★ INTP - sagittarius - concert lover - in too many fandoms to count - reader - misty quigley defender - house of the dragon fan!! - the last dinner party obsessed - queer - likeafunerall remus lupin ♡︎ - video game nerd in disguise ★
hihihi my name is lars and i make character (mainly marauders and the pitt) collages because i’m not talented enough to edit. tiktok: larstdinnerparty
★ music:
the last dinner party - lorde - bowie - pink floyd - wetleg - fontains DC - paramore - olivia rodrigo - chappell roan - phoebe bridgers - boygenius - taylor swift - wunderhorse - ethel cain
“well you’d know all about the madness within, wouldn’t you remus?”
content: fluff with some anxiety. clark is shitting bricks. a proposal and kisses! that’s about it for this one pookies! (not proofread so don’t look too close.)
The idiom phrase of having your heart in your throat was now Clark Kent’s living reality.
Running on fumes due to a sleepless night of tossing and turning, and tossing again whilst you slept peacefully and blissfully unaware of Clark’s inner turmoil over the events of the next morning.
He had faced greater threats than this. Creatures beyond human comprehension. Kryptonite was supposed to be the be-all, end-all to Clark Kent. Nothing in his lifetime, would come close to the fear he felt from the alien mineral that stripped him of his whole being.
That was until Clark Kent was sat across from you, his beloved girlfriend of two and a half years; with an engagement ring snug in the pocket of his plaid pyjama bottoms.
This was a much greater fear.
He’d rather chew on Kryptonite for the time being.
Regardless, it was six o’clock in the morning. The birds chirped in the blue skies above, the city began to chug awake for the rush hour. You and Clark were sat across from each other at the table next to the window of your apartment. Eyes a little swollen from tiredness, pyjamas slightly crumpled and Clark’s curly hair sticking up in all directions — due to an early morning alarm of a make out session in bed.
Both hands cupped around your hot mug of coffee that Clark had insisted on making for you, you watched the cars down below begin to create a heavy flow of traffic with horns beginning to beep the signals of the frustrations of driving in the Metropolis rush hour.
Across from you, Clark was staring intensely at the mug he had selected for you to drink your morning coffee from. His fingers tapped against his own, his mind far away from the present time with you in the sleepy morning prior to getting ready for work.
You stared at your boyfriend and then at your mug.
“Did you spit in it?”
Clark blinked, “Hm? What?”
“Did you spit in my coffee?” You asked again with a smile, “You’ve been staring at it as if it owes you something.”
“Nothing, honey.” He sipped at his own, “You’re…just taking a long time to drink it.”
You guffawed at your boyfriend, “I wasn’t aware of an existing time limit on my coffee drinking. Why are you so jittery?”
“What—?” Clark felt himself get hot, “You’re jittery.”
“Hm.” You eyed your defensive boyfriend over the brim of your mug.
Silence blanketed over the both of you again. There was nothing bitter in the silence, you were amused rather than bothered by Clark’s sudden change of personality. Your — supposedly — docile, great big man of a boyfriend was practically vibrating in his seat, frame stiff, a frown set on his face that was a mixture of concentration and…anxiety? You weren’t so sure.
It was too early to put the pieces together.
You leant back in your seat that had one leg shorter than the other, a thrift store find that Clark carried home for you; even after some minor protests about how he could build a better chair.
The chair had character. You loved character.
“Are you done?” Clark asked impatiently. Kindly, but still impatient.
You looked to the bottom of your mug with a frown, “Sort of. You’ve put me off it. You’ve put your anxiety sweat all over it.”
Clark stood suddenly and grabbed your half drank coffee in your chipped Snoopy mug, setting it in the kitchen sink for you. You began to protest until he turned on his heel, his lips pulled into a thin line, his blue eyes wide and pupils small. He wore the sort of expression that even strangers would worry about.
So, you were worried.
“…Is everything OK?”
Clark paled significantly.
“I have something I need to ask you.”
Oh god. You thought. He had found out about your secret stash of thrifted, and more importantly, broken goods that you had felt sorry for.
You prepared an explanation, a little dazed as Clark’s reaction would not be warranted for your minor obsession that needed a deep-dive in a therapy session.
Trinkets weren’t sentient!
Meanwhile, Clark felt his whole body overheat as he fished out the green velvet box from his pocket. His throat dry, he managed to pull the box that was dwarfed in his hand, without you managing to clock it immediately.
Nostrils flared, he took a deep inhale and bit the bullet.
