with a gust of warm air, and you’re already padding out of the kitchen in fuzzy socks. “You’re late,” you say with a grin. “Did the aliens win?”
Clark shuts the door gently behind him. He looks a little scuffed—there’s a smudge on his cheekbone, a rip near the hem of his shirt. But his smile is tired and real. “Nope,” he says, stepping out of his boots. “But they sure tried.”
You reach for him automatically, tugging his jacket lapel toward you. “You okay?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand closes over the middle of his jacket, like he’s hiding something.
Your brow lifts. “Wait a second… is that—? Did you bring me something?”
Clark steps back, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “Don’t peek.”
“Clark.” You’re laughing now, circling him like a cat. “What is it? A surprise? Alien chocolate? A tiny space rock? Oh my God, is it a puppy—”
“It’s not a puppy,” he says, chuckling. “And it’s not for you.”
That makes you pause. “Not for me?”
He sighs, lowering his head slightly as he carefully opens the front of his jacket.
Nestled against his flannel shirt, tucked securely in a soft cloth wrap, is a tiny trembling brown bunny—its long ears twitch at the light, its little nose quivering. You can see the way one of its back legs is bandaged in makeshift gauze.
Your heart melts instantly. “Oh my God,” you whisper. “Clark…”
“I found her near the impact site,” he says softly, eyes full of worry. “Probably scared off by the ships. She was limping—some debris must’ve hit her. She didn’t run when I knelt down.”
You’re already reaching out. He carefully transfers the bunny into your arms, and she nestles into your chest like she knows she’s safe.
“We can keep her here until she’s better,” he murmurs, tucking a bit of her blanket in tighter. “Just a few days. I was thinking maybe the guest bathroom—it’s quiet and warm.”
You blink up at him, wide-eyed. “Clark. Are you suggesting we set up a bunny infirmary?”
His cheeks flush a little. “Well, yeah. Just temporarily.”
You lean up on your toes, kiss his cheek gently. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper. “And I love you.”
He smiles down at you, soft and a little shy. “She was scared. I couldn’t just leave her.”
You glance at the bunny, then at him. “Neither could I.”
---
You crouch on the bathroom floor, gently stroking the bunny’s ears as Clark finishes padding a laundry basket with a folded fleece blanket.
“I still can’t believe you flew home like this,” you murmur.
“I kept one hand under her the whole time,” Clark replies, settling a shallow dish of water beside the basket. “She didn’t move. I think she knew I wasn’t going to drop her.”
You smile to yourself, then reach for a little saucer of spinach leaves. “I think she knows she’s safe.”
The bunny sniffs delicately, then starts nibbling. Clark watches her like she’s the most precious thing on Earth.
“You’re already in love with her,” you tease, poking his knee.
“I’m not,” he protests—but it’s not very convincing. He’s crouched with his forearms on his knees, eyes soft behind his glasses, like he's watching a miracle.
You giggle. “We’re keeping her, aren’t we?”
“No,” he says immediately. “She needs to go back outside when she’s healed.” A pause. “...But,” he adds quietly, “maybe we name her? Just until then.”
You light up. “I was thinking... Thumperella.”
Clark blinks at you. “Thumperella.”
You nod, delighted with yourself. “You know—like Thumper, but princessy. Because obviously she’s royalty.”
“She’s got a broken leg,” Clark says gently, barely holding back a laugh. “Shouldn’t she have a warrior name? Like... Battlebun.”
“Battlebun?” you echo. “Clark.”
“What?” He grins, nudging your shoulder. “She survived an alien invasion. That’s legendary.”
You shake your head, laughing, then watch as he reaches down and softly adjusts the edge of the blanket inside her makeshift basket. His big hand dwarfs everything—the water bowl, the lettuce leaves—but it’s so careful. Reverent.
“She really means a lot to you already, huh?” you ask softly.
He shrugs, suddenly bashful. “It’s just… there was so much noise. Panic. But she was just there. Hurt, tiny. And she didn’t flinch when I picked her up. Like she trusted me.”
Your chest aches in the sweetest way. You scoot closer to him and lean your head on his shoulder. “You’re a good man.”
He turns and presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re the one keeping her in soft blankets and calling her Thumperella.”
“Because she’s a lady, thank you.”
You both fall into a warm silence, watching the bunny settle down. Eventually, Clark murmurs, “we should probably check on her in the night. I’ll listen for her heartbeat. If it changes at all, I’ll know.”
You smile. “Of course you will.”
And later that evening, when you come back with a tiny cardboard tiara made of tinfoil and stickers, Clark doesn’t even blink—he just gently places it on Thumperella’s head like she’s queen of the Kent household.
Which, for now, she is.
---
It’s been ten days.
Thumperella’s leg has healed better than either of you expected—mostly thanks to Clark’s... unusual sense of gentle rehabilitation. You caught him once floating two inches off the ground while bottle-feeding her apple water. He claimed it was “to avoid floor vibrations.”
But now, she’s hopping normally again. Eating. Grooming herself. And she’s curious and energetic.
And the truth is: it’s time. You’re the one who says it first. “She should go back outside.”
Clark doesn’t respond right away. He just sits there on the living room floor, legs crossed, while Thumperella noses at his palm. His brows are furrowed behind his glasses, and his jaw’s a little tight. “She’s safe here,” he says quietly.
“I know. But she doesn’t belong in four walls. She’s not a house bunny, Clark.” You crouch beside him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You gave her a chance to heal. That’s the kindest thing anyone could’ve done.”
He exhales slowly, brushing his thumb over Thumperella’s soft little head. “What if she gets hurt again?”
“Then she’ll remember how to be brave,” you say. “Because she had someone who taught her.”
He doesn’t look at you, but you see the smile flicker at the corner of his mouth.
You fly together that evening—just a short distance out of the city, to a quiet wooded area Clark says she’d like. You’re bundled up in his jacket, cradling Thumperella in her soft travel blanket.
Clark hovers silently in the trees, barely rustling the leaves with his landing.
You don’t say anything at first. Just watch her nose twitch, her eyes scan the underbrush. The world is big again.
And then, with one soft motion, you lower the blanket, and she hops out. One step. Two. Then she pauses, looking back over her shoulder.
“She’s saying thank you,” you whisper.
Clark swallows hard. “Or goodbye.”
You slip your hand into his. His palm is warm and steady. “She’ll be okay.”
He nods. Watches her vanish into the green. Then—almost shyly—he murmurs, “I miss her already.”
You lean your head against his arm. “You were a great bunny dad.”
He chuckles, then wraps his arm around you, flying you both upward into the fading dusk.
“She’ll be a legend in the forest,” you say. “They’ll tell stories: The Time the Sky-Man Healed a Princess Rabbit.”
