⭑.ᐟ THE THING THAT I CAN’T IGNORE ── Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch
summary: there’s a betting pool happening at work to figure out the root of the chief attending’s newfound happiness even if it’s a no-strings attached situation that’s causing it. (wc: 4.5k)
pairing: michael robinavitch / f!reader
content: fluff/humour. secret relationship trope. age-gap relationship/friend w benefits. resident!reader (with inaccuracies of how residency works.) insecure!robby but he hides it well ft jealous!robby—i’m trying to show off some of his whimsy. medical inaccuracies errrywhere. 18+ brief mentions of sex.
Robby is watching you from Trauma One.
His sweetest kept secret.
For some reason, you have managed to bypass the seven-week itch and Robby thinks it’s down to being younger than him by a margin; meaning you often ran circles around him.
From his obstructed view, he can occasionally capture you stretching above the line of the monitor like a docile cat. Before you reduce yourself to a bad posture again, Robby notices that soft fatigue that glazes over your watery eyes when you yawn. A sleepy look that—since the big shift in your non-labelled situation—he can recognise.
Because you’ve started staying the night.
Dr. Mohan is leading a hilar flip when he asks her, “You got this?” in which she gives him a strained smile alongside a curt nod; the tension still taught between them.
He backs out of Trauma One and takes a leisurely stroll up behind you. You’ve dozed off somewhere in between him habitually sanitizing his hands and pulling a singular latex glove from a box nearby. He spares you a moment, so he can read the long waiting list of patients allocated to rooms across the department.
Snap!
You jolt awake from the feeling of thin rubber striking the back of your neck. You peel your eyes open to see Robby bending at the waist to look at you warmly.
“Hello,” he says sweetly, his smile reaching his eyes, “Good sleep?”
“I’ve had better,” you grumble and rub at your eyes, “I was just catching up on my long overdue notes like you asked me to do.”
Robby hums, “It looked like it too,” he chirps sarcastically and takes a deep inhale as he speaks again, “Save the charting for later. I’ve got a patient with GERD that has your name written all over it. Easy case to wake up to.”
You emphasise your lack of enthusiasm as you stand, “You just told me to catch up on my charting.” it comes out as a whine.
“Yes, I did. Then you started dozing off at the workstation, so now, I’m telling you to follow me so we can get this patient discharged and free up a bed,” Robby lilts as you catch up with his pace, his eyes on every corner of the PTMC.
“If I have to redo my third-year of residency because of your indecisiveness on where to put me, Dr. Robby, I will be filing a report against you,” you grumble in discontent.
Robby huffs a laugh. “Ho-ho. I’ll be sure to send you flowers.”
“No you won’t.”
“No, I won’t. Not for that anyway.” Robby advises you casually, he spares you a glance over his shoulder with a crooked smile on his face, “Because you won’t have to redo your third-year.”
The easy banter between the two of you makes your stomach burn with giddiness.
You liked how things were going with Robby. Under the radar, no strings attached. Though, somehow, you both seemed to be getting a little tangled in your…well, entanglement.
It was proving to be difficult to not have the boundaries blend into a real thing with all the bells and whistles of emotional feelings attached. The initial intentions were simply just for sexual pleasure—and then you started getting pleasure by just co-existing.
It was messy. But it was your kind of messy.
McKay catches up to you, bumping your shoulder with hers, “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you all morning.”
“About to give a patient a shot of Mylanta for his GERD,” you respond quietly, “Dr. Robby caught me sleeping.”
“Yikes.” she cringes, “Well, he’ll keep you right.”
He has been for the better half of the year, in more ways than you know. Is how you want to respond to Cassie’s innocent statement. You settle for the latter of a hopeful smile and shrug of your shoulders.
The three of you come to a slow halt in front of the patient bay Robby had selected for you off of the board.
You peer into the window of the room.
A bucket of ice cold water dumps over you.
“I can’t take this case on,” you blurt in a panic, which in turn has Robby and McKay’s head cock to the side, because what do you mean you’re rejecting a case as a R3. You shake your head, “No, seriously. It sounds stupid, but I matched with that guy on Tinder, and…it didn’t end on good terms.”
It was true. The male sitting upright on the gurney, in a hospital gown one size too big for him, was currently under the status of blocked on your phone.
Things had been going well within the app at the time, you matched, connected over menial interests and then took the conversation to text message. You must’ve missed the lesson in life that made the translation of app messaging to text messaging the equivalent to a hard launch into a relationship with a guy you had never met face-to-face.
Because—and what a story to weave into a one truth and two lies game it had come to be—whilst you were elbow deep in a wide array of traumas that wheeled through the doors of the PTMC, this guy had left exactly 54 text messages, 32 missed calls and 1 beautifully arranged voicemail that poetically told you that you fumbled the catch of the century.
(Fish were slippery for a reason, right?)
Even with the slight malicious tone blurred between his words, you still kept the voicemail; because it was deeply comforting to play to your co-worker Dennis Whitaker at 4PM after his patient had just coded.
McKay dips her head to speak lowly to you. “You mean he’s the guy?”
“What…guy?” Robby’s question is lost to the wind when you squeal out confirmation to McKay that the patient was in fact, the guy.
He watches the exchange between you and McKay like a third party stuck behind a noise cancelling window. Somewhere amongst the back and forth with hints of worry and mild amusement, Robby starts to feel left out from the bigger picture.
Tinder. Voicemail. Blocked, is all he took away from this. So…he frowns and crosses his arms across his chest.
“Wow. In the flesh…I’ll swap you for Central 8,” McKay barters, “Utensil through the nose.”
“Can someone tell me what’s going on here?” Robby cuts through with his hands up, “You have history with this guy?” he thumbs to the door of South 15.
You nod, “Not so much a history, more a brief encounter that’s funny to talk about over drinks.”
“Yeah. Well, we—” he gestures between you “—aren’t having drinks.” Robby supposes there’s some sort of streak of jealousy going on in his voice, “Can you catch me up to speed? This guy needs a shot.”
You launch into a shortened version of the story of how this man came to gain such a notoriety that extended all the way into the pit of the PTMC and used for comedy relief after patient coding. Robby, for all intents and purposes, is trying his best to keep a neutral, maybe slightly concerned facial expression as you gesticulate through a brief recap of how you and this guy came to be.
It’s poorly timed the way the envy flares in his chest. He cranes his neck to take a look at the patient again, brows in a pinch because seriously? You had been setting up a potential, future relationship with that?
Then you casually drop into the conversation that the male had informed you that someone like you, served no purpose for a man with such a catalogue of aptitudes. (He works in finance.)
And Michael Robinavitch doesn’t like that.
“So, that’s your type?” Robby physically cannot help himself. It’s like he’s purposely being conspicuous.
You hesitate in surprise, “Obviously not? I don’t really have a type, per se.” (You do. He’s staring right at you.) “I mean, this was all before…”
“Before?” Robby goads, shifting from one foot to the other, he sinks his hands into his fleece pockets, pulling at the lint gathered there as the words get stuck in your throat. “Alright. I’ll take the case. In the meantime, you can go back to catching up on your notes. I’ll come find you afterwards.”
“Dr. Robby, I’m happy to swap cases with her—”
“I’ve got it.” Robby cuts McKay off with a curt nod and polite smile—something she isn’t buying.
McKay surrenders, but not without flitting her eyes between the pair of you. If there was anyone that could read signs a mile off, Cassie McKay was the woman for that.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press on the matter as she breaks away from the group.
“Discreet, Dr. Robby,” you murmur.
Robby pulls a face that is ridiculously handsome and borderline cocky, “I’ve got this. Charting. Go.”
Robby finds you at a different workstation much later on. More awake, a few more cases under your belt, but still wearing a notable level of bleariness. He provided the shot of Mylanta to your ‘what could’ve been’ and spent half of his time between other patients, rendering to the insecurities of the probability that he was the oldest male you have ever been with.
He mulls over his words until he finds a way to express this to you.
“So…Tinder?”
“Nope.” you look up at him, “Offloaded the app.”
“Hm.” Robby nods with a frown and then decides to put some feelers out there, “Do…you think I have a predisposition to geriatric behaviours?”
Your fingers halt on the keyboard. The patient notes on the monitor are forgone for an easier distraction. The expression of perplexity is hard to squash when your brows pinch at the question that has seemingly been plucked from the thin air of the PTMC.
Robby stands at full height over the central workstation. Brown eyes shimmering beneath the clinical lighting, there was an ease in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before and the look of innocent curiosity blended nicely amongst his weathered features.
His long fingers tap idly at the surface top.
You hesitate, and then point a finger to your chest, “Are you asking me?”
“Well—” Robby exhales through his nose as he leans against the workstation, his forehead creasing as he peers over the rim of his glasses at you. “—I’d like to think you could give me some biassed insight.”
He tosses a lopsided smile in your direction, and you harness some restraint to ensure that from an outsiders perspective that this was an ordinary conversation between the Chief Attending and a third year resident. When you poke your tongue into the flesh of your cheek to prevent a broad smile spreading across your features, that is when Robby mirrors the amusement filled to the brim in your eyes.
