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pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x journalist!reader
summary: he’s soft. earnest. 6’4 of midwestern guilt and golden retriever loyalty. and he looks at you like you invented the sun. you’re fine. everything’s fine. it’s just friends-with-benefits. you're not a thing. but clark? clark has always been there. warm, steady, maddeningly soft. indulging your commitment-phobic nonsense with quiet patience and those unfairly good dimples. until suddenly—he’s not. listen to the playlist here!
word count: 11.2k (jesus christ, i am so sorry)
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, they freak NASTY in this one, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!clark, sub!reader, brat/brat taming, oral (fem!receiving), marathon sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, shower sex, eye contact, mentions of bdsm and handcuffs, light marking kink, nipple play, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), then unprotected sex, rough sex, riding, mentions of sex toys, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, commitment issues, situationship survivor!clark, ungodly amounts of yearning and denial, angst, happy ending
It doesn’t start with sex.
It starts with Clark.
Which is to say: it starts with Metropolis’s biggest, most overgrown corn-fed boy scout, who gets flustered every time you swear, who says things like “gosh” and “what the hay” without a trace of irony, and who you once watched spend ten full minutes trying to politely decline a street hotdog but the vendor just “looked so hopeful.”
You met him on your third and a half day at the Daily Planet.
He spilled coffee on you. A full cup. Right down the front of your blazer. Frothy iced caramel latte catastrophe. He panicked immediately—rushed through an apology so fast you barely caught the words—then offered, in complete earnestness, to dry-clean your coat. Not send it to the dry cleaner. Do it himself. Like it was the gentlemanly thing to do. You just stared at him, dripping, blinking. “Are you okay?” you asked, because someone had to.
He nodded—too fast—then proceeded to trip over the recycling bin just trying to get you napkins.
You’ve been friends ever since.
It’s not the cleanest origin story.
But over time, somehow, Clark became your person.
Not in the “call-at-3-a.m.-while-sobbing” kind of way (that’s Jimmy), or the “bring-wine-and-insult-your-evil-ex” kind of way (also Jimmy).
But in a steadier, quieter way. You write your little articles; he helps edit them. You fight with your sources on the sidewalk; he bakes them apology muffins the day after to make sure they don't contact Perry. You cover Metropolis politics like it’s trench warfare, and he smiles across the bullpen at you like you’re doing God’s work even when you're calling the mayor a “power-drunk thumb in a trench coat and a receding hairline you can see from space.”
He’s your constant. Steady and reliable and always five degrees too soft for this world.
Which is exactly why it doesn’t make sense.
Why, one night, it all… shifts.
.
You’re soaked.
Not in the steamy, sexy way. Not even in the Charli-XCX-Spring-Breakers kind of soaked.
Just: wet. Unpleasantly. In that half-drenched, trench-foot, what-is-my-life kind of way.
The weather app lied again (seriously, Metropolis Weather has one job), and your jacket is now suctioned to your body like a bad ex. Your boots have crossed the line from “water-resistant” to a really bad “Swamp Thing cosplay,” and your tote—home to your press pass and a sad little Tupperware of soggy couscous—is dripping like it’s auditioning for a plumbing ad.
So when Clark offers his place—soft-voiced, ever-accommodating, all that big dumb golden retriever energy—you say yes.
Not because you’re weak. Please.
Because he lives closer.
Logistically. Geographically.
(Okay, maybe emotionally, too, but you’ll unpack that when your socks aren’t squelching like a really bad porno.)
So now you’re in his apartment. Standing in the entryway. Leaving a trail of water on his hardwood floors while he gently, gently hands you a towel and fiddles with the thermostat and says things like, “You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t change out of those clothes.”
And you, being the self-possessed adult that you are, snort and say, “Thank you, Mom.”
Clark blushes.
Actually blushes. Like a cartoon character. Like a man who has never, in his life, imagined someone undressing in his home, which is hilarious, given that you’ve seen the size of his arms.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… yeah. You’re soaked.”
His place smells like cinnamon and laundry detergent. There’s a candle burning on the kitchen counter—one of those $9.99 specials from Bath & Body Works. You imagine him in the store, earnestly reading the label on something called "Warm Vanilla Sugar" while the cashier tries to upsell him on a five-for-fifteen deal.
The image makes your lips curl. Your mascara's halfway down your cheekbones, your calves are cramping from the walk, and you should really, really, really just go take a hot shower and crash on his couch.
Instead, you look at him.
And he’s looking back.
Not like most men do—not the bar-stool inventory of what you are and aren’t. Not a scan. Not a question. More like a memory. Like he’s already filed you away in some quietly treasured part of his brain and he’s just taking the time to make sure the details are right. Like you are known.
You don’t think. You don’t make a plan. You just move.
Step forward. Grab the lapels of his flannel like it owes you money. Pull him down. Kiss him.
It’s not graceful. Not choreographed. You catch his chin at a weird angle, and your nose bumps into his, and the kiss lands too sharp, too fast. Like you’re trying to stun him. Like you’re trying to win a fight.
But then, he exhales.
And he melts. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just… fully.
Like this is the thing he’s been waiting on for months, and now that it’s finally happening, he’s scared to spook it. His hands hover for a beat, like he’s making sure it’s real, and then one comes to rest lightly on your waist—tentative, patient. The other curls around your jaw with all the softness of a man who has no business being this gentle.
You break the kiss first, of course.
Because you always break things first.
When you look at him, he's staring at you like you invented language. Like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they hover awkwardly at your sides, respectful, warm, and shaking just a little.
Which is when the panic crashes in.
He’s not supposed to look at you like that. Like you hung the stars. Like he knows you. Like he loves you.
Because if he does. If he really, truly does. Then eventually, he’ll stop.
They always stop.
People love you in the beginning. They love your bite, your snark, the way you know which part of a politician's background are most incriminating. They love the thrill of earning your attention. They love that you make them work for it. But eventually, the charm fades. The sharp edges cut a little too deep.
You forget to text back. You overshare. You undershare. You get tired. You get real.
And they get bored.
You’ve never wanted to risk that with Clark. He’s been yours—just yours, in the safe way—for too long.
You step back like the floor might collapse under you.
Put space. Just… anything between your body and the soft burn of his flannel. Try not to think about how fucking warm he was. “Shit—uh. You don’t have to say anything,” you blurt, voice too fast, too thin. “We can pretend it didn’t happen. Go back to normal. That’s fine.”
Clark’s brows knit, not in offense, just concern. He doesn’t look hurt. He looks… steady. Like he expected this part. “Are you sure?”
The way he asks it is soft. Unhurried. Like it’s not some ultimatum. Like it’s okay if you're not sure.
You open your mouth. Close it. Swallow.
“I just—” You press your fingers to your temple, like maybe that might just reorganize your entire internal filing system. “You know I don’t do relationships.”
“I know,” he says, without hesitation.
You study him—really study him—like you’re trying to find the catch. Some hint of disappointment or wounded ego. But it isn’t there.
He reaches up slowly and tucks a damp strand of hair behind your ear, his touch feather-light. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You blink. “Even if I’m the one who kissed you?”
Clark smiles, just barely. “Especially then.”
His hand lingers near your cheek, but he doesn’t push. He’s patient in that maddening, disarming way. Waiting, always, for you to meet him halfway.
“Whatever you want,” he says again, quiet. “I’m good with that.”
You stare at him. “You’re really not gonna argue?”
“Nope.”
“Not gonna psychoanalyze me? Tell me I’m avoidant or emotionally stunted or terrified of my own vulnerability?”
He huffs a small laugh. “Already did. Long time ago.”
Your lips twitch despite yourself. “And?”
He shrugs, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You’re complicated. But you care. A lot. More than you let people see.”
And damn it, you hate how much that lands. How much he lands. You hate that he’s always been able to see through you, gently, without ever demanding more than you could give. And you hate—more than anything, more than all of that—how badly you want to kiss him again.
So you do.
Maybe to prove a point. Maybe to blow it all up before it can settle. Maybe because you’re already in too deep and part of you is tired of pretending you’re not.
You didn’t plan for it to go further. You didn’t plan anything, really.
But your hands slide up into the open collar of his flannel, and he stumbles a little as you back him into the bookshelf. His glasses tilt when your fingers brush his temple, and you pull them off carefully, reverently, like they’re the only thing tethering you both to whatever was before.
His eyes are wide. His mouth already parted. And when he looks up at you like this—flushed, breathless, undone—you think, mine.
And it’s terrifying.
Because it means it’s real.
It happened.
God.
It happened.
.
You strip him out of that worn flannel with a kind of sick, obsessive care. Button by button, like you were unwrapping a gift, like you were unearthing something you’d been searching for in every bad date, every failed talking stage, every mediocre bar makeout that had ever left you cold.
His flannel hit the floor. He doesn't say a word.
Not until you settle into his lap, thighs on either side of his. Then—quietly, like he wasn’t sure if it was okay to want anything—he says, “You… you don’t have to be gentle. Just, just in case. So you know.”
But you are. Because he is.
Because even now, even with your mouth to his, your hands fisted in his curls, his hands stay light on your hips. Like he doesn't want to take more than you’d give. Like he's still giving you the option to leave.
He makes a sound when your hips tilted forward. Not a groan, not exactly. Something deeper. A noise from his chest, halfway between a gasp and a plea. You kiss more of it out of him, mouths clumsy and desperate, fingers scrabbling at the hem of his undershirt, and it feels like breathing.
His breath's caught between his teeth when you rip a condom wrapper in between yours, slotting it onto him with shaking, shaking hands and trying not think about how he's probably the biggest you've ever had.
Lord have mercy.
You ride him like your life depends on it.
You get a thigh cramp halfway through—let out an annoyed groan and tried to keep going—and he, sweet, precious idiot that he is, sits up and says your name like it hurt. Voice quivering like he wants to stop, wants to help, wants to make sure you're okay.
Absolutely no way in hell you wanted that to happen.
“Clark,” you hissed. “Chill. I'm okay, dude. I’m fine.”
“Okay,” he said, dazed, grinning. “Just—didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean. You’re, uh. You were very intense. Just now.”
“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the dick that's slowly rearranging my guts,” you mutter, and he laughs so hard his shoulders shook.
And worse—goddamn it, worse—he looks at you the whole time.
No games. No posing. Just Clark. Holding your hips with those hands—god, those hands, unfairly big and warm and steady—and looking up at you like he meant it.
You’d told him once, over shitty fries past midnight on the curb at McDonald's, that you didn’t trust men who made eye contact during sex. Called it performative. Manipulative.
“Like they’re trying to Jedi mind-trick you into thinking it’s love,” you’d scoffed, and he'd gone quiet in that way he does, not sulking, just thinking. But that he was filing it away.
So of course—of course—when you're bare above him, hair a mess, mascara still clinging to your cheekbones, all vulnerable and exposed and teetering over the edge because his dick was doing wonderful, amazing things to your insides and making you melt—
He looks up at you with that open, earnest face and asks, softly:
“Do you want me to close my eyes?”
You freeze. Like an absolute idiot. Like prey.
And you say no.
"No."
Never.
He nods. “Okay.”
Then he kissed the inside of your wrist—just because it was there—and you lost ten entire emotional minutes and your grip on reality, grinding down on him like your life depended on it.
You come so hard you forgot your name.
Forget what you were supposed to be protecting yourself from. Forget every lie you’ve ever told yourself about the depth of your feelings for him.
It was insane. Deranged.
(Perfect.)
Later, three orgasms later, you collapse over him in a ridiculous heap of limbs and half-dressed post-coital delirium, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest still heaving.
And he whispered something into your hair—something low and steady and not quite the word love, but so close it that it scraped through your head.
Then he hums.
You don’t recognize it at first—just the vibration under your cheek, the low murmur of a tune, warm and unassuming. You’re half-asleep, boneless, and not fully aware he's still inside of you, pulsing, your fingers curled around his neck.
