This may piss people off but can we keep canonically gay characters gay in fanfiction? Male readers barely get representation as it is and shane is a canonically gay man who expresses that he doesn’t want to sleep with women, so when you write a threesome fanfiction with Ilya x reader x shane, the reader in all honesty should be a man due to shane’s sexuality
And yes i do know that shane states that he isnt into threesomes so realistically that wouldnt happen anyways but thats why its fanfiction.. but in my opinion its easier to look around that fact than it is to look around the fact that shane is gay and has no interest in women like that, its a major plot point not only for the show but also for his character, him not being into threesomes is just an opinion whereas being gay is not an opinion
Its just my opinion and you may not agree with me but it does bother me that im seeing alot of shane x female reader fanfics. Shane is for the boys not the girls
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ you're in vancouver filming the new james bond movie when you secretly ditch the media ban to watch shane hollander and the metros play the vancouver canucks. when you're caught by the press, you need to come up with an excuse for your presence — one that shane is able to provide.
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ male!reader, shane x reader. reader is an actor!
˚⁎⁺˳ . ⊹ part one!
“And we actually have a famous face in the stadium tonight, Isaac…” The announcer calls over the speaker, interrupting the sweeping shots of the audience that had been playing on the main stadium screens during the intermission. You wince, pulling your baseball cap further down over your face and slouching down in your seat. Surely not…
Ah, fuck.
A quick glance up at the jumbotron reveals an awkward angle of your side-profile, and you groan inwardly before straightening and pushing up your cap, shooting the camera what your agent, Laurie, affectionately calls your “fuck boy” grin.
Immediately, a chorus of cheers swells in the stands.
“James Bond is in the house! Unlike our boys on the ice, no matter how hard they try, Y/n L/n is the only one here tonight with a license to kill.”
You try not to let your grin slip at the bad joke. A headache is quickly forming at the corners of your vision, and people around you are already swiveling in their chairs to gaze at you, slack-jawed. You mime a fist bump at a kid who climbed fully around in their seat three rows ahead.
Mercifully, the camera cuts away after a few more beats, and you allow yourself to relax back into your seat. You wince, already imagining the conspiracy theories that were no doubt about to hit Reddit in a couple of minutes.
You were in Vancouver to film the next Bond movie; the snowy streets would dupe as Moscow, for about a million less in filming, transport, and crew fees — but the sequence of events was largely supposed to remain secret from the series’ rabid fan base. But this was Hollander’s last game of the season outside of Montreal, and you’d begged to catch it… Jesus. Sam was never going to let you live this down. You shoot a sheepish text to him.
got caught at that hockey game i went to. maybe they won’t draw any conclusions
Sam texted back immediately.
I am going to lock you in your trailer until I have finished directing this movie.
i am the main guy
Irrelevant
yeah actually i think rose could do this without me she’s so badass
By the time the game wraps up, the Metros pulling ahead with two absolutely beautiful goals from Hollander, your headache has manifested in full force.
You’re able to get out of your seat and halfway out of the stadium with minimal interaction before you run into the press.
It’s a crowd of sports reporters swarming a player, attention entirely focused on the athlete. You flip the hood of your Metros hoodie up, covering your face in shadow, and edge past the crowd.
The athlete mutters something, and you reflexively flick your eyes up — only to lock gazes with Hollander, of all people, whose freckles and sweat-damp hair are thrown into harsh contrast by the lights of the cameras. A grin tugs at the corner of your mouth and you nod at him once. His sentence trails off.
A reporter whirls around and shouts in surprise. You can’t bring yourself to be upset about being caught; most of your focus is snagged on the pretty smattering of freckles across Hollander’s nose.
“Y/n!” She calls, and the crowd instantly whips toward you. You’re guided by insistent hands to Hollander’s side, who’s shifting nervously on his feet. You turn to him and offer your hand, which he clasps in a warm, calloused grip. The flash of bulbs immediately consumes the space.
“Nice to meet you, dude.” You whisper, using your joined hands to tug him forward until you can lean down to speak directly into his ear. “You played really well.”
“Uh, I — thank you.” Hollander stutters back. God, he’s fucking adorable. An idea hits, suddenly.
“Play along?” You murmur, prepared to take the hit if he shook his head. Hollander only quirks an eyebrow and nods, though, so you withdraw and wink at him playfully.
“Y/n! What are you doing in Vancouver? Does this have anything to do with the next James Bond movie?”
“Tricky. I’ve been sworn to secrecy by my media director, so I can’t speak directly on that, but I’m actually here to see my buddy Shane play.”
A blush has risen high on Hollander’s cheeks. When the microphones pivot back to him, though, his voice is steady. “Uh, yeah. I invited him out to catch a game.”
The hubbub intensifies, and you sling an arm around Hollander’s shoulders. He melts almost unconsciously against your side, then seems to remember where he is, and straightens suddenly. You squeeze his shoulder, then guide him through the crowd of reporters.
“I think we’re gonna call it here, guys. Have a good night!”
//
The Canadian air is a jarring difference to the stifled heat of the press corridor. You shiver, even decked out in both a hoodie and a leather jacket, and Hollander laughs.
“I thought you were from Boston.”
You laugh. “And I’m freezing there too.”
You fall into a comfortable silence navigating through the parking lot; you’d both parked on the far end, it appeared, and your focus is mostly pulled to the icy ground to ensure you don’t faceplant in front of the hockey player glued to your left side.
You cut a glance at him. His nose is scrunched against the cold air, hair swept back. “Thanks for the save. Sorry if I put you in a tough spot.”
“I would’ve done it anyway,” Shane says, then shrugs, like the admission surprises him too. “It’s kind… kind of exhausting sometimes, isn’t it?”
You blow out a breath. “It is, yeah. I’m so grateful for all of my fans, and all of these opportunities… but I think I would like to just go to a hockey game and maybe get piss-drunk and make a fool of myself without it being the front page of People.”
