⤿ JASON TODD knew that you were feeling all sorts of ways during your pregnancy. Of course, he treated you like a queen through it all... but, he was still himself and still making teasing jokes, and that unfortunately bit him in the ass.
!! fluff. wife!reader. pregnant!reader. established relationship. this is so cute. no real warnings. reader is obviously very hormonal . i'd kill to go on a build a bear date. THIS IS SUCH A CUTIE REQUEST. ENJOY. COMMENTS ENCOURAGED.
The kitchen really did feel smaller, even though you knew it wasn’t. Nothing had changed about the layout or the counters or the way the light slanted in through the window at this hour, but your body had, and it was taking longer than you wanted to admit to adjust to that fact.
You stood at the counter with a knife in your hand, cutting vegetables slower than usual because standing too long made your lower back ache, and bending too much made your hips complain. You shifted your weight, reached for the bowl beside you...
...and bumped into Jason.
Not hard. Just enough that your stomach pressed briefly into his side before you caught yourself and stepped back with a small, frustrated huff.
“Sorry,” you muttered out of habit, even though he was the one standing too close.
Jason didn’t react much at first. He stayed focused on the pot, wooden spoon moving steadily as he stirred, hoodie sleeves pushed up, posture relaxed in a way you envied lately. He made a low sound in his throat, not annoyed, not even surprised.
You repositioned yourself and went back to chopping. A few minutes passed, before you reached for the spice cabinet this time.
Thump.
This one landed more squarely, your belly bumping into his arm before you realized how close you’d gotten again. Your back protested when you tried to twist away, the discomfort sharp enough to make your jaw tighten.
Jason let out a quiet laugh. Soft and out of an unthinking habit.
You froze for half a second, then looked at him. “What.”
He glanced down at you, then at your stomach, then back to what he was doing like he was trying not to make a thing out of it. “Nothing. Just… we’re navigating new dimensions here.”
You frowned. “That wasn’t funny, Jay.”
“I didn’t say it was,” he replied, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth that he didn’t bother hiding.
You sighed and turned back to the counter. You didn’t have the energy to bicker about it. You’d been bumping into everything all day, the doorframe in the bedroom.. the corner of the couch, the coffee table. It felt like your brain hadn’t caught up to your body yet, like you were constantly misjudging where you ended.
You tried to be more careful, but it never seemed to help.
Another bump followed a minute later, then another, each one small on its own but cumulatively irritating. Each time, Jason shifted slightly, moving out of your way, but you could feel his amusement growing. You could hear it in his breathing andsee it in the way his shoulders shook just a little.
By the fifth or sixth time, he couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Okay,” he muttered, glancing at the clock. “At this point, I gotta ask.. You trying to headbutt me on purpose, or is this a cry for help?”
You stared at him blankly, your brows furrowed and your hand bracing on your back.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly, like something fragile had been nudged too hard. “Can you not.”
He blinked, clearly not expecting that tone. “Hey. I was kidding.”
“I know,” you replied quickly, too quickly. “I just-.. can you move a little?”
Jason stepped back immediately, hands lifting in surrender. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
You nodded and went back to what you were doing, but your hands had started to shake just slightly. You set the knife down and leaned your hips against the counter, trying to take some pressure off your back.
The room felt too warm all of a sudden.
You told yourself it was fine. That you were fine. That this was just one of those moments people talked about but didn’t really warn you about properly. The soreness. The awkwardness. The way your body stopped feeling like something you fully recognized.
Then it happened again.
You turned to grab a towel and misjudged the distance, bumping into Jason’s stomach this time, which only highlighted the difference between you. The solid wall of him versus the soft, aching curve of you.
Jason laughed before he could stop himself.
“Okay,” he started, still smiling and not an ounce of malice in his tone. “I love you, but at this point I think the belly’s got a personal vendetta against me.”
Something broke.
Your eyes burned instantly, the tears coming fast and sharp, catching you so off guard that you barely had time to inhale before your throat tightened and the first sob slipped out. You pressed a hand to your stomach, suddenly overwhelmed by how heavy it felt, how uncomfortable, how much it all was.
“I’m sorry,” you choked, voice wobbling. “I’m just really sore, and I keep getting in the way, and I feel huge, and I don't even recognize myself. My feet hurt all of the time, my head hurts, I can't sleep on my stomach anymore, I can barely get comfortable on the fucking couch. And now I can't even cook dinner properly, and-..”
Jason froze.
Fully froze.
His smile vanished like it had never been there. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, his whole body stiff with panic.
“No,” he interjected quickly. “No, no, no. Hey. I didn’t mean it like that.”
You shook your head, crying harder now, the emotions spilling out in a way you couldn’t stop. “I know you didn’t. I just feel so uncomfortable all the time, and I can’t move right, and everything hurts, and now I'm being mean to you.”
Jason crossed the space between you in two steps.
He didn’t joke. Didn’t tease. Didn’t hesitate.
He cupped your face gently, thumbs brushing under your eyes with a care that made your chest ache even more. His voice dropped, rough around the edges in that way it got when he was scared of hurting you.
“Hey. Look at me.”
You did.
His expression was open and earnest and a little frantic, like he hated himself for making you feel this way even accidentally. “I thought it was silly,” he admitted. “I thought we were being silly. I wasn’t laughing at you. I’d never laugh at you.”
You sniffed, shoulders trembling. “I know.”
“You’re not in the way,” he continued, firmer now. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re growing a whole human. Of course it’s hard. Of course it hurts.”
He pulled you into him carefully, one arm around your shoulders, the other settling warm and protective against your lower back. You melted into him immediately, forehead pressing into his chest.
“I should’ve shut up,” he murmured into your hair. “That’s on me.”
You clutched his hoodie, breathing uneven. “You’re allowed to joke. I just… can’t always take it, at least not with this damn kid still in me.”
“I get that,” he replied. “I’ll do better now.”
He stayed there with you, rocking slightly, letting you cry it out without rushing you or trying to fix it too fast. When you finally calmed, he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.
“Next time,” he added quietly, “I’ll be the one doing the moving. Mama gets right of way.”
Despite everything, you let out a small, watery laugh.
Jason smiled softly, relief washing over his face. “There she is,” he uttered quietly.
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Summary: Three months into your relationship, your boyfriend Jason Todd finds your Red Hood poster. You're mortified. But Jason? Well, you've got his face in your room and your lips on his... truth be told, Jason maybe likes it a little too much that you're a super fan of his.
Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!reader
Word count: 5.4k
Warnings/tags: bf!jason, you find jason and RH hot and that crosses some wires. jason takes advantage of your crush (in a hot way), competency kink, cocky jason, identity porn, minor violence, motorcycles, reader has a crush on RH but doesn't know jason is RH so it's a little complicated but NO cheating!! implied sexual content but NO explicit smut.
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Tonight, you're staying at Jason's place. You've only been dating three months, but it's going well enough that you're comfortable enough to stay over. Jason has hinted more than once that you can leave clothes at his place, but you insist on keeping all of your stuff at your apartment, just in case things go south. What's that rule? Six months and you’ll know whether he’s the one? Three months to go, then.
Call you crazy, but you think you might already know. Jason is fantastic and you’re sure you’re in love with him. Not that you're going to tell him that any time soon. But you know enough not to put all of your stock into a three-month relationship. Who knows what secrets Jason Todd might be hiding.
"How come you never invite me to your place?" Jason asks as he pulls up in front of your building. He'd offered to drive you both to his apartment on his motorcycle, and it's officially weird if you refuse him. He might think you're hiding something. And you are. Something mortifying.
"Because you're gonna try to install your special security measures," you say as he locks his bike.
Jason thinks about it, then nods. "Yeah, that's probably true. No, but it's your place. I wouldn't do anything you wouldn't know about."
"I know," you say, going inside and holding the door for him. "But my apartment is smaller than yours.”
"That doesn't matter to me, baby."
When did he get it into his head that he needs to be in your apartment? You go up the stairs with Jason behind you, thinking about how you can excuse not inviting him inside. Except, it’s suspicious if you make him wait outside. Even for Jason, who's about as cagey as they come. He seems to trust you fine, but you have no idea what freak raised him because he's eternally wary of people and unfamiliar places. He also insists on sitting close to the door when you go out to eat. But even he's invited you to his place. Many times now. Maybe you can extend the same favor.
"Fine. You get a quick tour," you say against your better judgment as you get to your door, unlocking it.
"I'm honored, truly." Jason follows you inside. He clicks his tongue, pointing to the lock. "No deadbolt?"
"Jason..."
"I mean, what a beautiful lock on your door," he says sweetly, kissing your cheek. "Y'know what would make it even more beautiful?"
"You being less paranoid?"
"Seventy percent of Gotham break-ins are in residences that have only one lock. Sixty-five percent of them are on—"
You turn around and put your arms around Jason. He automatically puts his arms around your waist and stops talking. His beauty still stuns you: his aquiline nose, his freckles, those bright teal eyes. You get shy at times, flustered and delighted at the fact that this hunk of a man likes you so much.
"I'm extremely attracted to you, despite your raccoon demeanor," you say.
"You'd be the first," Jason says, gaze terribly fond. "I'll shut up now 'bout the statistics."
"No, statistics are hot. Just not when they're about home invasions."
"Point taken. How 'bout stats on Gotham's exports?"
You throw your head back, gasping. "Oh! You fiend. No more, please. I may just ravish you here on the floor!"
Jason bends you back a little, his hand fitting in the center of your back to ease you over. He doesn't do that very often, use his strength and wield you the way he wants, but when he does, you lose your breath. Your pulse quickens as Jason nuzzles your neck.
"This okay?" he asks. You hum an airy yes.
"'M in no rush," he says in your ear. "We can linger. Haven't finished your tour. 'S your room next?"
You straighten so fast, you nearly knock Jason in the teeth. It's only because of his quick reflexes that you don't.
"You can't see my room," you rush out, looking at him with wide eyes.
Jason squints, hands dropping to your sides. "What? Why?"
"Um... because... because my room is a mess."
"So? I don't care. My room looks like a solitary confinement cell."
You raise an eyebrow. Jason clears his throat.
"Well, I mean, it used to. It's better now that I have plants and shit."
"Lack of decor is nowhere near as embarrassing as my room, Jason. Mine is beyond messy. It's filled with half-eaten pizza crusts. And rats. And... slime?"
"Slime, huh? Well, good thing I wore my Doc Martens. I can withstand a little slime."
You sag. "You don't believe me."
Jason smiles and kisses your forehead. "Not particularly, baby. What's the issue, huh? You hiding nudie mags or something?"
You roll your eyes. "Who calls it that, Jay? You sound like Tony Soprano. Just say porn."
"Gracefully choosing to ignore that comment. Look, if y'do have porn, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should feel safe to express and explore your sexuality however you—"
"Oh my God, it's not porn." You cover your face. "Jesus. It's—okay, just come in. If you're gonna break up with me over this, we might as well face it now."
"I'm not gonna break up with you," he says as you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. "Nothing you show me could—"
You swing open the door. Jason trails off as he follows you in, his eyes landing on your 4x6 poster of the Red Hood that's smack middle in the room, taped over your bed.
And then, obviously, one can't miss the Red Hood towel on your computer chair, or the Red Hood mug. And the limited edition Red Hood Bat Burger bobblehead, which was quickly discontinued after some public backlash.
"Wow," Jason says.
You groan and bury your face in your hands. "It's fine. I know it's weird. Just go."
You don’t know how it happened, this accumulation of Red Hood merch. It's not like people aren’t fans of heroes. Plenty of local heroes are revered across the world. You have an online friend from Brazil who has literally all of the Superman collectibles. But Superman is reasonable. Batman is reasonable. Nightwing is common and basically a Gotham staple—you've seen women in Nightwing bikinis.
But Red Hood fans are far and few. Plenty of people think he's a criminal and a borderline villain. Some people, working-class people mostly, adore him. You've heard plenty of wonderful things he's done to turn neighborhoods around, keep people safe, fight The Man. Hell, last week there was a video of him carrying an old woman to the hospital after she fell in the road.
Plus, you get the feeling he's really handsome under that helmet. You're sure he's physically overwhelming, at the very least. You've seen clips of him fighting. Oh boy, can he hold his own.
But if you told the average person on the street that your favorite hero is Red Hood, they'd definitely give you a side eye. You brace yourself for one now.
"Huh," Jason says. "Didn't think you'd be a fan of his. Not really a hero, is he?"
You huff, squaring your shoulders. "He's helped a lot of people. No one actually cares about protecting us except for vigilantes. Red Hood protects innocents. If that takes a little bit of a heavier hand, so be it."
Jason raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you played fast with morality like that, honey."
"You don't agree?" If this is where your relationship ends, you'd rather it happen sooner than later. "He's implemented a lot of fundamental structures that even Batman hasn't. He's more big-picture than the Bats. So, whatever, okay? If you think I'm nutty for liking Red Hood, then just go now."
You cross your arms and turn away from Jason. It's quiet for a long moment. You're sure it's done; you've just ruined the first relationship you really wanted to make work. But you've been on dates and let it slip that you admire Hood, and plenty of men let you know what an idiot you are to do so. You thought Jason would understand. Maybe not.
But then you feel arms around your stomach. Jason kisses your cheek.
"C'mon," he says chidingly, voice low and sweet in your ear. "Y'think it's that easy to scare me off? We live in Gotham, sweetheart. The only way I'd be worried is if you had someone's head sitting in your fridge. And even then, I'd hear ya out on whose head it is."
You lean into Jason's solid warmth, rubbing your cheek against his scruff like a cat. "I'd have my reasons if I did that."
"Mm, I know it."
You slip out of his grip enough to turn around. Jason's got a coy, little grin on, and you can't figure out why. But you suppose that's better than him leaving because of your local celebrity crush.
"You're really not annoyed?" you ask. "Because if you are, we should hash it out now."
"No, baby, 'm not annoyed." Jason glances at the Red Hood bobblehead. His grin widens, tongue resting between his teeth as he looks at you. You feel hunted, but the glint in Jason’s eye quickly disappears. "I think he does what needs to be done."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Just surprised, is all. He doesn't seem like your type."
You blink, heart beating faster. "My type? Well, I-I just think he contributes a lot to the city. It's not... I appreciate what he does for Gotham."
"Wait." He tilts his head like he's genuinely trying to figure something out. "D'you have a crush on Hood or something?"
You hesitate, flustered at how quickly Jason picked up on that. How does he do that? "I don't—I mean, I admire him—he's—but I don't even know what he looks like, so—"
Jason's eyes light up, and you know you've made a mistake, just not the one you thought you would. He cups the back of your neck, which always makes you hot and squirmy.
"Oh, you do like him like that. Huh. Didn't know the helmet did it for you. Very interesting news, sweetheart. He doesn't scare ya?"
"No," you say, the word coming out weak. Wires are being crossed in your head between the image of the Red Hood and your boyfriend crowding you in your room and pressing his lips to your neck.
"That's very good to hear," Jason says, and you give in, tugging him over to your bed. He laughs. "Why didn't you want me to know?"
"It's embarrassing," you whine. "The poster was from a friend."
You let Jason climb atop you, permeating your senses with his bulk and his citrusy scent. He carefully keeps his weight off of you, but you wish he'd hold you down. This is exactly why you didn't want to bring Jason over; you don't need your old fantasies of Red Hood getting mixed up with your boyfriend.
"I don't think it's embarrassing," he says, gently taking your leg and crooking it over his hip. "You picturing him right now?"
"Jason!" You thwack his shoulder. You feel it more than he does, probably. He cackles.
"Teasin'," he says, soothing you with a kiss. "But I can get a helmet if you want me to."
You kick him off the bed. "No more tours for you!"
Work runs late a week later, so you're still out by the time eight o'clock rolls around. It's summer time, so it's not the worst thing ever, but you know what Jason would say. Your last message is still unread because Jason works most nights. You’ve chosen not to worry him by telling him you're also working tonight, instead texting him funny Gotham memes.
"Evening."
…Maybe you should've let him know.
You flinch, the voice startling you hard. Red Hood is leaning against the fence surrounding the park you pass by on your way to the bus stop. His arms are crossed, and his biceps bulge underneath his tight black t-shirt. You can't tell from here, but you're sure he must tower over you.
"Oh." Briefly, you wonder if you summoned him somehow after revealing your room to Jason last week. You've lived in Gotham your whole life and you've never run into Hood. The only vigilante you've met is Red Robin, and he's not a talker.
"Hi," you say, a little nervous, a little starstruck.
"Hi," Hood says, letting his arms drop. His posture is easy, but you know better. You know he's here for a reason. "Working tonight?"
You nod. "I just finished. I'm just going to the bus now."
"Pretty late for the bus."
"It's June."
"It's Gotham."
You open your mouth, then close it. Then you open it again. "Um... it's okay. I've done it plenty of times before."
"Plenty of times? Without letting anyone know?"
You wince. "Well, not plenty—"
"Nobody to pick you up?"
You shrug. "No."
"No? Think hard." There's the tiniest edge to his tone.
"I mean, my boyfriend could, hypothetically, but he works nights, so—"
"And you think his job is more important than making sure you're safe? It'd devastate him if something happened to you."
You blink. "I don't—I guess I didn't think of it that way."
Hood shakes his head. Then he pushes himself off of the fence and approaches you. Immediately, your heart rate increases. To be this close to the Red Hood, to have him worry about little old you, scold you for not calling Jason, it's causing a confusing mix of emotions to swirl inside you.
You've thought about how you'd act if you met Red Hood. Maybe ask for an autograph if the opportunity arises. You can't fathom asking him for anything now. He's intimidating. Maybe you are a little afraid, but it's intertwined with other feelings.
You can't see his face but you feel like he doesn't believe you. "Sure?"
You wonder if he can see all of your vitals. Can he see how warm you feel? "Yes, I'm sure. It's just... I'm sort of a fan of you. So it's... it's an experience."
