#vampirawrites

THIS IS MY BFF EVERYONE 😛😛 come up into my bed bbg let’s cuddle 😛😛

david corenswet x wife!reader ˙⋆✮

fluff, teasing, mentions of nsfw, smut towards the end

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

𝜗ৎ. “Camera rolling in 3… 2… 1—”

The soft clapper sound is followed by the flick of a cue card being tossed behind the camera. The crew is minimal—just a producer, a tech, and someone from PR—but the excitement is palpable.

David looks over at you with a gleam in his blue eyes, that signature Corenswet smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You ready for this?”

You roll your eyes and laugh. “I’ve seen what people tweet about you, David. I should be the one asking you that.”

“Fair point,” he says, nudging your knee with his under the small round table. “But we’re married now. Legally, you have to read at least three thirst tweets about me a year.”

You smirk, holding up the cue card with a BuzzFeed logo on it. “Guess I’m fulfilling my quota early.”

The interviewer’s voice comes from off-camera. “Alright, we’re going to read thirst tweets about each other. Feel free to react however you want. Just try not to sue us.”

David chuckles. “No promises.”

The camera zooms slightly closer.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You pull the first tweet from the pile, your brows raising. “Okay, starting off strong. This one says: ‘If David Corenswet ever looked me in the eye and told me to sit, I’d bark. No hesitation.’”

David snorts, leaning back in his chair. “Wow. I mean—points for honesty?”

You turn to him with a teasing smile. “You do have that whole tall, commanding thing going for you.”

He arches a brow. “You saying you’d bark?”

You stare at him deadpan. “I married you. That’s worse.”

The crew breaks into laughter.

David clutches his chest. “I feel so loved.”

You pass him a card. “Your turn. Brace yourself.”

He scans it, his lips twitching. “Oh, this is definitely about you. ‘I don’t know who David Corenswet’s wife is, but if she ever gets tired, I volunteer as tribute. That woman could ruin my life and I’d say thank you.’”

You blink, then grin. “That’s kind of romantic. I could ruin someone’s life and still get a thank-you?”

David leans in, resting his elbow on the table. “You ruined mine in the best way.”

You playfully shove his shoulder. “You’re not allowed to be sweet after that tweet.”

“Too bad. That’s the clause in the marriage contract. Must provide affection at least twice a day.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Another card.

You read aloud: “David Corenswet looks like the type of man who’d say ‘good girl’ in bed and then cook you pancakes in the morning like nothing happened. Sir???”

Your eyes flick up to his.

David lifts his brow. “No comment.”

You laugh. “Oh, you want to say it. I can feel it.”

He leans over, murmurs into your ear—but loud enough to be picked up on mic—“Good girl.”

You splutter, covering your face. “David!”

He shrugs innocently. “What? Just fulfilling fan expectations.”

You’re red-faced, flustered, and can hear the snickering of the crew behind the camera. You peek at the camera. “I can confirm the pancake part, too. He makes mean blueberry pancakes.”

David looks proud. “I take my post-bed responsibilities seriously.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

He grabs the next card.

He hesitates, then reads: “David Corenswet’s wife is so fine I’d risk it all. I’d fight Superman and God in the same afternoon just for a chance to hold her hand.”

David blinks. “…Wow.”

You glance at him. “Would you fight Superman for me?”

“I am Superman.”

“Exactly. Would you fight yourself?”

He grins, that signature smirk lighting up his face. “I do every morning when you walk out of the shower in that towel. It’s a daily battle.”

The crew groans collectively at the flirtation. Someone mutters, “Y’all are sickening.”

You beam. “Thank you.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You read the next card.

“David Corenswet is 6’4” of pure disrespect. How dare he exist and not be my husband?”

David pretends to ponder this. “Should I apologize?”

You glare dramatically. “Yes. Apologize to me for making me compete with Twitter every day.”

David takes your hand and kisses it. “I only have eyes for you. Twitter can thirst in peace.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

David pulls another tweet and reads it with a laugh already bubbling in his throat.

“If I had a dollar for every time I thought about David Corenswet in a suit, I could afford the therapy I clearly need.”

He raises a brow at you. “How do you feel about me in a suit?”

You sigh dreamily. “Like I should pin you to a wall.”