Hollander laughs. “That’s not as much of a thing here as it is in America.”
You grin. “Yeah, probably for the best. I think Boston’s fucked with my perception of what’s socially acceptable.”
There’s a beat of silence. Hollander glances up at you, opens his mouth, then closes it. When he speaks, he does so quickly: “I’m, uh, a pretty big fan. I was really excited when I saw that you were doing a new Bond movie with Rose Landry.”
You grin. “Really? I’m a huge fan of you, dude. I think I drove like forty-five minutes to catch this game. You’re spectacular; my Dad is, like, obsessed with you.”
Hollander blushes.
“Just your Dad?” He asks.
“Don’t want to scare you off too early, Hollander.”
“You can call me Shane.”
You slow down in front of your car. “Then call me Y/n. This is me. Thanks again, dude. Hey — here.” You fumble for your phone. “Give me your number? You should come to the premier when it happens.”
He ducks his head to grope around in his hockey bag for his phone. You don’t want the moment to end, so when he leans forward to hand you the device, you blurt: “Actually, if you’re a fan of the movie, you want me to introduce you to Rose? I was about to go and meet her for dinner. My treat.”
You watch, fascinated, as red rises in Shane’s cheeks. “Uh, yeah. I’d love to.”
“Can I give you a lift?”
He nods and leaves to drop his bag off in his car, and you pull out your phone and shoot a text to Rose.
can i bring shane hollander to dinner? please say yes because i may have already invited him
SHANE HOLLANDER?? the hockey player? how did you manage this
he helped bail me out of a press thing
LMAO you were caught at the game? did sam threaten to kill you? yup he can come to dinner
thank you you’re amazing i adore you
//
It’s sort of surreal to glance over and see Shane sprawled across your passenger seat. He’s a big guy, and his knees are slightly cramped up where they don’t fit entirely under the dash.
You start the car, listen to the gentle hum of the engine. “Oh, sorry, man. The seat’s way forward; that’s usually Rose’s spot. You can tug it back… it’s kind of hard to find. Is it okay if I reach over?”
Shane smiles, slightly embarrassed. “Yeah, sure.”
You reach across his lap, mostly because the lever really is difficult to find, and slightly because you want to see him blush again, and pull it. The seat slides smoothly back. You watch Shane rearrange himself, and nod, satisfied, then latch his seat belt into place.
The road is surprisingly deserted, but icy. You used to just catch the bus when it got this cold in Boston. And then, of course, you got the lead in Running Man, and then Spiderman, and then you were the next James Bond, and suddenly had Uber money.
You’re yanked from your focus when Shane asks, voice almost faux casual, “So, are you and Rose dating?”
“Curious, are we?” You respond, even though his interest paints a grin across your face. Fuck boy grin, indeed.
“Oh, you know me. Can’t get enough of the celebrity dating rumors.” Shane deadpans back, and you laugh. He seems to be relaxing the longer he spends in your presence. You’re suddenly determined to preserve the wry smile on his face, the look in his eye — he’s gorgeous.
“Oh? You get any of those?”
“Mm. Not really. I don’t usually have time for anything other than hockey.”
“And juice commercials in see-through shirts, huh?”
Shane blushes. “You’ve seen those? That’s — my mom sets those up.”
“And she’s doing a service to the people, sweetheart.” You quip back. The endearment slips out almost unconsciously; you only realize what you’ve said when Shane chokes slightly.
“Fuck, sorry, I —”
“I don’t mind,” he says. His hands are folded in his lap when you glance quickly over, focus still pulled by the road, and his cheeks are painted a pretty pink.
You’re pretty sure that you can physically feel your heart skip a beat. Jesus, you need to get a grip.
“Yeah?” You ask.
“Yeah,” he responds.
//
You guide Shane through the rear entrance with a hand resting lightly on his lower back. He presses back into you, warmth radiating through his clothes, steady and grounding. His head darts around every so often to ensure no one’s watching, but the back alley is empty.
You pull open the door from him with a flourish. “After you.”
He grins. “Chivalry isn’t dead, huh?”
“Just go in,” You laugh.
When you step past the threshold, light floods your vision. The small building is well lit and heated. A low thrum of chatter fills the air, and you can smell the heady aroma of garlic and tomatoes. You let your hand drop from Shane’s back when he shifts slightly forward.
Rose waves you over eagerly from where she’s tucked into a booth. You pull her into a hug before ushering Shane onto the opposite bench and dropping down next to him. She arches an amused eyebrow at you.
“Shane Hollander, right? God, Y/n never shuts up about you. I think he knows your stats better than his lines.”
You huff in protest. “Christ, woman! The monologue is in Russian!”
You both hesitate slightly, then glance at Shane. Rose sighs. “Please don’t mind that. He’s incapable of not spoiling something.”
Shane just smiles and browses the menu. “Hear what?”
//
The rest of dinner is comfortable. Shane orders a side salad that he picks at enough that you slide half of your salmon fillet onto his plate, urging him to eat. Rose, inevitably, does not like her pasta dish, so you swap meals with her and Shane eats the tomatoes you pick out of the noodles.
You barely notice the time passing, and it’s only Shane’s slightly drooping eyelids that make you realize it’s been almost two hours since you last sat down. You pay for the check quickly, ignoring Shane’s attempts to grab the bill, then wave Rose goodbye and bundle a sleepy Shane in your leather jacket. He pulls the edges around himself and you lead him gently through the rows of booths and back to the car.
“You okay?” You ask.
He yawns. “Mhm. Just exhausted.”
He nods off in the passenger seat while you go to pay the valet fee, so you reach over and shake his shoulder gently when you climb back into the car.
“Shane? Sweetheart? Where should I drop you off?”
He grumbles slightly, shifting, and catches your hand, pressing it to his chest. “Just take me home. I don’t want to go back to the hotel.”
“I think we’ll have to, man. Montreal’s a five hour plane ride away.”