Hood laughs. "Fan? Don't think I have any fans."
You shake your head. "That's not true. I know a few people who like you."
He hums and approaches you slowly. You let him until he's close enough for you to take in his physicality completely. He's a couple inches taller than Jason. Not that it matters. Just an observation.
"'M flattered," he says softly. "But if you're jus' sayin' that 'cause you're a little scared, please don't."
"No, I'm not scared. I trust you, Red Hood."
He folds his arms, stretching his neck to his right shoulder. You catch a sliver of tanned, scarred skin. "So soon?"
"Uh-huh."
"Kinda crazy of ya."
You shrug. "Maybe."
"Hmm. We goin' home?"
"You want to take me home?" you ask, eyes wide.
"Not-not like that. I mean, I can't let ya go home alone."
"No, I know, I just... I didn't think Red Hood made home visits."
"Sometimes." He makes an aborted gesture to touch your cheek with his finger and you swallow hard. Your ears are very hot. You might choke on your spit.
"I didn't know Red Hood would care that much if I went home."
"'Course I do," he says softly. "Your safety is my priority."
"My-?"
"Civilians, I mean," Hood says quickly. "'S why I'm out here patrolling."
"But surely there's people who need you more than me. I'm just some nobody going home from work, I—"
"You're not a nobody. Don't say that," Hood says with so much force, it renders you silent. "Got it?"
You nod. "Okay. Sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry 'bout. C'mon, I'll take you home, okay?"
You really don't want to bother Jason at this hour. Besides, as far as vigilante escorts go, Hood really isn't the worst choice. Another person might be afraid. A sane person would refuse.
"Yes, I'm okay with that," you say, smiling. "Thank you."
"Sure. My bike is parked down the block."
He walks a little behind you, close enough for you to turn and talk to him, but angled so that nothing can sneak up on you. It's the way Jason walks with you sometimes. You wonder if it's a Gotham thing.
Hood's bike is a cherry red. He lets you type in your address into his GPS. Then he gives you a helmet.
"Safety first," he says. It's the same helmet that Jason wears for his motorcycle. For a second, you swear you can smell his aftershave. Orange blossoms.
Hood gestures for you to get on. He holds the bike steady and it seems like he's going to hold your back to help you onto the bike. But he doesn't touch you, not like Jason does.
"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks when you're on.
"My boyfriend's."
He hums, throwing a leg over and straddling the bike. You blink at the sudden wall of bulk in front of you. "He treat you right, that boyfriend?"
You nod. "He's amazing. I love him."
Hood is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. "Good. Lady like you deserves to be treated like a princess."
You laugh. "You barely know me. I'm no princess."
"I got a good sense about people. Hold onto me."
You wrap your arms around his waist. He tuts at you.
"Gotta hold me tighter than that. Don't want you flying off. You know better."
You tighten your hold, flustered and speechless. Hood pats your hand.
"There we go. Good listener," he says. "Everything okay back there? You're quiet."
For a second, it sounds like he's teasing you, and your stomach jumps like when Jason teases you. But the Red Hood isn't playful like that, right?
"I'm okay," you say.
"Nervous?"
You shake your head. "No."
"No? Glad you've got so much faith in me."
"I do."
Hood turns on his bike, revving the engine. You squeeze him tighter as he flicks the kickstand up with his foot, pushing off and balancing. He does so effortlessly. Wow.
Hood gets you home quickly. He follows all the traffic laws and doesn't speed. He drives efficiently, like Jason, but he takes it slow on the leans... like Jason. Maybe he can feel how you get nervous on motorcycles.
"This is it?" he asks, slowing down next to your building.
"Yes. Thank you." You wait as Hood stops and gets off first, then helps you off. You take his gloved hand, and he helps you off like it's nothing, bearing most of your weight.
"No more secretly working nights," he tells you. "I'll know."
You don't question it. "Okay. I won't."
"Good. Have a good night."
He starts to mount his bike. You step off the curb, in front of him. Hood stops.
"What's up?" he asks, nodding at you. He addresses you so casually... so familiar.
"Um, I was... do you mind if I ask for your autograph?"
Hood looks at you for a long moment. You lose your nerve and turn around.
"Never mind! Sorry. Good night."
"Hang on."
You turn around. Hood beckons you over with two fingers. You go, eyes widening as he takes off his gloves. He gives them to you. You catch a glimpse of more scars and maybe a silver ring. Jason sometimes wears a silver chain around his neck. It dangles over you when he’s—
"Oh no! Oh my God, you don't have to—"
"Got a bunch." It sounds like he's smiling. "Always nice to meet a fan. Any trouble with that boyfriend, let me know."
You're not sure if you respond, you're so dazed. Hood pulls away from the curb like a bat out of hell, waving at you as he goes.
You're already in bed by the time Jason comes home from work. He comes home earlier than usual, and you're still awake when he crawls into your bed next to you. You've taken down the Red Hood poster, too embarrassed from last week. Jason insists he's going to get you an even bigger poster. You beg him not to.
"How'd you know I was at my place?" you ask, yawning.
"My apartment alarm didn't report anybody entering."
"Still think it's weird that you track who enters your apartment," you say.
"Safety first. You usually don't go to your place unless you're coming home from work. You wouldn't happen to have worked a shift tonight without telling me, would you?"
"Okay, yes, but please don't be mad. I didn't take the bus." You pause before finishing. "Red Hood actually gave me a ride home tonight."
You reach sleepily for Jason's arm. He tucks himself into place behind you, wrapping an arm and a leg around you. He smells like your shampoo.
"Yeah, don't think we aren't done with the conversation about you taking the bus home at night, by the way. Red Hood, huh? Should I be doubly worried then?"
You roll your eyes. "Not on my part. But I was definitely getting a vibe."
"A vibe? Red Hood's got the hots for my girl?"
Jason slips a hand under your shirt to rest on your stomach. His hands always run a little cool and they feel good on warm nights like tonight. He doesn't mean anything by it, but desire creeps onto you, slow and thick. You think of the gloves in your dresser.
"It kinda felt like that," you say, a little embarrassed to even admit it. "He, uh, gave me his gloves."
"His gloves?" Jason sounds sleepy. "That's basically a proposal."
You'd never cheat on Jason, obviously, but you've had a crush on the Red Hood since he came to Gotham. Riding on his motorcycle tonight was exhilarating, to say the least. Still, you don't want this to be a thing. Another guy would probably get upset.
But Jason's tone doesn't change. He's still sleepy and peaceful. "'M not. Might have to kick his ass, though."
You laugh at the thought. Jason kneads the soft fat of your stomach. "Something funny?" he asks. "Y'think I can't take him?"
"I know you could," you say, and you mean it, even though you're not sure how well your boyfriend can dodge bullets. "But, I mean, you're too nice for him, Jay. Hood fights dirty when he needs to. You fight fair."
"Wow. So you don't think I could beat Red Hood in a fight. Way to bruise a man's ego, baby." Jason buries his face in the back of your neck in retaliation. You squeal at the tickles.
"I didn't say that!" you say, giggling. "It's a compliment. You're too nice to scrap with him. Ah! Jason, mercy, mercy!"
"So you're saying he's mean?" Jason asks, showing mercy and easing off. He returns to just holding you, leg over yours.
"Not... not to civilians. Not to me. He's just a little rough overall, I think. But he seemed nice."
"Oh my God, you loved it," Jason says, no longer sounding so sleepy. "You loved being on his bike. You loved him being a little rough. This was a dream come true."
"No! No, Jason, it wasn't like that."
"You got the hots for Hood," he sing-songs. "Hood hots, Hood hots!"
"I don't, I don't," you say, shoving your face into your pillow. "Stop. You know you're the only one for me."
Jason hums, pushing himself up so he's on top of you without putting his weight on you. He pets your hip. "Yeah, baby, I know. Don't worry. Not mad. I think it's cute. You got a little flustered around him. No biggie. I trust ya."
You sigh, turning your face to the side. "He was professional."
Jason snorts. "Yeah, he better have been. Pretty lady like you holding onto him."
"I'm sure he helps way prettier ladies in a night," you mumble.
Jason easily rolls you over, so you're facing each other. He tucks you into his chest, an arm and a leg returning to their places around you.
"I seriously doubt it," he says. You can feel his voice vibrate through his chest. "Everyone knows you're the prettiest princess in Gotham, baby."
You hesitate, thinking about Hood. "Princess?"
"Yeah. That okay?"
"Oh. Yeah, that's fine."
Jason makes a noise like he knows something you don't.
Every so often, you really hate living in Gotham. It's usually around a time like this: Scarecrow has broken out of Arkham, and he's causing serious damage. Everyone has been warned to stay inside, and the sky is hazy with fear gas.
You're mostly worried about Jason. He went out a few hours ago and he hasn't texted you since. You asked where he was and called him a dozen times but he didn't respond. You're freaking out.
You're about to go out and look for him, Scarecrow be damned, when suddenly Red Hood is on the balcony of your boyfriend's apartment. How did he avoid tripping the alarm? You go to open the window but he opens it himself.
Shit. Is Hood breaking into Jason's apartment? Who the hell do you call in this situation?
"Hey," he says, voice tight. "Get your bag. We gotta go. Scarecrow and Ivy teamed up and it's bad."
"What? Okay. Oh my God." You jump into action, running into Jason's room to get your stuff. You come back, about to climb out the window, but you stop. He waves you over urgently. You shake your head and take a step back.
"No, I can't go without Jason," you say. "He was supposed to be back by now. What if he's gassed? He hasn't called me."
Hood fidgets, his whole body restless. He looks around, then looks back at you. "I'm sure he's fine. You can call him again when you're—"
"No," you say, staring those glowing white eyes down. "I don't care what authority you might hold, Hood. I'm not leaving Jason. He might come back here and he'll worry if I'm not here. I was going to go look for him."
"Don't do that," he says firmly. "Jesus." He looks at you, rolls his shoulders, then sighs. He shakes his head and grabs his helmet.
"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I didn't wanna do it this way. Shit. Okay."
The latches of his helmet click. And suddenly you have your boyfriend in front of you, dressed like the Red Hood. He drops his helmet on the floor.
Your mouth falls open. "Wh—Jason? What? Are you–you were him the whole time? Are you fucking ser—"
"I know, I'm sorry." He takes your hands. "I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't gonna tell you this way but you're so stubborn, worrying about me and shit. I promise you can yell at me as much as you want after. You can throw stuff, hit me, break up with me, anything you want, just—"
You squeeze his hands. Jason stops his senseless ramble.
"I would never do any of those things," you say. "You don't know me at all if you think I would, Jay. I'm just, y'know, caught off-guard. Apparently, I've had a crush on my boyfriend since he before he became my boyfriend."
He cracks a smile. You roll your eyes.
"And you've been a smug asshole about it this whole time!"
"Kinda," he admits, looking away, and you see how pleased he's been about the whole thing. "I'll make it up to ya."
"Yeah, you better. Where are we going?"
Jason's shoulders slump with relief. You see it in his eyes too.
"You'll go with me?"
"Always," you say.
He takes his helmet, shifting from your boyfriend back to Red Hood. Wow. "Okay. Down the fire escape. We're taking my bike."
Jason puts his helmet back on. You follow him down the fire escape and to where his—Hood's—bike is parked.
"Your bike, huh?" you ask.
"My other bike."
"Uh-huh."
Hood gives you a rebreather and you take off, headed toward the Diamond District. He goes down a ramp and through some pretty fancy gates. Where...?
Concrete walls slide open and Jason pulls into what looks like a lair. Holy shit. He helps you off and you take off your helmet, staring up at a cave ceiling that seems to go on forever.
"Hood," someone growls, startling your gaze back down. Batman is glaring at you. "Why is there a civilian here?"
Jason takes off his helmet. "Yeah, so, this is my girlfriend. She's staying here, and if you try to kick her out, I'm gonna blow up the Batmobile. Cool? Cool."
"Since when do you have a girlf—" begins Red Robin.
"No questions," Jason snaps. "Not one word. Be nice to her or I'll kill you all."
You gasp. Jason turns to you, pulling you closer.
"No, sorry, I wouldn't do that. No deaths. They would recover from my maiming," he says to you, petting your shoulder.
"Not better," you hiss.
He shrugs, smiling. "'M a man of habit. Gonna try to change me now?" He kisses your cheek and you melt like you always do under his affection. Jason leans in and whispers the last part: "You could. I'd let ya."
"Wow," says Spoiler. Is the entire Gotham vigilante taskforce here? "So it's true what they say about married life."
"We aren't married," you say, confused. Jason grunts in annoyance, cradling the small of your back.
"With how he's acting? You might as well be," she says.
"This is so awesome," Nightwing says, full of glee. "Oh, you'll never hear the end of this, Jason."
"Listen, Dickbag—"
"Focus," Batman says. "She can't be here. Take her upstairs and come right back."
Jason rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. C'mon, baby."
Robin is glaring at you, which kind of makes you want to throw up. But then Black Bat and Spoiler wave at you, and that makes you feel better. You wave back.
"Batman's really mad," you say as Jason leads you upstairs.
"Yeah, that's his default setting. He's been mad for about twenty-five years. He'll get over it. You're gonna meet Alfred next. He's the best."
"Alfred?"
You get to the top of the stairs and step into what looks like a mansion. Wait a minute. You've seen this mansion before. In a magazine...
"Is this Wayne Manor? What the hell, Jason? Am I meeting the Queen of Denmark next?"
"Again, not how I wanted you to find out," he says.
"I'm–I'm not dressed to be in Wayne Manor!"
"Bruce dresses up as a bat every night. Rest assured that you are the most normal person in this house, and none of those freaks downstairs can ever take that away from you."
You frown. "Still..."
"Don't y'trust me?" Jason asks, tapping under your chin. He towers over you, and now you notice that his Red Hood boots are taller than his normal ones. Clever.
"Yeah, I trust you, but—" You stop as Jason herds you against the wall, helmet dangling from his hand. He looks very official with his guns and armored clothing. His black cargo pants are pulled taut around his thighs, outlining how thick they are. It's just now occurring to you how deadly competent your boyfriend is, now that you've learned that the Red Hood was never that far away. Maybe you should be scared but, well, the wires were crossed a while ago.
"I didn't even suspect anything," you say, blinking at him. "You had me completely."
Jason shrugs, eyes half-lidded. You're not mad. He knows it. "Made sure you wouldn't find out. Wanted to find the right time, see how you felt about Hood. And then imagine my surprise when I learn that you've got his face on your wall, and his gloves in your dresser."
"You liked it," you say, lifting your chin, challenging.
Jason leans in, cupping the back of your neck, lips going to your ear. He wedges a knee between yours. "How could I not? You're so pretty, so nice t'me. Y'like me that much? Want me even like that? Tellin' Hood you love me, God—"
Something beeps, loud and shrill, and you jump. Jason just sighs exasperatedly, pulling out his phone and denying the alert.
"You have to go," you say, suddenly guilty you've kept Jason for so long.
"I—" Jason grimaces. "Yeah. I'll be back. We're not done."
You bite the inside of your lip. "I hope not."
Jason kisses you, hot and hard, and then he seems to steel himself, shifting into whatever Gotham needs him to be. He puts his helmet on and brushes your cheek, then disappears down the stairs to the Cave. You lean against the wall, catching your breath.
i feel like clark kent would be the kind of boyfriend to pretend he doesn’t care about your random reality show of the week but when you cuddle up in bed on a sunday afternoon, freshly showered and in your pajamas while you play on your phone and play your show on the tv, he works on his latest article beside you and slowly as the sun sets more and more you notice him moving on from glancing up every once in a while to fully abandoning his computer to call out whatever mean girl behavior is going on on the tv, getting more invested in it than you are. give that man a season of love island and tell me he’s not invested by the end
welcome to my part II of my directory of all the clark kent stories I love! all writing credit belongs to each individual writer, and if you resonate with any story, make sure to show that author some love by commenting, reblogging, or both! reader discretion is advised, so be sure to check the warnings.
ʚɞ the trouble with jimmy - @myladybelle
when you move from smallville to metropolis, clark thinks he finally has his chance to confess. instead, he ends up with a front row seat to you gushing about jimmy olsen every day. what he doesn’t realise is that you’re trying to set jimmy up with your neighbour, and you’re starting to see clark as more than a friend.
ʚɞ I never stopped falling for you. - @therealpunkrocked
It's also a truth universally acknowledged that if you take a girl for granted, you'll lose her. Clark, wonderful, boyish, tender Clark, just never thought it would happen to the two of you.
ʚɞ what's left of us pt. 2 - @kissesunderthesun
you know clark loves you. you love him too. you’re just not sure the sentiment alone is enough anymore.
ʚɞ fluffy foreplay - @jordiemeow
ʚɞ tears - @shortnspidey
After months of dating Clark, your nights together never seem to go beyond second base. The slow burn has only sharpened your desire, leaving you restless and aching until the frustration becomes impossible to ignore. One way or another, you’re determined to make him take the next step.
ʚɞ mr. jealousy - @skyefiles
you and clark are—barely—keeping your relationship quiet at the daily planet… until a new intern decides to test clark’s patience.
ʚɞ growing pains - @lunexiax
You had spent a large proportion of your life in love with Clark Kent. He had spent a large proportion of his life avoiding you, honouring the boundary that Jimmy had always set. When you can no longer deny the draw you have to each other, it's Clark's insistence on keeping your relationship a secret that threatens to break you apart.
ʚɞ clark kent who hates condoms - @vanillaclark
ʚɞ dirty little secret - @bambihearteds
Clark Kent broke up with you, and has the nerve to be sad about it.
ʚɞ pillow princess reader - @lolnothankyouplease
ʚɞ the great pumpkin mishap - @after-avenging-hours
While at a pumpkin patch with Clark and Krypto, the latest villain of the week decides to crash the party.