Workplace relationships came with hardships.
It was becoming evident that having a loosely labelled ‘relationship’ with Michael Robinavitch, the long-time bachelor of the PTMC, was a whole different ballgame altogether.
It was a long-standing commitment, the act of secret keeping that is. An oath to keep things under wraps, whilst also balancing the navigation on what to do when the leak eventually becomes noticeable—all whilst surviving a twelve hour shift on a protein bar and a prayer. It meant that you were met with hurdles like: how morally grey is it really to sleep with your boss, who could also provide you with a gleaming recommendation at the end of your residency?
The answer fell somewhere in the ‘power imbalances’ category in the tedious employee handbook.
(Luckily for you, you only skimmed the surface on the hierarchical structures chapter.)
It also meant that Robby would often approach you throughout the day with a bucketful of insecurities to unload in a feeble attempt to salvage the dignity that he lost on the way. Unfortunately—he thinks, for you anyway—his keen interest to receive intermittent reassurance from you that the gap in your ages was justifiable, through the form of abnormal questions that dogpiled onto your already stressful day; was his way of seeing the world through your eyes.
It was sort of…pendatically romantic.
You begin to type your notes again, “Did Javadi school you again?”
“No…” Robby frowns at the thought, “Just extending some morbid curiosity.” he leans one arm against the workstation and scans the rooms closest within his vicinity. “And, you can put an end to my suffering right about now—”
“You act your age.”
Robby slowly edges his attention to you.
“Act my age?”
You let out an airy laugh, “That’s a good thing. It means you didn’t peak in your formative years. Or the years following that.”
“Huh.” Robby clicks his tongue as he straightens up, shaking a finger in your direction whilst he reads off the board, “Pinning this for later. I did not like the way you worded that.”
“You got it, boss.” you track his movements as he rounds the workstation to depart it.
Robby lets out a cackle from the back of his throat as he leaves, angling his body with his hands up to allow space for Trinity Santos to stroll past him. She occupies the vicinity in his immediate absence, her jaw slack as she stares over her shoulder at the humoured physician disappearing into the south-end of the department.
As she idles up to the workstation, her brunette hair swishes around when she turns her attention to you.
“What did Dr. Goofy want?” she asks plainly.
“Dr. Goofy?” you repeat, unable to prevent your face from cracking with mirth.
Santos shrugs, “Yeah. He’s been…like super chill recently. He seems happier? I don’t know. There’s an underground betting pool going on about the source of Dr. Robby’s joy.”
“Really?” you brighten at the thought, “Have you put money on something?”
“He’s getting laid,” Santos admits, her eyes narrow whilst she looks around, lowering her voice at the same time, “I just…don’t know who. I mean it has to be someone in the PTMC, right? I like to think he’s like a caged animal—the hospital and his apartment are the only two roaming spaces for the guy.”
You hum, locking the computer. “Or he’s going to therapy?” (You knew that wasn’t true. Just throwing Santos off her scent.)
“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Like the rest of us are.”
“True.” you stand and stretch your spine until there’s a soft crack. The clock above ticks just over the next hour, “I’m going to spin round the perimeter and grab a coffee.”
Trinity saddles up into the desk chair you had resided in for the last fifteen minutes and gives you a two-finger salute as you walk away.
There’s a release of breath that escapes you once you turn down the corridor toward the coffee station besides Pedes. The news breaking that Robby’s sudden one-eighty into an optimistic nature following some questionable behaviours for a male edging into his fifties, was being highlighted amongst the gamblers of the Pitt; and that was enough to have your pulse quicken.
It wouldn’t be such a crime to be unearthed by your co-workers. At some point, honesty would be the best policy and you weren’t so sure that the on-call rendezvous would go under the radar for much longer. However, it would feel similar to a humiliation ritual if your situation were to be exposed through sticky notes on the whiteboard in the dispatch room and a lump sum at the end of it.
When you think about it, you take the mental note to take a leisurely stroll toward dispatch to try sneak a glance at the betting pool exclusionary toward one Chief Attending.
The slop of coffee sputters into the white styrofoam cup with you patiently waiting with a yawn to encapsulate the low energy levels from spending the night at Robby’s, that had finally caught up to you mid-shift. You slow blink as the liquid fills to the brim of the cup, adding your preferences to the sorry excuse of a caffeine hit.
You press the lid around the rim until it gives a soft pop.
By some hideous trick of unfortunate timings and coincidental placement, when you bring the steaming hot coffee to your lips, Robby zooms into your periphery and swipes it out of your hand in hurried passing. He plants it at the coffee station as he ushers you with urgency with a hand to your back.
The touch would have sent your stomach swirling—especially if it had been hours since the last—if it weren’t for your open mourning over the loss of caffeine searing your taste buds.
You let out a longing whine, “My coffee.”
“Will be reheated. By me, personally.” he swings the door from North into Central and manoeuvres you toward the South bays. “Right now, we need you in 15 with an AFib cardioversion.”
“We?” you repeat, “Am I the guest of honour for this cardiovert?”
Robby backs into the door of 15 with his hands already slathered in sanitiser. He tilts his chin, exuding healthy amounts of cockiness. “This is a teaching hospital, regardless of a more senior role. Let me teach you,” he croons.
You chew back a snarky remark about Robby getting a new hobby instead of ‘peacocking’ around you for some telepathic praise. Instead, you find yourself opposite Robby as he snaps the latex gloves up to his wrists and observes the patient whilst Mel, beside you, presents the case to him.
The patient is within your age range. Sort of handsome if you thought about it for too long. He looks up at you, his eyes glazed in awe. It was as if the white lighting overhead had created a halo effect around your head and he was witnessing the presence of an angel in real time.
He gives you a lovesick, dopey smile. (You get that a lot.)
Which, considering his circumstances, was a good sign in the grand scheme of things.
“They hire from heaven or somethin’?” his question is met with a blanket of silence. His chest rises and falls at an unsteady pace—part of you wonders if it’s his condition or if it’s down to the fact that he is quite taken with you.
Mel glances between the pair of you as she preps the propofol.
The monitor beeps behind Robby, who silently tilts his head to see how you approach the compliment.
“Oh.” your eyes drift to Robby who scrunches one eye shut, his lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate. You give an airy chuckle, “Delivered especially for you, Mr…” you look to Mel who mouths the patient’s surname, “King—Quinn.”
Robby glares at you, each wrinkle in his forehead lined with judgement that makes your skin prickle. “Mel, what is the safe window for cardioversion?”
“Uh, twelve hours.”
Brown eyes find you again. “What happens after that?”
“Increased risk of embolic stroke from left atrial blood clot,” you say, eyes following Robby’s direction to the monitor as he encourages you to continue the diagnosis, “…Which he doesn’t have.”
“Good,” he mutters softly. (You give him a warning glance to end the praise there.)
Mr. Quinn is in an immediate state of sedation with a successful cardioversion that sends him into a sinus rhythm that will need a few hours of monitoring. Something you don’t jump at the chance to do to lessen the work load that was quickly piling up on your shoulders.
You exit the room with Robby in tow.
He walks a few paces behind you, head on a swivel whilst he takes a headcount of fresh faced med-students roaming around the department. Once you’re out of earshot from nearby gossips—Princess and Perlah—Robby bends slightly to talk into your ear.
“I think you should give patients similar to your age, a wide-birth.” his tone is playful in its emphasis at the very least.
You tut, “Why encourage patient negligence? I’m clearly a crowd favourite.”
“Tell that to the grey hairs you give me.” Robby pinches your wrist as he takes over you, heading in the direction of Pedes. Presumably to the coffee station, where your abandoned coffee remains—you hope anyway. “Reheated coffee coming right up. I’ll come find you.”
“You seem to be doing that a lot today,” you call back to him. He doesn’t respond.
You decide to double back toward dispatch, to cash in the mental note of placing a bet on the secret betting pool on Robby’s newfound happiness. As always, you find Ahmad standing at the door with his thumbs tucked into his belt loops whilst he scopes his surroundings.
He looks bored. So, you give him something to be excited about.
“Do my ears deceive me, or is there some exclusionary betting pool going on that I wasn’t aware about, Ahmad?” you sing as you approach him.
Ahmad instantly brightens, “Maybe.”
“What have the wagers been so far?”
“$40 on new motorcycle, $20 on a pay rise, another $20 on pussycat.” Ahmad glances at you with a knowing smirk, “Santos submitted that one.”
“Go figure,” you mumble.
“Are you in, doc?”
You nod and reach into your scrub pocket, “Sure, why not. I’ll put…$20 on a mid-life crisis.”
Ahmad smothers his laughter behind his fist. “That’s heartless. Alright. $20 on mid-life crisis.” he takes the bills from your grasp, “You’re lucky he ain’t part of this bet. That recommendation you need after your residency? Dust, if Robby knew.”
“It can be our little secret until then.” you tap at your nose.
“What can?”
The timing of Michael Robinavitch was impeccably vexing. As the eyes and ears of the ED, most of you began to fear that he was presenting evidence of omnipresence. He appears, he soaks up the happenings, and then he dissolves into the chaos.