“Mm. Your place is fine, then. Can’t listen to Hayden snore or I’m gonna get arrested.” He grouses, then shifts and firmly shuts his eyes, which you take as your cue to drive.
The security at the temporary filming apartment is good, and it’s late enough that you’re not worried about cameras, so you maneuver a sleepily out-of-it Shane onto your back and hoist your hands under his thighs, carrying him up. You struggle a little bit more than your trainer would probably like with his hockey-bulk.
For the first time, you let yourself really realize that he’s a man — it seems like a stupid conclusion to draw, but you’ve only let yourself sleep with or date women for the past three years. You’d been too much in the media eye, your career still too young; but looking at Shane’s freckles seem to make all of these reasons seem arbitrary.
God, you didn’t even know if he liked guys.
When you reach your door, you set him down gently, and he sways on his feet while you unlock your apartment door and lead him inside. You crouch down to pull off his shoes, and his hands immediately wrap in your hair, fingers carding through the short length.
“You can take the master, if you’d like? I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Shane mumbles in agreement, and you reach up to gently squeeze his wrist to release his grip before dragging him down the hallway. He collapses on your bed immediately, face-down, and you roll him until you can manage to tuck him under the covers.
“Sleep well, sweetheart.”
You close the door and make an aborted motion towards your bathroom to brush your teeth before entirely abandoning the endeavor and letting yourself tumble down onto the cheap, pre-furnished couch. Rose had insisted on leaving an obscenely expensive throw-blanket tucked over the cushions, and you drag it down over yourself and drift to sleep, mind spinning.
Summary: A chance meeting at a Grand Prix sparks something neither Shane nor Ilya expected—and forces them to consider making room for a third heart.
Shane has learned a lot of new things since dating Ilya Rozanov.
One of them is that Ilya does not do subtle awe.
The second the cars scream past the paddock for practice, Ilya’s entire posture changes—chin lifted, eyes sharp, attention locked in like he’s tracking prey.
“This is insane,” Ilya says, accent thickened by excitement. “They are going this fast on purpose.”
Shane smiles, hands in his pockets. “You say that like hockey isn’t violent chaos on ice.”
“It is,” Ilya agrees easily. “But at least I can see puck. Here? He goes past and—whoosh.” He flicks his fingers. “Gone.”
Shane laughs, then follows Ilya’s gaze to the Red Bull garage.
That’s when he sees you.
You’re standing with a couple of other drivers, race suit half-zipped down, hair damp with sweat, helmet tucked under your arm. You’re smiling—wide, easy, unguarded—as one of them says something that makes you laugh.
There’s something magnetic about you. Not flashy. Just… present. Like you belong exactly where you are.
Shane feels it before he understands it.
“Oh,” he murmurs.
Ilya hums. “Yes.”
Shane blinks. “You noticed too?”
Ilya shoots him a sideways look, lips curling. “Shane, I am not blind.”
----
They meet you accidentally.
Or maybe not accidentally at all.
You’re coming out of the garage when someone calls your name, and you turn—almost colliding with Ilya, who stops short with a startled, “Whoa.”
“Sorry,” you say immediately. “My fault.”
Your voice is warm. Friendly. You glance between them, recognition dawning. “Wait—aren’t you—”
“Ilya,” Ilya says, offering his hand without hesitation. “Hockey menace.”
You grin as you shake it. “I’ve heard.”
Shane steps in smoothly. “Shane. Nice to meet you.”
Up close, Shane notices the small things: the way your eyes flicker between them with interest, not confusion; the calm confidence in the way you stand; the faint tension under your smile that tells him you know exactly how dangerous your job is—and do it anyway.
“You guys enjoying the weekend?” you ask.
Ilya tilts his head. “Is loud. Is fast. I am concerned for everyone’s bones.”
You laugh, genuine and bright, and something in Ilya’s chest goes tight.
“Fair,” you say. “If it helps, we’re usually concerned too.”
Shane watches the exchange, something warm blooming behind his ribs. You’re easy with Ilya—unintimidated, amused, matching his energy without trying to tame it.
That doesn’t happen often.
Before you leave, you gesture back toward the track. “If you stick around for the race tomorrow, maybe I’ll give you someone specific to yell at.”
Ilya smirks. “I already yell at television.”
“Perfect,” you say. “Practice run, then.”
As you walk away, Shane realizes something alarming.
He doesn’t want you to go.
----
That night, they lie tangled together in the hotel bed, city lights bleeding in through the curtains.
Shane is quiet longer than usual.
Ilya notices.
“You are thinking,” Ilya says, fingers tracing idle patterns on Shane’s back. “Dangerous hobby.”
Shane exhales softly. “I like him.”
Ilya stills.
Then—slowly—he smiles.
“Good,” Ilya says. “Because if you said you didn’t, I would call you liar.”
Shane laughs quietly, then sobers. “You do too.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. No deflection.
Ilya rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow, expression unusually open. “I felt it immediately. Like—” He gestures vaguely at his chest. “Pull.”
Shane swallows. “Me too. And that scares me.”
Ilya nods, surprisingly gentle. “It should. It is big thing.”
They sit with it for a moment—the weight of possibility, of change.
Shane turns toward him. “I don’t want to hurt what we have.”
Ilya’s hand cups his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “We would not be replacing,” he says quietly. “We would be… expanding.”
Shane’s eyes sting. “You really think it could work?”
Ilya smiles, soft and certain. “Shane,” he says, voice warm with affection, “we are already disaster. Why not beautiful disaster?”
Shane laughs, breath hitching. He presses his forehead to Ilya’s. “We’d have to talk to him. Together.”
“Obviously,” Ilya says. “We do nothing separately. This is rule.”
Shane closes his eyes, heart racing—not with fear, but with hope.
“Okay,” he says. “Let’s invite him in.”
Ilya grins, sharp and fond. “I like this plan.”
