cw: hybrid!bruce, submissive!bruce, superhero!reader, mentions of original justice league, scars, handjob (w.c. 2.5k) 18+ minors dni!

⤷ you're a dedicated member of the justice league, a vigilante in gotham city who works close with the dark knight. but when bruce wayne confines in you with a very... unique problem, will you come to his aid?

being a superhero in gotham city means you’ve seen a lot.

you dealt with frequent pandemonium in the streets. the freakish, crazed villains that wrecked mass levels of havoc on the unsuspecting tuesday.

on top of that, being part of the justice league meant you learned to juggle more than the average person — hell, the average superhero. 

you weren’t part of the original team — but you’re constantly showing that you’ve earned your rank to stand amongst them. you share long nights and early mornings in the tower with the founders of the team.

you’re a well-known superhero to the world — popping into the scene without the explosive flare of the Flash, but the tenacity of the world's finest.

as a superhero, you’re well-composed, polite but… elusive. not much is known about you to the public outside of mission sightings and the occasional interview. you don't show yourself as a public figure like Wonder Woman, or thrive in the limelight like Superman. 

but you bring a certain… light to gotham, a gentle radiance that's never gone away despite the harsh realities of your city. you've never let it dim you, instead vowing to change the city from the inside, one villain at a time.

and you and the Batman… are alike in the little ways ways; it's seen in the easy way you both get along both on the field and outside of missions. you seem to understand his moods, his similar distance and need for privacy, but you don’t see it as a challenge. 

you meet him where he is — little jokes about his eye bags when he confesses to staying up late with robin or the quiet moments when the infamous cowl weighs heavy on his shoulders.

so when alfred calls your phone in the late hours of the night, you answer immediately. you couldn't help the raise of your eyebrows and a badly restrained wheeze at the voice of the stoic, composed butler.

“….alfred? you want me to come over to wayne manor… now?"

all in all, you've seen so much over the years that you were confident almost nothing could actually, truly phase you or surprise you.

what you definitely weren’t accounting for when you pushed open the grand doors of bruce’s bedroom — was the sight of two fluffy, slender ears twitching up at you.

your whole body freezes, completely locks in place. 

you never freeze — in all the years of superheroing, of being in front of the camera and paparazzi and navigating your secret, double life as a normal citizen.

you think your jaw is somewhere glued on the floor. you’re rooted to the threshold of the large bedroom, eyes trapped on the twitch of smokey grey cat ears on the head of gotham’s most elite, the infamous playboy, the dark knight himself.

steely blue-green eyes instantly snap to you. bruce sits stiffly on the edge of his enormous bed, all muscle of him tense and coiled. the room is deadly silent, save for the erratic swish of a fluffy tail coiled into the sheets.

he's not hunched over; no, in bruce fashion he's wound too tight, back straight and shoulders tensed in his long-sleeve black shirt. his grey slacks are pulled taunt on powerful thighs, his jaw locked. 

any other person might think he was underreacting — too calm.

but you can instantly tell, one look and you know. 

“bruce—“

“stop.”  his voice was instant, quiet but stone cold, flat. carefully stripped of any emotion. but strangely, his extra features reacted before your eyes against his knowledge.

his ears flatten to the raven black locs on his head. his tail gave a series of tight flicks, anxiety wound tight in every movement.

any other person would be stunned to silence by his behavior, his cold indifference. you see this side of him often — on comms in the field when the Batman's steely voice cuts sharply in your ear, when he leads night debriefs with the justice leauge, jaw tight and voice a whisper as he grills everyone on a small mistake. 

but you aren't any other person. because when bruce is Batman, losing himself in the darkness, you find him. you don't try to pull him out of it immediately like the Flash, you don't harsh it with well-intentioned, but stark words like martain manhunter; you sit in it with him.

you approach slowly across the expansive hardwood floors. “when did this… development happen?” trying the analytic approach, as you know the Batman defaults to.

a pause, then his gruff voice hisses out the words like it physcially pains him to even describe it. “couple hours ago. long mission tracking a suspected magic user across gotham. thought I could handle it myself — did handle it — right before they cast an insignia on my cape. I realized too late."

blue eyes watch as you take a seat on the edge of the bed. close to him, possibly closer than most would dare to get. but still silently respectful of his personal space. 

you don't break eye contact with bruce, intentional in the way your body shifts towards him. 