David nearly chokes. “Excuse me?”

You shrug. “You asked.”

He fans himself with the tweet card. “I need a break. Can we go to commercial?”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

By the end of the segment, the table is littered with tweet cards, most with questionable thirst levels and some with unfiltered admiration. But your hand is resting on his, wedding rings glinting side by side in the studio light.

The interviewer’s voice chimes in again. “Okay, last one. It’s more wholesome.”

David reads: ‘Honestly, seeing how much David and his wife love each other makes me believe in marriage again. They’re proof that hot people can be wholesome, too.’

There’s a pause.

You lean your head on David’s shoulder, eyes soft. “That’s kind of sweet.”

He kisses the top of your head, holding your hand tighter. “It’s true, though. I got lucky.”

You smile. “We both did.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

As the crew claps and the director calls cut, David turns to you, voice low.

“Still can’t believe I get to go home with you after reading all that.”

You grin, threading your fingers through his. “Let’s go home and make pancakes.”

He smiles. “And maybe say ‘good girl’ again?”

You roll your eyes, pulling him out of the chair.

“Only if you’re lucky.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The door shuts with a soft click.

David tosses his blazer on the arm of the couch and turns to find you leaning against the wall by the entryway, one heel still on, the other discarded halfway across the floor.

“You look like trouble,” he murmurs, eyes tracing your figure from head to toe.

You tilt your head. “You started it. Whispering ‘good girl’ in my ear on camera like that?”

He steps closer, slow, deliberate, like a man hunting something he already owns. “I didn’t hear you complain.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to.”

David stops right in front of you, his hand sliding to your waist, firm and possessive. He leans down, his lips barely grazing your ear as he whispers, “You want to complain now?”

Your breath hitches.

“No,” you murmur, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “I want you to finish what you started.”

David growls softly in your ear, and suddenly you’re being lifted—effortlessly—and pressed up against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he captures your mouth in a hungry, claiming kiss.

There’s no patience in it. Just weeks of teasing tension, tweets full of thirst, and the undeniable fact that every person out there wants what you already have.

His tongue slides against yours as he grinds into you, letting you feel how hard he already is through his slacks. His hands roam over your ass, squeezing, adjusting you against him, making sure you feel the weight of his body and intention.

You break the kiss with a gasp. “Bedroom—”

“No.” His voice is low and commanding. “Right here first.”

He sets you down only long enough to yank your top off over your head, his lips immediately finding your collarbone, then trailing hot, wet kisses down between your breasts. He makes quick work of your bra, tossing it somewhere behind you before taking one nipple into his mouth, sucking until you’re moaning softly, your fingers buried in his hair.

“David—” you gasp as his hands slide under your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist.

“I heard them,” he murmurs against your skin. “All those tweets. All those people begging for me… or begging for you.”

He slides your panties down your thighs, slow and deliberate, watching them fall to the floor.

“They don’t get to see this,” he says, cupping your heat with one large hand. “Only I do.”

Your knees buckle as he slides two fingers through your slick folds, groaning softly when he feels how ready you are for him.

“Fuck, baby… you’re already dripping.”

You nod breathlessly, hips rocking into his hand. “Need you inside me.”

He hums, teasing your entrance with his fingers. “Say please.”

You glare at him, lips parted, trembling.

“David—”

He slides one finger in, slow and deep. You moan.

“Try again.”

“Please.”

“There’s my good girl,” he whispers, kissing you again—slow and full of promise—while undoing his belt with one hand.

You barely register the sound of the zipper before he’s lifting you back up and pressing you against the wall again. This time, when he pushes inside, it’s slow and devastating. He’s thick, stretching you just right, and he watches every second of it like he’s imprinting the sight of you wrapped around him into his memory.

You whimper, clutching his shoulders. “God—David—”

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, thrusting deeper. “You take me so fucking well.”

Each roll of his hips has you gasping. The wall at your back is cool but his body is fire, burning you from the inside out. He fucks you with purpose—deep, controlled strokes that leave you barely able to think.

And all the while, he’s murmuring in your ear:

“How do you still feel this tight?”

“You were made for me.”

“No one gets to see you like this—just me.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling it in slow, firm motions that make your legs shake. The pressure builds quickly, your orgasm coiling low in your belly, begging to snap.