But you listen.
“You humming Dolly right now?” you murmur, voice hoarse.
Clark hums a little louder. “‘Here You Come Again.’” Then, almost shy, “She’s good. What?”
You groan into his chest. “You absolute dork.”
“I like her,” he says, defensive. “She’s smart. You know she gave away, like, a million books to—wait, are you laughing?”
You are. Full-on giggling into his shoulder now. Giddy and too full and sore in all the best ways.
.
And you really don't mean to keep it going in the morning, let alone in the shower.
Truly.
You're just trying to get clean.
Wash off the evidence of the night before—sweat and come and a whole life’s worth of repressed emotional distress—but then, Clark steps in right behind you, warm and quiet and too gentle.
And suddenly it was over for you. Just absolutely fucking over.
He offers to join, sheepish and bashful, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t just had his face between your thighs just a few hours ago. “Just to save water,” he says. “'Cause of the environment… and all that.”
And sure, Clark. You absolute liar. The environment.
Except the second he steps in behind you—naked, dripping wet, glasses still off so he looked all boyish and wreckable—your resolve crumples like wet newspaper.
He reaches around you for the body wash and that was your downfall. Arm flexing around your waist, that goddamn baritone rumble in your ear as he asks, “This one okay?”
Like you're supposed to just—what? function when his voice was doing that thing? That was supposed to be okay?
But then his hands are on your hips—steady, reverent, huge—and you tilt your head back just enough to graze his jaw. He flinches. Or maybe you do. And before either of you could process it, your palm's flat against the tile and Clark was slowly pressing himself against your back.
“Okay?” he asks, voice a little too hoarse, a little too human.
You nod. “Yeah. Just—don’t be sweet about it.”
“But I'm always sweet about it,” he mumbles, and then he was, dragging a hand up your stomach, brushing your wet hair off your neck, mouthing at the base of your spine like he was making a wish.
He moves inside you slow.
Like he means it. Like he thinks he’d scare you off if he went too fast. And it was disgusting, really, how good it felt. How intimate all of this was.
Your knees nearly buckle. You have to brace yourself with both palms on the glass, forehead pressed against fogged-up safety plastic, biting down on your own goddamn fist to keep from crying out his name like something from a romance novel.
(You still did, eventually. He made sure of that when he pressed one large hand up against your stomach so you can feel him, really feel him, and another down your front, rubbing at your clit like it was a lifeline until you saw stars.)
When it was over—when your legs were jelly and your throat was raw and your spine was doing that post-orgasm melt thing—you turn to rinse the shampoo out of your hair, and he just… helped. Without you even having to say anything.
He lathers it for you, gentle and thorough, massaging your scalp. His cheeks are pink. His mouth is pink. You think about biting him. Maybe.
But instead, you let yourself lean into his chest while the water poured down over both of you, and you didn’t speak, because if you spoke, it would become too real.
So, you just let him wash your back.
He didn’t ask you to stay.
You didn’t ask if he wanted you to.
But when you wander out of the bedroom ten minutes later—half-wet, flushed, wearing his old Central Kansas A&M hoodie like it hadn’t just been folded neatly in a drawer—you find him in the kitchen, humming again.
Making pancakes.
“You want blueberries in yours?” he asks, like he didn’t have his dick in you in the shower ten minutes ago.
And you—traumatized, horny, emotionally compromised—you say, “Sure."
Then, because your brain has finally rebooted just enough to return to its default defense mechanism:
“Also, we need to talk.”
Clark pauses mid-pour, then turns around, spatula still in hand. “Okay,” he says, unbothered. His voice is calm, casual. Like you didn’t almost combust from having maybe, four—no, five or six orgasms in his arms over the past twelve hours.
You cross your arms over your chest, over his sweatshirt. “Last night—and this morning was great. I mean, objectively. A solid eight out of ten. No complaints.”
He looks amused. “Only eight?”
“I’m leaving room for improvement,” you say, defensive. “But I just want to be clear again that this isn’t… this isn’t a thing.”
Clark nods slowly. “Okay.”
You squint at him. “You’re not going to ask what I mean by that?”
“Well,” he says, lips twitching, “I—uh, I figured I’d let you finish your prepared statement first.”
You gape at him. “I knew I was giving Perry's press conference energy.”
“You’re even holding your coffee like a mic.”
You glance down. You are. Damn it.
He walks over, sets your pancake on the table next to you, and then settles into the armchair across from the couch. His legs are way too long. He has to fold them a little awkwardly, which should be goofy, but somehow only makes him look more like someone who could carry you up a mountain and apologize for the inconvenience while doing it.
You sip your coffee. Clear your throat. “So. Ground rules.”
He raises his brows. “Rules?”
“Yes. Rules. Guidelines. Frameworks for how this… goes.”
Clark tilts his head. “You mean for… us?”
“No, for NATO,” you deadpan. “Yes, us.”
He tries to cover a laugh with a sip of his own mug, but you see the dimple twitch. Smug bastard.
You forge ahead. “Okay. Rule one: this is casual. Very casual. Like… like ‘you can sleep with other people’ casual.”
Clark nods, slow. Thoughtful. “Do you want to sleep with other people?”
“No,” you admit. Then scowl. “But I want to have the option.”
“Right,” he says, nodding. “The illusion of freedom.”
“Exactly. Wait—"
He’s smiling at you now. Soft and fond and dangerously amused.
You plow on. “Whatever. Rule two: no romantic stuff. No dates. No—like—Valentine’s Day cards or surprise cupcakes or, God forbid, foot rubs.”
“You’re really against foot rubs?”
“I just think they set a tone.”
Clark looks at his plate. “What if I just make you pancakes sometimes?”
You narrow your eyes. “Pancakes are a gray area. I'm only allowing it this time."
“Noted.”
You tuck your feet under you. “Rule three: no falling in love.”
He looks up.
There’s a pause. A beat of silence so thick it fills the whole room.
You add, quickly, “I know that sounds dramatic, but I’ve seen what love does to people, and it’s terrifying. They lose brain cells. They post Instagram captions like ‘my forever’ with sparkly emojis. They start making weird couple TikToks where they throw cheese slices at each other’s heads. I can’t be part of that kind of ecosystem. I'm lactose intolerant."
Clark’s smiling again. Not in the ha ha you’re sooooo funny way. In the I think you’re the best thing to ever happen to me way, which is very much against the rules.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” you demand.
“I am,” he says, clearly lying. “You’re very intimidating.”
You roll your eyes and gesture wildly. “I’m just saying! I don’t want this to become something that implodes because I—God, because I can’t remember your favorite pizza topping one day and suddenly we’re—we're not friends anymore and splitting custody of houseplants and fucking Cat is stuck writing a gossip column about it.”
Clark chuckles. A pause. “well, for the record? My favorite pizza topping is mushrooms.”
You wrinkle your nose. “That’s a red flag.”
“You’re the one writing up a treaty before brunch.”
“Exactly,” you say, triumphant. “See? We’re incompatible.”
Clark leans forward slightly.
The sunlight from the window cuts across his glasses, but you can still see his eyes, warm and impossibly blue, locked on yours like you’re the only person in Metropolis who matters. “I think you’re scared,” he says gently. “Which is okay. I just want you to know… I’m not going anywhere. Rules or not.”
And that—
God. That should not make your eyes burn the way it does.
You shake your head, fast. “Don’t say stuff like that. It’s dangerous. You’ll trick me into liking you more.”
“I’m just being honest.”
“Well, stop.”
He raises a brow. “What do I do if I want to kiss you?”
You freeze.
Your heart does a complicated backflip-kick into your ribs.
“...well, that's allowed,” you mutter.
He smiles again, dimple sinking deep.
And then, because he’s a menace with zero self-preservation, he leans in.
You meet him halfway.
And it’s soft this time. Sweeter. Slower. No rain, no adrenaline, just his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers twisted in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
.
It's been months now of your little arrangement. And you're already destroyed by the time he even speaks.
Not because he’s touched you yet. Not really. He’s just there, mouth warm against the inside of your thigh, hands stroking the back of your knees like you’re something delicate. Something precious.
Which is so fucked. You are not precious.
You told him that that, breathless and still shirtless and sitting on his kitchen counter at midnight while he gently fed you the leftover peach cobbler Martha left for the two of you straight from the fridge.
He just nodded. Wiped away the crumb left on the edge of your lip. Said, “Okay.”
And then he kissed the inside of your wrist again and said, “You’re still allowed to want things, you know.”
Which is—god, so not fair.
Now he’s between your legs, kissing a line up your thigh like he’s praying. He’s been taking his time. Like the goal isn’t to get you off, but to study you. Like he’s memorizing the exact way your breath catches and the little twitch of your fingers every time he licks just close enough to your center, but not quite.
You’re panting. Whimpering. Biting your lip so hard you’re pretty sure you taste blood.
And he’s grinning. Not cocky—just happy. Which is so much, so much worse.
“You’re staring at me again,” you breathe.
Clark hums, kissing just below your hip. “I just like looking at you.”
“That’s crazy,” you whisper. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.” He kisses your navel. “Do you want me to stop?”
You whine. You actually whine. You feel like you've just set feminism back by centuries. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your skin. And then, because he’s the devil in a button-up: “You know, the way you objectify me is honestly very inappropriate. I’m not just a—just a piece of meat, you know.”
You bark out a laugh, head tipping back against the pillow. “So bad news, you're actually a mountain of meat, man.”
“See? Objectified.” He presses a kiss just below your ribs. “Reduced to my—”kiss“—ridiculous shoulders—”kiss“—and tragic dimples—”kiss“—and stupidly proportionate thighs—”
“I didn’t say anything about your thighs—”
“Oh, but I think you were thinking it.”
You giggle, delirious. Drunk on this man. “God, shut up and fuck me.”
Clark goes still.
Not awkwardly—this isn’t early-days Clark, the one who used to stammer when you wore red lipstick when you came over and knocked over his own coffee trying to offer you a napkin.
This Clark—the one under you now, hands broad and firm against your thighs, spine pressed into the worn couch like it’s the only thing keeping him from rising into the sky—this Clark is different.
He’s grown into himself. Into this. Into you.
Not cocky, not exactly. But assured in a way that makes your stomach clench and your mouth go dry. You’ve seen it happen slowly. Like the sunrise—you didn’t notice until the whole room was full of it.
This Clark doesn't flinch when you flirt, doesn’t panic when your mouth goes sharp or your eyes go guarded. He just… waits. He sees it all. Lets you burn yourself out. And then lays a hand on your cheek like you’re made of something precious.
Still, he doesn’t move.
And that’s what sets you off.
You squirm, shifting your weight in his lap, irritated now. “What?”
He looks up at you, his jaw tight, hands still splayed over your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to hold on or let go. There’s something in his eyes, sharp, patient, impossibly tender, and it makes your chest ache in a way you refuse to name.
“You really want that?” he asks, voice low.
You roll your eyes. “You think I climbed onto your face to do taxes?”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Your stomach flips. You hate when he does this. Gets all serious and calm and measured while you’re flailing, clearly two seconds away from combusting. You cross your arms over your chest—petulant, defensive. “Clark.”
“You say stuff like that,” he murmurs, one hand slowly dragging up the back of your thigh, “but then you pull back like I’ve asked for your soul.”
You glare at him. “I’m not pulling back.”
He lifts a brow. “You haven’t even kissed me yet.”
You scowl. “I was about to, but you’re being annoying.”
His smile is crooked, lazy, maddening. “Yeah? Gonna punish me for it?”
Your heart skips. You hate that you love it when he talks like that. You hate that he’s right—that you’re the one drawing lines in the sand and then pretending you don’t care when he steps over them.
You lean down, hover over his mouth. “I swear to god, if you don’t do something soon, I’m walking out that door.”