If you wanted to be the one to water the reasoning down, it would be the fact that Robby was slowly becoming the South Pole magnet to your North Pole magnet and you just happened to create such a forceful magnetic field across the department, that it was near impossible to not drag himself toward you when he got the chance.
He’d just call it grabbing you a well-earned coffee.
You don’t bat an eyelid as you speak.
“That would defeat the purpose of secrets, Dr. Robinavitch.” you take the coffee from his grasp, fingers intentionally overlapping. You don’t flinch when you feel the card that had been conveniently placed on the underside of the cup—fingers curling to conceal it from Ahmad’s view.
Robby steps back and gives you a subtle nod.
On-call room. Fifteen minutes.
Ahmad holds his hands up in surrender, “I’m out on this one.”
He manoeuvres himself out of the situation with ease, leaving Robby and you exactly where you wanted to be. Out of earshot and in each other’s company.
You take a sip of your coffee, kissing your teeth at the bitterness. “You need to be a little more subtle.”
“That…is what the on-call room card is for.”
The next thing you knew, you were slipping into the on-call room five minutes after Robby. He meets you in the middle of the room with a face melting into unfiltered fondness, tugging you in by the crook of your elbow, his fingers featherlight against your arm as he envelops you into a warm embrace.
This was one of the very few places where CCTV couldn’t capture grainy footage of your bond. So, you soak it up when you can.
With your ear against his chest, you can hear the low rumble he lets out from being content where he is. You tilt your chin upward and he’s quick to catch your lips in a chaste kiss—greedily taking a second.
Being deprived of affection all day, you relish in his undivided attention.
Robby is staring deeply into your eyes, swaying you both. He decides to take a leap of faith, “Stay tonight?”
“Two nights in a row?”
“Yes…” Robby grumbles in a warning.
A smile creeps onto your face. “I think this could be a healthier habit for you to adopt. No reason for me to say no.”
Crows-feet prominent, Robby smiles and dips to kiss you again. You pull away and begin to pick at the bobbling on the fleece he wears. He keeps you in the warmth of his arms, tucking his chin to watch you busy yourself.
After a couple of seconds, he brings up a relevant topic of discussion.
“You want to tell me what that was about with Ahmad?” he coos.
You give him an innocent expression, “No idea what you’re talking about. We were just having a discussion.”
“Ah.” Robby draws his brows together, “Nothing to do with the wagers being placed against the reasoning behind my…” he takes a deep breath, “upbeat tempo these days?”
“Don’t make a snitch out of me, Robinavitch.” you nudge his chest in disbelief, “How’d you know about it?”
“Well. This is my department. I know the inner workings of the entire ecosystem, sweetheart,” he croons before adding, “Plus, Abbot was ecstatic to be the one to tell me.”
You scoff at the revelation. It just had to be Jack Abbot.
“Are you mad?”
“Oh, I think I’ll survive the outside noise for a little while longer.” Robby traces your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, in a way that feels less along the lines of no strings attached. “What did you put your money on?”
“Something not relating to your sexual deviance.” you tease and Robby brings his fingers up to tug at your earlobe. You moisten your lips and bare your teeth in a sickly sweet smile to soften the blow, “I put $20 on mid-life crisis.”
Robby’s brows shoot to his hairline, squeezing his eyes shut as he gives his head a wobble to digest your words. There was a conversation that needed to be had somewhere in there; just much, much further down the line.
And outside of the PTMC. To preserve both of your sanities.
You find yourself trailing the palms of your hands down Robby’s forearms—half covered by the rolled up sleeves of his fleece—to soothe his outward reaction of immediate discontent at the accusation you haphazardly flung out.
A fucking mid-life crisis.
“You…give me a headache,” he says earnestly.
“I know. But you like it.” (Correction: he loves it.)
Robby draws back with little time left before your co-workers begin to put two and two together due to the convenient disappearance of you both.
“I suppose I’ll take it on the chin.” he shoots you a playful look, his eyes glinting with mischief, “I put in an anonymous wager in myself two nights ago. Perks of being the last one to leave this fucking place.”
“Oh yeah?” your interest piques.
He reaches for the handle of the door, scratching at the coarseness of his beard with his other hand, “Yeah. I think I have a good shot at winning,” he chirps.
“Okay.” you nod your head in amusement as he walks away from you, “What did you even wage on? New motorcycle?”
The door buzzes open and Robby swings it open with his face filling with mirth. He leaves you in the on-call room with a singular word uttered; sending you into a frozen shock.
the worst writing crime you can ever commit in my opinion is watering down the dirty talk because you’re self-conscious that it sounds like it’s from a bad porno…..i cannot stress this enough……leave it alone. the moment you tell yourself he would not fucking say that you’re doomed. people will say almost anything if their dick is hard enough
if it’s something you’d be interested in writing ofc, i would love to see a kara and wife!reader interaction! maybe her hearing abt her and clark’s engagement or news of reader’s pregnancy?
this is based off of a similar reaction i had irl bc i’m dense
pairing: clark x f!reader / kara zor-el. content: humour. engagement announcement to kara and it doesn’t go as clark expected. brief alcoholism mentioned. side note: i need to watch supergirl (wc: 909)
⭑.ᐟ CLARK KENT MASTERLIST
“Can’t you get some sort of central heating in here?”
Clark spares his robot, 4, a glance before peering over his shoulder to where you were sitting. “Honey, it has been calibrated to a warmer climate for you especially. You’re just…cold blooded, it seems.”
“Cold blooded,” you grouse in repetition.
It wasn’t unknown that the Fortress of Solitude was low on your list of places to visit on a regular basis. Clark had become accustomed to your personal gripes about his private sanctuary, far away from the public eye and even put in the effort to adjust the minor problems you had; in the hopes you would visit more often.
Even with these few alterations—such as the temperature of the inside—you still managed to dig your feet in, busying yourself with menial tasks that would prevent you from going with Clark to the middle of Antarctica.
However, with the shiny new rock on your ring finger…well, sometimes you would have to roll over and let Clark take the win.
(He did save Metropolis after all.)
Clark doesn’t engage in the debate that he can tell is bubbling in your system. You wanted to go home and as much as Clark would render himself to your every need, sometimes he had enough backbone to put his foot down.
He turns his attention to 4 and compliments the robot’s efforts in cleaning up the Fortress since the intrusive robbery by Lex Luthor. Whilst he converses with the robot, you find Krypto resting in his dog bed and decide to give behind his ear a scratch.
“You’re so brave,” you say in a babyish tone to the canine. The dog rouses from his light sleep and begins to stretch as you pat his side, “Big stretch—”
Your affection is cut short when a crash shakes the foundations of the Fortress. All attention turns to where the sound came from before you catch a glimpse of Clark beckoning you to his side with a few waves of his free hand.
“Ah, shoot.” The voice coming from the near distance was familiar and you brightened as you began to recognise who just made their entry into the Fortress of Solitude.
4 confirms the suspicions of the intruder being Clark’s cousin: Kara Zor-El.
There had been a handful of times you had met with Kara and every single time, the pair of you hit it off and usually ended up making Clark feel left out as you teamed up to talk without him. She was brash, a little troubled—as you would expect—and had some tendencies to cope beneath the blanket of mild alcoholism.
She kept you at arms length for now. But that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy seeing you whenever she dropped by.
You perk beside Clark, “Maybe I can go with her to party on another—”
“No.” Clark cuts you off gently, “Not again, sweetheart.”
As you open your mouth to respond, Kara appears at the opposite end of the room in a slight stumble. “What the hell, dude?” Clark waves at her, “Why did you move the door?”
“…I didn’t move the door.”
“Hey—Where is my dog?”
Krypto also perks at the sound of his owner’s voice and wastes no time in flying over to her in a giddy reunion. You watch happily as he slams her into the ground, rubble dispersing around the both of them.
“Okay—” Clark looks at you whilst gesturing to the scene in front of him. As if you were the one to resolve this, “—Well, this is why he has behavioural issues.”
“Shush.” you swat at his arm, “Are you going to tell her?”
“I suppose there is no time like the present,” Clark mutters, his pulse quickening at the thought of sharing the exciting news with his cousin. He waves at her as she stands, “Kara? I’d—We’d like to share something with you.”
Kara stares at you both, mascara smearing her under-eyes.
You give her a broad, toothy grin and a thumbs up for encouragement as she’s more likely to listen to you than your significant other.
“I’m…just here to pick up my dog, dude,” she says with her words slurring toward the end. When Clark gives her a pleading look, she lets out a deep exhale, “Fine. Can it be quick?”
Clark clears his throat and stands, “Okay. I just wanted to share the news with you that we—” he plants a hand on your shoulder, “—are engaged. Happily. Obviously.”
Kara’s eyes flit between the pair of you, “Okay?”
“Is that—Is that all you have to say?” Clark blinks.
“Yeah, I mean…I already knew you were engaged. Why do you need to remind me?” she sways on the spot with Krypto tugging at her coat sleeve.
