could i request some dad!sirius domesticity? thank you baby
thank you for your request I love writing stuff like this!
"Are you tired, darling?" Sirius asks quietly.
You turn, your youngest cradled in your arms. She fusses in the pram and won't sleep unless you're holding her and the crying always breaks your heart. She's heavy but not unmanageable, only a few months old.
Sirius pushes her pram, your other daughter's hand tight in his.
You're about halfway through a, "No, I'm okay," when you realise he's not talking to you.
"I'm okay, daddy."
"Are you sure?" he asks patiently.
She has to think about it for a few seconds, her little feet covered in sand, hair damp like her father's from the sea.
You watch, eyes creased in affection as she reaches her arms into the air. Sirius bends and slots his arm between her small legs, pulling her up into his chest deftly. Her head lands in the juncture of his neck, innocent little face pressed in stark contrast against a tattoo. She wraps her arms over his shoulders.
Sirius' eyes close and he pats her back gently. "Poor girl. We'll bring your buggy tomorrow."
"I'm too big," she whispers.
"You're not too big," he says, grabbing the pram and starting to walk again. "You're my little girl."
"I'm big!"
"Says who?"
"Mammy says I'm big all the time."
Sirius throws a halfhearted glare your way, though he can't maintain it when he sees the youngest asleep in the curve of your arm. "Your mam is lying. You're my baby," he says into her hair.
She grumbles but Sirius is a practiced hand, patting and rubbing her back in intervals until she drops off.
You slow to his speed, walking with him side by side.
"What about you, darling?"
"I'm okay," you say, happy to be treated with the same protective care.
"You don't wanna put her back in her pram?" he asks worriedly. "You've carried her for hours."
"You really shouldn't tell her I'm lying," you say instead of answering, ignoring the ache in your arms. Hours is dramatic, though you have carried her for a while.
"You do lie to her. You once told her the ice cream van only plays music when they've run out of lollies."
You flush with a guilty heat. "I didn't have any money in the house, Siri."
"I know, my love, I remember. You felt so bad you had heartburn and made me take her to Tesco's at eight in the evening."
"Her sad little face," you recall in a murmur.
"For the record," he starts, his flirting drawl that you know well, "I want badly to give you a kiss. Forgive me for abstaining," he says, fingers moving from your daughters back in emphasis.
You grin like a fool and crane your neck up high, holding the baby carefully to your chest. Sirius smiles in return as you press a chaste, smooth kiss to his lips. One, then a second as you pull away and he follows.
You're feeling giddy with contentment as you settle back into step with him, a comfortable silence filled only by the sound of the crashing waves at your back and the caw of gulls flying above.
"Are you tired?" you ask eventually. The oldest is much heavier than a baby, and he's been pushing the empty pram for half the day without complaint. He must be.
"Knackered. Think you could carry me back to the van, too?" he asks.
"Maybe. I've got some proper muscles these days," you brag.
"I know you do. S'what happens when you carry the world in your hands every day."
"Two worlds," you correct.
"Three, I'd hope."
"You're my whole world, Black," you agree, just as the baby begins to rouse. You shush her gently, tap tap tapping her tiny back. "Come on, sweetheart."
It doesn't work. You've half the charm and none of the technique that Sirius does, to your everlasting chagrin, and she won't go back down now she's up.
"She just wants to see you," he says, nodding at the baby's wide eyes.
She's not crying, only looking. You both stop and he inclines his head against yours, the two of you gazing down at her bright eyes and parted lips, completely in love.
hi hi hi , so um reader using sirius sunglasses (that he’s currently wearing yk) as a mirror to put lipstick on and sirius gets flustered cause he wasn’t expecting it or like he’s into it either way end with a kissing and that lipstick ending up on his face now
cutest idea ever!
"Sirius," you say, "just the boy I wanted to see."
Sirius narrows his eyes at you as you come to stand in front of him, the toes of your shoes bumping into his. You barely look at him as you dig through your bag, humming something sweet.
"What do you want, trouble?"
You smile. "I need to use you."
Sirius feels mildly speechless until you're angling your head towards him and unstopping your lipstick, a soft shade that compliments your skin beautifully. "I'm gonna use your shades as a mirror," you inform him, sizing up.
Sirius knows you're not looking into his eyes but it sure feels like it as you pout and edge your top lip carefully, then the underside of your bottom. Your lips part and he's transfixed, staring at your sepia image and the small sneak of your tongue as you wipe a broad line of colour across your bottom lip.
You rub your lips together and then pop them, grinning. "How's it look?" you ask.
He's about ten seconds away from passing out. "It's awfully bright," he says instead, pretending to wrinkle his nose. You laugh at his blatant teasing.
"Yeah? If I had a tissue I'd pat it down, but I don't, so stay still, okay?" you say.
Sirius barely has time to scowl at your obscurity before you're pushing off of your heels to press your lips to his lightly, hardly a kiss at all. His hands come up impulsively, the opposite of shy as he grabs the back of your head and pulls you towards him whilst leaning down.
Your heels firmly on the ground again you find yourself bending back, accepting his kiss with nothing short of obvious delight, laughing at his enthusiasm.
You pull away before he can get too intense. "Sirius," you say, giggling, totally and completely aware of the power you have over him as you push against his shoulders. His hands fall away as you force his chin into the right position and use your reflection to clean up the smudging he's left behind. It's somehow more attractive than the application, your thumbnail scratching under your lip.
When you're done you take the shades from him carefully and set them on your own face. They slide down the bridge of your nose and you jut your chin, beaming. "You might need a mirror, too," you explain.
He looks away from your tempting mouth and up to the shades, sees his lips plastered in colour.
"Fuck," he says.
"It looks cute," you say. He squeezes your cheeks in one hand in retaliation and steals another kiss. The mess is already made.
“can we stay like this for a bit longer?” with shy reader and sirius please <33
hi tysm for ur request 🥺
Sirius has this way about him. You know, despite everything, that if you asked him for something he would give it to you.
Still, you find it difficult to ask.
He knows this, and so Sirius has probably learned how to read you better than you could yourself. He knows when you want a kiss or a hug or some time by yourself. He knows when you want a glass of water in the middle of the night, when you're in pain, when you want to mess around.
You're hovering, staring at him making dinner in the kitchen and you really want to feel his skin on yours and asking is really difficult because asking implies wanting and wanting isn't something you feel like you can openly admit to doing.
Your partner looks up from the food and beckons you over. He pulls you into a hug without a second glance, manhandling you so that he can still stir the pot, the heat of the hob kissing your side.
Sirius pats your back, a steady rhythm, the side of his face pressed to your crown as he stirs the saucepan. You can hear him singing along to the radio under his breath, swaying as he rocks you just slightly. You take in this domestic pleasure indulgently.
"You know what I saw earlier?" he asks.
"No."
"In the post office," he starts, quiet for him. Unusual. "It was - I was being nosey, but there was a kid at the front asking to post a letter and he didn't have any money for stamps. The lady behind the counter, she's this tiny old thing with pin curls, she says she'll buy him the stamp this time but next time he has to pay for it himself.
"So she gives him a stamp and he gives her the letter. When he leaves, the guy in front of me says, oh, watch out. It's the young ones who'll have you for everything you have. And the lady tells him how every week this boy comes in and she gives him a stamp for free.
"The guy can't get over it. He's like, why would you do that?
"Turns out, he's writing letters to his mum. She's dead. The stamps don't matter because the letters don't have anywhere to go. The lady gives the letters to the boy’s dad every week on Friday."
"Sirius," you murmur into his shoulder.
"I just thought that was nice. That the lady gives him stamps, and that he tries to write to her."
"It's lovely," you say.
"It's sad, too."
You wonder if he's thinking about his mum, his parents. You wonder if he ever misses them, and then think he must. This small moment has followed him all day.
"Would you write me letters, if I died?" he asks lightly.