Clark grins. “...Thumperella the Brave.”
You smile, eyes glassy. “Yeah,” you say. “She’ll remember you.”
---
Later that night, you find a tiny, hand-drawn picture of a bunny in a tiara taped inside the fridge. And underneath it, Clark’s scrawled note in pencil:
“You made her feel like a queen. Thank you for that.”
SUMMARY: Scott liked you. You liked Scott. The only problem was that you were both idiots who couldn’t admit it. The solution? You make Scott jealous and he finally does something about the tension between you.
WARNINGS: Jealous Scott?
W/C: 2.5k
A/N: I watched Twisters again and this was the result. I love this rude man.
“You look like shit.”
“Well, it’s a good thing my self-worth isn’t determined by your vision,” you retorted, folding your arms and levelling Scott with a glare.
You’d been on your way to your motel room to shower and change into some clean clothes, but crossing paths with Scott seemed to be an event you couldn't escape. No matter where you went, he seemed to be there, like some annoying bug that wouldn’t leave you alone.
He was the enemy, or so Tyler liked to say. You didn't agree with what Storm Par stood for, but there was something about Scott that had you wanting more.
It might’ve been the thrill of the chase, of trying to get a smile from him despite arguing like children all the time. Your pulse quickened when you caught sight of him and you found yourself gravitating towards him if only to hear his voice for a few seconds. Honestly, it was ridiculous and if anyone on your team caught wind of how you felt, there would be uproar.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” Scott said, rolling his eyes. “I just meant that you look like-“
“Shit?” you guessed. “It’s okay, Miller. I know I’m never in the running for your compliments, but who knows? Maybe if you keep talking you’ll accidentally say something nice.”
Scott scowled at you. “Are you okay?”
There was an edge to his voice, concern laced behind the frustration. It was as if every fibre of his being was fighting the desire to check on you. Scott hated to admit that you had that effect on him, drawing out a softer side he tried his best to keep subdued. He shouldn’t care. He shouldn't worry about why your jeans were ripped or why you were covered in dirt, yet here he was wondering what had happened to you.
“Is that- Did you just- Are you genuinely asking me that?” you asked, eyebrows raising. “Since when do you care?”
“Since you look like you just lost a fight to a tornado,” Scott said.
“Not a tornado,” you said dismissively. “The aftermath of one.”
A nearby town had been devastated by a recent tornado and your team had been on the scene to help with the relief efforts. A family had been digging through the rubble of what had once been their home, searching for their dog. With Boone’s help, you shifted debris and whistled until you heard barking from somewhere under the mess. Fortunately, the dog was unharmed, but you hadn’t been able to get to him without crawling into the wreckage. You’d gone despite Boone’s protests, crawling on your hands and knees until you finally managed to free the dog, miraculously without bringing down the rest of the rubble on your head. You got some scrapes and bruises but you'd saved the dog and that was all that mattered.
“But you’re okay?” Scott asked.
“Why are you pretending to care?” you replied. “We don’t do that, you and me. We’re enemies, remember?”
“Like you could let me forget,” Scott muttered.
“But I’m fine,” you said. “Not physically, obviously, ‘cause you said I look like shit. Next time I see you, I’ll try and look a bit more presentable.” You swung around the railing to the stairs leading up to your motel room, offering Scott a grin as you leaned forwards to look down at him. “How’s that sound, Storm Par? I’ll get all dressed up and pretty for you.”
Scott didn’t answer, rolling his eyes instead. So much for trying to be nice.
Later that night, you were hanging out with Lilly and trying not to think about Scott. There was a restlessness in your soul, like your blood was ready for an adrenaline rush you hadn’t provided. It had nothing to do with the fact that you were sprawled on a motel bed and everything to do with the rude, annoying Storm Par employee you couldn’t shake from your mind.
Scott was an asshole. He thought himself above you because his job had a fancier title than yours. You went to college, same as Tyler. It was actually how you both met and started chasing tornadoes together, but neither of you wanted some fancy corporate job. You’d rather have boots on the ground, helping people where it mattered. Unlike Scott, whose boss profited off of people’s tragedy.
So why couldn’t you stop thinking about him?
"You're twitching," Lilly eventually said, drawing you from your Scott-related thoughts. "What's up?"
"I feel like... I need a drink," you said.
Lilly furrowed her eyebrows. "Girl, you're literally in your pyjamas."
"So? I can get changed."
Half an hour later, you were dressed in more appropriate clothes for a public appearance than one of Tyler's old t-shirts and a pair of cotton shorts. When you pitched the idea to Boone about going out, he jumped at the opportunity. You rarely initiated going out and after previously declining his offer to head to the local bar, your change of heart had him practically sprinting for his truck.
As you were getting into the passenger seat of Tyler’s truck, you saw Javi and Scott across the parking lot, an open laptop resting on the hood of their truck holding their attention. Sliding into the passenger seat, you glanced over at Tyler.
“What changed your mind?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Nothing,” you shrugged. “Felt like I wanted to go out.”
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with Storm Par over there, would it?” Tyler asked, jerking his thumb in Scott’s direction.
You shook your head. “Absolutely not.”
Perhaps you could finally work on forgetting about Scott by interacting with someone new.
On your way out of the parking lot, Tyler rolled down the window of his truck and shouted, "Hey, Storm Par!" You straightened up in your seat as Javi and Scott looked up. "We're heading to the bar. If you feel like unbuttoning those shirts and letting loose, come join us!" He winked at them. "We're fun, I promise you that."
The look on Scott’s face brought a smile to yours. If there was one thing you knew for certain that he would never do, it was getting caught dead in a bar fraternising with Tyler Owens.
If your words had a physical form, you'd be eating them.
Sitting at a four-top with Dani, Kate and Lilly, your eyes were trained on the door. A tiny, miniscule part of you was hoping that Scott would walk through the door with the rest of his crew, but then you checked yourself and wondered why you were thinking that.
You didn't care.
"So, what's the deal with you and Scott?" Kate asked, leaning her elbows on the tabletop.
"What?" you asked. "Nothing."
"Oh, come on, we can all see it," Dani said. "You guys are, like, totally flirting with one another."
"If him saying I look like shit is considered flirting, then he's terrible at it," you replied.
"Okay, so you're telling me you're not watching the door hoping he walks in?" Kate asked, raising her eyebrows.
You finished your drink without answering, placing the glass back down before saying, "I need a refill. And nope. Couldn't care less if he shows up."
Tyler and Boone were playing a round of pool across the room as you headed for the bar. Finding a spot, you wedged yourself between two people and waited for a bartender to appear. The man to your left glanced your way, his eyes softening when they landed on you.
"Hi," he greeted.
You took a moment to realise he was addressing you. "Oh, hi."