Outside, engines roar in the distance, the promise of speed and fire and futures yet unwritten.
And somewhere between the noise and the quiet, the shape of you begins to form in both of their lives.
The way im still seeing Shane Hollander x Fem!reader fics as if that man isn’t gay… guys can we stop this shit. Even when Ilya is involved, it’s so gross. Ilya is bisexual but Shane has no interest including a woman in the bedroom next to his lover
warnings: PG-13, clark kent's dimples, standoffish!reader, lois and jimmy shipping it, reader being a perv kinda and a big fan of mr. superman, mentions of a condom, dork!clark, cocky!superman, he calls you ma'am once, everyone is clueless, mild sexual tension.
wc: 3.4k
note: this was actually the first fic i wrote ab clark, but it's just now leaving the drafts lol
masterlist
---
stupid dimples.
how you can be pissed off by a body feature is beyond you.
but seeing clark kent walking around the office, showing off that stupid smile, with those stupid dimples, and eye crinkles, and his fucking dark ringlets -- that one that falls perfectly against his brow -- his dumb broad chest, his stupid long legs and thick thighs... it's actually obscene.
borderline indecent.
and he smiles at everyone.
he's not afraid to give his smiles away. the crooked way his lips lift when he greets them in the morning. the 'picture perfect smile' he gives you when he brings you a coffee -- one that you never ask for (but also never deny because at 8 am you're struggling to keep your eyes open).
the shy one he flashes along with his pink face when he's being adorably clumsy again. knocking over a cup of water all over his notes, tripping on nothing on the way to olsen's desk, or dropping an armful of papers, fresh from the printer.
and even when he hides his smile, you can still see those stupid dimples staring back at you. the politeness is etched into the way his perfect teeth bite down on his bottom lip as he tries to hide a grin when something embarrassing happens to someone because he's too nice to laugh. it makes you vibrate like a shaken bottle of coke ready to explode.
but you'd never admit that you do that. because don't stare at him or care about what he does at all.
because you dislike him.
everyone knows that.
except clark, that is.
---
you shuffle tiredly to your desk with a sigh, murmuring small 'good mornings' every now and then to the people you pass by.
the bag that hangs from your shoulder is barely zipped closed from how much stuff you haphazardly shoved in it before running out the door. despite having to wake up every day at the same time, you're still not a morning person.
"morning." an annoyingly bright voice calls out to you. your desk neighbor, the ever chipper clark kent, is already at your side before you can respond.
"clark." you greet him flatly without actually looking at him as you take off your jacket and drape it over the back of your chair. you sit down and start logging into your desktop, ready to start the day by replying to a handful of wordy and overdue emails. but at the corner of your eye, you can still see a stupidly broad figure at your side. "what is it?" you sigh, finally turning to acknowledge him.
"y-you, uh -- you dropped something on the way in." he gestures to whatever is in his hand, but doesn't show you immediately. of course, whatever he's holding is completely engulfed in his large hand, leaving you puzzled about what he could've picked up.
"could've just placed it on my desk?"
"no...i don't think i should..." he sounds nervous, looking around the workspace as if he's afraid someone would hear the conversation.
"give it to me" you exhale, holding out a hand so he can give you whatever it was that was making him so fidgety and shy. he carefully places the item in your hand, the plastic packaging warmed from his touch.
a silent pause rests between the two of you as those wide blue eyes, hidden behind a pair of oversized glasses, worry over your reaction.
you look down at the offending object: a condom packet with the phrase Ribbed For Her Pleasure plastered all over it, slightly crumpled from his fisted grip. and then you look back at him as your brain struggles to comprehend what was happening.
poor clark looks back sheepishly, like he's afraid to be near the small foil packet...and you.
this you know for a fact: in no way, shape, or form, would you have a condom in your work bag. or at all. it's been years since you bought condoms -- since you've been with anyone at all.
you almost stutter when you quickly defend yourself, "this isn't mine."
"yes it is." he says gently, "i-i saw it fall out of your bag when you walked in..."
you shake your head, "it's not though. i don't know how it got in there." you try to give it back to him, force it into his hand, but he immediately pulls back. "i don't want this!"
he holds his hands up as a way to appease your growing defensiveness, "look, it's fine. i won't say anything."
"no, clark, seriously--"
"we're adults! i'm not bothered." he laughs it off, "why would i be? i just don't want you to be embarrassed about it. but we don't have to keep talking about it -- y'know what, i'll actually forget about it." he starts nodding to himself, "yeah, let's forget about it."
his rambling would be cute if this were a different situation.
"but it's not mine! i'm not bothered because i have no connection to this thing!"
"well...me neither. i'm not bother--"
"heyyy, what's up guys?" jimmy chooses the best time to roll across the office and insert himself in the conversation. of course, he actually misses your desk the first time and has to awkwardly scoot backwards to get to the two of you.
as jimmy's squeaky wheels struggle to bring him over to your desk, you quickly shove the condom in your desk drawer. the last thing you need is a rumored office romance with clark of all people.
"having a little morning banter?" he jokes, patting clark on the back.
"nope." you answer quickly, plastering on a smile, "clark's just getting coffee orders. let him know yours before he goes."
"damn, he always asks you first," olsen teases, winking at clark who ignores him, "um, but yeah, can i get a chocolate chip frappe with extra whipped cream and--"
you take jimmy's yabbering order as a chance to get turn back to your computer, pretending to immerse yourself in your work as you ignore the boys. how the hell did that lubed-up latex get in your bag? and why did it have to be clark of all people who picked it up? the most vanilla-extra-virgin-farmer-boy to exist?
---
"i thought it would be funny..." lois defends with a laugh, "and it was! clark? holding a condom??"
"it's wasn't!" you groan, "he probably thinks i'm a sex fiend who fucks through the whole office!"
"since when do you care what clark thinks?" she quirks, smiling mischievously as you moan and groan about the embarrassing moment.