Clark lets out an airy laugh beside you, “You couldn’t possibly have known. We just—We just got engaged.”
“Huh? You weren’t engaged this whole time?”
You stifle a laugh, “No, we weren’t. He proposed whilst you were away.”
Kara’s jaw slackens, “Shit. Well, congratulations. I’m going to—I’m gonna go now.” She turns on her heel with Krypto hot on her heels. You look up at Clark with mild worry and he shrugs as Kara calls back, “Come on. Thanks for watching him, bitches!”
“That went well,” you mumble as Clark drops back down onto the chair, laying back as 4 begins to fuss over him again, “She thought we were already engaged.”
this is the dumbest idea ever but i’m thinking about Clark’s girlfriend being in the itty bitty titty community and being lowkey insecure about it, but makes jokes about it to help including things like “Clark, you literally have bigger boobs then me”
this isn’t a dumb idea girl
pairing: clark kent / f!reader. content: fluff/humour. yapper!gf. a bad experience with a dodgy bra fitting. self-deprecation disguised as humour. 18+ suggestive themes toward the end! (wc: 1.2k)
⭑.ᐟ CLARK KENT MASTERLIST
The door opens and shuts with a loud slam.
Clark was in the middle of boredom eating when you caught him mid-chew through the food you had prepared for your lunch at work the next afternoon. He stares at you with wide-eyes, blue eyes glimmering beneath the kitchen lighting as he worries that he’s been caught red-handed feasting upon your food.
(He was a selfless man, who put the world before his life; but the same couldn’t be said for the food that called to him from the fridge.)
By the expression on your face, it seems that he may be in for an afternoon of chastising over the packed lunch that could’ve been.
“I’m never supporting a local bra fitting business again,” you say as you swing the fridge door open, you take one glance around the contents and then shut it again.
Clark chews the food, sort of alarmed that you haven’t stated the obvious about his food thievery. “I did tell you to stop trusting people on Craigslist.” he chirps.
“You want to talk about trusting people?” you start, “You told Green Lantern about your alter ego. In fact, you told the whole Justice League about that.”
Clark waggles a finger at you, “Now…that is different, honey.”
“Sure it is.” you roll your eyes and reach for a glass from the cupboard overhead, “Anyway, it was a total car crash. I left without even getting an accurate measurement on my boobs.”
You had left Clark that morning in an upbeat tempo. There was this newfound hobby that you fixated on, which was scouring the internet for women owned businesses that hadn’t quite made it off the ground in Metropolis. Part of Clark knows it comes from the depths of your empathy, seeing shop owners delve into their passion with little results. Most of the time you return to the confines of your apartment with an interesting story of the people you met; which is the same reason that Clark stresses anytime you leave the house.
There had been an ad on Craigslist that a woman had posted about her new bra fitting business on Bennett Street in the Upper West side of Metropolis. It hadn’t been going well, with little footfall through her threshold and she needed a handful of customers to keep the business afloat. There was a sob story that you had read out to Clark in bed—which didn’t sound too legitimate—and you made the decision that you’d take a trip up to see her in the morning.
Clark straightens in the stool he’s sitting on, “What happened?”
“I go in, the woman seems lovely. She’s got this witchy sort of aesthetic going on. We get to talking before we even start the appointment, and I think this is going really well!” you gesticulate as you speak, “The appointment starts, and the whole of Metropolis knows I’m lacking in the tit department, right?”
Clark furrows his brow and frowns.
You don’t wait for him to answer, “Don’t be courteous, Clark. They don’t even have shadows. I’ve come to terms with it. So, I’m standing there waiting for her to take proper measurements and she just spends at least thirty seconds sipping on her green tea and just…staring at me.”
“Staring?”
“Staring,” you repeat lowly, “I make this joke to her, because I feel exposed under her stare—even when I have a top on. I jokingly ask if she’s trying to find them first, because they’re just…on the smaller side.”
“Honey—”
You wave your hand up, “Small. Tiny. Anything moderately microscopic. Anyway, she lets out this laugh and I know, I just fucking know it’s not a laugh to join in on.”
Your facial expression melts into embarrassment as you think back to the moment that the bra fitting appointment went drastically downhill.
“This woman has the nerve to say that I don’t need a bra fitting appointment,” you exasperate as you finally pour water into the glass you were holding onto it, “She goes, I can’t measure something with such a flat surface. You need breast augmentation, not a push up bra.”
Clark swallows the food in his mouth in a harsh gulp, “Breast augmentation? Oh, come on. They’re perfect!” he gestures to your chest with an incredulous look.
“I know I am part of the infamous itty bitty titty committee, but I don’t need a stranger telling me too,” you sigh and wipe at the moisture around the bottom of the glass, “Even if it’s sort of her job.”
“That isn’t part of her job, honey.” Clark shakes his head vigorously as he pulls out his phone, “She’s meant to make you feel safe—What’s the address of this place?”
You make a noise at the back of your throat, waving your free hand in front of Clark’s face as he starts typing up vague buzz words in the search engine to locate this so-called bra fitting place. Hands coming to his broad shoulders, you squeeze the muscles to grab his attention from his phone.
He turns to you with a sour look.
“Whatever you’re thinking about doing. You don’t need to do it,” you almost plead, “Some of us don’t need bra fittings, alright? I have breast minimalism. I’ve taken it on the chin.”
Clark pouts at your words, “You have boobs. I’ve seen them. Firsthand. You still deserve the chance to have a positive experience.”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth with a smile, “Clark. With all due respect…you cannot make comments on that department.”
“Why? Because I’m a guy?”
“No.” you point to his chest that was protruding from the plain white tee he was wearing, as if he was carved out of marble, “Because it doesn’t count when you literally have bigger breasts than me.”
Clark looks down at his pecs, “You think so?”
“And you also ate my lunch for tomorrow,” you state with the half eaten evidence on the countertop.
“I was bored.”
You hum in response, taking a bite out of the burrito wrap filled to the brim with rice and beans. Clark watches you with a flush of pink dusting across his cheeks from being indirectly told off—and because you made the comparison of breast sizes between the pair of you. His eyes trail the length of your body as you lean against the ledge of the breakfast bar, down and then back up to your face.
There’s a lopsided smile that creeps onto his face when you catch him in the act.
You offer up the burrito and he takes a bite, his eyes pinning you to the spot as he takes a chunk into his mouth and chews happily. He wipes his hands on the tops of his thighs and stands—shrouding your height with his own.
“Come on,” he says when you look up at him in half-confusion. He takes the food from your hand and places it back in the tupperware for the time being.
“What—?” you whine when Clark takes your hand and tugs you along to follow him, “I’m not even finished with my food.”
Clark shrugs, “You’ll survive for an hour.”
“An hour?” you repeat, “What are we doing?”
Clark guides you down the hallway, “I’m about to show you how I would personally measure your breasts.”
You’re left giggling against his lips as you fumble into the bedroom.
hiiii koolie just wanted to drop in as a palate cleanser and say that i really love your work and i love your clark :) thanks for sharing all that you do! ♥️ -@dailyplaneteditor
ILY thank u for reading my work and sending this message <33
When I say I love your Clark Kent x receptionist!reader in the office fic I mean I LOVE IT, it’s so good can’t wait to see what happens next you’re an amazing writer x
oh my goodness, thank u so so much!!! i need to run by clark x receptionist!reader again they’re so sweet
content: MDNI. friends to lovers trope. reader is a smallville girl. clark is the no.1 yearner. alcohol. skinny dipping and brief descriptions of breasts. intense makeout scene and references to how to lose a guy in 10 days! clark doesn’t wear glasses (reader knows his secret but isn’t really addressed). inaccuracies about the midwest because i’m from the uk lads.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Looking back on his own execution at telling you he was in love—and had been for a number of years—with you, Clark Kent would visibly wince at the week he had spontaneously decided to visit his hometown.
To set the scene, Clark was nestled in his nook in the Daily Planet bullpen. Too big for a standard desk, knees pressed together with a shameful posture, his eyes flitted between his glaringly bright laptop screen and the two photo frames set on the desk adjacent to the computer.
The first, with a blue sticky note taped to the corner of the frame with Clark’s chicken scratch writing that read: CALL MA, was a photo taken of Clark and his parents on the Kent Farm. A recent one that he had picked from the bunch Ma Kent had sent in an envelope with a heartfelt letter attached to the city of Metropolis, that her son now resided in.
The second one? A photo of you—with Clark, of course—that Jonathan Kent had taken on the porch of his home. A handful of years younger, faces slathered in mischief, the photo captured the essence of your friendship. Bunny ears behind heads, tongues stuck out with the stretch of Kansas land in the background. The same night that you laid in the tall grass on a gingham picnic blanket, stomachs full of Kolaches and Lost Trail Root Beer and the array of stars in the sky that beared witness to Clark Kent falling in love for the first time.
(The picture was initially kept in his wallet. Until it went dog-eared and faded.)
It felt irreversible, that tender fondness for you. Tucked between his ribs, it stuck to him like adhesive. An itch he was unable to scratch, because it would take a leap of courage—and the downfall of a friendship—for Clark to profess the harboured secret he kept in the depths of his heart.