"You don't look familiar," he said. "You from around here?"
"Oh, no, just passing through," you replied, angling your body so that you could keep one eye on the door. "Just here for a day or two."
"Well, can I buy you a drink?" he asked. "Make it worth your while?"
"Sure," you replied.
"Adam," he said, holding out his hand.
You shook it and gave him your name, eyeing the cowboy hat he was wearing. "I take it you're from here?"
He was pretty, in that rugged, outdoorsy kind of way. Rough hands from manual labour, sandy-blond hair tucked beneath a well-loved hat, eyes as bright as a clear summer sky. He seemed harmless enough. There were no warning bells sounding in your head, no raising of your hackles as you anticipated an argument.
"Born and raised," he replied. "What are you drinking?"
"Whatever beer's cheapest," you answered.
Then you saw them. Filing through the door and looking completely out of place, the Storm Par crew walked into the bar. Scott was amongst them and if your jaw could drop any lower from shock, it would be on the ground. His eyes scanned the room, baseball cap creating shadows across his face as his gaze finally locked on you.
Immediately, you turned away, fighting the flush that was creeping up your cheeks. Adam was waiting to pay for your drinks, handing over his card before handing you yours. You thanked him quietly, offering a smile as you tried to keep yourself from looking for Scott.
"You here alone?" Adam asked.
"No, I'm with my friends," you said, finally looking over to where the girls were. "They're over there."
Adam followed your finger as you watched Kate embrace Javi with a friendly smile. The other Storm Par guys were flocked awkwardly around him, clearly out of their element in a place like this, but Scott was staring right at you. If looks could kill, you didn't doubt that you'd probably have spontaneously combusted from the way he was looking at you.
An irrational part of you jumped to the conclusion that Scott was jealous. He'd seen you talking to Adam, made the connection that there was a possibility you were interested in him and he wasn't impressed. Then you told yourself that you were delusional to think that.
But still...
"How are you at dancing, cowboy?" you asked.
"Two left feet, I'm afraid," Adam replied.
You grinned. "Perfect, me too."
The two of you headed for the makeshift dance floor, the slow country song playing on the jukebox filling the room with music. You turned to Adam, one hand holding your drink while the other rested on his shoulder. He placed his free hand on your waist, looking a little uncertain.
You danced with him, swaying softly to the music until your drink was empty. The conversation flowed naturally and if you weren't hung up on Scott, you might've gone home with Adam if he offered. But here you were, trying to see if Scott acted on his emotions instead of glaring daggers at you from across the room. You almost felt guilty about dancing with Adam, who seemed so sweet.
When the next song finished, Adam excused himself to use the restroom and you headed back to the bar for a refill.
As you were waiting, a voice behind you said, "You look nice."
Turning, you found Scott standing less than a foot away from you. Raising your eyebrows, you said, "Well, I did promise you that the next time you saw me, I'd be all dressed up."
"Yeah, dressed up," Scott replied. "Not dancing with a stranger."
"He's not a stranger," you said. "His name's Adam."
"I don't care," Scott said, his voice low.
"Careful, Storm Par," you said with a playful smirk. "One might mistake your usual grumpiness for jealousy."
"I'm not jealous," Scott said, folding his arms. "That's ridiculous."
"Okay, well, I'm going to get another drink and then go find Adam," you said, turning your back to Scott.
"No, don't."
Your back stiffened at his words. Could you have been right all along? Were all those arguments and jabs at one another just a cover-up for how he felt? That stirring in your stomach when you thought about him, could he feel it too?
"Why not?" you asked, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder.
"Because-"
"Because what, Scott?" you asked, voice a little sharp. "Because he's been really sweet all night and I haven't had him tell me I look like shit and there's been no arguments and hey, maybe I'll go home with him and have some fun."
Scott winced. Physically winced, like the thought of you going home with Adam pained him. "Don't do that."
"Then give me something, Scott," you said. "Because I am tired of whatever this is. We argue all the time and this will-they-won't-they is getting tiring. It's obvious you don't like me-"
"I do like you," Scott said.
"Okay, well, you have a funny way of showing it," you replied.
"I just- I'm not good with words," he said. "Or feelings. Or any of it, but the way I feel when I'm around you, even when we're arguing, it's... I like your company."
"So you're just emotionally constipated?" you asked.
Scott shrugged. "Something like that. Look, just don't go home with him tonight."
You took a step closer to him, standing so close that you could kiss him if you moved just another couple of inches. "Give me one good reason not to. C'mon, Storm Par. Is this something you want?"
"You?" he asked quietly, receiving a nod in response. "Yes."
"Okay, then you have me," you replied. "What are you going to do about that?"
You were done with this game. If Scott was going to get jealous over you talking to another man, then clearly you hadn't been far off-base with your assumptions. Seeing him now, riled up and breathless as he stared down at you like he didn't know how to handle the situation, had your own heart racing.
Then he reached for your hand and the moment broke apart like glass, shattering as he tugged you towards the door of the bar. Your drink was abandoned, your friends were gawking from their table like they couldn't believe what they were seeing and Adam walked out of the restroom just in time to see your figure disappear through the door.
"Hey, what's the big-"
You were cut off when Scott turned abruptly and kissed you. It wasn't like the movies; flowers didn't bloom and rain didn't fall from the sky. Fireworks didn't erupt around you, but there was a stirring in your chest. Deep in your belly, like something primal had awoken in you the moment Scott's hands grasped your cheeks and he pressed his lips to yours.
He pulled away first, cheeks flushed and breathless, but he kept his hands on you. They cupped your jaw, cradling your face as you looked at him with wide eyes.
"Come home with me," he said. "You made your point, okay? The thought of you with someone else, even someone sweet, makes me feel sick, okay? Just... I like you."
"I like you too," you replied. "Even if you are a fucking asshole sometimes." A rare smile appeared on Scott's face and he looked down sheepishly. "But just so we're clear, I still hate your job."
This time, he laughed. A genuine, deep laugh that came from the depths of his chest. "Yeah, you tell me at least three times a day."
"You sure you still wanna take me home knowing I'll tell you even more?" you asked teasingly.
Scott rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I do."
With his hand clasped firmly in yours, Scott led you to where his truck was parked and you didn't look back.
Notes: In collaboration with @orobaxis, who helped with part of the story, thank you for helping me out a lot 🥺 I genuinely enjoyed writing this, and I really hope you guys like it! <3
Summary: You and Clark get stuck in the pocket universe. He figures out a way to get you guys out of here, tensions rise.
Warnings: Lots of blood, injuries in detail, angst, hard crying/hyperventilating from the reader, kryptonite poisoning?!
Quiet. Darkness.
The eerie coldness that fills your space, the thousands of glass-like boxes that hold people as if they were prisoners.