“…why call me?” your question is soft, unguarded, no malice — only pure confusion.

you watch bruce’s face, which is usually so cool, schooled into a neutral, flat expression — flicker. fuzzy ears swivel and you watch him fight the urge to cover them, his hands flexing into fists for a flash of a second. his tail lashes once against the bed, tip of it curling and uncurling in on itself.

you’ve seen bruce in many ways. injured from the job, grimacing in pain, laughing dryly at one of hal's jokes, his media-trained smile to the paparazzi before entering some expensive gala, and the genuine one you got to know— but you’ve never seen this.

he’s nervous.

his eyes met yours. “because I wanted you here.”

the words land with all the delicacy of a nuclear bomb. 

you swallow the knot in your throat. there's no name to what you and bruce have been… building over the years as you gained seniority in the field. more duo missions. newspaper clippings of your elegant form twisting through the air — and the dark shadow of wings behind you. the press and fans ran with the stories, the tabloids crafting a popular love story for the public to feed off of. 

the two dark and mysterious heros of gotham… the headlights practically wrote themselves.

and of course you both are aware of it — the whole justice leauge are. your coworkers turned close friends were respectful of each others private lives — who better to understand the importance of boundaries than the most popular superheros in the world? — but they still teased here and there.

like the shared, knowing glances across the meeting table when you announced mission pairings together. no questions asked, but always a small smirk or smile.

nothing has directly happened between you and bruce over the years, but you feel the tension. the same way you can feel the quiet pressure of his eyes on you during conversations.

the quiet check-ins after a particularly brutal mission, the occasional phone calls, the late nights of patching each other up in the bat cave, bruised and beaten but finding moments of quiet, exhausted laughter. 

you finally pull your attention to the mass of fluff on top of his head. maybe it's to deflect from the moment, to avoid and vehemently ignore the rising flush you feel on your skin. or the way his eyes track you easily, watching every minute expression on your crumbling visage.

he's close now. was it him or you that got closer, narrowing the space across the bed? 

"you know that my powers can't help with… this. there's a wide range of magic users in gotham. they couldn't help?" you said quietly, watching his ears still pinned tight to his head. your head swarms with possible contacts. diana, for one — she might tease, but her demigod background could provide insight to magical ailments.

they gave a small twich. "tried that," he gruffly admitted. "got told it's a… complex curse. won't wear off until tomorrow. ran DNA tests, counterfit blood analysis, nothing. computer database couldn't find anything on it, some type of foreign, extraterrestrial strand."

you stifle a laugh — classic, an inconvenience at best but definitely casted by the magic-wielder in a petty attempt to leave the dark knight frustrated after being caught. 

"can I touch them?"

bruce's blue eyes lock on yours. his eyebrows raise. you watch his ears perk up against his neatly styled hair, swiveling to face you. 

you meet his eyes, a small smile lighting up your features at his sigh. one nod — that's all he gives you. you take it with glee. 

tentatively, you let your hands brush the soft fur. they twitch violently under your palms and you catch the small changes in his expressions. his strong shoulders begin to soften, body slumping towards you as bruce's eyes squint in… pleasure?

a deep, rymthic rumbling tickles your palm. bruce wayne, well-known playboy, dark knight of gotham city — purring. it's quiet and almost more a sensation than a sound, but the image alone is enough to startle you again to numb silence. 

you immediately try to ignore the warm sensation coursing through you at the sight. 

he shoots up like he was burned, his dress shoes already clicking straight towards the door. "this was stupid. I apologize for asking you here. alfred can show you out—"

"bruce." your voice is firm, grounding. he stops clear of the door, his shoulders stiff. he doesn't turn around — no, but his ears turn around to face you.

your hand pats the bed, voice low and warm. "you called me here. I want to help."

you let a teasing tone lit your voice as you add, "and I can't possibly walk away from the opportunity to see the bruce wayne… like this." 

he turns around and you spy a small smirk on his face. "you're a menace."

