ARMEENIX!!

'Cause It's Insured — @theworstwolvie (May 5) ⤷ on sale: dining table

Life with Clark Kent is usually full of simple domestic bliss - until things are hot and heavy and he breaks your dining room table, of course.

Spilled Milk — @tw1sters (May 7) ⤷ on sale: kitchen counter

In a world where Superman never became a journalist, he crafts custom countertops for a living. His biggest challenge isn’t the work; it’s keeping his hands to himself around you long enough not to break what he’s trying to sell.

Under Pressure — @anon-188 (May 12) ⤷ on sale: bathtub

Clark can’t leave you alone—even when he really, really should. the pressure builds… and something has to give.

Is This Desk Taken? — @pinksplace (May 14) ⤷ on sale: executive desk

A party. An empty office. A very pretty dress. A very tight dress shirt. A drink, maybe two. A note. A desk. A questionable amount of trust placed in some wood and Formica.

Horsepower — @sparklingsin (May 19) ⤷ on sale: lex luthor's ferrari

Tired of the parade of men falling at your feet at Lex Luthor's wedding and your silence from last night's fight, Clark decides to take you on a wild ride in his best friend's Ferrari.

One More Load — @kryptidfiles (May 21) ⤷ on sale: washer/dryer

"Sweetheart, unless completely irreparable: it stays." Newly moved into Clark’s apartment, you’re trying very hard not to let his shitty washer and dryer ruin the honeymoon phase. Then one more load comes out damp, wrinkled, and still holding a soggy sock hostage at the bottom, and you finally snap. Clark walks in on you all bare legs and bad attitude, and decides if he’s handling the laundry, he’s handling you too.

Neighborly Favors — @thceseus (May 26) ⤷ on sale: couch

Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???

Sweet Stuff — @clarknsun (May 28) ⤷ on sale: porch swing

Going back to Smallville was supposed to be simple—visit his parents and keep them company for the weekend. Easy as pie, right? But when Clark comes face-to-face with a decade-old crush, a dinner at his ma's turns into bonding over apple pie, broken hearts, and a broken porch swing.

Off the Books — @heldbybarnes (June 2) ⤷ on sale: workout bench

Clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bed—because every partner before you has gotten hurt. You agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and Clark loses control. He thinks you’re saving him. You’re really making yourself the one thing he can’t walk away from.

American Boy — @maiamore (June 4) ⤷ on sale: copier/printer

Staying at work late to impress the new editor-in-chief proves to be something Clark Kent isn't equipped to handle.

A very big shoutout to all my incredibly talented friends for participating in this brainrot collab. We're bringing our collective goon to the dash 💞

Special thank you to @unificsation and Pink (pinksplace) for helping me with the inspiration for the masterlist header and Ash (sparklingsin) for creating the lovely fic headers above!!!

Clark letting you talk him into making an appearance anyway. Trusting you when you tell him it would not be arrogant to go, that letting people who turn out in droves to celebrate what he and the symbol has meant to them does not cheapen the work, that for once he is allowed to exist in the space beyond impact and aftermath.

Clark, who spends so much of his life arriving at the worst second of someone’s life, being asked to remain for the gentle parts this time.

Clark in the suit and cape for hours without a single emergency to justify them. No fire. No collapsing buildings. No blood in the air. Just people. People with tearful eyes and shaking hands and children hiding shyly behind their parents’ knees until Superman kneels down to their height and suddenly he is surrounded by crooked crayon drawings, bouquets with bent stems, homemade signs glittering under spring sun, thank-you cards written in messy pencil, envelopes worried at the corners from being held too tightly on the walk over.

Clark being embraced by the city in a way that leaves him embarrassed by the tenderness of it. Smiling until his cheeks ache. Letting an old woman kiss his cheek. Letting a little boy with a cape two sizes too big wrap both arms around his neck. Letting himself hear every trembling thank you, every story of a day he barely remembered because for him it had only been another Tuesday, another body caught, another life steadied, another promise kept.

Realizing, in that long impossible blur of sunlight and voices and reaching hands, that despite everything, despite the grief and the violence and the cruelty he has to witness over and over again, people remain so heartbreakingly beautiful he would spend a thousand lifetimes trying to deserve them.

Clark coming home exhausted in a way patrol never makes him. Arms full of flowers and letters and little gifts, boots quieter than usual by the door, cape slung over a chair, and still wearing that dazed, boyish Smallville smile because he still can't quite believe this day was real.