ʚɞ just shut up (m) - @johknees
everything in the Kent's farmhouse makes noise. horny and down right desperate at this point, you and clark find a way to work around that.
ʚɞ apology sex with clark - @obikan
ʚɞ kitchen cosmetology - @softdivas
clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. when you start dating him, it becomes your job.
ʚɞ clark kent + cockwarming - @kentluvr
ʚɞ faking an orgasm - @lolnothankyouplease
ʚɞ blurb - @kitkatscabinet
ʚɞ where superman ends and clark begins - @plaidcowboy
you and clark had just had one of the worst fights, leaving you to question whether there’s still room for your relationship, and clark to juggle the weight of being both superman and himself.
ʚɞ husband!clark kent who headcanons - @prettyboytsum
4 times Clark Kent shows you how much he loves your body, and 1 time he doesn't need to reassure you
——————
clark kent x plus size!reader
word count: 3.1k
authors note: clark would fit so well with a fat partner and i know that deep in my heart. warnings: reader wears heels and a dress, gets a period. mostly fluffy, a little steamy. subby clark if you squint (iktr). i’m so sorry i really do try to keep it gender neutral but it's hard when you're specifically talking about body stuff i'll be better next time!!
(4)
Your cheeks felt hot, flushed under the lights of the dive bar where you were on an impromptu night out with your coworkers. A rational corner of your brain wondered if, despite the comfort you felt with your colleagues, it wasn't the most professional move to be 4 mixed drinks deep on a Wednesday night. There was enough of a pleasant haze that you could forget that thought as quickly as it came. And, anyway, the way Clark's eyes kept flitting to yours, the shy smile and flushed cheeks he sported despite his own sobriety, gave you the confidence not to care. When your head lolled onto Lois's shoulder and you let out a yawn, she let out a chuckle as she pet your hair.
"I think it might be time to head home," she laughs. "It's an early morning for those of us who get to the office on time," she shoots a look to Clark. "You want to split a cab?" she directs towards you.
"No, we're going opposite directions, that doesn't make sense," you pick up your head and wave the idea off. "Clark will walk me," you don't bother asking him, knowing he'd jump at the chance to be helpful. He nods enthusiastically, as if he heard your train of thought.
You slide out of the booth as everyone makes their way to the door. You had thought you were sobering up, but true to your usual fashion, the drinks somehow have a second wind once you stand up. Your gait wobbles a bit, and you feel a big, warm hand land on the small of your back to steady you. You don't have to look to know who it is. The only coworker who would touch you there - logically, you know you aren't imagining this tension with Clark. The touches, glances that other coworkers wouldn't cross the line of. If it had been Jimmy, he would have grabbed your shoulder to steady you. But, you swear, with Clark there is something more brewing under the surface of your relationship. Only, you can't get him to own up to it.
"I know you'll make sure everyone ends up home in one piece?" Lois asks Clark as your group steps onto the street and starts heading off in separate directions.
Lois sees his concern and looks content that you'll be taken care of, smirking at the pair of you and heading off in the direction of her own apartment.
The two of you start in the direction of your respective apartments in silence, save the clicking of your heels and the occasional stumble as your dizzy head tries to put one foot in front of the other. Clark, being Clark, has the patience of a saint. But, as the hour gets closer to morning, and you stumble over your own feet for the umpteenth time, even he starts to wear thin.
"Come on, let me carry you. You'll get into bed faster if you just let me get us home." He stops you in your tracks - with both the offer, and his use of the word "us".
"No, what? I'm fine," you retort, a little offended that he doesn't think you are. "I'm a grown adult, I can handle a night out after work." "I didn't say you're not fine. I'm worried that you're gonna break your ankle or something, come on, when's the last time you got a piggyback ride?" He flashes his teeth at you as he grins.
Well... it has been a minute, now that he puts it like that. And you know that Clark is strong, you'd have to be blind to miss those arms of his. But still, you're curvy, always have been, and you've grown used to shutting these kinds of things down to save yourself the embarrassment. And really, you like your body. You've grown past the insecurity of your teenage years, you like the way you're sturdier than your friends, the way your curves are in all the right places. But the doubt always seeds its way back into your mind when you're at this point with a guy - that weird tension, that question of whether or not he really likes you like you think he does, the question of whether he would even see you in that way. And this is Clark, he would never make you feel bad about your body on purpose. But it stings a bit as he offers to carry you so mindlessly, like maybe he's done this with girls in the past, girls so dainty he wouldn't have to think twice before grabbing them, and it rubs in the reminder of all of the things you've missed out on because of your body.
"Clark, come on. I'm... not small. We're not that far, I can make it," Usually you wouldn't say it so brashly to a guy you like, inform him of the insecurity that you'd grown up with, but it's late, your buzz is present but waning, and, he's right, your feet do hurt. You just need to focus so you can get home.
He scoffs. "Okay? I don't even know how to respond to that without sounding like a jerk, but, I'm kind of strong? Seriously, I know you're tired. I promise I can handle carrying you." He stands his ground. "I wouldn't offer if I thought there was a chance I'd embarrass myself and spill you on the street."
You weigh your options, shifting from foot to foot as your discomfort and sleepiness both grow. He meets your eyes with his beautiful blue ones and you know you're done for.
"Okay... you have to let me know if you need to set me down. Seriously, Clark." He grins, bending over so that you can hop on his back. And, to Clark's credit, he doesn't even make a noise of discomfort. He really does feel sturdy. Your arms wrap around his neck, his hands holding your thighs and your breath in his ear as he takes you closer to your apartment. And he was right, it cuts your walk in half compared to how fast you were going before.
You rest your head on his back, wondering if you're misreading the signs. Surely this is a boundary that just-coworkers don't cross? Even friendly ones.
"Have I lost you back there?" He asks, not sounding out of breath at all.
"Just thinking. You're so nice, Clark. You're a good guy," Again, a sentiment that slips out a little more easily than usual due to the late hour and the alcohol.
"You're nice too," He replies, never focused on taking the credit he deserves.
As you approach the steps to your building, he stops so you can hop off. Overcome with gratefulness for this gesture, for the sweetness he showed you even when nobody else was around, you lean forward, planting a kiss on his cheek before you hop back onto your own feet. His ears redden, and he opens his mouth to speak, but closes it when he can't find the words, just flashes you that shy smile.
"Goodnight, Clark. Thank you for getting me home safe," you tell him as you turn to your apartment building.
"Any time," you think you hear him whisper. Somehow, you can never tell with him. --------------------
"I'm sorry I'm making you deal with this," your voice comes out small, pathetic as you're sprawled out on Clark's bed, looking at him in the doorway.
"Come on, you know I don't mind. I'm sorry you don't feel well," Despite his confident words, he's hovering in his own bedroom, unsure of where to go. The two of you were supposed to meet up for a nice dinner, but when your period came midday, you knew you would be out of commission for the night. So, you were in your boyfriend's bed, cuddled up with a heating pad and a pair of comfy pajamas, shifting uncomfortably every few minutes. "A cuddle would make me feel better?" You try, avoiding subtlety altogether. He grins, crossing the room and scooting in behind you. The two of you hadn't been together long, you can tell he's holding back for fear of overstepping, his hands hovering for a second before he retreats, choosing to keep them to himself.
"I'm not going to attack you or anything," you laugh. "I'm just uncomfortable. I still want you here," you tell him. He makes himself more at home, one hand resting on your hip as he spoons you, both of your attentions on the TV.
As time goes on, Clark's hand moves upward. At first, he's rubbing your stomach over your sweatshirt. But you tense up when his hand wanders underneath. For what it's worth, he immediately knows you're uncomfortable and starts stammering apologies.
Really, you had known this interaction was coming. "It's okay," you reach for his hand. "I try my best to be confident with myself, but I guess I still feel hung up on a few things. On my stomach, I have stretch marks. I know we've talked about it, I've gained and lost weight so many times throughout my life. I still struggle with that part of it, I guess. I don't want you to feel weird?" You try to articulate yourself as best you can, despite how big these feelings are.
"Oh, honey," Clark rubs your hand in his. "You know I love your body. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can keep it above the shirt. But, I'm so attracted to you, just how you are. I know it can be hard to get over those kinds of things when other people make you think you aren't enough. I never want you to feel like that," he tucks your hair behind your ear.
Another cramp hits you just as his sweet words do, and instead of letting yourself cry at the conflicting emotions, you just believe him. He's given you no reason not to. "You're so sweet to me. I just didn't want you to be shocked, I don't know, I was always insecure in locker rooms or with boys. If say you don't mind, I believe you."
"Oh, it's not that I don't mind. It's that I think your body is perfect as is. You never need to feel insecure around me, really. Get back over here," he pulls you back into him, splaying his warm hand out along your lower belly, trying to stave off the cramps. His fingertips wander, feeling the texture of your stretch marks. "Perfect," he repeats, kissing the side of your head.
--------------------
Clark's body is pressing into yours, your back on his couch, leg hanging over the side while he kisses down your neck.
"God, you're so hot, baby," he breathes at the base of your ear as his hands paw over your plush hips.
Your hips arch up to meet his through your clothes, completely of their own accord. You're like a woman possessed. You've never experienced anything like the way Clark makes you feel. Which must be why you grab hold of his collared shirt and push back against him, flipping him onto his own back while you crawl onto his hips, knees splayed out on either side. You grind down onto Clark's lap and his hands fly to your plush thighs, fingers gripping with just the right amount of pressure while his breath hitches.
"Is this okay?" you breathe out, "Me on top?"
Clark leans his head forward, burying his face into the softness of your chest while his hands roam to sink into the plush of your ass. "Okay?" He asks, incredulous. "Baby, I could die like this. You're so hot. I don't even know what to do with myself right now," He replies, all too earnest.
You let out a laugh, but your heart squeezes a little, knowing that there's truth to what he says. "You don't have to know. I'll be in charge tonight," You run your hands through his hair.
"God, what did I do to deserve you?" He asks, eyes looking up at you, waiting for you to call the shots. All too happy to be right where he is.
--------------------
Clark holds his apartment door open as you cross the threshold, ready to collapse onto the floor from exhaustion. After a late night at work, he offered for you to sleep over at his apartment instead of trekking back to yours. He holds the bag of greasy takeout, setting it on the counter. "Go get comfy, I'll have all of this laid out by the time you're changed. There's a shelf in the closet with all my sweats, you should be fine to pick from there."
You do as instructed, heading back to Clark's room, hardly able to wait to throw your work clothes to the wayside after the day you'd had. Facing his shelf, you decide to go for a matching black hoodie and pair of sweatpants. Where there may have been doubt before, concern at trying on someone else's clothing, there was nothing. Clark loved you so well that these thoughts you'd grown up with didn't have room to exist anymore. It didn't even occur to you, until you went to pull his sweats up your thighs and they stretched taut, and his sweatshirt choked you as it fell over your chest. While the logical part of you knows it's the clothes, the exhausted, scarred part of you immediately jumps to how embarrassed you should be at not fitting into your boyfriends clothing. The tears start flowing before you've even registered that they're there.
Clark, ever patient, gives you a few minutes before he gets concerned. "Honey?" you hear him call. "I'm so ready for dinner, are you almost done? I have your plate," he pauses outside the door, and he must hear your stifled sniffs because he bursts in without giving you your usual courtesy knock. "Baby?" he asks, frantic, once he sees your emotional state, perched on the edge of his bed. "What happened?" he rushes to sit next to you, hand falling on your back and eyes scanning for any sign of harm.
You keep gasping for air, tears flowing. It was just the final straw on what had been an awful day, and now, here you are, having to explain to your beautiful, buff, 6'4 boyfriend that his clothes didn't fit you. This was the kind of situation that would have given you nightmares in high school. "Theydon'tfit" you rush out between gasps.
"What, baby?" he asks, still lost.
"It doesn't fit. Your clothes don't fit me," you start crying harder as the words make their way out, head winding up in your hands as you try to fold in on yourself.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Please don't feel bad," he soothes, playing with the ends of your hair. "I'm sorry I even suggested that. They're all so old they hardly fit me, you've seen my sweats on me. They're basically capris."
He's right, you think. Whether or not it's the truth, he always knows what to say. He keeps murmuring to you while you collect yourself. When you finally manage to pick your head up from your hands, he turns around, going to his dresser and pulling out his rattiest T shirt and stretchiest pair of briefs. "Here. I promise I'm going to redo my wardrobe so you have something comfier for next time. You deserve the best, not my wardrobe that's been following me around since college," He continues.
If, the next time you have an impromptu sleepover with your boyfriend, you notice the several new sweatshirts, a few sizes up, with an extra spritz of his cologne on them, you don't give any indication.
--------------------
(+1)
“You’re not gonna be ready for this, Clark,” you call through the bedroom door as you shimmy your hips into the tight number. He can hear the smile in your voice from his perch on the couch, and it makes him smile in turn. You bursted through the door with an arm full of shopping bags for the upcoming Daily Planet Gala, pressing a kiss to your boyfriend’s lips then telling him not to move until he saw how amazing your outfit was.
“I’m sure I won’t,” he calls back.
You take a final glance at yourself in the mirror, a rush of confidence surging through your veins at the sight of yourself in the skintight dress. Despite everything the world has tried to make you feel about your body, you feel beautiful more often than not. And some of it can be attributed to your wonderful boyfriend, but most of it is on you, on the healing you’ve worked so hard to achieve. You look beautiful, and it’s okay that you know it.
“Okay, cover your eyes,” you say, slowly exiting the bedroom to face your boyfriend.
You come up in front of him, grabbing his hands and placing them on your backside, before placing your own hands on his shoulders, rubbing up and down his arms. “Okay, open,” you whisper, biting your bottom lip in excitement.
Clark feels like his breath has been knocked out of his chest, not only from how beautiful you look (though that’s definitely part of it). The way the dress hugs your curves, highlights your thick hips and the pudge on your stomach that he wants to rub his hands over all day long. The way the color perfectly flatters your skin tone, the way the neckline flatters your chest. But Clark’s favorite part about this dress is the confidence it puts on your face as you stare down at him.
He feels his chest tighten for more reasons than one. “Perfect. You look absolutely perfect, sweetheart.”
And when you respond, “I know,” Clark’s smile widens and he closes his eyes to hide the tears that well up. That’s all he’s ever wanted.
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Key: A - Angst | F - Fluff | S - Smut | C - Comfort | HC - Hurt/Comfort
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
One Shots:
> Featherweight by @amoreselli
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 2.6k
Description: Clark Kent never thought he’d spend his evening chasing a pigeon out of an apartment, but with her? Nothing is ever ordinary. She’s dramatic, clingy in the sweetest way, and so effortlessly herself that he can’t help but adore every second—even when it involves bird-related emergencies.
> Illicit Affairs by @carmenberzattosgf
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 8.5k
Description: When Superman came to your rescue a few weeks ago, you thought that would be the only time you'd ever see him up close. That is, until he crash lands on your balcony, battered and bruised (aka this is my take on hooking up with Superman before ever knowing Clark Kent)
> Shades of You by @bookofbonbon
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F + A
Word Count: 3.4k
Description: Clark Kent is in love with you and your brown eyes.
> Doppleganger by @clarktologist
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 1.3k
Description: A night out goes a bit awry when you forget your boyfriend is both Superman and Clark Kent.
> Just The Right Fit by @onlyasteelmancanbealover
Tags: One Shot, Chubby Reader, 2nd POV, F + C
Word Count: 2k
Description: Clark thinks you’d look cute in any mass-produced Halloween costume… even if it’s too tight.
> Complicated by @geminiwritten
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F + S
Word Count: 28k
Description: You've been best friends with Clark since high school, but moving to Metropolis—and crashing at his apartment until you get a job and find your own place—is stirring up old feelings you thought you'd buried for good. So you accept the only job offer you've gotten... at LuthorCorp, which somehow turns into a date with Lex Luthor, and you're left praying for someone super to swoop in and save you.
> Clark Kent x fem!Reader by @siriuslylantsov
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 550
Description: Thinking about using Clark as your own personal heater, or rather a blanket.
> A-Lister In The Making by @sc3ptre
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 6.1k
Description: When Superman finally made his big debut, you put your years of PR experience to work, ready to control the narrative from a front-row seat to the city’s biggest rescue yet. What you didn’t expect was the front-page stories to be about you.
> Tunnel Vision by @maiamore
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 1.3k
Description: Clark realises that he can't fool everyone with his double life.
> Mr. Jealousy by @skyefiles
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F + S
Word Count: 3.4k
Description: You and Clark are—barely—keeping your relationship quiet at the Daily Planet… until a new intern decides to test Clark’s patience.
> Injustice by @orobaxis
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, A + HC
Word Count: 5K
Description: You and Clark discovered that there was another universe where you two ended up together. That universe did not exist anymore.
> Quiet People by @finelinevogue
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, S + F
Word Count: 2.9k
Description: A collection of five quiet moments between you and Clark, from first dates to intimate moments.
> Operation: You [3+1] by @messylxve
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 2.2k
Description: A new week presented new opportunities, and Clark was determined to get in good graces with you. Not because he felt he deserved it, but because a part of him—a large part of him—couldn’t stand only knowing you under the veil and short hours of night.
> There's Gonna Be Sunshine by @godmadeaterribleerror
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F + A + S
Word Count: 18.9k
Description: You meet Clark Kent and Superman within the same week. Fall for them at the same time. Then put two and two together, and realize that maybe for once, you can have a good thing.
> Don't You Let It Slip Away by @godmadeaterribleerror
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, A + HC + S + F
Word Count: 13k
Description: Something is wrong. You feel like there's a big part of you that's missing, but you really can't quite place what. It doesn't help that you keep having flashes of a life that isn't yours. Where you're loved. Where you're Clark's, he's yours. And maybe that's been yours the whole time.