He got into position in front of you. On one knee, the box still hidden; but you instantly widened your eyes at the stance he had taken.
“Are you—?” Clark cut you off with a curt nod and watery eyes, before he exposed the ring within the box in his hand.
“There was never a doubt in my mind, that I would ever hesitate to do this. From the day I met you, you remember? You were Lois’ briefcase.” The pair of you shared a reminiscent, yet sniffly, laugh over the memory. Clark continued, “You had always said that I could propose to you over a cup of coffee, in the morning with little evidence of sleep and you’d say yes. Every version of a proposal you would say yes. Well…Every version of my future includes you. And, if you would let me, I would love to spend my future as your husband.”
You didn’t let a single second pass in time.
“Yes!” You blurted through the gaps of your fingers that were pressed to your lips. You squealed, the chair beneath you scraping as you leaped into Clark’s lap, “Yes, every time, yes!”
Clark let out a huff of unfiltered relief, his body that had been tense from the nerves, immediately relaxed when you wrapped your arms around his neck.
He hadn’t ever assumed there would be a rejection at the end of his question to marry him.
Didn’t make it any less terrifying.
You leaned back — Clark holding your weight — his face cradled in your hands, his expression was nothing short of admiration. A different type of glow with the addition of tear-stains streaked down his bone structure.
You shared a grin.
“That’s why you wanted me to finish my coffee?”
Clark chuckled, “I’d rather you didn’t have third degree burns from knocking it over.”
“Right.” You laughed into the kiss that Clark tugged you into by the back of your neck. You mumbled against his lips, “I love you.”
“I love you.” Clark beamed, “Do you want to put your ring on?”
You nodded enthusiastically, your left hand tilted toward your boyfriend — now, fiancé — to let him slip the ring onto your finger. It was a perfect fit, Clark had managed to steal a ring you wore often on your ring finger, nothing symbolic, you just liked the ring on that finger. And, he took it to a jeweller in the small town just a couple of roads down from the Kent Farm to get it sized; Martha Kent was ecstatic to help assist him in the selection of your engagement ring.
Admiring the ring on your finger, you basked in the happiness.
“Who are we telling first?” You clasped your left hand as you asked.
Clark exhaled, “Ma has been waiting patiently by the phone the day I mentioned I was going to propose to you. That was eight months ago.”
do u agree that clark is the type of man who would anything and everything just to make your day or when it's the time of the month or something. I can't get it out of my head like how gentle he is omg 😭😭
YESSSSSS
pairing: husband!clark kent x fem!reader. word count: 1.3k content: menstrual suffering. cramping, mood change and bleeding. clark lives to serve his wife. docs don’t take women’s health seriously!!!! swearing. kissing all that husband stuff
For as long as Clark can remember, there’s always been a mark on the Snoopy calendar that was hung up in your kitchen. It was a foreboding mark, a red angry face with devil horns and symbols to signal profanity floating from its mouth.
He would lean against the counter in the kitchen that was ten sizes too small for him, his eyes narrowed whilst he counted down the days until your routine bloodshed began.
There was no doubt that Clark Kent loved you. His glass completely full with you in his life.
However. You on your period? He was a little scared of you.
The day arrived, and Clark sensed the shift in energy. You had been a little irritable the night prior, unable to sit comfortably on the couch and you only allowed your husband to hold your pinky finger rather than your whole hand. Kisses were dropped down to four in total, which by Clark’s standards was complete cruelty.
He had gotten ready in the bedroom, making the conscious decision to wear the Snoopy tie to try put a smile on your face. And, when he walked through to find you in the kitchen, prepping your lunch for work, he began to tiptoe on eggshells.
“Morning, sweetie.” Not the usual pet name he used. But, it called for drastic measures.
You huffed in response.
Clark fiddled with the end of his tie, “Did I get ugly during my sleep?” This had you place the knife down on the counter and turn with a brow raised. He laughed softly, “No, Good morning, handsome?”
“Sorry.” You deflated a little and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, “Good morning, handsome. My period started.”
“Oh really?” Clark feigned naivety. He was better at tracking it than you.
You let him rub the base of your neck, hitting a good pressure point, “My cramps are debilitating. I was seeing spots at 3 A.M. Called the Docs this morning and you can assume Dr. Jones’ response.”
There had been an infinite amount of attempts to get it through the seemingly thick skull of four different Metropolis doctors that your period cramps were beyond out of the ordinary. The lining of your uterus felt as if it had been shredded by a cheese grater, fed through a paper shredder and then beaten into concrete for good measure. The response after another plea to investigate your insides further was often met with a brick walled response. Completely normal to a man in a white coat and an MD.
