Hiii!! So I know no one cares and I only have like three followers 😩(and this is my first proper post) but I’ve been writing this book since last September; and I know 2k might not seem like a lot of progress to some people but I’m honestly so proud of how far it’s come!
Thank you to everyone who’s supported me along the way
You have all my love, always. 💜💜
I’ve attached the link below, if you’d like to check the book out for yourself!!
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I smile to myself as I allow the silken arms of the water to wrap around my body completely. I haven't felt thi...
Summary: if there’s one thing Clark knows about you is that you’re a light drinker – that being the reason why you rarely indulge… and a night out with your friends seems like the perfect moment to do so.
A/N: this is my second scribble for June Jukebox Scribbles and I decided to go for one of the swap outs. This chapter’s song is If the World Was Ending - JP Saxe feat. Julia Michaels, and trigger warning: alcohol consumption. Enjoy!
“Hey, honey”.
You giggled happily as your boyfriend’s voice filled your ears, slightly modified by his phone’s mic. God, you loved Clark’s voice.
“I love your voice too, baby” Clark replied, his chuckle was possibly the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard, “Were you out drinkin’ with the girls?”.
You hummed, throwing your body back-first on your terribly uncomfortable sofa, listening to any creaking sound that could announce its demise. If it were up to Clark, you’d have already bought a new couch (and a new apartment, and stove, and whatever you were lacking at your small but well-loved – not to say old – apartment), but you couldn’t have it, not when in a week your life would change.
“And did you have fun?”.
You pouted, adjusting your body on the couch so you were as comfortable as possible (which meant not much), your legs on top of the armrest and your head against the soft pillow Clark had given you, “It’s not funny when you’re not here”.
Clark laughed, and the screeching sound on his side told you exactly where he was: at the Planet, even though it was later than usual. It wasn’t uncommon, considering that he’d stay late whenever Superman had someone to save, “Thanks for lying to me, hon”.
“I’m not lying!” You insisted, even if the night had been fun, and that was probably your alcohol-driven lovesick version speaking about your desire of having your boyfriend with you, “Thea said your stealing me from them”.
“Well, I am”.
“And that you should be ashamed”.
“I’m not”.
“And…” you hiccuped, making a face at the taste of alcohol that was still on your mouth. That was exactly why you rarely drank – you hated the taste, even though you were happier and lighter whenever you drank three margaritas, “What should we call our little girl?”.
Clark was silent for a minute, then two. Then a few more heartbeats. You were almost convinced that he had hung up on you – which would be strange, because Clark Kent would never – when he finally managed, “Our little girl?”.
“Yeah” you nodded, closing your eyes as the light started to make your head pound, “Thea reads the cards, y’know. Said we’ll have a baby girl”.
His silence was shorter now, only enough for you to yawn loudly, the phone almost slipping out of your hands in your tiredness, “Oh, did she?”.
“Yeah” was your reply, your brain ready to shut down, “I said we should name her Lara, but she said the cards wouldn’t have it. Then I suggested Martha, and it was a yes”.
“We don’t have to name, uh, our girl after my mom” Clark whispered – or maybe you were so tired that his voice was starting to sound farther away, “I know there are other names you like”.
“Yeah, but I love you”.
“And I love you. And I’ll love our girl even if her name is Violet”.
“I probably wouldn’t” you pulled a face, heart warming as you heard him laugh again. Talking with Clark was your favorite thing to do in the whole world, “Can you fly here tomorrow?”.
“I can do it know” he offered, “Do you want me to?”.
You thought about it for a second, even though your mind was still slightly blurred – which only made your answer even more obvious, “I’ll leave the balcony door open”.
“I’ll be there in an hour. Go to sleep” he whispered, “I love you”.
You were on a deep sleep when Clark made it to your house, still laying on the couch, your body facing the window as if waiting for him to arrive. It was inevitable the way Clark smiled at the image of you, taking you in for a moment before he moved, holding you in his arms as if you were his most prized treasure – and you were.
And as he walked to your bedroom, he saw the same future Thea had seen in the cards, and he couldn’t help but wish that someday it would become true.
It was Sunday, so you decided to clean the house with Clark.
Somewhere between when you first started cleaning an hour ago and now, your ring had found its way off of your finger!
You're not sure how you just now noticed the missing weight. You're shocked Clark hasn't noticed. He's always creepily observant.
"Hey, Clark?" you call out.
He comes out of the bathroom with gloves on, standing in the doorway.
"Yeah, honey?" he asks, ready to do whatever you ask of him. You almost feel bad, but you know he'd want to know if you lost it.
"I don't know where my ring's at, can you help me find it?" you ask, already scanning the visible part of the living room as you stand there.
Your eyes roam over the tabletops, cup holders, the bookshelf, and the table by the front door.
His eyes widen, but he smiles immediately.
"Sure, hun." He's already taking off the cleaning gloves. "Let me just clean my hands real quick."
He disappears back into the bathroom briefly, cleaning his hands, before coming back out to you in the living room.
"Okay, I started in the kitchen, then I came into here, so I'll check the kitchen and you check here?"
"Got it."
And he starts checking the living room.
You head to the kitchen, scanning the general counter area and the dining table. No sight of it yet.
Meanwhile, with Clark... he's already found it. He found it as soon as you told him you lost it. He used his X-ray vision, and it's far under the couch.
It's not close enough to see it if you just look under the edge, but not far enough to where you can grab it from the back.
But Clark doesn't grab it, or say he's found it. Of course not! That's cheating!
So for the next hour and a half, he helps you look for it normally.
"Maybe it's under the table?" he suggests.
"Nope, I already checked there. We both did."
You keep looking under and around things, not sure where it could've gone.
"Ah, right."
...
"Maybe it's by the bookshelf?"
"I already checked there, though..."
You're deep in thought, considering the possibility it had grown legs and run away.
"Oh."
As you're still looking, you notice Clark's eyes fixed on one spot every so often. The bottom of the couch, or more specifically, under it.
Then you realize,
"You know where the ring is, don't you, Clark?"
His eyebrows raise, and his expression turns sheepish.
He lifts the couch slightly and grabs the ring.
Gosh, how could you forget this man has superpowers?
"In my defense, I was trying to let you find it!" he explains.
"You watched me basically crawl on the floor for over an hour looking for it, when you could've just said you found it with your X-ray vision!"
"But I didn't want to cheat! I was being supportive!"
"Clark, it's not a competition!" you groan, this superman child was gonna be the death of you.
The low hum of the bar faded into the background as he guided you toward the pool table in the back corner. Dim lights cast a golden glow over the green felt, and the clack of balls from other tables seemed distant now. "Here," he murmured, voice low and smooth like aged whiskey. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his black button-down earlier, exposing strong forearms corded with muscle and faint veins that flexed as he picked up a cue. The fabric strained slightly over his shoulders, and you tried not to stare.
You gripped the cue awkwardly, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he stood behind you. “I’ve never been good at this.”
“That’s why I’m teaching you, sweetheart.” His chest brushed your back as he leaned in, one hand settling lightly on your hip to adjust your stance. The heat of his palm burned through the thin fabric of your dress. “Bend forward a little more.” You did, feeling the cool edge of the table against your hips. He stepped in fully then, his body molding against yours from behind in one fluid motion. Tall, solid, and far too warm.
“Like this,” he whispered. His breath ghosted over the sensitive skin of your neck, sending a shiver racing down your spine. You could smell his cologne; something dark and woody that made your head feel fuzzy. His fingers slid down your arm, wrapping around your hand on the cue to correct your grip. His thumb stroked once along the side of your wrist, almost absentmindedly, but the way your breath hitched told him everything.
“Eyes on the cue ball,” he continued, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Not the pocket yet. You need to feel the angle first.” His other hand moved to your shoulder, pressing you gently into the proper form. You were caged between his arms now, trapped in the most delicious way possible. Every small shift of his body against yours sent sparks through you, the hard plane of his chest, the subtle flex of his thighs behind yours.
You tried to focus on the shot, but all you could think about was how perfectly he fit against you, how his breath kept teasing your neck with every instruction, warm and ragged like he was fighting the same tension you were. “Relax,” he said huskily, his mouth hovering just below your ear. “You’re too tense. Let me help.”