Ending up in some pocket universe was not on your bingo card.
All you remembered was wanting to find Clark, where LexCorp took him when he turned himself in, integrating LexCorp and his goons on where they took your husband. You were walking back to your apartment when it went black.
Tossed into the glass box, you jolted awake, finding your senses of where you were, looking up at Lex from where he tossed you.
“I’ll be back for some questions,” As he goes off into the distance.
With one palm to the ground, pushing yourself up, you see him in the corner staring at you, as he was finding words that he was not able to speak. But his eyes say so much.
You felt no hope. Anguish. All you could do at the moment is cradle Clark in your arms, rocking him back in forth, hoping for all of this to be over.
As much begging and convincing you had on Metamorpho, he didn't let up. Continuing the process of making kryptonite with his hands. Continuing to bring Clark so much pain.
You hated it. The heaving, shortness of breath, the swollen eyes, wrinkled skin. He was leaving you slowly. The thought of your husband leaving your arms, having Superman himself leave you in your arms, was something you prayed to never have it happen.
You were terrified.
“Baby, hey- it’s okay. We're okay,” as you murmured at the crown of his head, shaking over the fear you're losing Clark right in your arms.
You needed to be strong. You couldn't let Clark see you like this. You can't show the fear that was written across your face. Just hanging on.
“So, you told me you can save my son, right?” Metamorpho mentioned quietly, glancing towards you.
“Y-yeah, he can. He can’t do this with the kryptonite around, but he will save your son, I promise you,” as you said, glancing over to Clark for approval that he’s able to, just to make sure, and he nods ever so slowly.
Hesitating, Metamorpho slowly shrinks the kryptonite from his body, until it vanishes like it was never there from his hand.
A choked gasp.
Clark clutches you as he finally can breathe, not used to getting so much air in one moment, the relief. The full relief.
“Hey- Hey, I got you,” massaging the back of his head, waiting patiently for him to get back to his senses again. Clark stumbles to get up, but you hover just in case he falls over again, and you realize it before he does.
The sun. He needs the sun.
“Why do you still look like- that?! Cmon now!” Metamorpho starts shouting now, urging him to get the hell up.
“I- I need the sun to heal. I need to heal faster,” as he’s on his knees, feeling like a slow defeat. You held his head up with a finger underneath his chin; you won't let Clark doubt like that. Ever.
“I have an idea. I- I can bind different materials to create an artificial sun, but I’m not sure if it’ll work. It might be bright – maybe even harmful to y/n.”
Clark looks over to you. He doesn't hesitate as he knows what to do instinctively; Clark wraps you into his arms at the far side corner of the box, his back facing towards Metamorpho. He was shielding you.
“Just do it. I got her,” shouting over to Metamorpho.
“Honey, can you close your eyes for me? It’ll be okay, I promise.”
He was able to feel in the moment that this was all his fault that you're here. That you're stuck in this situation with him, the pain in your eyes that gives worry.
That's when it all happened, all too fast.
The bright beam of light turns your vision from behind your lids all white, hearing the grunts from Clark, the warmth from his arms, caging you in the corner from any harm from the harmful rays.
From that, all you remember is the journey to get back.
Clark is holding you in one arm, the other balancing Metamorpho’s son, all while being chased by guards.
All you remember is the weak grip Clark had on you, trying to get you home.
In the blink of an eye, you were yanked through the portal before it closed, landing on the ground quite viciously, a large, sharp piece of glass piercing into your abdomen. The pain bit into your skin, angry and gnashing. But this is not the time.
Great. I’ll go deal with that later, you thought to yourself.
From being yanked out, you were released from Clark's grip, but still had Metamorpho's son tucked into him. With blurry vision, trying to get up, all you saw was Metamorpho take his son and make a run for it.
He was gone.
“C- Clark?” You attempted to push yourself off the ground after the harsh landing, making the glass shard push deeper into you than you wanted it to be.
The hissing, cry of pain, the tremble you held as you clutch your abdomen, glancing down on the wound.
You can’t be serious. Not now. Then you look up to land your eyes on Clark.
He was unconscious.
Forgetting the pain in that moment, scurrying over to him from the ground, you bring him to your arms. The blueish, blackish veins scurrying all through his body, traveling to his neck and face. He’s out like a light.
The slow, shallow rising of his breaths.
From a distance, you see guards running towards you with guns in place, but you were both alone.
“No, no, no- hey, baby, wake up, please. You can’t do this to me, please,” as you lightly shook him, a state of panic as the guards finally circled you.
You don’t feel the tears finally running down, you're heaving to yourself, rocking him in your arms, calling his name like a mantra for him to wake up. This can’t happen.
“Baby, please don't leave me alone, p-please, I can't do this without you, don’t leave me,” as you cupped his cheeks with trembling hands, feeling him turn cold by the second.
The guards start circling around you, guns pointed and ready to take out Clark first, like it was part of their duties.
“DON’T TOUCH HIM- YOU'RE NOT TAKING HIM PLEASE,” as a broken sob came out of you, short of breath, you were hyperventilating, one would say, but you weren't letting anybody near him. You're not gonna lose him. Over your dead body, you're not giving him up.
You didn’t want him to go. You had no escape. After all, you couldn't carry a 200-pound man to safety.
All you could do was have him in your arms. You shielded around his figure, shelling around him, protecting him from the guards, blocking their view so they couldn't see him.
You couldn't care. You'd rather take any shots before him. You would take any harm. They had to get rid of you first before they take him.
Just as you heard the barrel of the gun, ready to fire right at you, you braced for the impact, but the sound of Mr. Terrific came from a distance.
It all happened too quickly. You see guards dropping like flies. One by One.
You were frozen in your spot, your head bowed down at Clark's temple, until you heard silence. Gazing up slowly, you check around to see if it’s all over. Mr.Terrific comes to your view.
“Y/n, we gotta go here lemme-”
“N-No!” as you tugged Clark the other way, cradling the back of his head as you shield his face at the cranny of your neck, not wanting anybody to lay any hands on him, he's been through enough.
“Y/n- you need to bring him somewhere safe. I need to stay back to check the portal won't open again; no way in hell you'll be able to bring him back to the ship. You need to let me.”
You hesitate. A state of frenzy over who is bad and who is good. You know Mr.Terrific won’t bring any harm to Clark. You're just scared all around. Hesitant. But you eventually cave in.
Mr. Terrific lends you a helping hand bringing Clark to the ship, as he tells you the directions on how to work the engine, all the way to the steering.
Once the adrenaline was slowly wearing off, your wound becomes almost unbearable. But you needed to push through for Clark. Good thing you were wearing a thick black sweater where the blood seeps through slowly.
Then off you go.