Clark felt for you. He really did.
“I’m sorry, honey.” He pressed a kiss to your temple, “Want me to show up as Superman and have a stern talk with them?”
You let out a laugh. One point to Clark Kent.
“As amusing as that would be, I’d like to keep registered at that doctor’s surgery. Plus, I need to head to work and wouldn’t want to miss out on Dr. Jones wetting himself.” Clark waited until you turned back to your lunchbox to raise his brows in minor alarm. You got a little sadistic on your period, but that was nothing in comparison to what you have said in the past.
Steve Lombard was often the victim to your sadism.
The pair of you left the apartment together, Clark had your tote bag slung over his shoulder, your two water bottles curled in his fingers. He held the elevator door to ensure you got in without it prematurely closing, kissed you on the top of your head and rubbed at the bottom of your spine where he knew you felt the cramping the most.
He kissed you goodbye on the sidewalk, pretending to eat your neck so you’d let out a small giggle before you walked in the opposite direction to begrudgingly heading to your workplace.
Clark waited for you to turn the corner before he whipped his phone out, smile wiped off of his face.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Olsen.” Jimmy Olsen answered his phone leisurely.
Clark began to walk, “Hey, Jimmy. Can you let Perry know I won’t be making it to work today. Something important came up.”
“No worries, buddy.” Jimmy yawned, “Hope everything is OK.”
Clark had been raised to help the people of Planet Earth. Sure, his parents message turned out to be the complete opposite — his identity crisis had eventually dwindled down — but to his very core, Superman was sent to Earth to help those in dire need.
And his wife was in dire need of a new doctor. A serious one.
He turned up in red and blue. His wedding ring tucked into the pocket close to his heart. He offered a polite smile and wave to those with their jaws dropped open behind newspapers in the waiting room. One guy asked his wife if he had been put on a Make a Wish as an adult.
“So, no bodily harm?” Hawkgirl was in tow. Her mace dragged across the brown carpet.
Clark side-eyed her, “No. Nothing like that. Just…here to send a message.” Clark scanned the room for a door with Dr. Jones’ name on it.
“You’re paying for my lunch for the next week, right?” Hawkgirl came with a price.
“As promised—Good morning.” Clark tapped his fingers on the desk of the reception. The silver-haired lady stared up at him, unbothered. “May I speak with Dr. Jones?”
“He’s busy.”
Clark sniffed, “Oh, alright—”
“—Make him unbusy, lady.” Hawkgirl interjected. Mace lifted to rest against her shoulder. The receptionist took one look at her, phone pulled up to her ear to talk quietly. Clark glanced at Hawkgirl who smirked and winked.
“Dr. Jones will see you now.”
You re-entered your apartment as Clark exited the bedroom. You toed your boots off with a frown. Your husband was never home before you.
“Hi, honey.” Clark fixed his ‘Let me ask my wife’ t-shirt, “Let me get that for you.”
He took your tote bag and coat. You stared at him with suspicion.
“Did you go to work, today?”
Clark hung your coat up, “Hm? Yes. Perry let me off early.” He turned and pulled you in by the wrists for a welcome home smooch. Between kisses, he mumbled, “I bought you some pads, ordered a takeaway, tumble-dried your pyjamas so their warm to put on. Hot water bottle is waiting on the couch with some painkillers. I love you.”
You bent your neck to look up at him as he kissed you again, “You’re sweet.”
“I’m your husband.” He patted your backside, “Go get changed.”
As you swatted at his hand that tried to pinch your bum when you walked away, Clark dropped down onto the couch, his arm already rested against the back of the sofa for you to slot in next to him.
He scratched at his chin whilst flicking through movie options that would make you laugh rather than cry — it was a fine line at the moment. His fingers came to a slow stop when he heard your muffled voice through the bedroom door. You had your polite to a stranger tone on.
Clark hid his smirk behind his hand.
Bedroom door swung open, you bounded through like his cousin’s dog Krypto. He watched you bounce on the spot, eyes lit up with excitement a before you dropped down onto the couch on your knees and facing your husband.
“Holy shit.” You remarked. Clark piqued his interest, “I just got a call from the Doctors office. Said I’ve been referred to a specialist. Dr. Jones put a special word in before going on sick leave. How crazy is that?”
Clark responded "Go figure." You tucked yourself into him, "That's great news, honey."