Through the journey of self-revelation and denial, Clark had pinned his little crush down to the fact that you came with his history in the Midwest. He loved Smallville, Kansas and by proxy, it meant that he had to love you because you came with the property that provided a sweet warmth of nostalgia.
He was merely homesick! Not in love!
And, then, you visited Clark in the bustling streets of Metropolis, far beyond your comprehension of reality, and it began to slowly dawn on him that he didn’t long for his home on the Kent Farm; he longed for…you.
So, by the next afternoon after some prolonged admiration over a picture and under the guise of feeling ‘homesick’, Clark had made it in record timing to Smallville, Kansas. More specifically, the Kent Farm, in which he presented himself in his tailored suit—courtesy of Ma Kent’s nimble sewing work—and an apologetic smile when Martha Kent had to be scraped off the ceiling at the sight of her son sauntering through the front door, clutching a briefcase, as if he hadn’t been gallivanting the skyscrapers of Metropolis for five months.
One high-pitched voice down the phone, Martha cancelled all plans with her lifelong friend to visit the Farmer’s Market and stay at home to fuss over her son. (Some people were just born for the role of a mother.)
A plate of chilli and cinnamon rolls that Clark had eaten out of politeness rather than hunger, the family sat on both sofas in the living room with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon.
Distracted by the chess game at hand—with Martha as the referee whilst she crocheted—Clark had missed the sound of an old farm pickup truck coughing down the dirt path on the farm. It was only when the front door opened with force, that all heads turned on a swivel to see you in the doorway; eyes wide at the sight of your childhood friend.
As pretty as the day he had left five months ago, your skin had the sheen of slick sweat from the Kansas humidity, fingers curled around the punnet of fat strawberries from the Farmer’s Market, in which—coincidentally—had been the place you had heard through the grapevine that a particular Kent resident had shown face unexpectedly.
With a successful eavesdrop, it was just you and your punnet of strawberries against the world. Or, less dramatically, against the long line of customers waiting to be served that put a wedge between you and the discovery if the rumour mill had been spinning some honest truths on an average Tuesday afternoon.
Clark had once referenced the notion as: ‘Boots on the ground journalism.’ Metropolis lingo for being nosey.
You took a breath, “Well, I’ll be damned.” You stepped across the threshold casually, “Look at what the cat dragged in!”
Your blue-eyed target perked up and his father, Jonathan Kent let out a snort of a chuckle, a gentle shake of his head at your cool facade. He had always been fond of you, despite the bad influence you had on their rather tame son during your formative years.
Three steps round the sofa that Martha Kent was perched on, you handed her the punnet of strawberries; eyes pinning Clark to the spot.
“These are for you, Mrs. Kent. Hand-picked by yours truly. Although, I ate a few before the cashier weighed them.” Your tone nonchalant as you tore your attention away from Clark to press a kiss to the older lady’s cheek. When she foiled your white-lie with the question if the strawberries were truly for her, you answered with a shrug. “No. But, you know I don’t come empty handed. Ma raised me better than that.”
(If it had been socially acceptable, Clark would’ve dipped and kissed you right there.)
And then, the attention was back on him. Like an LED spotlight for interrogation. Because, he hadn’t told anyone he was dropping by, and you were usually the first to hear about his annual visitations prior to his arrival on the rural grounds of the Kent Farm.
Oh boy.
“You look like Metropolis threw up on you.” You said with a little venom attached to your words. Nothing objectively hurtful, more so an immature prod. A deflection.
Clark stood, tugging at his suit pants to cover his embarrassingly funky socks. “I’m a real deal journalist now. I have to dress the part.” With the long span of his arm, Clark tugged you in for a bone-crushing hug that translated all the missed you’s in one swift squeeze. He pulled back with a lopsided smile, “Don’t you like it?”
You stepped out of his warmth and gave him the once over. How could you possibly express your thoughts that the grey suit and pink tie did wonders for the level of attractiveness that Clark Kent sat upon. It would be a dishonour to your roots to feed the Metropolis ego. (You missed the plaid shirts and blue Levis.)
So, you settled for a hint of attraction with a devious smile and a flick of his tie that sent the pink fabric over his shoulder.
“I’ll tolerate it, Metropolis.”
Jonathan and Martha Kent shared a look.
Then the fire pit had been lit by Jonathan Kent before he retired for the night with his wife in tow. Who also happened to leave a packet of marshmallows and sturdy sticks amongst the bundle of patchwork blankets for you two to gorge upon, because Pa Kent was sometimes plagued of his own nostalgia the night he told Martha Kent he couldn’t picture a future without her being the centre of it.
With a singed first-try of a marshmallow at the end of your stick, the sunlight minimal in the distance and the sound of chirping cicadas—which you had learned to tune out—and other ambient noises, you and Clark sat together as if personal space was an unfamiliar concept.
(Very telling. In hindsight.)
Curls tighter from the humidity, Clark had forgone the Metropolis streetwear, and swapped for a white t-shirt that clung to his bodily assets in a way that had you occasionally peering from your peripheral.
You were a red-blooded woman after all.
He spun the stick between his fingertips, his thoughts deep in the amber fire.
“Good to be back?” You asked after some comfortable silence. You watched as Clark affirmed with one curt nod and nudged him with your elbow, “What made you come back so suddenly?”
You. Clark bit the short answer that lay on the tip of his tongue, nostrils flared as he found self-restraint in the stars dangling above your heads.
Without the stretch of distance that kept Clark away from you, the apprehension to be honest nipped at his Achilles heel, and it had ultimately succeeded in relinquishing his true intentions by biting at his weak spot. His head dropped back from viewing the expanse of the night sky, marshmallow now char which earned a soft giggle from the back of your throat.
Despite the symphony from your mouth; Clark chose to put his confession to the back of his mind.
Not on the first night. If things went sour, he’d have liked to have a couple of untainted days with you.
“Homesick.” Clark answered in a deep tone. And, then once again to convince himself. “Just homesick.”
You dropped your head to the broadness of his shoulder, “Glad you’re back, Clark.”
The next morning, whilst the morning dew was still fresh across the grass, you found yourself in the Kent household before the sun had fully woken itself.
You stood at the end of Clark’s childhood bed. A single mattress on a metal frame, one—evidently—four sizes too small for a man of Clark Kent’s stature. He was all shoulders and muscular limbs.
He was dead asleep. Face down, arm dangled over the edge of the bed with his fingertips brushing the wooden floorboards, mouth hung open catching flies with the additional attraction of drool on his chin. You had climbed through his window that he always forgot to shut, allowing him a couple more minutes of slumber.
It came as a surprise that he hadn’t heard you coming. Or the profanities that left your mouth when your clothing snagged on a nail protruding from the windowsill.
OK. You decided that the longer you stood and watched your friend sleep, the more absurd you looked.
Your boot came to the plush mattress, and you gave one swift kick that had Clark jolt upright. You grinned cutely, “Wakey wakey, Metropolis!”
Clark dropped his head back onto the flat pillow, a groan elicited from the back of his throat, “I thought we pinky-promised to not do the darn old school alarm clock?”
“Yeah—Well. That was then and this is now.” You retorted. “Anyway, you need to be up and ready in 20 minutes.”
“Why?” Clark peered at his phone on the bedside table. 7AM. Luck was on your side that love clouded Clark’s visceral reaction at the time.
You dangled your car keys on your forefinger. “Road trip to Colonial Gardens, Blue Springs. It’s an hour drive, and I need to get back for the lunchtime graze with my heavily pregnant and vicious mare.”
The light that came from the window made Clark scrunch his face up as he manoeuvred his body to look at you as you spoke. Dust particles floated around you, moving out of the way due to your gesticulate hand movements whilst you went on a tangent about the horse you cared for that was expecting her first foal any day; and how her bite was a lot worse than her metaphorical bark.
Golly. You were so pretty at all hours of the day. Clark would silently thank your parents throughout his visit to Smallville.
“Are you even listening to me?”
Clark blinked the bleary sleep from his eyes, “Yes.” (He had completely missed what you said.) “Pregnant horse.”
“You shouldn’t call Ms. Tracey that.” You teased mercilessly. “I said, Ms. Tracey—the one that runs Betty K’s—is getting those second trimester cravings and desperately wants enough jars of the wildflower honey to get her through this pregnancy and postpartum. So, I volunteered. Which in turn, means you—“ You nudged his side with your foot, “—are making yourself useful and tagging along.”
“How many jars are we talking?” Clark’s voice was thick with sleep. It was attractive enough to send a jolt of electricity through your veins. He lazily stood from the bed, heels of his palms pressed to his eyes.
You did the mental math. “Enough for you to put those biceps to use.” You paused, “This conversation is eating into your time to get ready. Go take a shower and meet me out front in…” You looked to the clock on Clark’s wall, where time stood still and waved it off, “Whatever. In fifteen minutes.”
