#marscore

Thank you SOOOO MUCHHH to @daily-daydream for tagging me in her prompt post!! I wanted to put this out before valentines and I’ve been swamped with work so luckily I finished in time!!

Ship: Clark Kent x Reader

Prompts: Prompt 4. “Sick day/ Clark is your Caregiver” Prompt 8 “It's a bird, it's a plane, no, it's...!” Prompt 19 Grumpy x Sunshine

Word count: 1,860 words

Tags: just some sweet tooth rotting fluff for yall, readers KINDA rude to Clark but it’s bc their sick so leave them alone, grumpy x sunshine, tiny bit cheesy and cringe, no descriptors or pronouns were used for reader so anyone can read! Title based off “I’m Your Man” by Leonard Cohen 🤭

Creds: @daily-daydream for the prompt and @diviniyae for the dividers!!

Warnings: none! I DO NOT PERMIT USAGE OF AI ON MY WORK! DONT TRANSLATE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!!

It’s February 14th! Also known as Valentine’s Day! And normally by 2 PM, you would have been out of the shower and getting ready for your annual Valentine’s Day day with your boyfriend. But unfortunately, the flu got to you before Clark could. So when your boyfriend— who’s completely oblivious to your state of health— bursts through the front door, You can’t help but be a bit guilty about missing out on your date.

You felt like the wind had been knocked out of you and you only left your bed to go use the bathroom. You felt utterly miserable and the world decided to add on to that via a pounding on your apartment door. The door clicks open and you hear a familiar shuffling followed by “It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s Super—“ a pause “Oh.”

He steps into your room, and even in your feverish haze you can feel the shift in the air—like the room just got bigger, steadier. “Babe,” he says, voice softer now, worried. “Are you okay?”“Babe, are you ok?” You glare at him from your covers “does it look like I’m doing ok?”He kneels by the bed immediately. Of course he does. The angelic boy cannot help himself. His hand hovers near your forehead, hesitant. “Can I?”

You sigh dramatically. “You’re already here. Might as well diagnose me with your x-ray eyeballs.” He presses his palm gently to your forehead instead, very human about it. His hand is cool. Comforting. Infuriatingly gentle. “You’re burning up,” he murmurs.

“No, really?” You roll over with exaggerated misery. “I thought this was my natural Valentine’s glow.” He exhales through his nose—half a laugh, half distress. “You should’ve called me.” You frown at him, “And ruin your big surprise?” you mutter. “You were so excited.”

Clark glances at the small gift bag still in his hand. It’s pink. Of course it is. There’s probably chocolates in there shaped like hearts. He definitely rehearsed something cheesy. “I don’t care about that,” he says firmly. “I care about you.” You groan and pull the blanket over your head. “Stop being sweet. It’s making me more nauseous.”

“That’s not how nausea works.” He squints. “It is today.” There’s a brief silence. Then the mattress dips as he sits beside you. “Okay,” Clark says, in his determined reporter voice—the one he uses when he’s about to fix something. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” You squint at him suspiciously. “We?”

“Yes. We.” He starts gently adjusting your pillows. “You are staying in bed. I’m getting you water, soup, medicine, and probably three different types of juice because I don’t know which one sounds good.”

“You don’t have to—” He interrupts you. “I want to.” You close your mouth. He tucks the blanket around you with absurd precision. The man who can lift a planet is concentrating on getting the blanket corners just right.

Grumpy you wants to stay grumpy. You really do. But your boyfriend looks like someone told him the world’s most precious artifact has a scratch on it. “You were supposed to take me out,” you mumble. Clark smiles softly. “I still am.” You blink at him.

“Just… here.” He shrugs a little. “Valentine’s Day isn’t about where we go. It’s about being together.” You roll your eyes at him “That’s so stupidly cheesy, it should be illegal.”You squint at him like he personally offended you. “You practiced that, didn’t you?” He smiles softly and chuckles a bit under his breath “Maybe.” You huff. “You’re ridiculous.” “And you’re sick,” he says gently. “So let me take care of you.” You nod and Clark gets up from your bed.

The room fades in and out around you, sounds muffled like you’re underwater. At some point the mattress dips beside you, and you’re vaguely aware of Clark’s voice somewhere nearby, low and careful, like he’s afraid of waking you too quickly.

When you open your eyes again, the light has changed. A glass of water sits on the nightstand that definitely wasn’t there before. Neither was the thermometer, or the little pile of medicine lined up with almost obsessive neatness.

Clark is sitting at the edge of the bed, sleeves rolled up, watching you like he’s been there the entire time. “You’re awake,” he says softly. You try to answer, but your throat feels like sandpaper. He notices immediately, helping you sit up before you can even think to ask. One arm stays steady around your shoulders while he presses the glass into your hand. “Small sips,” he murmurs.

You drink because it’s easier than arguing. The world tilts again, heavy and slow, and you lean into him without meaning to. His hand comes up to brush damp hair away from your forehead, fingers lingering there as if checking your temperature for the hundredth time. “How long was I out?” you mumble.

“Not long,” he says, though he sounds like he hasn’t moved in hours. You blink, trying to remember hearing him leave, hearing anything at all. The memories slip away before you can catch them. All you really register is that things keep appearing when you need them—water, a cool cloth, another blanket tucked around your legs.

