I'm Batman

𝑳𝒆𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒂𝒔 ⋆˚꩜｡

・Like many Elvish men, Legolas is tall.

・Standing at 6" foot, he seems to loom over you...or that's what it feels like.

・His limbs are lithe and long, with broad shoulders

・Tough hands from years handled his bow and arrows

・Which caught you off guard because he's a very graceful elf

・However, he forgets that you are not a centuries old Elven male who grew up in the forest, with amazing climbing skills and the like.

・So he just thinks you can climb things like he can...

・And it happens all the time.

"Legolas!"

"Yes, meleth nin?"

"You need to help me!"

"Why-"

𝑨𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒐𝒓𝒏 ✧˖°.

・This man is a gentle giant.

・6"6

・He loves using his height to make you feel extra safe around him

・That means walking with his hand against your back when you're in public, crouching down so you don't have to reach to meet his gaze.

・But his favourite is wrapping you up in his arms...you completely disappear when Aragorn gives you a bear hug

・It's best when he's wearing a cloak, and you have a walking fort

・With his size comes a big voice; you've seen how he is rallying his men. But you've never been on the receiving end of any type of shouting.

・No matter how angry he gets, or how worried he may become. He always treats you with grace and respect

・But there are ... problems that come from a parter so large...there is so much teasing

・Whenever you're out in the forest together, he'll pick you up and carry you over streams and slippery rocks.

"There you go, dilthen las (little leaf), you are safe now-"

𝑩𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒓 ⋆˚꩜｡

・A strong body in every sense of the word

・He's 6"4 with large hands and wide shoulders.

・It's sort of like having a husband who is part bear.

・Whenever there are chaotic moments, he will just ... move you. On some occasions he will guide you. One hand on your waist, moving you to somewhere safe.

・There times he'll hoist you up and off the ground.

・Do not mistake this for Boromir being controlling! Because he isn't - he just doesn't want you to get hurt. At all. Ever.

・Speaking of your safety, he is a menace when it comes to it.

・He is your wall.

・A barrier in human form.

・And when someone gets too close, he's right there:

“Watch your step,” he growls without turning, his body already shifted to block them.

𝑬́𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 ✧˖°.

・Tall. Very tall.

・6"6

・He's an absolute bastard about his height

・But he never leaves you out of this because of it.

・However... he cannot stop teasing you.

・He loves it.

・Loves placing things on higher shelves when he feels like it. There's no reason to his actions other than, 'I want to push their button.'

・He'll say things like:

“Come now, say that again. I could not hear you from down there.”

and

“What’s that? Must I kneel for you to scold me properly?”

・The more you snap at him, the more he smirks.

・But the sight of you looking up at him... absolutely destroys him.

𝑮𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒍 ⋆˚꩜｡

・Described as taller than the normal Elf, he feels like a giant compared to you

・Around 6"6, his height adds to his allure.

・You've noticed that he's incredibly graceful; never once tripping over, nor getting his hair caught on his face, it's like ... a part of the sun dropped onto Middle Earth and decided to experience life as an Elf

・And yet ... no one is perfect...although he is close...

・Glorfindel has a habit of forgetting you are much shorter than he is

・Meaning that, you see life at a different level.

・So he does tight jars too tight, puts things up too high, and has once or twice forgotten to slow down when walking with you:

"My dear, you haven't spoken for some time-"

"GLORFINDEL!"

"Who-oh. Sorry dear."

𝑭𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒓 ✧˖°.

・At 6"4, Faramir is taller than the average man...very obviously so.

・It makes many people look at him funny when he says he's a scholar, and loves far better than being a warrior.

・Faramir is aware that height affects you both differently.

・He doesn't just notice; he remembers. So he can make like easier for you.

・Unlike other men ... he slows his pace when he walks, so you aren't running after him.

・He places this within your reach - secretly- though. He doesn't want you to realise what he's doing

・He never teases you about your height, in public, only when it's just the two of you. This includes holding you up so you can reach the shelf you need.

・Or walking past a stack of his books, and then grabbing you on "accident".

"Oh my love, I am so sorry! I thought you were one of my books-"

𝑬𝒍𝒓𝒐𝒉𝒊𝒓 ⋆˚꩜｡

・Taking after his father in height, both he and his brother are 6"7

・And yet how the size difference is displayed is wildly different

・Elrohir, the more outgoing of the twins, loves giving you piggy back rides.

・He'll kneel down, point to his back and tell you to "get on!"

・In the past, you've tried to laugh it off, but now it's ... a regular mode of transportation in your relationship.

・You've asked him why and he only responds with:

"...because I missed you..."

・You scoff every time because he literally tries to spend as much time with you as possible

・Has lost you in a crowd.

・Was on the verge of tears when he couldn't find you. (You were at a stall not far from him)

𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒏 ✧˖°.

・More introspective than his brother, he's also less elusive with his movements.

・Straight backed and moving with precision, it makes him feel even larger than he is

・Compared to other men ... he has never lost you, in a crowd, out walking, or elsewhere.

・Elladan knows where you are, at all times. Well that's not really a size thing ... no matter how tall or short you are, your safety comes before anything else

・When you're sick of making him slow his pace, or you having to quicken yours; he'll pick you up and carry you bride-style

・You’re tiny in comparison. And he does not hide how much he loves it.

・He wraps his cloak around you completely.

・When you’re annoyed and stomp away? He walks behind you silently, tracking your every step like a predator

・Then suddenly grabs you from behind and lifts you with a smirk.

➽──────────────────────────────❥

Halfway through the journey to Lake-town, Esgaroth, as the elves had called it, you found yourself pausing beneath the shelter of a broad, ancient tree. It's branches stretched wide overhead, leaves whispering softly as they filtered the sunlight into cool, dappled shade. Beyond it, the forest thinned toward the distant shimmer of Long Lake, the air carrying the faint scent of water and moss.