He adjusted your elbow, his fingers lingering far longer than necessary, tracing down to your wrist again. When you finally took the shot, the cue ball struck with a sharp crack, but you barely noticed where it went. All you registered was the way his grip tightened on your hip as he praised you softly. “There you go, baby, you're a natural.”
The words hit low in your stomach. You straightened up slowly, turning in the small space he allowed you. His eyes were dark, locked on your lips for a beat too long before flicking back up. “Again?” he asked, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk that promised much more than another lesson.
You swallowed hard, pulse racing. “Yeah… I think I need a lot more practice.”
a/n: i saw a video on tiktok about this and had to write it lol
synopsis: periods suckkkk. but he's there to make it better<3
warnings: period pain, hurt comfort, physical touch, soft domestic fluff, established relationship vibes, clark being ridiculously attentive and worried, brief mention of pain medication.
wc: 1.3k
Your cramps had been awful all day. The kind that settled deep in your stomach and wrapped around your lower back like a vice.
You had tried sleeping. You had tried distracting yourself. You had even tried convincing yourself it wasn't that bad.
It was.
By the time evening rolled around, you were curled into a miserable little ball on the couch, blanket wrapped around your waist and a pained expression permanently stuck on your face.
Clark noticed immediately.
But Clark noticed everything when it came to you.
The moment he stepped through the apartment door, his brow furrowed.
"Sweetheart?"
You groaned in response.
His face softened.
"Oh."
Within seconds he was kneeling beside the couch.
"Period?"
You nodded.
Another cramp hit and you squeezed your eyes shut.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. Not because periods scared him. Not because he thought they were gross but because he simply hated seeing you hurt.
Even if it was something completely normal.
"What can I do?" he asked immediately.
You shrugged.
Clark was already moving.
"Okay. Painkillers."
Before you could respond, he was in the kitchen. A second later he returned with water and medication.
You obediently took them.
"There."
He brushed your hair back.
"That should help soon."
It didn't. Not much, anyway.
Half an hour later you were still curled up and miserable.
Clark frowned.
"Okay."
His hands landed on his hips.
"New plan."
A heating pad appeared. Then another blanket...then fuzzy socks.
You weren't entirely sure where he'd gotten them from.
Clark carefully tucked the heating pad against your stomach.
"Better?"
"A little."
The answer clearly wasn't good enough.
He sat beside you, thinking. Then his eyes brightened.
"What about a bath?"
You groaned.
"No."
"I can make it warm."
"No."
"I'll put those bath salts you like in there."
"No..."
That one came out softer and more helpless.
"You won't even have to get up. I'll carry—"
"Clark."
He stopped talking.
You peeked up at him.
"No bath."
"Right."
It goes silent for a moment and gives you a look...that little look he gives you.
"What about food?"
"No."
"Tea?"
"No."
"Chocolate?"
"No."
"Massage?"
You hesitated. And Clark immediately perked up.
"Massage."
You sighed.
"Yes..."
His hands moved to your lower back. He was so gentle with you...
But it was strong enough to ease the tension without hurting.
For a few minutes, it actually helped. Until another cramp twisted through your abdomen.
You whimpered.
Clark's entire face fell.
"Oh, honey."
The concern in his voice almost made you cry.
He looked completely helpless. As if he would gladly fight an alien invasion but couldn't figure out how to fix this.
His hands rubbed your back.
"Tell me what you need."
You shook your head.
"I don't know."
"There's got to be something."
You didn't answer. Clark continued listing possibilities anyway.
Different medicine., more blankets, heating pads, hot drinks, takeout, another massage.
Anything.
He'd do all of it if it meant you felt better.
Eventually he stopped talking. Because he noticed something.
Every time he got up, you looked disappointed. Every time he moved away, you curled tighter into yourself.
And every time he sat back down beside you, you relaxed.
Clark blinked.
Then blinked again.
"Oh."
You looked at him.
"What?"
A small smile appeared on his face.
"You don't want any of that stuff."
"I didn't say that-"
— "You want me."
Heat immediately rushed to your cheeks.
Clark's smile softened. The kind that always made your heart melt.
"Come here."
Before you could protest, he carefully gathered you into his arms.
One arm around your shoulders and the other around your waist. Pulling you against his chest.
Instantly, some of the tension left your body.
A sigh escaped before you could stop it.
Clark chuckled quietly.
"There it is."
You buried your face in his shirt.
Neither of you spoke for a moment. The apartment was quiet.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat filled your ears.
His hand slowly stroked through your hair.
"You should've told me."
"I didn't know how."
"You could've just said you wanted cuddles."
You huffed.
Clark laughed softly.
Then pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
"All that running around."
"You were being very helpful."
"I know."
"You looked like you were preparing for a medical emergency."
"I basically was."
You could hear the grin in his voice.
Another cramp hit and you tensed.
Immediately, Clark's arms tightened around you.
Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you he was there.
You melted against him as his chin rested on top of your head.
"I've got you."
The words were simple. But somehow, they made everything feel easier.
The pain didn't disappear. The cramps didn't magically stop. But wrapped safely in Clark's arms, listening to his heartbeat and feeling his warmth surrounding you, it didn't seem nearly as overwhelming.
Clark had been holding you for nearly twenty minutes. One arm wrapped securely around your shoulders. The other resting across your waist beneath the blanket.
The apartment had gone quiet, save for the television neither of you were actually watching.
To anyone else, you probably looked comfortable.
Relaxed...
Half asleep, even.
But Clark knew better.
He could feel it. The way your fingers kept tightening around his sleeve, the slight twitch every few minutes, the way you were practically clinging to his arm like it was the only thing keeping you together.
Another cramp rolled through you. Your grip tightened instinctively.
Clark's eyes flickered downward.
"Still hurting?"
You sighed.
"A little."
The answer was automatic and not remotely convincing.
Clark raised an eyebrow.
"A little?"
You stubbornly looked away.
He knew that look...
The I don't want to complain about it look.
Clark's expression softened.
"Sweetheart."
You immediately lost the argument.
"Okay, maybe more than a little."
"Hm."
His hand rubbed gently along your side. For a moment he simply watched you taking in the way you were curled against him.
The slight tension in your stomach and the way you kept pressing the blanket tighter against yourself.
Then understanding crossed his face.
Without a word, Clark shifted.
You blink.
His large hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, resting carefully against your lower abdomen.
It was warm and had enough pressure to ground you for however long it would last.
You let out a surprised breath.
Clark glanced down at you.
"Is this okay?"
You nodded immediately.
His hand remained there, palm spread over the area that hurt most.
The warmth from him seemed almost unfair. Like his body had been specifically designed to be comforting.
You felt yourself relax before you even meant to. A soft sigh escaped you.
"There."
Clark's voice was quiet. His thumb traced a small circle against your side.
"Better?"
"Loads."
His smile appeared instantly. The one reserved only for you...one that always looked a little relieved whenever he managed to help.
"Good."
You settled deeper against his chest and his hand stayed exactly where it was.
Warmth radiating through your skin.
Not trying to fix everything...not trying to solve the problem.
Just being there.
Holding you.
The steady rise and fall of his breathing lulled you toward sleep.
Another cramp came eventually. Still painful and unpleasant.
But this time Clark's hand was already there.
His arm tightened around you and his lips brushed softly against your hair.
"I know," he murmured.
The words were barely above a whisper. A gentle acknowledgment.
You hummed quietly and tucked yourself even closer.
And Clark, as always, held you without hesitation.
As if there was nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.
