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you should totally write a short lil angst between fred and i during 2nd year. no smut, but tension. preferably surrounding quidditch 😛
~ twinnie
|| The Sick
Background: This is a new series I’m starting for myself. It’s about my shifting journey and past in that reality. There won’t be an upload schedule because it’s mainly for Rose and I. (Heh) Uploads will be from my perspective… unless I change my mind.
In our shared Hogwarts Reality our pasts are complicated. We know the consequences to scripting trauma, but believe me when I say we had good reason. Experiencing similar issues here we wanted to cope with them surrounded by people we care about—comforting presences. What I’m writing is past. We’re coping healthily in the present. Aside from that, I’m sure there’s more hardship to come, but we’re okay with it.
Warnings: None.
——————————————————————————
“You’re late,” Oliver tapped the tip of his broomstick, brows furrowed. “To scrimmage,” he added with a sharp inhale. Squinted. “…Is that ink on your face?”
Rubbing my cheek, I scoffed. It wasn’t my fault I lost track of time. “I rarely miss practice,” I said. “You can’t be mad I’m late.”
“It’s the second time this week,” Harry contorted and I flinched.
“You’re lucky we haven’t started,” another added, words churning through my chest. George. “Once Hufflepuff and Slytherin debrief we’re against Ravenclaw. Easy win, but him and your sister are acting weird again. Not. Good. We don’t need more drama on the field.”
Fred’s hair bounced. Far enough to contort in an array of radiating anger. Red framed his pursed lips as Rose wrinkled something deeper than regret. I hadn’t talked to her in days. My stomach swirled at the sight of emotion, making me want Tom more than ever.
The wind acted as karma, pushing them toward each other as they forcefully pushed themselves from bubbling argument.
Their attitude doesn’t concern you, the safety of Tom’s handwriting aroused. Look away. Talk to me. Were they there for you? No. I was, and always will be. Prioritize people who care. Prioritize me.
I blinked, wishing I could respond, but it was just a vision. Though, sometimes it felt like I could. Sometimes I did. I’d reach and the diary was there, filling me with contentment. “Are you listening?” Oliver repeated.
“Yeah, sorry,” I blinked again. Rose’s hands clenched. Was she about to hit Fred? Were they arguing? Was that normal? How long had it been going on?
“If you’re late one more time you’re off the team,” he added. “Understood, Black?”
Swallowing, I nodded. “What’s gotten into you?” Harry asked, though it wasn’t pleasant, but for the first time, I didn’t care. These people weren’t important to me. I had one thing on my mind. Talking to Tom.
He cared. I confided in him. Harry didn’t want to hear about Da. Bloody hell, what was it to him, anyway? Living under a cupboard most his life. My problems were little compared to his, but Tom? Tom knew me. Tom understood me. He made me feel seen.
Taking time from my schedule was the least I could do after crying every night between pages of his diary. “Are we going to play, or what?” I said suddenly. “I get it. I’m late, and I’m sorry,” the lie slid through my teeth like butter. “It won’t happen again.”
“Take a lap,” Oliver pointed. I hesitated. George looked down, and when I glanced at Harry to defend me, he agreed with Oliver. “Now, Black.”
“Fine,” I threw my broom down, huffing. “You wouldn’t be shit without me. Think about that before you kick me off the team, arseholes!”
“Go,” he shouted and I jogged. “I don’t want you back until you’ve calmed,” his voice grew the farther I got. “And if you’re not civil by the time they’ve finished their game, don’t bother returning. You’re cut, Sabrina!”
Cut.
As if they would cut me in the middle of season. They needed me. Every replacement was mediocre at best. Gryffindor couldn’t afford that, or to lose. “Sabrina?” Cedric excused himself, flying beside me. “Sabrina!”
I kept running. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone. Slytherin gained from his absence. “Leave me alone,” I spat, forcing momentum, somehow running faster than his Firebolt.
Thank you, Tom, I assumed.
“I’m not going anywhere, Baby,” he shouted matter-of-factly. “Not until you talk to me. Oliver never makes you run laps, and your face—“
“What about my face?” I stopped and so did he, saying, “It’s red.”
Catching my breath, I kneeled for break, fidgeting with the grass. “Your team will lose.” I distracted myself. With an abrupt stop, Cedric crouched, but I heard them. Closer now. Rose and Fred. They were arguing.
“Nope,” Fred chuckled, slipping her wand under his shirt. “You’ll get this back when you tell me what’s going on.”
“Not everything’s about you, Fred,” she retorted, ready to attack with her second best option. The stick of her broom. Taking her arms, he soothed them as she threw it then punched his chest—grabbing and poking until she cried because he engulfed her in his warm embrace.
Cedric caressed my face. “Look at me,” he said again but I felt numb. “Look at me, Baby.”
“Stop,” I grumbled. He squinted, confused. “Stop calling me Baby,” he squeezed my cheeks, puffing my lips in a sad attempt to make me smile. “It’s a dumb nickname.”
“What?” His chuckle was deep. Nervous. “I’ve always called you baby.”
I backed onto my elbows. “I know,” I said, away from him. “And I’ve always thought it was stupid. So what? I liked a Muggle movie. I don’t want to be called Baby anymore.”
“Sabrina—“
Slytherins erupted into a loud cheer as I stood. “You shouldn’t have stopped,” I turned. “Now, like I said, you lost.” I pictured Tom’s approval as I jogged back to my team, noticing Fred ready to join and play.
If you asked months ago, I never had the courage to tell anyone how I felt. Now? I didn’t feel anything. It didn’t matter. At the end of the day, I knew who I’d turn to, and it wasn’t Harry, or Rose, or Cedric.
It was Tom.
A part of me felt like he’d always been there, waiting for me to discover him.
hi! my name is lizzie, and i'm the owner of this account! i'm a shifter with AuDHD, which i point out because it is an extremely big part of my journey, and i've been in the shifting community for almost 6 years now. i'm 20 years old, an Aquarius, and i've minishifted quite a few times. i've even accidentally shifted to a few alternate realities, where only one or two things are different.
right now, i'm reprogramming my understanding of shifting, and developing my own system such as phrases, keywords, and concepts. this is why i've come to Tumblr! i'm a very logical individual, but most of the shifting community that i've seen on TikTok is very philosophical. this doesn't always work for me, because it doesn't "make sense," so i've often found myself speaking through metaphors! this has worked out wonderfully for me so far!
i've never used Tumblr before, so please be patient as i learn the community and systems and how it all operates. i really hope that one day this account can be a big source of information for all shifters!
because of the work i'm doing to reframe my mindset with shifting, i'm focusing only on a small handful of realities. these include: two shared realities (hogwarts and influencer/youtuber) with my shifting bestie, a solo hogwarts reality, and a better life reality. these are the ones i find myself drawn too and connected with the most often. eventually, i'd love to explore more realities, but keeping my pool small while i develop my own process helps me focus on the journey and destination more, without getting distracted by the details!
eventually, i'll explain what changes i've made in my journey, but that will be its own post. currently, i'm holding myself accountable by journaling my nights, tracking my progress, and showing up for myself and actually putting effort into my attempts. i fell victim to the "you don't need to try" mindset, and while that can and does apply to others, it does not apply to me!
if any of this resonates with you, or you're just looking for a new shifter to follow, welcome! i hope we can help each other, and i can't wait to see what happens next.
Include: Harry , Ron , Fred , George , Oliver , Neville and Cedric
Harry Potter
tied down @hollowdeath
you and harry potter, the biggest flirt at hogwarts, have been secretly hooking up for weeks after playing hard to get. harry's been dragging his feet when it comes to making things official, so when his flirty tendencies get him in trouble, you decide to play him at his own game and win.
harry james potter x fem!reader
words : 3.3k
untitled @hollowdeath
you and harry have been working on a project involving amortentia, the most powerful love potion to exist, and when harry tests your device the night before it's due, he has some rather intense side effects.
harry james potter x fem!reader (18+)
words : 6k
smut / mdni
hopeless , the both of them @lumosflairr
Hermione and Ron watch you and Harry in awe from a distance as you both share a moment in the snow.
words : 0.4k
personal fav !
she loves me @lovel4nita
A flower and a gentle breeze remind Harry that her heart is his.
words : 318
the eye of the snake @dearlizzies
Regulus died. Everyone knew it. Sirius had the same fate, but not without regretting before not having talked to his niece, you. Everyone knows who you are and the story that involves you, a pretty girl at Howgarts, but that was not what attracts the most attention—it’s the fact that you‘re dating the chosen one. Post-war/7th year.
harry potter x Regulus’Daughter!reader
dance pratice @junezsq
professor mcgonagall’s dance class suddenly gets interesting when you have to dance with your best friend turned crush
words : 1.5k
he's like a poem i wish i wrote @fear-less
In which, harry finally confesses his feelings towards his closed off friend.
harry potter x f!reader
words : 2.4k
almost was ours @nocturnao
She was Harry Potter’s constant—his secret keeper, his sanctuary, the girl who stitched him together when the war threatened to tear him apart. A quiet Ravenclaw who stood by him when no one else knew how, she never asked for anything… except maybe for him to see her. But as the world began to heal and the noise returned, Harry reached for the girl who burned bright in public—Ginny—and left behind the one who had carried him through the dark. Years later, when fate crosses their paths again, Harry is haunted by what he lost: the girl who loved him in silence, and who walked away with all the parts of him he never knew he gave. A story of almosts, aching regrets, and the kind of love that gets remembered in every timeline—but never chosen in the one that mattered.
harry james potter x ravenclaw fem reader
day one @darcellexxx
the Boy Who Lived and Draco Malfoy are known to hate each to the core, but what about another Malfoy loving Harry Potter with the same intensity? It’s good that Harry likes the colour red and that he’s a Gryffindor, because there’s no way that he would actually get out of the ‘Harry Potter Wears Lipsticks’ situation without a bit of his smugness. The second best thing is Draco’s expression, after he finds out his darling sister dates his nemesis…
Harry James Potter x Malfoy!fem!reader
words : 2.1k
only by name @slytherinsimp12
Y/N spent her entire life at beauxbatons. Her whole world turned upside down when her mother she never met escaped Azkaban, forcing her to transfer to Hogwarts in her 5th year for her safety. Harry knows he should stay away. She’s a Lestrange, the daughter of the woman who destroyed part of his world. But the more he sees of Y/N, the harder it becomes to believe that blood decides who we are.
Harry Potter x Lestrange!reader
we would have been timeless @fear-less
everyone at Hogwarts saw it coming when you and Harry started dating. To most, you were just another sweet couple. but to the professors, you were a reminder of two people they had lost. In your smiles, your arguments, and the way you looked at each other, they saw echoes of James and Lily. not a repeat of the past, but a new beginning filled with hope.
harry potter x f!reader
beneath the silence @elytriumm
harry has always been more than a best friend to you, but as of late, his coldness and distance have left you wondering if it’s you he’s pushing away. best friends to lovers.
words : 2.1k
green and gold @lumosflairr
when you, a sharp-witted Slytherin express interest in joining Dumbledores Army, you soon find yourself caught between not only house loyalty and what’s right - but an unexpected bond with Harry Potter.
harry potter x slytherin reader
personal fav !
so obvious @junezsq
hermione has always been smart, but you never would’ve thought she’d so quickly figure out who you have a crush on… or were you just being really obvious?
harry james potter x fem!reader
words : 1.2k
baby names @ravenclaws-stuff
with the due date rapidly approaching, you and Harry discuss baby names.
Harry Potter x Longbottom!Reader
cherry pink , cherry kiss ! @mokkiaun
harry loved his girlfriend, but a dream made him wonder if you’d taste better in sweet, red cherry lipgloss— and what happens when your lips appear redder and honeyed the very next day?
harry potter x fem! reader
____
Ron Weasley
steal my girl @yasministration
for some reason, every one in ron's family has been trying to steal his girl, so he has to fight for a moment of privacy with you
words : 0.9k
flustered feelings @angelphie
"ron weasley has been friends with you since you were both children, but he's developed feelings for you and he finally takes up the courage to tell you unexpectedly"
ron weasley x fem!reader
words : 1.3k
don't fall in love with my brothers , please @holysmokesblog
His only request: don't fall for his brothers. But love, sometimes, is the most disobedient of all.
words : 1.7k
i love you first @blondykebarbie
Ron is used to feeling second.
ron weasley x gn reader
words : 538
untitled @slvqtore
you, oblivious as ever, hadn’t caught on to ron’s not-so-subtle signals about his feelings for you.
ron weasley x fem!reader
words : 1.8k
sneaky visits ! @bvrnesher
spending christmas at the burrow and having to sneak around the creaky floors because Molly doesn't want you sleeping in the same room
ronald weasley ! fem. reader
a weasley gift @jijournal
Ron surprises you with something very special in the Weasley household.
blushing in the bookstore @rottenherbs
In a cozy Hogsmeade bookstore, Ron Weasley finds himself smitten with someone he’s never seen before ~ leading to shy glances, soft laughter, and the start of something sweet.
words : 758
not a game @luv4freddie
You were a well known flirt, the Slytherin maneater. But now you’ve set your sights on Ron Weasley, and he’s not sure what to believe.
ron weasley x slytherin fem reader
words: 1.5k
loving him was red @cipheress-to-k-pop
You'll be allowed to date Ron Weasley over Draco's dead body
words : 8.5k
____
Fred Weasley
the trick @ilovelygood
Y/n attends Hermione and Ron's wedding, but decides to bring her deck of cards to prove that, even though she is a Muggle, she can also do magic, catching the attention of a certain red-haired twin.
Fred Weasley x Muggle!fem!reader
little sister , my arse @cipheress-to-k-pop
You were “like a little sister to him”—or so Fred said. Please. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something way more between you two.
words : 8.9k
christmas at the burrow @alexadolly-8
your first christmas at the burrow being fred's gf
words : 669
4me 4me @biscuitz707
It’s Easter break and instead of being home, you’re stranded at Hogwarts prepping for N.E.W.T.s. Stuck studying inside the library, you surprisingly find yourself accompanied by Fred Weasley.
words : 1.2k
amortencia @binchidavinci
‘When you have to make Amortentia in Slughorn’s potions class, the last thing you expect to smell is Fred Weasley; Fred doesn’t expect to smell you, either.’
verituserum @maria021015
Fred, George, and Lee have been avoiding you all day and you’ve had enough. When you blackmail your way into the Gryffindor common room to confront them, you don’t expect Fred to start bombarding you with strange compliments. You definitely don’t expect what comes next.
lingering perfume @yasministration
harry has warned you that if you don't stop stealing his sweaters, he'll tell your parents about your boyfriend. but your parents are very much aware of your relationship, so harry goes one step further.
fred weasley x potter reader
words : +1k
never planned @lqveharrington
you and fred had been friends for so long that it never occurred to the both of you that everyone thought you were dating.
fred weasley x gryffindor!reader
pains and promises @marvelwitchergilmore
A rivalry that has been going on for four years suddenly begins to change when you help Fred's little sister.
Fred Weasley x slytherin!reader
wrong twin @yasministration
for a long, gruelling minute, angelina is under the impression that her best friend has a crush on her boyfriend. but no, that's the wrong twin.
words : +1.3k
"you really can't tell ?" @oc3anlvsu
Fred Weasley has a huge crush on his brother’s best friend, but she’s completely oblivious. Between teasing her about her handwriting, stealing her food, and randomly braiding her hair, Fred thinks he’s flirting — she just thinks he’s annoying
Fred Weasley x Ron’s best friend
____
george weasley
dazed and devoted @lumosflairr
George gets knocked out during Quidditch practice. When he wakes up, confused and concussed, he flirts with his girlfriend like he’s never met her before. And honestly? It’s kind of adorable.
words : 1.5k
cool about it @hunnyisland
When Fred notices you’ve taken a liking to his brother, he formulates a plan to wingman you.
george weasley x gryffindor reader
words : 6k
saint like @rottenherbs
Molly Weasley doesn’t hide her disapproval of you, being George’s girlfriend, it made things awkward every time you visit the Burrow. But when George loses his ear and you care for him with gentle dedication, Molly begins to see you in a new light—slowly warming up and starting to accept you as part of the family.
words : 2.2k
someday @ravenclaws-stuff
Five times George Weasley says he's going to marry you and One time he actually does.