You're feeling much more serious. "Thousands."
"Only? You'd need a thousand before you finished talking about my good looks."
"Millions," you amend, rubbing your cheek against him. "One every minute of the day."
"I don't know the maths, so that better be a million."
"I don't know the maths either," you say, laughing.
Sirius turns off the hob. You go to pull away, thinking that's a cue for dinner, but he pulls you back in. You huff.
He pushes his head over your shoulder, necks touching. "Can we stay like this? Just for a bit longer," he says quietly.
You might not be as good at reading his signs, but you'll do anything he asks you too. You breathe in his cedarwood smell hidden beneath the day's deodorant, the laundry detergent and his cooking. You slip your hand under the edge of his shirt to feel his skin, palm sliding over fine hairs and the birthmark on his hip. He's warm.
"Yeah," you say heavily, rubbing shapes into his back. "Of course we can."
are we going for the trinity again? 👀👀👀 reader and drunk sirius please 💖💖 thank youuuu
YES WE ARE thank you for requesting hope this is okay <3 feat vulnerable Sirius
“Kisses,” Sirius declares, out of nowhere.
Your eyes blow wide. You ask him for kisses in the same way all the time, eyes bright and pleading, features soft. It always works. He, however, has never propositioned you in this way, and you’re shocked.
You and Sirius don’t have a name for what you are. If anyone asks you, you both love to say you’re close friends. And you are, but you also kiss and hug. It’s fucked up but you like it and he likes it and neither of you have ever cared about what other people think enough to bother working it out.
You’ve barely time to pucker up before he’s leaning down. He plants a chaste kiss on your Cupid’s bow, pouting. Then another on your lips, then another. You stop him after that, licking your lips.
“You taste like a mini bar,” you tell him, frowning.
“You taste amazing,” he says. He cooes at the embarrassment on your face and pinches your cheek, probably more cruelly than he means to.
Someone shoves you from behind and you flinch forward into Sirius’ chest. He wraps his arms around you tightly, looking down at your face squished to his chest with a concern that would make you melt if you weren’t flustered.
“Is something wrong?” he asks loudly.
“Someone pushed me,” you say.
“Who?” he asks, abruptly angry, looking over your head searchingly.
“Was an accident!”
“And I’ll make it look like an accident.”
You roll your eyes and push your hands into his chest for some space. He holds you at arm’s length.
“Why are you so drunk?” you ask.
“Why are you so fucking pretty?”
You’re going nowhere fast.
“Wanna get out of here?” Sirius asks.
You assume he’s attempting his usual smooth, sultry voice and stance. He’s not quite getting there, bright eyes droopy in his intoxication, nose piercing askew. You raise your hand slowly to his face. His eyes close as you adjust it for him, hiding the little ball of the ring carefully.
When you’re done he takes your hand and presses it to his face. You gawp at him though he can’t see, hand hesitant as you spread your fingers against scratchy stubble. You love touching his face — it’s Sirius who doesn’t like you touching his face.
“Will you take my bobble out for me?” he asks suddenly.
“Yeah, baby, of course I will. Turn around?”
He turns, attempting to take your hand with him. You giggle and pull it out of his grasp. “Lean your head back.” He does, and now able to reach his hair, you pull the bobble from his hair, unleashing his lovely black curls. You root your fingers into the soft mess and massage his scalp, knowing he must have the hair-pin headache from hell. His shoulders rise at first but then slowly drop as you go, head tilting towards your kind fingers. You rake your fingers through his hair like a make-shift comb, walking around him to straighten the face-framing pieces.
“There,” you say, “handsome as ever.”
He smiles, and then seems to remember he can open his eyes. “Thanks,” he says roughly.
“No problem. Kiss?” you ask softly.
He gives you a chaste peck and you take it as an opportunity to stroke his cheek.
“I like drunk you,” you tell him. “You never let me be so nice to you.”
“S’cos I want it too badly.”
“What do you mean?”
He’s squinting at you, like even drunk he knows it’s not something he would usually tell you. “I like it when you touch my face. And when you play with my hair.”
This is news to you. “Yeah?”
He nods. “Mm.”
You bring your hands to the bottom of his face, cradling him close, face inclined to yours. “Then why do you never let me?”
“Don’t deserve you.”
“Sirius…”
“You’re too good for me,” he confesses his thoughts.
You stroke his cheeks with both thumbs, squeezing his face gently. “Baby, you deserve the world. You deserve everything you want. Understand?”
He seems much younger than he ever has before. You sigh, feeling awfully heartbroken for him. You know he’s drunk and that he doesn’t mean to tell you, but you can’t help probing for more. You just wish he would’ve told you this sober.
“You know why I like touching your face?” you ask him.
He shakes his head.
“It’s ‘cos I like you. Like, a lot. You know. I love you,” you tell him.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
“And you love me.”
“Yes.”
“If you love me, then you should know that your being happy makes me happy, right? You deserve affection, and I desperately want to give it to you.”
And maybe he doesn’t totally get what you’re saying right now, or he might forget this all by the morning, but he deserves to be told. Even if it’s temporary.
He blinks at you slowly. You don’t want to overwhelm him, smiling wide until his eyes lift.
“Stop frowning, you’ll get wrinkles,” you tell him.
He scowls at you. “No I won’t.”
“Yes you will.”
“I won’t. I have perfect skin.”
“Because you’re young, Sirius,” you say, smoothing your hands over his shirt.
“No, because I’m perfect.”
“Yes, that too.”
“You’ll get wrinkles,” he argues. You snort. This infuriates him. “You will.”
“If I get wrinkles, it’ll be your fault,” you say theatrically, throwing your hand up to your forehead. “For you’re oh so mean to me.”
“I’m not mean.”
“And what are you being right now?”
He looks mildly alarmed by this and reaches for your hands. You giggle, endeared by this version of Sirius, vulnerable, completely missing his cool guy exterior. It’s heartwarming how much he seems to care as he takes your hands in to his and apologises.
“Sorry,” he says.
You let him off the hook. “That’s okay, baby. Wanna know how you can make it up to me?”
He nods.
“Let me plait your hair?”
And he does let you. You practice your fishtail braids tucked into the corner of the room on an armchair barely big enough for the both of you, and the tugging of your hands in his hair must get to him, because he falls asleep in your lap. Sirius Black falls asleep in your lap. James takes a picture.
You bump him with your elbow. "C'mon, handsome. Finish your pancakes."
Remus slouches on the diner bench seat beside you, his hand on your thigh, his hair limp and brushing against your arm. You wrap it around him in a half-hug.
"If he didn't wake up at the literal break of dawn," Sirius says from the booth behind you, comedically chipper in comparison, "he wouldn't be this exhausted now."
You hug your poor boyfriend closer and rush to his defences. "We aren't all night-owls, Sirius, you know that."
He smiles at you and opens his mouth to say something probably very Sirius, like, You don't have to defend him, doll, he's hopeless. James meets your eyes where he sits across from Sirius, grins, and flicks a blueberry at him, swiftly ending your conversation in favour of a small food fight.
"Don't bother with him," Remus murmurs tiredly.
You duck down to kiss his forehead. He's always shattered after a show and tonight's no exception. He smells like sweat and his eyeliners all smudged under his eyes, but he's still the prettiest guy you've ever met.
"You haven't eaten properly all day. Finish your food," you say into his skin.
You rub his arm for encouragement.
He reaches for his fork and it's so pathetic you have to give him another kiss.
could i request remus getting in a fight (i know it’s not like him at all but maybe it was ab the reader?? idk) and then shy!reader has to patch him up and it’s rlly fluffy and cute. i love all your work!! 🤍
i did rockstar!remus hope you don't mind it's not a huge detail CW r is cornered by a creep, fighting, bloody knuckles ♡ shy!fem!reader | 1k words
The dressing room is silent.