"and yet you invited me," you supplied helpfully, watching with a gleam in your eye as he sat again beside you. 

"and I'm starting to wonder if I'm loosing my better judgement." bruce shoots back, blue eyes equally as amused as you let out a warm laugh.

you pause as you feel his large, calloused hands reach for your own. he brings them back up to his head, all muscle of him leaning down to arch into you as you slowly stroke his ears.

the purring come back, slow and quiet, then louder as you press closer. his hair becomes messy under your gentle strokes, loosening around his face and framing the faint rosy blush on his face. 

"I don't… know why… this feels so good." he mutters lowly. you sush him, another strike of arousal swirling through you at the honest words leaving his lips.

one of his thighs bumps yours — a large, straining imprint pokes from his trousers. you suck in a harsh breath. bruce's eyes flutter open and you're struck by the intensity in them, a dark swirl in a blue haze.

his hand takes yours again. you feel the warm press of his lips on your hand, the scratch of his stubble, lingering as he then guides your hand

down

down

down.

one word, whispered in the small space between you. "please." 

bruce wayne lays bare underneath you in the dim lighting of the room, the lurch of his cock leaving a dark imprint in his briefs.

his eyes find yours in the darkness, watching as you watch him — his ragged breaths pushing past pale skin. his muscles strain as you run a slow hand down his abdomen, circling the divot in his v-line with something close to worship. 

you've seen him shirtless, briefly, in short glances when he's stripping off pieces of his shredded suit after a mission, but never this. the scars along his body tell of infinite stories of how he had to become the Bat, what trials he had to overcome to hone his body to accomplish what he's capable of now.

and all that strength is still there — in the twitch of his jaw when you lean forward over him, in the way his hands clench on the meat of your thighs in a bruising grip, in the way his abs clench and contract with every touch you leave.

he's holding back for you. because of you.

you reach down and finally release him from the tight confines of his briefs, watching in quiet awe as his cock slaps wetly onto his stomach. it's flushed an angry red at the tip, long and curved. 

bruce sucks in a sharp breath between bitten lips. you watch every change in his expression as you start languidly stroking him. you take pleasure in the way he groans under you but doesn't move, no, instead letting you toy with him.

his fuzzy tail snakes to wrap around your ankle. curious, you stroke one of his ears at the same pace of your other hand —

that does it.

"baby please," that pleading rasp, his hands pulling you closer. he stumbles over his next words, overwhelmed by the new sensation, by the smell of your skin, the heat rising from your body. his eyes swim with embarrassment, but stronger still, need. overwhelming need. 

"I'm not going to last long." bruce grinds out, tail giving a lash in warning. 

you coo down at him with a knowing smile, tightening your grip with a hard jerk to his tip. leaning down, you let your lips brush his ear as you whisper. "I'm here bruce. let go for me."

something akin to a sob rips from his throat. you feel the hot splash of him coming undone in your hand and onto his stomach. 

you sit up with a satisfied grin, moving to give him space and release his ears but you don't get far.

strong hands spin you around and suddenly your back is pressed against the plushness of the bed. "bruce— what—" 

blue eyes glint dangerously in the light. words die on your throat as the dark knight leans over you, powerful arms bracketing you in place. caging you. 

the lash of a dark tail cuts across the dark as he speaks. you almost don't recognize his voice, a heated purr that makes you shiver. your mind briefly wanders to the bruce that the paparazzi praises, the confident, rich playboy.

clean, sharp cologne wraps you in a haze. you gulp.