George Weasley x Lovegood!reader
sticky situation @weezyweasleys-fg
A young rivalry blooms between you and the supposedly "quieter" twin of the Weasley family's sons. Despite the teeth-grating relationship you two had grown to have being quite new, things got heated up pretty quickly. Now stuck because of each other in detention with no real way out but getting through with it—burning down the classroom felt better than being stuck in a room with George Weasley.
reasonless hatred @yasministration
Severus snape's daughter causes him nothing but chaos, hatred where love should be in their relationship. but she is finally given a real reason to hate her father, and she decides to give him one to hate her too.
words : 2.6+
patience @kittyminion
george finds a way to entertain you, despite your introverted nature at a party
george weasley x introvert!f!reader
hands @lcvecials
in which george is just trying to have a conversation with you, and you can’t stop staring at his hands.
george weasley x gn reader
words : 0.6k
i won't say (i'm in love) @drowsyhope
You’ve been trying to convince yourself that you do not like George Weasley. sure, he has nice hair, a handsome smile, and those eyes? Yeah, you’re in love — but you won’t say it!
words : 3k
his little fox @rottenherbs
George has spotted a wild fox that has taken to his liking, little does he know it’s the girl he can’t keep his eyes off in the halls.
george weasley x animagus reader
words : 1.9k
____
Oliver Wood
captain's favorite @drowsyhope
being apart of the Gryffindor Quidditch was surely not for the weak because of the captain — Oliver Wood. so, when you came back for your 5th year, you strived to be the best! funny enough, the Prefects keep watch on you for some odd reason?
words : 3.6k
in the background @incantatem
you find yourself in detention with Oliver Wood, who seems to have gone the last seven years without noticing you, or so he thinks.
words : 9k
mobility exercises @yasministration
oliver wood doesn't expect to walk onto the quidditch pitch to find the slytherin team finishing up their post workout stretches. nor does he expect to be flirted with by their captain
words : 1.3k+
a bit suggestive
the chocolate frog conspiracy @toffeetonks
To the students at Hogwarts, Oliver Wood is Gryffindor’s beloved Quidditch captain. But to Y/N L/N, he’s the boy who keeps sliding her Chocolate Frogs during her study sessions... Like sugar can disguise the fact that he’s falling in love with her.
words : 2k
so possessive @lumosflairr
Oliver gets jealous when he see’s you and the twins messing around. More specifically, when they have their hands on you.
words : 0.9k
thicker than a broomstick @jijournal
Quidditch is brutal, but nothing compares to Oliver Wood’s hopeless attempts at flirting—too bad the only person who doesn’t realize he’s asking you to the Yule Ball is you.
words : 2.1k
an A minus @vaanny
remembering your parents’ promise of not letting you come back home for the holidays if you don’t meet their expectations, you find yourself considering an offer that is too good to refuse.
the party & the after party @spencersmopbucket
After three years of dating, you and Oliver come to the conclusion that you're better off without each other. A few months later, at the start of 7th year, you realize just how wrong you were. Oliver had always had a quick temper, but seeing you being flirted with at a post-victory party seemed to push it to new limits.
ye alright ? @nyxthedeity
Everyone's getting struggle in finding a date for the Yule Ball, but for Oliver? Oh, he already got his eyes on someone far longer than the Yule Ball. The only problem is how he's going to ask her out.
Oliver Wood x Ravenclaw!fem!reader
ring @soupandsimple
moments that Oliver’s wedding ring amplify the butterflies in your stomach
the hate game @heartthrobin
the only thing more grating than Oliver's foul moods and his permanent scowl, has to be the fact that he's so damn pretty. you fucking hate him for it.
oliver wood x female!reader
words : 13.3k
____
Neville Longbottom
gamophobia @cipheress-to-k-pop
Gamophobia (noun) | /ˌɡæməˈfəʊbiə/ An extreme or irrational fear of long-term commitment or marriage, often resulting in avoidance of deep emotional intimacy despite genuine affection.
words : 11.7k
greenhouse blues @ssspark
Neville’s clumsy moment in the greenhouse before class surprisingly gives him a little bit of hope.
Neville Longbottom x Hufflepuff!Fem!Reader
words : 1.2k
obvious enough @yasministration
it seems that the only person in the entire castle who doesn't know about your feelings for neville is neville himself. your signals become increasingly more obvious, but even asking him out to hogsmeade doesn't seem to be obvious enough for him.
words : 1.9k
the alchemy @kyber-crystal
there’s a special sort of alchemy that’s involved in falling in love and finding the ‘one.’ luckily, you don’t need to try so hard—he’s already out there waiting.
words: 3k
my wish @ravenclaws-stuff
Neville makes one wish for his birthday.
palmistry @yasministration
when you begin learning advanced palm reading with professor trelawney, you don't only uncover new truths about you, but those around you — particularly one boy you have your eyes on.
words : 3.3k
yeah , I do @httpvomitello
One day, you looked at Neville Longbottom and saw something new. Something you had never noticed before—the way he had grown, the quiet strength in his eyes, the way his smile made your heart stutter.
neville longbottom x f!reader
between the pages @leturmindwonder
A study session in the library leads to some truths being revealed.
your voice is my favorite sound @yupthisisshe
Nevile begins rambling about plants and Neville apologizes for talking too much. Reader assures him that they do not mind at all.
Maybe I'll make you see through my words and my actions exactly just how much you mean to me. @drearydaffodils
You spend an afternoon in the presence of your lover, and have a sweet date <3
words : +800
____
Cedric Diggory
platitude @artyteah
there's nothing more used and reused than popular students falling for the one student that isn't interested in them. for cedric, it started with curiosity. for reader, it certainly is a bad joke where she is the punchline.
the alchemy @blossominmist
you were hogwarts’ golden couple — both quidditch captains, both prefects, both hopelessly in love. until your family forced you to break his heart. a year later, the feelings are still there, stronger than ever, but so are the rumours about cho chang. when cedric is chosen as hogwarts’ champion, you finally speak to him again. not to win him back… just to help him survive.
cedric diggory x fem!reader
words : 4.9k
personal fav !
where the snow remembers us @taycherouzz
Cedric and you end up in a chaotic snowball fight that accidentally exposes a photo he’s kept of you for years.
Cedric x fem!reader
rough day ? @mmeskywalker
CEDRIC DIGGORY has just gotten done with quidditch practice. a rough one at that. if the word rough even began to cut what that poor man experienced. he’s upset, he’s grouchy, yet he’s completely and utterly yours.
the golden labrador and pretty blues @mokkiaun
cedric diggory was the golden boy of hogwarts, his charming smile and soft gestures had every girl swooning. so what happens when mr perfect stumbles into a sweet and beautifully dazed beauxbaton girl?
cedric diggory x beauxbaton! fem! reader
your champion @rottenherbs
You’re Harry’s sister, close in age and fiercely protective of one another. At the Quidditch World Cup, you meet Cedric Diggory, and the connection between you is instant. Harry disapproves of the budding relationship, worried about Cedric’s intentions—but when the second task of the Triwizard Tournament puts you in danger, Cedric steps in to save you, proving just how much he cares.
cedric diggory x potter reader
words : 2.7k
a lover's ruse @mentally-in-northern-italy
Your agonizing courtship and Cedric’s need to spite his ex are both ailments that have a very simple cure: a fake relationship, obviously.
Cedric Diggory x fem!gryffindor!reader
words : 3.9k
a promise kept @jijournal
Before the Triwizard Tournament, Cedric makes you promise that, no matter what happens, you won’t cry over him. After his death, you struggle to keep that promise—until you find the letter he left behind.
words : 2.3k
only you , my girl @lumosflairr
While you and Cedric are in a happy relationship, some girls can’t comprehend the fact he’s taken and shamelessly flirt with him. While your aware he wouldn’t dare give them a second thought, it hurts a little. However, Cedric being the amazing boyfriends he is - comes up with an idea to cheer you up!
the extended potter family @luv4freddie
now that you and Cedric have gone official, it’s time to finally give your parents what they want. A holiday visit to the Potter home quickly becomes chaotic.
Summary: Scrolling on TikTok you came across a video of a girl wiping her boyfriend’s face off. When asked, she told him she’s ’cleaning her seat for later’. Without a doubt that intrigued you to do it on your own boyfriend. Only, you didn’t expect him to react so quickly.
A/N: I haven’t written anything like this in a while—like, since July. I’m sorry if it’s not the greatest. I tried. 😭
Warnings: Oral (f! and m! receiving… at the same time) , 34 + 35 , Size Kink (if you squint)
——————————————————————————
It started with an innocent scroll.
You were watching TikTok, waiting for leftovers to reheat because seconds had to be hours in the microwave as the video popped on your screen. ‘Telling my boyfriend I’m cleaning my seat for later.’ A scoff tumbled from your lips as the man realized what she meant, reining her in by her hips.
Something that corny was sure to get Clark’s attention, you thought.
“Baby,” you called, tossing your hair over your shoulder. He adjusted himself the couch, humming in response. “What are you doing?”
“Watchin’ Primitive Survival Tool on the Tube,” he pushed his glasses forward, the words slipping off his tongue like butter.
You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Dork,” you muttered, knowing damn well he could still hear it as you stalked toward him. Tissue in hand.
His legs opened as you stepped between them, taking his chin in your hands as you carefully wiped the edges of his mouth. He didn’t question it. Your thumbs brushed beneath his eyes as they stared adoringly up at you, gently taking his glasses off for better access. As you did, his features sharpened, showing you all of your beautiful boyfriend.
The microwave yelled for you to come back, but you had a new hunger. Something rooted much deeper in your stomach. “Pretty boy,” you murmured, soothing your palm along his cheek.
Clark was so enthralled by the gentleness of your hands he didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat there. Tissue caressing his forehead. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “Could you take the tissue away?”
“No,” you frowned. “I need it.”
“Why?” If you didn’t know any better he was whining, guiding your thighs to wrap around his as you wiped his face with dry tissue. His large hands settled on your hips.
You adjusted yourself in his lap. “Because,” you said. “I’m cleaning my seat for later.”
His movement stilled, eyes opening slowly as his head tilted forward. Then his lips captured yours. It was dizzying. Soft mhms slipping until you sat above him on the couch. “Clark!” You gasped, giggling as he pulled you in for another.
“Your seat? Come on,” he chuckled, sliding his hands down your pants. “Don’t leave it waiting, it could get cold. Or worse! Dirty,” goosebumps crawled across your skin as he flipped you with practiced ease, settling you right atop his mouth as your giggled stilled, replaced by something more.
You watched his pants tower, aching the be let free. His tongue delved in and out of your pussy, penetrating you as he rolled your hips into his mouth. “Golly,” he moaned, bucking into the air. “Were you this wet when you came over here? Or was it me, sweetheart—all ‘cause of me?”
He circled your clit with his tongue, sucking greedily as he mixed his spit with your arousal. It was filthy. You knew you were making a mess of him, moaning like a bitch in heat. Still, you whined as he grinded your hips down, bouncing you against his face.
Wetness formed on the fabric of Clark’s lap, his toes curling into the armchair. Time stilled until his breathing sputtered. The outline of his dick was in your hand, shaky fingers dragging across the clothed tip. “All you,” you whimpered, pulling his sweats and boxers down at the same time. “All ‘cause of you, Clark.”
Then your lips were around him, inching his length as he moaned into your sex. “G-goodness—Baby you’re gonna make me—!” his hips stuttered. He was large, but nothing you weren’t able to handle anymore.
Your spit coated his cock, tongue swirling as your nose brushed against neatly groomed pubic area. “Gonna make me come,” he warned, fingers applying pressure to your clit and he practically attacked your cunt with his mouth. “Come with me, sweetheart. Make a mess of my face—Goodness. Gosh, please make a mess of my face, sweetie. Please, please,” he cut himself off with a broken breath, chasing your orgasm as he came down your throat.
You gyrated against his fingers and chin as he milked you dry, thighs shaking around his sides. “You’re so perfect, baby,” you breathed, licking the cum off your lips. It spilled down your face but you didn’t mind. You wanted to see his, so you turned around. He helped you, stilling your shakiness with the gentleness of his palm.
Clark’s sucked in a breath, tilting his head with a crooked, lazy smile. He used you as leverage to help himself up. Face flushed. “No, love,” he murmured into the edge of your mouth. You tasted yourself on his lips. “But I will be.” Confused, you leaned back. He grabbed the tissue you recently discarded. “I will be… right after you clean me up for another round.”
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Summary: Showing Clark Kent your most recent music video.
A/N: This is based around a scenario in my Fame DR where I show my S/O the recent music video I made. The song there is similar to Jada - Ariana Grande’s unreleased song. Unfortunately, I’m not writing this about my S/O specifically said because it wouldn’t get any views. I’m proud of this scenario. I want people to see in a way they’ll enjoy it too 😭 (Also there’s a niche little reference to True Love by Ariana 😛 He proposed Christmas week.)
Warning(s): fiancé!reader , shameless!clark , unprotected p n v (wrap it before you tap it) , clark fucking his cum back into you , needy!clark , tit play , finger sucking , dacryphilia if you squint, proof read but not very well lol it’s 1:00a.m.
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The beginning of your new hit single: LIKE THAT? blasted through the stereo as you connected your phone to the TV. You stuttered for the pause button. “Sorry,” you choked. A little nervous. “Didn’t except it to play that fast.”
“Sweetheart,” his thumbs caressed your ankles, head rested back, holding your calves closer to his lap. “I want to watch it. I’ve waited long enough. You’d think I was forcing you to show me,” the laughter hanging from his lips was contagious.
Unpausing the video, you rolled your eyes, grinning. “Fine,” you said. Put your phone down to stop yourself from pausing it again. In the midst of everything, you grabbed his phone, unable to watch your work without nitpicking it.
It wasn’t bad.
Actually, it was great. You were the biggest pop star in the world, after all. People stayed awake til midnight for your video to drop. Clark was there when you recorded it for your label. There was nothing to be nervous about. But it was different when someone you cared for watched your work. Judged your effort.
What if he didn’t like it?
Don’t be ridiculous, you thought. Get your mind out of the gutter.
You opened Sudoku on Clark’s device, picking up where he left off, but heat rushed through you. Clark’s mouth was agape, starring at the screen as if he were in a trance. Was that a good thing? A 3 could fit into the first space on the top left box. He squeezed your calf. “Holy smokes… Crawling around like that could make a guy weak,” he sputtered, unable to pull his gaze.
“Yeah?” You smiled shyly, inching away from the phone.
“Oh yeah,” he scoffed as if it were obvious. “You’re beautiful, darling,” he was absentmindedly tapping your skin to the rhythm of the beat. “And those vocals? Goodness, sweetie. They’re beautiful too. Everything you do. It’s mesmerizing. You’re mesmerizing. Jeepers—“ his voice broke as you bored into the camera, working the floor the same way you have in the bedroom.
The same way you will tonight.
It was hard to tell exactly where he was looking from that angle. His side profile in full view, warm fluorescents glistening off his skin as the screen zoomed into your lips. Enveloping your foot, he pressed your heel against the firmness of his slacks, unable to decently express how you were making him feel. He was at a loss for words.
He swallowed thickly as the video faded. Grabbed your phone. Pushed replay… then repeat. “You,” he breathed, separating your legs with his hips as he settled above you. “Are so talented.” His voice muffled as he stole a deep kiss from your lips, tongue swirling with yours. “Just listen to that.” His head boped to the beat, tickling your sides to get you to move in order to lay between you and the couch.
“I’m listening, I’m listening,” you giggled, shielding yourself in his chest until he stopped tickling you.
He held you for a moment. “Good,” he huffed, kissing the top of your head. “Because this is a hit.”
“You’re a loser,” you shoved him away. Far enough to look him in the eye. He smirked, legs tangled with yours. Before you knew it he was pressed against your core, hips bucking into yours as he rolled you to your back, pinning you under his weight.
“Gonna give this loser an autograph?” He spoke into your neck, groaning at the beat drop. His body was a magnetic pull. Hair soft. Voice sweet.
Smugness spread across your face as you held his face against your shoulder blade, teeth nipping your skin. “Clark, baby. That doesn’t even make sense,” you chuckled, waiting for his contort.
“I don’t care,” he whined, holding you close. You could feel his lashes as he rolled his eyes. Lips gentle against the crook of your neck. His weight an anchor. Something you didn’t want rid of. You held him closer. He sighed into your embrace, arms slipping between your waist and the couch, hugging you tightly.
Your nails raked through the thick hairs of his nape. Up his scalp. Massaged his hairline. “You know,” you whispered in an effort to distract his drifting eyelids. “I wrote a song about the way you proposed to me.”
“Did you really?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, playing with his curls. “I’m calling it True Love.”
“You make me weak,” Clark tilted your head forward, planting an open mouthed kiss to your jaw. His hand fumbled down your stomach. “You gotta stop wearing these.” You frowned, confused until he tore your underwear as if it were flimsy garbage. Not sixty dollar, sleek material. “Oh great heavens,” he exhaled shakily, gathering your wetness on the tip his finger.
He brought it to his mouth, moaning around the taste, before catching you in a dizzy kiss. You wrapped your arms around his neck, reining him closer. His slacks pulled down his ankles. He pressed his length against you. The fabric of his boxers was delicious against your puffy clit.