MY WORK IS MY OWN AND I HAVE OWNERSHIP OF MY CREATIONS. DO NOT STEAL, COPY OR REPOST!
this tiktok got me thinking about the mess clark would be if you avoided him after he confessed to you.
tags: explicit content, confessions, fwb!reader, text fic themes (700+ wc)
—
that man would be so genuinely pathetic about it all.
he draws a hard line — refusing to push you for an answer to his spur-of-the-moment confession. he thinks giving you time to consider him as a potential partner was the respectful way around it. but what he doesn't account for is how painful the waiting game would be.
you stopped responding to his texts. going out of your way to avoid him both in and out of work, with a level of evasion that would give him a run for his money. if it wasn't so frustrating, he might even be impressed at the segues you successfully orchestrated.
now, clark knew that you hadn't been doing any of those things because you truly hated him.
he knew that wasn't the truth. you two were good friends first.
good friends who often did everything together — like greeting you in your apartment's lobby at 8 am every day, to buy you coffee before you both clocked in for your shift. good friends who stayed at work late to help each other out, no strings attached.
and like the true good friend clark was, he even made sure you came on his fingers the very first time you let him fuck you. and every single time afterwards since then.
so yeah, you were good friends.
it was an easy cop out to avoid clark. for starters, you'd rather not have to commit to the colossal fall out that would surely follow if things had an official label.
and really, you should've known better that a sweetheart like clark would so innocently devote himself to you if you crossed that particular boundary. he fucked you like he loved you. that was the truth in the matter. breaking his heart wasn't an option, so when you left your girls at the bar early that evening, you had your mind set.
you shakily open your text thread with clark as you set foot out of the elevators leading toward your apartment.
26th May 2026
Clark K.: Take all the time you need!! READ
27th May 2026
Clark K.: Morning.
Clark K.: I got you your oat-milk vanilla latte. Are you coming down soon?
You: Sorry. I left earlier. See you at work?
Clark K.: Ok! No worries. 🥸 See you. READ
28th May 2026
Clark K.: I know you said you wanted a little space from our morning walks. I put a gift card from the coffee shop on your desk. In case you fancy a cup on your way to work. READ
3rd June 2026
↳ CLARK K. FORWARDED AN ARTICLE.
HOW TO GIVE SOMEONE SPACE: IT'S TIME TO LET GO.
Clark K.: I'm so sorry. Ignore that. I didn't mean to send it to you. READ
5th June 2026
Clark K.: Are you free this weekend? Let's talk about it. Please.
Today
Clark K.: I miss you so so much. Please let me talk to you. READ
You: I thought about it. Let's give this a shot.
the message sends off with an ominous woosh with the added liquid courage you had in your system. you hadn't expected a response so soon, considering the emotional whiplash you were giving him.
"t-this, am I hallucinating? do you mean it? do you really mean it?"
you certainly hadn't expected clark to spring right up from his slouched position beside your front door. looking like an absolute and utter mess. his glasses were nearly tucked in his breast pocket, hair combed upward in one spot he must've been running his hand through all night while waiting for you.
clark's shadow towers over you, like an anxious spirit, bouncing on his heels, too wary to touch you.
your heels hang loosely by the way you hold them by the straps.
"i—you're here. i didn't—…"
"i know," he cuts in, shaking his head, barely being able to contain the relief coursing through his veins. "too soon, zero buffer time. i was…just here to apologise for that…'i miss you' text. it was awfully pushy. and i felt really silly, especially when i promised you time and space —"
you quickly close the distance, cupping his jaw with both palms. tip-toeing to kiss once. completely sure of yourself. his surprised hum melts the second your lips slot between his. and he sighs, content and deep to curl his arm by your hips, lifting you up in the process.
"had my fill —" a soft, separation, and then you press another kiss, "all the time an'space." you continue, words broken by the urgent need to have him as close as you could.
clark turns you around, with your legs locked around his hips. he presses you flush against your front door, hiking you securely around him. he lets you have the room to speak, dragging the gentle curves of his nose down your jaw. his own bated breath warms your sensitive skin.
you tilt your head, panting in the aftermath of your confession. "i'm sure." you whisper, breathily, his mouth leaving urgent pecks to the column of your throat.
"i want you, clark."
it's all the assurance he needs to christen your furniture with the newly established label, like the good friend boyfriend he could now be.
CLARK KENT thinks he's the luckiest man ever to have you. He loves everything about you. The way you smile, the way you flip your hair, the way the sound of your laughter echoes through the walls and matches the rhythm of his heart, your kindness, your temper, he loves all of you.
He loves you so much, it genuinely aches in his heart. His heart picks up it's beat around you, he can feel heat rush to his cheeks, he feels himself stuttering when speaking to you. He's so in love with you it makes him seem like an idiot but he can't help but take so much pride in that. He's so grateful to call you his.
mmh thinking loads about clark and his grown-out hair…don't mind me….
tags: implied smut, fluff, domestic bliss, gratuitous mention of his curls (700+ wc)
—
i'd imagine that fhe first time you noticed would've been when you're just in bed with him, lounging after a hearty home-cooked dinner. he's laying on his belly beside you, with an arm tucked under his pillow. he gets like that when he eats too much, usually burning the lethargy off with a nap. quietly, you'd watch the sturdy, broad lines of his back rise and fall, in utter bliss.
"mm. can feel you staring at me. i think." after a long while of you squinting, he'd call you out on it, voice a sleepy, pillow-muffled drawl.
you'd clamber over his stupidly slender waist, combing your fingers through his thick, slightly coarse locks. "your hairs gotten seriously long."
clark remains a drifting cloud beneath you. the only evidence of his presence being the low, content grumbles he makes at the gentle pressure of your nails against his scalp. he lifts his head a fraction. "…has it?"
"mhm." you hum, non-committal. slumping your whole weight into the wide expanse of his broad back. scents of cedar & peppermint coating your senses. your knuckles come to push the curled out edges by the nape of his neck. it springs back up under your nudge. "i've never seen it stick out like this."
you stroke through his curls a little rougher, eliciting a full-bodied shudder from your sleepy boyfriend, "i see. i've had my hands a little full lately." a soft, deep sigh leaves him, and you feel his calloused hands blindly feel for your ankles, snug by his waist. he thumbs at the muscle there, sliding up your calf.
"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.
your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.
"…"
his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.
clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.
"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.
you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.
the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."
"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"
you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."
he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.
"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.
before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.
you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.
you couldn’t walk, literally. and it was all thanks to bruce. the man had a smug look and you couldn't help but want to wipe it off his face
“im gonna take a shower” he stood up from the bed, taking a towel and throwing it to shoulder as your nail marks on his back were bright as day. his hand rested on the bathroom knob to turn to you with an all knowing smirk. “wanna join?” the faint lip gloss kisses on his chest slightly shimmered under the light
“yeah just—" you sat up, pretending that you were okay. “give me a minute.” but the moment you stood on your legs, it’s as if they felt like jello, making you immediately dart your hands to anchor yourself to the bed
bruce’s smirk grew, biting his bottom lip to try to hold his laugh and to hold his lips from turning into a grin while you looked up and gave him a weak glare. “this is your fault” you pointed out with your free hand, making him raise an amused eyebrow
“me.”
“who else?”
“so you're saying that’s not what you begged for tonight.”
your mouth stayed mid-open and your argument died out, making you close your mouth as your cheeks immediately flustered from the memory— you, under bruce with his large hands everyone on your body and his waist interlocked with your legs as you basically begged him to fuck the life out of you
now that made a small, raw laugh leave bruce’s lips from your silent defeat. god, you were beautiful— hickey marks up on your body with makeup smudged and hair messed up, all thanks to him.
“do you want me to carry you?” he offered softly with a smile. you were about to refuse and say that you got it until you almost wobbled by taking another step, making you sigh in defeat as you shyly nodded
and without a word, bruce walked up to carry you bridal style. your arms went around his neck like instinct, burying your face in the corner of his neck with embarrassment as he walked towards the bathroom
“you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you muttered under your breath and that made a smug look go back on his face as he opened the bathroom. “every second of it”
smug bastard
—————————————————————————
masterlist!
(a/n: was gonna post this after diana mdni drabble but i completely forgot HELP also not proof read i just wrote this in like 10 mins lol)
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE was so easy to love, and even though his duties poked through into your married life, he always made sure that you knew you were his priority.
!! no real warnings. fluff. wife!reader. established relationship. he is whipped. domestic bruce wayne. ideal marriage tbh. need me a man like bruce. domestic fluff. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The grandfather clock in Wayne Manor chimed twice as you padded down the hallway in your slippers, silk robe wrapped loosely around your nightgown. Three years of marriage, and you still weren't used to waking up in an empty bed when Bruce had patrol.
You found him exactly where you expected — in the study, cowl off but still in most of his suit, hunched over the computer with that familiar furrow between his brows. The blue light cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look every bit the Dark Knight he was.
"Y'know," you said, leaning against the doorframe, "most husbands have the decency to at least pretend they're coming to bed."