He catches your jaw in one hand, gentle but firm. “You won’t.”
“Watch me.”
His thumb drags over your bottom lip. Lets it pop out just a bit, so you can feel the way the wetness drips over your chin. “You always say that. You never do.”
Your breath stutters. Your spine goes stiff. You hate how much he knows you. You hate that he’s always so calm about it, so damn tender, even when he’s calling you out.
“I’m not just a warm body, you know,” he says after a beat, the faintest furrow between his brows. “If that’s what you wanted, you should’ve picked someone who doesn’t look at you like I do.”
You blink. “And how is that?”
Clark tilts his head, eyes never leaving yours. “Like I actually see you.”
You hate him for that. A little.
But you kiss him anyway.
Hard. Sharp. Like a warning.
And then he flips you—effortless, smooth, like it doesn’t take more than a breath. One of his hands pins your wrists above your head. The other trails slow up the curve of your thigh. His mouth finds your neck, and you gasp—not in surprise, but because it’s too much. He’s too much.
“You keep asking me to take you apart,” he murmurs against your skin, “but you never let me show you what it actually means.”
“Oh my god,” you groan, shivering under him. “You are so fucking—”
“What?” he interrupts, dragging his mouth back up to yours. “Soft? Serious? A buzzkill?”
You don’t respond. You’re too busy squirming, too busy arching into him, because he’s right. Again.
“Too bad,” he murmurs, smiling like a secret. “You don’t get to run the show tonight.”
And you're already clawing at his back by the time he finally pushes in. And god, fuck, it’s—
He’s so much. Too much. Even now, even after months of attempting to get used to him, after a minimum of one hour of foreplay every time, hours spent fingering you open and devouring you whole and it still makes your spine tingle in the best way possible. The push and pull of it every time, the struggle, the way he looks at you so, so proudly when he's bottomed out and your smiling from under him like you've just won the lottery.
You make a sound—something small, strangled, "Clark."—and he doesn’t shush you this time.
He smiles.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Now we’re being honest.”
.
Then one day, Clark cancels a lunch.
That’s it. That’s all. Not the end of the world.
He texts you a sweet apology. Too many words, as always, classic Clark, something about a lead on some money laundering story and “I’ll bring dinner to make up for it, promise, anything you want, even that overpriced pasta from the place with the weird chairs.” He adds three emojis. Two are completely nonsensical (a chicken and a rain cloud?). One is a little heart. You stare at it longer than you should.
You text back something breezy. Casual. “You’re the one missing out on my lunchtime TedTalk about corrupt city councilmen and their tragic toupees.”
He doesn’t respond until hours later. Just a thumbs-up emoji.
You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.
.
Then it happens again.
This time, you're already standing outside the Planet, coffee lukewarm, watching a construction crew down the block try to maneuver scaffolding around a new billboard. It’s another Superman PSA—third this month. Something about disaster preparedness and blood drives. His cape’s caught mid-whip, expression noble and inhumanly calm. You roll your eyes, but your stomach tugs a little. Something about the stillness in his posture—it looks almost familiar.
Your phone rings.
Clark.
You answer with a smirk, trying to make it light. “Should I be worried you’ve joined a pyramid scheme? Please tell me you’re not selling supplements.”
There’s a pause, then his voice, warm but ragged around the edges: “I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can I explain later?”
You make some offhand joke about mafia debt collectors and say, “No worries,” even as your stomach twists.
He sounds tired. Tired in a way Clark never really gets. You’re the one who burns out, who rants and paces and flirts with deadline-induced breakdowns. He’s the one who shows up with coffee and an extra pen. Always.
But now his voice has this roughness to it. Frayed edges. Like he’s trying not to breathe too hard into the receiver. Like he just ran here. Or ran away from somewhere.
“Are you okay?” you ask, before you can stop yourself.
Another pause. “Yeah,” he says, and he softens, like he always does when he hears your voice. “I will be.”
.
By week three, he’s dodging plans like it’s his new hobby. You’re not hurt, obviously. You’re busy too. You have other friends. You go to bars. You flirt with bartenders you’ll never text back. You have a whole life outside of this whole thing with Clark.
It’s not a relationship. It’s just a thing. A nice, dependable, sometimes pantsless thing.
That’s all.
But still, there’s this night.
You’re at your apartment. There’s an old movie playing, something black and white and miserable, and Clark was supposed to be here an hour ago.
You’d ordered his favorite takeout. You’d even found that dumb craft soda he likes, the one that tastes vaguely like melted gummy worms. You told yourself you just wanted someone to share the noodles with.
He doesn’t show.
No call. No text.
You sit through the entire movie. Alone.
And when your phone finally buzzes—close to midnight, just his name and a short, “I’m so sorry. Can we talk soon?”— you stare at it for a long moment.
Then you flip your phone over, face-down.
And in the dark, you think, Shit. This is how it starts. The distance. The shift. The slow pulling away.
You’ve done it to people before.
You just never thought you’d be on the receiving end.
Not from him.
Not from Clark.
.
Around 11:30, you open Twitter out of boredom. You don’t cry. That would imply something was wrong. That you were hurt. You’re not. Obviously.
You’re just a little annoyed.
And maybe, just mayb, you’re thinking about how Clark used to be your safest person. Your sure thing. Your just-text-me, just-call-me, just-walk-right-in-without-knocking guy.
And now he’s something else. Something slippery. Something you have to squint at sideways to understand.
Your thumb scrolls through the usual mess. Politicians being embarrassing, memes you’re already tired of, some half-hearted discourse about whether the Metropolis skyline is over-designed or “delightfully optimistic.”
Then: a video clip.
No sound. Just shaky phone footage.
A blur of red and blue moving fast—streaking through the air over Hobbs Bay, pulling someone from a collapsed scaffolding, leaving behind a wake of stunned bystanders and bent steel.
You pause. Watch it again. Retweets piling up.
BREAKING: Superman saves construction worker after scaffolding collapse.
You stare at it for a second longer than you mean to, then snort under your breath.
Must be nice, you think. Some people get rescued. Some other unlucky fuckers just get ghosted.
.
The message comes on a Thursday. One of those weirdly warm spring evenings when Metropolis smells like asphalt and deli grease and the last ten years of your bad decisions.
Hey. You free tonight?
You stare at it for a moment too long. Thumb hovering.
Then:
yeah. yours?
A pause.
If you want.
God, he’s infuriating. Polite even now. Careful with you, like you’re made of something breakable. Like you haven’t already cracked half a dozen times this month alone.
Still, you go.
.
It’s not tense at first. It’s easy. Familiar.
Clark opens the door wearing one of those threadbare t-shirts that should be illegal, sleeves barely containing his biceps, neckline just a little too stretched from use. His hair’s damp. There’s flour on his cheek.
“You baked?” you ask, stepping past him before he can do that thing where he tries to gauge your mood like a barometer.
He shrugs. “Felt like it.”
There’s banana bread cooling on the counter. Two plates. One knife. He’s already sliced yours and left the end piece—your favorite—on the left, like always.
You want to be mad. Or suspicious. Or anything that would make this easier to navigate. But it’s hard to keep your footing when he’s being like this. Soft. Normal. Like he didn’t flake three times last month. Like you hadn’t spent the last few nights half-dressed and overthinking on your bathroom floor
But them again, you could never really resist him for that long.
So maybe it’s no surprise that your dress ends up pooled around your ankles. The lamp’s still on. Your mouths are moving like they’ve done this a hundred times—because you have, but it's not enough, will never be enough—and you’re both pretending it’s still casual. Still nothing.
Except it doesn’t feel like nothing.
And then Clark pulls back.
Not sharply. Not like he’s been burned. More like he just remembered something, which, again, not unusual. You’ve seen that look before. That oh shit look.
But tonight, he doesn’t immediately jump up.
He doesn’t mutter something about needing to check in with Perry or help Lois edit her headline.
He just… stares at you.
And not in the usual way, not with those soft, soft eyes like you’re something he stumbled across in a field and decided to treasure. He looks—serious. Scared, even. His hand is still on your hip, but his other is twitching slightly at his side like it doesn’t know what to do with itself.
“We need to talk,” he says.
You still have one shoe on. You don’t even remember kicking the other off.
You blink at him. “I—what?”
He licks his lips. His glasses are smudged. He doesn’t take them off.
“Something’s been—there’s something that I need to tell you,” he says, slower now, like he’s rehearsing this in real time and trying not to panic.
And that—that is when your stomach drops.
Because you know this script. You’ve seen this scene. The music swells, the camera pans in, the guy who smells like safety and Sunday mornings says he “needs to talk,” and then boom. Heartbreak, cut to black, roll credits.
You hold up a hand before he can say anything else. “Wait. Just… don’t. Yet.”
Clark pauses. He blinks at you.
“Look,” you say, backing up a step, scanning the room like you’re looking for your dignity. “If this is about how I’ve been kind of, I don’t know, evasive or inconsistent or, like, deeply emotionally unavailable, I just want to say — I know. Okay? You don’t have to do this so gently.”
His face twists. “What?”
“You’re trying to break things off,” you continue, steamrolling him, your voice way too steady for the freefall happening inside your chest. “And I get it. I do. You’ve been pulling away for weeks, you disappear all the time, you don’t sleep anymore, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck most days, which I assumed was just bad reporting hours, but who knows, maybe it’s metaphorical.”
Clark tries again. “I’m not—”
“It’s fine,” you say, voice louder now. “It’s fine if you met someone. You don’t have to pretend it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t—”
“You’re allowed to outgrow this. Me. Whatever this is.”
Your dress is still on the floor, and you suddenly want it back on like it’s armor. You crouch to grab it, clumsy with urgency, your hands all wrong.
“I should’ve seen it coming. You were too good to last. Guys like you don’t stick around for girls like me.”
“Hey,” he says sharply, stepping forward, but you back away before he can reach you.
“Don’t,” you say, holding your dress to your chest like a shield. “Don’t be nice to me about it.”
Clark runs both hands through his hair. He looks like he’s short-circuiting. “You’re not even letting me—I’m not trying to end this with you.”
You stare at him, lips parted.
He’s breathing hard now. His glasses are askew. His shirt’s wrinkled, and his jaw is clenched like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“I was going to tell you something,” he says, voice raw. “Something real. Something I’ve never told anyone who didn’t already know.”
You freeze.
Because that doesn’t sound like cheating.
That sounds like confession.
“What,” you whisper, suddenly breathless. “Like a dark secret? You have a kid? You’re actually married? Are you part of a mafia? Are you—Oh my God. Are you a stripper?”
“What?” he blurts, completely thrown.
“I don’t know, Clark!” your voice spikes, hands flying up. “What the hell could you possibly say right now that starts with ‘we need to talk’ and isn’t a relationship guillotine?”
His eyes flick to the window. Just for a second. A glance, like instinct. And then right back to you.
And for the first time, you see it.
The quiet panic. The way his entire body is buzzing like a live wire under skin.
Like he’s not scared of you. He’s scared for you.
But it’s too late. You’ve already built the wall and bricked yourself in.
You grab your dress, yanking it on with the dignity of a raccoon being evicted from a trash can. Somewhere behind you, Clark says your name again, gentle, like a bruise he’s afraid to touch. You ignore it.
Instead, you just start collecting your things like a squirrel in crisis.
Because—and this is humiliating—you’ve essentially moved into his place over the last year in the slowest, most passive-aggressive way possible. Not officially. Not “hey, should we get you some keys?” But enough that the signs are there.
Enough that you now have to do this, which is to say the break-up equivalent of packing a go-bag in the middle of a fire drill.
You grab the mug with the faded “Central City Gazette Student Press 2013” logo you refuse to drink out of at home because it’s chipped, but which you do drink out of here, because Clark always makes tea the right way — hot, strong, too much honey. You grab the copy of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow you stole from his shelf three months ago and meant to pretend was yours all along. The sweatshirt he “forgot” you left here, that you “forgot” he noticed you wore to bed six times in a row.