Remus sits slouched in a chair with his hand hiding his face, fingertips aligned over his brow and the pad of his thumb pressed to his top lip. His knuckles are bruised. Deep, cruel bruises. The index knuckle is split and scabbed with dried blood.
You lean against the vanity, your cheeks tearstained but dry. He's still so angry.
Not with you. The opposite, he's angry for you. Some techie had tried to lay hands on you during the set. You remember Remus' face filled with post-show adrenaline and how it had drained when you told him what happened. He'd been very quiet, characteristic if abrupt, and asked you who.
There's a roll of bandages, a square of gauze and an antiseptic wipe in your hands.
"Remus?" you ask.
He drops his hand and blinks. The anger is occluded by fondness. "What, dove?"
"Can I fix your hand?"
Remus straightens in his chair. "Sure you can."
You put the gauze and bandages in his lap and step in between his legs. His hand on the armrest, you curl your fingers around his wrist to hold him still and dab at his split knuckle gently.
Remus pulls your waist. You let him, unsurprised when his face drops into your abdomen.
"Sorry, dovey."
You stop your wiping and swallow. There's lots of things you want to say. Don't be sorry. That guy cornered me and he could've done worse. You're brave. Thank you for defending me.
"I love you," is what you say instead.
He looks up. "You're not upset?"
"No," you say. You reach for the gauze in his lap and lay it over his knuckles. "Can you hold this, please?"
Remus gives your hip a small squeeze before he does as you ask. You wrap the bandage around his hand and his bruised knuckles, feeling silly because you don't really know what you're doing, you just want him to feel looked after.
"I didn't know you…" You let his hand fall gently and put your hands on his shoulders, fingers slow and shy but very, very desperate, coveting the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck.
"Go on," he prompts as he always does, tilting his head back in your hold.
"I've never seen you fight someone."
"I don't do it often," he says dryly.
You can't help but laugh. "No, I'd hope not."
You both go silent, looking at the other with a vast range of sticky sweet emotions.
"I didn't mean to make you cry," he says eventually.
You hesitate, eyes closing. Your words are slow; you think of each one carefully before you say them, "You didn't make me cry. I was just worried about you. Watching James have to pull you off of that guy, it was… it was a lot."
"I'm sorry," he says again.
You open your eyes, find him shaking his head from side to side, lips parted in regret.
You smile and your cheeks apple, eyes squinting ever so slightly.
Remus smiles. "But you already know that," he says.
"Uh-huh. Doesn't matter," you whisper. "None of it matters. I'm just glad you're okay."
He pulls you in close and you feel heat move over you in a wave, worse when his hand comes to the back of your thigh. He drags your leg onto the chair between his until you're forced to brace yourself on his shoulders and lean your weight in his lap.
"Don't be silly," he murmurs. "Sit properly."
And you explode internally, climbing onto his thighs with an awful churning in your tummy. He makes sure you're settled comfortably, doesn't care that it takes a lot of shuffling or that the chair is hardly big enough to accommodate you both.
"There, that's better."
You take your hands back from his shoulders and stare at his t-shirt, a black short sleeve sporting the Def Leppard logo in burning orange. You trace the letters with your eyes.
"Hey," he says, tapping under your chin with his free hand, the other a clear heat behind your back. "You've gone all shy on me."
You ignore him lest you spur him on. He tsks and leans back as far as he can in the chair, dark eyes half-lidded, a smugness in the uptilt of his mouth.
"Does it hurt?" you ask.
"No, dove. My nurse did a great job. She was super fucking pretty, too. The sweetest thing."
You press your lips together tight to smother a pleased little laugh and move your gaze up. He looks super serious as always, his eyes unflinching where they pour into yours.
He rubs under your eye with the very tip of his ring finger. When he's done he moves to the second, wiping away your smudged mascara with all tenderness.
He graces your cheek with the side of his hand. "Poor girl. Still so pretty covered in tears."
He's sick. In the head. You hope your pout clues him in to how unfair he's being and he reads it wrong, or knowing Remus he doesn't read it wrong at all, only chooses to act as if he did when he pulls you down. Firm, almost stern, his hand slides up the length of your back and holds your shoulder as his lips press to yours. You close your eyes and let yourself be kissed, too melted by him to do anything more besides kiss back lightly and screw your fingers in his shirt.
"Slow down. I'm injured," he whispers.
That does it. You're pent up and tired and he has no business making jokes at your expense. You laugh so much you have to drop your forehead to his chin, physically unable to hold yourself up.
Remus pats your back. "I love you," he says warmly. "Didn't say it back before."
You wrap your arms around his neck and sigh. You hadn't doubted it.
Drunk reader calling either remus or eddie babygirl pretty please? 👉🏻👈🏻
ty for ur request! remus and a drunk fem!reader ♡
Remus is trying very hard to stop you from kissing him. You're drunk out of your mind, heavy-handed and glassy-eyed as you lift on toes to get your arms behind his neck.
His laugh makes your eyelashes dance.
"What's funny?" you ask, a wrinkle between your brows. You smell like fruit juice and the sharper headiness of pimms.
"Nothing," he says.
You kiss him. He's okay with little kisses, and any kiss at all if you were sober, but you're drunker than drunk and he doesn't work that way. When you lick his bottom lip he laughs like mad and pushes you away.
"Fiend," he teases.
"No, let me," you say, all whiney and soft.
Remus rubs the stretch of your back with both hands. "Hmm," he hums, fingertips sliding under the hem of your shirt to knead at the small of your back. "No, dove, I don't think so. But," — your outrage wavers — "we can go home. Cwtch for as long as you want. No book, no laptop. I'm all yours."
You like the sound of that, evident in your sticky sweet smile. Remus is a good boyfriend, but he's a dedicated writer. He chooses, too often, to add an extra page of his work in progress rather than come to bed. You're in sore need of a good hug.
He tries to sober you up at home with some tea and toast. You eat the toast with a queasy determination, and the tea goes untouched. He swaps it for water and that does a little better, but you're still, in his loving opinion, quite fucked. You hang off of his shirt and his arms and his shoulders, your hand a vice-like thing that follows his every move. Remus couldn't care less, but it does make getting you up the stairs and into bed a tad bit difficult.
Your eyes are dropping as he unzips your dress. You lift your arms obligingly and he peels it off, swapping it out for a shirt that's too big and a pair of jogging bottoms. You grumble as he ties them off, a neat bow.
"What'd you say, lovely?" he asks, hands paused against your stomach.
"S'posed to be taking them off me."
"No I'm not." He kisses your hand where it's covered his, and then your wrist for good measure.
You bring the other to his hair. He loves how you handle it, pulling and tugging just slightly, cruel in your intoxication but not your affection. You smile to yourself as you do, fingernail scratching his scalp. You're thinking hard.
"Love you, babygirl," you say.
He startles. "Sorry?"
You tuck an overgrown strand of hair behind his ear and grin. "I said I love you, Remus."
"No, you didn't."
You push up on your elbows and squint. "You sure?"
"Positive. You said, 'I love you, babygirl,'" he quotes.
Your smile grows impossibly bigger. "I love you too."
Remus laughs. It's a delight to be with you, he thinks. You're lovely, and when you're drunk you get weird. It's amazing.
You throw your arms around him like you're gonna start wrestling, face pressed hard to his chest. "Yes," you hiss. "Finally. Squeeze me, dummy."
can i please request painting remus’ nails? maybe with reader doing little designs on ‘em and stuff
thanks so much for your request! hope this is ok<3
You're in the edge of his peripherals, looking much too shy for his preference. Almost abashed, though he's not sure he's said anything risqué lately to get you in this mood.
"You alright?" Remus asks you, tilting his head back into the sofa cushion.
You seem startled at being caught, the little bag in your hands rattling, a glass clinking. His eyebrows crease. "Say?" he asks.
"Can I paint your nails?"
"Why?" he asks suddenly, chased by a laugh.
You cringe in on yourself but smile. "I wanna try some designs," you say hopefully.