His head snapped up, and the transformation was immediate. The hard line of his mouth softened into something that still made your heart skip, even after all this time. "You should be asleep."
"So should you." You crossed the room, your footsteps silent on the far too expensive rug. "But here we are."
Bruce reached for you before you even made it to his chair, pulling you onto his lap with the kind of easy strength that never failed to make you feel cherished. His gloved hands settled on your waist, and you wrinkled your nose.
"You're still in the suit."
"I was just finishing up the reports." His voice had that gravelly quality it always carried after a night out, rough and low. "Didn't want to forget the details."
"Mhmm." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble there. "And it had nothing to do with avoiding Alfred's lecture about proper sleep schedules?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Alfred's lectures are... comprehensive."
"He cares about you." You smoothed your thumb across his cheekbone, over a bruise that was already forming. "We both do. This looks bad."
"You should see the other guy."
"Bruce." Your voice was stern, your eyes set on him with the stubbornness and concern that made him fall in love with you.
He caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm and your pulse, sending warmth flooding through you. "I'm fine. Promise."
You wanted to argue—you always did—but you'd learned to pick your battles. Bruce Wayne was never going to stop being Batman, and you'd known that when you'd said yes to his proposal on that rooftop two weeks after he'd finally, finally told you his secret. What you could do was be here, be his anchor, be the reason he came home.
"Okay," you said softly. "But you're coming to bed now."
"In a minute."
"Bruce Wayne, if you think I'm going back to that enormous, criminally comfortable bed without you, you're wrong." You shifted, looping your arms around his neck. "I didn't marry you to sleep alone."
Something flickered in his eyes — that vulnerability he only ever showed you, the man beneath the mask and the billionaire playboy persona. "You didn't marry me for my sparkling personality?"
"Oh, your personality is definitely in the top ten reasons."
"Top ten?" He raised an eyebrow, and you bit back a smile at how offended he managed to sound.
If he was going to make you sleep alone then you were going to have some fun with him. "Well, there's also your extensive collection of vintage cars, this manor, Alfred's cooking, the private jet-..."
He kissed you, effectively cutting off your teasing. It was a slow, thorough kiss that was filled with the hunger of a man who hadn't seen his wife since the morning before, and when he pulled back, you were breathless.
"Still top ten?" he murmured against your lips.
Your cheeks puffed in a smile, "Okay, top five."
His laugh was quiet, barely more than a rumble in his chest, but you felt it everywhere. These moments — these soft, stolen moments when he let himself just be — were what you treasured most. Not the galas or the jewelry or the life of luxury (despite what you may tease about), but Bruce, when he was unguarded and yours.
"Come on," you whispered, standing and tugging at his hand. "Suit off, shower, bed. In that order."
His eyebrow quirked, though his eyes were full of love. "Bossy."
"You love it."
"I love you." He said it simply, standing and pulling you close again, and your breath caught the way it always did when he was this open, this honest. "More than I thought I could love anything."
You reached up and cupped his face in both hands, looking into those blue eyes that had seen so much darkness, but still managed to look at you like you were his light. "I love you too. Even when you make me come find you at two in the morning."
"Especially then?"
"Especially then," you confirmed, smiling. "Now come on, Batman. Your wife is tired, and she sleeps better when you're there."
He let you lead him toward the bedroom, but not before shutting down the computer and securing the study. Always careful, always thorough... it was part of who he was. You'd learned to love that too, the way he protected everything and everyone he cared about with such fierce dedication.
In your bedroom, you sat on the edge of the bed while he disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the shower start, and a moment later, his voice called out, "You coming?"
You smiled, already untying your robe. "So demanding."
"Learned from the best." He teased in a way that would sound so serious to anyone else's ears.
The shower was warm and intimate, Bruce's hands gentle as he washed your hair, his touch delicate in a way that still made you feel like the most precious thing in his world. You returned the favor, carefully cleaning the grime and blood from his skin, pressing kisses to each bruise and cut.
"You're going to make me soft," he murmured, despite leaning forward and dipping his head so you could reach his hair, his eyes were closed and his shoulders utterly relaxed as you massaged the shampoo into his dark strands
"Good. You're soft with me. That's how I like you." You kissed the crown of his head despite the suds. Gently, you guided his head towards the water and shielded his eyes from the soapy runoff.
"Just with you." He repeated, his voice coming in such a quiet rumble it was nearly drowned under the sound of the water.
"Just with me," you agreed, and it was a promise you both kept.
Later, finally in bed with Bruce's arm around your waist and your head on his chest, you felt him relax in a way he never did anywhere else. His heartbeat was steady under your ear, strong and sure.
"Thank you," he said quietly into the darkness.
This made your brows furrow in confusion and curiosity. Slowly, you tilted your head and shifted in his arms so your eyes were on his stern face. "For what?"
"For this. For being patient with me and understanding." His arm tightened around you. "For loving me even when I don't make it easy."
You pushed yourself off of him, just a bit, finding his eyes in the dark with a gentle smile. "Bruce Wayne, you are the easiest person in the world to love. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
"You're biased."
"Extremely," you agreed. "I'm your wife. It's in the job description."
He smiled a real smile, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look years younger. "Best decision I ever made, marrying you."
"Second best," you corrected. "The first was telling me your secret."
"No," he shook his head, serious now. "Marrying you was the best. Telling you the secret just made it possible."
Your heart swelled, and you stretched up to kiss him, soft and sweet. "I love you. Now go to sleep before Alfred comes in here with a lecture prepared."
"He wouldn't dare."
"He absolutely would, and you know it." Your hand gently patted his chest, your smile pressed against his warm skin.
Bruce chuckled, the sound rumbling through him, and pulled you impossibly closer. "Goodnight, Mrs. Wayne."
"Goodnight, Mr. Wayne."
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other, the darkness of Gotham held at bay by the warmth between you. Tomorrow there would be board meetings and charity galas and another night of patrol, but right now, there was just this: two people madly in love, finding peace in each other's arms.
Summary: A quiet night at the Daily Planet turns unexpectedly sweet when you and Clark Kent finally admit what’s been building for months. Soft glances, late-night confessions, and one long-overdue kiss — all after hours.
Clark Kent x reader
Word count: 1k
A/N: wrote this fic immediately after i watched superman but i was so nervous to post it, but i’ve been seeing a lot of clark fics recently so i kinda took it as a sign lol. I love writing little romantic fluffy things like this, way better and easier then smut in my opinion 😭
Warnings: mutual pining, late-night workplace setting, soft romance, pg-rated kiss, fluff, clark in glasses and rolled-up sleeves, emotional tension, light teasing, no explicit content
The newsroom is quiet at night, save for the occasional hum of the vending machine and the low buzz of the city filtering through the windows. The overhead lights are off, leaving only the glow of your desk lamp and the faint shimmer of Metropolis’ skyline to keep you company. You type a little slower than usual, more distracted than you’ll admit, your eyes drifting across the room.
Clark Kent’s still here.
He always stays late, though he pretends he doesn’t. Says he’s “just wrapping up,” but two hours later he’s still hunched over his desk, brow furrowed in that way that makes his glasses slide down his nose, fingers ghosting over his keyboard like he’s translating thoughts faster than the keys can handle.
Tonight, though, he’s looking at you more than his screen.
You glance up, catch him doing it again — his head tilted slightly, blue eyes soft behind those smudged lenses, like he’s half-worried and half-amused and entirely not doing his job.
“What?” you ask, your voice cutting through the quiet with a smile.
Clark straightens, clearing his throat, and looks back at his screen too quickly. “Nothing. Just… surprised you’re still here.”
“You’ve been here longer,” you counter.
“Yeah, but I’m—”
“Clark, if you say ‘from Kansas’ one more time, I swear I’ll chuck this stapler at your head.”
He laughs. Really laughs. It’s warm and low and rumbles out of him like it’s never been forced in his life.
“Okay, okay,” he concedes, raising both hands. “You caught me. No more Midwest excuses.”
You push back from your desk and stretch, arms overhead. Your spine cracks in a satisfying way, and when you glance at him again, Clark’s looking — not just glancing, not just passing, but looking — and he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s not.
“You okay?” you ask, voice softer this time.