You jam it all into your work tote like it’s a goddamn body bag.
Then there are the smaller things. The stupid things.
The half-used notepad from a city council meeting where someone tried to blame vigilante-induced infrastructure damage on solar panels. The disposable camera from that one weekend in Smallville — the one you never developed because the idea of seeing his parents smile at you felt too dangerous, too much like you might belong there.
And then you eye the drawer next to his bed. Your drawer, to get that clear, which was never explicitly claimed but which somehow holds one (1) pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, two (2) half-empty bottles of lube, and three (3) protein bars, one of which is probably from last fiscal year. You shove it all into your bag, zipper groaning like a sad, sad accordion.
Clark’s still standing near the window, looking bewildered. Like he walked into the scene five minutes late and can’t tell who started the fire.
“Wait—are you leaving? You don’t have to—just—can we talk? Please?”
You don’t look at him.
Instead, you gesture vaguely at your bag. “This is just me doing a quick inventory of my terrible judgment. Don’t mind me.”
“Can you stop for two seconds and just let me—”
“Clark,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter than you meant it to. “It’s okay.”
It isn’t. But you’re trying to win the emotional Olympics in the “cool and detached” category, and you’re not about to blow it with something as devastating as eye contact.
You sling the bag over your shoulder and pause by the door.
You consider saying something devastating and poetic. Something from Hamlet, maybe. You’ve always liked the line about cutting love out with a knife and it still bleeding. But instead, you give him a big, fake smile and an inexplicable hand up, like a contestant leaving Rupaul's Drag Race in disgrace.
“No harm, no foul,” you say. “Tell whoever you're seeing that I say hi.”
And then you leave.
.
You are, in every measurable way, unwell.
You don’t call it a breakup.
That would imply there was something official to break. That you were ever really together. That there was something solid under your feet to begin with, instead of months of teasing the edge, hovering over the line like two people too chicken to admit they’d already crossed it.
So, no. Not a breakup.
Just—a recalibration. A pause. A hot minute.
You say this to Jimmy, who narrows his eyes and says, “You’re holding a spoon like a murder weapon right now, so I’m gonna circle back on the ‘hot’ part of that minute.”
You even say it to the woman at the corner bodega—the one who always gave Clark an extra packet of honey for his tea and once slipped you a protein bar when you looked particularly anemic on a deadline.
She glances up from restocking the gum and says, “He’s okay? The tall guy? With the glasses and the very... polite shoulders?”
You blink. “Sorry, what?”
“He always said thank you. For the bag. Like, sincerely.” She squints at you. “You were good together.”
You make a sound of vague agreement and exit before she asks if you want your usual. (You do. But the idea of holding a wrap in your hands right now makes your stomach lurch.)
You take your PTO. Two weeks. You don’t tell anyone where you’re going, mostly because you’re not going anywhere. You lie in bed. You eat cereal out of a mug. You watch a three-hour documentary about the collapse of a bridge in Gotham and cry when a random city engineer says, “We tried our best, but it wasn’t enough.”
You don't let yourself think about that… that stupid drawer by Clark’s bed.
Or the banana bread.
Because there is banana bread.
It shows up on your doorstep the morning of Day Three, wrapped in wax paper and still warm. No note. Just a faint imprint where a palm must’ve rested on the foil, like he wasn’t sure if he should knock. You don’t bring it inside right away.
You stare at it. Then the door. Then back at the bread like it might explode.
Eventually, you take it in. Set it on the counter. Eat half of it standing over the sink with your fingers, because you don’t trust yourself to not drop it.
He texts you the next day. Just your name. Then a minute later: Just wanted to check in. Hope you’re doing okay.
You stare at the dots blinking at the bottom of the screen until they disappear.
You don’t answer.
He calls a few times, a few days later. Your phone lights up with his name, and you let it ring out. Not because you’re angry—okay, maybe you are, a little—but because you know the sound of his voice will wreck you. Because if he says your name in that soft, patient, Clark way, you’ll crack like a fucking fault line.
He doesn't leave a voicemai any of the times l. Just hangs up.
(You spend the rest of the night clutching a throw pillow to your stomach like it’s a life raft.)
You tell yourself this is temporary. You’ll get it together tomorrow.
And then tomorrow happens.
And then the next day.
And then—on the seventh day, like Jesus, you rise.
Kind of.
You pull on the ugliest hoodie you own, some too-large sweatpants with a questionable stain, and a pair of knockoff Crocs. Your hair is doing something that technically defies gravity, and you haven’t worn deodorant since Tuesday. Your soul is gone. Your standards are lower. All that remains is one singular thought:
Hotdog.
.
Which is how you find yourself under the flickering fluorescent lights of a 7/11 at 1:42 a.m., perched on the curb out front like a feral raccoon, holding a lukewarm hotdog in one hand and a Red Bull in the other, actively disassociating while Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You plays through a tinny outdoor speaker with all the emotional resonance of a dying Roomba.
You stare off into the distance.
Which is, of course, exactly when Clark walks up.
You see him in your periphery first. Hear the crunch of gravel, the telltale weight of his sneakers.
“No,” you say, out loud. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Clark stops short. “Hi,” he says, voice soft. A little nervous.
You hold up the hotdog like a loaded gun. “Turn around.”
“I—”
“I swear to god, Clark.” You don’t even look at him. “I am mentally and spiritually clinging to life by the barest thread, and if you say something kind to me right now, I will vomit on the pavement.”
He nods. Raises both hands. “Okay. Not saying anything.”
You stare at him. His flannel is wrinkled. His hair’s sticking up at the back. There’s a scuff on his glasses like he’s been rubbing at them all day.
Goddammit. He looks like home.
You turn your burning eyes back to the pavement and try to focus on your dinner. Try to remember how this whole dignity thing works.
“Why are you here,” you say finally, flat.
He swallows. “Because I needed to see you. Because I’ve been calling, and—”
“Right,” you cut in. “The calls. That I didn’t answer. On purpose.”
“I know.”
“And you took that as a challenge?”
Clark exhales slowly. He takes a tentative step closer.
“I’ve tried everything else,” he says.
You roll your eyes. “Maybe that’s because you’re not supposed to fix this. Maybe this is just what it is now.”
“That’s not what I want.”
You shrug. “And? Sometimes we don’t get what we want. That’s life. Welcome.”
He’s quiet. Long enough that you glance sideways and catch him staring at you with a look you can’t name. Doesn’t defend himself. Just stands there, quiet, while a beat-up minivan idles past the edge of the lot and the Whitney Houston outro fades into static. And you’re just about to tell him to cut it out—whatever this whole tortured-eyes, kicked-puppy thing is—when he steps forward.
One arm wraps around your waist.
And then—
You are no longer on the ground.
You shriek like a B-movie scream queen, clutching your 7/11 hotdog in its sad foil wrapper like it might save your life. “WHAT THE FUCK,” you yell. “WHAT—ARE YOU KIDDING ME—WHAT IS HAPPENING.”
“I’m sorry!” Clark yells over the wind.
“ARE YOU—IS THIS YOU?! ARE YOU—”
“Yeah!” he shouts. “Hi! Surprise!”
“SUPERMAN?!”
“…Yes!” he calls back, cringing midair.
“YOU’RE SUPERMAN?!”
Clark doesn’t answer that. Just… grimaces. Flying sideways. His arm tightening around your waist like he’s half-expecting you to elbow him in the ribs and wriggle free.
You might, honestly. As soon as your brain catches up. You’re only just vaguely aware of your Croc flying off somewhere over a used car dealership.
“My toothbrush is still at your apartment!” you shriek.
“I know!”
“I HAVE A TOOTHBRUSH AT SUPERMAN’S APARTMENT!”
“I know! That’s why I—listen, I panicked! You weren’t picking up! You blocked me on like, four platforms—”
“I BLOCKED YOU BECAUSE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GHOSTING ME FOR ANOTHER GIRL, NOT MOONLIGHTING AS A NATIONAL TREASURE.”
The wind roars past your ears. Your teeth are chattering. You’re barely holding onto the last few shreds of coherence. And Clark—no, Superman, apparently—he’s not even breaking a sweat.
“You couldn’t have called?” you snap.
“I did!”
“WITH WHAT, MORSE CODE?”
“I showed up at your apartment!”
“With a cape, Kent?!”
“No! No, the cape’s new—look, I didn’t know what else to do. You wouldn’t talk to me. Jimmy said you took PTO and haven’t left your apartment in four days and I just—I needed you to see me. To listen.”
You make an inhuman noise, somewhere between a wail and a curse. “So your solution was to airlift me like a stolen asset out of a CIA bunker?!”
“I checked to make sure no one was looking!”
“YOU TOOK ME HOSTAGE.”
“I swept the parking lot, I swear! The cameras at 7/11 are fake, and there was one guy but he was busy dropping a Big Gulp.”
You blink at him. Wind in your eyes. A foot still bare. There’s an onion from your hotdog stuck to your shirt. Your heart does a slow, brutal somersault.
“…Okay,” you breathe. “Okay, so this is real.”
“It’s real,” he says.
“Like, capital-R Real.”
“Yeah.”
You shake your head once, sharp. “Jesus Christ.”
And then something in you quiets. Something that’s been vibrating with panic for days—for weeks—sputters out like the end of a bad engine. You’re too tired to scream again. You’re too wrung-out to cry.
So you just say, quietly: “I'm sorry. For not listening. Or giving you the time to explain. But, what the fuck, dude.”
Clark swallows. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away. He nods—once.
“I didn’t want to lie to you,” he says again, quieter now. “I hated it. Every second of it.”
His breath fogs slightly in the night air. He still won’t quite meet your eyes.
“I thought I could keep it separate. You and… that part of me. I thought if I just kept my head down and made you pancakes and let you call me out when I forgot to text back, it’d be enough.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still wind-tossed from flight. “But then it wasn’t. Because I started… I don’t know, noticing stuff. Like the way you always get a little mean when you’re scared. Or how you never remember to lock your front door but you’ll glare at me for refusing to jaywalk. And every time I had to run off and I saw the look on your face—I wanted to tell you. I almost told you, like, like, forty darn times.”
His voice cracks a little. He’s still not looking at you.
“I kept thinking, if I say it out loud, you’ll leave. Or worse—you’ll stay, but only because you think you owe me something. Because I have the suit. Because I can lift a building. But I don’t want you to be impressed by me. I just want you to look at me the way you used to. Like I’m just… Clark.”
He laughs, sudden and shaky. “God, I sound insane.”
You say nothing. You’re not breathing very well.
And then, softly, finally, like he’s pushing it out before he loses the nerve: “I love you. Not in a heroic, save-the-day kind of way. Just—I love you. I think I’ve been in love with you since you made me help you tail that councilman with the suspicious hair plugs. And you made fun of me the whole time, but you still brought snacks.”
He swallows. “I don’t need anything from you. I just wanted you to know.”
The wind whips gently around you both now, slower, softer. Like the world has dialed down to listen in.
Clark hovers easily in place, arms strong around you, careful and warm, like he’s afraid you’ll wriggle free again and drop straight through the clouds.
He’s flushed. Nervous. He looks like he’s trying to prepare for every possible version of the moment after this. Every soft or horrible thing you might say. Every joke you might make to dodge the weight of it. Every silence.
You lean back a little to look at him.
And then, honestly, you just kiss him.
Because it’s easier than saying the whole thing. Easier than listing every moment that’s led to this, every reason you tried not to fall for him and did anyway.
The time he walked (not flew) across the city in the rain because you forgot your keys.
The fact that he never interrupts when you’re spiraling, just waits it out, steady and warm and right there.
The way he let you drag him into that adult store and joked around and made him blush with the pink handcuffs, and then he bought them for you anyway.