> Handle WIth Care by @kryptidfiles
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, A
Word Count: 5k
Description: In a city of heroes, some sacrifices are invisible. You can heal anything—but at a cost no one suspects. When a gala turns deadly, you must decide how far you’ll go to save the people you love, even when it breaks your heart. Clark thought he knew you. He was wrong. You tried again, breath shaking. “Clark. I'm serious. I’ve never healed—like this,” you said, voice thin. “Through the chest. I’d never—this could kill me—” “I don’t care!” he snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him. “Just fix her! Please, please, I can’t— I can’t lose her—"
> Honey? by @satellite-evans
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, A
Chapter Count: Pt. 1 | Pt. 2
Description: After a tragic accident leaves you in a coma, Clark struggles to keep living in a world without you.
> To Live for The Hope of It All by @satellite-evans
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 5k+
Description: Clark tries to quit his crush on you.
> Kitchen Cosmetology by @softdivas
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, F
Word Count: 2.1k
Description: Clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. When you start dating him, it becomes your job.
> Cherry Coke by @lo-vearchive
Tags: One Shot, 2nd POV, A + HC + F + S
Word Count: 13.7k
Description: You’re not sure when the hating game between you and Clark Kent began, but you did know you were going to win it. He was unprofessional, perpetually late, blatantly disrespectful, and just too average to be promoted to senior journalist. So when you get an opportunity to interview Lex Luthor, you jump at the chance to drag Kent’s face through the mud with a high-profile article of your own. Too bad you both don’t seem to understand that love and hate are two sides of the same coin.
4 times Clark Kent shows you how much he loves your body, and 1 time he doesn't need to reassure you
——————
clark kent x plus size!reader
word count: 3.1k
authors note: clark would fit so well with a fat partner and i know that deep in my heart. warnings: reader wears heels and a dress, gets a period. mostly fluffy, a little steamy. subby clark if you squint (iktr). i’m so sorry i really do try to keep it gender neutral but it's hard when you're specifically talking about body stuff i'll be better next time!!
(4)
Your cheeks felt hot, flushed under the lights of the dive bar where you were on an impromptu night out with your coworkers. A rational corner of your brain wondered if, despite the comfort you felt with your colleagues, it wasn't the most professional move to be 4 mixed drinks deep on a Wednesday night. There was enough of a pleasant haze that you could forget that thought as quickly as it came. And, anyway, the way Clark's eyes kept flitting to yours, the shy smile and flushed cheeks he sported despite his own sobriety, gave you the confidence not to care. When your head lolled onto Lois's shoulder and you let out a yawn, she let out a chuckle as she pet your hair.
"I think it might be time to head home," she laughs. "It's an early morning for those of us who get to the office on time," she shoots a look to Clark. "You want to split a cab?" she directs towards you.
"No, we're going opposite directions, that doesn't make sense," you pick up your head and wave the idea off. "Clark will walk me," you don't bother asking him, knowing he'd jump at the chance to be helpful. He nods enthusiastically, as if he heard your train of thought.
You slide out of the booth as everyone makes their way to the door. You had thought you were sobering up, but true to your usual fashion, the drinks somehow have a second wind once you stand up. Your gait wobbles a bit, and you feel a big, warm hand land on the small of your back to steady you. You don't have to look to know who it is. The only coworker who would touch you there - logically, you know you aren't imagining this tension with Clark. The touches, glances that other coworkers wouldn't cross the line of. If it had been Jimmy, he would have grabbed your shoulder to steady you. But, you swear, with Clark there is something more brewing under the surface of your relationship. Only, you can't get him to own up to it.
"I know you'll make sure everyone ends up home in one piece?" Lois asks Clark as your group steps onto the street and starts heading off in separate directions.
Lois sees his concern and looks content that you'll be taken care of, smirking at the pair of you and heading off in the direction of her own apartment.
The two of you start in the direction of your respective apartments in silence, save the clicking of your heels and the occasional stumble as your dizzy head tries to put one foot in front of the other. Clark, being Clark, has the patience of a saint. But, as the hour gets closer to morning, and you stumble over your own feet for the umpteenth time, even he starts to wear thin.
"Come on, let me carry you. You'll get into bed faster if you just let me get us home." He stops you in your tracks - with both the offer, and his use of the word "us".
"No, what? I'm fine," you retort, a little offended that he doesn't think you are. "I'm a grown adult, I can handle a night out after work." "I didn't say you're not fine. I'm worried that you're gonna break your ankle or something, come on, when's the last time you got a piggyback ride?" He flashes his teeth at you as he grins.
Well... it has been a minute, now that he puts it like that. And you know that Clark is strong, you'd have to be blind to miss those arms of his. But still, you're curvy, always have been, and you've grown used to shutting these kinds of things down to save yourself the embarrassment. And really, you like your body. You've grown past the insecurity of your teenage years, you like the way you're sturdier than your friends, the way your curves are in all the right places. But the doubt always seeds its way back into your mind when you're at this point with a guy - that weird tension, that question of whether or not he really likes you like you think he does, the question of whether he would even see you in that way. And this is Clark, he would never make you feel bad about your body on purpose. But it stings a bit as he offers to carry you so mindlessly, like maybe he's done this with girls in the past, girls so dainty he wouldn't have to think twice before grabbing them, and it rubs in the reminder of all of the things you've missed out on because of your body.
"Clark, come on. I'm... not small. We're not that far, I can make it," Usually you wouldn't say it so brashly to a guy you like, inform him of the insecurity that you'd grown up with, but it's late, your buzz is present but waning, and, he's right, your feet do hurt. You just need to focus so you can get home.
He scoffs. "Okay? I don't even know how to respond to that without sounding like a jerk, but, I'm kind of strong? Seriously, I know you're tired. I promise I can handle carrying you." He stands his ground. "I wouldn't offer if I thought there was a chance I'd embarrass myself and spill you on the street."
You weigh your options, shifting from foot to foot as your discomfort and sleepiness both grow. He meets your eyes with his beautiful blue ones and you know you're done for.
"Okay... you have to let me know if you need to set me down. Seriously, Clark." He grins, bending over so that you can hop on his back. And, to Clark's credit, he doesn't even make a noise of discomfort. He really does feel sturdy. Your arms wrap around his neck, his hands holding your thighs and your breath in his ear as he takes you closer to your apartment. And he was right, it cuts your walk in half compared to how fast you were going before.
You rest your head on his back, wondering if you're misreading the signs. Surely this is a boundary that just-coworkers don't cross? Even friendly ones.
"Have I lost you back there?" He asks, not sounding out of breath at all.
"Just thinking. You're so nice, Clark. You're a good guy," Again, a sentiment that slips out a little more easily than usual due to the late hour and the alcohol.
"You're nice too," He replies, never focused on taking the credit he deserves.
As you approach the steps to your building, he stops so you can hop off. Overcome with gratefulness for this gesture, for the sweetness he showed you even when nobody else was around, you lean forward, planting a kiss on his cheek before you hop back onto your own feet. His ears redden, and he opens his mouth to speak, but closes it when he can't find the words, just flashes you that shy smile.
"Goodnight, Clark. Thank you for getting me home safe," you tell him as you turn to your apartment building.
"Any time," you think you hear him whisper. Somehow, you can never tell with him. --------------------
"I'm sorry I'm making you deal with this," your voice comes out small, pathetic as you're sprawled out on Clark's bed, looking at him in the doorway.
"Come on, you know I don't mind. I'm sorry you don't feel well," Despite his confident words, he's hovering in his own bedroom, unsure of where to go. The two of you were supposed to meet up for a nice dinner, but when your period came midday, you knew you would be out of commission for the night. So, you were in your boyfriend's bed, cuddled up with a heating pad and a pair of comfy pajamas, shifting uncomfortably every few minutes. "A cuddle would make me feel better?" You try, avoiding subtlety altogether. He grins, crossing the room and scooting in behind you. The two of you hadn't been together long, you can tell he's holding back for fear of overstepping, his hands hovering for a second before he retreats, choosing to keep them to himself.
"I'm not going to attack you or anything," you laugh. "I'm just uncomfortable. I still want you here," you tell him. He makes himself more at home, one hand resting on your hip as he spoons you, both of your attentions on the TV.
As time goes on, Clark's hand moves upward. At first, he's rubbing your stomach over your sweatshirt. But you tense up when his hand wanders underneath. For what it's worth, he immediately knows you're uncomfortable and starts stammering apologies.
Really, you had known this interaction was coming. "It's okay," you reach for his hand. "I try my best to be confident with myself, but I guess I still feel hung up on a few things. On my stomach, I have stretch marks. I know we've talked about it, I've gained and lost weight so many times throughout my life. I still struggle with that part of it, I guess. I don't want you to feel weird?" You try to articulate yourself as best you can, despite how big these feelings are.
"Oh, honey," Clark rubs your hand in his. "You know I love your body. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can keep it above the shirt. But, I'm so attracted to you, just how you are. I know it can be hard to get over those kinds of things when other people make you think you aren't enough. I never want you to feel like that," he tucks your hair behind your ear.
Another cramp hits you just as his sweet words do, and instead of letting yourself cry at the conflicting emotions, you just believe him. He's given you no reason not to. "You're so sweet to me. I just didn't want you to be shocked, I don't know, I was always insecure in locker rooms or with boys. If say you don't mind, I believe you."
"Oh, it's not that I don't mind. It's that I think your body is perfect as is. You never need to feel insecure around me, really. Get back over here," he pulls you back into him, splaying his warm hand out along your lower belly, trying to stave off the cramps. His fingertips wander, feeling the texture of your stretch marks. "Perfect," he repeats, kissing the side of your head.
--------------------
Clark's body is pressing into yours, your back on his couch, leg hanging over the side while he kisses down your neck.
"God, you're so hot, baby," he breathes at the base of your ear as his hands paw over your plush hips.
Your hips arch up to meet his through your clothes, completely of their own accord. You're like a woman possessed. You've never experienced anything like the way Clark makes you feel. Which must be why you grab hold of his collared shirt and push back against him, flipping him onto his own back while you crawl onto his hips, knees splayed out on either side. You grind down onto Clark's lap and his hands fly to your plush thighs, fingers gripping with just the right amount of pressure while his breath hitches.
"Is this okay?" you breathe out, "Me on top?"
Clark leans his head forward, burying his face into the softness of your chest while his hands roam to sink into the plush of your ass. "Okay?" He asks, incredulous. "Baby, I could die like this. You're so hot. I don't even know what to do with myself right now," He replies, all too earnest.
You let out a laugh, but your heart squeezes a little, knowing that there's truth to what he says. "You don't have to know. I'll be in charge tonight," You run your hands through his hair.
"God, what did I do to deserve you?" He asks, eyes looking up at you, waiting for you to call the shots. All too happy to be right where he is.
--------------------
Clark holds his apartment door open as you cross the threshold, ready to collapse onto the floor from exhaustion. After a late night at work, he offered for you to sleep over at his apartment instead of trekking back to yours. He holds the bag of greasy takeout, setting it on the counter. "Go get comfy, I'll have all of this laid out by the time you're changed. There's a shelf in the closet with all my sweats, you should be fine to pick from there."
You do as instructed, heading back to Clark's room, hardly able to wait to throw your work clothes to the wayside after the day you'd had. Facing his shelf, you decide to go for a matching black hoodie and pair of sweatpants. Where there may have been doubt before, concern at trying on someone else's clothing, there was nothing. Clark loved you so well that these thoughts you'd grown up with didn't have room to exist anymore. It didn't even occur to you, until you went to pull his sweats up your thighs and they stretched taut, and his sweatshirt choked you as it fell over your chest. While the logical part of you knows it's the clothes, the exhausted, scarred part of you immediately jumps to how embarrassed you should be at not fitting into your boyfriends clothing. The tears start flowing before you've even registered that they're there.
Clark, ever patient, gives you a few minutes before he gets concerned. "Honey?" you hear him call. "I'm so ready for dinner, are you almost done? I have your plate," he pauses outside the door, and he must hear your stifled sniffs because he bursts in without giving you your usual courtesy knock. "Baby?" he asks, frantic, once he sees your emotional state, perched on the edge of his bed. "What happened?" he rushes to sit next to you, hand falling on your back and eyes scanning for any sign of harm.
You keep gasping for air, tears flowing. It was just the final straw on what had been an awful day, and now, here you are, having to explain to your beautiful, buff, 6'4 boyfriend that his clothes didn't fit you. This was the kind of situation that would have given you nightmares in high school. "Theydon'tfit" you rush out between gasps.
"What, baby?" he asks, still lost.
"It doesn't fit. Your clothes don't fit me," you start crying harder as the words make their way out, head winding up in your hands as you try to fold in on yourself.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Please don't feel bad," he soothes, playing with the ends of your hair. "I'm sorry I even suggested that. They're all so old they hardly fit me, you've seen my sweats on me. They're basically capris."
He's right, you think. Whether or not it's the truth, he always knows what to say. He keeps murmuring to you while you collect yourself. When you finally manage to pick your head up from your hands, he turns around, going to his dresser and pulling out his rattiest T shirt and stretchiest pair of briefs. "Here. I promise I'm going to redo my wardrobe so you have something comfier for next time. You deserve the best, not my wardrobe that's been following me around since college," He continues.
If, the next time you have an impromptu sleepover with your boyfriend, you notice the several new sweatshirts, a few sizes up, with an extra spritz of his cologne on them, you don't give any indication.
--------------------
(+1)
“You’re not gonna be ready for this, Clark,” you call through the bedroom door as you shimmy your hips into the tight number. He can hear the smile in your voice from his perch on the couch, and it makes him smile in turn. You bursted through the door with an arm full of shopping bags for the upcoming Daily Planet Gala, pressing a kiss to your boyfriend’s lips then telling him not to move until he saw how amazing your outfit was.
“I’m sure I won’t,” he calls back.
You take a final glance at yourself in the mirror, a rush of confidence surging through your veins at the sight of yourself in the skintight dress. Despite everything the world has tried to make you feel about your body, you feel beautiful more often than not. And some of it can be attributed to your wonderful boyfriend, but most of it is on you, on the healing you’ve worked so hard to achieve. You look beautiful, and it’s okay that you know it.
“Okay, cover your eyes,” you say, slowly exiting the bedroom to face your boyfriend.
You come up in front of him, grabbing his hands and placing them on your backside, before placing your own hands on his shoulders, rubbing up and down his arms. “Okay, open,” you whisper, biting your bottom lip in excitement.
Clark feels like his breath has been knocked out of his chest, not only from how beautiful you look (though that’s definitely part of it). The way the dress hugs your curves, highlights your thick hips and the pudge on your stomach that he wants to rub his hands over all day long. The way the color perfectly flatters your skin tone, the way the neckline flatters your chest. But Clark’s favorite part about this dress is the confidence it puts on your face as you stare down at him.
He feels his chest tighten for more reasons than one. “Perfect. You look absolutely perfect, sweetheart.”
And when you respond, “I know,” Clark’s smile widens and he closes his eyes to hide the tears that well up. That’s all he’s ever wanted.
4 times Clark Kent shows you how much he loves your body, and 1 time he doesn't need to reassure you
——————
clark kent x plus size!reader
word count: 3.1k
authors note: clark would fit so well with a fat partner and i know that deep in my heart. warnings: reader wears heels and a dress, gets a period. mostly fluffy, a little steamy. subby clark if you squint (iktr). i’m so sorry i really do try to keep it gender neutral but it's hard when you're specifically talking about body stuff i'll be better next time!!
(4)
Your cheeks felt hot, flushed under the lights of the dive bar where you were on an impromptu night out with your coworkers. A rational corner of your brain wondered if, despite the comfort you felt with your colleagues, it wasn't the most professional move to be 4 mixed drinks deep on a Wednesday night. There was enough of a pleasant haze that you could forget that thought as quickly as it came. And, anyway, the way Clark's eyes kept flitting to yours, the shy smile and flushed cheeks he sported despite his own sobriety, gave you the confidence not to care. When your head lolled onto Lois's shoulder and you let out a yawn, she let out a chuckle as she pet your hair.
"I think it might be time to head home," she laughs. "It's an early morning for those of us who get to the office on time," she shoots a look to Clark. "You want to split a cab?" she directs towards you.
"No, we're going opposite directions, that doesn't make sense," you pick up your head and wave the idea off. "Clark will walk me," you don't bother asking him, knowing he'd jump at the chance to be helpful. He nods enthusiastically, as if he heard your train of thought.
You slide out of the booth as everyone makes their way to the door. You had thought you were sobering up, but true to your usual fashion, the drinks somehow have a second wind once you stand up. Your gait wobbles a bit, and you feel a big, warm hand land on the small of your back to steady you. You don't have to look to know who it is. The only coworker who would touch you there - logically, you know you aren't imagining this tension with Clark. The touches, glances that other coworkers wouldn't cross the line of. If it had been Jimmy, he would have grabbed your shoulder to steady you. But, you swear, with Clark there is something more brewing under the surface of your relationship. Only, you can't get him to own up to it.
"I know you'll make sure everyone ends up home in one piece?" Lois asks Clark as your group steps onto the street and starts heading off in separate directions.
Lois sees his concern and looks content that you'll be taken care of, smirking at the pair of you and heading off in the direction of her own apartment.
The two of you start in the direction of your respective apartments in silence, save the clicking of your heels and the occasional stumble as your dizzy head tries to put one foot in front of the other. Clark, being Clark, has the patience of a saint. But, as the hour gets closer to morning, and you stumble over your own feet for the umpteenth time, even he starts to wear thin.
"Come on, let me carry you. You'll get into bed faster if you just let me get us home." He stops you in your tracks - with both the offer, and his use of the word "us".
"No, what? I'm fine," you retort, a little offended that he doesn't think you are. "I'm a grown adult, I can handle a night out after work." "I didn't say you're not fine. I'm worried that you're gonna break your ankle or something, come on, when's the last time you got a piggyback ride?" He flashes his teeth at you as he grins.