"I'm not making fun of you, lovely, I promise. Just, I don't have much nail to paint. You know that."
You cross the small space between you both to sit next to him on the sofa. His first thought is to wrap his arm around you but he can't if you're going to paint his nails, so he repositions. You end up mirroring each other: cross-legged, hands on knees, smiling reservedly.
You flash your pretty nails at him, so well taken care of, cute and shiny. He catches them before you can pull away, reviewing your newest intricate designs carefully.
"I don't want to get rid of these, they took too long. And I'll wipe them straight off Remus, I swear. Please?" you ask in a rush, puppy dog eyes and all.
"You know I'll say yes," he drawls, trying not to roll his eyes.
You dart forward and kiss him. Your lips are soft, and he aches for them most of the time. It's an abject cruelty, the speed at which you pull away.
"Thank you," you say earnestly.
You're quick to unzip the small bag in your hands and display an array of things to him. Nail polish and tiny brushes, metal rods with tiny balls on the end that he doesn't understand and a collection of bottles he doesn't catch the name of.
He's glad he said yes as you go through the process. Your hands are always welcome on his skin. You take his hand into your lap and hold him still as you push against his cuticles and quickly file each of his short nails down. He's a clean bloke, but you're neater.
"What colour do you want?" you ask, rubbing the pad of your finger over his nails.
"Whatever you want," he says breezily, leaning his weight into the armrest. He's tired and your light touches don't help.
He's half asleep by the time you're done. Humming, you poke the tip of your tongue between your lips in concentration as you lay the last small heart into his thumbnail. He can't believe how immensely dainty and perfect your designs are.
"There," you murmur.
Your back clicks as you sit up, an awful amorous sound slipping past your darling, pleased smile as you stretch.
"Let me take a photo before you wipe them off," you say, like you're worried he's about to ruin an hour of your hard work. He's honestly a little offended.
"Dove, fuck off. I'm not wiping them off."
"What?" you ask. Your smile is contagious.
"I'll keep them, if that's okay."
"Of course it's okay, but… Remus, there must be a hundred hearts on your nails right now."
"They're amazing," he says, and he means it, looking down at his hands. A hundred tiny hearts in a practiced hand. He likes to think there's a little bit of love in each one.
It makes a strange sort of sense when he has your face in his hands, a blush of red hearts on your cheekbones as he leans in for a kiss.
Clark idea: first time spending the night at his house but it’s completely accidental because she falls asleep on the couch and he’s unsure of what to do, and reader is super clingy and wakes up when he moves her
Last week, Clark stopped a skyscraper from falling onto a hundred helpless civilians using one arm. Tonight, he struggles to move from under your weight.
He is excited to have you asleep on him. This is a boyfriend’s job, to be your pillow, to have you take comfort in his presence so much so that you fall asleep in the middle of a movie you’d been excited to watch. You weren’t particularly tired, as far as he knew, which makes your little snores sweeter to have warming his arm. He feels similarly relaxed when you’re around.
For a while, he has the movie on pause and waits for you to wake up. Then, when it’s clear you’re not dozing but truly sleeping, he changes the channel to watch a different movie and puts the other on record so you can watch it when you wake. He waits, and waits, but seven turns to nine turns to quarter to ten, and he realises he should’ve woken you up. Because now it’s rather late to be taking you home on a work night.
Well, darn, he thinks.
It’ll be alright, he decides eventually. You haven’t stayed the night before, but Clark knows you trust him, and he knows you won’t mind if he indulges himself and lets you sleep. He’ll wake you early in the morning to give you time to get home (hopefully accompanied by him, or one of his heavy coats) and it won’t matter that you stayed.
This, however, introduces a debate. Should he leave you here on the couch with a blanket, or should he carry you to bed? He decides pretty quickly you can’t stay on the couch, it’s just never a comfortable way to sleep. He’ll lay you out in the double bed in his room.
Clark can’t see you minding the cuddling that might happen in sleep, you’d been cuddling when you fell asleep.
How to move you, though. He sucks on his bottom lip while there’s no one to see him, brows pinched together. Slow and steady, an arm under your knees? The princess carry is his only gentle option, really. He can’t get you over his shoulder.
You sniff in your sleep, then comes a long, breathy snore. You make some really funny sounds. Clark’s smiling about them as he gets his hand under your knee and lifts, no effort required to have you against his chest. Your little hiccup sound when you’d first started dozing had been the cutest, but this mumbly whine now at being moved is a close second.
“Noooo…” Your hand screws up in his shirt.
“Let’s go to bed, honey,” he whispers.
You wrap your arm behind his neck, your face smushed awkwardly to his chest. Cords in your back go rigid as he stands up, but a few kind shushes have you relaxing and sniffling again, like you might fall back asleep in his arms.
The bedroom door creaks when he opens it, prompting another disgruntled mumble. “Clark,” you say, sounding annoyed now.
“I know, baby. Just taking you to bed, that’s all. You go on back to sleep.”
“Don’t wanna go home.”
You’re barely audible in his chest. Clark gathers you close in one arm, pinning you close so he can pull back his sheets and comforter. “You’re not going home, you think I could part with you now?” He lays you down in the bed. Your arm is steadfast behind his neck. “Not going anywhere,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead very, very gently, “I’ll get you some water.”
“Bed,” you murmur back. “Clark.”
He likes this side of you. He’s not sure he’s ever heard you whine before, and it’s pathetically soft while you’re too tired to act as you normally would. “Fine,” he says, chuckling, “move over then, my girl. Gosh.”
You actually smile at his teasing, wriggling backwards in the bed to make space. When Clark climbs in, you wrap your arm around him without hesitation, your cold nose pressing into his arm.
“Goodnight, bubby,” you mumble.
Clark giggles like a kid. “Oh, goodnight,” he says, reaching for the switch just to the side of the bed that’ll turn out the lights. Clark doesn’t need the overhead to stare at you. He’s got supervision. “Beautiful. Wake me up if you need anything.”
For baby blurbs what about cuddling with Clark and just kinda... not biting his bicep but just kinda putting your teeth on it and hes just like ?? babe??
There is something to be said about Saturday nights in November. How nice it is to be dark by 7PM. How plans seem few and far between, how Clark begs to have you home with him because it’s cold, honey, and somebody has to keep you warm.
You meander behind Clark in a relative silence. It is nice to be his, to be lead down streets you already know, helped up stairs you’re more than capable of climbing. He opens the apartment door for you and unbuttons your coat. He hangs it on the rack and holds your hip as he slips behind you, smiling big as he says, “Hey, make yourself comfortable, I’ll be right back.”
You leave your shoes at the hutch and your jacket folded half-heartedly on the armrest of his big chair. Your necklace goes next on the table, as does your bracelet, and you drop yourself with gumption into the familiar comfort of his couch, stomach first. Your back clicks. You let out a long, contented sigh at the release of pressure, though it tapers into a groan you force into a throw cushion lest Clark hear you whining.
Like he heard you anyways, he reappears quickly after in a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, the line of his shirt collar still red on his neck from the force of his scarf where it’d been wrapped around it. “You okay?” he asks.
“Mm, just tired.”
He taps your lower back politely, while both of you know that the likelihood of you moving is low. He did it more for show, you think, as he picks your lower body up with one hand. It’s a funny vertigo-sort of feeling to be lifted, forcing girlish giggles out of you that you’d regret if they didn’t make him laugh back.
Clark slides himself under your legs and collapses into the couch much as you had, his neck going against the back of it, curls flopping away from his face. His skin is pale in the darkening living room, but fresh. He looks like he eats his greens. You wiggle onto your back, knees coming up, encouraging Clark to take your ankle in his hand. He squeezes it, then uses it to force your leg up and kiss your knee. He has such a strange physicality to him that makes you feel weirdly human. Moves you around like it’s nothing, natural even, to use any range of motion if it’s means your close to one another.