Tauriel and Legolas had insisted on the break for your sake. Despite your protests and assurance, more than once, that you were perfectly capable of continuing without rest, they had ignored you entirely. The decision had been made without debate, and now here you were, seated against the tree's trunk while the two elves lingered nearby, alert even at rest.

Boredom crept in quickly. At first, you welcomed the rest. But idleness had a way of creeping in, settling uneasily beneath your skin. Your gaze drifted across the forest floor, tracing patterns in fallen leaves and the tangled veins of exposed roots, until something long and straight caught your eye. There laid a slender stick half-buried in the dirt.

You picked it up, testing its weight in your hand, waving it half-heartedly through the air before letting it drop to the dirt. A sigh slipped past your lips, quiet and unhurried. With no pressing task to claim your attention, you lowered the tip to the soil and began tracing absent-minded patterns into the earth.

The lines were uneven, wandering without plan, yet now and then they curved into the graceful strokes of elven script, letters you had glimpsed etched upon pillars and scrolls in the Woodland Realm. They were imperfect imitations, half-remembered and crooked, but there was a strange comfort in their familiarity, as though each shallow mark tethered you, however faintly, to that distant, gilded place.

Your thoughts then wandered back to the hushed exchange you had overheard earlier, the elves speaking in their fluid, lilting language, every syllable woven like silk. Though you had not understood a single word, the cadence alone had told you it was something, something shared between them with ease.

The recollection pressed upon your chest now, a quiet, unwelcome weight. At the time, you had dismissed it as simple curiosity. Yet as the moments stretched on, the truth revealed itself more plainly. It was not merely curiosity that unsettled you, but the sharp awareness of distance—of standing near, yet never within.

Your gaze dropped to the shallow markings in the dirt. The elegant curves you had attempted only moments ago suddenly looked foreign, almost mocking. You recognized their beauty, yes, but not their meaning. You could copy their shape, but they remained hollow symbols beneath your hand.

A faint crease formed between your brows.

It was a strange realization, to walk among a people whose voices flowed like song, whose histories were etched into every branch and stone… and to understand none of it, even if you were blessed of their lineage. To smile when they smiled, yet never know why. To hear your name spoken, perhaps, and not recognize it.

The forest felt a touch quieter then, as if your thoughts had muffled its music. You exhaled slowly, dragging the stick once more through the soil. This time the lines lost their resemblance to letters entirely, dissolving into simple scratches.

You did not like the feeling, not the not knowing, not the being apart, not the silent barrier between hearing and understanding. It left you with the unsettling sense of standing at a door that everyone else could open but you.

And for the first time, you wondered whether that door would ever open for you at all.

"And what are you doing now?" The voice cut cleanly through your concentration, and the stick in your hand jolted, carving a crooked scar across the half-finished symbol. You didn't need to look up to know who it belonged to.

You stilled. There was no need to lift your gaze; the timbre alone gave him away, carrying that effortless composure only one person seemed to possess even in the heart of uncertainty.

Still, after a brief pause, you looked up. Legolas stood a short distance away, sunlight filtering through the canopy to rest pale gold upon his hair. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an alertness in his eyes, as if he noticed far more than he ever voiced. One hand rested lightly near his quiver, the other loose at his side. He must have approached silently, of course he had.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the stick.

"…Nothing," you answered at first, the word coming a touch too quickly to be convincing.

His gaze flicked to the ground beside you. To the scattered attempts at elven script. To the smudged lines where you had erased mistakes with the side of your hand.

A knowing look crossed his features—not mocking, not unkind. Simply observant at your choice of writing.

"You hold the branch as though it has offended you," he said mildly. "The soil has suffered much for your quarrel."

A faint huff escaped you despite yourself. "I am practicing," you corrected, though the lack of confidence in your tone betrayed you. "Or attempting to."

He stepped closer then, boots soundless against leaf and loam, and crouched just enough to see the markings clearly. His eyes traced the shapes with quiet attention, soon realising what they were.

"These are Sindarin characters," he noted. "From the Woodland archives."

Your surprise showed at once. Your brows lifted slightly, and whatever composure you had tried to maintain slipped in the face of it. You glanced from the markings in the dirt back to him, searching his expression as if to confirm he was not merely guessing.

"You recognized them from that?" you asked, disbelief laced through your voice. There was a hint of curiosity there too, an almost reluctant hope that your clumsy attempts had not been entirely meaningless.

After all, to your own eyes they had looked like little more than scratched curves and uncertain lines. Yet he had named them without hesitation, as though their shape spoke clearly despite your errors.

"They are… distorted," he said, though this time the corner of his mouth tilted upward, amusement softening the words. He lightly nudged one of the crooked symbols with the tip of his finger. "One might think the writer was wrestling the branch rather than guiding it."

The gentle tease in his tone made it clear he meant no harm. His eyes glimmered with quiet mirth, as if he found your earnest attempts more endearing than flawed. "Still," he added, a touch more lightly, "I have seen far worse from younglings who claim fluency."

A small silence stretched. The faint smile lingering on his face made it worse somehow.

You looked away first. "I realized," you said more quietly, "that I cannot read even a single word, or even listen! Not one. I walk among you all and your letters might as well be bird tracks in mud."

The admission felt oddly heavier spoken aloud. For a moment, he did not reply. The forest filled the gap, distant rustling leaves, the hush of wind through branches, the quiet breathing of the world around you.

Then, softer than before, he said, almost as if to comfort you. "Few outside our people can. It is no failing."

"It feels like one," you murmured. "When you all speak, I cannot follow. When you write, I cannot read. It is like standing behind glass."