Well... it has been a minute, now that he puts it like that. And you know that Clark is strong, you'd have to be blind to miss those arms of his. But still, you're curvy, always have been, and you've grown used to shutting these kinds of things down to save yourself the embarrassment. And really, you like your body. You've grown past the insecurity of your teenage years, you like the way you're sturdier than your friends, the way your curves are in all the right places. But the doubt always seeds its way back into your mind when you're at this point with a guy - that weird tension, that question of whether or not he really likes you like you think he does, the question of whether he would even see you in that way. And this is Clark, he would never make you feel bad about your body on purpose. But it stings a bit as he offers to carry you so mindlessly, like maybe he's done this with girls in the past, girls so dainty he wouldn't have to think twice before grabbing them, and it rubs in the reminder of all of the things you've missed out on because of your body.
"Clark, come on. I'm... not small. We're not that far, I can make it," Usually you wouldn't say it so brashly to a guy you like, inform him of the insecurity that you'd grown up with, but it's late, your buzz is present but waning, and, he's right, your feet do hurt. You just need to focus so you can get home.
He scoffs. "Okay? I don't even know how to respond to that without sounding like a jerk, but, I'm kind of strong? Seriously, I know you're tired. I promise I can handle carrying you." He stands his ground. "I wouldn't offer if I thought there was a chance I'd embarrass myself and spill you on the street."
You weigh your options, shifting from foot to foot as your discomfort and sleepiness both grow. He meets your eyes with his beautiful blue ones and you know you're done for.
"Okay... you have to let me know if you need to set me down. Seriously, Clark." He grins, bending over so that you can hop on his back. And, to Clark's credit, he doesn't even make a noise of discomfort. He really does feel sturdy. Your arms wrap around his neck, his hands holding your thighs and your breath in his ear as he takes you closer to your apartment. And he was right, it cuts your walk in half compared to how fast you were going before.
You rest your head on his back, wondering if you're misreading the signs. Surely this is a boundary that just-coworkers don't cross? Even friendly ones.
"Have I lost you back there?" He asks, not sounding out of breath at all.
"Just thinking. You're so nice, Clark. You're a good guy," Again, a sentiment that slips out a little more easily than usual due to the late hour and the alcohol.
"You're nice too," He replies, never focused on taking the credit he deserves.
As you approach the steps to your building, he stops so you can hop off. Overcome with gratefulness for this gesture, for the sweetness he showed you even when nobody else was around, you lean forward, planting a kiss on his cheek before you hop back onto your own feet. His ears redden, and he opens his mouth to speak, but closes it when he can't find the words, just flashes you that shy smile.
"Goodnight, Clark. Thank you for getting me home safe," you tell him as you turn to your apartment building.
"Any time," you think you hear him whisper. Somehow, you can never tell with him. --------------------
"I'm sorry I'm making you deal with this," your voice comes out small, pathetic as you're sprawled out on Clark's bed, looking at him in the doorway.
"Come on, you know I don't mind. I'm sorry you don't feel well," Despite his confident words, he's hovering in his own bedroom, unsure of where to go. The two of you were supposed to meet up for a nice dinner, but when your period came midday, you knew you would be out of commission for the night. So, you were in your boyfriend's bed, cuddled up with a heating pad and a pair of comfy pajamas, shifting uncomfortably every few minutes. "A cuddle would make me feel better?" You try, avoiding subtlety altogether. He grins, crossing the room and scooting in behind you. The two of you hadn't been together long, you can tell he's holding back for fear of overstepping, his hands hovering for a second before he retreats, choosing to keep them to himself.
"I'm not going to attack you or anything," you laugh. "I'm just uncomfortable. I still want you here," you tell him. He makes himself more at home, one hand resting on your hip as he spoons you, both of your attentions on the TV.
As time goes on, Clark's hand moves upward. At first, he's rubbing your stomach over your sweatshirt. But you tense up when his hand wanders underneath. For what it's worth, he immediately knows you're uncomfortable and starts stammering apologies.
Really, you had known this interaction was coming. "It's okay," you reach for his hand. "I try my best to be confident with myself, but I guess I still feel hung up on a few things. On my stomach, I have stretch marks. I know we've talked about it, I've gained and lost weight so many times throughout my life. I still struggle with that part of it, I guess. I don't want you to feel weird?" You try to articulate yourself as best you can, despite how big these feelings are.
"Oh, honey," Clark rubs your hand in his. "You know I love your body. If it makes you uncomfortable, I can keep it above the shirt. But, I'm so attracted to you, just how you are. I know it can be hard to get over those kinds of things when other people make you think you aren't enough. I never want you to feel like that," he tucks your hair behind your ear.
Another cramp hits you just as his sweet words do, and instead of letting yourself cry at the conflicting emotions, you just believe him. He's given you no reason not to. "You're so sweet to me. I just didn't want you to be shocked, I don't know, I was always insecure in locker rooms or with boys. If say you don't mind, I believe you."
"Oh, it's not that I don't mind. It's that I think your body is perfect as is. You never need to feel insecure around me, really. Get back over here," he pulls you back into him, splaying his warm hand out along your lower belly, trying to stave off the cramps. His fingertips wander, feeling the texture of your stretch marks. "Perfect," he repeats, kissing the side of your head.
--------------------
Clark's body is pressing into yours, your back on his couch, leg hanging over the side while he kisses down your neck.
"God, you're so hot, baby," he breathes at the base of your ear as his hands paw over your plush hips.
Your hips arch up to meet his through your clothes, completely of their own accord. You're like a woman possessed. You've never experienced anything like the way Clark makes you feel. Which must be why you grab hold of his collared shirt and push back against him, flipping him onto his own back while you crawl onto his hips, knees splayed out on either side. You grind down onto Clark's lap and his hands fly to your plush thighs, fingers gripping with just the right amount of pressure while his breath hitches.
"Is this okay?" you breathe out, "Me on top?"
Clark leans his head forward, burying his face into the softness of your chest while his hands roam to sink into the plush of your ass. "Okay?" He asks, incredulous. "Baby, I could die like this. You're so hot. I don't even know what to do with myself right now," He replies, all too earnest.
You let out a laugh, but your heart squeezes a little, knowing that there's truth to what he says. "You don't have to know. I'll be in charge tonight," You run your hands through his hair.
"God, what did I do to deserve you?" He asks, eyes looking up at you, waiting for you to call the shots. All too happy to be right where he is.
--------------------
Clark holds his apartment door open as you cross the threshold, ready to collapse onto the floor from exhaustion. After a late night at work, he offered for you to sleep over at his apartment instead of trekking back to yours. He holds the bag of greasy takeout, setting it on the counter. "Go get comfy, I'll have all of this laid out by the time you're changed. There's a shelf in the closet with all my sweats, you should be fine to pick from there."
You do as instructed, heading back to Clark's room, hardly able to wait to throw your work clothes to the wayside after the day you'd had. Facing his shelf, you decide to go for a matching black hoodie and pair of sweatpants. Where there may have been doubt before, concern at trying on someone else's clothing, there was nothing. Clark loved you so well that these thoughts you'd grown up with didn't have room to exist anymore. It didn't even occur to you, until you went to pull his sweats up your thighs and they stretched taut, and his sweatshirt choked you as it fell over your chest. While the logical part of you knows it's the clothes, the exhausted, scarred part of you immediately jumps to how embarrassed you should be at not fitting into your boyfriends clothing. The tears start flowing before you've even registered that they're there.
Clark, ever patient, gives you a few minutes before he gets concerned. "Honey?" you hear him call. "I'm so ready for dinner, are you almost done? I have your plate," he pauses outside the door, and he must hear your stifled sniffs because he bursts in without giving you your usual courtesy knock. "Baby?" he asks, frantic, once he sees your emotional state, perched on the edge of his bed. "What happened?" he rushes to sit next to you, hand falling on your back and eyes scanning for any sign of harm.
You keep gasping for air, tears flowing. It was just the final straw on what had been an awful day, and now, here you are, having to explain to your beautiful, buff, 6'4 boyfriend that his clothes didn't fit you. This was the kind of situation that would have given you nightmares in high school. "Theydon'tfit" you rush out between gasps.
"What, baby?" he asks, still lost.
"It doesn't fit. Your clothes don't fit me," you start crying harder as the words make their way out, head winding up in your hands as you try to fold in on yourself.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. Please don't feel bad," he soothes, playing with the ends of your hair. "I'm sorry I even suggested that. They're all so old they hardly fit me, you've seen my sweats on me. They're basically capris."
He's right, you think. Whether or not it's the truth, he always knows what to say. He keeps murmuring to you while you collect yourself. When you finally manage to pick your head up from your hands, he turns around, going to his dresser and pulling out his rattiest T shirt and stretchiest pair of briefs. "Here. I promise I'm going to redo my wardrobe so you have something comfier for next time. You deserve the best, not my wardrobe that's been following me around since college," He continues.
If, the next time you have an impromptu sleepover with your boyfriend, you notice the several new sweatshirts, a few sizes up, with an extra spritz of his cologne on them, you don't give any indication.
--------------------
(+1)
“You’re not gonna be ready for this, Clark,” you call through the bedroom door as you shimmy your hips into the tight number. He can hear the smile in your voice from his perch on the couch, and it makes him smile in turn. You bursted through the door with an arm full of shopping bags for the upcoming Daily Planet Gala, pressing a kiss to your boyfriend’s lips then telling him not to move until he saw how amazing your outfit was.
“I’m sure I won’t,” he calls back.
You take a final glance at yourself in the mirror, a rush of confidence surging through your veins at the sight of yourself in the skintight dress. Despite everything the world has tried to make you feel about your body, you feel beautiful more often than not. And some of it can be attributed to your wonderful boyfriend, but most of it is on you, on the healing you’ve worked so hard to achieve. You look beautiful, and it’s okay that you know it.
“Okay, cover your eyes,” you say, slowly exiting the bedroom to face your boyfriend.
You come up in front of him, grabbing his hands and placing them on your backside, before placing your own hands on his shoulders, rubbing up and down his arms. “Okay, open,” you whisper, biting your bottom lip in excitement.
Clark feels like his breath has been knocked out of his chest, not only from how beautiful you look (though that’s definitely part of it). The way the dress hugs your curves, highlights your thick hips and the pudge on your stomach that he wants to rub his hands over all day long. The way the color perfectly flatters your skin tone, the way the neckline flatters your chest. But Clark’s favorite part about this dress is the confidence it puts on your face as you stare down at him.
He feels his chest tighten for more reasons than one. “Perfect. You look absolutely perfect, sweetheart.”
And when you respond, “I know,” Clark’s smile widens and he closes his eyes to hide the tears that well up. That’s all he’s ever wanted.
yall should have seen my face today when one of my students said unprompted she hates the new superman and henry cavill is better… girl u don’t want to know the things i think about the new superman
fluff!!!! i see your kinktober and i raise you whatever this is 🙂↕️
wc: 2.1k
clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. when you start dating him, it becomes your job.
When Clark was growing up, the Kents never had much disposable income. It felt like they were always treading water, trying to stay afloat. They had to take a lot of matters into their own hands, things other families wouldn’t think twice about - re-soleing old work boots, mending worn jeans to stretch their life span even a few months longer, holding onto a run down pair of clippers so that Martha could shape up Jon and Clark’s hair once a month. She felt so guilty that she couldn’t give her son all of the things he wanted, the least she could do was make sure her boys didn’t walk around looking as scruffy as they were. Of course, Clark never complained. Never gave even an inkling that he noticed how his clothes were different than the other kids, how they showed up to the first day of school every year with new backpacks and bright white shoes, while he wore the same boots as he grew, until his toes couldn’t squish any more and they had to scrounge up the money for a new pair.
Clark would never have let his parents know that he noticed these things, or that he cared. Really, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. But, sometimes, it bled through the cracks. Like how, when he moved to Metropolis and established his career, he hardly hesitated before signing the lease for a luxury high rise. Or splurging on an expensive pair of leather loafers for the office, a $9 latte to start his morning (more mornings than not). He had never been able to have these things, he was a single young man, he shouldn’t feel bad about using his hard earned money on these little luxuries. Still, the guilt crept through when he thought about the way he was living compared to the farm where he was raised.
This feeling only intensified the first time that he treated himself to a high-end haircut at the barber. After his big move, he realized his curls were everywhere, swallowing his whole face, falling into his eyes, tickling his neck. He knew he had to do something about it. And sure, he easily could have used it as an excuse to fly back to Smallville and let Martha run her hands through his hair like she used to when he was little. But he was an independent adult now. And it’s more than reasonable for an independent adult to go to a professional to get their hair cut… and a complimentary glass of champagne… and a shoulder massage. He’s earned it!
He hits a hitch in his newfound lifestyle around 2 months after Superman’s debut - he’s still adjusting to the fact that he can’t take his hypno glasses off at all unless he’s in the privacy of his own home. So, he doesn’t even think anything of it until he’s already sitting down in the salon chair, cape around his shoulders, when the barber reaches to take off his glasses for him and Clark flinches back like he’s been shot.
“You okay, man?” the barber asks, “They gotta come off if you think your hair is gonna be even.”
Clark doesn’t even take the time to formulate a believable response. He stands up, rips the cape off, and mumbles something about a family emergency before he grabs a $20 from his wallet, presses it into the man’s hand, and stumbles out the salon door. He’s so shaken up he shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down and walks blocks and blocks away before he manages to steady his breathing.
After that, he says so long to his fancy salon days. It’s no big deal, he welcomes the excuse to go home for his maintenance and feel like a kid again, perched on a tiny stool in his kitchen where his mom kisses the top of his head after his trim. That’s something you don’t get with a professional haircut.
Clark would never mind flying home, but as more and more piles onto his plate, sometimes it’s hard to find a spare hour or two to take care of himself. His life feels nonstop - Planet, Superman, and the newest addition, you. Sweet, sunshiney you who still gives him butterflies and a pink tint to his cheeks 6 months in. Doting you, who gets the message across when Clark’s head is on your chest on the couch one evening, legs intertwined with his, raking your fingernails across his scalp and twirling the grown out curls at the base of his neck.
“You trying out a new look?” you break the silence, tugging on a longer strand to make your point.
“Mmm,” he sleepily gets out. “My mom usually cuts it. Haven’t had a chance to stop by for a few weeks. It grows fast.”
“Well.. I could cut it? I mean, if you want. It looks cute, I was just teasing, don’t let me pressure you if you weren’t going to,” you begin to ramble.
Clark pulls his head up, chin resting on your ribs, and smiles at you, eyes crinkling and lines on his cheek from where it had rested on your pajama top. “I’d like that. You’re sweet to offer. And you’re right, I have been feeling a little scruffy. I can’t go to a professional to get it done anymore because they’ll ask me to pull off my glasses. I have to wait until I get a chance to go home.”
“Tomorrow?” You offer. “I can stop and get a cape and combs and stuff. Freshen you up. One more thing off your plate?”
He lifts his chin up to give you a sweet peck on the lips, then the nose, and rests his cheek back against your shirt. “You’re too good to me. Yes, please, honey.”
The next night, after dinner, you settle him into one of the dining chairs for his much needed grooming, and a few different problems seem to present them to you at the same time. One, you can hardly see the top of his head, even when he’s seated in front of you. Two, you’ve never done this before. Or anything akin to it. Sure, you’d trimmed a friend’s hair on a tipsy girls night in college, but cutting long hair in a straight line felt very different than potentially butchering your boyfriend’s beautiful head of hair
It seemed like Clark sensed your hesitation. “My mom makes me sit on a little stool so she can see over me. If this goes well we can get one for next time? And, worst case, we can always buzz it off.”
Your eyes widened in horror. “I love your curls though! Oh my god I’m going to feel sick if I ruin them, I don’t know what I’m doing!”
He grabs your hands to cut off your panicked rambles. “Baby, it grows back,” he laughs. “No matter how it looks, you’re doing me a favor by getting this mess off of my neck. I can’t take it anymore. Help me,” he pulls you down to press a kiss to your lips.
“My mom usually cuts the top, cleans up the back, and then washes it to make sure it’s not messed up? I’m not expecting anything perfect, I promise you. I’ll love it no matter what because it’s you helping me,” he assures.
“Can I get that in writing? So you don’t have grounds to suddenly hate me an hour from now?”
“Come on, I’m here for moral support. Grab the scissors, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. You oblige, picking up the scissors. “Okay, I think I’ll start from the back. If I try to cut an inch off of all of it, it should end up mostly even?” You say, not sure if you’re asking or telling.
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Clark parrots, equally clueless.
Once you get to trimming, it’s really not so intimidating. There may or may not be a few strands where you get overconfident, removing a bit too much and tense up for a second. But really, Clark is right. He has so much hair that it’s not the end of the world to mess it up a bit. You can hardly tell.
Things get a little trickier when you make your way to the strands that fall across his forehead. You’ve come to stand in front of him, poised between his legs, hand propped on your hip and scissors lying in wait like an artist analyzing their canvas. Clark props his own hands on your hips on top of yours, pulling his knees together to prop you on his lap.
“Clark! We’re gonna tip over,” You giggle. He plants a kiss on your lips.
“I’d catch you, you know that, silly,” he nuzzles his nose against yours, getting tiny pieces of hair all over you.
“Stop! Hey!” you shriek, and he smiles wider and digs his hands further into your hips.
“You’re not done yet, you can’t get away!” He holds on to you as you squirm. Your heart squeezes as you look at him, bright blue eyes crinkled around the edges, hair half cut. A state only you can see him in. You press one more kiss to his lips before you steel yourself to get back to business.
“Okay, let’s get serious. This is a professional operation,” You stand back up, his hands falling away from your hips while his sweet smile stays intact.
You start trimming the front of his hair as it’s laying, tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration. His smile grows wider as he takes you in. “You are such a dork,” he can’t seem to stop himself from saying.
“You might want to watch your mouth while I’m standing right here with a sharp object,” You poke back. “I have serious potential to mess you up right now.”
“I secede, I secede!” He gets out between chuckles.