He kisses your knee again, despite the jeans blocking skin to skin.
Emboldened, you hold out your hands and whine quietly from the back of your throat until Clark’s ignoring them altogether, slipping his hand behind your shoulders instead to help your forward. It’s easy as you slide into his lap. You settle on thighs like tree trunks and look down into your own thighs, head thunking into the space under Clark’s chin.
He gets the memo. You’re hugged before you’ve wetted your lips to ask for one.
“Thanks,” you say softly. There’s a quiet dawning you don’t want to interrupt.
“You’re welcome,” he says, equally soft.
Clark manoeuvres you a little so you aren’t so straight backed, arm curled around you in a hug so encompassing you don’t complain when he uses the other to locate his TV remote. He flicks through movies, finds one you’ve both seen before, and leans back until he’s comfortable. It’s almost as though he doesn’t have a full grown woman on top of him.
It does something to you. He does a lot of things to you, but your body’s going haywire at getting to feel so – so small? Clark is strong, you knew it already, but this clear cut demonstration done so subtly. You could– you could just–
“Are you biting me?”
You press your teeth to the corded muscle of his arm and hum.
He laughs. “Do I taste good?”
You apply the barest pressure, his skin between your teeth, the vibration of his laugh against your tongue. “You don’t not taste good,” you confess, lips closing in a kiss lain over any hurt you might’ve caused.
Clark’s hand finds your nape, begging you forward, like he wants to be bitten again. You move down for another scratch of teeth, then again, sorry as sin when your spit wets his skin and the fuss turns it pink. You kiss at the shine until he’s jelly beneath you, nipping and half-mouthing to the sleeve of his shirt. You push it up with your nose and lay there, face smushed into the crook of his armpit, his hand still holding your neck without pressure.
“Babe?” he asks finally. You look up, find him rosy and bewildered and pleased.
You lean up to kiss his neck. He has to shift to allow it, and, unwatched, you press a lazy, weak hickey to his vein.
Clark’s arm tightens around you. His head falls back, further again, practically hanging off of the couch. He lets out a bone-deep sigh.
You go back to biting his arm. He’ll come around just as soon as he decides what to do with you.
this is a classic one but could i request clark with reader getting wisdom teeth out? ily jade <3
thank you for your request ❤︎ fem, 0.8k
“Come on. I’ve got you.”
Clark isn’t expecting you to collapse bodily into his arms, but it hardly phases him. He had said he had you.
“Yo,” you say, your face shoved into his chest. Your nose must hurt doing it. He fawns over you with a hand behind your neck to pull you back into view.
The general anaesthetic came with three warnings: you may feel tired, sick, and/or loopy. You seem to be wedged firmly in the lap of all those things, a sickly pallor to you as you look up into his face, your eyes widely sorry.
The gauze in your mouth isn’t too thick but it’s still hard to understand you properly when you say, “‘y ‘ouf hur’s.”
“Your mouth hurts?” he clarifies.
“A lo’.” You nod gravely.
Clark would laugh at your sage attitude if he weren’t sick to his stomach at the idea of you in pain. Dramatics aside, it’s his job to look after you and clearly he has already failed. This is an egregious error on his part. He must look gutted.
You grab his cheek more roughly than you likely mean to. “W’a’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, his arm in the curve of your lower back to keep you upright. You’d been okay for the first corridor and set of stairs, but now you’re weak-legged in the foyer leading out of the dentist’s office, and Clark has only one sure way of getting you home. “I’m gonna carry you home, okay?”
You’d usually protest such a blatant performance of his strength, but you give another sage nod. “Ye, okay,” you say, holding your arms over his shoulders unhelpfully.
Clark doesn’t bother with a princess carry. He moves an arm to have both of them on the same side of his neck and lifts you so you’ve taken a kind of seat on his forearm. (He holds you with his arm under your ass, your head just a little higher than his own.)
“Woah!” you say, a squeamish giggle escaping you as you clutch his head for balance.
Clark couldn’t be more confident in his ability to not drop you. “You’re okay.” He pauses. “Are you okay?”
“I am high up.”
“Yeah, you’re almost six foot five right now! Do you feel tall?”
“Is this how you see everything all the time?” you ask, unperturbed as he ducks down to get you through the door unharmed.
Clark’s glad to hear the drowsiness clearing up from your voice, though a detachedness remains. He can smell the drugs in your system, could look through your skin into your blood and pinpoint the specks of propofol lingering, waiting to be metabolised. He decidedly does not do that, turning his head in your grip as much as he’s able to kiss your chin. “It’s not not how I see everything,” he says, beginning the short trek to the tram.
“Everyone’s bald.”
“Well, that is an inside thought, usually.”
“The breeze is nice.”
Clark laughs. The breeze is amazing.
He carries you through Metropolis to the tram and arranges you in a seat. You blink at him sluggishly until he’s walking you off of the tram and then carrying you once more up the hilled street to your apartment. You giggle when he has to touch your ass to pull you up into his arms again, leaving Clark red-faced all the way to the door. He doesn’t bother with the elevator. It’s not like you’re heavy.
You’re quiet as he shuffles you into a princess carry. Clark juggles you and your keys, getting you into the apartment, and laying you out on the couch. You’re less wide-eyed more sweet-looking when he finally meets your gaze, your eyelashes kissing in the corners as you offer a tired grimace. It is one part love and two parts minor surgery.
“I hope that wasn’t too bumpy a ride, honey,” he says, kneeling in front of you.
“Was okay. Could’ve got a cab, though,” you say through a giggly laugh, like you’d found yourself funny before you even started talking.
He eyes the bruises he can see blooming at the corners of your jaw under the very surface of your skin. “I don’t think I trust anyone else with you right now.”
You raise your eyebrows. Hold them there as you lay back in the cushions. “Rightly so, Clarky.”
He finds it so ridiculous he declares his love for you there and then with his hands wrapped around your calves, pressing kisses into your knees until you ask him if you can have a glass of water.
please could we see clark getting all happy and giggly when shy!r is giving him loaadssss of attention and affection without overthinking it for once ! :,))
fem, 1.1k
Clark is aware of himself. He is always the tallest man in the room and often the heaviest. His glasses soften the more severe effects of this, but he intimidates people —despite a remarkably genial demeanour. He knows he scared you, once upon a time. Knows sometimes you aren’t sure of yourself.
You aren’t worried for your safety when you’re with him, so Clark worked with that, worked hard, talked to you a lot but never loudly, brought you the smallest of flowers and expressed his wants with linked pinkies or light squeezes, building trust and affection at the same time.
And Clark doesn’t cuss, but fuck, it went better than he ever could’ve imagined. One day your timidity turned to a tentativeness, like you wanted to try with him, just to see how things went. He wasn’t subtle about pursuing you, but he didn’t up and say that he had a crush either, couldn’t ask you for that when sometimes all it took for you to stammer through bad nerves was a cup of coffee placed silently on your desk. But enough cups of coffee and pretty thank yous turned to dinner together in the Planet canteen, then dinner together in better places.
Dinner together at home. In his lap.
(In his lap!!!)
You sort of slumped into his thighs a couple of minutes ago and he’d not thought it through as he pulled you into an arm. It took literally no effort to have you seated there, never does, but most days you waver or apologise before he can hold you as though you could ever be an imposition. “Look at that, you have rice in your moustache,” you murmur, eyes lit up with love as you rub at his upper lip.
“I don’t have a moustache.”
“Stubble.” You scratch the corner of his mouth. “You eat like a baby, you have stuff everywhere.”
He is immediately hot at the teasing. You never tease. “I’m mid meal!” he says, reaching around you to gather another spoonful of rice and sliced pork belly with a Chinese inspired glaze. You helped him make it, and he knows it tastes better for it.
“It’s on your chin, too,” you say.
“Try to sound less pleased!”