"i don't, but it's still humiliating." you huff dramatically, ignoring the fluttering feeling at the base of your stomach.
"i still don't get why you brush him off all the time. he's a nice guy and i think he likes you."
lois has been trying to push you towards clark for a while now. but you're pretty sure it's just because she knows how much it annoys the shit out of you.
there was a time when you were interested in the dark-haired man. from the first day he came in as a shy intern, you noticed him -- just like the others, of course. it wasn't like you felt butterflies stabbing the inside of your chest when he walked in or anything.
you just noticed him.
look, in your defense, it's kind of hard not to. a tall, handsome, young guy comes in, all smiley and cute, ready to work and be helpful.
why he came in as an intern, you had no idea. he's actually a few years older than you and you had a full-time position at the daily planet for about two years when he joined.
but clark was the perfect intern. always eager to help whether it involved coffee runs, printer jams, or passing out incoming mail, he was always bright and animated. he'd light up every time you'd talk to him, drinking in the reporting advice and stories that you'd tell him, fascinated by the work.
...and then he became a front-page reporter in a matter of a few months.
sure, clark sometimes edited and helped reporters with the formatting of stories, but suddenly coming out with an article on the front page of the paper without any prior experience? it's unheard of.
and it's all thanks to his connections to the big guy.
or so you've heard.
nobody actually knows his relationship to superman. and no one has seen them in the same room together, but if you ask the hero himself, he vouches for clark. and that was enough for mr. white to offer him a full-time job.
clark is cute, but you were turned off by his sudden mega-promotion. no amount of dimpled smiles and hot coffee can erase the fact that he got to your level, all because he was superman's little human pet.
okay, so fine, maybe you were a bit salty that he shot to the top with one interview, but there are other reasons why you don't idolize him like the rest of the daily planet.
first, his inconsistent presence at work. how can you be a good reporter if you're always getting sick, visiting family, or chasing a story that only gives you very vague information and a clearly staged photo of superman?
secondly, he's too nice. no one is that nice. no one actually says "oh golly" unironically. everyone is so trusting of clark, immediately welcoming him into the daily planet, as if he wasn't an intern only a few months ago!
has he done anything bad since he's been here? no.
not yet.
and third, he's a distraction. how are you supposed to be a good worker when next to you, poking out his cute pink tongue as he writes up his reports? the way his blue eyes squint behind his glasses to read the small font as his large fingers clumsily mistype over and over again.
ugh, it pisses you off that he can capture your attention so easily.
you swear he does it on purpose. why else would he be hanging around you so much?
maybe his whole evil plan is to take over the daily planet by distracting you so badly that you get fired! yeah, that sounds like a reasonable prognosis.
"yeah, no." you aggressively shake your head at lois' words. "i already told you, im not interested -- by the way, how did you even get the condom in my bag? i didn't even see you this morning."
"not telling," she grins, "and don't dodge the clark-talk! even when you're rude to him, he's still begging for your attention at the side of your desk like a sad little puppy dog."
"clark-talk? what is that? the name of a podcast or something?"
lois ignores your attempts at banter, "you said that you have a thing for dimples, didn't you?" you scoff and roll your eyes. here she goes again... "tall, dark, and handsome? like a certain 'superman'?" she wiggles her brows at you, "clark is close enough -- albeit a lot more clumsy, shy, and dorky."
you try to visualize clark in superman's spot. wearing the whole outfit, cape and everything, and it looks off.
"clark is nothing like superman." you decide, "he's not my type."
"not your type my ass. you're denying yourself for no reason."
you shrug, "i'm just saving myself for superman."
"good luck with that."
---
meeting superman is a lot like meeting a celebrity...in a sense.
your words are stuck in your throat as you stare up at the hero, so starstruck that the superman is actually standing right in front of you -- strong, confident, with his red cape blowing cinematically behind him (where is that wind coming from??) and looking back at you.
your small, worn notepad and pen are gripped tight in your hands as you think of what to say.
but you don't even get the pleasure of having the first word.
"it's nice to finally meet you," he offers a hand. you take it immediately, shaking it with nervous intensity. he smiles warmly at your giddy energy, and familiar dimples taunt you silently.
"m-me?" you barely choke out, "no, it's nice to meet you."
"please, the pleasure is all mine," his deep voice booms with confidence and charm as he leads you over to some deck chairs. you follow him eagerly. "so, clark kent told me that you were filling in for him today."
"um, yes, he said he wasn't feeling well..." you sit down and flatten out your notepad, hoping he wouldn't notice how crinkly it looks due to your nervous hands.
"that's too bad," his blue eyes bore into yours appreciatively, "but it's nice to see a new face."
you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a fool out of yourself. but you can feel a prickling heat rush up the back of your neck from his comment.
"it's truly an honor, sir." you clear your throat, masking your excitement with practiced ease. clicking your pen, you slip into work-mode, forcing yourself to stay as professional as you can. "so superman, the daily planet readers--"
"getting right into it, huh?" he jokes suddenly.
it throws you off.
"hm, w-was there something else...?"
"no," he dismisses your worries, " i just... wanted to get to know you a bit before you start writing about me. y'know since i usually only really speak to clark as i've built some trust with him..."
"oh, you can trust me!" you say quickly, "clark is my desk buddy, we talk every day. we're probably the closest out of everyone at the company."
"yeah?" he sounds unconvinced but shrugs, "well i guess he did entrust you with this interview..." you nod along with his words until he suddenly asks, "are you his girlfriend or something?:
"girlfriend?" your eyes widen, "me? and clark?"
"well, he talks about you often."
"h-he does?"
"mhm, he talks about how you're one of the most talented reporters at the company."
"no...no, not my boyfriend. strictly co-workers."
“i see…” his gaze drifts, as though your answer wasn't satisfactory to him. he changes the subject, "so what's the focus of this article? my last battle? more info about my past?”