Once the front strands are to your liking, Clark helps you plug in the clippers and get the guard set up. “It really shouldn’t be hard, just try to clean up hairs that don’t look like they belong. Try and keep the line straight if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay, maybe it’ll look better crooked.” You roll your eyes at him.
You take a deep breath before you start. All in all, it really is just making a straight line. You really don’t think it looks too bad, especially if you don’t look too closely. You snap a picture and hold it out for your client to see. Ever the sweetheart, he plants a kiss on your cheek and tells you it looks “perfect. You’re wonderful at everything you do.”
“Suck up,” you roll your eyes but press your cheek harder against his lips. You tap his shoulder, “Alright, over to the sink. Let’s wash you up and see if any of the curls need to be a little shorter.”
He brings the dining chair over to the sink, settling back in and leaning his neck into the basin at what cannot be a comfortable angle. As you lean your chest over him to turn on the faucet, that cheeky smile makes its return.
You turn on the water, a little to the scalding side of hot, just how you know he likes it. His eyes flutter closed, and you feel like you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. Your heart squeezes again. He really does carry so much, and still he manages to be so good to you, to everyone. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips before reaching over and grabbing the shampoo, lathering it up in your hands before raking it through his dark mess of hair. He sighs, and you scrape your nails against his scalp, up and down, putting aside all of your snarky back and forth to really show Clark your love through this favor.
You take your time before you decide to rinse out the suds, lathering up his curls again with a hair mask. While it sits, you prop yourself onto his lap again, giving him a shoulder rub to hopefully rid him of some of the tension he seems to constantly attract.
“I love you,” he murmurs, drowsy, eyes still closed, head lolling. “Too good to me.”
“That’s you, Mr.” you whisper back.
Finally, when he’s all rinsed out, you have him lift his head so that you can towel off his curls. When you lift the handheld mirror to have him take a look, knowing he sees the few uneven strands sticking up, you hold your breath. You see that bright smile again, and he reaches out to you.
“Best haircut I’ve ever had,” he grins.
—————————————————————————
authors note - do fancy men’s haircuts also come with complimentary champagne or is that for the girlies only? clark is part of the sassy man apocalypse i know his ass is saying yes to the nice things even if he can’t get drunk. this is so random these r the places my brain goes, hope u guys enjoyed hehe :) im working on a little 5+1 kind of thing about clark with a plus size reader and how he reaffirms their positive body image over and over throughout their relationship. hoping it’ll be out in the next week or so! would be sooner but grad school is kicking my butt. i’m having tons of fun writing though love u all
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this was going to become something more fleshed out and then it kind of fizzled, so enjoy it as is i guess!
wc: .5k
You're bustling at the stove, back and forth between the front burner with eggs and the back burner with bacon, when the coffee maker beeps behind you, signaling that you can finally grab yourself a cup. You're already feeling a little flustered, ponytail sideways with a bunch of flyaways around your forehead, Clark's big t shirt slipping off your shoulder, slippers stepping all over the bottoms of your plaid pajama pants as you tend to the breakfast you set out to make for him.
Usually, it's the other way around. Clark masterfully cheffing up his special of over easy eggs and toast while you sit and admire. But today, the first year you get to celebrate your boyfriend's birthday with him, you want to show him a fraction of the care he gives you every day. He makes it seem so effortless, the way he anticipates your every need before you voice it, sometimes even before you manage to think it yourself. Before his duties, before Superman even, Clark has always been the one to care for everyone around him. Does he even know what it's like to take the backseat and let somebody else take care of him?
You're going into Clark's birthday with the resolve to make him feel special, even if it doesn't come as effortlessly to you as it does to him. While you muse about how easily he seems to balance it all, you hear his big footsteps padding over the kitchen tile and set down your spatula to turn around and greet your favorite person.
You could never get tired of this sight. Sleep-rumpled Clark, dark curls all over the place, old t shirt tight on his biceps, sleepy eyes and a smile that somehow never goes away.
"Hi baby," you smile easily, reaching out to him. "Happy birthday. I hope you're prepared for a feast," you greet him, gesturing to the small hum of chaos you've created in the kitchen.
"Thank you, honey, it smells amazing," Clark mumbles back, pulling you into his chest and tucking his head into your hair.
“Let’s sit, I have a surprise for you after breakfast,” you grin. You poke a single candle into Clark’s stack of pancakes, “I can’t give you any more, you’re becoming a fire hazard the older you get,” you tease, rubbing his shoulder as he sits down at the table.
“Ha ha, very funny,” He replies.
“Happy birthday, Clark. I’m so lucky to get to celebrate you,” you peck another kiss to his cheek, watching as he closes his eyes to make a wish before blowing the candle out.
“I never know what to wish for. I have everything I could possibly want,” Clark turns to you, eyes shining.
fluff!!!! i see your kinktober and i raise you whatever this is 🙂↕️
wc: 2.1k
clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. when you start dating him, it becomes your job.
When Clark was growing up, the Kents never had much disposable income. It felt like they were always treading water, trying to stay afloat. They had to take a lot of matters into their own hands, things other families wouldn’t think twice about - re-soleing old work boots, mending worn jeans to stretch their life span even a few months longer, holding onto a run down pair of clippers so that Martha could shape up Jon and Clark’s hair once a month. She felt so guilty that she couldn’t give her son all of the things he wanted, the least she could do was make sure her boys didn’t walk around looking as scruffy as they were. Of course, Clark never complained. Never gave even an inkling that he noticed how his clothes were different than the other kids, how they showed up to the first day of school every year with new backpacks and bright white shoes, while he wore the same boots as he grew, until his toes couldn’t squish any more and they had to scrounge up the money for a new pair.
Clark would never have let his parents know that he noticed these things, or that he cared. Really, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. But, sometimes, it bled through the cracks. Like how, when he moved to Metropolis and established his career, he hardly hesitated before signing the lease for a luxury high rise. Or splurging on an expensive pair of leather loafers for the office, a $9 latte to start his morning (more mornings than not). He had never been able to have these things, he was a single young man, he shouldn’t feel bad about using his hard earned money on these little luxuries. Still, the guilt crept through when he thought about the way he was living compared to the farm where he was raised.
This feeling only intensified the first time that he treated himself to a high-end haircut at the barber. After his big move, he realized his curls were everywhere, swallowing his whole face, falling into his eyes, tickling his neck. He knew he had to do something about it. And sure, he easily could have used it as an excuse to fly back to Smallville and let Martha run her hands through his hair like she used to when he was little. But he was an independent adult now. And it’s more than reasonable for an independent adult to go to a professional to get their hair cut… and a complimentary glass of champagne… and a shoulder massage. He’s earned it!
He hits a hitch in his newfound lifestyle around 2 months after Superman’s debut - he’s still adjusting to the fact that he can’t take his hypno glasses off at all unless he’s in the privacy of his own home. So, he doesn’t even think anything of it until he’s already sitting down in the salon chair, cape around his shoulders, when the barber reaches to take off his glasses for him and Clark flinches back like he’s been shot.
“You okay, man?” the barber asks, “They gotta come off if you think your hair is gonna be even.”
Clark doesn’t even take the time to formulate a believable response. He stands up, rips the cape off, and mumbles something about a family emergency before he grabs a $20 from his wallet, presses it into the man’s hand, and stumbles out the salon door. He’s so shaken up he shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down and walks blocks and blocks away before he manages to steady his breathing.
After that, he says so long to his fancy salon days. It’s no big deal, he welcomes the excuse to go home for his maintenance and feel like a kid again, perched on a tiny stool in his kitchen where his mom kisses the top of his head after his trim. That’s something you don’t get with a professional haircut.
Clark would never mind flying home, but as more and more piles onto his plate, sometimes it’s hard to find a spare hour or two to take care of himself. His life feels nonstop - Planet, Superman, and the newest addition, you. Sweet, sunshiney you who still gives him butterflies and a pink tint to his cheeks 6 months in. Doting you, who gets the message across when Clark’s head is on your chest on the couch one evening, legs intertwined with his, raking your fingernails across his scalp and twirling the grown out curls at the base of his neck.
“You trying out a new look?” you break the silence, tugging on a longer strand to make your point.
“Mmm,” he sleepily gets out. “My mom usually cuts it. Haven’t had a chance to stop by for a few weeks. It grows fast.”
“Well.. I could cut it? I mean, if you want. It looks cute, I was just teasing, don’t let me pressure you if you weren’t going to,” you begin to ramble.
Clark pulls his head up, chin resting on your ribs, and smiles at you, eyes crinkling and lines on his cheek from where it had rested on your pajama top. “I’d like that. You’re sweet to offer. And you’re right, I have been feeling a little scruffy. I can’t go to a professional to get it done anymore because they’ll ask me to pull off my glasses. I have to wait until I get a chance to go home.”
“Tomorrow?” You offer. “I can stop and get a cape and combs and stuff. Freshen you up. One more thing off your plate?”
He lifts his chin up to give you a sweet peck on the lips, then the nose, and rests his cheek back against your shirt. “You’re too good to me. Yes, please, honey.”
The next night, after dinner, you settle him into one of the dining chairs for his much needed grooming, and a few different problems seem to present them to you at the same time. One, you can hardly see the top of his head, even when he’s seated in front of you. Two, you’ve never done this before. Or anything akin to it. Sure, you’d trimmed a friend’s hair on a tipsy girls night in college, but cutting long hair in a straight line felt very different than potentially butchering your boyfriend’s beautiful head of hair
It seemed like Clark sensed your hesitation. “My mom makes me sit on a little stool so she can see over me. If this goes well we can get one for next time? And, worst case, we can always buzz it off.”
Your eyes widened in horror. “I love your curls though! Oh my god I’m going to feel sick if I ruin them, I don’t know what I’m doing!”
He grabs your hands to cut off your panicked rambles. “Baby, it grows back,” he laughs. “No matter how it looks, you’re doing me a favor by getting this mess off of my neck. I can’t take it anymore. Help me,” he pulls you down to press a kiss to your lips.
“My mom usually cuts the top, cleans up the back, and then washes it to make sure it’s not messed up? I’m not expecting anything perfect, I promise you. I’ll love it no matter what because it’s you helping me,” he assures.
“Can I get that in writing? So you don’t have grounds to suddenly hate me an hour from now?”
“Come on, I’m here for moral support. Grab the scissors, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. You oblige, picking up the scissors. “Okay, I think I’ll start from the back. If I try to cut an inch off of all of it, it should end up mostly even?” You say, not sure if you’re asking or telling.
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Clark parrots, equally clueless.
Once you get to trimming, it’s really not so intimidating. There may or may not be a few strands where you get overconfident, removing a bit too much and tense up for a second. But really, Clark is right. He has so much hair that it’s not the end of the world to mess it up a bit. You can hardly tell.
Things get a little trickier when you make your way to the strands that fall across his forehead. You’ve come to stand in front of him, poised between his legs, hand propped on your hip and scissors lying in wait like an artist analyzing their canvas. Clark props his own hands on your hips on top of yours, pulling his knees together to prop you on his lap.
“Clark! We’re gonna tip over,” You giggle. He plants a kiss on your lips.
“I’d catch you, you know that, silly,” he nuzzles his nose against yours, getting tiny pieces of hair all over you.
“Stop! Hey!” you shriek, and he smiles wider and digs his hands further into your hips.
“You’re not done yet, you can’t get away!” He holds on to you as you squirm. Your heart squeezes as you look at him, bright blue eyes crinkled around the edges, hair half cut. A state only you can see him in. You press one more kiss to his lips before you steel yourself to get back to business.
“Okay, let’s get serious. This is a professional operation,” You stand back up, his hands falling away from your hips while his sweet smile stays intact.
You start trimming the front of his hair as it’s laying, tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration. His smile grows wider as he takes you in. “You are such a dork,” he can’t seem to stop himself from saying.
“You might want to watch your mouth while I’m standing right here with a sharp object,” You poke back. “I have serious potential to mess you up right now.”
“I secede, I secede!” He gets out between chuckles.
Once the front strands are to your liking, Clark helps you plug in the clippers and get the guard set up. “It really shouldn’t be hard, just try to clean up hairs that don’t look like they belong. Try and keep the line straight if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay, maybe it’ll look better crooked.” You roll your eyes at him.
You take a deep breath before you start. All in all, it really is just making a straight line. You really don’t think it looks too bad, especially if you don’t look too closely. You snap a picture and hold it out for your client to see. Ever the sweetheart, he plants a kiss on your cheek and tells you it looks “perfect. You’re wonderful at everything you do.”
“Suck up,” you roll your eyes but press your cheek harder against his lips. You tap his shoulder, “Alright, over to the sink. Let’s wash you up and see if any of the curls need to be a little shorter.”
He brings the dining chair over to the sink, settling back in and leaning his neck into the basin at what cannot be a comfortable angle. As you lean your chest over him to turn on the faucet, that cheeky smile makes its return.
You turn on the water, a little to the scalding side of hot, just how you know he likes it. His eyes flutter closed, and you feel like you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. Your heart squeezes again. He really does carry so much, and still he manages to be so good to you, to everyone. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips before reaching over and grabbing the shampoo, lathering it up in your hands before raking it through his dark mess of hair. He sighs, and you scrape your nails against his scalp, up and down, putting aside all of your snarky back and forth to really show Clark your love through this favor.
You take your time before you decide to rinse out the suds, lathering up his curls again with a hair mask. While it sits, you prop yourself onto his lap again, giving him a shoulder rub to hopefully rid him of some of the tension he seems to constantly attract.
“I love you,” he murmurs, drowsy, eyes still closed, head lolling. “Too good to me.”
“That’s you, Mr.” you whisper back.
Finally, when he’s all rinsed out, you have him lift his head so that you can towel off his curls. When you lift the handheld mirror to have him take a look, knowing he sees the few uneven strands sticking up, you hold your breath. You see that bright smile again, and he reaches out to you.
“Best haircut I’ve ever had,” he grins.
—————————————————————————
authors note - do fancy men’s haircuts also come with complimentary champagne or is that for the girlies only? clark is part of the sassy man apocalypse i know his ass is saying yes to the nice things even if he can’t get drunk. this is so random these r the places my brain goes, hope u guys enjoyed hehe :) im working on a little 5+1 kind of thing about clark with a plus size reader and how he reaffirms their positive body image over and over throughout their relationship. hoping it’ll be out in the next week or so! would be sooner but grad school is kicking my butt. i’m having tons of fun writing though love u all
fluff!!!! i see your kinktober and i raise you whatever this is 🙂↕️
wc: 2.1k
clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. when you start dating him, it becomes your job.
When Clark was growing up, the Kents never had much disposable income. It felt like they were always treading water, trying to stay afloat. They had to take a lot of matters into their own hands, things other families wouldn’t think twice about - re-soleing old work boots, mending worn jeans to stretch their life span even a few months longer, holding onto a run down pair of clippers so that Martha could shape up Jon and Clark’s hair once a month. She felt so guilty that she couldn’t give her son all of the things he wanted, the least she could do was make sure her boys didn’t walk around looking as scruffy as they were. Of course, Clark never complained. Never gave even an inkling that he noticed how his clothes were different than the other kids, how they showed up to the first day of school every year with new backpacks and bright white shoes, while he wore the same boots as he grew, until his toes couldn’t squish any more and they had to scrounge up the money for a new pair.
Clark would never have let his parents know that he noticed these things, or that he cared. Really, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. But, sometimes, it bled through the cracks. Like how, when he moved to Metropolis and established his career, he hardly hesitated before signing the lease for a luxury high rise. Or splurging on an expensive pair of leather loafers for the office, a $9 latte to start his morning (more mornings than not). He had never been able to have these things, he was a single young man, he shouldn’t feel bad about using his hard earned money on these little luxuries. Still, the guilt crept through when he thought about the way he was living compared to the farm where he was raised.
This feeling only intensified the first time that he treated himself to a high-end haircut at the barber. After his big move, he realized his curls were everywhere, swallowing his whole face, falling into his eyes, tickling his neck. He knew he had to do something about it. And sure, he easily could have used it as an excuse to fly back to Smallville and let Martha run her hands through his hair like she used to when he was little. But he was an independent adult now. And it’s more than reasonable for an independent adult to go to a professional to get their hair cut… and a complimentary glass of champagne… and a shoulder massage. He’s earned it!
He hits a hitch in his newfound lifestyle around 2 months after Superman’s debut - he’s still adjusting to the fact that he can’t take his hypno glasses off at all unless he’s in the privacy of his own home. So, he doesn’t even think anything of it until he’s already sitting down in the salon chair, cape around his shoulders, when the barber reaches to take off his glasses for him and Clark flinches back like he’s been shot.
“You okay, man?” the barber asks, “They gotta come off if you think your hair is gonna be even.”
Clark doesn’t even take the time to formulate a believable response. He stands up, rips the cape off, and mumbles something about a family emergency before he grabs a $20 from his wallet, presses it into the man’s hand, and stumbles out the salon door. He’s so shaken up he shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down and walks blocks and blocks away before he manages to steady his breathing.
After that, he says so long to his fancy salon days. It’s no big deal, he welcomes the excuse to go home for his maintenance and feel like a kid again, perched on a tiny stool in his kitchen where his mom kisses the top of his head after his trim. That’s something you don’t get with a professional haircut.
Clark would never mind flying home, but as more and more piles onto his plate, sometimes it’s hard to find a spare hour or two to take care of himself. His life feels nonstop - Planet, Superman, and the newest addition, you. Sweet, sunshiney you who still gives him butterflies and a pink tint to his cheeks 6 months in. Doting you, who gets the message across when Clark’s head is on your chest on the couch one evening, legs intertwined with his, raking your fingernails across his scalp and twirling the grown out curls at the base of his neck.
“You trying out a new look?” you break the silence, tugging on a longer strand to make your point.