You grab his face, kiss him hard, moaning against his mouth.

“I’m close—please, don’t stop.”

David groans, thrusting harder. “Let go, sweetheart.”

His voice—rough and full of need—tips you over the edge. Your orgasm hits hard, pulling a choked cry from your throat as your whole body tenses around him. He curses, feeling you clamp down, and with a final deep thrust, he follows you over the edge with a low, growled, “Fuck—yes—”

You both stay there for a moment, bodies trembling, chests heaving, his forehead pressed against yours.

You finally speak, breathless. “Think we broke the ‘respectful’ rule.”

David chuckles, pulling out slowly and kissing your temple. “Pretty sure we broke the wallpaper, too.”

You laugh weakly, legs still shaking.

He helps you stand, smoothing your hair back. “Now… bedroom?”

You nod, smirking. “Only if there’s pancakes after round two.”

He kisses you again, this time soft and slow. “Deal.”

dark!clark kent x oblivious reader ✧.*

angst, dark clark kent, obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, hints towards murderer!clark

up next: clark kent x goth reader (request)

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

𝜗ৎ. You’ve always thought Clark Kent was just… misunderstood.

Yes, he was quiet. Reserved. A little intense. But it wasn’t weird, it was just how he was. Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve. Some people are built of softer silences and thoughtful stares. Right?

So when your friends start dropping little comments — warnings, even — you just laugh them off.

“Clark?” you say. “He’s harmless.”

You believe it, too. Wholeheartedly. Because when you look at Clark Kent, you don’t see the way his jaw locks when someone flirts with you too long. You don’t notice how his eyes track you through a crowd with hawk-like precision. Or how he always seems to show up just before something bad happens.

You don’t see any of that.

You just see the man who always opens your door, the one who buys you tea when you’re cold and listens to you ramble about your boring job like it’s the most interesting story he’s ever heard.

You see the kindness.

Everyone else sees the control.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

It started six months ago.

You’d spilled your coffee in the breakroom at The Daily Planet, tripping over your own bag and almost face-planting into the mini fridge. Everyone else just… laughed a little, moved on. But Clark?

Clark knelt next to you, a hand already offering a stack of napkins. His eyes — blue like a winter sky, unnervingly focused — locked onto yours with such quiet intensity, it made you forget the mess entirely.

“You okay?” he asked, low and serious.

That was it. That was the moment.

Because no one had ever looked at you like that before. Like you were breakable. Important. Fragile enough to be protected.

You didn’t realize it, but that moment sealed something in Clark’s mind too.

You were fragile. And you needed protecting.

Even if you didn’t know it yet.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

“Clark’s… nice, I guess,” your best friend Mia said one night, twirling her wine glass and not quite meeting your eye.

You were gushing about him again — about how he walked you to your car, how he always stood just a little too close to people who made you uncomfortable until they backed off, how he knew your coffee order down to the sugar gram.

“I mean, he’s sweet,” you insisted. “He just… notices things.”

Mia blinked. “Babe, he knew the license plate number of that guy you went on one date with.”

You snorted. “Okay, yeah, that was a little weird. But he said he overheard it at lunch or something.”

“No one overhears a license plate.”

You waved it off.

You were so used to being invisible — so used to fading into the background — that Clark’s attention felt like sunlight on frostbitten skin. You weren’t about to turn it away just because it burned a little.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The thing about Clark is that he never asks anything of you.

He just… appears.

When your car won’t start in the rain, he’s there. When your apartment has a weird leak, he shows up with a toolkit. When you say offhandedly that you’re craving Thai food, he brings it to the office two days later like it’s nothing.

But people notice.

Your boss pauses when Clark hovers near your desk too long. A co-worker mentions — jokingly — that it feels like he’s always watching you.

You laugh it off.

Because you don’t see the way Clark’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he looks at anyone but you.

You don’t catch the way his jaw clenches when someone else makes you laugh.

You don’t know that he’s listening through walls, picking up your phone calls, memorizing your routines.

To you, he’s just… Clark.

A little quiet. A little awkward. But good.

Always good.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

“You should come out with us this Friday,” Mia offers again. “No work talk. No Clark.”

You smile, shaking your head. “Clark’s not the problem.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” she asks.

“No.”