“Gonna fuck me, Superman?” You cooed, unbuttoning his white work shirt. “All worked up over my new video?” You had a direct view down his sharp abs. The shirt draping loosely around his frame.
He nodded, whorishly moaning. “Been waiting all day for this. Was bragging about you during my shift,” he admitted. “Can’t believe you’re mine.” Recalling back his cock seemed to swell thicker against your core. He pulled himself out of his boxers, lining himself with your entrance. “Is this okay? Please baby, it hurts. I-I need you so badly!”
You couldn’t get enough of the sounds he was making. Begging to let him fuck you. As always, Clark never failed to ask for consent. Your nails raked up his back. “It’s okay, Clark,” you took his earlobe in your mouth, sucking gently before grazing it with your teeth. “Fuck me.”
“S-so tight,” he whimpered, pushing his cock into you. “Squeezin’ me, sweetheart. Feels so good—Aauh—“
His hips stuttered. The bridge repeating the lyrics: Do you like that? over and over as his seed spilled from your pussy. His moaning stuttered ‘yes’ as the it progressed. Sweetheart, you thought, unable to be mad he came so early. You expected it. Poor boy was working himself up all day waiting to see your pretty face on the big screen of your apartment.
Clark fucked his seed back into you, gathering it and pumping it in and out of your greedy hole, mesmerized as his thumb toyed with your glistening clit. He pressed down and your entire body buzzed. You muffled your moans in his neck as you reached your climax. His face turned back toward the screen.
“There,” he paused the video. “Want you to ride me like that,” effortlessly, he flipped you above him, managing to keep you connected as he rolled you onto his lap, breath uncontrollably hitching as you bounced up and down his cock.
Unpaused.
“Dirty boy!” You gasped, sliding his shirt the rest of the way off his muscular frame, then wrapped the fabric teasingly around his neck. “One orgasm wasn’t enough?”
He couldn’t respond. Too dizzy. Too fucked. His hands rested on your hips, squeezing the fat of your ass as his head rolled back. “Mmmm—N-no!— Not enough. Need more of you!” His palms became harsh. Groping your ass. Slapping it. Forcing you to take him deeper. Tears prickled his eyes. “Right there!” He screamed.
You pulled him to your mouth by the sleeves, keeping him close as you rode him. His mouth was wet against yours. Needy. You savored the sounds on your tongue. Sliding his hands under your shirt, he discarded it from your body, brows etched, maintaining eye contact as he sucked your stiff nipple.
He moaned around it, needing your other tit in his big hand. “Keep going,” you breathed, throwing your head back. “Feels so good, baby!” He circled his tongue around your nipple, whimpering at your praise.
Pop.
“Think you look better like this,” he admitted, playing with your nipples between his fingers. Face flushed. Crying. You tilted your head. Smirk toying at your lips.
“Having a-actual sex?” You chuckled, caressing his head back and your hands, breath caught as you began to shake. Your clit was rubbing perfectly against his pubic area. It was overwhelming in the most delicious way.
He shook his head, stifling a moan. “N-no,” he murmured. “In my arms.”
“You’re a c-cornb-ball!” your smile was prominent until it was cut by an earth shattering orgasm. You went limp against his chest. He held you firm against him as you failed to catch your breath, squeezing his thick length.
“No. I love you,” he corrected, thrusting faster. “I love you,” he repeated. Breath pitching. “I love you. Goodness, honey, I love you so much. ‘nd I get you everyday. You’re a dream come tru—Uuuuh!—“ his thrusts fastened as he released inside you again, not daring to drag his cock away.
You stilled for a moment. Wrapped your arms around his head. “I love you,” you murmured back. “So much.”
Clark buried his face in your neck. “Y/N Kent,” he murmured, rubbing your back as his hips slowly circled against yours.
“Hm,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut.
His nose rubbed back and forth against your skin. “I just like saying it...” he said, kissing your shoulder blade, down your arm, then took your ring finger in his mouth, pressing the digit down on his tongue.
Your eyes darkened as he swirled it around your engagement ring. The metal clashed against his teeth, and you knew you wouldn’t stop. Not for a while. A thick… long… hard while.
Summary: Scrolling on TikTok you came across a video of a girl wiping her boyfriend’s face off. When asked, she told him she’s ’cleaning her seat for later’. Without a doubt that intrigued you to do it on your own boyfriend. Only, you didn’t expect him to react so quickly.
A/N: I haven’t written anything like this in a while—like, since July. I’m sorry if it’s not the greatest. I tried. 😭
Warnings: Oral (f! and m! receiving… at the same time) , 34 + 35 , Size Kink (if you squint)
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It started with an innocent scroll.
You were waiting for leftovers to reheat because seconds had to be hours in the microwave. Then the video popped on your screen. ‘Telling my boyfriend I’m cleaning my seat for later.’ A scoff tumbled from your lips as the man on screen realized what she meant, reining her in by her hips.
Something that corny was sure to get Clark’s attention, you thought.
“Baby,” you called, tossing your hair over your shoulder. He readjusted himself on the couch, humming in response. “What are you doing?”
“Watchin’ Primitive Survival Tool on the Tube,” he pushed his glasses forward, the words slipping like butter.
You couldn’t help but chuckle. “Dork,” you muttered, knowing damn well he could still hear as you stalked toward him. Tissue in hand.
His legs opened as you stepped between them, taking his chin in your hands as you carefully wiped the edges of his mouth. He didn’t question it. Your thumbs brushed beneath his eyes as they stared adoringly up at you, gently taking his glasses off for better access. As you did, his features sharpened, showing you all of your beautiful boyfriend.
The microwave yelled for you to come back, but you had a new hunger. Something rooted much deeper in your stomach. “Pretty boy,” you murmured, soothing your palm along his cheek.
Clark was so enthralled by the gentleness of your hands he didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat there. Tissue caressing his forehead. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “Could you take the tissue away?”
“No,” you frowned. “I need it.”
“Why?” If you didn’t know any better he was whining, guiding your thighs to wrap around his as you wiped his face with dry tissue. His large hands settled on your hips.
You adjusted yourself in his lap. “Because,” you said. “I’m cleaning my seat for later.”
His movement stilled, eyes opening slowly as his head tilted forward. Then his lips captured yours. It was dizzying. Soft mhms slipping until you sat above him on the couch. “Clark!” You gasped, giggling as he pulled you in for another.
“Your seat? Come on,” he chuckled, sliding his hands down your pants. “Don’t leave it waiting, it could get cold. Or worse! Dirty,” goosebumps crawled across your skin as he flipped you with practiced ease, settling you right atop his mouth as your giggled stilled, replaced by something more.
You watched his pants tower, aching the be let free. His tongue delved in and out of your pussy, penetrating you as he rolled your hips into his mouth. “Golly,” he moaned, bucking into the air. “Were you this wet when you came over here? Or was it me, sweetheart—all ‘cause of me?”
He circled your clit with his tongue, sucking greedily as he mixed his spit with your arousal. It was filthy. You knew you were making a mess of him, moaning like a bitch in heat. Still, you whined as he grinded your hips down, bouncing you against his face.
Wetness formed on the fabric of Clark’s lap, his toes curling into the armchair. Time stilled until his breathing sputtered. The outline of his dick was in your hand, shaky fingers dragging across the clothed tip. “All you,” you whimpered, pulling his sweats and boxers down at the same time. “All ‘cause of you, Clark.”
Then your lips were around him, inching his length as he moaned into your sex. “G-goodness—Baby you’re gonna make me—!” his hips stuttered. He was large, but nothing you weren’t able to handle anymore.
Your spit coated his cock, tongue swirling as your nose brushed against neatly groomed pubic area. “Gonna make me come,” he warned, fingers applying pressure to your clit and he practically attacked your cunt with his mouth. “Come with me, sweetheart. Make a mess of my face—Goodness. Gosh, please make a mess of my face, sweetie. Please, please,” he cut himself off with a broken breath, chasing your orgasm as he came down your throat.
You gyrated against his fingers and chin as he milked you dry, thighs shaking around his sides. “You’re so perfect, baby,” you breathed, licking the cum off your lips. It spilled down your face but you didn’t mind. You wanted to see his, so you turned around. He helped you, stilling your shakiness with the gentleness of his palm.
Clark’s sucked in a breath, tilting his head with a crooked, lazy smile. He used you as leverage to help himself up. Face flushed. “No, love,” he murmured into the edge of your mouth. You tasted yourself on his lips. “But I will be.” Confused, you leaned back. He grabbed the tissue you recently discarded. “I will be… right after you clean me up for another round.”
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, irritatingly 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, gently, 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, 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, clement 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. “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 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. “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, more purposeful.
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."
themes⋆⁺₊⊹ reader has a fear of thunder and possibly loud noises in general, just complete fluff! There are no assumptions to reader's house
promptober '25
You have always hated the sound of thunder for as long as you could remember, the anticipation of loud noises clapping through sky after every lightning that struck the earth.
The angered clouds darkening the land, welcoming rods that hit every few minutes; you hated it, you hated that it triggered your fear, shivering to the ground as you tried to muffle the sound with the palm of your hands.
You hated it because it made you feel weak, vulnerable, like there was nothing you could do to stop the hair on your back standing at every sudden sound that vibrated through the skies.
This fact was kept secret from anyone and everyone you knew at Hogwarts. Which unfortunately included your boyfriend Cedric Diggory, who was searching top and bottom of the entire castle to find you. Poor boy didn’t know you were currently hiding in your dorm, inside the wardrobe. Yes, the wardrobe. You read that correctly.
He checked from the highest towers to even the dungeons, just in case you had a hankering to explore the darkness for the sake of some Halloween spirit. But it would seem like you hadn’t been there at all, even your own friends didn’t know where you were, which caused much worry to the hufflepuff.
Cedric tried once more to search for you inside your bedroom, but it was empty, the curtains barely closed shut, bed almost neatly tucked in; you were probably in a rush to class this morning—and the still fire from the heater placed in the center of the room.
He was just about admit defeat, close to exiting through the door and contemplated to find the head of your house, maybe they knew of your whereabouts. However, before he could turn the knob of the old mahogany door, a sound that resembled a cry was loud enough to hear through the crack of thunder. For a moment, Cedric thought he had simply misheard and possibly mistaken the squeak of his shoes for a voice. But then it happened again when light flashed through the crack of the curtains, followed by a sharp roar, another whimper sounded from his left.
He quietly stepped closer to the source, stopping himself in front of the wardrobe near your bed, gently opening it from its round nobs to find a girl, sat in an upright fetal position, knees clutched to her chest as her body shivered in fear. The young man could easily recognize it to be you, but when you took notice of his presence, you seemed rather panicked.
“Cedric?! What on earth are you doing here?” Eyes widening at being overshadowed by the man, staring down at your shaken figure, tears pricking at your lashes.
He scoffed a chuckle, “you’re the one inside a wardrobe, I believe I’m the one who should ask that question.”
You tried to mutter out an explanation at the top of your head but you failed, and just before you could attempt to start a sentence, the sound of thunder chased you away, entire body shivering up, your hair bouncing upwards at the sudden shock, you slammed the door shut and instantly curled into yourself once again. Meanwhile, Cedric stood there in confusion, stepping back as the gears of his head turned.
It was then when you whined, “just-just go… Please. I’ll come out when it’s finished…”
When what was finished?
Finally, everything clicked together, your missing for the rest of the day when the storm began, the current hiding inside a wardrobe; shines from the bolts flashed inside the room, revealing your trembling form from what Cedric could see through the crack of the door. It all started to make sense now.
You were held in a state of distress and fright, and he hadn’t been able to comfort you, even now he knew you would be too stubborn to allow him to console you. The boy stood there trying to rack his brain for some sort of a solution.
A minute later in complete silence, you assumed that Cedric had left the room, until sounds of grunts and a deep plap sounded behind the doors. Some time later the noises ceased and the only form of protection that you had to keep away from the loudness of the sky opened quietly, revealing your golden boy in a nervous smile.
Whispering your name like you would run away from him if he were just a decibel louder… “Come on now,” holding his hand out to you, hoping that you would allow him to take care of you for once.
Sensing your hesitation, he started again, “you trust me, don’t you, love?” Your breath flew from your lungs, chest tightening at the sight. Cedric was the one and only person you could trust with all your heart, even during a day that was oh so bleak and shown no signs of getting better, he guided you through it. You trusted this man blindly and it hurt your heart that he thought for a second, that you hesitated because you couldn’t trust him.
You slowly stood up from the plank of wood that has been carrying you in this cupboard, reaching out to take his hand when abruptly the deafening thunder petrified your body, on instinct you flew into the arms of your savior; and without an ounce of hesitation. He caught you. Holding you close to his heart, soothing the crown of your head as he whispered sweet nothings and gentle reassurance that you were safe and sound.
Sweeping your anchored feet off the floor, making his way to—what you figured that caused the previous noises—a makeshift fort of couch cushions, pillows and a large duvet, ground covered in a another blanket along with your stuffed animals.
Cedric placed you under the soft fortress with the utmost care as if you were made of glass, plopping himself right beside you, while arms surrounded your shoulder in comfort as you leaned into his warmth. “We can hide here until the storm subsides,” smiling as he scooted impossibly closer, prompting little giggles from your tear stricken cheeks. Cuddling into one another, holding onto you for every thunder that dared to scare your heart.
“Next time… Just come to me, alright?” Kissing your forehead as his thumb caresses your arm.
You could only reply in a nod, staring into his eyes, ones that looked at you like you were his sole purpose of living, fire behind the metal heater shun under his gaze, lighting his pupils in a breathtaking gold, cheeks rosy red that lifted beneath his comforting smile.
Cedric Diggory held you from that night on, through every storm he was at your side instantaneously. Your knight in shining armor, who protected you underneath a castle of used cushions and the shield of his arms around you.
yuna's voice mail ⋆⁺₊⊹ Currently trying to finish the previous 2 fics as fast as I can!
Based on the prompt -> Blanket Fort
These prompts are from @acourtofchaos promptober event masterlist.
Summary: Clark likes his editor, even if she's a little mean to him.
Word Count: 12.1k
Content: 18+, smut, clark is a disaster and a yearner, reader is a little mean but clark is into it, piv sex, oral (f!receiving), clark whimpers, light angst, reader is described as having hair
To Read on AO3
Daily Planet, Metropolis - 9:47 AM
The hustle and bustle of the newsroom is already well underway by the time Clark Kent makes an appearance. The way-too-big gray suit that he wore at least once a week is crumpled, the coat nearly hanging off his shoulder as he tries to make sure he hasn’t lost any of the papers that are haphazardly hanging from his open bag while balancing a cup holder with four cups of coffee from the nice coffee shop down the road.
Other employees step around the frazzled man as he makes a beeline for his desk, flashing smiles and good mornings to everyone along the way. He’s stopped just shy of his destination as Lois Lane pops out in front of him, eyes heavy with exhaustion, as she eyes the paper cups before plucking the one with the most sugar listed on the order sticker. “Thanks,” she mumbles as she turns around, making her way back to her desk, muttering some stuff under her breath about having to rewrite the byline for her article again.
Clark barely has time to stutter out a ‘you’re welcome’ before he realizes the missing coffee cup has caused the cup holder to begin to tip sideways, the other three coffees teetering dangerously close to disaster. Clark can already see the next two seconds flashing before his eyes: spilled coffee and the exasperated look from everyone around him.
That is, until a perfectly manicured hand shoots out from behind him, deftly swiping the cup holder from him before all of the cups spill over. He follows the hand to its source, landing on your face… your very stern, eyebrow cocked in disbelief, face. “Seriously, Kent?” you ask with a scoff as you set down the holder onto his desk.
He feels the burn up the sides of his neck to his ears as he stammers, clamoring to put his bag down and straighten out his suit. You look nice today, he notes. You look nice every day, even as you stand before him, scowling. All he can think about is how pretty you look and how mesmerizing the red of your lipstick is.
“Y-yeah, sorry,” he finally apologizes, snapping to as he realizes you were waiting for him to respond. “The fight with Superman this morning ended up shutting down the A-Line, so I had to walk.”
You don’t even try to disguise the way your eyes roll at his excuse. “Superman, of course,” you mutter under your breath before raising the manila folder you were holding. “Here are the edits for the article you gave me yesterday, and remember, you still owe me the draft for the Crane case.”
“Geez, let the guy breathe for a second before jumping down his throat as soon as he gets in,” Jimmy Olsen comments with a grin as he saunters over, grabbing another cup from the holder on Clark’s desk. He pats Clark on the shoulder with a faint ‘thanks, man’ all the while pretending you’re not glaring daggers at him as he falls into his chair, sipping happily on his coffee.