"I've been very… patient tonight. good, even. don't you think I deserve a reward?" 

safe to stay, you don't leave for the night.

of course this is my first time writing for bruce and it's... whatever this is. what can I say, inspiration strikes in strange ways! I'm a firm believer in bottom!bruce supremacy!

cw: coworker!reader, afab!reader, possessive!clark, menstruation, depictions of pain and discomfort, established relationship (w.c. 1.8k)

clark immediately knows something is wrong when you don’t show up to work. 

the first red flag is that he doesn’t get your signature ‘good morning’ text, usually bright and early first thing. he looks forward to those texts. you don’t know it, but often when his other "job" runs late, as it always does (aka being a superhero) he uses your text as a reminder to make it to the Daily Planet on time.

or as on time as he can fly over and scramble to change out of the signature red, white and blue into business casual behind a unsuspecting dumpster. 

your texts is strangely one of his only true constants — in an ever changing world of secret identities  and long nights filled with bruises, cuts and heroism. so, he clearly freaks out when he doesn’t get your text that morning. the dread builds as the clock continues to tick by and your desk remains empty.

secondly, you're rarely ever late to work, instead one of the first to show and the last to clock out. everyone knows that because you're such a hard worker, the rare times you don't show it's either a dire emergency or a horrible illness that left you limp and bedridden.

clark makes his rounds around the office, his voice growing increasingly nervous and aggravated as he bugs lois, jimmy and just about every other person in the office about your whereabouts.

his behavior is striking and so unlike the usually docile, quiet six-foot-three man that lois and jimmy have to forcibly sit him down at his desk and overload him with work to keep him busy.

only your best friends know about the relationship between you and clark, so he tries to keep his cool and act like every minute without you isn’t torture. and he really really tries, but his superhero brain can’t help but conjure up the worse.

what if you were targeted by some crazed villain in a desperate act to get to him… something fantastical and a story his lovesick brain would definitely believe.

you’d definitely laugh at him for it, but it’s a possibility!

his nagging gets to a point where his boss perry almost kicks him out of the office building entirely. perry threatens to fire him — which he know he won’t because Clark unfortunately is a great reporter and he couldn’t lose one of his best assets.

but it’s blatantly clear: the giant man is weak for you and he’s worried because he hasn’t heard from you all workday.

not one peep, one ring... not even a measly text.

which is why when you hear a knock on the front door of your apartment, you can't even be surprised. 

it was only a matter of time before he came running to you.

"baby..?" comes clarks slow drawl, entering into your apartment hallway via spare key on silent feet and tense shoulders. his super hearing was on high, listening for any sign of struggle or pain.

his blue eyes immediately take in his surroundings — surprised to see the mess littering your space. there were clothes strewn all across the floor, kitchen cabinets open and dishes in the sink. he tenses further — a struggle? 

but there's no scrapes on the wall, no blood splatters and everything looked… fairly normal.

he leaves his dress shoes by the door, even in this situation acutely aware of how much you would scold him for stepping on your floors, making his way down the dimly lit hallway to your room. he notices with increasing worry that all the curtains and blinds were drawn shut, the only light source splicing across the floor from your cracked bedroom door. 

clark takes a deep breath and nudges open the door. 

and all the tension in his body leaves as soon as he sees you.

your bedroom is in worse shape than the rest of the apartment. blankets are pilled around the room, making it almost look like a cave instead of a bedroom. the low hum of your ceiling fan flutters the discarded pamphlets of work drafts on your desk.

the heating pad that you were probably using throughout the day is now thrown on the floor, seemingly mocking you with it's warmth. you have a trash can beside the bed and a half opened water bottle that you most likely chugged in desperation before passing out.

and in the middle of the mess on the bed, curled into fetal position, he finds you.

although it’s already three in the afternoon.

you look, well… a bit miserable to say the least. 