He’s lucky rice doesn’t fall out of his mouth. If you’re disgusted by his bad manners, you don’t show it, wiping at his chin and wrapping your arm tighter behind his neck as you kiss his cheek. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, with all the fondness of a compliment.
“Kiss me again.”
You kiss him again. His stomach is molten. He is insanely turned on for such a small thing, and he ignores it because he doesn’t (solely) want this to be a sex thing (unless you’d be interested). You’re being so… carefree. Whatever libido you’ve multiplied in him is honestly overshadowed by excitement, like, you’re so cutesy he needs to gather you up and squeeze you until the feeling abates.
“You are so scratchy, what happened? You never let it grow like this,” you say, still teasing and touchy, your knuckles tripping down his neck.
“I got busy making your dinner,” he says.
“Yeah, right, I’m the one who made the rice, and I made the pork marinade. You just cooked it.”
“That’s what I said. Busy cooking your dinner.”
“Shut up, you did not!” You squirm a little in his arms, the other coming up and trapping him, his empty fork stuck in an upright hand. “You’re not funny, Clark.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
You laugh anyways, worse when Clark takes back control and shoves his fork on the plate, two hands open again to take your back into his hands, big hands, encompassing and dragging you closer until there’s no air between your two bodies, just t-shirts soft from the wash.
“You’re not hungry?” he asks, wondering why you’ve wandered out of your chair and into his.
“I figured I better save you from the embarrassment of a rice-moustache, baby, and you’re distracting me now.”
“I’ll warm it back up for you,” he promises.
You take his face into your hand before he can move, rubbing your nose and mouth into his cheek. He clenches his jaw under the plush little dip of your mouth, lest he moan like a freak and send the whole boat tipping over. You laugh breathlessly.
Clark’s halfway to a white out and your giggling makes it a thousand times worse. You kiss his tight jaw again quickly before going back to your nose rubbing. “I love you.”
He laughs. Giggles. “I love you too.”
“So much.”
“So much they don’t have a word for it,” he says, clasping the back of your neck in his hand gently, encouraging you to stay right where you are for as long as you’ll allow it. “Didn’t even know I could love someone like this.”
Your breath warms his skin. “Me neither.”
“But with you it’s all just–”
“Perfect.” You sink until your face is in his collar, your hands braces on his shoulders, barest caress of your fingertips against the underside of his jaw.
He takes an indulgent sniff of the top of your head.
“My dinner really is gonna be cold,” you say.
“I know. I can make it fresh, if you want.”
“Would you do that?” you ask.
Clark would climb a mountain with bare hands. He’d hike Mount Everest, from the chilly bottom to the frozen top, ten times over. If that was what you asked him to do. If it meant you’d end up boneless and giggly in his lap for no discernible reason afterwards. It’s so nice to see you free of your own inhibitions.
“Baby, I think I’d grow the rice myself if you wanted me to.”
“You’d look good as a farmer.”
“Yeah? Should’ve seen me back home, bubby. I’m a total hick. Grow you whatever you want.”
You lift your face up, all smiley and light as you turn your head, your lips at his ear. “From the sticks? That how you put on all this muscle?”
He wants to cover you up in bubble wrap. He wants to lay you out on the table and kiss every inch of your stomach, your thigh, your knees. Even your elbows. Maybe tonight you’re feeling blithe enough to let him.
hi there’s a trend right now online of gfs asking their boyfriend permission before ordering dessert as a joke, but would you write one where reader genuinely thinks she has to ask and clark is at first bemused and then heartbroken? thank you if you do!
thank you for requesting ★°࿔ fem, 1.5k
cw for talk of calories and controlling behaviours (not clark)
Your hands are pretty much always full of pins and needles when you’re around Clark Kent. You first mistook the feeling for intimidation; he is oh so tall and incredibly muscled, which can be uncomfortable to realise when you aren’t as tall or muscled. It’s obvious he’s strong. Almost in poor taste to mention at this point, like, of course he’s strong, can’t we talk about something else? But Clark’s size is the first thing you noticed when you met him, then his smile. Then his curls, and his dimple, and the dark square frames of his glasses.
The pins and needles aren’t intimidation, they’re butterflies.
You rest your head in a weightless hand, smiling against your palm as Clark finishes the last couple of bites of his steak and fries. Even eating is done by him in a nice way, big bites but clean, smiling into it, catching your eye. His chews slow when he realises you’re smiling, then quickens as he works to speak.
“What?” he asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin.
“You’re cute.”
“Am I?” he asks, leaning over the table suddenly but not sharply, nudging at your nose with his to encourage a salty kiss. His breath shudders at your mouth, and he pulls away and laughs the rest of it while you go all warm in your seat.
It was a short kiss, chaste if he hadn’t parted his lips over yours. You cover them up with your hand again, eyes skirting away from his fond gaze to the drinks and dessert menu stood up beside your two plates. “Afters?” you ask, thinking he’ll like a cup of coffee before you go.
Clark fixes his tie. “Sure, honey, just let me use the commode real quick.”
“Commode,” you say, snorting. “Sure. You go do that, hon.”
He laughs at ‘hon’ and clambers out of his chair. You linger on the back of his head as he weaves through tables toward the men’s room. Clark disappears from view, leaving you alone again with yourself at the table. He is lovely about dinner, plans the place and the time, offers total flexibility and vetoes nothing. He pays. He takes you home to the door and kisses your cheek. Makes sure you had a good time. Better is that he does all of that while he makes you laugh.
You browse the desserts. They have the restaurant’s special tiramisu, peach ‘fairy’ cobbler, cookie dough with ice cream and ten-layer chocolate cake. You bend closer to read the chocolate cake’s description. Layers of delicate cake and buttercream enrobed by 40% chocolate ganache.
Clark plonks down in his seat and makes you jump.
“Oh, sorry,” he says.
He’s saved from your deadpan, You should be by the waitress who’d served you earlier returning.
“Hi guys, let me just grab those for you there,” she says, taking your empty bowl and placing it on Clark’s plate, your dirty napkins gathered and scrunched. “Alright. Were you interested at all in getting any dessert tonight?”
“Can we–” You look to Clark, more apprehensive than you’d pictured being when you were reading the menu. “Can I get something?” you ask quietly.
Clark laughs. Stops. His hand snakes over the table to clasp your arm loosely. “‘Course you can,” he says, ‘can’ taking on this warm, loving tone that loosens your tensed shoulders, “what were you thinking? Did you read through them?”
You nod eagerly. “Yeah, yes, there’s a ten-layer chocolate fudge cake–”
Clark smiles at the waitress. “One for each of us, then, of the chocolate fudge cake, please.”
“Sure. Right back with you guys.”
You offer Clark a grateful smile. He smiles back. (You don’t catch the hesitancy there, a split second where Clark isn’t sure he deserves a smile at all.)
The dessert comes not long after. You and Clark eat, sigh with pleasure, and wait only long enough to pay the bill before getting your coats and heading back to the car. “Did you wanna catch a movie?” he asks.
“Come over and we can rent one–”
“I don’t have my things.”
You lick your lips, “Hm, okay. I have laundry at your place?”
“Washed and pressed.”
“Take me home with you?”
“I could have you over my shoulder–”
You burst out laughing. “No, that’s okay! We can drive, I think that’ll be alright.”
The car is quiet. Clark clutches the wheel in a tight hand. You peer at him from the corner of your eye, perturbed by the sound of creaking leather.
“Clark?” you ask gently.
“Mm?”
“Is something wrong?”
He shoots you a glance. Reaches over to grasp your thigh in his hand, then leaves it there to warm your knee. “You weren’t kidding, when you asked me if you could have dessert. Were you? I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“I… no. I wasn’t kidding.”
“Do you know that you don’t have to?” Clark flicks his head between you and the windshield, before making a decision. “Two seconds, angel.”
He turns off of the road into a lot bordering the edge of the Metropolis city park. Parks the car, engine running.