You point the folder at Clark, who stands there awkwardly as you turn your fury to Jimmy. “He wouldn’t need a chance to breathe if he got here on time like the rest of us,” you fume. Jimmy holds his hands up in surrender, sending a sympathetic smile to Clark before ducking his head and turning back around to face his monitor. As much as Jimmy loves Clark, he was not going to put himself in front of your wrath for him.
When you turn back to Clark, he at least has the decency to look apologetic, hunched in a way to make himself appear smaller, and the corners of his lips pulled into a remorseful smile. You curse his dimples silently in your mind. “I was hoping getting you a coffee might soften the blow of me being late… again.”
You look down at the two remaining cups and see your name written in Clark’s chicken scratch handwriting with a wobbly smiley face drawn next to it. The sticker with the order on it displaying that he’d gotten you your favorite from the shop down the road that you loved to go to whenever you managed to pull yourself away from your desk for longer than ten minutes. That is to say that it is a luxury around here.
Your eyes narrow and lips purse for just a moment before you shove the folder into his chest, and he scrambles to catch it before it hits the ground. “I’m serious, you better have it to me by six P.M., Perry has been on my ass about it,” you assert before plucking your coffee from his desk and turning to walk back to the editor block, the click of your heels like a siren song that has his eyes following after you trailing up your form before settling on your plush backside before he realizes what he’s doing and looks away quickly, suddenly very interested in the broken ceiling tile above his desk.
He hears a snort of laughter and glances back over at Jimmy, who is not even attempting to hide his shit-eating grin. “What?” Clark asks.
Jimmy shakes his head in disbelief. “Dude, you have it so bad.” Clark dares to look confused as to what Jimmy is referring to. He motions to you and Clark can’t help but to sneak another peek at you as you’re stopped in the middle of the bullpen talking to one of the summer interns, the stern brow you’d had with him has softened as you’re inevitably explaining something you have already gone over at least twice with her before with far more patience than you ever afforded Clark.
Clark doesn’t even realize the dopey smile that works its way onto his face as he stares until Jimmy snaps his fingers. “Yeah, see! That!” He points at Clark’s face, which has now settled into what could only be described as a pout.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Clark insists.
Jimmy groans as he spins in his chair. “Just ask her out already, the worst thing she could say is ‘no’.”
Clark’s brows furrow. “Actually, the worst thing she could say is ‘you’ll be hearing from HR’.”
Lois rolls out from behind her desk, looking a bit more chipper than five minutes prior, cup of coffee still securely in her hand. “Fired for sexual misconduct would look really bad with future employers,” she teases.
Clark gives her an exasperated look, and Jimmy waves his hand at both of them dismissively. “I’m telling you, there’s no way she’d say no or report you to HR.”
“Jimmy, I hate to break it to you, but she cannot stand Clark,” Lois informs.
“Yeah, she can’t—” He whirls around to look at Lois, a distraught look on his face. “What do you mean she can’t stand me?”
“Clark, you’re always submitting drafts to her late —” “Yeah, because I get really nervous and end up re-writing it like five times before I give it to her.” “— You’re also always showing up late for work—” “I can’t help if the city is attacked and an entire subway line gets shut down!”
Lois gives him a sharp look, and he swallows, something unspoken between them that Jimmy at least doesn’t pick up on.
“Listen, some women just aren’t impressed with the whole… naïve farm boy vibe you got going on,” Lois finishes with a shrug. “Don’t take it so personally.”
Clark looks to Jimmy for some backup, and luckily, the redhead takes pity on poor Clark, coming to his friend’s rescue. “Lois, I respect your opinion on this matter as a woman, but trust me, she may seem like she’s not impressed, but—”
“Oh, don’t even give me that she’s playing hard to get spiel,” Lois rolls her eyes with a disbelieving smile on her face.
“—But, I think she’s playing hard to get.”
“Oh my god, you’re both HR violations waiting to happen,” she chides before taking another sip of her coffee.
“Aw, c’mon, look, you made him sad.” Jimmy gestures to a very downtrodden Clark, who is simply staring in the general direction where you had disappeared back into the editor block with a visible frown on his face.
Guilt creeps up Lois’s spine, and she sighs. “Listen, if you really like her, then just ask her out already and spare us having to endure the puppy dog looks.”
“There ya have it,” Jimmy nods. “Lois Lane approved office romance.”
Lois lets out a bark of laughter as she and Jimmy dive into their own conversation, leaving Clark to his thoughts. He drops into his seat, starting to look over the edits you’d handed him. The amount of markups on the page doesn’t even surprise him. Bright blue ink scratches out entire segments of sentences, circling others, neat handwriting tucked into the margins explaining each cut and need for clarification.
The first article you edited for him had been even worse. There was more blue penned onto the page than black printed ink. You had torn his article into shreds, the one he had shyly placed into the tray on your desk after he had tried to email it to you, only to be told you only accepted printed copies of drafts, something none of the other editors requested.
(Lois would later tell him that you preferred having something physical in your hands when you edited, and she’d made the same mistake in her first week)
He had been so proud of that article when he’d handed it over. Less so when you’d given the folder back to him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow before walking back to your desk, it took all of five minutes before he’d shown up in front of you, the marked-up draft crinkled nervously between his hands, clearly upset by the sheer amount of edits.
You had stared at him, unblinking, as he stammered all over himself, waiting until he talked himself into an awkward silence before saying anything. Dealing with uppity journalists who took personal offense to edits was nothing new to you. “If you don’t make the edits, then I won’t approve it and it won’t go to print,” you’d said simply. “Unless you’d like to make an argument for the run-on sentences?”
There wasn’t any malice in your voice, and that was the moment Clark realized it wasn’t personal, it was just your job, and you were not just good, but great at your job. He must have been as red as a tomato by the time he turned and fled back to his desk with his tail tucked between his legs.
He made the edits, and when Perry walked by his desk the next day, he was complimented on the pacing and tone of the piece. It didn’t make the front page… not even second or third, but it was his first article in the Daily Planet.
You had even smiled at him and congratulated him on his first article when you were making your rounds that morning.
That was where this inconceivably tiny, bite-sized crush started.
Because even when you shredded his article into pieces, his heart sang at the tiny compliments left in the margins.
‘Good pacing here.’
‘This passage really shines.’
‘Beautiful.’
And of course, it doesn’t help that you are pretty. Walking around the office with your face done up and hair perfectly styled in outfits he doesn’t think he has seen a repeat of since starting here almost three years ago. He always feels like a mess in front of you, especially when he comes in late (which is often) and sees you standing there, arms crossed, looking like you want to go up one side of him and down the other (which you have before).
There is also the fact that you hate Superman.
Well, maybe hate isn’t the right word.
Strongly disapprove of?
He remembers the first time a clip of Superman played while you all had gathered in the newsroom. When everyone else was oohing and ahhing at Superman’s heroics (which Clark may or may not have been preening a bit at), you stood there, sipping at your overly expensive coffee with such an unimpressed look.
“Just what we need, another jackass in tights wandering around.”
Clark deflated at that.
While you never explicitly said you disliked his caped alter ego, you definitely never had anything kind to say either. The articles he submitted to you about Superman? If he had gotten those edits when he was a freshman in high school writing for the Smallville High newspaper, he would’ve never written another article again.
Entire paragraphs marked for deletion or simply ‘TONE’ in all caps next to specific passages. The worst had been when you crossed out a sentence and just put ‘No’ next to it in the margins.
“It’s a feature, not an op-ed, Kent.”
It was brutal. Even Lois couldn’t help the grimace whenever she happened to catch sight of those drafts, her and Jimmy saluting Clark when they knew he was walking over to the editor block to submit a Superman article to you.
Despite that, he looked forward to seeing you every day. You had become the person he looks for the moment he enters a room, without him even realizing it.
So much about you and the way you move through the world has been noted and categorized by Clark.
He loved the moments when he caught you while editing, two or three pens stuck in your up-do because you kept forgetting you’d placed them there and grabbed a new one each time, chewing on your bottom lip as you carefully marked up whatever draft you were working on.
He loved how you took care of the people around you in your own, sometimes standoffish, way.
“Have you eaten?” You’d asked him one day, his second year of working at the Planet. It was late, and it was just you two and a handful of others in the office working towards deadlines that were creeping far too close for comfort. He’d been having the hardest time with the beat Perry had assigned him and had worked through his lunch and any subsequent breaks.
“O-oh, I don’t really have money to order out right now,” he said, almost embarrassed. He’d just paid rent, which meant he would be living off of cup noodles and breakroom coffee until next week when his next paycheck hit.
You glanced up at him from your phone that you were tapping on. “I didn’t ask if you had money, I asked if you’d eaten,” you replied pointedly before returning your attention to your phone. “Beef and broccoli, yeah?” You confirmed, and he was a bit stunned but managed to nod in response. Warmth rolling through his chest that you remembered his food order. “I’ll get those eggrolls you like, too.”
“I can pay you back next week,” Clark offered, and you just waved your hand at him, not looking up from your phone.
“I’m not worried about it, Kent.” You walked off, calling out to the others in the office that you were ordering food, leaving Clark’s heart to simmer in your wake.
He loved how unafraid you were. How confident you were in your convictions. There weren’t many people at the Planet who would go to bat against Perry, but you did constantly. So many times, he’d walk into the newsroom to see you two having a screaming match about whether or not an article should go to print.
“We are not printing this!”
“Oh, come off it, Perry, if you want to play it safe, go work for Newstime Magazine!”
The article almost always went to print. Not without a lot of griping from Perry, and you never were smug about it. Satisfied, yes. But it was about journalistic integrity. It was about publishing articles that no other company would touch with a ten-foot pole due to the fear of backlash because no one else would do it. There were many other employees at the Planet who shared the sentiment, but you were consistently the one who fought for it, loudly.
So yeah, Clark Kent had a crush on you because why wouldn’t he? And maybe Jimmy was right, and he should ask you out.
(Or maybe he was wrong and Clark would be looking for a new job by Friday)
By the end of the day, he decides he will ask you out to dinner. Hyping himself up in the moment as he starts to finish the article that he has already rewritten twice now.
Except he doesn’t end up asking you out at all. Instead, it is five P.M., and he stands in front of your desk, freshly printed draft clutched in his hands as he watches you type away at something on your monitor.
You don’t even look up at him, and he knows that you know he is standing there.
Time stretches on for what he could only imagine to be an eternity, and he can feel his heartbeat in his throat as he waits until, finally, you push back from your desk, turning to face him. “Is there something you need, Clark?” The eye contact you make sends his heart sputtering, but the way his name rolls off your lips has his knees so weak he almost falls against your desk in a heap. Your gaze flickers down to the papers in his hand. “Is that the Crane case draft?”
“O-oh! Yeah!” He says dumbly, and when he doesn’t do anything but continue to stand there, you blink, briefly wondering if he’d suffered some head injury in the last few hours.
“Can I… have it?” you question, brows furrowed in confusion as you stare up at him.
You watch a flush creep up his cheeks, and he practically slams the folder onto your desk. “Y-yeah, of course! I’m sorry it took so long to get to you, I was having some trouble with one of the sources and…”
“I’ll have the edits to you tomorrow morning,” you confirm. “Try to get here on time, Perry wants this to run for the evening issue.”
He nods, pushing up his glasses as they slide down his nose, and pretends not to notice as you follow the movement. “Don’t worry, I’ll be on time, I promise.” You stare at him for a pause before turning back to your computer, muttering something akin to ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ and Clark is struck by the way the setting sun backlights you, wisps of gold brushing against your profile. His heart his hammering in his chest as he tries to will himself to say something, anything else to you.
“Okay, bye.”
Not that.
“Have a good night,” you call out, not looking up from the screen.
Clark shuffles away, already mentally beating himself up as Jimmy appears behind him, bag swung over his shoulder. “That was rough to watch, buddy.”
“Shut up,” Clark groans as he grabs his things from his desk. “I don’t know why there’s such a disconnect between my brain and my mouth when I’m around her.”
“Hey, I get it, man,” Jimmy nods. “She is scary, but in a really hot way—” Clark’s head snaps up, and he gives Jimmy a sharp look because he knows Jimmy’s reputation. “Relax, relax. She’s all yours, I can assure you. I think she’d eat me alive.”
As Clark follows Jimmy to the elevator, he glances back over his shoulder, seeing you still sitting at your desk as everyone else has begun to pack up for the night. You give a smile and bid another editor goodnight as she tells you not to stay too late.
He knows you will anyway.
As they step into the elevator with a handful of their coworkers, all conversing about their plans for the rest of the night, Clark decides that tomorrow he will definitely ask you out.
He does not end up asking you out tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, as a matter of fact. Every single time he resolved himself to doing so, he felt the words turn to mush in his mouth the moment he saw you.
Once, because you had been standing with Lois in the breakroom, laughing in a way he’d never seen before, the snort of laughter so uncharacteristic and unexpected, he had walked straight into the mail cart, sending envelopes and parcels flying all over the place.
The second time, he had gone into the archives to grab some old records to reference for a story he’d been working on, and turned the corner to see you up on a stool, half bent as you tried to wrestle with a box buried on the shelf. Clark could only focus on the swell of your backside in the tight slacks you were wearing and didn’t even register that you had turned to him.
“Clark? Help, please?”
Whatever words that came out of his mouth were unintelligible as his body went into autopilot, grabbing the box you’d been battling with ease, nodding like an idiot as you thanked him before turning on his heel and walking out, completely forgetting about the entire reason he’d gone in there to begin with.
The third and final time, you weren’t even doing anything special, just sitting at your desk, humming along to the desk radio you had quietly going, sorting through papers. Clark was determined this time. He’d spent the entirety of last night rehearsing what he was going to say, all the while fighting an interdimensional creature that was terrorizing downtown.
He had approached you with confidence, and then you’d turn to face him, lips wrapped around a cherry lollipop that one of the secretaries had given out as extras from her daughter’s birthday party over the weekend.
Whatever confidence he had rapidly warped into panic as words fell out of his mouth in a jumble. Indiscernible and certainly not a sentence asking you to go to dinner with him. He stood there as you stared up at him, and he could see the stain of the lollipop on your lips and tongue.
“Clark, what?”
And then he made some sort of noise and, with haste, fled the vicinity, leaving you there blinking, wondering what just happened.
It is that afternoon that he hears you in a quiet conversation with Lois as he is once again unjamming Printer 4. You perch on her desk, leaning close to whisper to her, completely unaware that Clark can hear every single word you say.
“I think Clark has a concussion,” you inform with a solemn look on your face.
Lois almost laughs at that, but keeps her face trained in faux concern. “Why do you think that?”
“I don’t think that man has said a coherent sentence to me this entire week,” you explain. “He’s basically resorted to communicating with me in grunts like a caveman.”
That has Lois snorting with laughter, trying to hide the smile with her coffee cup as she takes a sip of the lukewarm liquid that’s been sitting on her desk for the better part of the morning. “I can assure you he does not have a concussion.”
You give her a pursed look, clearly not believing her. “Then what is his deal?”
It is at this moment that Lois makes eye contact with Clark from across the newsroom. He feels the dread build up in him as a smirk tilts its way onto Lois’s face, and he can almost see the exact moment the thought formulates in her head.
And then the building shakes, lights flickering as a deafening ‘boom’ echoes from somewhere outside. Silence settles in place of panic, as everyone listens with bated breath, hoping it was nothing to be concerned about, perhaps just some construction down the road. Until the second explosion rocks the building, and then chaos erupts.
People are scrambling all over. Clark sees you grab Lois and push her towards the stairwell, yelling at the gaggle of people who are trying to file into the elevator. “Are you idiots? Use the stairs!” That gets them moving, and Clark is moving with everyone else.
As you all get to the ground floor, you can see the source of the explosions, Green Lantern, Mr. Terrific, and Hawkgirl are fighting some idiot on a hoverboard who keeps tossing explosives around like he’s giving out candy on Halloween. Another one detonates, and a building down the street crumbles from the explosion. Debris and dust are scattering through the streets as people run from the epicenter of the fight. Cops are trying to divert traffic away, and the wail of ambulances approaches.
It’s pandemonium.
“C’mon, Kent, move it!” There’s a hand on his arm, and he looks down to find you pulling him along. The crowd around you is a shifting sea, but you’re firm and steady beside him despite the chaos. He realizes he’s going away from where he needs to be, but he lets you pull him anyway.
And then an explosion hits from somewhere above, and suddenly the air is filled with dirt and smoke, and the crowds push forward even as people sputter and try to regain their bearings. You lose your grip on Clark after getting knocked around by the surge of people, and that’s when panic sets in for you as you stop amidst the mass of people, shouting for him. “Clark?” You don’t see his massive form in the crowd of people, and your throat constricts. “Clark?!”