"um, no, it's just a gossip column." you cringe inwardly as the words leave your mouth. moments after he, or rather clark, praised your 'talent' as a reporter, you're reduced to asking shallow, crowd-pleasing questions. "you're the "most eligible super" in north america. everyone wants to know the juicy detail of their favorite hero." it's a practiced line -- one every reporter opens with when conducting an interview like this.
"most eligible, huh? well, i guess saving the world has its perks," he chuckles. "what kind of details are the readers clamoring for?"
"well...first," you stare down at your writing pad as you go through the questions that clark hastily wrote down for you. "....what's your type?" your eyes peek over to him to gauge his reaction.
"my type?" he asks, amused by the juvenile question.
"yeah, like, are you willing to date non-supers?"
"well, i'm not sure if a human could...handle--" he clears his throat suddenly, stopping his sentence before he could clarify what exactly his significant other would be 'handling'.
you can see a pink flush start to creep up from the neckline of his super-suit. it's a familiar sight that has you thinking of a certain shy reporter.
"you see," he tries again, "being a super means having a demanding schedule. it would be selfish to expect someone to put up with my absences..."
you nod as you jot down his response, "so you'd rather go for a superhero?" you probe, "maybe someone like hawkgirl?"
"hawkgirl?" he seems taken aback by that proposal.
"oh, sorry, maybe the green lanturn then?"
"um...no, neither of them. they're just my colleagues -- and isn't guy seeing someone?"
"since last night, no," you say passively, "but knowing him, he'll probably find someone by this weekend."
he nods in agreement, "that sounds about right."
"anyway, second question. what does your ideal date look like?"
he tilts his head thoughtfully, seeming to give it genuine consideration. the little curl of hair that always seems to fall out of place brushes against his forehead.
"i'd say... something simple. i don't really go for flashy dates -- or public ones. overall, having quality time with someone i care about is more important to me than the location or activity."
"oh? so you've had private dates before?"
he smiles softly at your attempts to get more information out of him, "that's between me and my past dates."
"alright," you're a bit disappointed that he didn't take the bait, but you move on. "question three: what can a person do to get your attention?"
his eyes spark with amusement, "well...you already have my attention," he admits casually. you bite your lip at his answer, not expecting him to be so direct and off-script.
"what can the readers do to get your attention?" you try not to squirm under his gaze as you attempt to brush off his comment.
"right, the readers." he repeats, "okay, if we're being honest, confidence is intriguing to me. someone who knows what they want and isn't afraid to go after it." his stare holds yours for a beat longer than necessary before adding, "oh, but don't try too hard -- i can spot inauthenticity from a mile away...literally." he grins.
you quickly scribble down his words before the sound of your heartbeat can drown it out. "okay, final question, what do you look like as a boyfriend?"
he chuckles softly, leaning back against a nearby ledge with his arms crossed, relaxed yet radiating quiet confidence.
"i'm... attentive. sometimes too much," his voice lowers slightly, taking on a rare, almost vulnerable sincerity. it's a voice you feel like you've heard a thousand times, but it seems foreign coming out of superman's lips. "i disappear at weird hours for work emergencies," he pauses before adding quietly, "but i'd remember the little things. your favorite takeout after a long day. the way you take your coffee." his eyes meet yours, "and I'd never let you doubt how much you mean to me... even if I can't always say it outright."
there's something oddly specific in his words -- like he's describing someone else entirely.
"sounds...sweet." your voice is quiet as you slowly write his words down. you can imagine it, right then and there, how caring he'd be as a boyfriend. how he'd exceed in taking care of you -- but only when he has time to.
"it would be." he says sincerely.
after a beat of silence, you're reminded of the situation. you clear your throat, hoping it will remove whatever weird tension is in the air.
"okay, superman, that was the whole interview. thank you for your cooperation and time," you say lightly, closing your notepad quickly -- an attempt to keep all the wandering thoughts of this interaction from escaping you.
"are you sure i haven't given it all away? my type, my ideal date, my romantic side…" he feigns seriousness, raising an eyebrow. "you've got all the secrets now...but you haven't asked the most important question."
"i haven't?"
he grins, closing a bit of distance between you. you can't tell if it's the wind or if he is the one making the air between you feel electric. is that even one of superman's powers?
"don't you want to know my weakness?" he asks softly, "every superhero has one...even me."
you can't help but lean closer, "you'd tell me?"
his gaze holds yours, a teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips. his eyes seem to sparkle with a playful challenge, "promise you won't use it against me?" he murmurs, voice lower than before. his proximity is intoxicating, the city bustle seemingly far away.
you tilt your head like a curious cat, "oh, so is this off the record then?"
he nods, "yes ma'am. keep your pen to yourself." his hand gently wraps around your wrist before pulling you closer. your heart flutters.
"i'll try my best."
"good."
before you can respond, he steps back, body suddenly straightening as if hearing something only he could detect.
you hear him curse in a whisper -- crap
"um -- duty calls."
you nod wordlessly, and with one last knowing glance, he takes off into the sky in a blur of red and blue….leaving you wondering if you'd ever see him again.