Clark blinks like you snapped him out of something. Maybe you did.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“About?”
He hesitates, fingers curling around the edge of his desk. “About how weird it is that this place feels quieter than the whole city outside.”
You smile, walking over to his desk. “You get used to it. After a certain hour, the Planet starts feeling less like a newsroom and more like a library with fluorescent lighting and a broken coffee machine.”
Clark smiles, the corner of his mouth ticking up. His tie is loose, and the first button of his shirt is undone. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him this relaxed at work — which is saying something, considering he still looks like he could tense and fly through the ceiling at any second.
You perch on the edge of his desk and nudge his shoulder with your knee. “You really gonna stay all night?”
“Probably not.” His eyes flick to yours. “Unless you are.”
Your stomach flips, and you tell yourself it’s the vending machine snacks. Definitely the snacks. Definitely not the way his voice dipped or how he’s looking at you like you’re the only headline worth reading tonight.
“I might,” you tease. “Depends on how bad tomorrow’s layout is. If Perry sends one more 2 a.m. text about spacing, I’m going to fake my own death.”
“I could help,” Clark offers, earnest in that Clark way — like there’s no part of him that wouldn’t carry the weight of the world if you asked. “If you want.”
You tilt your head. “You sure? You’ve been staring at that same paragraph for twenty minutes.”
He groans and slumps back in his chair. “It’s trash. I know it’s trash.”
“Read it to me.”
His eyes widen. “What, out loud?”
“Why not?”
Clark swallows, adjusting his glasses, and opens the doc like it’s a classified file. He reads a line, stumbles, stops.
You raise an eyebrow. “Clark.”
He sighs, smiles sheepishly. “I get nervous when you’re watching.”
“You’re literally Superman,” you deadpan.
He flinches — subtly, but enough that you notice. You pause. The joke hangs there between you for a beat too long.
“I mean—” you backpedal quickly, “you’re, like… the Superman of journalism. A real truth-and-justice guy.”
Clark smiles again, smaller this time. “Right. Of course.”
The air shifts. Not uncomfortably. Just… softer. Quieter.
“You know,” you say, hopping down from the desk, “I always wondered why you stayed so late.”
“Thought I told you. Kansas.”
“Try again.”
He watches you, something unspoken passing behind his eyes — a glint of something deeper than curiosity, more fragile than confidence.
“Maybe,” he says slowly, “I just like being around you.”
Your breath catches.
“Oh,” you manage.
Clark rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t mean to make things weird.”
“You didn’t.”
“I just thought—”
“I’m glad you stayed.”
That stops him.
You take a step closer, until you’re between his chair and the desk, close enough to see how tired he looks under the lamplight, how gentle. “You don’t have to pretend like it’s all about the article, you know. I like having you here, too.”
Clark’s gaze dips to your lips, flicks back up again — shy but steady.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you out,” he says quietly.
You raise an eyebrow. “Have you now?”
“Since… the first day we got stuck in the elevator.”
“That was months ago.”
“I know.”
You smile. “Took you long enough.”
He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, and you feel his hand brush against yours on the desk — not quite holding it, not quite letting go.
“Would now be too forward?” he asks.
“Clark, it’s after midnight. We’re working by lamplight. You’re two seconds away from a rom-com confession.”
He blinks. “Is that bad?”
You lean down, your hand brushing his cheek as you take his glasses off and set them gently on the desk beside him. His eyes widen, blue and startled, and your face is close enough to see the freckles on his nose.
“Not bad at all.”
And then you kiss him.
It’s soft. Familiar in a way that feels like you’ve done this before in dreams you forgot you had. He leans into it like he’s afraid it’s not real — then anchors himself with a hand on your waist, grounding you both to something truer than ink and headlines.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling. A little breathless. A little new.
“You’re gonna be useless on deadline tomorrow,” you murmur.
He grins. “Totally worth it.”
Outside, the city is still awake. But here, in the flickering hush of the Daily Planet after hours, it feels like the world has finally slowed down — just long enough for you and Clark Kent to fall into something that’s been waiting to happen.
And maybe — just maybe — the biggest scoop of the night was yours all along.
summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.
Clark “Superman” Kent
word count: 3k
a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now
warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language
Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.
And yet—
“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.
You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.
“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”
Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”
Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.
You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”
Clark glanced down.
The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”
The bullpen erupted.
Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.
And weirdly adorable.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.
Clark shot him a betrayed look.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.
Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.
It hit you like a truck.
Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.
Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.
He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.
“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.
-
Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.
You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.
Mostly because of Clark.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him. Technically.
But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.
He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.
Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.
Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.
And his eyes.
Jesus Christ.
You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.
Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.
Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.
At first you thought you imagined it.
Then you noticed patterns.
Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.
It was honestly kind of endearing.
Today, however, was especially bad.
You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.
Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.
Clark stared down at it in horror.
You stared at him.
“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”
Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”
You pointed.
The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”
“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”
He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.
“It was slippery.”
“The mug exploded.”
“It’s a very slippery mug.”
You laughed again.
Clark visibly melted.
Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.
It was becoming a problem.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”
“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”
“They can interfere with technology.”
“Sure.”
“It’s science.”
“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”
Clark huffed out a laugh.
God.
That was dangerous too.
Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.
You liked making him do it.
Probably more than you should.
“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
Shit.
“I am not.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Clark’s ears turned pink.
And for some reason, that made you bold.
“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”
Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”
“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”
“I really don’t think I do.”
“That’s actually insane.”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”
The room went completely silent.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
Then he physically walked into a cabinet.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Never better.”
“You hit that cabinet really hard.”
“I’m durable.”
You snorted.
Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.
-
Lois Lane cornered you two days later.
“You like him.”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”
Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.
“You and Smallville.”
“We are coworkers.”
“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Lois smirked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”
You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Absolutely.”
“This is humiliating.”
“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.
Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.
It was that he was good.
Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.
Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.
Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.
Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.
Who does that?
Who is actually like that?
“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”
“What?”
“With Clark.”
You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”
“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.
You looked up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.
Which honestly was possible.
The man moved weirdly fast.
Clark smiled the second he saw you.
And there it was again.
That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.
Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.
“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.
“Worth it.”
Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.
Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”
Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
“Everything,” Lois corrected.
Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.
Clark looked adorably confused.
You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”
He handed them over carefully.
Your fingers brushed his.
Clark froze.
You felt him freeze.
The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.
It was ridiculous.
A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.
And yet.
Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”
Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“It’s not important.”
“Clark.”
His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”
The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.
“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.
Clark blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so calm around me.”
You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”
For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a soft huff.
An actual laugh.
Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.
Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.
“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.
Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“I think you’re incredible.”
Oh.
Oh, you were in serious trouble.
-
It started raining halfway through your walk home.
Not normal rain either.
The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.
You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”
“You forgot your umbrella too?”
You turned.
Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.
Of course he had an umbrella.
Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.
“You stalking me, Kent?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”
He lifted a paper bag slightly.
You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”
Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Clark smiled innocently.
Suspicious.
Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.
Warmth immediately surrounded you.
Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.
You tried not to notice.
Failed horribly.
“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”
Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.
Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.
Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.
Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.
“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.
Clark blinked. “I am?”
“You’re getting rained on.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, move over.”
You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.
Clark immediately went completely still beside you.
Your arm brushed his.
Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.
Clark looked down at you slowly.
And there it was again.
That look.
Like you were something precious.
Something worth handling carefully.
It made your chest ache.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”
“Is that what this is?”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”
Rain hammered softly overhead.
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.
And suddenly the space between you felt very small.
Very warm.
Very dangerous.
A car horn blared somewhere nearby.
Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”
“Yep.”
“That was—”
“Definitely something.”
Clark laughed nervously.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.
Clark went silent.
His fingers instinctively curled around yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
You looked up at him.
Clark looked completely undone.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”
Clark stared at you for one long second.
Then he smiled softly.
“I might argue you did.”
Your heart was never recovering from this man.
Ever.
-
By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.
Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.
You were trying not to look equally affected.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.
Neither of you moved.
“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”
Neither of you let go.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Clark noticed instantly.
“What?”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.
“Oh.”
But he still didn’t let go.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
The movement was absentminded.
Gentle.
Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.
Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clark stared at you.
You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.
“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”
Clark still looked frozen.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”
The rain suddenly felt very far away.
Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.
Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.
You leaned into his touch before he could ask.
Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.
Then he kissed you.
And—
Oh.
That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.
There was nothing uncertain about it.
Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.
Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.
Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.
Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.
Sweet.
Tender.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.
Clark looked completely wrecked.
His glasses were crooked.
His hair was damp from the rain.
And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.
“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.
You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”
“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”
“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”
“You walked into a wall?”
“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.
“That is somehow worse.”
Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.
“I’m trying to be romantic.”
“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”
The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.
You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”
His ears turned pink again.
“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”
Clark looked away innocently.
“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”
A soft smile spread slowly across his face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”
Clark considered that seriously.
“…Probably not.”
You laughed.
And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
@clarkkent who uses his non-human bs too scent track his girlfriends ovulation. poor baby has no clue how he always knows when she needs to be fucked good .
nearly pityful look on her face when every time she comes home to a very waiting and eager kent. silly angel he can smell it on you. arms crossed and clad in that stupid white button up that your hormonal flood only yearned for more. that cocky all knowing smirk upon his chiseled face. A gentle, soft , coddling drift of words, "cmere' sunbeam let me see you." strong hands already reaching for you too kiss that pout off.
reader telling clark not to do pda was the equivalent of him being poisoned by kryptonite😭😭
you know it's so true though. like imagine telling your puppy dog boyfriend that you don't want to be kissed. he would fall to his knees, probably cry, grovel for forgiveness for whatever thing he did to make you hate him... soooooo dramatic. like just kiss the man. he's just a good boy
Summary: You jokingly ask Clark if you are allowed to eat in front of his parents.
Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
By the time you were eight months pregnant with Leia, one thing had become very clear to everyone around you: Clark would do absolutely anything for you.
Which was precisely why the prank had been so tempting.
The prank simply appeared in your mind while sitting at the Kent farmhouse table on one warm afternoon, watching Clark pile food onto your plate for the third time before you’d even fully finished the second helping.
“Honey, you need more potatoes,” he said earnestly, already reaching for the bowl.
“Clark,” you laughed, “I’m still eating.”
“You’re eating for two.”
Ma Kent snorted softly from across the table. “At this point, that baby’s probably ninety percent mashed potatoes.”
Clark looked entirely unashamed. “They will be a very healthy, growing baby.”
You bit back a smile.
That was the thing about Clark during your pregnancy, he hovered.
Did you need water? A pillow? Another blanket? Less blanket? A snack? Different snack? Did your back hurt? Were your feet swollen? Had you rested enough? Too much? Was the baby kicking enough? Too much?
The man treated your pregnancy like the world’s most important mission.
And it made him very, very easy to fluster.
And suddenly, sitting there at the table with Ma and Pa Kent, watching your husband lovingly shovel corn onto your plate like he was personally responsible for feeding both you and the baby, the idea struck.
You looked down at your half-full plate thoughtfully.
Then, very gently, you asked, “Clark… am I allowed to have some more?”
Clark didn’t even look up.
“Of course,” he said immediately, mouth still full, already spooning another helping onto your plate. “You barely ate any! Here, have more chicken too.”
You pressed your lips together. You continued carefully, in the smallest voice you could manage. “Are you sure?”
Clark blinked at you. “Sure about what?”
“That it’s okay for me to eat more?”
Clark stared at you for a long moment. Then looked at your plate. Then at you again.
“…Yes?” He sounded deeply confused.
You nodded solemnly, “Okay,” and resumed eating.
Clark reached for the biscuits.
“You want another one?”
“Yes please.”
“Here you go, my love.” He handed it over immediately.
You sighed as your prank failed, silently waiting for another opportunity.
-
Said opportunity was when Ma Kent brought out dessert.
Her specialty peach cobbler was still warm, the smell filling the kitchen instantly.
“Oh my goodness,” you sighed dramatically. “That smells amazing.”
Ma Kent smiled warmly. “Go on, honey, have some.”
You coached your face to look anxious, worried, then slowly turned toward Clark.
“…Am I allowed?”
The room went silent.
Clark froze with the serving spoon halfway in his hand.
Ma Kent blinked. Pa Kent’s expression changed immediately into a frown.
“Allowed?” Ma Kent repeated.
You looked down shyly. “Well… I just wanted to check first.”
Clark looked like his soul had briefly left his body.
“Why would you…what do you mean allowed?”
You kept your face perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Upset me?” Clark nearly choked. “Why would it upset me?”
Ma Kent’s eyebrows shot up.
Pa Kent set down his fork, slowly and very carefully.
Clark turned toward you so quickly his chair squeaked against the floor.
“Honey, what are you talking about?”
You blinked innocently. “The cobbler.”
“The cobbler…”
“Yes.”
Ma Kent turned to Clark at the same time he looked at you incredulously.
“Clark,” she said carefully, “why would she need permission to eat dessert?”
“I—she doesn’t!” Clark’s brows were furrowed with concern, slowly feeling like he was unnecessarily put on the hot seat. “Why would you need my permission to eat cobbler?!”
You shrugged lightly. “Well, you may not want me to eat any more.”
Ma Kent slowly turned toward her son.
“Clark Joseph Kent.”
Clark’s eyes widened in immediate horror.
“No! No, no, no—Ma, I swear—”
Pa Kent crossed his arms.
Clark looked even more panicked.
“I have literally never stopped her from eating anything in her life! She eats whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I've actually been actively encouraging her to eat more because she sometimes forgets in the afternoon and the doctor said…" He caught himself, and looked back at you. "What is going on?”
You tilted your head. “But maybe you didn’t want me eating cobbler specifically?”
“Why would I not want you to?!”
Clark looked moments away from a full system shutdown.
“Honey,” he said frantically, stumbling over every word, “I have never, not once, told you what you can or can’t eat. Or do. Or wear. Or…anything!”
Ma Kent was now openly suspicious. “Clark…”
“No! Ma, listen to me—I swear, she does whatever she wants! Constantly! Happily! And I support her! Enthusiastically!”
You nodded thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
Clark pointed at you wildly. “See?!”
“But maybe secretly you don’t like how much I eat?”
Clark looked genuinely devastated.
“What?! No, Ma, Pa, listen to me. I’ve never told her not to do anything she wanted! Ever! If anything, she tells me what to do!”
He turned back to his parents, fully distressed now.
“I am not controlling! Right? I’m not controlling.”
Pa Kent finally spoke, voice low. “Son…”
Clark turned toward him in absolute panic. “Pa, I swear to God, I have never denied her anything in my entire life! I don't restrict her eating. I don't restrict ANYTHING! I don't tell her what to do. I would never." Clark's voice had taken on the slightly desperate quality of a man watching a small fire and patting his pockets for something to put it out with. "She has complete autonomy over everything. Every single thing. I've never once told her she couldn't eat or do or–"
"Clark," you said.
“--have anything she wanted, I mean she went through a period in the second trimester where she wanted a very specific brand of crackers at two in the morning and I flew forty minutes to three different stores to find them, I have the receipts, I can show you the receipts–”
“Clark.”
“--and I don't know what this is right now but I need everyone at this table to understand that I am not and have never been–”
“CLARK.”
He stopped his rambling.
He looked at you.
You were smiling. A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Then suddenly you were laughing so hard you had to hold your stomach.
The entire table stared at you.
“Oh no,” Ma Kent whispered, already realizing.
You wheezed helplessly, tears gathering in your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped. “I’m sorry…I was joking.”
Silence.
Clark blinked.
“…What?”
You covered your face, laughing harder. “It was a prank, baby.”
Clark stared. Ma Kent burst into laughter instantly.
Pa Kent leaned back in his chair.
Clark remained frozen. “You…”
“I’m sorry,” you laughed again. “You were just so easy to fluster.”
Clark looked deeply betrayed.
“I thought Pa was about to kill me.”
You grinned at Pa, “He was in on it,” you confessed, remembering how Pa chuckled gruffly when you told him about your plan.
Clark dropped back into his chair dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest.
“I cannot believe you.”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek sweetly.
“I’m sorry I scared you, honey. You're a wonderful husband," you said. "Why do you still have the receipts?"
He put his arm around you, and you could feel him giving up on the wounded dignity, the whole structure of it just gently collapsing.
"Souvenirs," he said again, quieter, “I didn’t want to forget anything about your pregnancy. And so that I could show our baby that I would do anything for them.”