Someone behind you pushes, and you keep moving because it’s either that or be crushed by the swath of people. There’s a barricade another block down, and by the time you make it there, the crowd has begun to disperse, and there’s still no sign of Clark Kent. You feel nauseous as you think of the plethora of things that could’ve happened to him, though the thought of him lying dead in the street with people rushing over him is at the forefront of your mind.
You ask people as they rush by you.
“Excuse me, have you seen a guy, about this tall?”
“A man, curly hair, and glasses?”
A sonic boom cuts through the chaos, and people cheer as Superman flies onto the scene. You don’t, though. Your phone is in your hand as you search for Clark’s number, which has been unused until now in your contact list. It rings once, twice, all the way until the voicemail picks up.
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
You hang up and try again, ignoring the tightness in your throat when it goes to voicemail once more.
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message and I’ll get—”
You feel your lip wobble. And again.
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but leave a message—”
With Superman coming to their aid, the heroes make quick work of the lone villain. You barely notice that the crowd has waned as the heroics come to an end. Instead, you’re pacing under the awning of a building, being met with Clark Kent’s voicemail message again and again each time you call him.
You had already called Jimmy and Lois, both of whom hadn’t seen their friend, though Lois tried to convince you that he was fine. You couldn’t help the worry that nagged at you.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Someone asks from behind you.
You whirl around, pulling the phone from your ear, and you can’t even help the wide-eyed look that appears on your face. Superman himself stands before you, bathed in the light of the setting sun that creeps through the skyline of Metropolis behind him. He’s bigger in person, you realize. Broader than you thought he’d be.
“Ma’am?” There’s concern on his face when you don’t answer.
“Yes,” you reply quickly. “Yes, I’m sorry, I’m fine.”
“Hey, you’ve reached Clark. I can’t come to the phone right now, but—.”
You look back down at your phone and press the ‘end call’ button, biting your lip.
“I’m looking for Clark,” you tell him. “Clark Kent. You know him, he’s interviewed you before. He was beside me, and then an explosion hit above us, and I lost him in the chaos, and I can’t find him, and he’s not answering his phone—” Your voice cracks, and you don’t even notice the way Superman’s face crumples with it.
“Hey,” he calls out softly as he steps closer. You feel a warm hand on your shoulder, and you look up, your eyes meeting an earthshattering shade of blue. “It’s alright,” he assures. “I’ll find him. Why don’t you go home and rest? I’ll make sure he’s okay.”
You shake your head. “No, if something happened to him, I—”
“Nothing happened to him,” he promises. “I’ll find him, and when I do, I’ll make sure he calls you, how about that?”
You want to be stubborn. You want to tell Superman to shove off. But you’re tired, and there’s a burn in your lungs from all of the dust and smoke. Gripping your phone harder, you shove the edge of it into his chest, and he looks a bit surprised, if not a little amused by the action. “You make sure he calls me,” you order, and there’s a fragility in your voice that Clark doesn’t think he’s heard before, despite the way your jaw is set. You’re putting on a brave face.
A soft smile spreads on Superman’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”
An hour and a half later, just as you fit your key into the deadbolt of your door, your phone rings. The name ‘Clark Kent’ flashes across the screen, and pure relief floods you as you pick up on the second ring. “Clark?”
“H-hey,” his soft voice comes through the other end, and you never thought you would be so happy to hear that Kansan accent. “I’m so sorry, I left my phone at the office and I finally just went back to get it.”
“Are you okay?” you ask as you close your door behind you.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay,” he replies.
There’s a pregnant pause between you two. You think you should say ‘okay’ and hang up, not draw out the conversation any longer than it needs to be. But you don’t. The bizarre want to hear his voice some more, tugging at you in a way you’ve never experienced before. “Don’t think you get to be late to work tomorrow just because a couple of buildings on our street exploded,” you tease, breaking through the tension of the quiet.
He laughs, and even though you’re silent, he can tell you’re smiling too. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he says.
“Goodnight, Clark.”
“Yeah, goodnight.”
Clark surprises you the next morning by not only arriving on time, but arriving early. He’s so early that it is just you two in the newsroom. The shock is written on your face as you spot him walking from the elevator while standing at the copier, eyes wide and mouth agape.
He gives a shy wave, cheeks dimpling as he smiles at you. “Good morning,” he calls out.
What he does not expect is for you to grab the stack of papers off the copier and march towards him, smacking him repeatedly with the pile of papers. “You can’t just disappear like that during a crisis!” He doesn’t flinch as he is hit. You don’t even notice how gently he’s looking down at you, too busy giving him a piece of your mind like you always do. “Like, what the hell, Clark? I thought something happened to you!”
You run out of steam surprisingly quickly and meet his gaze. “I really am sorry,” he whispers, and you take a moment to study his face and the blue of his eyes, and you’re struck by a thought that leaves your mouth dry.
Clark is handsome.
“Don’t do it again,” you warn, giving him one final half-hearted swat to the chest that has him giving you a laugh that leaves you lightheaded. “You’re sure you’re okay?”
He smiles and nods, and when you go to leave, he can feel the end of the moment between you two rapidly approaching. He doesn’t want it to end. “Would you wanna go out to dinner with me?” he asks before he can even think long enough to get nervous about it.
You blink once, then twice as though you’re not quite sure you heard him correctly. “Dinner?”
He nods, swallowing the lump in his throat.
“Is this a date?”
He nods again and can feel his palms begin to sweat.
“Yes,” you say after a beat. He grins, dimples and all, and warmth spreads through your chest, a feeling you’re hesitant to embrace.
“Friday? Seven P.M.?” He asks.
“Gino’s?” You suggest, a lilt to your voice that isn’t normally there, and he’s mesmerized by the look in your eye as you do, by the way you’re trying to disguise the smile that itches at your face. He nods, leaning in a bit. The papers in your hand are a shield between you two, and you step back. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be.” He wouldn’t be.
Gino’s Italian Restaurant, Metropolis - 7:43 PM
He was late.
You didn’t miss the sympathetic looks the hostess and waiters sent you every time they passed by your table for two, which was occupied by one. Your glass of wine was nearly empty, and the bread basket was alarmingly full despite the hunger that gnawed at your insides.
You had been trying not to glance down at your phone for the last half hour, knowing that if you had gotten a text, the screen would light up. However, it had remained dark since you sent Clark your last message, asking where he was.
With one final swig, you empty the glass, catching the eye of the waiter, waving him over. “Can I have the check, please?” you ask.
After paying for your singular glass of wine, once you were out in the cool breeze of the summer night, you finally recheck your phone. The absence of any new message sent a trill of fury through you, only amplified by the news report notification about Superman fighting some gigantic monster in midtown.
“Great,” you grumble. “Let’s hope they don’t knock out the T-Line this time.”
The trek home takes far too long with people getting diverted away from the kaiju battle, and the pleasant buzz you had from the glass of wine had long since worn off as you shove through your apartment door, flinging it closed behind you as you kick off your pumps, breathing in the relief for your aching feet.
You’re desperate to get out of the dress you’d squeezed into (after spending far too long debating what dress Clark would like better on you), but the desire to get absolutely shitfaced after being stood up by your coworker was overwhelming. And that’s how you found yourself lounging on your balcony, watching Big Blue himself battle an enormous alien creature from across the city with nothing but a bottle of chardonnay to keep you company.
You stay there until long after the light show ends, just taking sips from the bottle every so often, sitting in your sorrow. Honestly, you don’t even know why you’re so upset. It’s not as though you even liked Clark all that much; you were just looking forward to a free meal.
Like, yes, he was objectively good-looking, and yes, he always remembered your coffee order. And, yes, maybe you prodded him just a little more than you did others because you liked watching him get flustered.
But you didn’t like him.
(You could have, though)
A loud knock at your door startles you from your thoughts. Your bare feet pad against the floor of your apartment as you softly step to your door, peeking through the peephole, finding none other than Clark Kent himself standing outside of your apartment.
If you were any other person, you might have just ignored the knocking, letting him stew in the silence, but you were not any other person, and with half a bottle of chardonnay in your system, you want nothing more than to give him a piece of your mind.
When you rip the door open, Clark looks at you wide-eyed and sputtering. “I’m so—”
“Oh, absolutely not,” you interrupt, shoving your finger into his (startlingly firm) chest. “You have a lot of nerve, Clark Kent.”
“I know, I know, please just let me—”
“Let you what? Explain? Explain how you left me waiting at Gino’s for forty-five minutes for you? Explain how now at—” You lean back to glance at the microwave clock in your kitchen. “—9:57 PM, nearly 3 hours after we were supposed to meet for our date, you show up at my door expecting to grovel at my feet for me to what? To forgive you?”
“No, that’s not it, please just let me explain,” he begs.
You don’t, though. “You made me look like an idiot.” Your voice is soft, and there’s vulnerability, the bite you had seconds prior, leaving your body rapidly. You can feel the way your throat tightens, and the pit in your stomach feels like it could swallow you whole. You hate feeling like this, feeling this small. Clark looks at your eyes and realizes they’re tinged red and clouded with unshed tears. He wants to throw up. “You made me feel like an idiot.”
“I’m really sorry.” His voice cracks, and it looks like he wants to reach out to touch you, but he doesn’t.
“Me too,” you say back, tone empty and despondent.
“I got you these.” He holds out a lightly crumpled bouquet that’s been hanging limply at his side this entire time. You stare at it. It wasn’t one of those grocery store bouquets, no, this one is full of your favorite flowers, clearly and explicitly curated for you.
You blink back tears and grab the bouquet, holding it close to your chest. “Thank you.”
“You look really pretty.”
“I know,” you whisper. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He doesn’t say anything as you shut the door, your gaze catching your reflection in the hallway mirror. It’s almost pathetic, you all dolled up with a bouquet of all your favorite flowers, looking like you were a moment away from the dam breaking.
And then there’s a burn at the back of your throat that you can’t ignore, and you can’t help as the tears finally fall from your eyes, you suck in a deep breath on instinct, feeling the sob try to wretch out from you. You don’t know that Clark is standing on the other side, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he blinks away his own tears.
The weekend passes by horridly fast. As much as you had wanted to waste away and lament about the date that never was (that you would definitely not admit you had gotten your hopes up for), you would not let being stood up consume your entire weekend; they were a precious commodity after all.
So, after spending Friday night ugly crying into your pillow, you pulled yourself together by Saturday morning. You went out to a boozy brunch with some of your college friends, took yourself on a walk around the park to enjoy the sunshine, and spent some time in your favorite bookstore buying books that you promised yourself you would read and not let sit untouched on your bookshelf like the entire neglected pile of others.
By Sunday, you were feeling better. That is, until you were getting ready for bed Sunday night and the dread hit you.
You spent the night tossing and turning, feeling like you wanted to crawl out of your skin at just the thought of having to see Clark again. By morning, it took a generous application of concealer to hide the bags under your eyes and a heavy pep talk in the mirror to even think about stepping out your door.
As with most Monday mornings, as soon as you walked into the bullpen, it was a cacophony of chaos, but at least it was chaos you were familiar with. You make your way to your desk, offering halfhearted greetings, and feel slight relief as you settle into your seat, hoping that work will keep your brain busy enough not to let the anxiety ruin your day.
Then your gaze fixes on the paper coffee cup placed in front of your keyboard. Your name is written in a familiar chicken scratch handwriting. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you swivel in your seat, looking back at the writer block to see that Clark Kent is already sitting at his desk. Hunched and fidgeting with a stack of Post-it notes as he catches your eye. His mouth tilts up into an uncertain smile.
You purse your lips, a scowl forming on your face as you grab the coffee cup, maintaining unblinking eye contact as you proceed to drop it directly into the garbage can next to your desk, and then you spin back around.
Clark grimaces. “Yeah, I deserve that,” he mutters as he looks back at the blank Word document that’s been taunting him since he got in this morning.
It wasn’t any surprise how quickly word got around about Clark’s spectacular failure. Steve had walked by his desk after the morning meeting, giving a ‘womp womp’ that made Clark nearly snap the pencil he was writing with.
“So, let me get this straight,” Jimmy slides over, munching on some yogurt and granola. “You finally ask out the woman you’ve been pining after for who knows how long, then proceed to miss the date entirely without texting her that you wouldn’t be able to make it, and then show up at her apartment with flowers, thinking that would make up for the complete lack of communication?”
Clark sighs. “Yeah, that about covers it.” His voice is muffled as he buries his face in his hands.
“Buddy,” Jimmy starts. “You really fucked up.”
Clark groans, leaning back in his seat. “Yeah, Jimmy, I know.”
He didn’t even want to look over at Lois because all she kept doing was sending him looks of disappointment the whole morning. She had stopped by your desk this morning with a grin on her face that quickly morphed into a look of horror as you recounted Friday night’s events.
Even Cat, who was usually all honeyed words with Clark, had been giving him the stink eye.
Honestly, though, no one else could make Clark feel as bad as he made himself feel about the whole thing. He had spent the weekend agonizing over how badly he had messed up with you. The sound of you crying on the other side of the door replaying in his head like his own personal version of hell.
He even called his parents.
“Oh, Clark, honey,” Martha soothed. “You wounded that woman’s pride, you just gotta give her some time to cool off.”
“I don’t know, Ma, I think I really messed this one up,” he said, pinching at the bridge of his nose as he felt the telltale pressure of tears building up.
“Now, Clark, no problem worth fixin’ is ever easy.” He couldn’t see them, but he knew Pa was nodding along. “If this girl is everything you’ve made her out to be, she’ll come around.”
The week passes by, and you coming around is nowhere in sight. Every cup of coffee he left on your desk went directly into the trash, the bouquets of your favorite flowers were pawned off to the secretaries, and the lunches were donated to the breakroom on a first-come, first-served basis.
When he went to drop off drafts for you to edit, you pointedly ignored him. To your credit, the edits you made were not as harsh as he’d thought they’d be in light of everything, though there was an apparent lack of any compliments in the margins that he always found himself looking forward to reading (and re-reading).
“Why don’t you come out tonight?” Lois asks on Friday morning. You give her a look, knowing the standing invite for Friday night drinks includes everyone in the office. “C’mon, he won’t be there, he never shows up.”
You pause, chewing at the inside of your lip, internally hemming and hawing. “I’ll think about it,” you finally concede, which is enough to get Lois to grin, a little pep in her step as she makes her way back to the writer block.
Friday afternoon, Jimmy comes sauntering over to you like a cat that got into the cream. He plants himself on your desk, ignoring your look of indignation when he crumples a few drafts you were working on with his ass. “Check out these photos I just finished developing,” he says as he spreads a handful of photos of Superman in front of you. They’re remarkably clear, some of the best pictures you have ever seen of Big Blue. “I was testing out that new lens I just got.” They were from a fight earlier this week in uptown.
Despite your frequently voiced objections to Metropolis’s favorite hero, you give Jimmy a hum of approval, picking one up to closer inspect it. “These are pretty good, how’d you get such a good shot of him in the air?” you ask.
“Climbed up a light pole,” he informs nonchalantly, grabbing some M&Ms from the candy bowl on your desk.
Your neck snaps to look at him. “James!”
“What?” He shrugs his shoulders. “Gotta do what it takes to get the shot.”
You let out a huff. “Unbelievable, you’re gonna break your neck one of these days.” You continue to sort through the photos, setting aside the ones you know Perry will submit for the front page.
“Haven’t yet,” he says, cheekily popping a few M&Ms in his mouth with a wink.
The final photo is a zoomed-in shot of Superman’s face. He’s smiling down at a few children who have gathered around him in the aftermath of the battle, a familiar softness to his face. You straighten up a bit, holding the photo closer to examine it.
“What’s up?” Jimmy asks when he sees your shift in posture.
You feel like you’ve seen it before, the blue of his eyes, the gentle tilt of his lips hinting at dimples, but the rest of the face is… wrong.
Maybe you’re losing it.
“Nothing,” you reply. “Really great work, Jimmy. Perry is definitely going to run this on the front page.”
Jimmy gives a grin.
You end up at the bar, thinking it might be good for you to let your hair down, literally and figuratively, for the night. Lois lights up when she sees you making your way through the Friday night crowd, and Jimmy has a drink in your hand before you even get a chance to sit down.
You’re listening to Cat go on and on about the guy she’s seeing, and given the debacle of the last week, it should annoy you to hear someone gush about their dating life, but the giddiness on Cat’s face is infectious so instead you sit there resting your chin on your hand with a smile on your face as you nod along asking all the appropriate questions.
It’s loud in the bar between all the people and the music playing, so you barely register the bell above the door ringing. You do, however, clock Jimmy turning to Lois and saying, “He never comes out.”
Instinctively, you turn in your seat, immediately locking eyes with Clark. He looks like he just left the office, suit coat slung over his arm and tie loosened. He’s moving through the crowd towards you, not breaking eye contact as though he’s scared you’ll disappear if you do, only to be intercepted by Lois. “Hey, Clark,” she greets, a tight fake smile plastered on her face. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Uh, yeah, well, not a lot going on tonight, so I figured I’d come… socialize,” he says lamely. You don’t see the flat look that Lois gives him.