“But he’s at your place almost every day. He walks you home. He bought you a necklace.”

You glance down at the delicate silver chain around your throat — a tiny pendant in the shape of a star. He’d given it to you after you told him about your mom. Said it reminded him of how you always light up dark places.

You flush. “He’s just… Clark.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You shrug.

You don’t have one.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

One night, after another failed date that Clark subtly discouraged (“He seems reckless. People like that don’t think about others”), you end up curled on his couch, sipping hot chocolate.

The room is quiet. He’s watching you again.

Always watching.

“You deserve someone who sees you,” he says, voice a little rough. “All of you.”

You glance at him. His eyes are too sharp in the low light, glittering like glass. His jaw is tense.

You laugh nervously. “That’s a tall order.”

He leans closer. “Not for me.”

Your heart skips, but you tell yourself it’s just nerves. Just Clark being Clark. He’s intense, sure. But he’s never crossed a line. He always stops just short of saying too much.

Except… sometimes you wish he wouldn’t.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Things start to shift after that.

You find out a guy from your building got mugged a block from your apartment. You mention it to Clark — casually — and the next day, the mugger is in custody. Clark doesn’t say anything, but there’s a small bruise on his knuckle.

You don’t ask.

You don’t want to know.

Because some part of you likes it. Likes feeling safe. Likes knowing he’s out there — watching, protecting, punishing if he has to.

People warn you, but you call it jealousy. Fear. Misunderstanding.

They don’t see him.

Not the way you do.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

One night, you catch him staring at you — not the soft, fond look you’re used to, but something darker. Possessive. Intense.

You freeze.

“Clark?”

He blinks, then smiles. “Sorry.”

But you feel it. The shift. The heat.

You feel the gravity of him — the weight of his attention — like it’s pressing into your chest.

“Do you ever get tired?” you whisper. “Of… always being the one to care more?”

His smile sharpens.

“No,” he says. “I like the way it feels.”

You swallow.

“I’d do anything for you,” he adds, so softly it’s almost a murmur. “You know that, right?”

You nod.

You don’t know what else to say.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

And then one day… Mia’s gone.

She stops answering your texts. Doesn’t show up for brunch. Her apartment is cleared out within the week.

Clark shrugs when you bring it up. “Maybe she needed a fresh start.”

You frown. “But she didn’t say anything. She’d never leave without—”

“She wasn’t good for you.”

You freeze.

Clark’s eyes don’t leave yours.

“She kept putting doubt in your head. Making you question things that made you happy.”

You try to speak, but your throat’s gone dry.

“She didn’t see you the way I do,” he finishes.

You manage a shaky smile. “Clark…”

He reaches out — tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’ll always be here.”

And you believe him.

Because what else can you do?

You never noticed the red flags.

Now, you’re too deep in the rose-colored fog to see the trap tightening around you.

And Clark?

He’s not letting go.

Not ever.

clark kent x reader 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

angst, death, emotional distress

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

𝜗ৎ. The morning sunlight filtered softly through the thin curtains of Clark’s small apartment, casting a gentle glow across the modest living room. You stretched, the quiet hum of the city just beginning to stir outside the window. Beside you, Clark was still curled under the blanket, his dark hair tousled and his peaceful face framed by the soft pillow.

You smiled.

This was your favorite time of day — the quiet moments before the world pulled you both apart.

Clark’s voice was a low murmur as he blinked awake.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you replied, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

He smiled, eyes crinkling in that way that made your heart flutter.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Better now,” you teased, nudging him gently.

Evenings were your favorite.

Clark would put on a record — old jazz or classical — and you’d curl up on the couch together.

Sometimes he’d read aloud from a book, voice low and soothing, while you rested your head on his shoulder.

Other times, you talked about everything and nothing — dreams, fears, silly “what if” scenarios that made you both laugh until your sides ached.

One night, as rain tapped softly against the window, Clark pulled you closer.

“Promise me something?” he asked, eyes serious.

“Anything.”

“That no matter what happens, we always find time for moments like this.”

You smiled, kissing his temple.

“I promise.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The world ended in silence.

Not with an explosion, not with a scream-but with the quiet exhale of your last breath as the rain began to fall.