The banana bread.
“I love you too, you idiot.”
His whole face crumples. And then he laughs, messy and relieved and a little helpless, like he wasn’t expecting you to say it back. Like he wasn’t hoping.
“You do?”
You nod, eyes stinging. “Yeah. In every kind of way.”
And Clark—not Superman, Clark Kent, the world’s most ridiculous man, the guy you’ve known and kissed and run from and found again—leans in and kisses you silly again.
.
You’re still smiling when he stumbles through your front door with you in his arms.
Not gracefully. Not like some poised, soap-opera seduction —more like the two of you crash through the threshold like a couple of drunk fucking idiots who forgot how to use their limbs. You reach back and slap the door shut, barely catching the knob, breathless from altitude and adrenaline and everything that’s been boiling under your skin for months.
Clark kicks over your shoe rack by accident. It topples over with a loud bang and suddenly, all your shoes are on the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, half-choking on a grin, already pressing you to the wall. “I’ll—clean that up—later—”
You cut him off with your mouth. Sloppy, desperate. Fingers tangling in his curls, tugging just to feel him gasp against you. You can feel the way he hardens close to you, and you're really, really liking where this is going.
It’s not like you didn’t know he was strong.
You’ve seen his biceps. You’ve felt the hand at your back steady you when a cab came too close. You’ve watched him shoulder his way through panicked crowds, through chaos, through life, always quietly making space for you.
But this is different.
This is him holding your entire body like you weigh nothing. Like physics doesn't apply to you anymore. Like his hands were made to carry you and his mouth was made to ruin you.
“Clark,” you gasp, because you don’t know what else to say. Your hoodie’s already halfway up your torso. His hands are under it, up your ribs, one squeezing your thigh like he’s staking a claim and the other splayed wide across your spine. “You’re—fuck—”
“I know,” he pants, nosing down your throat, licking into the hollow like he’s starving for it. “I know, baby. You’re—God, you’re actually killing me.”
He lifts you—actually lifts you—like you’re nothing, just sweeps you up with one arm under your ass and carries you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of your jacket, your hotdog wrapper, and one of your slippers behind.
You claw at his shirt, frantic, trying to get it off. Buttons ping off somewhere near the kitchen island and you both flinch, then laugh again, dizzy with it.
He drops you on the bed and follows fast, crawling over you, shedding the remains of his flannel and undershirt like he’s being hunted for it.
"Fuck, fuck—take this off," and yank off your hoodie and he groans at the sight, like the skin of your chest is some sort of a revelation, like he hasn’t had it memorized since the first time he saw you in a tank top at work and forgot what day it was.
His mouth is everywhere. On your collarbone, your shoulder, between your breasts.
Hot and open and eager, tongue twisting ruthlessly around your nipples. He’s making sounds now, those broken, happy little gasps like he’s surprised every time you let him touch you again.
You’re squirming under him, soaked and breathless, tugging at the waistband of his pants like it might save your life.
“I am gonna ruin you,” you manage to say. "Baby, let me fucking ruin you."
Clark laughs again, the kind of laugh that goes straight to your core, deep and bright and boyish, and then he flips you effortlessly onto your stomach, pushing your thighs apart with his knee, dragging his mouth down your spine like he’s tracing poetry there.
“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, low and smug and reverent. “Get in line, pretty girl.”
He pushes into you with one smooth, slow thrust, so much of him, too much, your jaw goes slack, and he just stays there for a moment, his hand curled over yours, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder.
“I love you.”
Your breath stutters.
He doesn’t give you time to recover, emotionally or physically. Doesn’t let you laugh it off or throw up your usual wall of flippant sarcasm. He kisses your shoulder again, hips moving deeper, slower.
You twist beneath him, trying to turn over because as much as you love doggy, you can't bear to not look at him right now.
But his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades, grounding you. “Wait,” he murmurs, and you freeze. You’re still so full of him you can barely think. “Just let me—can I just—”
He grinds forward, pushing all eight inches of him inside, and you choke on a moan. You’ve never heard him like this. Not just desperate, not just lost in it — but open.
“I love you when you’re mean,” he pants, voice fraying around the edges. “I love you when you roll your eyes at me in meetings and mutter under your breath during interviews. I love you, God, you're so tight," another thrust. "—when you wear those socks with the tiny dogs on them and try to pretend you’re not soft.”
You turn your head, mouth parted, eyes wide. “Clark—”
He leans down, kisses your cheek, your temple, the place behind your ear that makes your thighs shake.
“I love you when you’re being impossible. When you steal my flannels. When you pretend you don’t care. When you kissed me for the first time and then gave me a whole spiel about it.”
“Stop—”
“I love you,” he says again, brokenly this time, like it’s being torn out of him. “I love you even when I’m scared you’ll leave. Even if this is all I get.”
You turn fully this time, eyes glassy, fingers curling around the back of his neck to drag him in.
And you kiss him.
Hard.
Hungry.
Grateful.
“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth. “I love you, you wonderful, wonderful man.”
Clark lets out a sound that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.
Then he flips you under him and fucks you like it’s a promise.
You say it again when you come the second time, breathless, high-pitched, hands clutching at his shoulders, and again when he follows with a low, shuddering groan, spilling into you like he’s got nowhere else he’d rather be.
.
The car smells like spearmint gum and way, way too much coffee. Clark’s got one hand on the wheel and the other laced through yours like it’s always been there. Which, lately, it has.
You’re about halfway to Smallville.
“So,” you say, tapping his knuckles with your thumb. “How many embarrassing baby photos am I being subjected to this time? Just give me a ballpark.”
Clark chuckles. His dimples show. “Oh, uh… probably all of them. Again."
You groan. “Even the corn maze one?”
“There are multiple corn maze ones,” he corrects gently. “There’s one where I’m dressed as a scarecrow.”
You stare at him.
He nods solemnly. “With face paint.”
“Oh my God,” you wheeze, turning toward the window. “I don’t know if I’m emotionally prepared for that.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, squeezing your hand. “Ma loves you. You could commit tax fraud in front of her and she’d ask if you wanted seconds.”
You snort. “That’s very comforting.”
He shrugs, smiling again. “It’s true. She already set up the guest room.”
You blink at him.
“…The guest room?”
A pause. Clark glances over. “Well, I didn’t want to assume we’d—uh—share a bed. With my parents in the house.”
You raise a brow. “Clark. We had sex in a supply closet at the Planet.”
“That was—okay, yes—but that was under different circumstances.”
“We are dating.”
“I know.”
You lean your head back against the seat, grinning. “You’re so weird.”
“You love it,” he mutters, cheeks pink.
You do.
God, you do. You love him.
It still sneaks up on you sometimes. The clarity of it. The quiet, persistent fact of Clark Kent: the man who once made you blueberry pancakes the morning after you nearly ran out on him, who kissed your wrist like it meant something, who never—not once—looked away. Who told you he was Superman in the middle of a 7/11 parking lot, like some fucking lunatic.
And now here you are. In his car. On the way to meet his parents.
Officially.
Not just as the girl who sleeps over sometimes. Not as the coworker who won’t stop pretending she doesn’t care. Not as the idiot who thought she could get away with loving him and not doing anything about it.
No. Now, you’re his girlfriend.
Which means this is real. Which means you’re going to their farmhouse in Smallville. And Martha is probably going to offer you pie. And Jonathan is probably going to show you Clark’s fifth grade spelling bee trophy like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Which should terrify you.
(And maybe it does, a little.)
But mostly—mostly it feels like the best thing you’ve ever said yes to.
Clark clears his throat. “Hey.”
You turn.
He’s watching you with that expression again. That soft, unguarded, ruined look like he still can’t believe you’re real. It’s so sincere it nearly undoes you.
“I’m really glad you’re coming,” he says. Quietly.
You look at him. You squeeze his hand back.
“Me too, Michigan.”
His ears go a little red. “Don’t call me that.”
“Oh? I thought you liked when I objectify you by state.”
“I like it slightly less when it happens in front of a rest stop attendant while you’re holding beef jerky and winking at me. And when it's the wrong state."
You smirk. “Not my fault you were born with that jawline and a humiliation kink.”
Clark coughs through a laugh. “God help me.”
He reaches across the console, dragging his thumb lightly over the inside of your wrist. The same spot he kissed that night. The one you think might still hum a little under your skin.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, smile tucked into your cheek.
“Wake me when we’re ten minutes out?”
“You sure?” he murmurs, already lowering the volume on the radio.
“Mhm.” You close your eyes. “I gotta mentally prepare myself for the scarecrow photos.”
You feel the press of his lips against your knuckles. Gentle. Familiar.
“You’re gonna be fine,” he says. “They love you, you know that. I do too."
"I hope we meet again" - prince charming spencer reid x princess reader
a/n: i’ve never even seen this episode. i have no idea what the context to prince charming reid is i just took the idea and ran with it. this is like a criminal minds-cinderella-romeo and juliet-my own mind clusterfuck of a fic, so read at your own risk. also i know exactly jack shit about being of royal blood so don’t come for me this is just what i imagine. this has been collecting dust in my drafts for like 6 months i just needed to post something 🙏
this fic includes: forbidden love (basically a romeo and juliet situation), stupid royal marriage rules aka you’re supposed to be married off, love at first sight, spencer being taller than you, a little angst tbh, moving super fast
The grand ball is a night that every civilian in your kingdom looks forward to.
Once a year, in the middle of spring, every loyal citizen your family rules over gathers in the grandiose ballroom of your castle to dance, drink, converse, and for a lucky few, find love. There have been many accounts in the past of townsfolk finding their one true love at one of your family's balls.
Not you, however.
The dating custom for princesses of your kingdom, dating back to when it was first established, is that the king chooses a prince for the princess to marry, and that was that. The princess, unfortunately, has next to no say in the matter. The princess can not date, nor flirt, nor indulge any of her romantic fantasies in order to maintain the crown’s image.
But this didn’t stop you from wanting to.
These urges only worsened when, last year, you laid eyes on the prince of the rival kingdom.
At the prior year’s ball, you had resigned from dancing for the night after becoming frustrated with the constricting rules stating that nothing romantic would come of socializing, and sat yourself on your throne at the head of the room.
And then, when he moved under a patch of candlelight drifting from the ceiling, you saw him. Prince Reid.
You knew who he was after just a glance. You knew everyone in your kingdom, and he surely wasn’t a face you recognized. His polished appearance told you he wasn’t just a traveler, but of the royal blood. The thing that confirmed that he was the Prince Reid was your father's icy gaze fixed on him the entire time he roamed your ballroom floor.
The reason your father wasn’t exactly peachy with that family of royals was because your father’s father’s father, or some other silly string of family titles, had been offended by the other king’s father’s father’s father, so he retorted, and it led to a disagreement lasting decades. As silly as it seems, this family feud had fueled your father’s hatred for the Reids as long as you could remember.
This is why you had never properly seen Prince Reid.
Or how handsome he was.
His silky chestnut hair gleamed under the candlelight, further complementing his stunning features. His navy blue finery complimented the shining crown atop his head, marking his status. He was tall and lean, which made it easy to follow his path through the crowd.
You idly touched the dainty necklace resting between your collarbones. You regarded it as your good luck charm, and on nights like these, you needed the luck.
Holding your position near the traveling band playing a jaunty melody, you watched him wander across the room. He appeared to be looking for something, but having no luck finding it.
Then he looked across the room at you and it felt as if everything else froze.
His brown eyes met yours in a lingering gaze and remained there until the bustling crowd obscured him from your view.
Without thinking, you snapped into movement and travelled across the crowded floor to try to find him.
You ignored all of the rules and regulations set in place for you. Did it really matter if your father wanted you to marry based on his choosing if you weren’t going to care any more about your husband than the dirt on the sole of your shoe?