"well, hey there," clark mumbles quietly, making his way over to you and sitting on the edge of the bed. he can tell your awake by the sound of your heartbeat and tentatively reaches out to touch your back. you immediately react, uncurling with a pained hmm.

his hand is warm and large, rubbing soothing circles into the tense muscles of your shoulders. you groan a bit and clark’s heart clenches painfully at the sound.

that's when he sees the box of menstrual products beside your bed. 

ah, so that's what this is. 

you and clark have been dating for around three months now but you've never mentioned or complained about your cycle. clark knows how independent you are, and knowing you, you were probably in pain this whole time and didn't complain about it.

and although he loves how hardworking and independent qualities of you, it also can be troublesome when he knows you need help — but he won’t leave you like this.

he will never leave you in pain even if you were to push and yell and scream at him. 

"clarkie…" he perks up at the pet name. your voice is uncharacteristically small.

he meets your eyes and smiles soothingly down at you. "hi baby." he responds. a pause, then that infuriatingly handsome smile that's so good and so clark it makes you want to cry.

"…can I hold you?"

you answer by sitting up and scooting towards him. you lay your head on his thigh and breathe into his work slacks. he smells like old printing paper and that apple body wash he loves, because it reminds him of his childhood farm at home. your body automatically relaxes at the scent.

"I've never seen you like this. are your cramps usually this bad?" he asks quietly. you groan lightly, leaning into his gentle hands as they slowly massage your temples.

"bad, yes but not this bad." you keep your eyes closed but your face scrunches up as you quietly admit, "it's probably the stress of my upcoming project. i'm sorry I didn't text you. been nauseated all day and could barely focus on anything…" 

clark hums at that. he doesn't respond at first, instead continuing to massage your head and listen to rhythmic hum of the fan spin. he knows that it took a lot out of you to admit that to yourself — his heart warms at the realization that his gentle reminders to take better care of yourself are really reaching you.

he does wish you would have texted him to help you earlier… but one step at a time, he muses.

he stays like that for a little longer until you wince at another particularly bad cramp. with a determined grunt clark lays you back down in the bed, shushing you when you try to get back up with a simple "I'll handle it."

clark then moves into action. “I’ll take care of you today. just rest, okay?” his voice is still tender and soft but decisive, no room for argument. you feel the stubborn part of yourself well up in protest, words of I’m okay and you don’t have to worry clawing at your throat.

but looking into your boyfriends concerned eyes, you can’t seem to muster up the strength to fight back. maybe you did need help — and maybe, silently, you were hoping he’d come to your rescue.

you nod. clark shifts you to an upright position on the bed, tucking you in with a light kiss to your forehead before getting to work. he leaves a warm brush of his large palm down your arm before departing — and despite your state, you feel yourself flush.

you watch silently as he first cleans up your room, easily stowing things away in their right place before disappearing with your dirty laundry. you hear the familiar whirl of the washing machine down the hall, followed by the clinking of plates.

clark soon returns carrying various things in his arms — his white blouse is pushed up his forearms, tie loosened and blazer gone. he catches your eye and visually brightens as he leans over the bed. 

“I made you some hot tea. also, take these. and eat this, okay honey?” he hands you a warm mug and saltine crackers — light on the stomach and easy to digest. mama kent definitely raised him right.

you eat and drink for the first time in hours, taking the pain meds with a gulp of cold water. you murmur a thank you to your boyfriend who silently preens at your words. 

"I really appreciate you coming." when you speak, you're surprised how hoarse your voice is from disuse. seeing the giant man kneeled at your bedside, muscles stretching in the fabric of his slacks, head bent and eyes peering up at you with only love and concern — you're suddenly hit with the simple ways clark kent loves. in the quiet moments, in the in-betweens of hard days, without a thought behind it.

ignoring the familiar prick of tears in your eyes you gruffly mumble, “if you want to get in bed with me, take off your work clothes. You know how I feel about outdoor clothes on the be—“

you don’t even finish the sentence — he immediately follows your orders. 

you blink and suddenly he’s stripped to his underwear.