His gaze shifted to you then, sharper in its focus yet warm in its intent. "And yet," he said, "You try."

He reached down and retrieved the stick you had let fall, his fingers closing around it with easy grace. In one unhurried motion, he lowered himself to a knee, movements quiet and balanced as though the forest floor were as familiar to him as a polished hall.

The tip met the soil, and he drew a single character into the earth. The line flowed without pause, measured, and effortlessly refined. Where your markings had wavered and doubled back, his stroke curved with certainty, each angle placed with purpose, each turn as natural as breath. It was elegant in its simplicity, the kind of beauty born not from effort, but from long familiarity.

"This," he said, glancing at you briefly as the final stroke settled into place, "is the sound 'ta'. "

He shifted back a fraction, leaning away just enough to give you a clear view. The character rested in the soil between you, simple, yet graceful, its curves precise where your own attempts had faltered.

"It appears often," he continued, tone calm but lightly encouraging. "If you choose to learn one, learn this."

His eyes rose to meet yours again, and there it was, that faint, almost secret smile, subtle as the first hint of dawn. His eyes stayed on yours a moment longer, sharp and amused, and the familiar prick of irritation rose once again as it settled in your chest.

"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" you asked, though part of you already knew the answer.

He tilted his head, lips twitching, eyes glimmering with mischief. "Me? Never," he said smoothly, though the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him. You knew he was up to no good with his next few words. "I am merely stating that from here, it looks as though the branch has given up entirely and plans to leave you writing god knows what if you persist."

Your cheeks heated, partly from embarrassment, partly from the ridiculous image he'd conjured. "I'm not that bad," you muttered.

"Not bad?" He crouched beside you, eyes scanning the dirt with exaggerated scrutiny. "I've seen more legible markings on a squirrel's paw. Honestly, if you continue like this, you'll be stuck writing god knows what for the rest of your days."

Heat crept up your cheeks, but you couldn't help the reluctant snort that escaped. He leaned back, clearly pleased with himself, the faint smile never leaving his face.

"Asshole." you muttered under your breath, shaking your head.

Legolas tilted his head, eyes narrowing as if considering your words. Then he gave a small, deliberate nod as though he understood what you meant before pausing. His brow furrowed.

"…Asshole?" he murmured to himself, testing the sound, as though it were some strange, foreign spell.

He looked at you with genuine curiosity, the faintest crease forming between his brows. "I do not know this word. Asshole… what does it mean?"

It took a moment for the realization to settle, this term, this insult, had not even been invented yet during this time. You blinked again, caught between incredulity and amusement, and then a slow, mischievous smile curved your lips. You knew what to do.

"You want to know what it means?" you asked, voice light and teasing. "Well... I can tell you… but only if you make me a deal."

His interest piqued, he leaned slightly closer, eyes glimmering with intrigue. "A deal?"

"Yes," you said, pointing to the stick in your hand. "If you teach me Elvish properly, real Elvish, not just scribbling letters like a fool... then I'll tell you what it means."

Legolas's smile widened just the tiniest fraction, the kind of smile that carried both challenge and amusement. "I see," he said slowly as his eyes glimmered, already anticipating the game you were about to play. "You bargain, do you? Very well. Teach you I shall… and then, perhaps, you may reveal this mysterious word."

You grinned, pleased with his response. "It's a deal."

Wasting no time, he guided you through the letters one by one, patient and precise, correcting your strokes without ever losing that faint trace of amusement in his expression.

Slowly, clumsily at first, you traced each symbol in the dirt, your lines gradually straightening, curves flowing more naturally under his watchful eye.

Finally, you stepped back, surveying your work. A small, satisfied smile tugged at your lips. "Not bad," you murmured to yourself, heart swelling with pride. You looked up at Legolas, expecting… some kind of praise, a nod, even the faintest acknowledgment.

"It’s…" he began, his voice stretching the pause far longer than necessary. Your smile faltered, suspicion creeping in that it wasnt as good as you had thought. "Serious?"

He let the pause linger, eyes fixed on the markings as if weighing the right words. Your chest tightened as you awaited an awnser.

"But these were the letters you taught me!" you groaned, frustration cracking your tone.

Then, at last, a slow, faint smile curved his lips. "Well," he said softly, "Elves perceive things faster than humans. You should be the same, considering you share the lineage of one."

You pouted, cheeks puffed, but there was no argument left in you. With a small huff, you accepted it and bent back down, returning to practice.

After a few more attempts, the shapes of the letters finally felt natural under your hand. You could reproduce them without hesitation, but their meaning remained a mystery, floating just out of reach.

Furrowing your brows, you finally looked up at him. "Test me," you urged, determination creeping into your tone.

Legolas blinked, startled for a fraction of a second, before giving a slow nod. He paused, fingers lightly brushing the dirt as if the very earth could help him decide. Thought flickered behind his pale eyes, weighing which word might be a fit for a test.

A small, knowing smile crept onto his face, subtle and almost imperceptible. "Melin gin" he spoke, his voice soft yet somewhat hesitant.

You stared at him, blinking, your mind utterly blank. The letters were all familiar, you had practiced again and again, but strung together like this, they formed a pattern that meant nothing to you.

"Okay," you finally admitted, exhaling slowly, your hands dropping to the dirt in defeat. Cheeks warm, you shook your head. "I… I don't know what that meant."

Defeated, you sank back against the tree, shoulders slumping as a quiet groan slipped past your lips. The forest was quiet around you, and for a moment, you just let yourself rest there, tired but oddly satisfied. You had learned the letters so understanding could come later. There was no rush, you told yourself, letting the thought settle like a small, comforting weight in your chest.