Both of them look back at you. You catch Lois’s eyes and give her a little nod of your head, calling off your (very effective) guard dog. However, she narrows her eyes at Clark in a silent warning before returning to her conversation with Jimmy, who had been watching the entire exchange while taking a very long sip of his fruity cocktail.
Clark takes the empty seat next to you. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, fidgeting with his tie.
You stare at him as you play with the straw of your nearly empty cup, unabashedly tracing the slopes and contours of his face. He shifts nervously under your gaze, and you can’t tell if the flush creeping up his neck is due to you or the stuffiness of the bar. You still don’t say anything as you lean forward, and he’s too stunned to move away as your hand reaches out, fingers pressing through the curls hanging on his forehead, brushing them back into a tidier position, spending maybe a bit too long smoothing back the sides. The caress of your nails against his scalp sends a tingle down his spine, and his breath gets caught in his throat.
You don’t say anything for too long, just maintaining eye contact with him, like you’re searching his eyes for something.
“Vodka cran,” you say, resting back into your seat, and Clark wonders if you found what you were looking for.
His ears are red, and he quickly turns to the bartender to wave them down and grab you another drink, getting a soda for himself. Conversation flows between the two of you in a surprisingly easy manner, given the events of the past week. Work-related mostly. Clark is doing a better job of not stumbling all over himself, something he’s silently patting himself on the back for.
“You’ve been on time all week,” you note. Clark tries not to focus on how your lips wrap around the straw or how your gloss has stained the plastic.
“Yes, ma’am,” he confirms, the gentle lilt of his Kansan accent slipping through.
You fall silent for a moment, looking at him with such clarity in your eyes that it’s almost startling, and Clark can’t help but feel like he ground your entire conversation to a halt with just two words. “I’m gonna head out.” And then you’re grabbing your purse, tossing a few crinkled bills onto the bar as a tip before standing up.
“O-oh, okay,” Clark stammers, disappointment creeping up in him.
You’re about to step away until you glance back over your shoulder at him. “Are you going to walk me home?” You ask as though that had been the plan all along and he had just forgotten.
He blinks owlishly at your question like he’s not sure he quite heard you right. “Y-yeah!” He scrambles up, nearly knocking over his barstool, and you both head out after bidding your coworkers a goodnight. Lois cocks an eyebrow at you, but you just wiggle your fingers in goodbye.
Jimmy is giving Clark some waggling eyebrows with an enormous grin on his face that Clark is pointedly trying to ignore.
The walk home is quiet. The cool summer air is refreshing on your skin after sitting in the humidity of the bar, and the couple of drinks you had have left you a little light in the head, though it’s not an unwelcome feeling; you figure you’re going to need some liquid courage tonight anyway.
When you arrive at your apartment building, Clark walks you up to your apartment. You still don’t say anything as you take out your keys to unlock your door, and Clark swallows the lump in his throat, already preparing to say goodbye. “You coming in?” You question as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as you step into your apartment, leaving room for him to follow in after you.
“I—” He looks like a deer in the headlights. “You sure?”
You give a nod, and he steps in, albeit hesitantly, closing the door behind him. As soon as it clicks shut, you’re on him, hand pulling at the tie loosely around his neck, jerking him forward despite the other hand firmly on his chest pushing him back until he hits the door with a thud.
He looks shocked, face flushed and pupils blown wide as he doesn’t know what to do with his hands that hover at your waist but do not touch. You’re leaning up and he’s leaning down, gaze darting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. He thinks the strawberry smell is your lip gloss, and his heart won’t stop beating symphonies into his ribcage.
He doesn’t cross it, though, the invisible boundary that’s between you, even when he feels your breath fan against his lips. “I’m giving you the chance to be honest with me,” you whisper like it’s a warning, your voice husky in a way that has his insides twisting and turning.
“Okay,” he says softly.
You don’t move away as though you’re afraid he might try to run if you do. He can hear your own heart hammering in your chest. You’re nervous, he realizes. “You’re Superman.” Your tone doesn’t suggest it’s a question. It’s a statement. You know he’s Superman, and you’re allowing him the opportunity to be honest with you about it.
“Yes.”
Your heart rate speeds up. “That’s why you missed our date.”
“Yes,” he breathes like it’s painful to remember.
You finally blink, breaking eye contact to look down, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. “You really like me?” This one is a question. This one you’re unsure about.
Clark’s hands finally find purchase at your waist. The boundary between the two of you is barely hanging on by a thread. “Immensely.” Your grip on his tie loosens, and both hands are pressed gently against his chest. It wouldn’t take much; he would just have to lean down another inch or two to bring the whole thing crumbling down, but he doesn’t. “How’d you figure it out?” he asks.
“Your eyes,” you murmur like it was an evident thing, “—and your little… Midwestern-isms.”
He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. Oh, he was in so deep. “My Midwestern-isms?”
“’Yes, ma’am,’” you mock with a bad accent, not at all what he sounds like, and you bite your lip to hide your grin. “How does it work? Your face is… different than Superman’s.”
“The glasses,” he informs, tilting his head. “They’re hypno-glasses, make me look a little bit different, just enough.”
Your hands surge upward before you even know what they’re doing, stopping just shy as you look to Clark for permission, and he nods. As you take off the glasses, it’s like his face comes into focus when you never even realized it had been blurry before. Edges sharpen and define, his nose a little straighter, lips a little fuller, jaw a little squarer.
Moreover, he stands differently when the glasses come off. His shoulders rearrange, and he’s taller now, more confident… broader.
Superman.
“You know everything is starting to make sense,” you ponder as you set the glasses on your entrance table, fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. You’re still standing close, his hands on your hips, not allowing you to wander too far from his orbit.
“Yeah?” Even his voice seems crisper, deeper now.
“Mhm,” you hum, “—you’re constantly being late, disappearing whenever some crisis pops up…” You laugh a bit. “I’m actually kind of mad at myself for not realizing it sooner.”
“I thought you might’ve thrown a shoe at me or something,” he admits.
You pull back, giving him an incredulous look. “What?”
“With you not liking Superman and all,” he elaborates. “Figured you would read me the riot act, at least.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “It’s not that I don’t like Superman.”
“Oh?” Eyebrows raise on his forehead. “First time I’m hearing this.”
You shove him, lightly, though he doesn’t move, solid under your touch. “It’s this… dependency we have on him—you,” you correct. “Superman—you—you’re not our savior, and we shouldn’t rely on you to fix every problem or to always show up. We should be able to stand on our own two feet.”
“But I want to help,” he insists, and you see it in his eyes, the earnestness in them. It’s so… Clark. “When things get hard and the world needs someone to lean on, I can carry that weight.”
“And what happens when you need someone to lean on? You may have super strength and can fly and shoot lasers out of your eyes, but you’re still—”
Human.
He doesn’t pretend the implication doesn’t crash around him like tidal waves.
You pull away a bit, not out of reach, not with his hands still wrapped around your waist. “Who’s going to carry the weight for you?” There’s sincerity in your question, and he doesn’t know how to respond because he doesn’t have an answer.
“I—”
You bite your lip as if you’re uncertain whether you should say the next part aloud, nervous to speak those feelings into the universe. “I can,” you say softly.
“I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“But I want to help.” You throw his words back at him, and he’s at a loss for what to say. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, and he’s looking at you like you hung the moon. He wants to kiss you so bad, but he’s afraid of being the one to cross that line.
“Clark.”
He doesn’t know if there’s a sweeter sound than his name on your lips.
“Just kiss me already.”
Except maybe that.
He’s surging forward in the next moment, mouth hot against yours. The barrier is dust between you. He tastes like the remnants of the sugary soda he’d ordered at the bar, and a quick swipe of his tongue against your lips confirms that your lip gloss is strawberry flavored.
You walk backwards, unsteady but confident, hands firmly tugging him along by his shirt, all the while not breaking the kiss that has your brain in a dizzy fog. You can’t help the giggle that escapes as you bump into your destination, the couch, causing your teeth to clatter together.
Clark smiles against your lips as his hands lower, gripping at your thighs as he lifts you off the ground so effortlessly that it has you letting out a quiet ‘oh’. His deep laugh goes straight to your core, and he settles onto the couch with you on top of him, your hands running through his hair, gripping it in a way that has him giving a low groan.
“Is this okay?” he asks in between kisses as though you’re not actively grinding down onto him.
A whimper escapes you as his hard-on catches the seam of your pants just right. “I will actually kill you if you stop.” The normal bite of your tone has given way to desperation. Clark’s entire body warms at that.
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your mouth, hands wandering to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him while bucking up into you. He leans back for a moment, placing another peck on your lips as his fingers start making work of the buttons on your blouse. When your cleavage comes into view, accentuated by your bra, something plain and practical, you hear Clark let out a shaky breath followed by an ‘oh, golly’ that has you a giggling mess on top of him. He grins, grabbing hold of the side of your neck as he pulls you back into a kiss. “You’re so pretty.”
You nip at his bottom lip. “I could tell by the ‘oh, golly,’” you tease, though your smugness doesn’t last for long as Clark has you on your back against the couch pillows a second later.
You watch reverently as he unbuttons his shirt, shrugging it off before pulling off his undershirt. He’s like a peacock, the way he fluffs up as your mouth goes slack, seeing what he was hiding underneath oversized button-ups and baggy suits for the last three years.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathe. “What the fuck were they feeding you in Kansas?”
He shakes with laughter as he leans back down, slotting himself in between your legs so he can reconnect your mouths, hand sliding up your side to palm your breast, not waiting long to slide underneath the cup of your bra. You arch up into him as his thumb brushes against your nipple, moaning quietly into his mouth, a sound he eagerly swallows down.
He trails kisses to your cheek, down your neck, spending a bit more time nipping and biting there when you give a shaky gasp. He continues down, pressing kisses to the top of your breasts, before trailing down to your ribs to your stomach until settling right above the waist of your pants.
You barely register him unbuttoning your pants until he drags them and your underwear down in one fell swoop. You cant your hips, letting him take them the rest of the way off, trying not to giggle as he throws the heap across your living room. A problem for tomorrow you.
Self-consciousness pricks at your brain as he spreads your legs, fingertips biting into your thighs, and in the glow of the moonlight streaming in through your apartment windows, you watch him lick his lips as he stares down at you, suddenly, any self-doubt fizzles away. One hand trails up your inner thigh to your core, spreading you so he can take in more of the sight. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs before he bends down.
A breathy moan escapes you as he licks a stripe up your center. “Fuck, Clark.” That eggs him on, and he swirls his tongue around your clit in a way that has you reaching down and gripping his hair. There’s a finger prodding at your entrance and then two that are curling into you at just the right spot.
Your chest heaves as you sink further into the couch, eyes fluttering to the back of your head as your apartment is filled with the obscene noises of Clark eating you out, groaning as he mutters about how good you taste. The feeling of his spit mixed with your own liquids trailing down your ass is overwhelming, and then he sucks at your clit in a way that has your toes curling.
“Clark, please,” you beg. You can feel the band at your core tightening with each swipe of his tongue and thrust of his fingers.
He pulls back slightly, now three fingers deep, hitting a spot inside you that has you seeing stars. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaches. “Cum on my fingers.”
Your breath hitches at mild-mannered Clark Kent telling you to cum on his fingers. He dives back in with enthusiasm, which is all it takes as your hips buck up into his face, and he gladly lets you grind against his mouth, especially with the sounds you’re making as you tighten around his fingers. His fingers continue pumping in and out of you as you ride out your orgasm, his name on your lips like a prayer as his lips greedily drink up all you give him.
He leans back, cheek resting against your inner thigh as he watches you catch your breath and give a little whine when his fingers don’t relent, tugging on his hair. A grin works its way onto his face, and he takes pity on your overstimulated self, pulling his fingers out as he presses a kiss to your thigh before crawling back up to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue as he licks at your bottom lip.
Your hands find purchase on his shoulders, drawing him deeper into the kiss, and you can feel the heavy weight of him against your thigh.
“Good?” he asks as he draws back from you, breathless.
“I think I blacked out at one point,” you respond, still feeling a little lightheaded, which is only exacerbated when he grinds his hips against yours and nips at your neck. “Now take your pants off.” You order as you push him back, propping yourself up on your elbows.
“Bossy,” he teases as he stands, unbuttoning his slacks, letting them drop to the floor. You don’t even have time to register anything else when he pulls down his briefs, and you can only stare with your mouth wide open and brows raised high on your forehead at the size of him. Clark looks a bit uncertain. “Is this okay?”
You surge to your feet and pull him down into a kiss. “It’s always the quiet ones,” you murmur more to yourself as you push him back onto the couch with no resistance and climb up onto his lap. He practically whimpers when you grind onto him. “Seriously, what the fuck were they feeding you?” You question against his lips as you slot yourself against his cock. Naked against him, you really take in how large Clark is in every capacity.
His hands have settled on the globes of your ass, letting you take the reins as you move your hips against his, the wet friction has him moaning into your mouth. “You feel so good,” he breathes. “Thought about this so much.”
“Yeah?” You ask. “Thought about me on top of you a lot, huh?” He nods and tilts his head back as you jut your hips against just at the right spot. You kiss down his jawline, whispering into his ear. “What else have you thought about? Stuffing me full of your cock?”
He stammers a bit, his brain short-circuiting at your dirty talk, and heat spreads up to his ears. “Y-yeah, thought about how good you’d look with me inside you,” he admits.
You reach down between you, grabbing hold of him, and his hips stutter up against your hand, moaning at the feel of your soft skin against his cock. The next thing he knows, you’re sinking onto him and he’s committing the hot, wet heat of your pussy to memory. The burn is expected given his size, and you whine with each inch of him you take.
Clark is a whimpering mess beneath you, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries not to move, letting you set your own pace, though the iron grip he has on your waist is going to leave bruises tomorrow. “So good, so good,” he repeats as he presses kisses into your shoulder. “Gosh, you’re so tight.”
You let the ‘gosh’ slide, given how full of him you are right now. It’s almost overwhelming the size of him, and just when you’re sure you’ve taken him all, you feel yourself slide down another inch. “Christ, you’re so big,” you whine, and you can feel his cock twitch inside of you at that.
“You can’t just say that,” he practically begs, voice cracking slightly, and he’s so tense, you can feel how taut all of his muscles are beneath you.
It’s sweet relief when you feel him bottom out in you and you stay there for a moment, letting yourself adjust, the stinging pain of the stretch not unpleasant, and when you feel more confident you’ve adjusted, you give an experimental thrust of your hips that has you both gasping.
You give another, and you can practically hear Clark grinding his teeth together, and then you raise yourself up, thighs shaking, before slamming back down. Your hands find purchase on his shoulders as you set a rhythm, a little sloppy at first as you lean forward to mash your mouths together, Clark whispering praises against your lips.
Every now and then, he leans back to take in the sight of you bouncing on his cock, completely hypnotized by the sight of your pussy swallowing him and the noises you make each time he bottoms out in you.
The rubber band begins to pull tight in your belly, and your thighs wobble, the rhythm faltering. “Clark.” It comes out as a plea. “Fuck me.”
Whatever restraint Clark has snaps at your words. One hand reaches up, grabbing hold of you by the back of your neck as the other digs into your waist, and then he’s forcing you up and down on his cock, hips jutting up to meet yours halfway, setting a bruising pace that has you keening, “Fuck—” you gasp out. “Oh god, I’m gonna—”
Your orgasm rips through you before you can even finish your sentence, and you feel like you’re drowning in the sensation as the world turns to white noise around you. “That’s it, sweetheart, you’re so good for me.”
Clark doesn’t even give you time to come down from your high as he manhandles you off of his lap, the sudden emptiness is jarring, but it doesn’t stay that way long as he bends you over the couch, hefting your ass into the air and sliding back in.
“Such a good girl,” he groans as he resumes the hard thrusts that have you gripping the back of your couch for dear life. The only thing you can focus on is the delicious slide of his cock into you, and you think you feel tears gathering at the corners of your eyes.
You’re whining, overstimulated as all hell, already feeling another orgasm beginning to bubble to the surface. “Clark, oh God, fuck—” You’re arching your back, and he hits it just right. “Ohmygod.”
A loud ‘smack’ echoes through the apartment, and you barely even register the sting on your ass cheek. “Gonna give me another one, baby?”
“Mhm,” you whine pathetically into the couch cushion. Body shaking, just trying to keep yourself up, though Clark is doing most of the heavy lifting. He reaches down, fingers circling your clit once, twice, and that’s all it takes as you buck back into him, a long, breathy moan escaping you as you cum again. It feels like every nerve in your body is on fire, and you think you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
You barely register him asking, “Where do you want it?”