Clark held you in his arms, unmoving, unmoved by the chaos crumbling behind him-LexCorp Tower in ruins, flames licking at the horizon, sirens screaming, people running-but Clark Kent remained perfectly still.

Your blood painted the blue of his suit in brilliant, terrible crimson.

He kept whispering your name like a prayer. Like maybe, if he said it enough, time would reverse. That the universe would hear the pain threaded in each syllable and take pity on a god.

But the universe was deaf to gods. And Lex Luthor never showed mercy.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The world was quiet just before it broke.

Sunlight poured through the windows of your apartment, warm and honey-gold, casting long shadows across the hardwood floor. You were standing in the kitchen, humming softly under your breath as you poured Clark a cup of coffee. It was your ritual—early mornings before the world demanded its hero, before the name Superman meant anything. For now, he was just Clark, and you were the person he loved most in the world.

He came up behind you, arms slipping around your waist, face nuzzling into your neck.

“Smells like peace,” he murmured, and you chuckled.

“Smells like burnt toast,” you replied, gesturing toward the smoking toaster.

Clark laughed—low and warm—and reached over to pluck the toast out with a sheepish grin. You leaned into his chest, heart beating steadily against his.

In that moment, nothing could touch you. Not even the name Lex Luthor.

You should’ve known better.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The warning came in the form of a phone call.

Perry White’s voice was tight, terse. “Clark, something’s wrong. Lex just gave an anonymous tip to the press—said Superman would suffer a great personal loss tonight.”

Clark stiffened. You watched the color drain from his face.

He was gone before you could say be careful.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You knew what Lex Luthor was capable of. You’d been with Clark long enough to see the patterns: how Lex no longer struck directly, how he manipulated the board like a chess master. How every move was designed not to kill Superman, but to undo Clark Kent.

And this time, it felt personal.

You weren’t afraid for yourself—not exactly. But the moment Clark was out of sight, your heart picked up speed.

Something was wrong.

You grabbed your coat, left a note, and ran.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The warehouse on the south end of Hob’s Bay was dark, cold, and smelled of rust and ozone.

You slipped inside quietly, flashlight beam sweeping across old crates and steel girders. You didn’t know what you’d find—but you knew he would be here.

And Lex was.

He stepped out of the shadows like he’d been waiting for you. Sharp suit, colder smile.

“Mrs. Kent,” he said smoothly. “You always were too curious for your own good.”

Your jaw tightened. “Where is he?”

“Superman?” Lex raised a brow. “Distracted. Which was the idea, of course.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You lured him away… so I’d come looking.”

Lex spread his arms like a magician revealing the final act. “And here you are.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Clark arrived seconds too late.

The sonic boom split the sky. The warehouse doors blew inward as he descended, red cape billowing, eyes glowing with fury.

“Lex!”

Lex didn’t flinch. “Ah. Right on time.”

Clark’s gaze scanned the space—until it landed on you.

Tied to a reinforced chair. Bomb strapped to your chest. A lead-lined box glowing faintly nearby—kryptonite.

“Let her go,” Clark growled, voice cracking like thunder.

Lex tilted his head, as if amused. “Oh, Clark. You still don’t get it. This isn’t about her. This is about you.”

“Then take it out on me,” Clark spat. “You want me? I’m right here.”

Lex sighed. “But you see, I’ve tried to kill you. Doesn’t work. You’re not a man I can break physically.”

He stepped toward you, calm, calculated.

“But you love her. And love… is very human.”

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

You saw the moment Clark realized what Lex was about to do.

His body moved—blazing fast—but Lex was faster in a different way. With a press of a button, the kryptonite’s cage opened. Clark faltered mid-step, crashing to his knees in pain.

You screamed his name.

Lex turned toward you, smile almost gentle. “You’re not the casualty. You’re the lesson.”

He raised the gun—sleek, silver, high-tech. LuthorCorp’s finest. A kryptonite-enhanced bullet meant for gods… aimed at the one thing that made the god bleed.

You.

You met Clark’s eyes.

There was no fear in them—only sorrow. And love. A lifetime of love in a single second.

“I love you,” you mouthed.

The gunshot echoed like thunder.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Time slowed.

The bullet tore through your chest.

Clark’s scream tore through the world.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

He caught you before your body hit the floor. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you to his chest like he could somehow hold the life in.