Beside you, Legolas's sharp gaze had landed on your relaxed figure, and all of a sudden, you felt the weight of it, reminding you of the deal you had struck. His expression shifted, the faint trace of amusement returning as he leaned slightly closer. "I"ve done my part," he said, voice steady but insistent. "So… what does this asshole mean?"

Your eyes snapped wide open, heart skipping a beat just from the thought of it. The deal. You'd completely forgotten. You couldn't possibly tell him, not now, not ever. Saying it aloud might risk… well, something far worse than a simple reprimand.

Your mind spun, searching desperately for a safe excuse, anything that would keep you out of danger while still holding to your side of the bargain.

"Well…" you began, the word stretching thin as your thoughts tangled over one another. Your voice wavered, buying time your mind desperately tried to fill. "You know what… I-" you stalled, your eyes flicking anywhere but his face.

"I… can't really tell you," you finished at last, the words coming out smaller than you intended, as though even they were unsure of themselves.

Legolas tilted his head, a flash of confusion crossing his face as he opened his mouth, clearly about to press the question further. However, you snapped your hand up just in time, cutting him off before he could speak any further.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and your mind raced desperately, scrambling for a clever way to uphold your end of the bargain.

"But!" you blurted quickly, the word tumbling out before he could corner you with another question. You straightened a little, forcing a bright note of enthusiasm into your voice, as if this had been your plan all along. "I can teach you how to draw!"

"But that-" he began, only for you to wave him off quickly, dismissing the rest of his sentence before it could form.

You glanced around in a fret, scanning your surroundings for inspiration, as you let your gaze settle on the sturdy tree just behind you.

An idea sparked, and you grinned, eyebrows lifting in triumph. "Right! Carving! I shall draw, or you shall… say a carving on this tree." You smiled, feigning innocence, your lie smooth as silk.

Legolas' brow furrowed, the lines of his face deepening with puzzlement. "But… how are you going-" he began, his voice trailing off as his eyes followed your movements, clearly struggling to piece together your sudden plan.

You didn't wait for him to finish. Your hand slipped swiftly into your pocket and emerged with the small knife he had gifted you before your parting from the Woodland Realm. The cool metal felt reassuring in your palm, a secret advantage in your little scheme.

"With this," you said simply, smirking over your shoulder as you turned to the tree.

You pressed the tip of the knife into the bark and began carving. The rough surface resisted, scratching faint lines across your palm as you guided the blade. Soon, a crude figure began to emerge: a stickman, angular and uneven, yet unmistakable in form. Atleast to you.

One arm stretched crookedly upward, the other flailing slightly. The legs were jagged, giving it an almost animated sense of motion. Its face, a simple circle with two dots, looked more surprised than anything else, though to you, it captured the exact expression of someone.

Every cut left small flecks of bark falling to the ground, soft scratches marking your progress, and a faint scent of sap rising as you worked. You hummed quietly under your breath, focusing on the simple joy of creation while keeping one wary eye on Legolas, who had remained still behind you, watching with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

By the time you stepped back, the stickman stood boldly carved into the tree, rough but full of character. You turned to him, feigning pride once more as your eyebrows raised, waiting for his reaction.

Legolas stepped back slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as they traced the rough lines etched into the bark. He tilted his head, squinting, as if the angle might reveal some hidden sense, some meaning that eluded him at first glance.

The sunlight caught the jagged edges of the carving, throwing thin shadows across its uneven form, and for a long moment he simply stared, silent, as though trying to read more than just the lines carved.

Finally, he turned to you, frustration and disbelief warring in his expression. "What exactly is this?" His voice was low, carrying that rare edge of vulnerability only he allowed in fleeting moments.

You felt a small thrill at his reaction, the tiniest flicker of triumph warming your chest. Your lips curved into a subtle, playful smirk, as you met his gaze evenly. "It's you," you said softly, yet with a teasing edge that made him blink in surprise.

Legolas' brows drew together again, sharp lines of irritation cutting across his otherwise serene face as he glanced back at the first carving. He shook his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

"Well… it doesn’t look like me," he said, each word carrying that quiet, unyielding precision that made it feel less like an opinion and more like a judgment.

Your chest sank at his words. The small thrill of accomplishment you'd felt moments ago deflated instantly, leaving a hollow weight in your stomach.

You let out a long, frustrated sigh, shoulders drooping under the weight of your disappointment, and stepped back toward the tree. The knife felt suddenly heavier in your hand, but a spark of determination flared within you.

This time, each movement was deliberate, each line traced with care, the blade guided as if you were coaxing the very essence of life from the rough, resistant bark.

"And who exactly are you drawing now?" his voice followed, curious but laced with that faint exasperation only he could manage.

You didn't respond. Your focus narrowed, each stroke precise, each line a quiet rebellion against his critique. When at last you straightened, stepping back from your work, a surge of pride warmed your chest. Your eyes lifted to meet his, almost shy in its defiance.

"That's me," you said softly, standing fully upright now.

Legolas blinked, his sharp gaze softening for the briefest moment, before the corner of his lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smile. It grew, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter. "Ah… yes. Now this one actually looks just like you," he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Your cheeks flamed, a rush of heat mingling embarrassment with a stubborn thread of pride. Arms crossed tightly over your chest, you shot him a sharp, pointed glare, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how pleased you secretly were. "Oh, come on!" you exclaimed annoyed.

But even as you scowled, you couldn't help but deny it, the sound of his laughter, the way his eyes crinkled in genuine amusement, made your small victory feel lighter somehow.

As his laughter gradually faded into the rustle of leaves and the whisper of the wind through the branches, a quiet settled between you, warm and unspoken, like the forest itself was holding its breath before the two.

You could hear your own heartbeat, steady and insistent, and for a moment, the world beyond this small clearing seemed to dissolve.