Your mouth automatically babbling out, “Inside—fuck—cum inside me.”
That has his hips stuttering before he buries himself to the hilt, groaning lowly, and you can feel the warmth spread inside you. You’re both frozen like that, breathing heavily, and then Clark pulls out with a low hiss, gathering you up in his arms before collapsing back onto the couch, you cradled on top of him, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you finally breathe after a moment of silence, and you can feel his chest shake with laughter. You tilt your head up to look at him, and he captures your lips with his before pulling away, reaching up to caress the side of your face, tracing the contours of your cheekbones with his thumb.
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and you feel your heart stutter in your chest—a feeling you welcome with open arms.
“So, if I agree to let you take me out to dinner again, think you’ll show up this time?”
He grins. “Yes.”
The weekend passes in a blur of tangled limbs and soft confessions. You tease Clark about all it took was you on top of him to get him to talk to you in full sentences, finally. He stammers and blames you for being so pretty.
On Monday, when Clark comes in late, he does so with a cup of your favorite coffee, and you give him a hard time, despite the smile on your face, with no real bite to your words. Clark is on the receiving end of some light teasing from Lois and Jimmy, who, quite frankly, are relieved they won’t have to deal with a pining Clark any longer.
(They quickly realize, though, that even being together, he still stares after you as you flit about the newsroom, possibly looking even more lovestruck)
And when he submits his next Superman article to you, you still tear it to shreds. The peck on the cheek you give him as you hand him back the draft makes him feel a lot better, though.
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hii!! could i please request a cedric lives au cedric x ravenclaw!reader smut where they’re head boy and girl and have been close friends for a while (and are in a not necessarily secret relationship it’s just no one’s found out about it yet)??? if not that’s okay!!
Meet Me in the Prefect’s Bathroom ♡ | C.Diggory ⊹ ࣪ ˖
"They say Head Boy should lead by example—but honestly, if snogging my brilliant, maddeningly gorgeous Head Girl in every broom cupboard counts as misconduct, I’d gladly hand in my badge… right after one more kiss."
pairing : Cedric Diggory x fem!headgirl!reader
summary : In a sweeter timeline, Hogwarts’ golden duo can’t quite hide their feelings—or keep their hands off each other. Between secret smiles and stolen kisses, one thing’s certain: he’s utterly obsessed with her.
warnings : 18+, smut, fingering, oral (fem receiving), penetrative sex, lots of fluff and banter, they're way too in love, slight risk of getting caught (but they don’t care), playful dominance/submission vibes, established relationship
author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This is an 18+ fic, so minors do not enter!!!
della's note : Thank you so much for requesting lovie!! Hope you enjoy this lovely!!!
word count : 1.2k
navigation <3
banners : @/cafekitsune
“I swear to Merlin, if I see Filch again tonight I might throw him into the lake.”
You muttered the threat under your breath as your shoes clicked against the stone corridor. Cedric, of course, laughed softly from beside you, his hand brushing against yours in a way that was absolutely not subtle.
“Darling,” he said, voice like warm honey, “you know you’ve got a temper on you when you’re tired.”
You turned to glare up at him, mostly for show. “I wouldn’t be tired if someone hadn’t pulled me into a closet earlier just to snog me.”
He looked at you with a faux-innocent expression that only made him more infuriating. And hot. “That’s slander. I pulled you into the closet to tell you how breathtaking you looked in your robes today. The snogging was… a happy accident.”
You tried not to smile. You really did.
Instead, you elbowed him in the side. “Diggory.”
“Oh, Diggory, is it?” His voice dropped, mischief curling in every syllable. “Not Cedric, not love, not even darling—?”
“I’m not calling you darling in the middle of a corridor, you ridiculous golden retriever.”
He had the nerve to pout. “But I like it when you say it.”
“You like it when I say anything.”
“Exactly. Say something filthy next.”
You slapped your hand over his mouth, horrified and delighted in equal measure. “You’re Head Boy!”
He mumbled something behind your palm that you were fairly certain was ‘And you’re the Head Girl who moans my name’, which earned him a scandalized look and a slightly breathless giggle.
That was the problem with Cedric Diggory: he was way too charming for his own good. Or yours. Or Hogwarts’ collective sanity.
No one knew the two of you were together. Not really. People suspected, sure — there were bets in the common rooms, allegedly. But you two were careful. Mostly.
Except when Cedric was looking at you like that. Except when he brushed your knuckles in broad daylight, when he murmured in your ear during meetings, when he tucked hair behind your ear like he was enchanted.
Except when his mouth was now close to your ear as he murmured, “We’re done with rounds.”
You swallowed. “So?”
“So…” His hand slid around your waist, pulling you gently closer. “I think you owe me a reward. For being so good tonight.”
You arched a brow. “You were good?”
He leaned in, lips grazing your neck, the touch featherlight. “Wasn’t I?”
Merlin. He knew what he was doing.
You let your head tip slightly, barely suppressing a shiver. “What exactly are you hoping your reward will be, Diggory?”
His eyes gleamed, wicked and adoring. “Meet me in the Prefect’s Bathroom in ten minutes, darling.”
Your stomach flipped. You hated him.
No. You loved him.
You were absolutely doomed.
You arrived eight minutes later, breathless and giddy, and Cedric was already there, perched on the edge of the massive tub with a stupid, gorgeous smile on his face.
“Two minutes early,” he murmured. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”
You rolled your eyes and walked past him—only for him to catch your wrist and tug you into his lap like it was nothing.
“Cedric!” you hissed, giggling against his neck. “We could get caught!”
“That’s part of the fun,” he said smugly, his hands already sliding up your sides. “Besides, we’ve got wards up. You’re safe.”
His mouth was on yours before you could respond—soft and slow, then hungry. Familiar. You kissed him back like you needed him to breathe, fingers threading through his hair, pressing closer.
His hands moved to your thighs, under your skirt, and he groaned into your mouth. “This bloody skirt is going to kill me.”
“I could say the same about those trousers,” you muttered, tugging at his belt with a grin. “And you’re so smug in them.”
“Because I know what they do to you,” he said against your collarbone, nibbling there now. “You eye me up like you’re starving.”
“I am starving. For your silence.”
He laughed—actually laughed, breath hot on your skin. “You’re insatiable.”
“Says the boy who dragged me here after curfew like a man on a mission.”
“Oh, I am on a mission.” His voice dropped. “Get on the side of the tub, darling.”
You obeyed without hesitation, breath caught in your throat as he knelt between your legs, his large hands spreading your thighs apart.
“You’re already wet,” he whispered, almost reverent as his fingers teased at your soaked panties. “Merlin, darling. You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”
You nodded, eyes glassy.
He leaned forward and kissed just above the fabric, slow and gentle. “Let me taste you.”
“Please,” you gasped.
He didn’t need more permission.
Cedric moved your panties aside and buried his face between your thighs like a man possessed. His tongue was hot and firm, licking a stripe through your folds before circling your clit slowly. Teasingly.
Your fingers gripped the edge of the tub as he moaned against you, sending vibrations through your entire body.
“Fuck, Cedric,” you whimpered, already breathless. “Don’t stop, don’t—oh—”
He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right as his mouth worked your clit. His other hand gripped your thigh, grounding you, pulling you closer like he couldn’t get enough.
“You taste like heaven,” he muttered, lips swollen and slick as he glanced up at you. “My perfect darling.”
“Ced—Ced, I’m—”
He didn’t stop until you came with a cry, legs shaking, hand flying to muffle your mouth.
He pulled back slowly, licking his fingers clean like a smug, gorgeous bastard. “You’re so beautiful when you fall apart.”
“Stop being hot for one second,” you groaned, still catching your breath.
“Never,” he said, standing and tugging you back to him. “Not when I have you.”
You kissed him again, messily, urgently, and he groaned as you unfastened his belt.
“Need you inside me,” you whispered.
That nearly undid him.
He lifted you up with ease—show-off—and backed you against the warm tile, pushing into you in one deep, delicious thrust.
You moaned in unison, your forehead falling against his. He held your waist, burying his face in your neck as he began to move.
“Fuck, you feel like you were made for me,” he gasped.
“You’re such a sap.”
“Your sap. Your lovesick, obsessed—”
“—Golden retriever.”
“Exactly.”
He thrust deeper, harder, every movement making you see stars. The tile dug into your back, the sound of water from the tub filling the room, but all you could focus on was him—his hands, his mouth, his whispered “I love you” over and over.
“I can’t stop touching you,” he murmured against your skin. “Don’t ever ask me to.”
“Good. Because I won’t.”
Your nails dug into his back, clinging to him as your second orgasm built fast and desperate.
“Ced, I—”
“I’ve got you,” he breathed, “Come for me again, darling. Wanna feel you.”
That did it.
You cried out his name as you came undone again, and he followed moments later, gasping against your throat, holding you like you’d vanish if he let go.
You stayed like that for a moment, tangled, sweaty, deliriously happy.
Then—
“Do you think they’ll revoke our badges if they find out we’re shagging in the prefects’ bathroom?”
Cedric snorted into your neck. “I’m Head Boy. They’d be lucky I didn’t do it sooner.”
You smacked him, giggling.
He just kissed you again, still breathless, still in love.
summary: CEDRIC DIGGORY eating you out… thats it. that’s the summary. it has a really cute ending though! i just couldn’t be bothering to write build up. it’s 2:30 in the morning and i’m tired and thinking about cedric 💔
a/n: draco fans don’t be mad at me for tagging him, it’s just for engagement because the cedric diggory campaign doesn’t get much attention on here anymore ☹️
warnings: oral (fem receiving), fingering, dirty talk, aftercare, & cedric being a sweetheart
…………….…………….…………….…………….…………….…………
cedric groans against your slick flesh as you whimper and cry out his name. the sound spurs him on, urging him to take more of you into his mouth. he licks and sucks at your dripping folds, his tongue delving deep to taste you fully.
he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, the hardened nub peeking out from beneath its hood. he flicks it teasingly, watching as your hips jerk and shudder beneath him.
"merlin, you taste even better than i remembered," cedric growls, his voice vibrating against your skin. "i could eat this pretty pussy for hours and never get enough."
“ced, don’t tease,” you whimper, involuntarily bucking your hips into his mouth.
he chuckles, and to prove his point, he seals his lips around your clit and suckles greedily, his tongue lashing over the sensitive bundle of nerves again and again. at the same time, he slips a long finger inside your tight heat, pumping it slowly as he laps at you.
your walls flutter and clench around his invading digit, trying to draw him deeper. your slick coats his finger, dripping down to pool on the sheets beneath you.
cedric adds another finger, stretching you open as he thrust them in and out of your soaked channel. his eyes flick up to watch your face as he pleasures you, committing each expression and sound to memory.
"that's it, love," he murmurs against your sex, his fingers pumping steadily. "don't hold back. i want to hear you, all of you. let me know how good it feels."
he curls his fingers just so, brushing against that spot deep inside that made your back arch off the bed. at the same time, he sucks harder on your clit, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive flesh. he can feel you tightening, can sense your impending release, and he’s determined to make it happen.
“fuck, cedric!” your body tenses, your thighs clamping around his head as your climax grows quicker. he doubles his efforts, sucking harder on your clit as he pumps his fingers faster, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside you with every thrust.
you moan, mumbling nonsense before: “oh my gods, i’m going to come, baby. i’m going to come so fucking hard!”
"that's it, sweetheart," he encourages, his voice strained with arousal. "come for me, y/n. i want to feel you come undone on my tongue, want to taste your pleasure as it crashes over you.
“give it to me, honey.”
he feels your walls starting to flutter and clench around his fingers, your body drawing taut as a bowstring. he knows you’re close—because, well, duh—he can sense the coil of tension in your core as your orgasm builds.
"let go, sweetheart. i’ve got you," cedric urges, his breath hot against your sex.
with a final, hard suck your climax crashes over you. he groans against your sex, the vibrations of it sending shockwaves through your core as he feels your release gush out to coat his chin and hands.
he growls, fingers pumping frantically as he works you through your high, his tongue lapping up every drop of your essence like a man starved. "that’s it, my love. come on my tongue, fill my mouth with your sweet cream. i’m going to drink down every last drop."
as your spasms finally began to subside, cedric gentles his touch, his fingers slowing their frantic pace to long, slow drags through your soaked folds. he presses soft kisses to your sensitive flesh, his tongue flicking out to catch the last drops of your release.
“how was that for hello?” he asks, body settling between your legs. he caresses the back of his fingers across your forehead, brushing the hair out of your face before kissing you gently.
you moan at the taste of yourself on his lips, then chuckle at his ridiculous remark. “that wasn’t any hello,” you say, tilting your head. “that was extraordinary.”
“was it?” he murmurs, a soft smiling playing on his lips. “because i was thinking i could’ve done better.”
your brows squint, meeting in the middle as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, and your forehead—and you let out a strand of air, giggling as you push him off of you, holding his face in your palms. “what are you talking about, better? darling, have you gone mad? it doesn’t get any better than that,” you scrunch your face as he comes back to kiss the tip of your nose, giggling more.
“have you seen the way your eyes shine in the firelight?” the plush of his lips brush against your cheek. “could’ve had you over there, and fed you s’mores…”
“is that even possible,” you scuff, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your lashes. yes, your lashes. this man is relentless. but he’s your man, and you blush a deeper shade of red at every gentle peck. “‘course it’s possible,” he rolls his eyes. “don’t underestimate me, lovely.”
cedric rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re draped half across his chest, your head pillowed on his shoulder. his fingers find your hair, combing through the strands that glints even in the low light. “you’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs against your hairline.
you smile then, a real smile that reaches your eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "thanks to you," you softly tease, your hand sliding up his arm, soaking in his embrace. "you remind me everyday, and everyday i fall a little more in love with you.”
“only a little?” you know he’d be clutching his heart if your chest wasn’t pressed against his, and you laugh, hiding your face in his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his skin.
“okay, a lot,” you correct yourself. you feel him smile against the top of your head.
his hand strokes up and down your back, brows furrowing softly before smoothing out at the sound of your yawn. “did our lovemaking make you tired,” he coos, chuckling as you nestle yourself against him.
“yes, you wear me out,” a slow grin stretches over your tired lips.
he scoffs. “i did all the work,” he says matter-of-factly. “i should be the tired one.”
“well, here we are,” you tilt your head to meet his gaze, only to find him looking at you with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen. your heart melts at the sight. “ced,” you murmur, and he catches your lips with his, kissing you so gently you almost miss it. “go to sleep,” he musters. you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say the three words he knows puts you to sleep immediately.
his palm nestles in your hair, cradling you back into his chest. “i love you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head, repeating the phase over and over until you fall limp in his arms with sleep.
summary: CEDRIC DIGGORY eating you out… thats it. that’s the summary. it has a really cute ending though! i just couldn’t be bothering to write build up. it’s 2:30 in the morning and i’m tired and thinking about cedric 💔
a/n: draco fans don’t be mad at me for tagging him, it’s just for engagement because the cedric diggory campaign doesn’t get much attention on here anymore ☹️
warnings: oral (fem receiving), fingering, dirty talk, aftercare, & cedric being a sweetheart
…………….…………….…………….…………….…………….…………
cedric groans against your slick flesh as you whimper and cry out his name. the sound spurs him on, urging him to take more of you into his mouth. he licks and sucks at your dripping folds, his tongue delving deep to taste you fully.
he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, the hardened nub peeking out from beneath its hood. he flicks it teasingly, watching as your hips jerk and shudder beneath him.
"merlin, you taste even better than i remembered," cedric growls, his voice vibrating against your skin. "i could eat this pretty pussy for hours and never get enough."
“ced, don’t tease,” you whimper, involuntarily bucking your hips into his mouth.
he chuckles, and to prove his point, he seals his lips around your clit and suckles greedily, his tongue lashing over the sensitive bundle of nerves again and again. at the same time, he slips a long finger inside your tight heat, pumping it slowly as he laps at you.
your walls flutter and clench around his invading digit, trying to draw him deeper. your slick coats his finger, dripping down to pool on the sheets beneath you.
cedric adds another finger, stretching you open as he thrust them in and out of your soaked channel. his eyes flick up to watch your face as he pleasures you, committing each expression and sound to memory.
"that's it, love," he murmurs against your sex, his fingers pumping steadily. "don't hold back. i want to hear you, all of you. let me know how good it feels."
he curls his fingers just so, brushing against that spot deep inside that made your back arch off the bed. at the same time, he sucks harder on your clit, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive flesh. he can feel you tightening, can sense your impending release, and he’s determined to make it happen.
“fuck, cedric!” your body tenses, your thighs clamping around his head as your climax grows quicker. he doubles his efforts, sucking harder on your clit as he pumps his fingers faster, curling them to hit that sweet spot inside you with every thrust.
you moan, mumbling nonsense before: “oh my gods, i’m going to come, baby. i’m going to come so fucking hard!”