Every time you wake, he’s still there. At one point you half-open your eyes and find him watching you with quiet concern, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your arm. When he realizes you’re awake, his expression softens immediately.

“Hey,” he says. “Easy. You’re okay.” You hum in response, already drifting again, comforted by the warmth beside you and the steady rhythm of his breathing. The apartment feels quieter than usual, like he’s keeping the whole world outside the door.

The last thing you feel before sleep pulls you under again is his hand squeezing yours gently, grounding you each time you surface. And every time you wake, he’s still there. “Easy,” he murmurs, brushing hair off your face. “I’ve got you.” You look up at him weakly. “I hate being sick.”

“I know.” He kisses the top of your head “I hate canceling our date.” His expression softens. “We didn’t cancel anything.” You frown. “We didn’t?”

“Nope.” He pulls something from behind his back. It’s a single slightly squished rose. “I was going to dramatically fly past your window and pretend to ‘save’ you from Valentine’s Day loneliness,” he admits sheepishly. “But I think we can repurpose the drama.” You blink at the rose.

“…You’re so stupid,” you whisper. His face falls for half a second—until you reach out and grab the front of his shirt. “But you’re my stupid,” you add. Clark beams. He looks as if you had brought up the sun for him.

He helps you take your medicine. He fluffs your pillows again. He insists on checking your temperature every ten minutes like you’re a delicate science experiment. He disappears and reappears with soup that somehow tastes homemade. Suspicious.

And when you finally curl into him, exhausted, he wraps one arm around you and lowers his voice to a soft murmur.“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispers into your hair. You sniff. “If you say something sappy right now, I’m throwing up on you.”

He laughs quietly. “Deal.” His thumb traces slow circles on your back. Steady. Gentle. Safe. Outside, the world keeps spinning. People go on dates. Restaurants fill up. Roses get handed out.

But here, in your dim little apartment, with a superhero who would rather sit beside your feverish self than fly anywhere else— This is the date. And if anyone asks where Superman was on Valentine’s Day?

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Dennis Whitaker and his Drag Queen Girlfriend…

Dennis had no clue what a drag queen was. I mean, he’s from Broken Bow, Nebraska, and his family was deeply religious. He grew up on a farm, for Christ’s sake. Why would a drag queen be anywhere near his side of Nebraska unless it was to run the hell out of there? So when he walked into your room, you can imagine his confusion when he saw you putting on a huge wig and a poofy pink dress. You didn’t have your regular makeup on—this was something else entirely. It kind of looked like clown makeup, but in the best way.

When you noticed him standing in the doorway, frozen like a deer caught in headlights, you smiled brightly and said, “Hi, Denny. How do I look?” You did a slow, dramatic 360 so he could take in the full look—the lashes that could cause a small breeze, the blush that refused to be subtle, bright, bold eyeshadow and white face paint, the way the dress swallowed you in tulle and attitude. “Not to offend or anything,” he said carefully, like he was stepping onto thin ice, “but… what are you wearing?”

At first, you did take offense. I mean—what does he mean by that? But then you really looked at his face. Not disgust. Not judgment. Just a mix of awe and pure, honest confusion, like he’d just discovered a new color and didn’t yet have a word for it.

Dennis Whitaker and you had been dating for about five months by now, and he’d only very recently started spending the night at your place. So yes, his shock made sense. Sure, he knew you liked to do your makeup in creative ways—graphic eyeliner, bold lips, colors most people were afraid of putting on—but this? This was different. You were different. He almost didn’t recognize you.

You stood there anyway, hands on your hips, chin tilted up, daring Dennis to blink first. “I’m getting ready,” you said simply. “This is me getting ready.”

“For… for what?” he asked, still not moving, still holding onto the doorframe like it might explain everything if he squeezed it hard enough. “For tonight,” you replied, voice light but steady. “For the show.”

That’s when it hit him—slowly, like a countdown to detonation. This wasn’t a costume. This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t you pretending to be someone else. This was you. But just louder, brighter, more yourself. The way some people prayed. The way some people danced. The way some people sang. This was your version of that. “You look…” he started, stopped, swallowed. “You look like you stepped out of a dream. You look like a doll.”

You laughed, softening just a bit. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He stepped closer then, finally, feet creaking against the floor. He reached out—not to touch, not yet—but close enough that you could feel his warmth. “Does it make you happy?” he asked looking into the mirror with you.

You didn’t hesitate. “More than anything.”

He smiled at that. If his girl was happy, he was happy. “Where’s your show at?” You beamed at him “You want to come— to a drag show?” “Of course, if performing makes you happy— then I’d be more than happy to be there for you.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder and that makes you flush.

“Okay,” you said, smiling wide. “But fair warning… it’s loud. It’s dramatic. And it’s going to be like— messy.” He chuckled, a little nervous, a little proud. “I think I can handle messy. As long as it’s with you.”

Later that night after the final song, You were the closing act and the crowd had thinned and the stage lights dimmed to a soft glow, you found Dennis waiting for you backstage. His eyes were wide, still sparkling from the show, and before you could say anything, he pulled you close. You laughed softly as he buried his face in your wig, inhaling the faint scent of hairspray and sweat. “You were… unbelievable,” he murmured against your shoulder. You pressed a quick kiss to his lips, feeling his heartbeat against yours. “Thank you for coming tonight Denny.” He kissed you back with a “Always, I’ll always be here.”