clark’s face flushes at your raised eyebrow and you can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of your throat. he grins at the familiar sound with a flash of white canines and slowly climbs into bed with you.

you can feel how gentle he’s trying to be — all muscle of him curling beside you until your face to face. his hand comes to rest lightly on your hip, grounding without being overwhelming in your tender state — exactly what you need.

his warm breath lightly tickles your face. “is this okay?” he whispers, eyes flicking across yours for any sign of discomfort. you pause before you answer, instead raising a hand to brush the skin of his unfairly long, dark eyelashes under his glasses.

blue eyes flutter under your gentle hands. a rumble hums from somewhere deep in his throat as he turns to nuzzle into your palm. 

"so pretty clark." you hum sleepily. you watch the cute pink blush tint his ears at your words.

he whines a bit, "hey, i'm supposed to be taking care of you here."

you can't help your voice, sticky with emotion when you puff out, "so glad you came."

that unfair smile and a soft peck to your forehead. "always." 

── ⟡ ʙᴜɴɴɪᴇ : here are the april recs !! how are these months flying by so quickly ? i wasn't super active this month but there were still so many wonderful fics i read this month </33 as ever, if any writers dont want to be tagged in these lmk and i hope you all enjoy !! happy reading ໒꒰ྀི ˶> ˕ <˶꒱ྀི১ reblog account is @bunniigrlism

── ⟡ ᴊᴜᴊᴜᴛsᴜ ᴋᴀɪsᴇɴ :

vamp!choso likes when you use your words - @orchiuum owner!nanami has no knot to soothe you with - @toruuholic emo bf!choso taking care of his sleepy girl - @/toruuholic big hairy doberman!toji is here to help - @/toruuholic bf! suguru and princess treatment - @vngelisse softkuna struggles to braid his lover’s hair - @sukuje video store employee emo choso - @dolcevitadori toji can’t find anyone but you attractive anymore - @ok-sougo bf!choso seeing his shy girlfriend in lingerie for the first time - @serenereveries a kitty’s cute pet-mate :: satosugu x reader - @terrifibuni you've been ordered by lord sukuna to assist in cooling him off - @oksukuna making breakfast for sukuna - @sukunasleftbanana gamergf was supposed to be finished with the game hours ago :: sukuna - @littlesillyladybug toji might be the prettiest man you’ve ever seen in your life - @satomiu nanami can't help but stutter around you - @/satomiu frat!kuna taking care of you at your first frat party - @lilikoiyu bf!suguru helps you through a panic attack - @feyrinnn clark who always wants a little kiss - @luveline thinking about living with your parents.... and toji fushiguro - @kenzieluvsnanami nerd!jo will always put you first - @gyarujo

── ⟡ ᴍɪsᴄᴇʟʟᴀɴᴇᴏᴜs :

painted pretty :: clark kent - @l3nore soft sheets :: clark kent - @starrkuma arthur shushes you for a third time - @honeycoyotes contrary, dick grayson is not a cheating manwhore - @sakunai jason todd has a soft spot for you - @eunoianss giggling with jason during sex - @sugugori cuddling with jason - @enviedear jason still doesn't know how to accept he deserves to be loved too - @waynews soft love with bruce wayne - @luviery

cw: coworker!reader, afab!reader, possessive!clark, menstruation, depictions of pain and discomfort, established relationship (w.c. 1.8k)

clark immediately knows something is wrong when you don’t show up to work. 

the first red flag is that he doesn’t get your signature ‘good morning’ text, usually bright and early first thing. he looks forward to those texts. you don’t know it, but often when his other "job" runs late, as it always does (aka being a superhero) he uses your text as a reminder to make it to the Daily Planet on time.

or as on time as he can fly over and scramble to change out of the signature red, white and blue into business casual behind a unsuspecting dumpster. 

your texts is strangely one of his only true constants — in an ever changing world of secret identities  and long nights filled with bruises, cuts and heroism. so, he clearly freaks out when he doesn’t get your text that morning. the dread builds as the clock continues to tick by and your desk remains empty.