“Mmm,” he sleepily gets out. “My mom usually cuts it. Haven’t had a chance to stop by for a few weeks. It grows fast.”
“Well.. I could cut it? I mean, if you want. It looks cute, I was just teasing, don’t let me pressure you if you weren’t going to,” you begin to ramble.
Clark pulls his head up, chin resting on your ribs, and smiles at you, eyes crinkling and lines on his cheek from where it had rested on your pajama top. “I’d like that. You’re sweet to offer. And you’re right, I have been feeling a little scruffy. I can’t go to a professional to get it done anymore because they’ll ask me to pull off my glasses. I have to wait until I get a chance to go home.”
“Tomorrow?” You offer. “I can stop and get a cape and combs and stuff. Freshen you up. One more thing off your plate?”
He lifts his chin up to give you a sweet peck on the lips, then the nose, and rests his cheek back against your shirt. “You’re too good to me. Yes, please, honey.”
The next night, after dinner, you settle him into one of the dining chairs for his much needed grooming, and a few different problems seem to present them to you at the same time. One, you can hardly see the top of his head, even when he’s seated in front of you. Two, you’ve never done this before. Or anything akin to it. Sure, you’d trimmed a friend’s hair on a tipsy girls night in college, but cutting long hair in a straight line felt very different than potentially butchering your boyfriend’s beautiful head of hair
It seemed like Clark sensed your hesitation. “My mom makes me sit on a little stool so she can see over me. If this goes well we can get one for next time? And, worst case, we can always buzz it off.”
Your eyes widened in horror. “I love your curls though! Oh my god I’m going to feel sick if I ruin them, I don’t know what I’m doing!”
He grabs your hands to cut off your panicked rambles. “Baby, it grows back,” he laughs. “No matter how it looks, you’re doing me a favor by getting this mess off of my neck. I can’t take it anymore. Help me,” he pulls you down to press a kiss to your lips.
“My mom usually cuts the top, cleans up the back, and then washes it to make sure it’s not messed up? I’m not expecting anything perfect, I promise you. I’ll love it no matter what because it’s you helping me,” he assures.
“Can I get that in writing? So you don’t have grounds to suddenly hate me an hour from now?”
“Come on, I’m here for moral support. Grab the scissors, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. You oblige, picking up the scissors. “Okay, I think I’ll start from the back. If I try to cut an inch off of all of it, it should end up mostly even?” You say, not sure if you’re asking or telling.
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Clark parrots, equally clueless.
Once you get to trimming, it’s really not so intimidating. There may or may not be a few strands where you get overconfident, removing a bit too much and tense up for a second. But really, Clark is right. He has so much hair that it’s not the end of the world to mess it up a bit. You can hardly tell.
Things get a little trickier when you make your way to the strands that fall across his forehead. You’ve come to stand in front of him, poised between his legs, hand propped on your hip and scissors lying in wait like an artist analyzing their canvas. Clark props his own hands on your hips on top of yours, pulling his knees together to prop you on his lap.
“Clark! We’re gonna tip over,” You giggle. He plants a kiss on your lips.
“I’d catch you, you know that, silly,” he nuzzles his nose against yours, getting tiny pieces of hair all over you.
“Stop! Hey!” you shriek, and he smiles wider and digs his hands further into your hips.
“You’re not done yet, you can’t get away!” He holds on to you as you squirm. Your heart squeezes as you look at him, bright blue eyes crinkled around the edges, hair half cut. A state only you can see him in. You press one more kiss to his lips before you steel yourself to get back to business.
“Okay, let’s get serious. This is a professional operation,” You stand back up, his hands falling away from your hips while his sweet smile stays intact.
You start trimming the front of his hair as it’s laying, tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration. His smile grows wider as he takes you in. “You are such a dork,” he can’t seem to stop himself from saying.
“You might want to watch your mouth while I’m standing right here with a sharp object,” You poke back. “I have serious potential to mess you up right now.”
“I secede, I secede!” He gets out between chuckles.
Once the front strands are to your liking, Clark helps you plug in the clippers and get the guard set up. “It really shouldn’t be hard, just try to clean up hairs that don’t look like they belong. Try and keep the line straight if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay, maybe it’ll look better crooked.” You roll your eyes at him.
You take a deep breath before you start. All in all, it really is just making a straight line. You really don’t think it looks too bad, especially if you don’t look too closely. You snap a picture and hold it out for your client to see. Ever the sweetheart, he plants a kiss on your cheek and tells you it looks “perfect. You’re wonderful at everything you do.”
“Suck up,” you roll your eyes but press your cheek harder against his lips. You tap his shoulder, “Alright, over to the sink. Let’s wash you up and see if any of the curls need to be a little shorter.”
He brings the dining chair over to the sink, settling back in and leaning his neck into the basin at what cannot be a comfortable angle. As you lean your chest over him to turn on the faucet, that cheeky smile makes its return.
You turn on the water, a little to the scalding side of hot, just how you know he likes it. His eyes flutter closed, and you feel like you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. Your heart squeezes again. He really does carry so much, and still he manages to be so good to you, to everyone. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips before reaching over and grabbing the shampoo, lathering it up in your hands before raking it through his dark mess of hair. He sighs, and you scrape your nails against his scalp, up and down, putting aside all of your snarky back and forth to really show Clark your love through this favor.
You take your time before you decide to rinse out the suds, lathering up his curls again with a hair mask. While it sits, you prop yourself onto his lap again, giving him a shoulder rub to hopefully rid him of some of the tension he seems to constantly attract.
“I love you,” he murmurs, drowsy, eyes still closed, head lolling. “Too good to me.”
“That’s you, Mr.” you whisper back.
Finally, when he’s all rinsed out, you have him lift his head so that you can towel off his curls. When you lift the handheld mirror to have him take a look, knowing he sees the few uneven strands sticking up, you hold your breath. You see that bright smile again, and he reaches out to you.
“Best haircut I’ve ever had,” he grins.
—————————————————————————
authors note - do fancy men’s haircuts also come with complimentary champagne or is that for the girlies only? clark is part of the sassy man apocalypse i know his ass is saying yes to the nice things even if he can’t get drunk. this is so random these r the places my brain goes, hope u guys enjoyed hehe :) im working on a little 5+1 kind of thing about clark with a plus size reader and how he reaffirms their positive body image over and over throughout their relationship. hoping it’ll be out in the next week or so! would be sooner but grad school is kicking my butt. i’m having tons of fun writing though love u all
fluff!!!! i see your kinktober and i raise you whatever this is 🙂↕️
wc: 2.1k
clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. when you start dating him, it becomes your job.
When Clark was growing up, the Kents never had much disposable income. It felt like they were always treading water, trying to stay afloat. They had to take a lot of matters into their own hands, things other families wouldn’t think twice about - re-soleing old work boots, mending worn jeans to stretch their life span even a few months longer, holding onto a run down pair of clippers so that Martha could shape up Jon and Clark’s hair once a month. She felt so guilty that she couldn’t give her son all of the things he wanted, the least she could do was make sure her boys didn’t walk around looking as scruffy as they were. Of course, Clark never complained. Never gave even an inkling that he noticed how his clothes were different than the other kids, how they showed up to the first day of school every year with new backpacks and bright white shoes, while he wore the same boots as he grew, until his toes couldn’t squish any more and they had to scrounge up the money for a new pair.
Clark would never have let his parents know that he noticed these things, or that he cared. Really, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. But, sometimes, it bled through the cracks. Like how, when he moved to Metropolis and established his career, he hardly hesitated before signing the lease for a luxury high rise. Or splurging on an expensive pair of leather loafers for the office, a $9 latte to start his morning (more mornings than not). He had never been able to have these things, he was a single young man, he shouldn’t feel bad about using his hard earned money on these little luxuries. Still, the guilt crept through when he thought about the way he was living compared to the farm where he was raised.
This feeling only intensified the first time that he treated himself to a high-end haircut at the barber. After his big move, he realized his curls were everywhere, swallowing his whole face, falling into his eyes, tickling his neck. He knew he had to do something about it. And sure, he easily could have used it as an excuse to fly back to Smallville and let Martha run her hands through his hair like she used to when he was little. But he was an independent adult now. And it’s more than reasonable for an independent adult to go to a professional to get their hair cut… and a complimentary glass of champagne… and a shoulder massage. He’s earned it!
He hits a hitch in his newfound lifestyle around 2 months after Superman’s debut - he’s still adjusting to the fact that he can’t take his hypno glasses off at all unless he’s in the privacy of his own home. So, he doesn’t even think anything of it until he’s already sitting down in the salon chair, cape around his shoulders, when the barber reaches to take off his glasses for him and Clark flinches back like he’s been shot.
“You okay, man?” the barber asks, “They gotta come off if you think your hair is gonna be even.”
Clark doesn’t even take the time to formulate a believable response. He stands up, rips the cape off, and mumbles something about a family emergency before he grabs a $20 from his wallet, presses it into the man’s hand, and stumbles out the salon door. He’s so shaken up he shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down and walks blocks and blocks away before he manages to steady his breathing.
After that, he says so long to his fancy salon days. It’s no big deal, he welcomes the excuse to go home for his maintenance and feel like a kid again, perched on a tiny stool in his kitchen where his mom kisses the top of his head after his trim. That’s something you don’t get with a professional haircut.
Clark would never mind flying home, but as more and more piles onto his plate, sometimes it’s hard to find a spare hour or two to take care of himself. His life feels nonstop - Planet, Superman, and the newest addition, you. Sweet, sunshiney you who still gives him butterflies and a pink tint to his cheeks 6 months in. Doting you, who gets the message across when Clark’s head is on your chest on the couch one evening, legs intertwined with his, raking your fingernails across his scalp and twirling the grown out curls at the base of his neck.
“You trying out a new look?” you break the silence, tugging on a longer strand to make your point.
“Mmm,” he sleepily gets out. “My mom usually cuts it. Haven’t had a chance to stop by for a few weeks. It grows fast.”
“Well.. I could cut it? I mean, if you want. It looks cute, I was just teasing, don’t let me pressure you if you weren’t going to,” you begin to ramble.
Clark pulls his head up, chin resting on your ribs, and smiles at you, eyes crinkling and lines on his cheek from where it had rested on your pajama top. “I’d like that. You’re sweet to offer. And you’re right, I have been feeling a little scruffy. I can’t go to a professional to get it done anymore because they’ll ask me to pull off my glasses. I have to wait until I get a chance to go home.”
“Tomorrow?” You offer. “I can stop and get a cape and combs and stuff. Freshen you up. One more thing off your plate?”
He lifts his chin up to give you a sweet peck on the lips, then the nose, and rests his cheek back against your shirt. “You’re too good to me. Yes, please, honey.”
The next night, after dinner, you settle him into one of the dining chairs for his much needed grooming, and a few different problems seem to present them to you at the same time. One, you can hardly see the top of his head, even when he’s seated in front of you. Two, you’ve never done this before. Or anything akin to it. Sure, you’d trimmed a friend’s hair on a tipsy girls night in college, but cutting long hair in a straight line felt very different than potentially butchering your boyfriend’s beautiful head of hair
It seemed like Clark sensed your hesitation. “My mom makes me sit on a little stool so she can see over me. If this goes well we can get one for next time? And, worst case, we can always buzz it off.”
Your eyes widened in horror. “I love your curls though! Oh my god I’m going to feel sick if I ruin them, I don’t know what I’m doing!”
He grabs your hands to cut off your panicked rambles. “Baby, it grows back,” he laughs. “No matter how it looks, you’re doing me a favor by getting this mess off of my neck. I can’t take it anymore. Help me,” he pulls you down to press a kiss to your lips.
“My mom usually cuts the top, cleans up the back, and then washes it to make sure it’s not messed up? I’m not expecting anything perfect, I promise you. I’ll love it no matter what because it’s you helping me,” he assures.
“Can I get that in writing? So you don’t have grounds to suddenly hate me an hour from now?”
“Come on, I’m here for moral support. Grab the scissors, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. You oblige, picking up the scissors. “Okay, I think I’ll start from the back. If I try to cut an inch off of all of it, it should end up mostly even?” You say, not sure if you’re asking or telling.
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Clark parrots, equally clueless.
Once you get to trimming, it’s really not so intimidating. There may or may not be a few strands where you get overconfident, removing a bit too much and tense up for a second. But really, Clark is right. He has so much hair that it’s not the end of the world to mess it up a bit. You can hardly tell.
Things get a little trickier when you make your way to the strands that fall across his forehead. You’ve come to stand in front of him, poised between his legs, hand propped on your hip and scissors lying in wait like an artist analyzing their canvas. Clark props his own hands on your hips on top of yours, pulling his knees together to prop you on his lap.
“Clark! We’re gonna tip over,” You giggle. He plants a kiss on your lips.
“I’d catch you, you know that, silly,” he nuzzles his nose against yours, getting tiny pieces of hair all over you.
“Stop! Hey!” you shriek, and he smiles wider and digs his hands further into your hips.
“You’re not done yet, you can’t get away!” He holds on to you as you squirm. Your heart squeezes as you look at him, bright blue eyes crinkled around the edges, hair half cut. A state only you can see him in. You press one more kiss to his lips before you steel yourself to get back to business.
“Okay, let’s get serious. This is a professional operation,” You stand back up, his hands falling away from your hips while his sweet smile stays intact.
You start trimming the front of his hair as it’s laying, tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration. His smile grows wider as he takes you in. “You are such a dork,” he can’t seem to stop himself from saying.
“You might want to watch your mouth while I’m standing right here with a sharp object,” You poke back. “I have serious potential to mess you up right now.”
“I secede, I secede!” He gets out between chuckles.
Once the front strands are to your liking, Clark helps you plug in the clippers and get the guard set up. “It really shouldn’t be hard, just try to clean up hairs that don’t look like they belong. Try and keep the line straight if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay, maybe it’ll look better crooked.” You roll your eyes at him.
You take a deep breath before you start. All in all, it really is just making a straight line. You really don’t think it looks too bad, especially if you don’t look too closely. You snap a picture and hold it out for your client to see. Ever the sweetheart, he plants a kiss on your cheek and tells you it looks “perfect. You’re wonderful at everything you do.”
“Suck up,” you roll your eyes but press your cheek harder against his lips. You tap his shoulder, “Alright, over to the sink. Let’s wash you up and see if any of the curls need to be a little shorter.”
He brings the dining chair over to the sink, settling back in and leaning his neck into the basin at what cannot be a comfortable angle. As you lean your chest over him to turn on the faucet, that cheeky smile makes its return.
You turn on the water, a little to the scalding side of hot, just how you know he likes it. His eyes flutter closed, and you feel like you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. Your heart squeezes again. He really does carry so much, and still he manages to be so good to you, to everyone. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips before reaching over and grabbing the shampoo, lathering it up in your hands before raking it through his dark mess of hair. He sighs, and you scrape your nails against his scalp, up and down, putting aside all of your snarky back and forth to really show Clark your love through this favor.
You take your time before you decide to rinse out the suds, lathering up his curls again with a hair mask. While it sits, you prop yourself onto his lap again, giving him a shoulder rub to hopefully rid him of some of the tension he seems to constantly attract.
“I love you,” he murmurs, drowsy, eyes still closed, head lolling. “Too good to me.”
“That’s you, Mr.” you whisper back.
Finally, when he’s all rinsed out, you have him lift his head so that you can towel off his curls. When you lift the handheld mirror to have him take a look, knowing he sees the few uneven strands sticking up, you hold your breath. You see that bright smile again, and he reaches out to you.
“Best haircut I’ve ever had,” he grins.
—————————————————————————
authors note - do fancy men’s haircuts also come with complimentary champagne or is that for the girlies only? clark is part of the sassy man apocalypse i know his ass is saying yes to the nice things even if he can’t get drunk. this is so random these r the places my brain goes, hope u guys enjoyed hehe :) im working on a little 5+1 kind of thing about clark with a plus size reader and how he reaffirms their positive body image over and over throughout their relationship. hoping it’ll be out in the next week or so! would be sooner but grad school is kicking my butt. i’m having tons of fun writing though love u all
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fluff!!!! i see your kinktober and i raise you whatever this is 🙂↕️
wc: 2.1k
clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. when you start dating him, it becomes your job.
When Clark was growing up, the Kents never had much disposable income. It felt like they were always treading water, trying to stay afloat. They had to take a lot of matters into their own hands, things other families wouldn’t think twice about - re-soleing old work boots, mending worn jeans to stretch their life span even a few months longer, holding onto a run down pair of clippers so that Martha could shape up Jon and Clark’s hair once a month. She felt so guilty that she couldn’t give her son all of the things he wanted, the least she could do was make sure her boys didn’t walk around looking as scruffy as they were. Of course, Clark never complained. Never gave even an inkling that he noticed how his clothes were different than the other kids, how they showed up to the first day of school every year with new backpacks and bright white shoes, while he wore the same boots as he grew, until his toes couldn’t squish any more and they had to scrounge up the money for a new pair.
Clark would never have let his parents know that he noticed these things, or that he cared. Really, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. But, sometimes, it bled through the cracks. Like how, when he moved to Metropolis and established his career, he hardly hesitated before signing the lease for a luxury high rise. Or splurging on an expensive pair of leather loafers for the office, a $9 latte to start his morning (more mornings than not). He had never been able to have these things, he was a single young man, he shouldn’t feel bad about using his hard earned money on these little luxuries. Still, the guilt crept through when he thought about the way he was living compared to the farm where he was raised.
This feeling only intensified the first time that he treated himself to a high-end haircut at the barber. After his big move, he realized his curls were everywhere, swallowing his whole face, falling into his eyes, tickling his neck. He knew he had to do something about it. And sure, he easily could have used it as an excuse to fly back to Smallville and let Martha run her hands through his hair like she used to when he was little. But he was an independent adult now. And it’s more than reasonable for an independent adult to go to a professional to get their hair cut… and a complimentary glass of champagne… and a shoulder massage. He’s earned it!