could you do something for Shane Hollander where m!reader has been his secret boyfriend since high school but the world only thinks youre best friends
Shane Hollander x male!reader
● you and Shane had been best friends since childhood
● but as you got older the friendship developed into something more
● the first time you kissed you were 15 and sleeping over at his place
● his parents had already gone to bed but you two stayed up watching a movie on the couch
● it was an innocent kiss only lasting a few seconds
● but you didn't talk about it for months
● you knew his dreams of being a professional hockey player and the taboo of being gay in the sport so you let it go
● but by the time you were 18 you had confessed your love for each other and promised to keep your relationship a secret
● you went to the same college and got to be roommates which made sneaking around not as difficult
● and then after college when he got drafted you moved to Montreal a few months after he did under the guise of getting a job offer there
● as he went into the public eye it was easy to hide your relationship considering you had a real alibi of being life long best friends
● and it made it not unusual for you to go to his games wearing one of his jerseys
● when he travels for away games you text for hours
● him saying how he wished you were in his hotel room bed with him
● you get to hang out with his teammates but they always tried to set you up with women whenever you went to bars so you eventually made up a story of having a girlfriend that lives in Toronto so they would leave you alone
● and when you come home from these hang outs he kisses you the second you step through the door after not being to get his hands on you all night
● on his days off since you can't really go out as a couple you stay in cooking together and playing video games
● and every summer you spend a couple weeks at his cottage where you finally get to just be yourselves without worrying about anyone else
● even though Shane never came out to his parents they started to assume you were more than friends during college
● they did their best to make you feel like part of the family without making it obvious that they knew something was up
● and they tried to drop hints over the years that they would be okay with you being a couple
● but Shane was now one of the most popular players in the league and he was still terrified of what it would do to his career
● it was hard, a decade of having to keep the true nature of your relationship a secret
● you even broke up a few times from the stress and pressure of it all
● but Shane always promised that one day when he retired it would be different
● that he'd be able to shout it from the roof tops how much he loved you
● that you'd get married, maybe even start a family without caring what people thought about it
● you were watching with Shane and his parents when Scott kissed Kip on live television
● he looked at you in a way he never had before
● maybe that day was coming sooner than he thought
Ilya Rozanov Imagines ( I’ve added all my Ilya fics on Wattpad, so if you’d like to read more, feel free to check them out! I’ll leave the link here 💗)
The hallway outside the locker room still vibrates with leftover noise,distant cheering, skates scraping, a muffled announcement that sounds too cheerful for how your stomach feels.
You stop at the door, knuckles hovering over the painted logo. Inside, you can hear it: the sharp click of a tape roll, the low hum of the ventilation, the occasional murmur from staff trying to sound casual.
You push in.
Shane sits on the bench nearest his stall, legs stretched forward, one skate still on and the other half-laced like someone gave up halfway through. His jersey is gone, replaced by a gray compression shirt that clings to his shoulders. An ice pack is strapped to his knee with that medical wrap that never looks comfortable.
A trainer is crouched in front of him. “We need you to answer a few questions, Shane. Pain scale. One to ten.”
Shane’s gaze is fixed on a spot on the floor. “No.”
“Shane.”
“No,” he repeats, and this time his voice is sharper, like a blade drawn from a sheath.
The trainer exhales and looks over his shoulder, eyes catching on you. There’s a silent question there,can you?
You don’t say yes. You just step closer, and the trainer takes the hint, standing.
“We’ll be right outside,” he says carefully. “If the swelling gets worse,”
“I know,” Shane cuts in.
The trainer leaves. The door closes softly behind him.
For a moment, there’s only the sound of Shane’s breathing and the quiet drip of a shower someone forgot to turn fully off.
You don’t rush to fill the silence. You’ve learned that with Shane, silence isn’t empty. It’s space. It’s control.
You sit down on the bench a few feet away,not too close, not far enough to feel like abandonment.
Shane doesn’t look at you.
“You’re bleeding,” you say gently, nodding at a scrape on his forearm.
His eyes flick there like he’s checking the weather. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine if it gets infected.”
“It won’t.”
You tilt your head. “You have superpowers now?”
His mouth twitches, the tiniest almost-smile that doesn’t fully form. “No.”
“Okay,” you say, keeping your tone soft, “then let me clean it.”
“No.”
You don’t argue. You just open your small kit,always in your bag on game nights for reasons exactly like this,and set the alcohol wipe on the bench between you.
“It’s there if you want it,” you say. “No pressure.”
Shane’s jaw tightens. His fingers are curled into his palm so hard his knuckles look white.
Outside, the arena noise begins to fade, like a tide retreating. People are leaving. The game has moved on without him.
You watch his shoulders rise and fall.
Finally, you ask, “Does it hurt?”
He shrugs. A sharp, angry movement. “What do you think?”
You nod once. “Right. Sorry.”
His eyes snap to yours at that,like he expects you to defend yourself, to insist you meant nothing by it.
You don’t.
You just stay.
Shane looks away again, but his gaze doesn’t go back to the floor. It lands on your hands instead,how you’re resting them on your knees, relaxed, not reaching for him.
“You shouldn’t be in here,” he says.
“I got permission.”
“You shouldn’t,” he repeats, voice lower, rougher. “It’s… not your job.”
You keep your voice steady. “Being here isn’t a job.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn’t. “Then what is it?”
You swallow. The honest answer feels too big for the room. Too bright.
So you say, “It’s a choice.”
That makes him still.
For a long moment, Shane doesn’t speak. He stares at the taped-up ice pack like it might reveal something if he looks hard enough.
Then, quietly, “They’re gonna want to talk.”
“I know.”
“I’m not talking.”
“I know.”
His eyes flick toward you. “Why are you agreeing with me?”
“Because you’re allowed,” you say simply. “You’re allowed to not want to talk.”
Shane’s throat bobs when he swallows. “They’re going to say I’m being difficult.”
You shrug one shoulder. “Let them.”
He lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he’s trying to steady something inside him. “It’s not that simple.”
“I know,” you say again. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”
His gaze sharpens, defensive. “I’m not,”
“Not alone,” you repeat, calm. “Not with this.”
Shane’s hands unclench, then curl again, like he can’t decide what shape to hold himself in.
He says, “It’s just a knee.”
You tilt your head. “It’s not just a knee.”
His eyes darken. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t… make it,” He stops, frustrated. He presses his thumb hard into the side of his index finger like he’s trying to push words out through skin. “Don’t make it emotional.”
You nod slowly. “Okay. No emotions.”
He stares at you like he can’t tell if you’re teasing.
You add, gently, “But you’re allowed to have them anyway.”
The corner of his mouth twitches again, more bitter this time. “That’s a trap.”
“It’s not.”
Shane leans back against the lockers, eyes closing for a second, like the bright fluorescent lights are too much. When he opens them again, his gaze looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with the game.