Clark was ready in twelve. Curls damp from the haste preening, a plaid button down haphazardly thrown over a white tee and jeans, you had beamed from the driver’s side of your beloved green pickup that had enough rust to be classified as the colour orange instead.
As Clark shifted the passenger seat back to allow himself the privilege to extend his long legs, he caught sight of you outwardly staring at him. Admiring. Ogling. And, suddenly, he was rendered pink-eared and bashful beneath the syrupy tension.
White-knuckled and pushing down the lewd thoughts of a backseat escapade with your friend, you turned the key in the ignition and held out a prayer that the engine hadn’t made the decision to call it quits on the Kent Farm.
It wheezed awake and you patted the dashboard.
Clark chuckled. “This belongs in a junkyard.”
“Some of us aren’t in the Metropolis tax bracket for a new car, Clark.” Your tone laced with saccharine, “You treat my baby with respect or you can walk to Blue Springs in those shoddy red shoes.”
The red boots referred to as—quote, unquote—shoddy, were the same ones that he wore to save the city of Metropolis from miraculously falling apart.
In simpler terms: Clark forgot to pack others. And his office shoes looked silly with his outfit.
He threw you a petulant look, dimples deceptive when he tried to feign annoyance as opposed to your rather valiant one, as if there had been an underlying competition of insults to win; bouncing around the inside of your truck.
You both fell into a comfortable silence. The windows rolled down to embrace the breeze, your attention trained to the road—because you couldn’t chat your way out of another ticket—Clark would find himself observing you more than the scenic landscape surrounding you. The bright sun hit the dashboard and your features illuminated, emphasising a rare beauty you withheld in the entirety of Kansas and far beyond. You were humming along to a song that crackled from the radio of your car, fingertips tapped against the steering wheel that had gotten hot under the relentless sun above.
Suddenly—with his heart tank full on you—the plan to stick to a couple of days of radio silence on the admission of love to spare him the breakdown of a cherished friendship…Clark was finding it most difficult to keep his lips sealed.
He could feel the itch become more apparent. From the neck up. If he could just muster the courage—
The thought was cut short. “Alright, City boy. Welcome to Colonial Gardens. Home of the pregnant lady’s cravings.” Clark straightened up in the seat, the warm leather creaked beneath him. You tilted your head at his dazed expression and leant between the two front seats, your shirt riding up to expose a slither of skin Clark had once envisioned kissing downward on, and pulled an empty mason jar from the backseat. You showcased it, “You can pick some flowers for your Ma after the shock you gave her yesterday.”
So, Clark abided by your orders. Carefully curating a colourful bouquet of Zinnias, pink Dahlias amongst other flowers, for Ma Kent’s empty vase on the kitchen windowsill to brighten the room up with fluorescence and a gentle apology for leaving her unprepared for surprise visit; whilst you bought jars by the dozen of wildflower honey to ail Ms. Tracey’s acute cravings.
He carried the load of the jars in two wooden crates to your truck whilst you indulged in your own sweet-tooth cravings with two ice cream cones happily clutched in both hands.
“You want these in the back?” Clark grunted. (He had to keep up appearances of an average civilian at times.)
With your attention torn from your own ice cream, you witnessed the sleeves of the plaid shirt Clark wore, taut against his biceps that flexed beneath the weight of the crates. A singular curl fell out of its immaculate placement and drooped over his forehead, his pink lips parted ever so slightly to allow himself the relief of a small, raspy whimper. You were being led to believe that the gods had spared no mercy on your poor soul.
Kansas looked good on Clark Kent.
Distracted, the scoop of vanilla ice cream in your grasp melted enough, the uneaten blob making a splat against the asphalt beneath your feet, the sudden cold spits of cream hitting your bare legs; shaking you back into the reality before you.
It felt like a hard pill to swallow.
“Oh.” You stammered, “Uh—Yeah. Backseat. Please.”
Clark spared you a look of mild concern and nodded. “Could you…unlock the car?”
“Yes!” You swapped the cone into your other hand and dug into your pockets for the car keys. Relief washing over your face when Clark turned his broad back to you to slot the crates in the narrow seats in the back of your car.
“You want me to buy you another ice cream?” Clark called behind him as he fought with the wooden crates momentarily. He stood at full height again, the knowing smirk prominent on his stupidly handsome face.
You grumbled, “No. It’s the consequences of the Kansas heat.”
”We’re at the state-line of Missouri.”
“You are splitting hairs here, Clark Kent.” You waggled your free hand at him, “It’s hot. Ice cream melts when left neglected under direct sunlight. Don’t delve deeper into something here.”
Clark’s shoulders bounced whilst he laughed, his hands held up in surrender. “Alright, alright.” He sniffed, “Here.”
His forefinger and thumb plucked a pink Dahlia from the cool watered mason jar, the green stem wrapped in the fabric of his white tee to dry it off before he slotted it behind your ear with ease. His blue eyes drank you up, the pink flesh of his cheek bitten between his back molars to try prevent a wide grin spreading across his face.
You performed—as you always had—and posed. “How do I look?”
Like you belong in a photo for my wallet to kiss when I’m lonely in Metropolis.
“Floral.” Clark settled on.
You shoved his ice cream into his hand with a laugh, “OK, charmer. Let’s go home.”
The bouquet from Colonial Gardens had a positive reception. Sat pretty in full bloom, in a clear vase on the windowsill of Martha and Jonathan Kent’s kitchen, the pink and orange petals brought additional warmth to the family home on the farm.
Martha Kent had been nestled in the kitchen all afternoon. With it being Clark’s penultimate day prior to his return back to his second home, Metropolis, his Ma had insisted upon a hearty meal at the barely used dinner table.
She was also one to play matchmaker, and invited you along under the ruse of a ‘best friend must attend a goodbye dinner!’
You turned up somewhere around the time that the table was being set, in your best Sunday garb that had Clark crack one of Ma’s plates that she only brought out for special occasions. (He got a clip round the ear). The aromatic scent of barbecue brisket that wafted from the kitchen made your stomach grumble as you toed your boots off.
To further Clark’s inward turmoil from the mere sight of you beneath the glow of the warm lighting, you gifted his Ma with a handmade doily, made by the talented hands of your Nan as a gift to pass on to Martha; because your statement always rang true.
You never arrived empty-handed.
And, according to the acceleration of his heart…Clark found your generosity, wildly attractive.
Then, he was succumbed to two hours of torture. Situated across from you—albeit a privilege—Clark had to spend half the night stuffing his mouth full of brisket to prevent an overspill of a confession at the dinner table with his parents as witnesses. You weren’t helping matters, chin rested against the palm of your hand, lashes fluttering with a gorgeous smile as you listened intently to his Ma’s in depth discussion on the brisket she had been sweating over for the whole afternoon.
Knuckles rapped against the oak of the table, his left leg bounced uncontrollably beneath the table as he felt the familiar itch become rather bothersome whilst his blue eyes flitted back to you intermittently.
Clark was having trouble believing you were real. Sure, he had grown up with you, spent the past week joint to your hip, but perhaps it was the domesticity of it all. That any version of his future he had pictured, he had envisioned you sitting at the table in the warm glow, eyes glittery whilst his Ma doted on you like a daughter she never had.
Although, the one thing missing at present was a ring on your left hand.
Baby steps. Baby steps.
“Who wants a couple of rounds of Bullshit?” Pa Kent asked once the dinner had concluded with you assisting Ma on transferring the empty plates to the sink for a clean up later.
You called halfway out of the kitchen, “I do!” You reappeared with a smile on your face and Clark dragged the chair out from next to him for you to sit on. You added sarcastically, “Can you handle another loss, Clark?”
“If you don’t cheat.” Clark mumbled as Pa Kent passed him the deck of cards to shuffle.
Once Ma had sat back down at the table, there were three rounds of Bullshit in Jonathan Kent had won by the skin of his nose. The fourth round was where the revelation that perhaps you knew Clark Kent better than the back of your own hand.
Even amongst prolonged intervals where you were—figuratively—worlds apart, you still managed to maintain the knowledge of every corner of his being. The obvious ones, where he would flush a sweet shade of pink from his neck to the tip of his ears when rendered embarrassed, or how his eye-contact dropped to minimal when he was irritated by something said. These weren’t groundbreaking, but good to know in a game of barefaced lying.
Then came the more acute tells. Like how, on the rarest occasion, that Clark Kent was lying—never over something marginally important—he would sniff once and his forefinger would tap against a surface, be that his own thigh or a table.
“Two Kings.” Clark sniffed. And then he tapped the table just once.
“Bullshit.” You called out, cards close to your chest. When Clark looked toward you in surprise, you narrowed your eyes, “You heard me, Clark Joseph Kent. Bull—shit.”
Clark blew out hot air, a hand rubbed at his jaw out of mild frustration that he had been caught out. When he reluctantly picked up the deck of cards, you openly rejoiced with your arms shooting above your head in celebration.
Ma and Pa laughed at the scene, Martha Kent clapping in response to her son’s satisfying loss at the game.
“You know him so well, honey.” Martha commented warmly. Amused. There was an underlying hint of mischief in her choice of words, but neither of you could prove it.