He hits a hitch in his newfound lifestyle around 2 months after Superman’s debut - he’s still adjusting to the fact that he can’t take his hypno glasses off at all unless he’s in the privacy of his own home. So, he doesn’t even think anything of it until he’s already sitting down in the salon chair, cape around his shoulders, when the barber reaches to take off his glasses for him and Clark flinches back like he’s been shot.
“You okay, man?” the barber asks, “They gotta come off if you think your hair is gonna be even.”
Clark doesn’t even take the time to formulate a believable response. He stands up, rips the cape off, and mumbles something about a family emergency before he grabs a $20 from his wallet, presses it into the man’s hand, and stumbles out the salon door. He’s so shaken up he shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down and walks blocks and blocks away before he manages to steady his breathing.
After that, he says so long to his fancy salon days. It’s no big deal, he welcomes the excuse to go home for his maintenance and feel like a kid again, perched on a tiny stool in his kitchen where his mom kisses the top of his head after his trim. That’s something you don’t get with a professional haircut.
Clark would never mind flying home, but as more and more piles onto his plate, sometimes it’s hard to find a spare hour or two to take care of himself. His life feels nonstop - Planet, Superman, and the newest addition, you. Sweet, sunshiney you who still gives him butterflies and a pink tint to his cheeks 6 months in. Doting you, who gets the message across when Clark’s head is on your chest on the couch one evening, legs intertwined with his, raking your fingernails across his scalp and twirling the grown out curls at the base of his neck.
“You trying out a new look?” you break the silence, tugging on a longer strand to make your point.
“Mmm,” he sleepily gets out. “My mom usually cuts it. Haven’t had a chance to stop by for a few weeks. It grows fast.”
“Well.. I could cut it? I mean, if you want. It looks cute, I was just teasing, don’t let me pressure you if you weren’t going to,” you begin to ramble.
Clark pulls his head up, chin resting on your ribs, and smiles at you, eyes crinkling and lines on his cheek from where it had rested on your pajama top. “I’d like that. You’re sweet to offer. And you’re right, I have been feeling a little scruffy. I can’t go to a professional to get it done anymore because they’ll ask me to pull off my glasses. I have to wait until I get a chance to go home.”
“Tomorrow?” You offer. “I can stop and get a cape and combs and stuff. Freshen you up. One more thing off your plate?”
He lifts his chin up to give you a sweet peck on the lips, then the nose, and rests his cheek back against your shirt. “You’re too good to me. Yes, please, honey.”
The next night, after dinner, you settle him into one of the dining chairs for his much needed grooming, and a few different problems seem to present them to you at the same time. One, you can hardly see the top of his head, even when he’s seated in front of you. Two, you’ve never done this before. Or anything akin to it. Sure, you’d trimmed a friend’s hair on a tipsy girls night in college, but cutting long hair in a straight line felt very different than potentially butchering your boyfriend’s beautiful head of hair
It seemed like Clark sensed your hesitation. “My mom makes me sit on a little stool so she can see over me. If this goes well we can get one for next time? And, worst case, we can always buzz it off.”
Your eyes widened in horror. “I love your curls though! Oh my god I’m going to feel sick if I ruin them, I don’t know what I’m doing!”
He grabs your hands to cut off your panicked rambles. “Baby, it grows back,” he laughs. “No matter how it looks, you’re doing me a favor by getting this mess off of my neck. I can’t take it anymore. Help me,” he pulls you down to press a kiss to your lips.
“My mom usually cuts the top, cleans up the back, and then washes it to make sure it’s not messed up? I’m not expecting anything perfect, I promise you. I’ll love it no matter what because it’s you helping me,” he assures.
“Can I get that in writing? So you don’t have grounds to suddenly hate me an hour from now?”
“Come on, I’m here for moral support. Grab the scissors, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. You oblige, picking up the scissors. “Okay, I think I’ll start from the back. If I try to cut an inch off of all of it, it should end up mostly even?” You say, not sure if you’re asking or telling.
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Clark parrots, equally clueless.
Once you get to trimming, it’s really not so intimidating. There may or may not be a few strands where you get overconfident, removing a bit too much and tense up for a second. But really, Clark is right. He has so much hair that it’s not the end of the world to mess it up a bit. You can hardly tell.
Things get a little trickier when you make your way to the strands that fall across his forehead. You’ve come to stand in front of him, poised between his legs, hand propped on your hip and scissors lying in wait like an artist analyzing their canvas. Clark props his own hands on your hips on top of yours, pulling his knees together to prop you on his lap.
“Clark! We’re gonna tip over,” You giggle. He plants a kiss on your lips.
“I’d catch you, you know that, silly,” he nuzzles his nose against yours, getting tiny pieces of hair all over you.
“Stop! Hey!” you shriek, and he smiles wider and digs his hands further into your hips.
“You’re not done yet, you can’t get away!” He holds on to you as you squirm. Your heart squeezes as you look at him, bright blue eyes crinkled around the edges, hair half cut. A state only you can see him in. You press one more kiss to his lips before you steel yourself to get back to business.
“Okay, let’s get serious. This is a professional operation,” You stand back up, his hands falling away from your hips while his sweet smile stays intact.
You start trimming the front of his hair as it’s laying, tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration. His smile grows wider as he takes you in. “You are such a dork,” he can’t seem to stop himself from saying.
“You might want to watch your mouth while I’m standing right here with a sharp object,” You poke back. “I have serious potential to mess you up right now.”
“I secede, I secede!” He gets out between chuckles.
Once the front strands are to your liking, Clark helps you plug in the clippers and get the guard set up. “It really shouldn’t be hard, just try to clean up hairs that don’t look like they belong. Try and keep the line straight if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay, maybe it’ll look better crooked.” You roll your eyes at him.
You take a deep breath before you start. All in all, it really is just making a straight line. You really don’t think it looks too bad, especially if you don’t look too closely. You snap a picture and hold it out for your client to see. Ever the sweetheart, he plants a kiss on your cheek and tells you it looks “perfect. You’re wonderful at everything you do.”
“Suck up,” you roll your eyes but press your cheek harder against his lips. You tap his shoulder, “Alright, over to the sink. Let’s wash you up and see if any of the curls need to be a little shorter.”
He brings the dining chair over to the sink, settling back in and leaning his neck into the basin at what cannot be a comfortable angle. As you lean your chest over him to turn on the faucet, that cheeky smile makes its return.
You turn on the water, a little to the scalding side of hot, just how you know he likes it. His eyes flutter closed, and you feel like you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. Your heart squeezes again. He really does carry so much, and still he manages to be so good to you, to everyone. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips before reaching over and grabbing the shampoo, lathering it up in your hands before raking it through his dark mess of hair. He sighs, and you scrape your nails against his scalp, up and down, putting aside all of your snarky back and forth to really show Clark your love through this favor.
You take your time before you decide to rinse out the suds, lathering up his curls again with a hair mask. While it sits, you prop yourself onto his lap again, giving him a shoulder rub to hopefully rid him of some of the tension he seems to constantly attract.
“I love you,” he murmurs, drowsy, eyes still closed, head lolling. “Too good to me.”
“That’s you, Mr.” you whisper back.
Finally, when he’s all rinsed out, you have him lift his head so that you can towel off his curls. When you lift the handheld mirror to have him take a look, knowing he sees the few uneven strands sticking up, you hold your breath. You see that bright smile again, and he reaches out to you.
“Best haircut I’ve ever had,” he grins.
—————————————————————————
authors note - do fancy men’s haircuts also come with complimentary champagne or is that for the girlies only? clark is part of the sassy man apocalypse i know his ass is saying yes to the nice things even if he can’t get drunk. this is so random these r the places my brain goes, hope u guys enjoyed hehe :) im working on a little 5+1 kind of thing about clark with a plus size reader and how he reaffirms their positive body image over and over throughout their relationship. hoping it’ll be out in the next week or so! would be sooner but grad school is kicking my butt. i’m having tons of fun writing though love u all
fluff!!!! i see your kinktober and i raise you whatever this is 🙂↕️
wc: 2.1k
clark grew up with his mom cutting his hair for him. when you start dating him, it becomes your job.
When Clark was growing up, the Kents never had much disposable income. It felt like they were always treading water, trying to stay afloat. They had to take a lot of matters into their own hands, things other families wouldn’t think twice about - re-soleing old work boots, mending worn jeans to stretch their life span even a few months longer, holding onto a run down pair of clippers so that Martha could shape up Jon and Clark’s hair once a month. She felt so guilty that she couldn’t give her son all of the things he wanted, the least she could do was make sure her boys didn’t walk around looking as scruffy as they were. Of course, Clark never complained. Never gave even an inkling that he noticed how his clothes were different than the other kids, how they showed up to the first day of school every year with new backpacks and bright white shoes, while he wore the same boots as he grew, until his toes couldn’t squish any more and they had to scrounge up the money for a new pair.
Clark would never have let his parents know that he noticed these things, or that he cared. Really, he wouldn’t even admit it to himself. But, sometimes, it bled through the cracks. Like how, when he moved to Metropolis and established his career, he hardly hesitated before signing the lease for a luxury high rise. Or splurging on an expensive pair of leather loafers for the office, a $9 latte to start his morning (more mornings than not). He had never been able to have these things, he was a single young man, he shouldn’t feel bad about using his hard earned money on these little luxuries. Still, the guilt crept through when he thought about the way he was living compared to the farm where he was raised.
This feeling only intensified the first time that he treated himself to a high-end haircut at the barber. After his big move, he realized his curls were everywhere, swallowing his whole face, falling into his eyes, tickling his neck. He knew he had to do something about it. And sure, he easily could have used it as an excuse to fly back to Smallville and let Martha run her hands through his hair like she used to when he was little. But he was an independent adult now. And it’s more than reasonable for an independent adult to go to a professional to get their hair cut… and a complimentary glass of champagne… and a shoulder massage. He’s earned it!
He hits a hitch in his newfound lifestyle around 2 months after Superman’s debut - he’s still adjusting to the fact that he can’t take his hypno glasses off at all unless he’s in the privacy of his own home. So, he doesn’t even think anything of it until he’s already sitting down in the salon chair, cape around his shoulders, when the barber reaches to take off his glasses for him and Clark flinches back like he’s been shot.
“You okay, man?” the barber asks, “They gotta come off if you think your hair is gonna be even.”
Clark doesn’t even take the time to formulate a believable response. He stands up, rips the cape off, and mumbles something about a family emergency before he grabs a $20 from his wallet, presses it into the man’s hand, and stumbles out the salon door. He’s so shaken up he shoves his hands in his pockets, keeps his head down and walks blocks and blocks away before he manages to steady his breathing.
After that, he says so long to his fancy salon days. It’s no big deal, he welcomes the excuse to go home for his maintenance and feel like a kid again, perched on a tiny stool in his kitchen where his mom kisses the top of his head after his trim. That’s something you don’t get with a professional haircut.
Clark would never mind flying home, but as more and more piles onto his plate, sometimes it’s hard to find a spare hour or two to take care of himself. His life feels nonstop - Planet, Superman, and the newest addition, you. Sweet, sunshiney you who still gives him butterflies and a pink tint to his cheeks 6 months in. Doting you, who gets the message across when Clark’s head is on your chest on the couch one evening, legs intertwined with his, raking your fingernails across his scalp and twirling the grown out curls at the base of his neck.
“You trying out a new look?” you break the silence, tugging on a longer strand to make your point.
“Mmm,” he sleepily gets out. “My mom usually cuts it. Haven’t had a chance to stop by for a few weeks. It grows fast.”
“Well.. I could cut it? I mean, if you want. It looks cute, I was just teasing, don’t let me pressure you if you weren’t going to,” you begin to ramble.
Clark pulls his head up, chin resting on your ribs, and smiles at you, eyes crinkling and lines on his cheek from where it had rested on your pajama top. “I’d like that. You’re sweet to offer. And you’re right, I have been feeling a little scruffy. I can’t go to a professional to get it done anymore because they’ll ask me to pull off my glasses. I have to wait until I get a chance to go home.”
“Tomorrow?” You offer. “I can stop and get a cape and combs and stuff. Freshen you up. One more thing off your plate?”
He lifts his chin up to give you a sweet peck on the lips, then the nose, and rests his cheek back against your shirt. “You’re too good to me. Yes, please, honey.”
The next night, after dinner, you settle him into one of the dining chairs for his much needed grooming, and a few different problems seem to present them to you at the same time. One, you can hardly see the top of his head, even when he’s seated in front of you. Two, you’ve never done this before. Or anything akin to it. Sure, you’d trimmed a friend’s hair on a tipsy girls night in college, but cutting long hair in a straight line felt very different than potentially butchering your boyfriend’s beautiful head of hair
It seemed like Clark sensed your hesitation. “My mom makes me sit on a little stool so she can see over me. If this goes well we can get one for next time? And, worst case, we can always buzz it off.”
Your eyes widened in horror. “I love your curls though! Oh my god I’m going to feel sick if I ruin them, I don’t know what I’m doing!”
He grabs your hands to cut off your panicked rambles. “Baby, it grows back,” he laughs. “No matter how it looks, you’re doing me a favor by getting this mess off of my neck. I can’t take it anymore. Help me,” he pulls you down to press a kiss to your lips.
“My mom usually cuts the top, cleans up the back, and then washes it to make sure it’s not messed up? I’m not expecting anything perfect, I promise you. I’ll love it no matter what because it’s you helping me,” he assures.
“Can I get that in writing? So you don’t have grounds to suddenly hate me an hour from now?”
“Come on, I’m here for moral support. Grab the scissors, it shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. You oblige, picking up the scissors. “Okay, I think I’ll start from the back. If I try to cut an inch off of all of it, it should end up mostly even?” You say, not sure if you’re asking or telling.
“Yeah, that sounds right,” Clark parrots, equally clueless.
Once you get to trimming, it’s really not so intimidating. There may or may not be a few strands where you get overconfident, removing a bit too much and tense up for a second. But really, Clark is right. He has so much hair that it’s not the end of the world to mess it up a bit. You can hardly tell.
Things get a little trickier when you make your way to the strands that fall across his forehead. You’ve come to stand in front of him, poised between his legs, hand propped on your hip and scissors lying in wait like an artist analyzing their canvas. Clark props his own hands on your hips on top of yours, pulling his knees together to prop you on his lap.
“Clark! We’re gonna tip over,” You giggle. He plants a kiss on your lips.
“I’d catch you, you know that, silly,” he nuzzles his nose against yours, getting tiny pieces of hair all over you.
“Stop! Hey!” you shriek, and he smiles wider and digs his hands further into your hips.
“You’re not done yet, you can’t get away!” He holds on to you as you squirm. Your heart squeezes as you look at him, bright blue eyes crinkled around the edges, hair half cut. A state only you can see him in. You press one more kiss to his lips before you steel yourself to get back to business.
“Okay, let’s get serious. This is a professional operation,” You stand back up, his hands falling away from your hips while his sweet smile stays intact.
You start trimming the front of his hair as it’s laying, tongue poking out between your teeth in concentration. His smile grows wider as he takes you in. “You are such a dork,” he can’t seem to stop himself from saying.
“You might want to watch your mouth while I’m standing right here with a sharp object,” You poke back. “I have serious potential to mess you up right now.”
“I secede, I secede!” He gets out between chuckles.
Once the front strands are to your liking, Clark helps you plug in the clippers and get the guard set up. “It really shouldn’t be hard, just try to clean up hairs that don’t look like they belong. Try and keep the line straight if you can. If you can’t, that’s okay, maybe it’ll look better crooked.” You roll your eyes at him.
You take a deep breath before you start. All in all, it really is just making a straight line. You really don’t think it looks too bad, especially if you don’t look too closely. You snap a picture and hold it out for your client to see. Ever the sweetheart, he plants a kiss on your cheek and tells you it looks “perfect. You’re wonderful at everything you do.”
“Suck up,” you roll your eyes but press your cheek harder against his lips. You tap his shoulder, “Alright, over to the sink. Let’s wash you up and see if any of the curls need to be a little shorter.”
He brings the dining chair over to the sink, settling back in and leaning his neck into the basin at what cannot be a comfortable angle. As you lean your chest over him to turn on the faucet, that cheeky smile makes its return.
You turn on the water, a little to the scalding side of hot, just how you know he likes it. His eyes flutter closed, and you feel like you can see the tension leaving his shoulders. Your heart squeezes again. He really does carry so much, and still he manages to be so good to you, to everyone. You lean down and press a kiss to his lips before reaching over and grabbing the shampoo, lathering it up in your hands before raking it through his dark mess of hair. He sighs, and you scrape your nails against his scalp, up and down, putting aside all of your snarky back and forth to really show Clark your love through this favor.
You take your time before you decide to rinse out the suds, lathering up his curls again with a hair mask. While it sits, you prop yourself onto his lap again, giving him a shoulder rub to hopefully rid him of some of the tension he seems to constantly attract.
“I love you,” he murmurs, drowsy, eyes still closed, head lolling. “Too good to me.”
“That’s you, Mr.” you whisper back.
Finally, when he’s all rinsed out, you have him lift his head so that you can towel off his curls. When you lift the handheld mirror to have him take a look, knowing he sees the few uneven strands sticking up, you hold your breath. You see that bright smile again, and he reaches out to you.
“Best haircut I’ve ever had,” he grins.
—————————————————————————
authors note - do fancy men’s haircuts also come with complimentary champagne or is that for the girlies only? clark is part of the sassy man apocalypse i know his ass is saying yes to the nice things even if he can’t get drunk. this is so random these r the places my brain goes, hope u guys enjoyed hehe :) im working on a little 5+1 kind of thing about clark with a plus size reader and how he reaffirms their positive body image over and over throughout their relationship. hoping it’ll be out in the next week or so! would be sooner but grad school is kicking my butt. i’m having tons of fun writing though love u all