His eyes are narrowed, a wrinkle between his brows. You miss his hand on your knee.
“Clark, you didn’t have to…”
“No, I wanted to see you,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal, but I want you to really look at me.”
“I’m looking at you,” you promise.
“Do you think you have to ask me for permission before you do things?” he asks, the starts of his brows pinching up in a hurt that makes you straighten your back.
“No.”
“So why did you ask me if you could have something for dessert, angel? What was the thought process there?” Clark offers his hand, palm up.
“There wasn’t one.”
You slip your hand into his. Clark closes his fingers around you and squeezes. “No?”
“I didn’t think. Just asked you. I guess I… I did wonder if I could have something before I asked you, but it’s– I wasn’t sitting there wondering if you’d let me, but then the waitress came and I guess I– Sorry. I can’t talk.”
“You can, you’re doing great. You just spell it out for me the best you can. I want to understand.”
You lick your lips. Your mouth is dry like you’ve been holding a cotton ball on your tongue. “You were paying, you always pay for me, so it’s not that I didn’t think you’d say yes or even that you’d think I was greedy for wanting it, I don’t think that of you, but then I… it wasn’t so much about you as me. Like, I shouldn’t be allowed it, maybe? It wasn’t a long– like, a long thought. But I did think it, and I asked, and I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” You offer an apologetic frown. “Sorry, Clark.”
“No, it’s okay.” He rubs your knuckles with his thumb. “It’s okay.”
You really believe him. The way he says it, you can’t spy a shred of him that wants an apology. But you don’t know what to say, you need him to talk, so you wait.
He smiles eventually, half heartbreak. “In the future, for as long as we’re together– so, forever,” he says, giving your hand a tug toward his stomach, where he presses it to his shirt, “you don’t have to ask me if you can have dessert, or anything at dinner. I don’t care if you want a hundred dollar bottle of wine. And I really don’t care if you want– if it’s a calorie thing, if you’re trying to be good about eating, if that’s why you worried you weren’t allowed, then put that out of your head. That’s no good.”
You relax into his touching. “No good,” you repeat softly.
“If it’s permission you want, then you have it. Blanket permission to have the things you want when you’re with me.”
A pleased flush overshadows the embarrassing warmth you’d already suffered. “Yeah?” you ask.
Clark brings your hand to his lips, pressing a slight of a kiss to you.
“Is it too on the nose if I propose ice cream?” he murmurs, nodding out the car window toward the beautiful white light of a Dairy Queen.
You clamber across the car’s inner console to hold him. He drags you into his lap, though there isn’t much room there between his body and the wheel. Enough for a hug, but not much more than that.
omg i’d love to see reader pranking clark by calling him her “current boyfriend” or even just “my friend” 🤭
thank you for requesting ★°࿔ fem, 1k
“What are you doing?”
You glow at being asked so fondly. “I’m making a review thing for my friends,” you say, propping your phone up on the windowsill behind the sink.
“A review?”
Clark brought you home a box of cookies from the new trendy bakery near the office. It is an audacious sight, twelve cookies the size of your palm. The most beautiful is a dark chocolate and toffee one with flaky salt glistening in the light. Your stomach gives an eager gurgle, but the opportunity to pull the wool over Clark’s eyes is too good for you to waste.
Your boyfriend finishes drying his hands with a towel and lays it over his shoulder. “Like, you’re gonna rate them?”
“Is that okay?”
“Sure. Of course it is, angel, I got them for us, for you, you could throw them out the window if it made you happy.” He kisses your cheek.
“Thank you. Hey, will you be in it with me? We can compare our opinions.”
“I was hoping we were gonna share,” he says with a grin. “Deal me in, beautiful.”
You check your hair on the screen of your phone showfully before clicking the red button at the bottom, which starts the recording. “Hi guys. Uh, so,” —Clark’s hand slips against the small of your back, out of frame and such a sweet gesture— “so, we got a box of the showcase dozen from Sweetheart’s Bakery and Coffeehouse, and– so me and my friend Clark are going to try them and review them with each other.”
Clark’s hand flutters behind you. You expect him to pull away, but he’s meeting your eye unabashedly when you chance a glance his way. “Okay?” you ask. “Which one do you want first?”
His head stays facing you as his eyes travel over each of the cookies. “How about that dark chocolate and toffee one?” he asks, just a shade lower than his usual tone.
You reach into the box and break the cookie in half, warm and fresh enough to snap softly, its melted toffee oozing along golden crumb. You give Clark the bigger half.
“At the same time?” he asks.
You can’t read the look he’s giving you. Clearly, he hasn’t liked being called your ‘friend’, and why should he? The man brings you back twelve cookies that look like they're straight out of the TV and a bag of those beautiful red clementines from the market because he, directly quoted, thought you “deserved a good treat,” without giving a reason why. He kissed you softly and asked about your day. Offered to make dinner and started a load of laundry while you finished watching your show. All little kindnesses. You slept at his place these last four nights, as you do every week —this is not a friendship.
“One, two–” You take a bite.
It is perfect. Your pleasure isn’t feigned, smiling at the camera momentarily, then back to Clark to see how he feels. He doesn’t look half as pleased, resting what’s left of his cookie on the counter. You follow his lead, wiping crumbs from your lips as you chew. “Oh, woah,” you say. “That’s so good.”
“Yeah?” he asks. “What would you give it?”
His voice is like velvet.
You swallow the rest of your bite roughly, “Uh, without trying the rest of them, it’s honestly perfect. It’s a ten for sure.”
“I knew you’d love that one.” He turns to the phone, grinning, a mixture of smugness and agitation that has his voice getting louder with each word. “I picked them all out for her, I stood there for fifteen minutes choosing the ones I knew she’d want most to surprise her, because I’m a great friend!” he exclaims, taking your face into a paw of a hand. “You’re such a tease!”
You laugh into his palm, but Clark won’t let you hide, nudging your face back with his thumb as he leans in and kisses you roughly. It makes you laugh worse, feeling the annoyance in his mouth, and the carefulness of his hand turning your cheek so his nose can ride over yours.
“Should’ve known you were up to something when you started recording,” he mumbles, the taste of toffee on your tongue and his plush bottom lip as you give it a sorry kiss. “My heart fell into my stomach, but then I could hear your heart–”
You wrap your arm around his neck. “Shit, I gave myself away?”
“I wouldn’t have let you call me your friend either way. I’m not that good.”
“Clark, you are so good.”
His thumb rubs up your cheek, forcing a little soft pinch of skin. It makes you feel adored. “Not about being your friend, honey.”
“You’re my best friend,” you say.
Clark yanks you against his chest in one swift move and directs you to the phone. “Tell the camera you love me,” he says.
“Clark!”
He ignores your loud laughter. “You tell that camera how much you love being my girlfriend, or I’m taking these cookies and I’m throwing them out the window myself.”
“Baby!” You tip your head back against his chest. “Baby, I’m sorry I hurt your feelings, okay? I didn’t realise you felt that way, things must be so serious for you–”
“Tell them you love me!” He laughs. “Tell them, or you’re going home.”
“Noooo…” You turn in his arms and hug his waist. “Come on, you’re so–”
“I’m not your friend,” he says.
You shake your head into his chest. “Never. We are so much more than friends, Clark. You’re the best boyfriend ever, okay? Thank you for the cookies, and the clementines, and for letting me make fun of you.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” he grumbles, but he presses his mouth to your temple and you can feel his smile, hear his huff of laughter as he reaches over your shoulder. Cookie crumbs rain down from his hand. “This was even better than it looked,” he adds.
“You have great taste.”
Clark guides the cookie to your lips. “Sure do, beautiful.” Which makes you laugh, almost choking on toffee.