You bashfully tilted your chin to your shoulder, lashes batting in Clark’s direction which earned spluttered cough in order to coverup an uncontrolled whimper from the depths of his chest.
You patted his shoulder. “I suppose I do, Mrs. Kent.”
Nobody missed the way Clark looked upon you as if you had hung the darn moon. (Pa Kent quick to fire up the fire pit once more. This time, with even less blankets to share.)
And then, the night prior to Clark’s departure from Smallville came and it was a prime example of an initial failure to launch in words, but physical actions resulting in a more gratifying outcome. No, he hadn’t outwardly professed his undying—and potential unrequited—love for you. But the sentiment was there, all the same.
You were three beers and a little woozy whilst sat at the pond edge with Clark next to you, swatting at the pesky mosquitoes. Sitting atop of the same gingham picnic blanket from your teenage years, the two of you had been enjoying each other’s company for the last time for the foreseeable.
Or, until one of you caved and visited the other.
It all felt a little bittersweet.
Whenever Clark departed from Smallville, it felt as if you were walking around with one shoe and only half a blue sky above you. Tethered by a lifelong history together, it was hard to get the independence of your life moving with a crater in your chest from the absence of your friend; and vice versa.
There had been a hitch in his decision to leave. Because, if Metroplis didn’t have you, then what desire was there to return to the bustling streets? Sure. To keep the civilians of the city safe, that is what he was raised to do. It was at his very core to put lives before his very own.
But, you seemed to have a gravitational pull that Clark was starting to struggle to fight against.
“You wanna go for a swim?” Your bare feet kicked the surface of the water as you raised the question after some silence. You supposed, if you fluttered your lashes and tucked your chin to your shoulder; Clark would relinquish any rejection.
Clark frowned. “We—I don’t have any swimming trunks.”
“Me neither, Metropolis.” You stood abruptly, Clark’s gaze following up your body. You grinned, “We’ll do it old school. Come on. Last one in is a rotten egg.”
With little time for Clark’s objections toward it all, you tugged at the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head which left you bare chested, nipples already pebbled from the dip in temperature. Then came your shorts and underwear, your foot kicking them to the side with little regard to the idea that you were stood stark naked before your childhood best friend.
Clark shifted on the blanket. He wanted to avoid any accusatory finger pointing in his direction for mild perversions over human anatomy, so—despite his jaw slackened and fingernails drawing blood from his palms—Clark Kent found solace in the fluffy clouds above.
(The pink that crept from his neck to the tip of his ears was a dead giveaway.)
A laugh bubbled from your—very naked—chest before you broke into a sprint down the wooden dock and into the murky water beneath. When you resurfaced, you let out a sharp gasp, spluttering the water that you had inhaled from the shockwaves sent through your body from how bitterly cold the pond was.
Clark could hear your heartbeat and in an instant, he was stood with his eyes finding you flailing a little bit in the middle of the pond. There was no doubt if you could swim, Clark had seen you swim, and pretty well at that. But his judgement was clouded by the spike in your heart and his actions were immediate as he pulled the shirt from his body; jeans pooled at his feet before he dove in after you.
He got to you within seconds. Complete disregard to your level of nudity—again, Clark was all sense of the word mature—as he grappled the skin at your hips and raised you above water level and kept you there. Pressed to his own bare chest.
You pinched your nose to rid of the water before your hands came to his shoulders. “I’m fine. I’m fine. I just got a shock, that’s all.”
Clark huffed. “Don’t do that again.”
“Yes, sir.” You mocked, feeling the shock wear off, so you pushed off of Clark to create the smallest of gaps between your bodies.
The wet tendrils of Clark’s hair stuck to his forehead, droplets of water resting on his unfairly long lashes. It made you laugh softly, your hand coming up to brush the mop of hair out of his eyes; not without escaping the burning hot stare he had pinned to you.
His eyes dropped, and yours followed to note that your breasts were just above the waterline. (Not intentional, but if it were to help the train chug along, so be it.)
Your arms folded across your chest with a bashful giggle and that blissful noise that Clark had adored for, oh so many years, happened to be the gateway to his next movements.
Fingers wrapped around your wrists, you looked a little alarmed as Clark tugged at your arms, your body wading through the water to meet his body for a second time. He guided your arms around his neck, and free hands came to the meat of your thighs, silently hauling you up to his hips where you instinctively wrapped them around his frame.
Your bodies impossibly close, Clark nudged your nose with his own, hot breath fanning your lips before he allowed himself the painstakingly slow pleasure of kissing you. From the minute you made contact, it was feverish, teeth knocked, noses smushed to attempt to get closer to one and other. Clark let out a whimper, his tongue met yours in the middle and it sent his head reeling.
Skin bruised from how tightly he was clutching your thighs, you had forgone your pain threshold to keep the momentum of the kiss going.
(And, shit. He could kiss.)
It seemed with the last brick thrown at a wall that had been built over the span of your lifetime so far, the overspill of unspoken years of emotions had become an enormous wave. And, neither of you were willing to give the relief up so soon.
“Clark.” You whispered against his mouth, stomach in knots when his large palms grasped at the flesh of your backside. One hand came to rest against his cheek, your skin ablaze when he pulled back briefly to smirk.
He hummed against you, “Tell me.”
“I need—” You breathed, head tilted back as Clark kissed down the column of your throat. “—Holy shit. What do I need?”
This had Clark chuckle against your skin, “Take your time.”
It was dizzying. The way he spoke. The way he kissed. You might’ve allowed him full access to your body, if it hadn’t been in the murky water of the pond next to his parent’s house; in which, if looked out of the window correctly, they would see your heated interaction from afar.
Right. Of course. Parents.
You had to—regrettably—reel it in.
“Have you heard of those parasites?” You mumbled, eyes to the sky whilst Clark pressed featherlight kisses against your collarbone. “The ones that swim up your urethra?”
Clark halted. “No.” He blinked a water droplet away, “But now I have.”
“Yeah.” You shrugged.
“Do you want me to stop?”
No. Was the honest answer, but for the sake of public decency, you lied.
“I like this pond. I don’t want to have impulsive sex in it.” You curled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “But—I’d gladly continue in a hot shower?”
Clark beamed.
And with one additional kiss, and some wrangling of clothes back onto wet skin, you then found yourself stood in the middle of Clark’s bathroom in his parent’s home with steam billowing around your frame. You had made it in record timing, fingers entangled with Clark’s; hearts soaring as you fumbled your way through the home with a few hushed giggles.
It was all so adolescent. But, you had put that down to the fact that both of you had been patiently waiting for this moment since your own adolescence.
The room felt larger than you had remembered. With Clark’s broad back faced toward you as he adjusted the water temperature to—in his terms—scolding hot, because that’s just how you like it; the space between you felt sizeable enough that you suddenly missed the closeness in the waters of the pond.
You shifted from one foot to the other as you waited, suddenly aware of how the fabric of your clothes clung to your skin. How a person you had spent growing up beside could reduce you to a puddle of nerves, you weren’t so sure.
You’d put up a mighty good fight to conceal it, though.
“Alright.” Clark mumbled and turned back to you, “I think it’s hot enough.”
“Seventh circle of Hell, hot enough?” You teased, the joke feeling a little sour on your tongue considering how jittery you were.
Clark stepped into your space, his hands coming to either side of your face, “Seventh circle of Hell.” He repeated and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, his hand tapped the closed toilet seat lid, “Sit.”
You obliged and sat, knees knocked together.
Clark followed suit, his own knees cracking as he crouched to meet your eye-level, the sudden confidence that shone from within had you like putty left out in the sun. His hands smoothed down the expanse of your leg, straightening it out in order to remove your boots one by one.
He placed them neatly to the side, and then decided to cause a stutter in your heart.
Lips met your inner ankle and followed the trail of bare skin up to your knee, where his blue eyes shot up to meet yours. Clark looked—in simpler terms—submissive to the privilege of being allowed to freely kiss your body parts. When his kisses travelled further, your hand pressed into his drying curls and he grinned against your thighs; long fingers hooked around the fabric of your shorts to tug them downward for you.
You lifted your backside off of the toilet seat lid to assist Clark in the removal of your shorts. (You were sure you were seeing spots in your vision at this point.)
There was less of a care about your shorts than your boots as he haphazardly tossed them into the corner closest to the door, before diverting his attention back toward you. He made quick work to tug at the damp fabric of your shirt, you lifted your arms above your head and he pulled it off swiftly; leaving you bare in front of him once more.
It felt unequal.
“You’re still fully dressed.” You whispered, your own fingers fidgeting with Clark’s white t-shirt.
Clark hummed, “And, you’re beautiful.” He kissed you properly but left little time to melt into it. “Would it be so terrible if I were to admit that I have been in love with you for quite some time?”
“Hypothetically…” You tapped your forefinger against your chin, “No. But, save it for after the shower. I don’t want the grandkids hearing that you professed your love fully clothed and me completely naked.”
Clark kissed you again. And then again for his own gluttony. (He had waited this long. What was a few more stolen kisses?)