Your lips pressed together thoughtfully, puckering slightly as you reconsidered his teasing words, turning them over in your mind. "Melin gin?" you murmured softly to yourself, before glancing back at him.

He was sitting beside you, posture relaxed, eyes lifted to the pale sky above, yet somehow you felt his gaze even without meeting it.

"What does that mean? The one you tested me with," you asked, curiosity getting a hold on you.

Legolas didn't move, his body still, but the faintest curve of a smile lingered at the corners of his lips, subtle and knowing. "Hmmm…" he hummed, the sound low, as if he were savoring both the word and the moment.

"It's a greeting," he said finally. "Like when you meet royalty… or someone you hold in esteem." He tilted his head toward you ever so slightly, a subtle movement that seemed almost shy in contrast to his usual composure.

When his gaze returned to yours, there was a quiet intensity in his eyes that seemed to suspend the very air between you, as though the space itself had been woven from threads of light and shadow. Your heart caught in your throat, and for a heartbeat, the world beyond the forest seemed to vanish.

You swallowed, feeling the warmth creep into your chest, and nodded slowly, letting the meaning of his words settle over you. "Then I shall greet you," you said, a soft smile lifting your lips, your tone light but filled with a hint of something daring. You straightened just a little, letting the moment linger, and spoke carefully, "Melin gin."

The sound of the words on your lips lingered in the air, fragile, at once strange and tender. They felt almost intimate, like a secret carried on the breeze, an offering stretching silently between the two of you with quiet meaning.

“maybe i can make that pasta you like tonight,” he said, his voice all warmth and promise. “how’s that sound, sweets?”

you stopped mid-step, glancing at him over your shoulder—a flicker of curiosity, then delight sparking in your eyes.

“really?”

there it was. the black cat glow. all sleek grace and sudden softness. the kind of look that made clark’s heart stutter in his chest.

he could fight monsters, but not that.

you took a step closer, your tone turning sweetly coaxing. “please?” as if you ever needed to beg.

he laughed. that warm, bashful sound that always came out when he couldn’t handle how much he loved you. before you could blink, you were in his arms, his big hands steady at your waist as you peppered his cheeks with kisses.

“please, please, please, love!” you whispered between giggles, only pulling back when you noticed a few judgmental shoppers passing by. your voice lowered to a mischievous murmur, “i miss your cooking.”

his ears flushed pink. “then it’s a date,” he said softly, dimples cutting into his cheeks as that boyish smile took over.

you grinned—wide, blinding—the kind that could thaw ice, melt kryptonite, and leave him completely undone. then, without another word, you turned away, sauntering toward the tomatoes like you hadn’t just wrecked him entirely.

he sighed dreamily and pushed the cart after you.

you had no idea how easy it was for you to ruin his composure.

checking his phone, clark frowned when he saw the dead screen. that’s why jimmy hasn’t been calling, he thought, shrugging as he pocketed it again. not that he needed it right now, this was your day.

“sweets, the tomatoes,” he called gently as you began drifting toward a display of particularly shiny apples.

“oh.” you blinked, then turned back to the task, humming as you picked the best ones.

a beat later, he leaned closer, his voice brushing your ear. “think i’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick.”

“’kay,” you murmured, still focused. “i’ll be here.”

he pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head before heading off.

and you did wait—for a little while. you crossed a few more things off your list, stared at the broccoli for far too long, even debated picking a new jar of honey.

but then… the snack aisle called.

you swore it wasn’t your fault. the boxes were too bright, the packaging too cute, the flavors too limited edition.

“i’ll be right back,” you muttered to yourself, already pushing the cart away. “he won’t even notice.”

ten minutes later, you were crouched in front of a lower shelf, deeply contemplating a box of strawberry-dipped-in-double-chocolate something.

you knew clark would scold you for the sugar, list every possible consequence, then kiss your forehead anyway and say he just wanted you to live forever.

you smiled at the thought, standing up to check your phone, but it was silent. no calls, no texts.

“huh.”

did he have to fly off for something again—

then the intercom crackled to life just to call your name:

“your child is at register ten. please come pick him up.”

you froze.

since when do i have a child?

a rush of panic hit you as you made your way toward the registers. did i break something? steal something? forget something?

then you saw him.

your so-called “child.”

six foot five of kansas farmboy, sitting on a bench beside the self-checkout, arms crossed and lower lip jutting out in the most dramatic pout you’d ever seen.

clark kent—the most powerful man on earth—sulking.

“clark.” you could barely keep the laughter out of your voice.

he glanced up, feigning offense. “you left me.”

“you went to the bathroom,” you shot back, folding your arms, eyebrow raised.

“and then my phone died. and then i couldn’t find you.” he sighed, standing up with all the gravity of a man abandoned in a battlefield instead of a grocery store.

you tilted your head, smirking just a little. “poor baby.”

“don’t ‘poor baby’ me,” he grumbled, taking the cart from your hands. “i’m the one carrying everything home.”

you leaned in close, your voice low and teasing. “good. i like watching you do that.”

his cheeks flushed again, the pout disappearing as a laugh broke free.

yeah. he’d carry all the groceries in the world if it meant seeing you smile like that.

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Clark finally reaches your table, a relieved smile painted across his face. “Almost got lost there for a minute.” He jokes. His glasses started to slip on the journey, they sit on the edge of his noise, barely hanging on. Just like you. “For the lady.” He puts your drink on the table, but before he slides it over he pulls a straw from his pocket and in one quick movement unwraps it and slips it into the glass for you.

Your thighs squeeze tighter, the heat in your lower stomach growing.

This is so stupid, you think, he’s just a guy!

Expect he’s not, he’s Clark.