You reached the place that Prince Reid was just standing, but he seemed to have disappeared. You deflated in disappointment, which was only amplified by the song the band was playing coming to an end. It was silent for a moment, and then the band started playing again.
This time, it was a slow, romantic song made for couples and blossoming lovers. Those who didn't have a partner cleared from the dance floor, and you would have done the same.
However, you felt a tap on your shoulder.
You turned around, expecting it to be a couple needing space, or one of the townsfolk that just didn't quite seem to understand that you can only marry royals, or anyone else, really.
But the sight of those same lingering eyes took you by surprise.
Before you could react, Prince Reid brought a hand up to your shoulder level, offering his grasp to you.
“May I please have this dance?” He asked just quietly enough that it was apparent his offer was for you only. His voice sounded better than the music the band played, and made you feel as if you were wrapped in a fine silk blanket.
You smiled up at him, accepting his offer, and he intertwined his fingers with yours and politely wrapped an arm around your waist.
He pulled you close. Close enough that you could feel his warmth even through his layers of extravagant clothing.
You spent the rest of the evening in each other’s embrace, dancing through each song together.
At the end of the night, during the very last song, Prince Reid put a hand on the side of your face, grabbing your attention. His hand slipped to your chin, holding your face in place to kiss you.
He stares at you for a moment to sense any hesitation. After a moment, he leaned forward and his soft lips met yours.
He kissed you like he had known you for hundreds of lifetimes and loved you in each one of them. He kissed you like he didn't ever want to stop kissing you.
Of course, all good things must come to an end, so when the final song ends, you pulled away.
Your quick thinking, however, left Prince Reid with something to remember you by. You pull off your good luck necklace and wrap your arms around his shoulders, subtly leaving it on his neck.
“I have to go. My father can’t see us together,” you sadly explained.
“I know. I know.”
He pressed one last kiss to your lips before leaving you with his parting words.
“I hope we can meet again, princess.”
With that, he slipped through the ballroom doors, leaving you with nothing but the memory of his kiss.
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Can u guys fucking believe the Lila Archer pool scene that is straight out of a fucking fanfic omg every day I thank god that we got to see early seasons him making out with someone so hard like I bet there are people who hate that scene cause they’re like noo Spencer my innocent baby and I am not one of those people goddddd I love that scene so much it’s just…… like him being all reluctant abt it but not able to stop…… the words between kisses……. The WAY he kisses……. Fuck I’m in shambles he is so like… passionate…… UGH
this fic includes: fluff, cuddling, only one bed trope (kind of?), vague descriptions of cm typical violence, no beta or proofread we die like emily’s fake death, penelope garcia being the best person to ever have graced the earth, no use of y/n, f!reader
a/n: guys i’m on season 7 now (^_-) also i don’t know how the fbi works SUE ME
“God, what a mess!” Emily exclaims, setting her bags down in the corner of the hotel room.
Unfortunately, due to the horrendously overcrowded convention going on nearby and your latest unsub’s comfort zone, you, JJ, Penelope, and Emily were forced to share a room.
“I can’t believe they could only give us two rooms. Couldn’t we have just stayed somewhere else?” JJ adds, removing her coat and hanging it in the room’s tiny closet.
“Unfortunately, my friends, our administration seems to love us enough to pay for our hotels, but not enough to move us into a company they don’t have a rapport with,” Penelope explains. She removes her hair accessories and piles them on the bathroom counter, her foot wedged in the bathroom door to stay in the conversation. “But it’s like a sleepover! Us girls get to share a room, and the boys have their own.”
“I haven’t had a sleepover since I was 12,” JJ says.
“Me neither,” you pipe up. “So who’s sleeping where tonight?”
Your eyes scan the room. Four girls, two beds, and eight eyes glancing at each other.
“I’m fine with sharing, but I do need to let you know I tend to steal blankets,” Penelope says, placing her accessories in a small box.
“Yeah, I’m fine with anything.” JJ says.
You and Emily briefly lock eyes. If you said sleeping in the same bed as Emily didn’t sound amazing, you’d be a liar. She’d been distracting you from your work and almost all your thoughts for the last few weeks; something about her demeanor, or her dark, sharp features, or that streak of playfulness she lets show on occasion. Whatever it is, it continues to drive you up a wall.
“Well, if none of you care, I want the bed closer to the AC unit because it is a stupidly warm night here.” Penelope steps over to the bed on the right side of the room, unpacking a fuzzy blanket and an extra pillow — how did she fit that in there? — from her bag.
“True that. If you two don’t mind, I’ll sleep closer to the AC too.” JJ says, looking between the two of you before moving.
“Yeah, go ahead.” You say, just a little bit too happy. You tell Emily to go ahead and get comfortable because you’re going to change. She nods as you shut yourself in the bathroom.
You use the bathroom to take a moment, take a breath. Part of you wonders what it will be like, sleeping in the same bed as Emily. The rest of you wonders how you’re going to keep your cool.
You change into your sleep clothes, a tank top and small shorts. The cool air of the room makes the hair on your body stand up.
You walk back out to a dark, silent room. The only light left on was the one to the left of Emily.
“Ready for bed?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you say, climbing into bed and wrapping the soft covers around you. Emily clicks the light off and slides down in the bed.
Before you can even start relaxing, images of the day flash back into your mind. The things the unsub did to his victims. The distraught loved ones of the deceased. The endless papers, leading you to repeated dead ends.
It only feels like a few minutes, but over the course of time, you grow colder and more restless. You toss and turn, trying to get more comfortable, but to no avail. Sighing, you turn to check the time, trying to find an estimate of how much sleep you would get.
The clock reads 4:24. You start contemplating just waking up extra early, but before you can reach a conclusion, you hear a whisper.
“Hey, you alright?” Emily whispers, turning to face you.
You pause for a moment. How honest should you be?
“Yeah, just… cold,” you say.
Emily takes a moment. You think she’s going to get up to grab a blanket, or lend you a hoodie, or anything else, but she scoots over to where you are and wraps her warm arms around your body. She gives you a firm squeeze. You know she knows you’re not just cold.
She starts to move away like it was just a hug. Before you can make a better decision, your hands stop her.
“Do you want me to stay?” Emily whispers.
You nod. Even though the darkness, Emily understands. She moves back to you, tucking your head into her shoulder. She wraps her arms around your middle and pulls the blanket fully over you.
She smells like lotion and coffee and clean clothes. It’s addictive. You nuzzle your head deeper into her, earning a small laugh and her hand making its way into your hair. She runs her nails over your scalp, brushing the hair off your neck.
“Are you okay?” she asks. You just hum, making her laugh again. “Goodnight. Sleep well for me.”
And with her arms around you, hand in your hair, you drift off into a comforting sleep.
bonus — the next morning, you wake up to giggling, which is quickly hushed. the entire day you and emily are the victims of glances and hushed whispers. on the jet home, you finally decide to ask penelope what was up with it. she doesn’t verbally respond, just shows you a picture of you sleeping like a baby, tucked into emily’s chest. at that moment she comes over, smiles, and walks back to her seat.
my very accurate guide to what bath and body works scent criminal minds characters would wear + romantic scenarios to how you smell them
(as someone who’s only seen like 5.5 seasons ༄)
contains emily prentiss, penelope garcia, jennifer jareau, aaron hotchner, spencer reid, and derek morgan
(a/n: mostly g/n reader except for jj unless you wear perfume. also i swear some higher power does NOT want me writing this, i've tried three times now and it keeps deleting everything 😭)
the chilly air bites at your exposed arms and cheeks, and aaron quickly takes notice
he shrugs off his suit jacket, not allowing you to politely decline before he wraps it around your arms
his cologne-y scent clings to the jacket, and faintly to your skin long after you've taken it off
spencer reid - leather and brandy
warm leather - amber woods - aged brandy
(note - it's more of a leather and wood scent, the brandy note isn't very strong)
cuddling up, near skin-to-skin at the movie theatre
you had gone with him to see solaris, the lengthy russian sci-fi movie that spencer was just dying to see
unfortunately you dont speak russian, leading spencer to need to translate
he was so close you could feel his body heat and smell his cologne, a sensation made even better by his low, smooth voice translating every line in your ear
derek morgan - ocean
blue cypress - vetiver - coastal air
derek gave you a late-night ride home
his car smelled of his fresh cologne and minty air freshener
soft conversation kept you occupied, discussing your night and his work
his deep voice made you just a bit on edge (in a good way)
of course, he made sure to text you when you got home to "have a good night, hot stuff ;)"
this fic includes: fluff, descriptions of bad periods and period paraphernalia, spencer being a sweetie pie and doting on you, established relationship, non-bau reader, pet names, early seasons spencer, use of midol, no use of y/n, unrealistic depiction of spencer's job, reader being shorter than spencer
word count: 1,053
a/n: you'll never guess what time of the month it is for me ;) im testing out using gifs on my fics so tell me what you think my lovely returning readers!
"It hurts," you say into your phone.
"I know it does, honey. I'm sorry. I'm sure a heating pad and some medicine can help with your cramps," Spencer responds sympathetically, recalling all of the period remedies he had learned.
"I took some Midol about an hour ago and I have the heating pad on right now. It's not helping much."
"Hmm..." Spencer pauses for a moment. "I've read that light exercise and hot tea or water can help. Are you feeling well enough to talk to the kitchen and make some tea? I think there's still some of the chamomile and honey tea I bought you in the pantry, and the walking might help."
"I should be alright. Will you stay on the phone with me?" you plead.
"Of course I will. Luckily, I'm in my hotel room for the night, so I have as much time as you need."
"Thank you, Spence."
"You're welcome, love."
You hobble to your kitchen, phone in hand, and start to make yourself a cup of chamomile tea.
The few minutes it took for the kettle to boil felt excruciatingly long, but having Spencer on the phone to distract you helped.
"I was reading an article about Spanish idioms, and I saw one I thought you would like," Spencer prompts.
"Yeah? What's that?" You say, leaning against your kitchen counter.
"Well, it literally means 'Thinking about the immortality of the crab,' but it's a way to say that instead of just sitting idly, you were engaged in active thought or daydreaming. Kind of like saying you're just letting your mind wander," Spencer says, his voice growing more excited as he elaborates.
"I think about the immortality of the crab a lot, then," You joke.
"I know. That's why I thought you would like it."
You scoff and bring your now finished cup of tea back into your bedroom, where you had been hibernating amidst every fuzzy blanket you could find.
You pull the heating pad back over your lap and get as cozy as you can with your hellish cramps. As nice as your bedspread may be, however, you know that you would be a lot more comfortable with Spencer cuddled up next to you.
"When are you gonna be back home, Spencer?" You ask.
"Well, we haven't gotten very many good leads, so we're a little stuck right now. It might be a few more days. I'm sorry, honey," He responds apologetically.
"Oh... That's okay. I get it."
You did get it. It wasn't uncommon for Spencer to be gone for days, sometimes a few weeks at a time. But the searing pain and high estrogen levels just made you want him near you even more.
"I'm sorry. You know I would so much rather be taking care of you right now," Spencer follows.
"Ain't no rest for the wicked."
"Exactly." Spencer pauses for a moment, lets out a sigh, and shuffles around in his room. "You should get some rest. You may feel better tomorrow as your hormones decrease."
"I know. I love you, Spence."
"I love you too, darling. I'll see you soon. Hang in there."
"I will. Bye."
You hang up the phone and sigh dramatically. It was only Friday night, and without work to prepare for or Spencer to spend time with, you were forced to entertain yourself for the weekend.
You start by putting on an older show to rewatch, but don't make it through much before you fall into an uncomfortable sleep.
You wake up the next morning to your phone ringing. Rubbing your dry eyes, you pick up your phone and see Spencer's contact flash across your screen. You pick up, clearing your throat before you speak.
"Morning, love."