Clark immediately sharing everything with you.

Every flower. Every drawing. Every handwritten note. Every trinket and earnest token and wrinkled envelope all addressed to Superman.

Clark sitting with you and going through each gift with the kind of care most people reserve for family heirlooms, grinning bashfully, telling you where he got this one and who gave him that one and how this little girl with a missing front tooth insisted he take two lollipops because “saving the city probably gets tiring, Superman.”

Clark laughing softly under his breath, then going quiet, so overwhelmed with the way love catches him off guard.

Clark refusing to name a favorite because he means it when he says he cannot. Because every gesture was somebody offering a piece of their heart, their soul, and he knows too well what it may cost to do that. He cherishes these slivers of kindness all the same.

And then reaching the bottom of the pile.

One last envelope. Unopened. His name written differently.

Not Superman or any other nickname he's bestowed or adopted. Not even Kal-El.

It's "Clark"

And he freezes, heart dropping to his ass, but realizes this is your handwriting.

Clark's face is already cracking, before even slipping a finger beneath the fold, because the city may adore Superman, may honor the symbol, may hang banners and balloons from windows and fill the streets beneath the crest on his chest, but this is something else entirely.

This is you celebrating the part of him rarely chanted for. The soft-spoken man under the cape. The farm boy who still says sorry to doorframes when he bumps into them. The man who comes home bone-tired and still asks about your day before speaking of his own.

The vast, tender, lonely heart inside him that has spent so much of its life translated through symbols, through service, through names people can bear more easily than the truth of what he is. Alien. Other. Sent here and left behind by a world he cannot return to. Loved by millions, and yet so often alone in the most private, unreachable places.

You know the ache of that. Know the quiet ways it lives inside him. Gnaws at him on bad nights. Know that there are parts of your Clark that will always carry the shape of loss, even now, even loved, even home.

The letter from you not reading like a stranger's admiration, and far deeper than a partner’s love. It reads like a cherished memory, gratitude beyond compare, like witness. It is thanking not just the hero, but the man. Thanking his hands that hold the world and yours, the shoulders that carry, his gentleness that guards the world. Thanking the parts of him that ache in silence, the parts that remain good despite the horrors of mankind.

You know what it costs him to remain openhearted in a world that so often meets tenderness with violence. That you know all of him. That you love all of him. That somehow, after the city has spent all day trying to honor what he means, the truest thank you waits for him at home.

Clark reading it once, then again, slower, words bleary from tears.

Throat closing. Nose burning. All the excitement of the day finally catching up to him at once.

Clark, who spent hours being celebrated by an entire city, looking at you with sudden, shattering certainty that no monument, no ceremony, no sea of blue and red and gold strung across the skyline could ever measure up to this. Nothing could rival being loved by the one person who remembers to thank him not only for what he gives, but for what he carries. For what he is.

Clark folding the letter with trembling hands, the stationary ruined by emotion and awe, and confessing by the look on his face alone that damn he is a liar after all, that he does play favorites.

Not with the gifts but with the person who gave him a home to bring them back to. With the person who knew which name to write.

And if Superman Day left him brimming with love for this strange, beautiful, breakable world, it is you who unravels him most completely, because when the noise has faded and the sky has gone dark and every shining version of him has nowhere else to go, you are still the one who holds all of him.

The symbol. The son. The man.

The one who knows his heart well enough to find the loneliest parts of it and love them like they were never strange at all.

the love bakugou katsuki feels for his son is like no other. even though he sees him often, three times a week, this week four, he always looks older. like a day away from him and suddenly he’s going to pop out with a baritone voice and a beard. not yet though, chubby cheeks pressed against his knee and two little arms around his calf.

kenji, looks just like him and you. obviously from having a child together but it’s truly odd to see his own baby pictures come to life. his father’s wheat blonde but less spiky, leaning more to your hair texture at the end. and instead of his ruby eyes, he’s got yours, copy and pasted.

“hey papa! me and you today!”

“hey little man, you okay kenj?” he ruffles his sons hair and like a cat, kenji leans into it.