You smiled at him, cupping his cheek tenderly before giving him a kiss. Clark turned pink.
"Forty minutes,” he reminded you, “Three stores."
"I know."
"In the rain."
"It wasn't raining."
"It was drizzling." Clark sighed deeply.
You laughed, then immediately reached for the cobbler.
Clark instinctively grabbed the serving spoon and loaded a giant portion onto your plate.
contains: angst with a happy ending. later seasons gang– ollie, jimmy, lois, chloe, pete, lexana mention. chloe is jealous, clark is protective and clingy, reader is sensitive. mentions of bars/alcohol. arguing, pet names, unresolved issues. *no use of y/n
a/n: this broke me to write bc i love my chloe i would never yell at her but it was actually a lot of fun to write at the same time… i hope this is to your liking, anon :) also i barely proofread this one so just be nice
—————————— ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊——————————
It was customary for Clark to have his hands on you at all times, especially in situations where there were the most eyes to see. You had made peace with it oh so (un)begrudgingly, and your friends had, too, even when it was a bit excessive. Well, most of them had.
It was no one’s fault. Clark was just an extraordinarily affectionate guy. From the moment he laid eyes on you, he was unstoppable; a hand on your back, his mouth on your temple, his nose nudging your jaw, his arms looping you in like a net. He stuck to you like you were made of honey. There wasn’t much to be complained about there, because it felt good to be loved. Even the part of you that felt embarrassed when he was over the top sort of loved the attention… to have a guy as handsome as Clark hanging off you, incapable of leaving you be, following your trail like you had bacon in your pocket? Who wouldn’t want people to see that? Who wouldn’t want to be the object of that kind of affection?
It was coming up on a year of being loved and loving. You practically had to swat Clark off of a proposal, insisting that you move in first, that it shouldn’t be rushed, but it was hard to resist the pull. He frequently joked that you had the opposite of the Medusa effect, he said, meaning that to look away from you even for a second would kill him. He settled to keep the ring he bought away for a while longer, but in exchange, you went everywhere with him and you lived life conjoined at the hip. It was a happy compromise, but not everyone saw it that way.
Your friends were Clark’s friends, and for the most part, they found you two sweet. Pete was always easy when it came to being happy for his buddy, and Lois could roll her eyes however much she wished, but she admired his passion for you. Oliver offered nothing but brotherly claps on the back that made you scoff, and Jimmy was humorously jealous that Clark had managed to get his smartest friend to love him while Jimmy couldn’t even get a date. Lana and Lex cooed over you frequently, having the hindsight of their own love to keep them objective. But Chloe struggled to stomach it sometimes, and it was harder to hide the longer you two stayed together.
Chloe had always been sweet, but you knew about her past feelings for Smallville’s golden boy. She had known Clark long before you– you were only as old as his life at the Daily Planet. Her claim was staked when they were middle schoolers, and the fire of her love was stoked over and over again for years. Both she and Clark led each other on in the past, and even while growing up and dating other guys, Chloe harbored a tiny bit of uncontrollable passion for her best friend. She couldn’t seem to shake it, no matter how much she pushed it down, and seeing him drool over you in the way she wished he would for her for so long was starting to eat at her. It wasn’t healthy or fair, and she knew that, but she couldn’t stop the jealousy. It was her fatal flaw.
Take tonight, for example. It was happy hour at the bar across the street from the Planet, and Oliver was buying with the bonus he wrangled out of a merger deal earlier in the day. Around a high top, you stood with Clark curled around your back like a clam, chin tucked over your shoulder, in a circle with Oliver, Lois, Jimmy, Chloe, and Pete. As you nursed a beer, you kibitzed with Pete over some story from his recent roadie adventures. You felt Clark’s fingers fiddling with the buttons on your cardigan, tracing shapes against the soft pudge of your tummy through your top. Your stomach fluttered, but you learned to listen to people even with his hands on you. He was even distracted in conversation with Lois, and you could feel the rumble of his soft, deep laugh between your shoulder blades. Two intertwined vines, just like always. But you could feel eyes on you– a familiar feeling, a nerve-wracking one. You glanced beside Pete to see Chloe sipping her beer and staring at Clark’s hands around your body, and you flushed a bit. You finished off your last swing and patted his arm.
“I’m gonna go grab another. Who wants more? Should I get a round?”
Clark hummed softly and kissed your cheek, and then seemingly got dragged in, giving you three in a row– and then one of your lips. “I’ll go for you, bunny, you want the same thing?”
You wiped your mouth with a sheepish hand and nodded. “Seriously, I can–”
“It’s fine, baby, I’ll get you a fresh one. I could use another. Guys?”
You watched him poll the table, and he didn’t step away until he kissed you one more time. Your hands stayed intertwined until he was too far to hold on, and he gave you one of those quiet winks that promised he’d hurry back before turning to look at where he was going. You shifted back to the table and smiled loopily, grabbing up a few empty bottles. “I’ll toss these. Be right back.”
The trash was only a few feet away, which would have been convenient if all was in order. But as you stepped off to throw away the empties, you heard something over the thumping of the bar music and drunken voices bouncing off the walls.
Back at the table, a familiar feminine voice complained: “This doesn’t bother you guys? Seriously? He’s all over her.”
“They’re in love, Chlo, it’s sweet. You know how much Clark adores her,” a male voice interjected. Low, smooth. Oliver.
“I mean, come on, though. Her? He acts like he’s possessed or something. She must be a witch, honestly. I don’t see how he could be so enamored with her like he is. She’s not all that.”
“Come on, Chloe, don’t be an asshole.” Snippy. Lois.
“I’m not! I’m just being honest. It beats me…”
When you stepped back to the table, it was clear on your face that they hadn’t been quiet enough. You were pale under the skin and your eyes didn’t lift to look at them. Not even when Clark came back holding a fresh round. He passed you a new beer and rubbed your hip, tugging you into his side and kissing your head. “Here, bunny girl. Just how you like. I had them put the lime in for you.”
Your stomach churned and you took the bottle, and you stared into the condensation running down the amber glass. You saw the reflection of your face in the glimmer, and in the back of your head you heard her again: She must be a witch, honestly. I don’t see how he could be so enamored with her like he is. She’s not all that.
Chloe’s eyes were wide, darting around the table with guilt. The guys immediately shut their mouths with beer, but Lois stood there with her arms crossed, giving Chloe a harsh glare. Leave it to the cousin to reprimand her.
“Baby? You okay?”
You blinked and looked up at Clark, and in a split moment of impulse, you gently pulled yourself free from his grasp. His face fell, and as he moved to drag you back, you muttered, “Just… cool it, Clark, please.”
Clark stared down at you like you had just shot him in the chest. Cool it? Don't touch? Since when? He frowned deep, the little lines of his forehead wrinkling to match, and your heart sank.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired, brushing some hair back from your face. “Do you feel sick or something?”
“I’m fine. I just… the… the PDA is a little much for me tonight,” you whispered, chewing on your nail. You looked back down at your beer, and Clark felt the air shift in the bar.
“What do you mean? You don’t like it? I thought you liked it.”
“I– it– it’s not that, Clark, I just…”
Around the table, his friends stood and gawked at him as if they knew something he didn’t. They must have, because nobody was talking, and this was notoriously a group of people who never shut the fuck up. He furrowed his brow and crossed his arms, scanning over Oliver’s avoidant eyes and Lois’ overt glances at her cousin. After a moment of silence, he cut through the music with a sharp, “What happened?”
Jimmy shook his head and shrugged. “What? Nothing. Nothing happened. Everything is great. This beer is great. Thanks, man.”
Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment. You had thought about this a million times– about the possibility of talking to Chloe, or at least bringing it to Clark’s attention how she made you feel. You didn’t want to step on toes or hurt anyone’s feelings. You knew what it was like to be passed over for another girl, and now that you were the other girl, you had a lot more sympathy than she probably knew; but you also loved Clark, and you didn’t want to offend him. It wasn’t your place to make a conflict out of a friendship that came before you. But it was these moments, these little passing comments about how it seemed wrong or unbelievable Clark could love you this much that made everything harder. You already had the voice in your head trying to convince you that it was true. You spent more time reminding yourself that he adored you for real than anyone could possibly imagine, and now you knew that other people were thinking it and saying it behind your back. Your friends.