You gave a pathetic tug at the collar of his tee as he spoke, “Grandkids?”
“Behave.” You stood, fingers threaded in Clark’s hair whilst you laughed at his refusal to move. He pressed a kiss to your navel and you had to side-step to prevent any defilement in the middle of the Kent bathroom. “Come on, Metropolis. You’re wasting water on being a giant sop.”
Clark stood, pulling his own shirt over his head, pants kicked off for the second time that night. “Yes ma’am.”
His hands found your naked hips as you walked together into the shower that was far too small for both of your bodies to fit comfortably.
Amongst the muffled giggling and delicate kisses placed against searing hot skin; there was a confession in a breathy gasp from the euphoria met.
── .✦ MICHAEL 'ROBBY' ROBINAVITCH reassures PRINCESS READER with a very hands-on examination
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI brother's best friend, fwb, ditzy reader, discussion of breast lumps (reader thinks it’s cancer for like .2 seconds), mildly manipulative use of reader's ditziness, dubious consent, breast play, nipple play, oral stimulation, doctor kink, misuse of medical authority for sexy purposes
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
You grab onto his arm, garnering Robby’s attention. “Feel this for me?”
He's halfway through scrolling absently through the day's game highlights on mute, but the earnest in your eyes (plus the fact you're using his sleeve as a handle) makes him set the tablet aside. “Where?”
You guide his hand just beneath your left breast. The moment his fingers locate the tiny bit of tenderness, you hiss.
“That's not normal, right?”
“Could be a blocked duct, swollen lymph node, muscle strain...” He lists the harmless possibilities first because he knows you'll latch onto the scariest one.
Sure enough, panic flashes across your face.
“Or cancer,” you whisper.
He steers you onto the sofa.
“Let's stay calm, honey.” The nickname melts you every time. He uses it strategically, aware it overrides your higher cognitive functions the way pressing CTRL-ALT-DEL overrides a computer. “Deep breath for me, yeah?”
You comply, shoulders sliding back in the process the way he guided them at Dana's 60th birthday party last month — thumb up your spine, murmuring, “good posture keeps that pretty dress from doing all the work.”
Jack had hollered from the pool table, “You taking your shot or what, Robinavitch?”
Robby muttered something about musculoskeletal health, but you'd seen the grin he tried to hide.
Today's grin is subtler. He cups the the spot again, pads of his fingers warm, professional — mostly.
“This doesn't feel like cancer.”
Your eyes jump to his. “You can tell?”
“I can tell that nothing about it is setting off alarm bells.” His fingers gently test the edges of the knot. “It’s sore, it moves under the skin, and you only noticed it today. That points much more toward irritated tissue, a little cyst, or something hormonal.”
“So I’m not dying?”
“You are not dying.”
Your shoulders loosen by a fraction, until he clears his throat, gaze flicking down with clinical (and far less clinical) intent.
“While we're here,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing over both breasts, “let me double-check a few other things.”
Before you can agree, or pretend to protest, he coaxes your tank top higher. Warm palms frame each swell, thumbs grazing nipples until they perk under the attention.
“Temperature’s good,” he says, voice gone velvet. “Circulation…” He bends, mouth closing around one peak to suck gently, tongue flicking an unhurried pattern that makes your pulse trip. “…excellent.”
Your breath stutters. “Is this… uh … part of protocol, or did you invent that just now?”
“Holistic medicine,” he answers, switching sides with exaggerated professionalism and an open-mouthed lick that leaves a glossy trail. “Whole patient, whole care.”
Your brain, already mushy around him, accepts the lie for a solid five seconds. Then the penny drops, finally catching on that this is not standard practice.
“Robby.” You scold with big eyes, but the syllables come out a little sigh-soft.
He grins against your skin.
“And you” — another slow suck, enough to drag a whine from your throat — “are officially cleared for vigorous activity.”
“Doctor’s orders?”
“Doctor’s insistence,” he corrects, sliding a hand down your rib cage toward far less innocent territory. “Now relax, princess — this part of the exam takes… time.”
MARIA NOTE procrastinating writing stripper reader.... but trust it's coming... and it's already up to 10k words idk who i think i am
YOU CAN FIND MY MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH MASTERLIST HERE ⭑.ᐟ
the bitch is back by elton john plays in jack abbot’s mind every time his hate-fuck reader from ortho is called downstairs to consult on a case. she loves to provoke him in front of people because 1.) he can’t do anything about it and 2.) it means he’ll put her in a headlock position whilst having sex in the back of his truck after work
tags ✉️ established relationship, fluff, no angst, lovey dovey couple, clark & reader are married
It’s been a couple days since you’ve taken the test and you were still in shock. You couldn’t believe it. You were actually pregnant.
There was a little human inside of you that was going to grow and grow. A tiny heartbeat. A tiny person that was half you and half Clark.
Your hand rested over your stomach even though there was barely anything there. There was no bump, no movement, no sign that your lives were about to change forever.
You and Clark have talked about having a family before. Of course you have. There were nights when the two of you would lie in bed, wrapped up in each other’s arms, talking about the future.
You both wanted two children. A boy and a girl.
Clark would always smile when he talked about it. That soft, hopeful smile that never failed to make your heart melt.
“I think I’d like to be a dad someday,” he had told you once.
The man who still called his mom after a difficult day. The man who got emotional over old family photos. The man who stopped to help strangers even when he was already late. The man who looked at the world like there was still so much good left in it, despite all the bad he’s witnessed.
“You’d be an amazing dad,” you had whispered back, giving him a peck on the lips before snuggling against him.
And now he’s going to be a dad.
You knew that Clark will be amazing and will take the news well, but that still didn’t stop your nerves from taking over.
How in the world were you going to tell Superman something that big?
You decided to plan one of your usual dates.
Nothing extravagant. Clark never cared about expensive restaurants or grand gestures anyway. He loved quiet moments with you.
The little things.
Like a walk through the city, sharing dessert, holding your hand while you talked about each other’s day.
You ordered a bouquet of flowers for him, carefully choosing every detail. Soft colors, delicate flowers, something that reminded you of him.
White lilies, blue delphiniums, tiny sprigs of baby’s breath and tucked carefully between the stems, hidden in a small envelope, was the grainy black-and-white ultrasound photo you’ve looked at a hundred times already.
Clark immediately knew something was different when he saw you waiting for him.
He had just finished another long day at the Daily Planet, his tie slightly loosened and his hair messy from running his fingers through it while working.
The second he saw you though, he smiled.
No matter how exhausting his day was, no matter how many problems he had to solve, you could always make him look like he had just been handed the best news in the world.
“There she is,” he said warmly, walking over to you. “My favorite person.”
You laughed. “Your favorite person?”
“Definitely,” he grinned, his dimples deep in his cheek as he leaned in to give you a quick peck on the lips.
Gosh, you were so excited to reveal the news to him.
The date had been simple by design. A walk through the park, dinner from your favorite little restaurant, and a quiet evening beneath the stars.
“You’re smiling at me like you’ve got a secret,” Clark teased as you settled onto a park bench, his hand naturally finding yours.
“Maybe I do,” you grinned at him.
You reached behind the bench and brought the bouquet into view. His blue eyes sparkled with curiosity. “These are for you.”
Clark blinked, surprised, “for me?”
“You bring me flowers all the time,” you laughed softly. “Thought it was your turn.”
He accepted them with the bashful smile that somehow still looked so wonderfully farm-boy despite everything. He admired the blooms before noticing the envelope nestled among the stems.
“What’s this?”
“Open it!”
His fingers were impossibly gentle as he unfolded the flap. The tiny ultrasound picture slipped into his palm.
His brows furrowed. His eyes darted from the picture to your face, then back again.
“Wait..”
You felt tears gathering before you even spoken.
“Clark..” you sniffled.
A heartbeat later, his super-hearing confirmed what his mind hadn’t dared believe. Two heartbeats. His breath caught.
Clark’s eyes widened until they shimmered with tears, “we’re..” His voice cracked into a laugh, “we’re having a baby?”
You nodded, laughing through your own tears.
“We’re having a baby.”
The bouquet nearly tumbled to the ground as Clark wrapped you in the gentlest embrace imaginable, as though you were made of spun glass. His forehead rested against yours, shoulders shaking with quiet, joyful laughter.
He pulled away and whispered, “are you okay?”
You laughed softly against his shoulder, “Clark.”
“No, I mean it. Are you okay? Have you been feeling okay? Are you tired? Are you scared?”
The tears started falling from your eyes, “I’m okay,” you promised. “I’m happy.”
He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against yours.
“I’m happy too.”
A tear slipped down his cheek and you brushed it away with your thumb.
“I love you,” you whispered.
“I love you too, honey.”
He looked at the picture again, completely amazed.
“Our baby.”
You laughed. “Our baby.”
authors note! I want to have his babies.
I hope you enjoyed! This is really quick, not proofread, not edited. I just wanted to make a fic of Clark finding out he’s becoming a father because I love him and because I know that he’d be the best father in the entire world. It’s not my best piece of work, but I don’t care - I’m happy.
