｡˚✿˚｡ 𝖊𝖉𝖊𝖓

“Bunny,” he called, resting his temple on the door and knocking with two knuckles. “Is everything okay in there?”

Silence. 

Clark sighed, not with exasperation, but something decidedly… similar. 

These moments always happened at the thrift store. You would drag him out on a weekend to sift through mothy old clothes with tags from the 2000s skinny crisis, and then you would get upset when they didn’t fit. If it were up to you, you would buy them all and try it on at home– it took all of Clark’s power to even convince you to get in a dressing room most times. And while he didn’t lack empathy for the feeling of something not fitting, he just couldn’t seem to understand why you would do something like that to yourself. Part of you knew that used clothes were a risk for a girl of your body type, and you insisted on it anyway, being green or money-smart or what have you. It was a mystery to him. Clothes shopping for girls just seemed like a torture ritual to him, and he wished you were a little kinder to yourself.

He knocked again. “Bunny, come on. Answer me.”

He had a feeling this would happen. You had been eyeing a skirt since you walked in– it was on an end-cap display. Some long, flowing thing, a deep emerald tie-dye wash with little green beads stitched into spiral designs. It had that reminiscent style he would have seen on Buffy or some 90s television show; some whimsical, witchy number that was very you to want. But it was a large. When you first checked the tag, you gave that tilted little frown of thought, and walked away– the maybe frown. Clark knew then that you would keep your eye on it as you traipsed through every aisle, wondering if you could squeeze into it, or if you should just move on and hope to find something else you liked better. Something less of a gamble. You of course shimmied it off the mannequin and insisted on trying it after making a loop. Clark had no doubt you would look beautiful in it, but he just felt that gut-tugging feeling that the whole situation would not end well. Clearly, he was right.

“Baby, please? Open up the door.”

He heard a small sniffle before the lock clicked, and you cracked the door, peeking out. Your eyes were watery as crystals, and he gave you a sympathetic little smile. “Open a little more.”

You pouted and pulled the door wide enough for him to slide past, then shut it behind you quietly. “Don’t say anything, okay? I already know.”

Clark tried to be nice and hide the growing smirk on his lips. As he let his eyes trail over you, he saw the abundance of your thighs straining the skirt thin, and the zipper hung open on the side of your round tummy like wilted leaves. It was too small, for sure, but you were just so cute when you looked dejected. “Know what?”

You crossed your arms and looked at your feet, nudging the floor with the toe of your boots. “You’re giving me the look.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“Yes you do,” you glared, “that… I told you so look. Like you think I’m stupid for trying stuff on.”

Clark’s smile fell instantly and he wrapped his hands around the meat of your arms, rubbing up and down the skin gently. “Hey, no! I don’t think you’re stupid for anything, bun, why would you think that?”

“I… it’s just… you know how– well–”

Clark stepped a hair closer and cupped your cheeks, guiding you in to press a chaste kiss on your wrinkling forehead. “Take a second. String the words together.”

You released a breathy grumble and let your forehead fall into the dip of his chest, closing your eyes. “I don't think you think that. I’m sorry. I just– I knew it wouldn’t fit, and you even told me it wouldn’t, and you weren’t being mean, you were right, and I did it anyway and… now I’m just disappointed.”

Clark rested his chin atop the crown of your head, sighing in understanding. He raked his fingers through your hair out of habit. “Don’t be. You don’t have to feel bad because your body doesn’t work for something, things should work for you, remember? They’re only clothes.”

“I know, but sometimes I just feel so–”

“Do not say fat,” Clark squinted at you, nudging your head up. “We’re past that. Or do I have to make a scene in this store to remind you?”

Your cheeks flooded, and to his pleasure, a reluctant little smile graced your lips. Shyly, you mumbled, “No…” as a handful of moments came rushing back– moments where Clark showed you exactly how fat was never a bad word in his house, and how much use there was for that warm, soft body of yours…

Clark chuckled low at the dreaminess which crossed your face, and he traced his thumbs just below your eyes. “See? Don’t get in your head. You know you’re just right.”

“Mhm,” you nodded, burrowing into his hands. It only took a second to slip your arms around his broad back and squeeze, inhaling the fresh-laundry scent on his sweatshirt.

Clark hugged you tighter and spoke into the warmth of your temple. “Screw the skirt. You’ve got plenty.”

“I know, but I liked it.”

“I’ll find you a better one.”

“You don’t know the first thing about–”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” He pulled back with a sarcastic little grin, poking at your cheek. 

You laughed and swatted him away, but he refused to release you from his arms. “Clark– hey, stop it!”

He jostled you until you yelped quietly, and he paused to see your hands shoot down. The unfastened skirt slipped right off your legs and pooled at your feet, and you were stuck in your panties, flushing red in the face. Clark burst into laughter and wrangled you back, even as you whined about how embarrassing the whole thing was.

“It’s not embarrassing,” Clark snickered, tickling the dips of your waist, fingers pressing into the rolling flesh. “I’ve seen you naked a million times!”

You gasped for air and fought between laughter and frustration. “Shut up! I– ah– let go!”

Clark only relented when you began to hiccup, because those only came once you really couldn’t breathe. He smoothed his palms over the abused skin and grinned, dipping to kiss your jaw. “Do you feel better? Did you forget?”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, that makes me remember.”

“Remember what?” Clark hummed, as if his joke had all the intelligence in the world. “Come on. Get dressed. I’ll take you to the mall.”

“But–”

“I’ll pay for it,” Clark promised, cradling your skull and tipping you back. He slotted his lips against yours in a slow dance, and he kept it up until you stopped protesting. Only then did he whisper, “We’ll find you something pretty. It’ll be like Cinderella, all… perfect fit, meant-to-be-like.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You shush. Don’t lock me out of the dressing room next time.”