“Did you see it?” he asks.
You don’t pretend. “Yes.”
His voice goes flat. “The replay?”
“They showed it once,” you say. “I looked away.”
“Why?”
“Because you were on the ice,” you say, and it comes out simpler than you meant. “Because you weren’t getting up.”
His eyes flicker. Something moves under his skin.
He swallows. “I tried.”
“I know you did.”
“I tried to get up,” he says, like he needs you to understand the exact facts. “I wanted to. My leg just,” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
You keep your voice low. “That must’ve been scary.”
He scoffs, but it’s thin. “No.”
You raise your eyebrows slightly. “No?”
His gaze snaps to yours. “I don’t get scared.”
You hold his eyes. “Okay.”
He waits for you to challenge him.
You don’t.
The silence stretches again, but it’s different now,tight, trembling, like a string pulled too far.
Then Shane’s voice drops, almost a whisper. “I hate when they look at me like I failed.”
The words land heavy in the emptying room.
You don’t answer immediately. You let them exist without trying to fix them.
Finally, you say, “Who is ‘they’?”
Shane’s lips press together. “Everyone.”
“Okay,” you say softly. “And what do you think they’re thinking?”
He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “That I’m fragile. That I’m,” He shakes his head like the word disgusts him. “That I’m replaceable.”
You lean forward slightly, careful not to invade his space. “Shane.”
He flinches at the way you say his name,like it’s too gentle to belong in a locker room.
“I’m not,” he says quickly, almost panicked. “I’m not replaceable. I’m, I’m the best. I’m,” His voice cracks, just barely, like ice giving way under too much weight. “I’m supposed to be.”
Your chest aches.
You say, “You being hurt doesn’t change what you are.”
His eyes shine, but he blinks hard, like he’s angry at his own body for reacting.
“They’ll talk,” he whispers. “They’ll say it’s because I push too hard. They’ll say I’m obsessive. They’ll say it’s my fault.”
You keep your voice even. “Do you think it’s your fault?”
He hesitates,just a fraction.
That hesitation is an answer.
You reach for the alcohol wipe and hold it out,not toward him, but near enough that he can take it if he wants.
“You don’t have to punish yourself for getting hurt,” you say.
His fingers hover, then withdraw. “I wasn’t punishing myself.”
“You’re sitting here alone,” you point out softly. “Refusing help. Refusing to talk. Refusing to,” You stop before you say let anyone see you.
Shane’s nostrils flare. “I don’t want pity.”
“I’m not giving you pity.”
“What are you giving me, then?” he snaps.
You don’t flinch. You meet him head-on. “I’m giving you company.”
He stares at you.
“You can hate how it feels,” you continue. “You can hate that people will speculate. You can hate the looks. But you don’t have to earn love by being unbreakable.”
His throat moves again. “Love,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word and deciding if it’s safe.
Your heart stutters.
You keep your voice calm anyway. “Care, then. If love feels too… loud.”
Shane looks down at his hands. His fingers are shaking slightly now, and he tries to hide it by curling them into fists.
“You don’t… look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m,” He struggles again, words getting caught behind his teeth. “Like I’m disappointing.”
You shake your head once. “No.”
He lifts his eyes slowly. “No?”
“No,” you repeat, firm. “I look at you and I see someone who works harder than anyone I’ve ever met. Someone who cares so much it’s painful.”
His breath catches.
“And I see someone who got hurt doing his job,” you add. “That’s not failure.”
Shane’s lips part, but no sound comes out.
You wait.
After a moment, he says quietly, “If I can’t play…”
You don’t rush in with reassurance you can’t guarantee. You don’t promise miracles. You just say, “Then we’ll figure it out.”
His brows knit. “We?”
You nod. “If you want.”
His eyes search your face like he’s looking for a trick. For pressure. For a condition.
He doesn’t find one.
Shane’s shoulders sag a fraction, like he’s been holding himself upright with sheer will and finally lets it go.
He whispers, “Stay.”
You don’t smile. You don’t make it a big moment.
You just answer, “I’m here.”
He swallows, voice barely audible. “Closer.”
You shift on the bench, moving carefully until you’re at his side,close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his, but you don’t touch unless he does first.
Shane’s hand lifts, hesitant, and then his knuckles graze yours,an accidental-seeming contact that is absolutely deliberate.
You let your fingers curl slightly so he feels you there.
The arena outside is quiet now. The team is gone. The staff are gone. The lights in the hallway dim.
It’s just the two of you and the steady hum of the building.
Shane stares ahead, voice low. “If they ask me questions…”
You breathe in slowly, matching his rhythm. “You can answer what you can. And you can say you’re not ready for the rest.”
He nods once, barely.
“And if they look at you like you failed,” you add softly, “you can look at me.”
He turns his head, and his eyes find yours.
For the first time tonight, he doesn’t look like a statue trying not to crack.
He looks like Shane,tired, stubborn, hurting, human.
Is anyone else seriously disturbed by the usage of x reader fics when it comes to lgbt characters??? Like most, my fanfic origin story was wattpad, and I remember there being these weird Alec Lightwood stories on there with female oc’s 😐 like he don’t want the recipe to your peach cobbler bitch, he’s not bisexual, he’s not pansexual, he’s gayyyyyy, female readers and oc’s are so incredibly disrespectful with gay characters and I hate them 💗 that’s just an example tho, and this was brought on by Shane Hollander! Very much so gay, not bisexual, female readers should not be happening unless they’re ending like (dear) Rose. Like could you imagine if someone was making Robin Buckley x male reader??? It’s messed up both ways, but the female reader is definitely ‘normalized’ more for canonically gay characters and it is seriously gross and dare I say homophobic 😗
Sorry not sorry if you feel targeted by this, you should stop if you’re doing this xx
dailybridgerton
snowghoul
janainaart
theartofmadeline
origamiaround