To SmallVille.
_________________
Once you finally landed, as best as you could, you took Clark's arm around your shoulder, carrying him out of the ship to his parents.
Finally settled, they lead you to Clark's room, where he can get some rest.
You chuckle softly, seeing Clark taking over the small twin bed his parents kept since he was small. His room was untouched; posters to trophies, and awards.
“Will he be okay?” Martha asks worriedly.
“Y-Yes. Just some kryptonite poisoning. He’ll be okay.”
You felt uneasy. But you didn't want to put the worry on Clark's parents, but you knew he'd be okay by the next morning. Just hoping.
Pain clawed across your abdomen, sharp and unrelenting. Each step sent another stab through your core, and you knew you couldn’t ignore it any longer. You had to take care of it, now. Forcing yourself to move, you slipped out of the room as quietly as possible. Your legs wobbled beneath you, every movement a struggle as dizziness wrapped around you like a vice.
The bathroom door clicked shut, and the dam you’d been holding back shattered. A wave of sobs tore through you, hot tears streaming as the pain spiked to an unbearable high. Lifting the hem of your black sweater, your breath hitched. Blood. Too much of it. Crimson streaks smeared your skin, pooling, dripping. You bit down hard on a scream—Ma and Pa couldn’t hear this. And Clark… especially Clark. If he heard, there’d be no hiding it.
Your gaze flicked to the glass shard buried deep in your abdomen. You had to get it out before it did more damage.
When your eyes caught the mirror, your stomach sank. Veins, dark and jagged, threaded across your arms, creeping toward your neck and face. Almost like Clark’s—but faint, ghostly lines you wouldn’t notice unless you looked close. You told yourself it didn’t matter. It had to be from the blood loss, the fatigue. The gash was the problem. That had to be it.
You tore through the cabinets with shaking hands until the first-aid kit hit the counter.
Rolling up a dish rag, you shoved it between your teeth and bit down hard, praying it would muffle the sounds you couldn’t hold in. The sting of alcohol lit your nerves on fire as you pressed it to the wound, and when you dug in with the tweezers—God—your body convulsed with agony. Groans ripped through your throat, muffled only by the cloth as you fought to keep them from escaping.
You weren’t a doctor. Not even close. And the gush of blood told you as much. It coated your hands, soaked through the towel beneath you, painting the tiles in deep red. The bathroom looked like a murder scene.
Piece by jagged piece, you pulled the glass out, your vision tunneling as pain tore through you in waves. You didn’t know how you stayed conscious. Every nerve screamed, every muscle burned, and still, you kept going, tears blurring everything.
Finally, it was out. Barely breathing, you fumbled for the gauze, clumsy fingers wrapping it around your waist after your shaky, makeshift stitches—if you could even call them that.
One wrap. Two. Three. Four. That would have to be enough.
You collapsed against the cold tile, forehead pressed to the floor, forcing air into your lungs. Somehow, you pushed yourself upright and caught sight of the mirror.
God, you looked like hell.
Smearing away the tears with the back of your hand, you inhaled deeply, steadying yourself. You cleaned the mess—what you could, anyway—and stumbled out, heading toward Clark’s room.
He was asleep when you slipped inside, his face calm, chest rising and falling steadily. Relief washed over you in a shaky exhale. At least he was okay. At least this day was almost done.
But the heat burning beneath your skin hadn’t left. From your neck to your face, it crawled, a wildfire you couldn’t smother. You told yourself you’d deal with it tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
You settled for the bean bag in the corner of his room. It'll work for now, just a waiting game till he wakes up.
Fluttering your eyes shut, you were out within 5 minutes.
__________
God, he’s felt like he's been hit by a truck. He didn't know how long he’d been out for, but he felt the strength seep back into him that he was missing earlier.
Hazily sitting up, he catches your frame across the room where the moonlight peeks through the curtains.
His face breaks into an immediate frown. Gosh, how long have you been sleeping there? You must have been so uncomfortable.
Clark gets up slowly and makes his way over to you, enjoying the sight of your peaceful slumber. Taking one arm under your knees and the other snaking around the lower part of your back, he carefully lifts you up, steadying you so you don't wake up.
He felt your body heating up; maybe he thought you were just getting a fever from how cold it was in the pocket universe.
By dialing down on how your breathing was, Clark notices you were knocked out into a full slumber. Maybe you were just tired and getting sick. He didn't pay any mind; he plans to take care of you tomorrow and just let you rest right now from the events that happened.
Man, he feels so bad. The worries you left him, how it was his fault that you were kidnapped and dragged into this mess. He’ll make it up to you.
Tip-toeing quietly over to the bed, your shirt rises before he sets you down.
Gauze. How the hell?
He sets you down into the bed, flickering on the bedside lamp, lowering it to a dim level just enough for him to see and analyze.
He slowly looks, then sees the very faint blackish & bluish litter on your arms to your face. He instantly knew.
Oh my God, you were also affected.
From situations in the past, Clark learned that humans can experience Kryptonite poisoning canically but not as strongly, just very light symptoms like heat flashes and fever. No wonder you feel so hot. Why didn't he figure it out sooner?
He knew you'd be fine, with lots of rest, it would pass, but he couldn't help but feel the worry washing over him. He just wants to take the discomfort you've been feeling. To leave it on his shoulders.
Slowly, he grabs the hem of your shirt to raise it, and sees the soaked gauze that lies on you underneath.
The guilt eats him alive. You've been in much more pain than he was.
He carefully sets you down on the ground right at the bedside, and through it all, you were still knocked out from your slumber.
It must have been from the kryptonite; you have been heavily knocked out from exhaustion through the kryptonite and the injury.
He hastily removes your gauze, catching the bloody, raging, swollen gash that was poorly stitched.
Gosh, y/n, why didn't you wake me up?
Clark gets to work, leaving you for a second to grab a damp rag and the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinets.
Coming back, he sets you on his lap, dampening the cloth to your skin, cleaning away any of the blood that has been seeping out of the stitch and onto your stomach.
Carefully removing your stitches, he restitches them back up in a cleaner, smoother manner. Still feeling some pain even in a deep slumber, you stir just oh so lightly.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, I got you. I’m so sorry.”
After wrapping you in the gauze, he hooks your legs with his arms underneath you, arms on your back, and gently places you back on the bed, tucking you in. Clark reaches over to cup his palm to your forehead, and gently makes his way to caress your hair, leaning in to kiss you on your forehead.
“Goodnight, my love.”
______________
You doze off until the morning comes.
Your eyes flutter, thick blankets wrap all over you, neatly tucked in. You glance up, seeing the beanbag in the corner, realizing you're in his bed.
He must have carried you to the bed during the night.