You cleared your throat and patted his arm. “I just feel a little sick, um… I’m gonna get some fresh air, okay? I’ll be right back, Clarkie.”
Clark didn’t stop you. In fact, he stood right in his place and watched you go with a shocked, slacked jaw. He tracked your soft frame as it slipped out the front door of the bar, and when it shut behind you, his heart twinged with discomfort. You being far felt like losing a limb.
Chloe scratched her head, because everyone was staring at her now. She saw frustration and embarrassment like a wall before her. She swallowed thickly and traced a wet ring on the table.
Clark followed the visual trail and said, “Chloe?”
“Hm?”
“What happened?”
Chloe glanced up to see her best friend watching her with suspicion. It made her lungs squeeze. His big, blue eyes seemed so disappointed, and she hated that look. It was never the one she wanted. But she couldn’t help but admire him for it. She hated how much she looked up to him sometimes, because it made her quick to justify his feelings, even if they were directed at her. Any attention was good attention if it came from Clark, in her book.
“Nothing happened.”
“Somebody upset her,” Clark crossed his arms, his gaze darkening. “And one of you is going to tell me what happened.”
“Clark–”
“Tell me,” he ordered, and just about every spine around the tabletop stiffened.
Chloe flushed and mumbled, “It wasn’t anything bad, seriously, she just… I made a joke about you two and I think she heard it. It was stupid.”
Clark cocked his head, expressionless in a way that nobody liked, not one bit. “What did you say?”
“I… it… it was just, like, a joke about you. How you’re so obsessed with her. I said something about her being a witch or something, because how else would you be so into her, or whatever. Like I said, it was stupid–”
“You said that? That came out of your mouth? Are you serious, Chloe?”
“I didn’t mean for her to hear me, Clark, it was just a–”
“And you guys let her say something like that?” Clark surveyed his friends, and watched each of them shrug and look down, avoiding his judgement. “Why would you even let that happen? Why would you say that?”
“I mean, you’ve gotta admit that you are all over her. Like, all the time. It gets obnoxious after a while,” Chloe blurted, clenching her beer bottle in apprehension.
Clark paused and clenched his palms. Something hot and sick rushed over him, and the struggle to keep his calm was one of the worst he’d ever fought. Worse than kryptonite. Worse than anything. He thought of you standing outside on the sidewalk, cold and alone, mortified at having overheard something so ridiculous, something that suggested for even a second that his love for you was anything less than real. He thought of how many nights he kissed you quietly, shushed your worries about his intentions, his emotions. He thought of how beautiful you looked when you let go of the insecurity and believed him. He thought of how you loved him and all his overbearing touches, and he raised an accusatory eyebrow at the blonde across the way, who looked as though she already knew where this was going.
“She’s my girlfriend. I think I’m well within my rights to touch her when I want.”
“I’m not telling you to stop, I was just joking about how it’s a little excessive sometimes, Clark.”
“And you get to make that judgement? I’m happy, Chloe. She makes me happy. Does everybody have a problem with how I act around my own girlfriend?”
As Clark glanced around the table, he was met with a variety of expressions– shrugs, shaking heads, sorry eyes– and his jaw clenched harder.
“Nobody has a problem with it, Clark,” Lois added, trying to soften the blow, “and Chloe said it was a stupid joke. No need to get angry.”
“It’s a little late for that, Lois,” Clark scoffed, running a hand down his face. “You know what? I can’t believe you. All of you, actually, that you would let her get away with saying something so insensitive. All she has ever done is be kind to you. Come out to your bar nights, your parties, run your articles, bake for you, bring you coffees. That girl bends over backwards to be a good friend, and more than that, to be a part of our lives. She loves you guys! She looks up to us and the work we do. She loves me. She’s the most precious thing I have, and this is how you treat her? You alienate her the second I’m not around to hear it, like a bunch of cowards, is that how you act without me?”
Chloe paled. “I think you’re taking this a little far!”
“Oh, I’m taking it too far? Christ, Chloe, that’s rich coming from you! You called her a witch!”
“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t call her a bitch!”
It was common for Chloe to lose her temper, but the second the words fell from her lips, everybody seemed to stop breathing. Chloe winced at her own mistake, and Clark seethed.
You were outside in the cold, and all he wanted was you. Even more than he wanted to throw this sticky tabletop into the wall. So, he took a deep breath, and then grabbed his coat, your coat, and your purse off the stool before him.
“Are you seriously leaving?”
“You know, Chloe, it’s the weirdest thing. I feel this crazy urge to go out and kiss my girlfriend. Maybe she put a spell on me,” he deadpanned.
“Clark,” Chloe groaned.
“No, Chlo. You crossed a line.” Clark walked around the table, and then he paused to point at her. His voice was so soft that it made her shiver. “Don’t you ever do this again. Don’t joke, tease, talk about her again. If I find out you did, or that any of the rest of you allowed it or do it yourselves, you’ll be lucky if I leave you with functioning tongues.” After seeing her remorseful eyes flicker over his face, Clark added, “She is the love of my life. She deserves more respect from you, and so do I. I expect you to apologize and mean it, but not tonight. I think you’ve done enough damage for one day. Got it?”
Chloe just kept her mouth shut and nodded, feeling her chest tighten. The regret coursing through her veins was enough to make anybody feel nauseous, and it only grew more potent as Clark walked out of the bar, leaving the group to their own devices.
Lois sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “One of these days you’re going to have to deal with your shit, Chloe.”
“Oh, so this is all my fault now?”
Pete huffed and grabbed his jacket. “No. It’s our fault for letting you keep it up.”
Chloe’s cheeks deepened to a mortified rose as her best friends gathered their things and threw down cash to cover the tab. “You’re seriously mad at me? He’s the one who blew up on us!”
“Goodnight, Chlo,” Oliver urged, and the rest followed him as the first to leave. Chloe stood at the table, tracing the rim of her beer bottle with a shaky finger and wishing she never said a word.
Outside on the sidewalk, Clark tugged your jacket over you and cradled your face. His hands were so warm. He was always hot as a heater. You leaned into the touch, and he pressed sweet little kisses all across the plane of your forehead.
“How about I take you out somewhere, just you and me, huh? Get you a better drink? Something sweet?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, closing your eyes. “Please. Just you.”
“Just me, baby,” he promised, and he coaxed his fingers through your hair. Clark studied the cherubic curve of your cheeks and the pout in your lips, and every inch of him seemed to buzz with love. “I’m so sorry they hurt your feelings. If it helps, I yelled. And I never yell.”
You left out a soft chuckle and gazed up into his eyes, reached out to brush a stray lock from his lashes. “You yelled? My mild-mannered reporter yelled?”
Clark flashed a sharp smile and kissed your nose. “Mhm. Like a real adult.”
“I wish I had been there.”
“No you don’t. You hate confrontation.”
You giggled a bit, blushing. “I do. You know me too well.”
“I know you because I love you,” he murmured.
You bumped your nose against his, and he leaned over you like a blanket, pressing you against the side of the building. The cold night chill had nothing on him. He smooched your cheek, and then your eyes, and then your mouth, one, two, three times. Your hands curled in his button down and you smiled, all echoes of earlier escaping into the night. Nothing mattered– not words, not opinions– when Clark touched you. You loved the PDA and you loved him. Nothing felt better, safer, more right than him.
“Mm,” you hummed against his lips, “if I was a witch, I would be a good one, if I got you to want me this much.”
Clark grinned and nipped your bottom lip. “If you were a witch, you wouldn’t even need a spell. I’d love you in every lifetime, no matter who you were.”
Your body melted like mush for him, and he scooped you up into a pressing hug, lifting you off the ground. You laughed and wrapped your legs around his hips, and Clark started off down the sidewalk holding you like a monkey. You peppered his cheeks with kisses. “Thank you for standing up for me.”
“Pssh,” he teased, scrunching his nose, “please. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“I love you so, so much, Clarkie,” you pledged. “I always will.”
Clark peered up at you– your shining eyes, all that hair, all that beauty contained inside one perfect person– and he squeezed your hip under his grasp. “I love you too, bunny girl. Now let me buy you a real drink.”
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