secondly, you're rarely ever late to work, instead one of the first to show and the last to clock out. everyone knows that because you're such a hard worker, the rare times you don't show it's either a dire emergency or a horrible illness that left you limp and bedridden.

clark makes his rounds around the office, his voice growing increasingly nervous and aggravated as he bugs lois, jimmy and just about every other person in the office about your whereabouts.

his behavior is striking and so unlike the usually docile, quiet six-foot-three man that lois and jimmy have to forcibly sit him down at his desk and overload him with work to keep him busy.

only your best friends know about the relationship between you and clark, so he tries to keep his cool and act like every minute without you isn’t torture. and he really really tries, but his superhero brain can’t help but conjure up the worse.

what if you were targeted by some crazed villain in a desperate act to get to him… something fantastical and a story his lovesick brain would definitely believe.

you’d definitely laugh at him for it, but it’s a possibility!

his nagging gets to a point where his boss perry almost kicks him out of the office building entirely. perry threatens to fire him — which he know he won’t because Clark unfortunately is a great reporter and he couldn’t lose one of his best assets.

but it’s blatantly clear: the giant man is weak for you and he’s worried because he hasn’t heard from you all workday.

not one peep, one ring... not even a measly text.

which is why when you hear a knock on the front door of your apartment, you can't even be surprised. 

it was only a matter of time before he came running to you.

"baby..?" comes clarks slow drawl, entering into your apartment hallway via spare key on silent feet and tense shoulders. his super hearing was on high, listening for any sign of struggle or pain.

his blue eyes immediately take in his surroundings — surprised to see the mess littering your space. there were clothes strewn all across the floor, kitchen cabinets open and dishes in the sink. he tenses further — a struggle? 

but there's no scrapes on the wall, no blood splatters and everything looked… fairly normal.

he leaves his dress shoes by the door, even in this situation acutely aware of how much you would scold him for stepping on your floors, making his way down the dimly lit hallway to your room. he notices with increasing worry that all the curtains and blinds were drawn shut, the only light source splicing across the floor from your cracked bedroom door. 

clark takes a deep breath and nudges open the door. 

and all the tension in his body leaves as soon as he sees you.

your bedroom is in worse shape than the rest of the apartment. blankets are pilled around the room, making it almost look like a cave instead of a bedroom. the low hum of your ceiling fan flutters the discarded pamphlets of work drafts on your desk.

the heating pad that you were probably using throughout the day is now thrown on the floor, seemingly mocking you with it's warmth. you have a trash can beside the bed and a half opened water bottle that you most likely chugged in desperation before passing out.

and in the middle of the mess on the bed, curled into fetal position, he finds you.

although it’s already three in the afternoon.

you look, well… a bit miserable to say the least. 

"well, hey there," clark mumbles quietly, making his way over to you and sitting on the edge of the bed. he can tell your awake by the sound of your heartbeat and tentatively reaches out to touch your back. you immediately react, uncurling with a pained hmm.

his hand is warm and large, rubbing soothing circles into the tense muscles of your shoulders. you groan a bit and clark’s heart clenches painfully at the sound.

that's when he sees the box of menstrual products beside your bed. 

ah, so that's what this is. 

you and clark have been dating for around three months now but you've never mentioned or complained about your cycle. clark knows how independent you are, and knowing you, you were probably in pain this whole time and didn't complain about it.

and although he loves how hardworking and independent qualities of you, it also can be troublesome when he knows you need help — but he won’t leave you like this.

he will never leave you in pain even if you were to push and yell and scream at him. 

"clarkie…" he perks up at the pet name. your voice is uncharacteristically small.

he meets your eyes and smiles soothingly down at you. "hi baby." he responds. a pause, then that infuriatingly handsome smile that's so good and so clark it makes you want to cry.