You gasped—airless, shallow.

Blood soaked your shirt, hot and fast. Your body convulsed. But your fingers found his.

“Stay with me,” Clark begged. His voice was shattered glass.

Your vision blurred, but you smiled—weakly, beautifully. “It’s okay.”

“I can fix this,” he said, rocking you. “I can take you to STAR Labs, I can—please—just hold on—”

Your hand rose to his cheek, trembling.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered.

And then your body went still.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Silence.

Lex was gone.

The world was a void.

Clark didn’t move. Not for hours. Not even when the rain started to fall. He stayed there, on the warehouse floor, holding your body as though if he stayed long enough, you’d wake up and tell him it was all some cruel dream.

But you didn’t.

You were gone.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

A garden in Centennial Park bloomed every spring in your memory—your favorite flowers. The plaque read:

“In memory of a brave soul who reminded even gods what it meant to be human.”

Clark still visited often.

His new place was to sit at your grave, picnics, sleeping, anything. He could sit there and stare at the grass under your tombstone for hours, knowing you were six feet to far from him.

And sometimes, when the city was quiet and the moon was full, he swore he could feel your arms wrapping around his shoulders, feel your chin resting on his shoulder, your hair hitting his cheek as he stared at the flowers.

And every night, without fail, he’d place a kiss to his two fingers and run them across your name.

“I’ll find you” he’d whisper, saying the same words you said before taking your last breath. And he meant them.

BUCKY BARNES x LIBRARIAN!READER ๋࣭ ⭑

when you and bucky first met. pure fluff.

· · ─ ·ʚɞ· ─ · ·

۶ৎ “just this one?” your voice chimed out softly, sweetly. always sweet, you were. you’ve been working at this library for around three weeks now, and you absolutely loved it. you were always a big reader, you had giant bookcases at your apartment that you always actively added to- even though you could read any book you wanted for free at your job, you always wanted them for yourself.

you finished checking the woman’s book out, it was some random dark romance one, one that had to be trending online since you’ve been sold out of this book for months now, barley got a restock, and now you were almost out again. you then noted that you had no more customers, so you pulled out your laptop, figuring you’d work on some job applications. you didn’t go to college to be a nurse for nothing.

while you were distracted, bucky had entered the library. he hadn’t ever even stepped foot in a damn library once in his hundred years of living- and yet here he was, because nat wanted a book but was to busy to get it herself.

the man sighed as he began looking through the aisles, running a hand through his hair with his flesh hand as he tried to find books with similar genres, that way it would be easier to find that exact one. though when he reached the fifth book shelf, he gave up and decided he’d just go ask for help from the worker up front, who he assumed would be a grumpy old lady or a sweet old man.

he didn’t expect you.

the second he saw you it was like the air was sucked from his body. you were just sitting there with your hair down, your face illuminated from the tv screen, and yet you were the most gorgeous person that he’s seen. and that was saying a lot.

he almost felt… nervous. he hadn’t felt nervous to talk to someone in damn centuries, and here he was hesitating to make his presence known to you. he knew you’d probably know him, that’s what came with being an avenger who was constantly out and about fighting weird species, but he still found himself reaching up to roll down his sweatshirts sleeve to hide his metal arm. he didn’t want to scare you away from him.

eventually, he grew a pair and walked up to the front desk, clearing his throat when you didn’t hear him approach. your head shot up, your eyes wide as you quickly scrambled to shut your laptop. your eyes almost made his knees weak. “sorry, i was completely zoned out right now” you said with an awkward laugh, a laugh that made his lips almost automatically turn up into a smile for a split second. “no worries doll” he spoke back, his voice gruff.

“did you need help with anything?” you asked sweetly, to which he hesitated for a second before clearing his throat. you didn’t recognize him. you didn’t know who he was. “yeah, i’m trying to find a book for my friend, it’s called uhm..” he spoke, losing his train of thought with the way you were looking at him. “one second, sorry” he said, shaking his head as he pulled out his phone to open his text thread with natalie, rereading the title she had sent. “pride and prejudice” he spoke up after a moment.

he watched as you let out a soft ‘ah’ as you nodded, standing up from your chair. he almost grunted seeing how short you were compared to him. he turned, following you as you guided him to where the book would be. he almost forgot what he was looking for again, focused on the way your hair swayed with every step you took, the way you hummed as you walked like there wasn’t anything bad in this world.