“ya! mama going!”

then bakugou lands on you, pupils dilated. where the fuck are you going looking like that?

it’s almost amusing, you in your brown suede mini skirt, black cowl neck top showing your tits, makeup done to literal perfection, little baguette handbag on one arm and then kenji’s deku green backpack hanging off your other arm.

your lips are glossy with these cat like eyelashes at the corner of your eyes. you look seductive, like a siren able to lure bakugou out to sea to drown. he’d definitely follow. he’s so careful to mind where his eyes go, not your cleavage, the glitter on your collarbones. also not the length of your legs in those kitten heels and mini skirt. there’s even a slither of stomach and bakugou wants to bite, wants to drag you back into his house and—

wait, where the hell are you going?

“thanks for taking him last minute! i completely forgot i had plans tonight.” you say, and your smile has bakugou’s next breath shaky.

it must be only him in the whole world who has a crush on his baby mama. the woman he’s never dated, only had sex with on a one night stand and has a whole child with.

bakugou sniffs, letting go of kenji so he can run off probably to all the toys he keeps in the living room.

“no problem, always wanna spend more time with him.” he states, crossing his arms. his pupils are about to drop past your chin when he blurts, “you’re not gonna be cold?”

you laugh, loud and sharp, “of course you’d say that. don’t worry, my jacket is in my car.”

“ah okay. you look good,” bakugou cringes inwardly. how the fuck did he flirt his way into your space the first time he met you? it’s been two years now and there’s almost no improvement. can you even be called friends?

you roll your eyes, clearly amused by him.

“thanks katsuki. i wanted to ask if you have any blister plasters? i feel one coming on.” you lift your left foot off the ground for a second, “first time wearing these!”

an excuse to scan the length of your legs, your smooth thighs, ankles, your feet in your little maroon kitten heels. are you going on a date?

a cough rumbles through bakugou, then he nods, “yeah, come inside. i’ll get you one.”

kenji is in the living room, surrounded by big puzzle blocks he’s cutely failing at putting together. “papa!” he shouts, running into the hallway to see you following after bakugou. kenji’s head tilts, a frown, “mama? here?”

a million thoughts rush through bakugou, reasons he can’t date you even if you ever want him back. kenji finds it weird that you’re even in this space. two spaces, mama’s house and papa’s house. everything about how you’ve parented kenji so far has been separate, very clearly separate.

“i’m leaving in a sec, kenj. just getting something from your papa.” and you perch up on a kitchen stool as bakugou reaches into his kitchen cupboard for the blister plasters. kenji comes to stand by you, two chunky puzzle pieces in hand.

“i brought his new books with him and these yoghurt raisins he’s been loving recently incase you didn’t have any,” you hum, resting your hand on kenji’s shoulder.

“damn, always changin’ his favourites. i just bulk bought those dino crackers,” bakugou sighs but it’s all love as he circles his island counter and gets down on his knees before you.

you’re in shock, jumping and crossing your legs over the other, “you don’t have to put it on me? i can do it?”

a hot hand on your ankle and your whole body vibrates with interest. you’re grateful your son deems the situation boring, toddling off back into the living room.

now bakugou katsuki, your baby father, the man who’s half your son and carries half of your sons last name is stupidly gorgeous. there’s a reason why you ended up in bed with him that one and only time, with his thick arms, you can see a two veins running through each of them and his eyes make you want to moan. a deep ruby red that practically twinkle when they look at you. his attention makes you feel powerful, probably the reason he’s so good at running a hero agency, you’d comfortably leave your life in his hands.

and now, with those nerdy cute glasses on his nose bridge, somehow looking like a model with his fluffed up hair and the sight of dino crackers in a tub behind him labelled ‘KENJI’S SNACKS BACK OFF!!’ made by your son, makes you swoon.

you’re the definition of flustered with this strong, domestic, burly man on his knees with a blister plaster in his hand. he could see directly up your skirt if he wanted to.

“nah, it’s fine. this shit doesn’t bother me.” he blinks expectantly waiting for you to hand him your foot.

swears only when your child is away. you wearing your slutty little outfit with this gorgeous man in his sweats and somehow you feel like a princess with him sliding a glass slipper onto your foot.

“you gonna let me or do you wanna just do it?” he removes his hand from your ankle.

you’ve seen clips of bakugou in action. mostly when it’s on the news, always making sure kenji doesn’t see bakugou covered in blood or shouting orders on tv. how sure of himself he stands, the strength he holds when he blasts a villain that multiple pro heroes couldn’t crack. sometimes you drop kenji off to his agency just before bakugou’s about to leave and you see him in all his glory. the boots that give him an extra couple inches, the tight black material that sucks him in and highlights every ab and pectoral. you remember how he nods a hello to you in those moment, with a boyish smirk like he knows what you’re thinking.

you think your baby father is sexy. so what.

you shake your head to rid your thoughts but bakugou takes that to mean you want him off. he adjusts to get up but you place your hand on his shoulder. the movement has him lifting his head to you, lips parted like he was ordered.