"…can I hold you?"

you answer by sitting up and scooting towards him. you lay your head on his thigh and breathe into his work slacks. he smells like old printing paper and that apple body wash he loves, because it reminds him of his childhood farm at home. your body automatically relaxes at the scent.

"I've never seen you like this. are your cramps usually this bad?" he asks quietly. you groan lightly, leaning into his gentle hands as they slowly massage your temples.

"bad, yes but not this bad." you keep your eyes closed but your face scrunches up as you quietly admit, "it's probably the stress of my upcoming project. i'm sorry I didn't text you. been nauseated all day and could barely focus on anything…" 

clark hums at that. he doesn't respond at first, instead continuing to massage your head and listen to rhythmic hum of the fan spin. he knows that it took a lot out of you to admit that to yourself — his heart warms at the realization that his gentle reminders to take better care of yourself are really reaching you.

he does wish you would have texted him to help you earlier… but one step at a time, he muses.

he stays like that for a little longer until you wince at another particularly bad cramp. with a determined grunt clark lays you back down in the bed, shushing you when you try to get back up with a simple "I'll handle it."

clark then moves into action. “I’ll take care of you today. just rest, okay?” his voice is still tender and soft but decisive, no room for argument. you feel the stubborn part of yourself well up in protest, words of I’m okay and you don’t have to worry clawing at your throat.

but looking into your boyfriends concerned eyes, you can’t seem to muster up the strength to fight back. maybe you did need help — and maybe, silently, you were hoping he’d come to your rescue.

you nod. clark shifts you to an upright position on the bed, tucking you in with a light kiss to your forehead before getting to work. he leaves a warm brush of his large palm down your arm before departing — and despite your state, you feel yourself flush.

you watch silently as he first cleans up your room, easily stowing things away in their right place before disappearing with your dirty laundry. you hear the familiar whirl of the washing machine down the hall, followed by the clinking of plates.

clark soon returns carrying various things in his arms — his white blouse is pushed up his forearms, tie loosened and blazer gone. he catches your eye and visually brightens as he leans over the bed. 

“I made you some hot tea. also, take these. and eat this, okay honey?” he hands you a warm mug and saltine crackers — light on the stomach and easy to digest. mama kent definitely raised him right.

you eat and drink for the first time in hours, taking the pain meds with a gulp of cold water. you murmur a thank you to your boyfriend who silently preens at your words. 

"I really appreciate you coming." when you speak, you're surprised how hoarse your voice is from disuse. seeing the giant man kneeled at your bedside, muscles stretching in the fabric of his slacks, head bent and eyes peering up at you with only love and concern — you're suddenly hit with the simple ways clark kent loves. in the quiet moments, in the in-betweens of hard days, without a thought behind it.

ignoring the familiar prick of tears in your eyes you gruffly mumble, “if you want to get in bed with me, take off your work clothes. You know how I feel about outdoor clothes on the be—“

you don’t even finish the sentence — he immediately follows your orders. 

you blink and suddenly he’s stripped to his underwear.

clark’s face flushes at your raised eyebrow and you can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of your throat. he grins at the familiar sound with a flash of white canines and slowly climbs into bed with you.

you can feel how gentle he’s trying to be — all muscle of him curling beside you until your face to face. his hand comes to rest lightly on your hip, grounding without being overwhelming in your tender state — exactly what you need.

his warm breath lightly tickles your face. “is this okay?” he whispers, eyes flicking across yours for any sign of discomfort. you pause before you answer, instead raising a hand to brush the skin of his unfairly long, dark eyelashes under his glasses.

blue eyes flutter under your gentle hands. a rumble hums from somewhere deep in his throat as he turns to nuzzle into your palm. 

"so pretty clark." you hum sleepily. you watch the cute pink blush tint his ears at your words.

he whines a bit, "hey, i'm supposed to be taking care of you here."

you can't help your voice, sticky with emotion when you puff out, "so glad you came."

that unfair smile and a soft peck to your forehead. "always."