You feel like a teenager, ruining your panties at the drop of a hat, practically creaming at the smallest gestures. A door that’s held open, a chair that’s pulled out, one time he switched with you on the sidewalk so you were on the inside. The motion had been smooth, effortless, he just pulled your hand until you were in-front of him, then he dropped it and side stepped so he was closest to the street. He didn’t even acknowledge it afterward, just continued walking, switching his bags to the other hand so he could hold yours.

You nearly pulled him into the first alley you saw.

That doesn’t even count the things you’ve watched him do as Superman, the times you’ve ridden him into oblivion after a reading a story about how he saved a cat from a tree or something equally as ridiculous.

“Thank you.” You hum, bringing the straw to your lips and taking a sip. “What is it?” You ask.

Clark slid into the booth across from you, taking a sip from his own drink- a water. “Just a dirty Shirley, was gonna get a Bay Breeze but I remember you said pineapple juice gives you heartburn.”

You imagine all two-hundred and forty pounds of him at the bar asking for a Dirty Shirley with that sweet farm-boy smile. You wonder if he’d let you drag him the bathroom.

“It’s perfect.” You assure him, taking another sip to avoiding adding something sappy like ‘so are you.’

Clark beams, then starts telling you about how he saw an ad for a furniture store that’s going out of business.

“Lois said the deals are crazy.” He explains, hands waving as he talks. “Thought I might pickup a new bedroom set.”

You tilt your head, “What’s wrong with the one you have?” Most guys hardly have a bed frame and a top sheet, Clark has a matching headboard and armoire.

Clark shrugs, “I only have one end table, you should have one for your side.”

Your side. Your cunt pulses again, needy and inconvenient, you can’t take her anywhere.

“I also want a bigger dresser, so you can have more than just one drawer.” He explains. You actually have two drawers, and at least a quarter of Clark’s closet. Nevermind your spot in his medicine cabinet or the key to his apartment in your purse.

Maybe he’s trying to get you pregnant. Seduce you with domesticity and home furnishings.

“Something wrong?” Clark asks.

Nothing honey, you think, just imagining you installing car seats and holding babies.

“Nothing.” You promise.

You insist he continue telling you about furniture and all of his other home decor plans. You wonder if he’d want to live on a ranch some day, you’d bet it’d have a great big porch with a swing. Or was he more of a suburbs guy? You wonder if he’s thought about it, owning a house, having a mortgage and hosting barbecues. Visions of Clark in front of grill wearing a cheesy apron and nothing else. Your brain spins.

You make a joke about reinforcing his new headboard and Clark’s entire face turns red, then he admits he already ordered a kit to mount it to the wall.

Dear god.

You only last another half hour, resolve cracking after when you try to pay the bill and Clark swats your hand away with a dismissive ‘Don’t be silly.’ You splurge for the extra fast Uber.

Clark’s apartment gives you butterflies. It’s perfectly mundane, filled with bookshelves, a couch and floor to ceiling windows. What really gets you is way he actually has seasonings in his cabinets, multiple pots and pans in the drawers, cleaning products under the sink. In the bedroom he has room darkening blinds, hanging on real curtain rods instead of those cheap tension rods. A shoe rack by the door and above it a hook he added for your purse.

“I did some laundry with the clothes you left here,“ Another pulse, she’s furious now. “-I hope you don’t mind I ironed that white blouse with the flowers.”

You know exactly what you blouse he’s talking about, it’s cotton, has pleats and wrinkles if you so much as look at it wrong. A total pain in the ass to iron.

“You ironed it?” You ask, incredulous.

Clark shrugs, “I iron all my shirts, Ma says life is too short for wrinkles.” He’s at the fridge, grabbing each of you a cold bottle of water before moving towards the bedroom.

You want to eat him alive, tear his button down off with your teeth and ride him until he forgets his name. You feel like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight, or a rope that’s fraying from tension, you’re about to snap. Your cunt screams, refusing to be ignored any longer.

You trail Clark to the bedroom, like a lioness stalking her prey.

Clark rests on the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes, then his socks.

When he catches you waiting in the doorway, he jerks his head, as if to say ‘come here,’ and welcomes you between his legs without a second thought, knees spreading to make room for you to stand between them. Your hands curl around to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the rogue strands of hair. His smile is intoxicating, as sweet as it is devastating.

You crawl into his lap, legs landing in either side of his hips as he shifts backward to make enough room for you. His hands, big, strong, and capable, find your waist.

Your kiss is searing, an entire evening of pent up energy channeled into your lips. Into your hands pulling at his curls, into your thighs clenching against his hips. Your tongue is in his mouth, like you’re trying to capture his essence and swallow it. Clark is playing catchup, a startled noise erupting from the back of his throat.

What he lacks in preparation, he makes up for in enthusiasm, hands sliding down to your ass and squeezing the soft flesh. His lips press hard against yours, teeth clashing as he rises to the challenge, determined to match your intensity.

Your nose hits his glasses, once, then twice, and by the third time you need to break for air anyway. Your hands reach up, grabbing the arms and pulling them off his pretty, pretty face. You fold them and despite the urge to throw them across the room, you place them on his end table. Mr. Terrific would be pissed if you broke another pair anyway.

You’re leaning back in when Clark seems to remember himself, moving his hands off your ass and pulling his lips out of your reach.

Uh oh.

“Honey.“ He clears his throat. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The fuck?

“Is there a reason you don’t want to have sex with me Clark?” Your cunt asks. The words have more bite than you intend, but honestly you don’t really care. You’re too horny for patience.

Clark goes stiff as steel beneath you, ears turning bright red. “Not what I said!” He defends, eyes screaming Innocent! Innocent man here! “I just wanna make sure you’re up for it.”

“Clark I climbed onto your lap, I’m very much up for it.” You assure him.