Omg if you’re still taking Clark requests I have an idea. Ik you’ve already written a few where the reader finds out he’s Superman but I think it’d be so fun if she finds out right in his face. Like she gets rescued or something and she’s like omg Superman and then he makes a recognizable expression or something and suddenly she’s like “Clark?!?!”
thank you for requesting ★ fem, 1.5k
Clark Kent makes a face when he wants to kiss you. His eyes track to your nose first. Linger there, on the bridge, at the Cupid’s bow, as though the first kiss would be dotted against the tip of it despite the heat that blisters when he eyes your mouth. It is the most hedonistic thing he’s ever done. Clark is not often hedonistic. This is why it lingers in your head —why you aren’t looking as you cross the street that evening after work. You’re too busy wondering why he doesn’t take what he wants.
The car comes from nowhere, as they tend to. One moment you’re walking from near the tram stop with your eyes set on the opposite side, the next you’re flinching away from a sharp metallic screech so loud you’re sure you’re dead or approaching it fast. And then the floor disappears from beneath your shoes, and the skin of your cheeks and forehead is so cold you wonder if death was meant to be this frozen.
“Hey– hey, you okay?”
You gasp, eyes shooting open, jostled in someone’s arms as the floor meets your shoes again. His first.
“Superman?” you yelp.
Superman holds you by the hips and looks over you, blue, blue eyes tracking each bit of you one slow flick of his gaze at a time.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks.
You peer around his impressive bicep to the city below and gasp your horror, grabbing at his front before he can leave you here so high up. “Oh fuck!”
“Yeah, I got you, honey,” he says, laughing, though his concern doesn’t abate. “Did I hurt you when I grabbed you?”
You press your head to his chest. “You gotta get me back down.”
“Okay? Sure.”
You seize before he can take off again.
“Not in the air!” you say.
There’s a silence you don’t care to time, heart thundering in the weak cage of your ribs. Superman grasps at your sides and walks you further onto the roof and away from the extremely short barrier demarcating your certain death.
“Did I hurt you? I’d like an answer,” he says gently.
Wits returned to check, you raise your head, eyes still shut, and try to locate any pains. “Uh, no. Don’t think so.” Your eyes flutter open, taking in the impossible sight of Metropolis’ favourite meta-not-human. “Are you hurt?” you ask.
Superman actually laughs. “Me? No.”
“Oh. Good.” You wipe a hand down your face. “Aw, fuck, I’m sorry, Superman. I wasn’t paying attention, I really– I thought I was gonna die. You saved me.”
“Even if you were paying attention, that would’ve been hard to escape. The car hydroplaned and ran into a fire hydrant.”
“Shit, were they okay?”
Superman tilts his head to the side. “As far as I can hear, he’s still sitting on the sidewalk waiting for an ambulance. He doesn’t sound hurt, but it’s not always easy to tell stuff apart from far away. There are people with him.”
You blink in a flutter. “You can hear when someone’s hurt?”
“Sort of?” His smile is momentarily shy. “I can hear people’s lymph systems, sometimes. Internal bleeding, strange heartbeats. And, you know, I can hear when people are crying, that’s a pretty good indication of pain.”
“Wow…” You don’t mean to give him an eyeful of your astonishment, just, that’s so impressive. He could use his super hearing for anything at all and he chose goodness. “What else can you hear?”
“All kinds of stuff.”
“Can you hear my heart?” you ask.
He doesn’t act like this is a stupid question, though you feel as though it was mere seconds after. “Yeah, I can. You’re calming down. You don’t like heights?”
“I don’t like being on the edge of a skyscraper that infamously bends in the wind,” you confess. You can see it from the Daily Planet.
“It’s structurally sound, don’t worry.” Superman nods at the floor. “I can hear the anchorage. Your heart’s nearly back to normal, now. Can I take you back down?”
“Why’d you bring me up here?”
Superman gets that strange but obvious shyness about him. “I panicked?”
“You did?”
“Is that– that’s odd?” he asks.
“I didn’t know superheroes could panic.”
You look him over with a fondness he’s earned, saving your life and all. How endearing.
His cheeks are pink and his curls have fallen out of their cast around his face. He looks you over in turn, the line of his gaze catching on your nose, on your Cupid’s bow, his lips pressing in a soft line, like he’d like to lean forward and kiss the side of your nose. There’s this sudden heat to him you recognise, but it takes his small smile when he’s caught for you to realise why you know it in the first place.
You stumble back out of his hands. “Clark.”
“Sorry?”
“Clark.”
Clark’s entire face is lit by panic. So at least he knows how you’d felt being foisted into the air at top speeds. “Who’s Clark?” he asks.
Is this why he won’t kiss you? Superheroes have way more options, right? He could have any woman he wants, but that doesn’t explain the yearning, does it? He’s so lovely, why won’t he kiss you?
You laugh despite yourself. “Clark, I know it’s you, I recognise that face you make. You look different without your glasses.”
“I don’t wear glasses. What look?”
Cracked like an egg. “I don’t know, it’s a look! You look at me and you–” You shrug around the question. “Hey, who knows about this? Does anyone else know? Does Jimmy?”
Clark seems to admit defeat then and there, heaving a sigh so big he seems to lose an inch of height. “Yes,” he groans.
“Does Lois?”
“Yes.”
You raise an eyebrow. Is that why he won’t kiss you?
“She doesn’t– yes, she knows, and yes, we were, but that was a long time ago,” he says, pleading, which you quite like. “What look?”
You school your expression. “Sometimes, you look at me, and you… linger,” you say, each word said with care, in case you’re audaciously wrong and making a fool of yourself. “You stare. At my nose, mostly.”
“Gosh darn it,” he says.
Your laugh comes out breathlessly. Clark’s already reaching for you, the red fabric of his cape flapping to one side in the breeze. You hadn’t realised how cold you still were until his warm hands are flush to your back, pulling you in, heat spreading up to your chest where it grazes his own.
“It’s– I stare at you,” you say, tilting your head a little toward your shoulder, “you know? You don’t have to be embarrassed. You’re Superman!”
“I’m not embarrassed about wanting you,” he says, with enough conviction to make your stomach jump, though this is apparently not the point and he continues on, “I’m annoyed at myself for giving myself away. We haven’t even–”
“What?” you ask.
“I haven’t even kissed you, and you know. And you– what, I’m so desperate for you that you saw that on my face? What’s the point in hypnoglasses if they can’t hide a single facial expression?”
“Clark?”
“And– yeah?”
“Would the hero like to kiss me?” you ask hopefully, quietly. “You did save me. That deserves a reward.”
“And you’re the reward?”
“Uh–”
“I didn’t save you for a kiss,” he says, bringing a hand to your face. Paw of a hand, warm and all encompassing pressed to the softness of your cheek. “Okay? You don’t have to let me kiss you, even if I’m painfully obvious.”
You press your hand to the golden emblem on Clark’s chest. You wanted him to kiss you as Clark, the dorky reporter, but you won’t say no to Superclark. He looks so much like Clark, now you know. It’s like a fog has cleared and left him in pretty clarity.
“I want you to kiss me,” you say, tilting your head up.
So Clark rubs your cheek with his thumb and pulls you in. He goes so slowly that you worry he’s changed his mind, no press of his nose or warm breath on your lips, but then he guides your head gently to one side to kiss your nose. The side, then your Cupid’s bow, and then your lips.
You sigh into the feeling. His hand tightens in the back of your shirt, but the one on your cheek stays cautiously kind.
“Clark?” you murmur, pulling away from the kiss, too close to see more than the perfect skin under his eyes and the hedge of his dark eyelashes.
“What?”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
He presses his cheek to your temple, his hand falling from your face as he wraps that arm behind your shoulders, squeezing you tightly. “Thank you. That’s– you’re so nice. I have a lot of feelings for you.”
“Yeah?” you ask.
“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you. Just, if I’m airing all my secrets out. You should know that one, too.”
“Do I pinch myself now?” you ask, secretly thrumming with delight so potent you can feel yourself shaking.
“No, no pinching. You’ve had a hard enough day without it.”
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