"that's it, sweetheart," he encourages, his voice strained with arousal. "come for me, y/n. i want to feel you come undone on my tongue, want to taste your pleasure as it crashes over you.
“give it to me, honey.”
he feels your walls starting to flutter and clench around his fingers, your body drawing taut as a bowstring. he knows you’re close—because, well, duh—he can sense the coil of tension in your core as your orgasm builds.
"let go, sweetheart. i’ve got you," cedric urges, his breath hot against your sex.
with a final, hard suck your climax crashes over you. he groans against your sex, the vibrations of it sending shockwaves through your core as he feels your release gush out to coat his chin and hands.
he growls, fingers pumping frantically as he works you through your high, his tongue lapping up every drop of your essence like a man starved. "that’s it, my love. come on my tongue, fill my mouth with your sweet cream. i’m going to drink down every last drop."
as your spasms finally began to subside, cedric gentles his touch, his fingers slowing their frantic pace to long, slow drags through your soaked folds. he presses soft kisses to your sensitive flesh, his tongue flicking out to catch the last drops of your release.
“how was that for hello?” he asks, body settling between your legs. he caresses the back of his fingers across your forehead, brushing the hair out of your face before kissing you gently.
you moan at the taste of yourself on his lips, then chuckle at his ridiculous remark. “that wasn’t any hello,” you say, tilting your head. “that was extraordinary.”
“was it?” he murmurs, a soft smiling playing on his lips. “because i was thinking i could’ve done better.”
your brows squint, meeting in the middle as he kisses your cheek, your jaw, and your forehead—and you let out a strand of air, giggling as you push him off of you, holding his face in your palms. “what are you talking about, better? darling, have you gone mad? it doesn’t get any better than that,” you scrunch your face as he comes back to kiss the tip of your nose, giggling more.
“have you seen the way your eyes shine in the firelight?” the plush of his lips brush against your cheek. “could’ve had you over there, and fed you s’mores…”
“is that even possible,” you scuff, eyes fluttering shut as he kisses your lashes. yes, your lashes. this man is relentless. but he’s your man, and you blush a deeper shade of red at every gentle peck. “‘course it’s possible,” he rolls his eyes. “don’t underestimate me, lovely.”
cedric rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re draped half across his chest, your head pillowed on his shoulder. his fingers find your hair, combing through the strands that glints even in the low light. “you’re beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs against your hairline.
you smile then, a real smile that reaches your eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. "thanks to you," you softly tease, your hand sliding up his arm, soaking in his embrace. "you remind me everyday, and everyday i fall a little more in love with you.”
“only a little?” you know he’d be clutching his heart if your chest wasn’t pressed against his, and you laugh, hiding your face in his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his skin.
“okay, a lot,” you correct yourself. you feel him smile against the top of your head.
his hand strokes up and down your back, brows furrowing softly before smoothing out at the sound of your yawn. “did our lovemaking make you tired,” he coos, chuckling as you nestle yourself against him.
“yes, you wear me out,” a slow grin stretches over your tired lips.
he scoffs. “i did all the work,” he says matter-of-factly. “i should be the tired one.”
“well, here we are,” you tilt your head to meet his gaze, only to find him looking at you with the warmest smile you’ve ever seen. your heart melts at the sight. “ced,” you murmur, and he catches your lips with his, kissing you so gently you almost miss it. “go to sleep,” he musters. you look at him expectantly, waiting for him to say the three words he knows puts you to sleep immediately.
his palm nestles in your hair, cradling you back into his chest. “i love you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head, repeating the phase over and over until you fall limp in his arms with sleep.
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Hayden tries to work sick on the set of Ashoka and gets sent home. Reader takes care of him plz and thank you 😊
|| I’m Right Here
summary: HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN isn’t feeling his best. his posture is slack, his words slur together, and sweat clings to his hairline as heat radiates off his skin — practically burning hotter than the red lightsaber he’s already dropped mid-scene. when the director sends him home from set, you’re right there with him.
a/n: this is such a cutie request! thank you for sending me it:)
warnings: none! on the shorter side, but still sugary sweet ❤️
you notice the second he walks on set that something’s off. his posture’s sluggish, eyes a little glassy, skin pale under the makeup. he brushes it off with a weak smile and a cough he tries to muffle behind his glove, insisting he’s fine—just tired, maybe a little dehydrated.
but then the director calls cut mid-scene because hayden stumbles, barely catching himself. his lightsaber clatters to the floor.
you’re at his side in less than a millisecond.
“you’re burning up,” you murmur, pressing your hand to his forehead. he leans into your touch like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
they send him home, of course. tell him to rest.
and you go with him.
because you’re not about to let him take care of himself when he can barely stay upright. not when he needs you. not when he looks at you with tired eyes like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.
“sweetheart,” he murmurs, trying—but failing—to sit straighter on the mattress. you’re immediately at his side, brushing the hair out of his face as you cradle his head onto the pillow.
hayden opens his mouth to say something, but you shake your head. “i have some of that soup you like cooking on the stovetop,” you sit by his side, using the back of your fingers to check his temperature.
still burning.
“you don’t have to talk. just rest,” you say softly, your palm settling on his cheek for a moment. he closes his eyes at the touch, lashes fluttering like he’s already half-asleep.
his voice is rough when he tries again. “you’re too good to me.”
you let out a quiet laugh, leaning down to press a kiss to his damp forehead. “yeah, well, someone’s gotta keep your stubborn ass alive.”
he gives the faintest smile, barely-there but still warm. you adjust the blanket over his chest, tucking it in like he’s not twice your size and pretending he doesn’t secretly love it.
“five more minutes and then you’re eating,” you whisper, fingers threading gently through his hair. “even if i have to spoon-feed you.”
his brow lifts the tiniest bit, teasing even now. “kinda into that,” he chuckles, the low sound reverberating through his chest until he coughs.
you roll your eyes but don’t fight the grin tugging at your lips. “sleep. before i smother you with a pillow.”
“hot,” he hoarsely breathes.
you groan and shake your head, already reaching for the cool rag to lay across his forehead.
“don’t get up,” you warn with a warm lit to your tone, kissing the tip of his nose. as you stand, hayden’s fingers curl gently around yours, allowing you to pull away as you make your way to the kitchen.
“i’m just getting your soup,” you call softly over your shoulder, glancing back to catch the way his eyes stay on you, heavy-lidded and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.
he doesn’t say anything, just watches you go with that soft little smile like you’re some kind of miracle.
you move quietly through the kitchen, ladling the soup into a bowl, the smell of garlic and herbs wrapping around you like a blanket. it’s the one he always asks for when he’s sick—though he never actually says he’s sick. just “a little off” or “run down.” but you always know.
back in the bedroom, he’s right where you left him—splayed across the mattress, flushed and sleepy, blanket tugged up to his chest. he blinks up at you like you’re the dream and not the other way around.
“hey,” you murmur, settling the bowl down on the nightstand. “think you’re up for a few bites?”
he nods, slow and lazy. “only if you sit with me.”
you smile, slipping in beside him, legs tucked under your body, spoon in hand. “i planned on it.”
he doesn’t eat much—just a few spoonfuls before his head lolls back against the pillow, murmuring a soft “thank you” that melts against your collarbone when you lean in to wipe his mouth with a napkin.
you set the bowl aside, curl back under the covers beside him, and he immediately shifts closer, chasing your warmth with a sleepy sort of desperation. his arm winds around your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt like he needs to feel your skin to settle.
you stay like that for hours.
the rest of the night moves slowly, gently.
he wakes a few times—once shivering, once drenched in sweat, once just to mumble your name until you soothe him back to sleep with soft touches and even softer words: “shh, it’s okay, my love, go back to sleep.”
you keep a cool cloth near the bed, change his shirt when it gets too damp, let him cling to you like a lifeline. when you step away to grab water or medicine, he stirs, eyes barely open, asking where you went with the smallest slur of panic in his voice.
each time, you return with a kiss to his forehead and a quiet promise: “i’m right here.”
by the time the sky begins to lighten, casting pale golden through the bedroom windows, hayden’s fever has dropped just a little, his breathing steadier.
he’s still curled around you, one hand loosely resting against your ribs, his face tucked into your neck like he doesn’t want the morning to take you away.
and you don’t move.
you stay with him, fingertips trailing gently through his messy hair, whispering nothing words into the quiet as he finally, finally rests.
cedric diggory and all the ways he quietly loves you... (a habits list, and probably not the last one i’ll make)
hi! omg this is my first headcanon (blurb?? one-shot??) whatever it is I've had so much fun writing it!!! it’s been a busy few days and I promise that I’m still working on the next chapter but i wanted to get this out because it made me so soft 🥹 thank you so much to the sweet soul who requested this, it genuinely filled my heart up putting it together. here are some of the little things cedric diggory does when he’s in love with you. habits, quirks, tiny rituals. the kind of stuff that piles up over time and makes you realize just how much someone sees you. feel free to imagine them as canon in the insatiable universe (because honestly, they are)
★ he always waits outside your classes — and outside the entrance of your common room in the mornings!! even if you’re running late, even if he’s drenched from practice. he’ll lean against the wall with his arms crossed, eyes flicking to the door every few seconds, and the moment you appear? he lights up like you’re the only person who exists.
☆ he compliments you so genuinely it makes your chest ache — not just your looks, though he tells you you’re beautiful constantly, like he’s never gotten over the sight of you. one afternoon, you’re mid-ramble about something completely ridiculous (a dream you had, a weird bug you saw, whatever) and he’s just staring, all soft-eyed and smitten. then, without even thinking, he says, “i swear, i could listen to you forever. doesn’t even matter what you’re on about. your voice is my favorite sound.” it’s so simple, so achingly sincere, you forget how to breathe for a second.
★ he kisses your forehead twice — always twice. even if he’s in a rush, even if your friends are around and it’ll definitely earn you a round of teasing. one kiss for hello, one just because. it’s instinct at this point, something he does without thinking. soft and automatic, like he’s pressing a little promise into your skin. two smooches, always.
☆ he tidies up for you when you’re not looking — he doesn’t say anything, just stacks the piles books you left out in the library, folds your laundry into neat little piles, quills tucked back into their case. he never mentions it. just blushes when you catch him in the act. “you always do it for me,” he mumbles, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
★ he keeps little pieces of you tucked away like they’re lucky charms — a hair tie, a scribbled note, your lip balm, the lighter you left in his pocket. once, it was a folded napkin with your lipstick mark on it. you don’t even know half the things he’s saved. he just likes having bits of you close, like tiny proofs that you’re real and his.
☆ he whispers that he loves you when he’s half asleep — you’re beside him reading, trying not to wake him, but his hand finds your waist and his eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep. “i love you,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with drowsiness, before pressing a slow, sleepy kiss to your shoulder. then he’s out again, like he just needed to say it, like it couldn’t wait.
★ he’s quietly obsessed with touching you — not in a flashy or obnoxious way, just enough that everyone knows you’re his. sometimes, when he sees you after a long day, or just when he’s overwhelmed with how much he’s missed you, he lifts you up in a tight hug the same way he did the first time he saw you at the yule ball, like the rest of the world falls away and it’s just you. he wraps his arms around you so tight it knocks the breath from your lungs, sways you a little like he can’t believe you’re real. in the hallways, he threads his fingers through yours like it’s second nature. under tables, it’s his hand on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles it’s never excessive. never overdone. it’s just cedric — quietly, constantly marking the fact that you’re his favorite person in any room.
☆ he talks about you like you’re already his family — he’ll say “we” when making plans. tells his mum about your favorite meals so she can make them whenever you visit. he’s already talking about bringing you to christmas next year. and when he’s home visiting, his parents hear about you constantly. stories about what you did that made him laugh, how you did on your last assignment, just proudly gushing about you. back at school, you slip into most conversations with his friends even when he doesn’t realize it. “(Y/N) said that yesterday,” he’ll murmur, or “she actually read that book, said it was brilliant.” he thinks he’s being casual, but he’s so transparent. the boys tease him constantly, but he just grins and shrugs because he can’t help it. you’re always on his mind. always the first thing he wants to talk about. it’s like loving you changed his whole vocabulary.
★ he pays attention to everything — how you take your tea, the way you hum when you’re deep in thought, how you always tap your quill twice before writing. he catalogs you like he’s afraid of forgetting all the little things, the soft details, the throwaway comments. he picks things up for you without you asking. if you mention needing more ink, he’s already got your favorite shade tucked into his bag. if you say you liked the apple tarts at breakfast, he starts sneaking one into his pocket every morning. he reads whatever you’re reading, too. your favorite books, old essays, reading assignments. he reads it all just so he can talk to you about them. it’s not performative. it’s not a show. he’s just genuinely curious. about you, your thoughts, your world. he wants to know everything you know.
☆ he’s always calling you sweet nicknames — darling, dove, love, baby, sweetheart, flower, angel. he cycles through them like he’s trying to find the one that suits you best. once, you teased him for it and he just shrugged, grinning. “you’re too many lovely things to choose just one.”
★ he seeks you out at parties — if you’re not arriving together, you can bet he’s scanning the room the second he walks in. it doesn’t matter who he’s talking to, or what kind of crowd he’s in the middle of. the moment he spots you, he’s weaving through the noise like nothing else matters. “there you are,” he always says, smiling like the night couldn’t properly begin until he found you. sometimes he’ll kiss your cheek without thinking, or slip his hand into yours so casually it makes your heart skip a beat. it’s like his whole body sighs in relief just from being near you again.
☆ he stares when he thinks you’re not looking — you’ve caught him across the room, in the mirror, from your periphery, just watching you with this enamored look in his eyes. and then you both just… laugh. quiet, giddy little giggles like neither of you can help it. it’s your thing now, that shared glance that says we’ve done this before. because you have. that first night at the feast, evenings at the library when you were strangers across the room, something magnetic pulling your eyes back to each other again and again. like you already knew. like you were remembering, not meeting.
★ he listens so intently it makes you nervous — like he’s absorbing every word, every shift in your tone, every pause you take to catch your breath. his grey eyes soften when you speak, stormy but warm, like they’re made to reflect you. when you tell stories, he watches your mouth more than he should, totally entranced, smiling a little when you get excited and trip over your words. when you cry, he doesn’t rush to fix it. he just holds your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, and listens. not because he’s waiting to respond, because he wants to understand. because whatever hurts you, he wants to carry some of it too.
☆ he mouths “i love you” when he’s too far to say it — from the field during a match, where his hair’s a mess and his cheeks are flushed and he finds you in the crowd like it’s second nature. across the great hall, when he’s seated too far to reach you but can’t stop looking anyway. through the library shelves, when you catch each other in passing and he just stops, smiles, and mouths it, soft and sure, like it’s a secret just for you. it’s quiet. subtle. not meant for anyone else. but he says it like a promise, every single time. and you always say it back, even if it’s just in your smile.
★ he tucks your hair behind your ear when you're nervous — gently, like he's grounding you with the smallest touch. he knows you get anxious sometimes, knows the signs without needing to be told: the way your fingers fidget, your breathing shifts, how you stare a little too hard at nothing. so he leans in close and murmurs, “you’re okay. you’ve got this. i’ve got you.” his voice is soft, steady, certain. like a lifeline. even if you don’t believe it yet, he always does. and he’ll keep saying it until you do.
☆ he still gets flustered when you call him handsome — every single time. you’ll say it offhandedly, in the hallway, at breakfast, when he’s stretching before a match, and without fail, he ducks his head with a shy little smile, ears going pink. “you’re just saying that,” he’ll mumble, but he can’t quite stop the way his mouth curves or how he reaches for your hand after. sometimes he tries to play it cool, but he always ends up grinning like you’ve made his whole day. and the truth is, you have.
★ he gets visibly sulky when you’re upset — he wears your emotions like weather. if someone’s rude to you, if your insecurities start creeping in, if you just look a little too quiet for too long… he notices. he goes broody and still, tight-jawed, barely blinking as he mutters, “who do I have to kill?” and even if you laugh, he means it just enough to make your heart flutter and your anger soften. later, when things calm down, he pulls you in without a word, tucks you against him like he can shield you from the world. “you shouldn’t ever have to feel like this,” he murmurs into your hair. and you believe him, because somehow, with him, it feels true.
☆ he touches you absentmindedly when he’s studying — parchment spread out, ink smudged on his fingers, brow furrowed in focus. but even then, his body finds yours. his thumb draws slow circles on your thigh. your pinkies are hooked beneath the table like a quiet promise. his foot nudges yours every so often, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t drifted too far. he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it half the time, but you do. and it always makes your chest feel full. like even when he’s buried in notes and diagrams, you’re still the grounding point. always his center of gravity.
♱ 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ♱
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