“Not complaining about that, trust me.” Clark says, his hands have found their way back to your waist and he gives it an affectionate squeeze. “Just,” he says tentatively, “You have that big presentation in the morning and I want to make sure you get a full eight hours.”

Once again he knocks you breathless. What man would willingly give up sex so his girlfriend (who totally forgot about that presentation by the way) can sleep? Your cunt flares, white hot and screaming his name.

Instead of answering you drop your full weight onto his lap, your thighs landing firmly on top his, your heat pressing tight to his crotch. His hips jerk, reacting to the sudden heat of you.

You grind down, chasing any friction you can get. You’re so wet you can almost smell it, you wouldn’t be surprised if he can feel it already. You should be embarrassed, but what else is a girl to do when her boyfriend spends all of date night promising domestic bliss and being built like a brick shit house.

“Clark.” You nip at his ear, “I’m sure.” The words come out low and lusty, whispered against his lips and punctuated with an achingly slow roll of your hips.

Thankfully, Clark is easily swayed. “Okay.”

You make quick work of his buttons, pressing a kiss each sliver of skin that gets exposed.

He’s burning up under your hands, thick cords of muscle rippling as you pull the fabric off of him. A smattering of chest hair decorating his pecs and abdomen, trailing into his pants like a map.

You reach for his belt next, giving it a hard tug and smirking when his hips jump. It lands with a thud somewhere across the room. You yank off his jeans, working fast and aggressive, until you only have his briefs left. Your index fingers are crooked into the waist band when Clark’s hand stops you, dwarfing your wrist in his grasp.

He gives you that look, the pleading one that makes his eyes look like saucers. You love when he’s like this, at your mercy, happy to let you take and take and take. “You’re still fully dressed,” he says, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw, then another to your pulse point, a third to your collarbone. “Not fair.” He whispers.

Sweet, perfect man.

You stand, and he reaches after you, hands flexing when he catches himself. Your top lands on the floor, and your bottoms quickly following suit.

Clark watches you undress, ands grabbing at the sheets beside him. You can see his cock straining where it’s still trapped under fabric, you’d bet money on there being a wet spot pooling against his tip. The thought makes your mouth water. A little voice in your head coos, mine mine mine mine.

“You wanna take care of me right?” You ask, doing your best impression of silk, making sure each word drips with want.

He nods, frantic, eager to please.

You crawl back onto the bed, walking on your hands and knees towards him. Your Clark, big blue all scared and excited, lets you chase him. His long legs kicking at the sheets for traction as he shuffles back, not stopping until he hits the headboard with a ‘thump.’

You don’t stop until you’re back in his lap, even closer than before. Your tits pressed so tight to his chest you can feel his ribcage shudder with each breath. Gotcha.

Despite your victory, you can’t help but think that he’s exactly where he wants to be.

His lips are parted, pink and swollen from your kisses.

This time when you kiss him it’s almost soft, at least the closest you’ve come to it all night. He moans against your mouth, and you can feel his hands hovering over your body as he brings them higher and higher. You wonder where he’ll land, what part of you he needs to touch the most.

He bypasses exposed skin, all the soft places just begging to be groped and cradles your face instead. His thumbs swipe delicate strokes over your cheekbones, like you’re something precious.

In contrast, your hands are rabid. A wave of want so strong you swear you feel wetness drip down your thigh. You’re too impatient to take his briefs off now, instead you pull him out, his cock thick, heavy and hot in your hand. His tip is red and angry, like he’s the one who’s been worked up all night.

You think it’s only right, that a man who is so good, so thoughtful, was rewarded with a dick pretty enough to make angels cry.

You tuck the waist band under his balls, making sure to give them a soft little tug, (something you know he likes), and then you start sink onto him.

The stretch is immediate, intense and overwhelming. Like your body is rearranging itself to find every spare inch of room, whatever it takes to make him fit.

Normally Clark prepares you, eats you out until you can hardly spell your own name, then he fingers you until you can’t remember the alphabet, but tonight you need the stretch, need a fullness only he can provide. You want to sit at your desk tomorrow and feel him every-time you move. Want every curve, every vein etched into your walls.

Clark makes a noise, something between a gasp and a moan, as if you’ve stolen the air out of his lungs. Then he kisses you, hard and messy like he’s trying to do the same to you. You don’t pull back until he’s bottomed out.

“This is how you can take care of me.” You murmur against his lips.

It’s like you can feel him in your lungs, and suddenly the lines of lion and lamb are blurred. You whimper, hips grinding down even though you have no where to go. A smug smile pollutes Clark’s pretty face, beneath you, ever so slightly the tables start turning.

In an effort to keep your lead, you rise up, stopping just short of his tip, and then drop down again, putting your all your weight behind the it. He hits so different like this, finding that spongey spot inside you with every pass.

His smile disappears into a moan, his head tipping back in pleasure as you give him the tightest squeeze you can muster. You watch the veins on his neck pop, he’s already closer than he wants to admit.

“Gosh, honey.” He whispers, “So tight.” His voice is full of reverence, the kind most men reserve for praying. His gaze is locked on the sight of you wrapped around him, the ring of your arousal that’s forming at the base of cock. He stares at it like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, eyes wide and hands shaking. A sacrificial lamb at the alter of your cunt.

It makes you feel drunk.

Your thighs are burning, trembling on either side of him as you try to raise yourself again. Between the width of his body, and the sheer length of cock you have to travel, you’re already struggling to find a rhythm.

You can feel his heart racing, body tense and all but vibrating as try to steady your self, both of your palms pressed flat to his chest for support. You’re trying to find the will, doing vaginal acrobatics to try and distract him from the fact that you’re falling apart. But Clark, who has made himself an expert in reading your body, doesn’t fall for it. You’re suddenly reminded of his strength, of the superhero hiding under a mop of a curls and dimples. You foolishly mistook his tension for want; you realize now, as his hands curls around your hips and lift you up, that it was restraint.