“no, i mean it’s fine. just wasn’t expecting it.” then you uncross your leg from over your other. then you joke with a finger pointed at him, “don’t look up my skirt. i wore it hoping nobody will be seeing me from this angle.”

bakugou visibly gulps at that, head ticking, “i fuckin’ hope not.”

calloused finger tips take your calf and with one hand, big fingers fiddle with your heel buckle. you’re almost sure it’s not possible for him to take it off but then it’s swiftly removed and onto the floor.

you blink at him, “what?”

bakugou carries the focus of a trained professional as he studies the sensitive skin around your heel. he ignores your confusion, “where are you goin’ tonight?”

it’s like whiplash, his question so quick after yours. you barely register what he says before you answers, “club in the city. it’s new, apparently has a live jazz band.”

bakugou grunts, wiping the area with a disinfectant wipe. “who with?”

your smile is slow, a realisation forming that you can’t completely confirm yet. “why are you asking that, katsuki?”

then he glances up at you, bottom lip plump and red. you hate that you can still remember what it’s like to kiss him.

“wanna make sure my baby mama is safe. not hangin’ around fuckin’ creeps.”

“ah, you’re asking for kenji?”

you can’t read his eyes yet but there’s a spark of amusement fluttering through them, “sure, let’s use that excuse.”

you roll your eyes and he carefully, lays the plaster on the area. “with a friend.”

“is it a date?” and it’s the nagging at the back of bakugou’s head that makes him ask, the fact he’s needs to know. dying to know.

now you really laugh, undecided if you want to toy with him or not. “and if it is?”

to that bakugou rises to his feet and seated, he feels even taller than usual. the whiff of bakugou’s scent, that caramel sugary scent, reminds you of that night two years ago when he was thrusting into you so sweetly that you could barely remember your name after.

“i hope it’s awful,” he grunts and he feels like a teenager. not a grown ass man and not someone’s grown ass father. he doesn’t know why his finger lands your chin, angling your head to face him. you don’t know why you let him, lips parted like his will land on yours. ruby eyes flicker to your eyes to your lips and the need for contact is imminent.

“you’re so stupid,” you mumble and when you realise the position you’re in, that your son is only next door, you pull away from bakugou katsuki.

bakugou’s left standing where you left him as you scramble away, pulling your shoe back on and buckling it back up with a single hand. you adjust your skirt and you go back into mum mode. “he might ask for something sweet but don’t give it to him, i already gave him ice cream earlier. also ask him about quirk training at school, you’re so much more suited to helping him with that.”

bakugou crosses his arms across his chest. if you want to pretend there’s nothing between you both as you go and meet another man, then sure. he gives you a slow nod, “i will. enjoy your date, yn. though i’m not sure green goes with brown.”

you frown glancing down at your outfit. black cowl neck top, brown suede mini skirt, maroon kitten heels. green where?

“mama! you still here?” kenji appears walking back to you, this time the tv remote in his hand, “you didn’t say bye mama.”

“i was just about to!” you bend down to your sons height, ignoring bakugou’s gaze. “i’m gonna pick you up tomorrow morning, okay? ready for football tomorrow. don’t ask papa for any ice cream, i’ve already told him.”

kenji pouts before landing a big kiss on the top of your head just like where you and bakugou always kiss him. you laugh at the motion, landing a soft kiss on his cheek, “okay, kenj? see you!” you rise and your son begins to wave.

“bye mama!”

bakugou leads you to his front door and green, green, green, still shakes through you until you realise. your fucking green underwear. you spin round with a gasp, bakugou almost falling into you as you halt. stabilising himself with his hand on the wall right beside your head. kenji is still standing behind him, waiting for you to go.

you’re again so close to bakugou, chest to chest and with the realisation that you know what he meant, a smirk grows on his face. so fucking sexy.

“you’re a perv,” you whisper scolding him, finger pointed but it only makes bakugou pretend to bite it by clashing his teeth together.

“have a good night, yn,” he replies, walking forwards as you walk backwards out, “i mean it.”

“BYE MAMA!”

“bye kenj!” and then to bakugou, “i’m watching you.”

“fuckin’ love to hear that.”