"It's eleven AM, darling. But good morning to you, too," Spencer responds. In the background of the call, you hear what sounds like a turn signal.
"Whatever. Where are you?"
"I'm in the car," He says uninformatively.
"Okay, then where are you heading?"
"To my destination."
What a turd. You groan in exasperation.
"If it makes you feel better, I have something for you,' Spencer tells you.
"Like what?"
"It should be arriving just about now, actually."
"What do you mean?" You question.
Before you could ask him anything else, you hear a knock at your door.
"Hang on, Spence. Someone's at the door," You say, placing your eye to the peephole.
To your great surprise, you see a tiny image of Spencer smiling outside your door with his phone up to his ear. You fling the door open and affirm that he is, in fact, at your door.
"Spencer!" You exclaim. He greets you as he throws his arms around you, lightly squishing you against his chest.
"I thought you weren't gonna be home for a few more days. What changed?" You ask, pulling away from his embrace to look up into his sweet brown eyes.
"The unsub basically turned himself in, so we all got to go home early. I would have came here earlier, but I had to make a stop," He says, gesturing to his right hand.
You look down to see a shopping bag. He smiles and walks into your living room, urging you to follow.
He slowly unpacks the bag, announcing every item as it appears.
"An array of candy -- fruit flavored as well as chocolate --, electrolyte drinks to keep you hydrated, a new bottle of Midol to help with the pain, and..." Out of a separate bag you hadn't noticed before, he pulls out a bouquet of fresh flowers. "Flowers because I thought you would like them."
He hands you the flowers and you smile up at him before enclosing him in another hug.
"Thank you, Spencer. You're so sweet."
"I'm just trying to make you feel better," He says, placing a kiss on your forehead.
"You're doing great."
He smiles into your hair before pulling away.
"What do you want to do? We can watch movies in bed, I can draw you a bath, we can go for a walk..." He trails off, looking to your for an answer.
"Let's go watch movies. We can find that new one we wanted to watch."
"Sounds good to me, love," He says, following you into the bedroom, snacks in hand.
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i feel like bakugo would treat you riiightt.. like
(note that this is post character development and probably ooc. also fem reader)
- NOT a scrub if ur a tlc fan
- “my girl” kinda fella
- if he was into pda i feel like around anyone especially other men he’d keep an arm on your shoulder/waist or a hand on your opposite hip just to be like “mine.”
- overall i feel like he’d be pretty possessive. not like TOXIC possessive but like “i want you and no one else, i want to be the only one giving you romantic attention”
- also rejects attention from other women. like you know that one clip of him saying like “YOU TOUCH ME AND YOU DIE” maybe not that exactly but like… he’s YOURS.
- def likes it when you check him out. like “yeah i know you like this”
- his voice sounds sooo nice when you’re pressed against his chest/neck area, like you can feel it rumbling through his chest and it just sounds so deep and yummy from that angle especially cause he’s likely talking directly to you in that hot ass boyfriend way like the “mmhm?” AUCJNHEK
- not necessarily a relationship thing but i feel like he dresses nicely. like nothing too fancy but his clothes match and look nice so he always looks put together outside of school hours.
- workout photos. that’s it.
- sarcastic little shit. like you know he’s always gonna give you a hard time about stuff (it’s out of love i promise)
- he really does care what you have to say. like say you’re telling him about something while he’s preoccupied so he seems like he doesn’t care so you stop talking. homeboy quite literally drops whatever he’s doing and is just like “yeah? go on.”
- i feel like if he had socials rather than putting like your user with a lock or whatever it would just be like “hers” or your initial or smth
- trust he goes bonkers if anyone even DARES to insult you. like idk if you’ll ever see that person again…
until the sun came up again - katsuki bakugo x reader
this fic includes: angst that turns happy, mostly g/n but there’s a feminine compliment at the end, you and bakugo have mental issues, rule breaking aaaaahhh, bakugo is vulnerable and also a gentleman, slightly awkward first date, y’all move QUICK
when you and bakugo first started dating, it happened purely by chance.
you hadn't bothered to check the clock before walking out of your dorm. whatever time it was, it was too late for you to be wandering around, but that didn't matter to you. you just needed to clear your head.
you just so happened to reach the lounge area of the dorms at the exact moment that bakugo had reached such a low mental point he was ready to ask for help, and you weren't in a much better spot.
you saw him leaned over a counter. you saw the look on his face. it wasn't hard to see that he needed help. any idiot could have figured that out. the issue was that not just any idiot could have broken down his barriers far enough for him to let you in.
except you, of course.
you approach him mostly to offer, but also to subtly ask for help. knowing that he could metaphorically (and literally) explode at any wrong move you made, you get his attention and ask if he wanted to talk.
you weren't sure if the stars had aligned, divine intervention was to blame, or you had just majorly lucked out. all you knew for sure was that sneaking out of UA high with katsuki bakugo was a pleasant surprise.
it was a little awkward at first, just the two of you walking in sneaky silence out of your dorm building.
neither of you really knew where you were going or how you were going to get there, just that you needed to get away from that school and everything it meant for you. the danger, the fame, the fear of failure, and all the other issues that ate away at you while you struggled to sleep.
eventually, after walking quite a ways away, you came across a little pond that you had never seen before. conveniently, it had a small bench that would just fit the both of you.
the space between you two was slightly smaller than socially normal, but did it really matter when all you wanted was to talk?
you both sat in silence for a few minutes which felt like hours, just watching and listening to the pond fountain spray water back into itself.
you spoke up first.
you asked him what kept him awake so late.
he explained his inter turmoil, surprising you with how similar it was to your own issues.
the fear of failure. the feeling of hopelessness. the danger that one day you won't be strong enough to fight off a villain. the fear of not being good enough, and even worse, never being able to become better.
while his inner emotions and thoughts were much different than the persona he displayed at school and in social interactions, they didn't surprise you.
of course he felt that way. everyone here did, no matter how mighty or confident they may seem.
you spent the next few hours -- long enough that the sun had begin to bring color to the sky -- just talking. about everything there was to talk about. the more bakugo opened up to you, the more you realized how amazing he really was.
you walked back, quietly continuing your conversation. the both of you felt much better after venting, and had moved on to a lighter conversation. poking fun at classmates and whatnot.
the both of you snuck back into the dorms and wished each other a good night before parting ways.
when you got into bed in the next few minutes after that, you didn't immediately fall asleep like you expected. your thoughts lingered on bakugo, and how vulnerable he was with you.
it was only ever you he acted like that with.
you had never even heard of another occasion where he had opened up to someone that much, but something about you...
if sneaking out of the dorms once with bakugo was weird, him asking you to do it again was even weirder.
he caught you after class a few days after the first time you had met, and vaguely alluded to your previous rendezvous, as to not interest his classmates, asking to do it again.
and so you did.
you met up with him in the dead of night, snuck out of the dorms, and sat on that bench and talked like no time had passed since the first night you talked. it was the same routine as last time. just getting things off your chest and venting about your problems until the sun came up again.
and again.
it wasn't as jarring, but still surprising when you opened up a note from bakugo that had been slid under your door.
the note was short and to the point, reading no more than "let's do that again. meet me in the lobby at 1am. -k"
even though you knew this likely meant he was in a dark place again, something about it excited you. likely the sentiment of him initiating yet another intimate conversation with you.
another thing you noticed was that instead of signing it with his last initial, as most people strictly referred to him as bakugo (because in any other case they would face his wrath), he signed off with a k.
was he finally approving your use of his first name?
you could find out that night.
you made your way back to the same spot in the lobby you had met with bakugo (katsuki?) with the last few times, and sure enough, there he stood.
the lights had been turned off for hours, but the moonlight shining through the window illuminated his features and his torso, covered by a well-fitting black tank top.
lucky you.
you decide to test your theory by saying just above a whisper "hey, katsuki."
he turns to you, and for a split second you thought he was upset, but he greets you in a slightly warmer manner than usual.
"let's go," he begins.
you take the same path you took a few nights before, to the same pond, and sat on the same bench.
it seemed like katsuki sat just a bit closer this time around. not enough of a difference to point out, but you definitely noticed.
again, you sat in silent attention to the pond's sound until you spoke.
"are you doing alright?"
"fine, just... needed to talk about something."
he recalls something that had happened at training the day before. in the middle of a student vs. student battle training, he had looked away for a split second and was near blown off his feet by his opponent's quirk. instead of cheering for the other student, everybody went silent.
it was humiliating, especially for someone like katsuki who consistently preached self-confidence.
he explained the awful feeling he got.
that same fear of not being good enough that had constantly nagged at him for years, just much stronger.
he didn't really have to, though. you saw the look on his face when it had happened.
after he had gotten what he needed to off of his chest, you explained that half of the people in that class had also suffered a loss, and that to really be great, you had to push past any losses you may suffer.
he paused.
he paused for longer than you were comfortable with. you immediately assumed the worst -- that it wasn't the right thing to say, and he didn't trust you for advice any more.
but he turned to look at you after a moment, right in the eyes, and you could have sworn you saw a smile cross his face.
"thanks."
this view, from this night specifically, was something you would think about near daily from this point forward.
the moon shone down on his face, highlighting his beautifully balanced features just like it did in the lobby earlier that night. the way his red eyes shone, especially when staring into yours, etched itself into your brain and made sure you wouldn't forget that sight any time soon.
you came to the realization that he was lethally handsome.
actually, it was less of a realization and more of a vigorous reminder, because of course you knew he was handsome before this, just not this handsome.
"thanks for listening to me," he spoke again, his voice soothing and deep.
"it's no problem." you paused. "i've actually really enjoyed talking to you like this.”
“me too,” he quietly responded.
and so after a bit of awkward silence, the two of you carried on your conversation as usual. this time, however, it was less a last-ditch effort to release some pressure, and more just… talking. like friends.
you discussed teachers you dislike, teachers you do like, school stories, visions for the future, hopes, dreams… anything you could think of until the sun came up again,
and when it did, you walked home, having a giggly conversation about something a classmate did.
now, the fourth time, katsuki was a bit more formal approaching you.
he came up to you, again a few days later, during lunch and ushered you away from your friends for a moment (to which they giggled and exclaimed for you to “go get some”) and took you right outside the cafeteria, where nobody else was standing.
he looked at you. you noticed that lately, he looks at you so much differently than he does other people.
“so, there’s this new sushi restaurant that opened a few minutes away from UA…”
he paused for a moment. you didn’t say anything, waiting to see where he takes this.
“do you… wanna go tonight? not super late this time, cause they close at 10, so maybe like… 6?”
you pause for a second. this sounded a lot like a date.
“are you asking me on a date, katsuki?” you say in a teasing tone.
“…” he pauses. “do you want to go or not?!”
“yes, i want to go. i’ll meet you in the lobby at 5:30.”
“good.”
katsuki takes a last glance at you, and skulks back off to the cafeteria.
that night, you put on a cute outfit and meandered down to the lounge. you were exactly 2 minutes early, so you knew you had a wait.
you see kaminari walking up to you from across the room. you and him had grown pretty close since school started, so it was nice to see him.
“you look nice! what are you up to?” he asks.
“you know… going on a date.”
“with WHO?!” he exclaims.
“your mother. i have to go now!” you sing, seeing katsuki enter the room. you blow past a very confused kaminari, who becomes even more confused upon seeing you walk away with katsuki.
instead of walking directly to your destination like you had each time before, katsuki led you to the parking lot behind the school and into his car, making sure to open the door so you got in smoothly.
he drove you to the sushi restaurant, which was only a few minutes away. not much was said in the car drive, only the music on the radio and the faint hum of the car.
before you sat down, just like a good old gentleman would, katsuki pulled out your wooden chair for you. you smile.
you decide to poke fun at his actions, noticing how different they were from his normal behavior.
“what a gentleman you are!”
“no other way to do it, if you ask me,” he responds, not fully meeting your eyes.