Raising the hem of your tee, you glanced at the new gauze. Huh. Did he clean you up last night? Had he noticed?
A light nausea hits you, and the migraine engulfs your features ever so aggressively. You couldn't point a finger at the reason.
The morning light shimmers its way into Clark's room, but as you get up, you don't see him. He must have been somewhere jotting in the house, you think to yourself. Making your way down the stairs, spotting Martha, she instantly notices that you were looking for his son.
“Morning, sweetheart, he’s out in the front,” Martha mentions as she directs her eyes to the front door.
You nod your head as a way of thanks, making your way outside.
You stood at the doorway, spotting Clark on the tiny porch bench, almost taking up all the space for his size.
“You moved me to the bed, didn't you?”
Clark finally looks up. He sees the exhaustion in your eyes, but you manage to offer him a smile.
Guilt was eating at him.
“You were hurt; I had to. What husband would I be? Are you doing okay? Why didn't you tell me last night?”
You make your way over to the bench, Clark scooting over to make room for you. You take a seat next to him. “Just a migraine, feeling under the weather, that's all, but doing okay.”
Oh right. The second-hand Kryptonite poisoning you attained. The reminder was still there that this was his fault. Clark takes your hand into his and shifts his body towards you.
“Honey, you had slight effects from the kryptonite.” He looks into your eyes, scanning your features that your doing okay. “For very long periods — humans can get light symptoms, especially in close proximity.”
“R-Really?” You never knew. Who knew, really.
“Oh, I guess it is what it is then,” as you let a huffed giggle, a slight smile, to brighten up the mood. But deep down, you were so tired, still hurt deep within you.
Clark could tell you were hiding.
“Don’t forget about the stitches, too, you didn't tell me about.”
You looked back up at him, eyes glassy, and didn't know where to start. Scared out of your mind, guilty of not telling him.
“ I-I was scared, Clark; you needed the rest, I couldn't wake you, I couldn't bother.”
Astonished, Clark rebuttals. You were never a bother, he thought. “Honey, I care about you. When I’m sick, asleep, halfway across the world, I worry. Please just tell me, okay?”
“Okay.”
The pause of silence hits the air, deafening around the two of you.
“You look better,” whispering like it was something sacred, feeling as if you said it any louder, he would disappear, and you would be tugged back into yesterday's events.
“ I-I was so scared, Clark,” you stammered. “I was so scared of losing you — you were barely breathing and the veins— ”
At this point, you were sobbing all over again. Reliving the memories from yesterday.
By this time, Clark took you into his lap, each of your legs dangling from both his sides. He was quiet, eyes full of concern, listening attentively until you were finished.
“The guards were around us, they had their weapons drawn — I would die before they were gonna lay hands on you, Clark. I was so terrified of losing you.”
Clark's heart squeezes. The thought of you sacrificing yourself when hurt shook him to his core. Your heart is too pure, full of care towards him. It should be him who takes the hits first before you. Not you. He would rather take the pain first before you.
“Honey— ” he whispers, taking you to his arms as you sob into his neck.
It hurt you so much that it terrified you deeply when you witnessed him like that. Almost like you couldn't get the image out of your brain.
“Hey— I’m here, aren't I?” as he starts to wipe your tears with his thumbs, kissing all over your face, kissing all the tears away that he caused you.
It felt heavy on him; all he wanted was to take all the pain away from your shoulders if he could.
“This is all my fault. I lead you there. You were kidnapped because of me, you're hurt because of me.”
Your sobs subsided so lightly, bringing your head back up to look at your husband. His fault? Could never be.
“Baby– no one would have expected this; no one knew kryptonite would be around. I inferred your disappearance, so I expected it. I wanted to find you to bring you home,” as you were huffing, bringing your hands up to hold Clark's back hand where he was cupping your face. “You brought us home. You gave it your all. This isn't your fault; it is more so than mine. I kept the secret away from you, and I brought you so much worry, so I’m sorry.”
You were exhausted at this point from your breakdown, from the pain that lingered in your mind. But you're glad the worst has passed. You lower your head back down to Clark's shoulder just to know, just to feel that he’s still here with you.
“It's all over, baby. I’m so sorry you had to see me like that; I know it may not take all the memories of what happened last night, but I’m okay. If so, you were the one who helped us get out of there, alright? You brought me home. At the end, it's none of our faults; we were just unlucky that it crossed both our paths at the same moment, and I would fight for us just like you would too. We’re okay, alright?”
The tenderness of his hold, the truth behind his words.
You’re not having a particularly good day. Something’s been off since you woke up and you’ve not been able to get your articles together like you’re used to at all.
Every time you start a new document, you have to delete everything you’ve written and start over again.
It’s infuriating and you feel like you’re just sitting here burning hours when you could be finishing your article on the emerging technology companies and the possible ramifications of it all and submitting it to Perry for the paper.
You don’t notice Clark noticing you, or the way he frowns when you sigh and slam a finger down on the backspace key.
You don’t notice him taking up his briefcase and leaving either.
You’re in the same spot when he gets back, just more vexed.
“Hey,” he murmurs, setting two cups down your desk. “Will you share this with me?”
You look up then, and despite your frustration with yourself, you relax a little.
You’ve got a crush on Clark, but you’ve spent the six months at the Daily Planet not reading into his actions because you’re terrified of getting it wrong.
Plus, you’re friends and what if that is ruined all because you think he likes you back.
Clark’s set two cups of ice cream on your desk. They’re both double flavoured, coconut and mango with crushed nuts on the top.
“What?” He wants to chuckle at how awestruck you sound, but he doesn’t want to make you feel like he’s making fun of you.
You’re a shy thing by nature, soft spoken and sort of introverted. Clark finds it precious and he makes it known to everyone.
He nudges one of the cups towards you, “The lady at the stand, Mariam, she accidentally gave me two and I felt bad correcting her about it.”
“Thank you,” the second you put the spoon past your lips you sigh, the cold sugar calming you. “That’s really good.”
Clark hides his smile behind his own spoon, “Right? Mariam makes the best soft serve.” He tugs his chair to your desk, sitting on the opposite side of you as you start back up with your article in between bites of your ice cream.
Clark sits there, just watching you write and making conversation when you take a break.
He revels in the way you break eye contact with him every few seconds, and he tries really hard not to listen to the way your heartbeat thumps a little harder in your chest as Clark keeps his gaze strictly on your face.
Ten minutes later you’re having the last of your ice cream and sending your article to Perry for review.
You look up at Clark, stomach flipping when you catch his eyes and he gives you a smile.
“Thank you,” you say quietly, the strength of his full gaze making your skin warm.
“For what?” he frowns.
“For the ice cream, it really helped.”
Clark shrugs, a smile replacing his frown. “I’m just glad it helped.”
pairing: clark kent x fem! reader ☆ fluff, cw: suggestive themes!