Instead of pushing you back down, he holds you there, letting your cunt flutter around just the head of his cock. You can’t even think as you try to fuck yourself down onto him. Your hips thrash with the efforts, but gravity is no match for his strength.

“Clark what are you doing, please.” You beg, angry red welts appear under your nails as you claw at his skin, willing him to let you fall.

Your breaths, which had been up to this point been controlled and even, become heaves, borderline sobs. Your hips trashing in his grip as you try to get friction.

He shushes you, gentle and loving. As if it’s obvious he says. “Taking care of you.”

Then without warning, Clark pushes you down, faster than you could ever achieve yourself. Then he lifts you back up, and brings down again, fucking you on his cock until you’re crying out with each pass. Until your hips start to move with his hands, canting in time with each thrust.

“Tell me what you want.” Clark says.

You gasp, when did you lose control of this?

“Touch me.” You beg anyway. You grab one of his hands and drag it off your hip until it finds where your bodies are connected. “Please.”

Clark obliges, his thumb zeroing in your clit and beginning a familiar rhythm of slow, tight circles. The rest of his fingers spread against his cock, resting alongside your folds, teasing your weeping hole where it’s stretched around him. His fingers dance along the edges, like he’s threatening to slip one in. You’re already so full of him, but your pulse stutters at the thought.

Your hips jerk again, chasing his thumb as he bottoms out again, this time Clark lets you stay there, grinding against his hand while you fuck yourself down onto the base of his cock.

“That’s it, use me honey. Take what you need.” He says, his hand is sandwiched between you at an awkward angle in this position, but Clark is unphased, his thumb pressing even harder against your clit.

You cry out, your head falling into the crook of his neck as you chase your orgasm. You can feel it creeping up your spine, pushing your nerves to the edge, every hair standing at attention.

“Tell me-“ You hiccup, your own moan interrupting you. “Tell me about the bedroom set again.”

Clark freezes, surprised, but only momentarily. Then he resumes his efforts with fervor, shifting his hips so he can thrust up into you while his thumb doubles its speed.

“The end tables have outlets.” He tells you, “So you can plug your laptop in, work from bed when you’re too sore to walk.”

You bite down on his throat, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Need a better bed,” He pants, “So I can fuck you through it.”

You clench, another ragged moan of his name falling from your lips. You can see your orgasm, the wave creating as it prepares to knock you over.

“Finance or buy?” You ask, voice shaking.

“Finance.” He punctuates it with a thrust. “Good-“ Another thrust “-for credit score.”

The earth shatters, your vision turning white and your blood to lava. Your orgasm crashes into you with the power of a tsunami, the power of it sweeping Clark away with you. Despite his own orgasm, his thumb never stops, he keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as long as possible, not pulling away until you finally stop twitching.

When you try to breathe again, you’re covered in sweat, both of your thighs are drenched in your ecstasy. So are the sheets.

“Jesus.” You pant, still not finding the strength to move, letting his cock soften inside you.

“Nope.” Clark says, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Just me.”

“Ha. Ha.” Your body sags against his, limp and exhausted.

You stay like that until your bladder finally gets the better of you. You pull off of Clark with a hiss and a wet sound that can only be described as vulgar.

It takes a minute to remember how to stand, legs uncertain as you take your first steps.

When you come back from the bathroom, clean and ready to sleep. Clark has changed the sheets, and is setting two Tylenol down next to the water bottle (he already broke the seal on it for you) that he grabbed earlier. “So your thighs don’t ache as bad in the morning.” He explains.

Folded in a neat square, one of his t-shirts is sitting on your side of the bed. He’s already slipped on sweats, and to your delight, he hasn’t bothered with a shirt. The clothes you’d abandoned on the floor earlier are gone, probably in his hamper (You love that he has a hamper).

Sweet, perfect man.

“Thank you.” You slip on the shirt and slide underneath the covers.

Clark climbs in beside you, holding his arm out so you can take your place curled against his side. He doesn’t speak until you’ve settled.

“So.” He starts, your head is on his chest, listening to his heart beat. “Since when are you so horny for furniture?”

You hum, too tired to be embarrassed. “IKEA catalogues are my Playboy.” You joke, a beat of silence passes. “I like how responsible you are. It’s really hot.” You admit.

You feel Clark nod, he doesn’t say anything but you hear his heartbeat pick up. Mid-yawn, you throw your leg over his waist, a silent ‘down boy.’

Then you remember what he said, right before you came.

“Since when are you worried about your credit-score?” You ask.

Clark doesn’t speak for a minute, like he’s weighing his options. His hand traces a lazy path up and down your spine.

“Wanna buy us a house someday. Good credit means a better mortgage.” He explains, point-blank and nonchalant. “Paying off stuff like furniture can build a positive payment history and they have a deal with no interest rate for the first two years.” Like the journalist he is, Clark Kent has done his research.

You freeze, head tilting up so you can see his face. Clark isn’t even looking at you, just smiling at the ceiling like he’s picture it. You and him, a white picket fence and a freshly mowed lawn.

Your cunt roars back to life.

“Oh my god.” You groan.

Clark looks down at you, brows furrowed. “What?”

You don’t answer. Instead you sit up and despite the protest in your muscles, straddle him once more.

Authors note: that’s all folks!!!! In all seriousness I hope you liked this, if you made it this far thank you so much. If you enjoyed this fic please holler at me. I had a lot of fun writing this and ignoring the 194729 other wips I should be finishing! Go stream mans best friend by sabrina carpenter! Okay love you, say it back!