“i like it.” you smile at him, locking your eyes with his deep red ones.
“…good.”
you fell into a comfortable silence, unlike the awkward lack of conversation when you had spent time together before, but of course that didn’t last forever.
“you look nice,” katsuki hesitantly said.
“thank you. you do, too.” you took notice of his jeans — that fit him well, unlike most of his other pairs — that he wore under a form fitting black tee shirt that clearly accentuated his muscles.
to make conversation (and avoid ogling), you brought up the upcoming test you had in hero studies that had been at the back of your mind for days.
“i can help you study if you need. i know it pretty well,” katsuki offered.
“really? thank you.”
“no problem. i like hanging out with you.”
“oh?”
“i’ve wanted to for a long time.”
“you have?”
katsuki hummed in response. you felt great gratification, knowing that he was enjoying this just as much as you.
you spent the next two hours at the restaurant, talking between ordering and taking bites of food. you even got katsuki to smile and laugh at your jokes and retorts at times.
when the sun started to come down, you both decided to start heading back to campus.
before you could even get your card out, katsuki had covered the bill for both of you. you thanked him as you walked out the door with him, beginning the walk to his car.
in one fell swoop, katsuki crossed to the opposite side of you to make sure he was on traffic’s side and threw his left arm around your shoulder, pulling you close into him.
unsurprisingly, katsuki smelled really nice. he smelled clean and sweet, with just a little hint of cologne.
his arm was warm on your skin. the touch made you borderline giddy, especially knowing how attracted the man doing it was.
you made it to the car after a minute of walking, and yet again, katsuki opened the door for you so you didn’t have to. he drove you back to campus, enjoying the conversation you sparked.
he parked in his parking spot and walked you into the dorms and up to your room.
instead of a quick goodbye like you expected, katsuki paused and said your name.
“i really enjoyed that,” he said, staring into your eyes.
“i did, too.”
“would you want to… do it again?”
“i’d love to. when?”
he paused in thought for a moment, then said “we could go get coffee or tea after the test to destress.”
“yeah, that sounds nice. i know i’ll need it.”
“me too. so i’ll see you then?”
“you will. goodnight, katsuki.”
“goodnight, beautiful.”
before you could fully process what he had said, katsuki had turned away and was halfway down the hallway.
you step into your dorm and collapse on the bed.
that night, you thought about katsuki until the sun came up again.
okay but i’m just thinking about married pro hero bakugo with a motorcycle. like imagine he comes home super late at night after a particularly rough day and drags you out of bed to the garage to get on his bike without any sort of an explanation. imagine smelling his natural sweetish smell + smoke cause he’s been using his quirk all day before he takes a helmet (that he bought just for you) and softly places it on your head before mounting the bike himself (no helmet for him despite your arguments, he’s a bad boy). imagine you wrapping your arms around his broad chest and tucking your head into his back as he starts the bike and the motor erupts with sound. he drives you out to a dark backroad which leads up onto a tall hill overlooking the city. he takes your hand and leads you to the edge, where he invites you to sit down. you sit in silence, your head on his shoulder and his on your head, staring at the twinkling lights below you.
this is absolutely based on sebastian’s 10 heart event from sdv thank you very much
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a/n: this is something i literally think about constantly :)> sneaking out was sal’s idea not yours there’s no delinquency here. unfortunately this is NOT part two of he’d loooove that because to be transparent i don’t know where to go with it! i promise i started it though it’ll come out soon •3•
this fic includes: boyfriend sneaking in trope, rebellion, sal ITCHING to see you, no use of y/n, for some reason you don’t have a screen on your window but whatever, established relationship, smooching, cuddling
The dark, late night sprawls outside as the twinkle of fairy lights keeps you awake. The chatter from the movie you were watching keeps your ears occupied as you consider texting or calling someone to ease the boredom overtaking you.
You settle on your boyfriend, Sal.
You and Sal had been dating for almost a year and a half. You started dating in the beginning of freshman year, and are still together now, halfway through sophomore year. Dating Sal had been nothing short of wonderful. He has always been such a kind and loving person, and it shows in your relationship. You and Sal are the kind of couple that people call “goals,” or talk about because they “need a relationship like that.”
You pick up your phone to text Sal, but upon reaching his contact, you decide to call him instead.
The line rings once, twice, and then he picks up.
“Hey, love. Are you alright? Why are you calling so late?” He says as less of a question for his sake and more to make sure you were okay.
“Yeah, I just missed you,” You respond.
“Well, I miss you too. I’m glad you called.” Sal pauses for a moment and you hear shuffling.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to move Gizmo off my bed so I can lie down.”
You laugh at the thought of Sal trying his hardest to gently move his very large cat off the bed.
“Just pick him up,” You say, realizing that it’s in his nature to be gentle so he likely wouldn’t.
“No, he’s comfortable.” You hear him scoff in frustration and the thunk of him hitting the bed. “I give up.”
You laugh and change the subject.
“Well, what were you doing before you decided to evacuate Gizmo?”
“Honestly… I was trying to study for my history test, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. It was really hard to try to remember what years the American Revolution took place when the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen kept crossing my mind.”
His sudden compliment made you smile.
“Why, thank you. Luckily I wasn’t doing anything productive, because I promise you I would’ve been in the same boat…” You think for a moment. You both really miss each other, so why not make plans for the weekend?
“Sal, I want to see you. Want to hang out tomorrow?”
He pauses before he answers.
“Why wait?”
“What?”
“Why wait until tomorrow? I miss you now.”
You consider his point. You missed him now, too. But the thorough punishment that awaited you if your parents found out hung over you like a storm cloud.
“Sal, my parents will kill me if I sneak out.”
“Then let me.”
“My parents will also kill me if they catch me sneaking my boyfriend in my room in the dead of night. Can’t you hear how bad that sounds?”
“That’s why they won’t catch me. Please, baby? I can be sneaky, I promise.”
You pause for a moment.
You consider.
You decide the reward outweighs the consequences.
“Okay. I’ll see you in a few then?”
You can hear him silently cheer. “Yes you will. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
The phone beeps after the call ends. A rush of adrenaline and emotions flows through you as it fully processes that you’re sneaking your boyfriend in, but the risk just made it that much more fun.
A few minutes pass that consist of you switching between pacing your room and tidying up. You realize that Sal needs to get in somehow, so you turn to leave your room and unlock the back door. Before you could leave, however, you hear a tap on the window.
You throw open your curtains and it is none other than Sal. His electric blue hair illuminated by the moonlight, he stares up at you, eyes visibly crinkled through the eyeholes in his mask.
You open the window to let him in. He smiles up at you and hoists himself onto your windowsill before jumping silently onto your floor. He stops to look around for a moment, then pulls you into his arms.
“We have a door, you know,” You say teasingly.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
You smile at him and draw your hands around his neck, pulling his face closer to yours. You reach to the back of his head and unbuckle his mask, and he bows his head to let you.
You pull the mask off of his scarred face and he looks at you longingly with his bright blue lovesick eyes. Before either of you can speak, you both lean into a kiss. His lips meet yours in a unification powerful enough to make your knees tremble. He wraps a hand around your waist and pulls you deeper into the kiss, allowing you to run your hands through his soft hair.
"Wasn't this worth it? And, hey, I bet your parents are still sound asleep. They don't have a clue!" Sal drags out the last few words of his sentence in an excited whisper.
"Yeah, it was. Thank you for coming over."
"No problem. I missed you and it made me really want to see you."
"I can tell."
He smiles at your comment and moves to sit on your bed. You set his mask on your bedside table and follow his lead by propping yourself up on the headboard, patting the spot beside you to urge him over. He sits right next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. He's so close that you can feel how warm he is through his sweater and smell his body wash.
He turns his head to give you a kiss on the cheek. You wrap your arms around his waist and fit your head into the spot between his neck and his collarbone, listening to his heart steadily beating.
a/n: for lack of better words when i say tough i mean like …. you defend him from bullying and kind of skip class idk. also we’re pretending ash wasn’t there when travis was harassing sal ok? ok.
this fic includes: fem reader, second person pov, bullying, skipping 10 minutes of class, use of the term “holy roller,” Travis being rude to you (i.e. b word, telling you to fuck off), cussing, vague threats of violence, Larry teasing Sal cause he likes you. read at your own risk yadda yadda yadda
You ignore your teacher’s command for you to return quickly from the bathroom as you walk down the dingy hallway. Of course, you didn’t plan to return to class at all, much less return quickly. Who cares about what happened 100 odd years ago? Whatever.
You continue down the hallway, wondering where you should spend the next 10 minutes before lunch starts, when you see two familiar looking boys down the hall. The one furthest away, Travis, the preacher’s son who gives anyone who isn’t a total holy roller shit, was clearly insulting the one closer to you.
Sal.
The thing about Sal is that the only thing you share is a math class. You don’t share a social circle, or sit at the same lunch table, or even talk outside of that math class. However, this didn’t stop you from noticing that he was very attractive. The electric blue hair, mask, and his unique style was oddly alluring.
As your feet keep moving closer to the two boys, you hear some of what travis is saying.
“Nobody likes a goody-two-shoes, Saaaally Face.”
Without missing a beat, Sal responds.
“Nobody likes a cliché bully, Traaaaavis.”
His appearance aside, Sal’s wit and demeanor was another reason you’d fallen for him. Every time you talked, Sal made you laugh in some way. He’s so funny and nice to talk to, and it outrages you to see someone like Travis being so disrespectful to him.
Before he could say another word, upon closing the distance between you and the boys, you butt in.
“Do you have a problem?” You say, staring Travis in the face and fighting the urge to sneak a glance at Sal.
“This is none of your business, bitch.”
“Don’t call me a bitch. And definitely don’t give Sal any attitude. Don’t you have a class to go to?”
Of course, this made Travis even more upset. Turning fully to you and taking a few steps forward, he raises his voice and exclaims “Go fuck yourself! I’ll do whatever I want.”
Your anger rises with his refusal. Without batting an eye, you decide that you number one, need to get Travis out of here, and number two, need to take this as an opportunity to win Sal over. You take a step forward so that you’re almost toe-to-toe with Travis.
“No the fuck you won’t. Not on my watch. I need you to turn your holy blonde ass around and go back to class before I show you what happens when snotty little pricks like you can’t keep their nasty attitude in their mouths,” you say, jerking closer to Travis with every insult. You pause for a moment, hoping you wouldn’t get the shit beat out of you.
Travis grits his teeth, calls you some very colorful names, and walks off.
Relief floods you as you take your first look at Sal. Shock floods you as you see he was already looking.
“Thank you,” Sal says.
“You’re welcome,” you respond.
“You really didn’t have to do that. I’m tough, I promise.”
“I know, but I can’t stand to see people like Travis being assholes for no reason.”
“I get that. Thank you for standing up for me. Really.”
If you didn’t know any better, you would say that the exposed tips of Sal’s ears looked rather pink.
Before you can respond, the bell rings and Sal’s close friend Larry came running up to him.
“I heard yelling, is-… Oh! Hey, man…”
Larry trailed off when he noticed you. Suddenly, he was staring at you and it made you feel the need to explain yourself.
“I… Just so happened to be walking past and I saw Travis giving Sal shit-“ When you said Sal’s name, Larry looked at Sal and smiled, as if surprised you knew his name, “- So I stepped in, I guess. He’s gone, but I’m sorry for getting all up in your business.”
Larry, after staring at Sal with a less than necessary smirk, responded “No problem, dude. Listen, if you ever want to defend Sal again, I’m sure he’d loooove tha-“ Sal interrupts Larry with a swift elbow in the ribs. He gets the point and stops.
“Thanks. Enjoy your lunch,” Sal says, and Larry follows him as he walks away.
You pretend not to watch them walk down the hall, seeing Larry punch Sal in the arm encouragingly and yell something about protective girls.