You catch him off guard one morning—when he’s making pancakes, large figure hunched over just the slightest bit in your tiny kitchen that wasn’t meant to hold gorgeous men that are built like Greek gods. He’s wearing your silly, frilly little apron, the fabric pulled taut over his chest, wrapped tightly around his waist. It has you feral.
“Clark, honey, c’mere a sec?”
He’s attentive to you immediately, turning the stove off and plating the pancakes exactly how you like em, before setting them aside in favour of, well, little ol’ you. The dimples in his cheeks make an appearance as he smiles and tilts his head, dark curls falling over his eyes, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.
“What can I do you for, sweetheart?” He says. You have to fight demons just to not jump him.
You guide him to the living room, pushing him to sit down on your couch (not literally. You don’t think you could even if you actually tried. But it warms your heart to know that Clark’s humouring you, despite not knowing what you have planned <3).
“There’s this little thing going on online…” you muse, bringing your phone out to show him some clips of the ribbon trend. He’s intrigued by the idea of it, though he gets a little bashful when you propose filming the whole thing.
“Sure, love,” he nods his head, fluffy hair bouncing with the motion, “I’d do anything with you.”
You pepper his face with sweet kisses for that (as if you needed a reason), and he laughs under his breath.
-`୨୧´-
Clark’s beginning to feel so shy, sitting so nicely and obediently as you set your phone up and get the ribbon ready. It’s a pretty pink colour, made of satin and silk, and is soft to the touch.
He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing crazy strong arms and delicious biceps. You grit your teeth and focus on the feel of the ribbon in your hands, in case you lunge at him and bite him all over.
He peers at you through his glasses, cheeks flushed slightly, “Uhm, so, what do I do now?”
“Sit there and look pretty, hun.”
Your phone’s recording as you wrap the ribbon around his bicep, once, twice, then tie it into a pretty bow. Clark’s quiet all the while, watching you work. The feel of his gaze on you has you fumbling with the ribbon just a bit, which makes him smile teasingly, which makes you fumble even more.
“Stop staring at me,” you huff, embarrassed.
“Alright, alright,” he laughs, turning to face the other way.
You adjust the bow itself, before sitting back to admire your handiwork.
“So pretty, Clark,” you hum.
“Are you… talking about my arm?”
You roll your eyes playfully, poking him, “No, silly, m’ talking about you.”
That has his cheeks flushing, which wasn’t a reaction you expected. He tries to avoid your gaze, hunching his shoulders, trying to make himself look smaller—
“Y'think I’m pretty?” He asks shyly, and your heart bursts.
“Of course, honey,” you giggle, pressing up against him to kiss all over his cheeks. “My pretty boy, my handsome darling, you’re gorgeous.”
He’s positively red now, squirming in his seat, with the biggest smile on his face. Gingerly, he places his hands on your hips, holding you in place so you’re not clambering all over him.
“Wh–What about the trend, doll? The video?”
You pout, “Well, next is… could you flex your arm, Clark?”
And he does. He flexes so hard the ribbon accidentally snaps, and he’s so sheepish about it, worrying over ruining your little ribbon, your video, about making you unhappy.
Little does he know it’s got you all hot and bothered. Watching the way the pretty pink ribbon strained across his bicep, the fabric getting thinner and thinner, before tearing—oh, wow. He doesn’t have to worry any longer as you climb into his lap, straddling his hips.
“Oh gosh, sorry sweetheart, I didn't mean to—”
“S'okay, Clark,” you coo, hands coming to trace the curve of his biceps, shoulders, flushed cheeks… then to toy with the curls in his hair. “I just thought of something else we can film next.”
A/N: Sry for the rambling, hope it makes sense!! I keep rewatching this movie... i cant get this silly guy out of my head!!
Summary ➼ Clark Kent and the reader go to a craft store to get beads to match each other's eye colours for a bracelet
A/N ➼ Hope you enjoy reading!
See the rest of my works at ➼ Masterlists┃DC Universe Masterlist
It was around lunch time at your shared apartment. You two ordered some Uber eats, two lazy today to do much. So while you wait for the order to come you sit on the couch with your boyfriend. Your back against the arm rest, as your legs lie on Clark’s lap. He is reading a book and running his hands up and down your legs. And you just scroll on TikTok quietly, the volume barely on, so you don’t disturb Clark’s reading.
The doorbell rings. “I will get that, love.” Clark says, moving your legs gently off him.
“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” You looked down at your half-covered body. Wearing one of Clark’s old shirts that no longer fits him, and just a lacy thong in Clark’s favourite colour - blue. The same shade in his Superman suit.
He laughs before answering the door. Grabbing the bag of food, he thanks the driver with a wide grin before closing the door.
Clark places the food on the dining table, before grabbing some plates and cutlery for your Thai food. He also grabs the pepper grinder, knowing you love to put extra pepper on your food.
When you start to get up from the couch, Clark hears your heart beat rising.
“Is everything alright Y/N?” He asks, concern lacing his facial features. He put the cutlery and salt on the kitchen bench and walks straight to you. “Love?” He questions you again due to the lack of response. Cupping your face, he drives your head to look at him instead of your phone screen.
“Can we go to the nearby craft store after lunch?” You ask. Clark can hear his own heart rate settling down after you responded to him.
“Why?” He questions you, a smile forming on his face.
“I just saw the cutest thing on TikTok. A couple got some beads that matched each other’s eye colour and made bracelets out of those beads.” You gushed, a massive smile forming on your face.
“I am happy to go, but we probably need to get ready before we go. Now let's have some lunch, princess.” He laughed, grabbing your hand to walk you towards the table. He pushes your chair out - forever a gentleman - before getting the cutlery and pepper from the kitchen bench.
―୨❀୧―
You two are standing in front of the beads at the craft store. You hold up two different shades of blue against his eyes. You tongue out of your mouth a bit, as you thoroughly examine the two different bead colours. You are standing so close to him, your breath warming up his face.
“Which one do you think matches my eyes?” He asks, wanting to see how much longer you are going to take examining him.
“It's very hard, you have such unique and beautiful eyes.” You're too focused on the colour of his eyes, you didn't even notice his cheeks turning red.
After a couple more minutes staring at his god-like, beautiful face. You kiss his lips. Putting the one of the bead packages back on the rack. “I’ve got it. Now you turn to choose out my beads.”
He then looks at two different bed sets that match your eye colour the most. He stands just as close as you did to him before. Staring at your eyes, he can't help but close his eyes, desperate to back you into the wall and kiss you all over.
“You know it would be helpful if you open your eyes, baby.” You commented, a slight smirk lingered on your face.
“Sorry, but you are just too beautiful right now.” He responds, going back into examining your eyes. The intimacy between you two, driving you two insane. You keep looking up at him, eyes shining - God, it is killing him.
He then decides on a bag of beads that matches your colour.
“I am going to pay, love.” He lets you know. “Anything else you need in the store?” He asks before you head to the cash register.
“No.” You answer, looking down. One of his hands gripping your hip, while the other hand cups your face to look back at him.
“I am happy to pay no matter what, you deserve to be treated like a princess.” He tells you. “Now show me what else you want.” He kisses you, before grabbing your hand and taking him to other stuff you want to buy.
When you finish shopping and Clark has paid, your facial features drop slightly as you review the receipt. “You didn’t need to get me the other stuff baby. I could’ve paid for it.” You commented.
“Nonsense, love.” He responds, placing a gentle kiss on your hips. Even though both of his hands hold your bags from the store, he still grips your hips.
Summary ➼ Clark Kent and the reader go to a craft store to get beads to match each other's eye colours for a bracelet
A/N ➼ Hope you enjoy reading!
See the rest of my works at ➼ Masterlists┃DC Universe Masterlist
It was around lunch time at your shared apartment. You two ordered some Uber eats, two lazy today to do much. So while you wait for the order to come you sit on the couch with your boyfriend. Your back against the arm rest, as your legs lie on Clark’s lap. He is reading a book and running his hands up and down your legs. And you just scroll on TikTok quietly, the volume barely on, so you don’t disturb Clark’s reading.
The doorbell rings. “I will get that, love.” Clark says, moving your legs gently off him.
“Wouldn’t expect anything else.” You looked down at your half-covered body. Wearing one of Clark’s old shirts that no longer fits him, and just a lacy thong in Clark’s favourite colour - blue. The same shade in his Superman suit.
He laughs before answering the door. Grabbing the bag of food, he thanks the driver with a wide grin before closing the door.
Clark places the food on the dining table, before grabbing some plates and cutlery for your Thai food. He also grabs the pepper grinder, knowing you love to put extra pepper on your food.
When you start to get up from the couch, Clark hears your heart beat rising.
“Is everything alright Y/N?” He asks, concern lacing his facial features. He put the cutlery and salt on the kitchen bench and walks straight to you. “Love?” He questions you again due to the lack of response. Cupping your face, he drives your head to look at him instead of your phone screen.
“Can we go to the nearby craft store after lunch?” You ask. Clark can hear his own heart rate settling down after you responded to him.
“Why?” He questions you, a smile forming on his face.
“I just saw the cutest thing on TikTok. A couple got some beads that matched each other’s eye colour and made bracelets out of those beads.” You gushed, a massive smile forming on your face.
“I am happy to go, but we probably need to get ready before we go. Now let's have some lunch, princess.” He laughed, grabbing your hand to walk you towards the table. He pushes your chair out - forever a gentleman - before getting the cutlery and pepper from the kitchen bench.
―୨❀୧―
You two are standing in front of the beads at the craft store. You hold up two different shades of blue against his eyes. You tongue out of your mouth a bit, as you thoroughly examine the two different bead colours. You are standing so close to him, your breath warming up his face.
“Which one do you think matches my eyes?” He asks, wanting to see how much longer you are going to take examining him.
“It's very hard, you have such unique and beautiful eyes.” You're too focused on the colour of his eyes, you didn't even notice his cheeks turning red.
After a couple more minutes staring at his god-like, beautiful face. You kiss his lips. Putting the one of the bead packages back on the rack. “I’ve got it. Now you turn to choose out my beads.”
He then looks at two different bed sets that match your eye colour the most. He stands just as close as you did to him before. Staring at your eyes, he can't help but close his eyes, desperate to back you into the wall and kiss you all over.
“You know it would be helpful if you open your eyes, baby.” You commented, a slight smirk lingered on your face.
“Sorry, but you are just too beautiful right now.” He responds, going back into examining your eyes. The intimacy between you two, driving you two insane. You keep looking up at him, eyes shining - God, it is killing him.
He then decides on a bag of beads that matches your colour.
“I am going to pay, love.” He lets you know. “Anything else you need in the store?” He asks before you head to the cash register.
“No.” You answer, looking down. One of his hands gripping your hip, while the other hand cups your face to look back at him.
“I am happy to pay no matter what, you deserve to be treated like a princess.” He tells you. “Now show me what else you want.” He kisses you, before grabbing your hand and taking him to other stuff you want to buy.
When you finish shopping and Clark has paid, your facial features drop slightly as you review the receipt. “You didn’t need to get me the other stuff baby. I could’ve paid for it.” You commented.
“Nonsense, love.” He responds, placing a gentle kiss on your hips. Even though both of his hands hold your bags from the store, he still grips your hips.
very random, but I was scrolling inst during my lunch break and came across a video of a baby scrunching? and I thought that Clark would love this feature in babies. He would definitely spend any available time holding his baby just to watch them curl up into a ball, pulling their legs close to their stomach.
“You’re my little snail.”
(girl I’m even not into babies 😭)
oh my god you’ve just unlocked something in my brain
It started the first night home from the hospital.
Clark had been up, pacing the bedroom in slow, careful circles with your daughter tucked against his chest, the way a man might carry a priceless artifact. You were half-asleep, but you caught the quiet little gasp he made, almost like he’d seen the sunrise for the first time.
“She—she just curled up,” he whispered, peeking over at you. “Like she’s still in there.”
You smiled sleepily. “It’s called the scrunch, Clark. Babies do that.”
But to him, it wasn’t just “something babies do.” To him, it was magic.
Over the next week, he became an unofficial scrunch detective. Anytime she stirred, stretched, or made the slightest face, he’d freeze, eyes locked on her like a birdwatcher spotting a rare species. And if she scrunched?
“Oh, sweetheart, look—look—she’s doing it!” he’d whisper, the kind of whisper that was somehow louder than talking.
You’d find him on the couch in the middle of the day, legs sprawled, baby cradled in the crook of his arm, just… staring.
“What are you doing?” you asked once, leaning on the doorway.
“Shh,” he said softly, eyes never leaving her. “She’s about to scrunch.”
And sure enough, there it was—knees drawn up, arms tucked in, her tiny face wrinkling in perfect contentment. Clark let out a happy sigh like it was the most important thing he’d seen all week.
“You’re ridiculous,” you told him.
“I’m in love,” he corrected, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her fuzzy head. “And you can’t rush art.”
By the end of the month, you’d caught him showing it off to Jimmy over a FaceTime call, angling the camera like a proud nature documentarian.
“She’s scrunching! Quick, look!”
You didn’t even bother to hide your laugh. If this was fatherhood for Clark, you thought, you wouldn’t change a single thing.
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