“here it is” you spoke up, sliding the book off the shelf as you turned to him, holding it out to him with a smile. “i can ring you up at the front” you said. his hand reached out to take it from you, and as he did his fingers brushed along yours, and it immediately felt like his hand was holding active fireworks.

he took a moment to breathe when you walked away, his metal hand reaching up to clench the book shelf as he ducked in’s. breath. he’s never felt this way before. he didn’t know what the hell had gotten into him, why he was suddenly feeling all weak and like he wanted to just feel what you’d feel like pressed against him.

bucky turned around, following you before it got concerning that he wasn’t automatically behind her. he approached the front desk, sliding the book on to the desk as he looked down at you as you typed into your computer. “that’ll be thirteen dollars” you chimed out softly, watching him as he pulled out his card. he almost wanted to tell you take it all, take every last dime in his damn bank account if it meant he could see you again. you watched as he tapped his card against the reader, watching as it chimed that it was approved before watching as you printed out the receipt and slid it into a bag alongside his book.

“here you go” you said softly as you held out the bag. he smiled at the bag, and at you as he took it away from you. you thought that would be the end of things, especially when he turned around and began to walk away, but you hesitated when he suddenly stopped, stopped like he had an idea.

“actually, one more thing” he spoke, turning around again to come back to the desk you were standing behind. “are you seeing anyone?” he questioned. he seemed confident to you, but to him he was literally cringing at the way he sounded, but he kept it going. you felt a smile raise up onto your lips, a soft laugh leaving your lips, gracing his ears. “no, i’m not. why?” you responded, your hands going onto the edges of the desk as you leaned against it. “well, i was wondering if i could have your number then. maybe take you out for dinner, if you’d like” he offered, watching as your lips raised even higher, a slight blush creeping up your face at his question, it was clear as day you were shy. “yeah, sure” you responded, tipping off a piece of paper from a sticky note pad, scribbling down your number as well as your name.

“amazing, thanks doll” bucky responded, happily taking the note from you and sliding it into his pocket, making sure he’d be able to keep it safe. “keep that safe” you chided out, smiling up at him. that smile. god he could get use to seeing that. “i’ll keep it safer than anything else” he responded, smiling down at you as he tapped on the table a couple times, giving you a once over before he turned back around, this time actually heading out to leave.

written by vampira - do not steal or claim as your own <3

clark kent x superman fanatic!reader ·˚ ༘

fluff, reader is obsessed with superman

up next: dark!clark kent x oblivious!reader

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

𝜗ৎ. You had a secret. A pretty big one.

Not the world-ending kind of secret, like Superman’s real identity or Lex Luthor’s shady business dealings. No, yours was arguably more embarrassing.

You ran a blog.

A Superman blog.

Not just a “wow, he’s a cool hero!” type blog. It was the blog. You had rare photos. Close-up shots. Short videos. Maps. Speculative analysis. You even made aesthetic edits — moody purple filters overlayed with romantic quotes and black-and-white gifs of Superman in slow motion. The blog had thousands of followers. You were the girl who knew Superman’s soul.

And yet, somehow, Clark Kent, your best friend of nearly three years, had no idea.

Which was ironic. Because you were obsessed with Superman.

And Clark… Clark always made you feel like the only person in the room.

But he couldn’t be Superman. He was sweet and clumsy and a little awkward. He brought you coffee when you worked late and offered his umbrella when it rained. He wrote with ridiculous pens and always asked if you were okay — even when you were fine. He couldn’t lie to save his life. He wasn’t the kind of man who could hold up a collapsing bridge or melt steel with his eyes.

So when you admitted your blog secret to Clark — a little too dramatically, probably — you didn’t expect your whole world to unravel.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

It started on a rainy Tuesday night.

“I think I need help,” you said, dramatically collapsing into the chair opposite Clark’s desk at the Daily Planet. You were dripping rainwater, clutching your camera bag, and visibly distressed. Clark looked up from his monitor, blinking. “Help? Like… emotionally, legally, or morally?”

“Yes.”

He pushed his glasses up and smiled gently. “Tell me everything.” You groaned, setting your camera down. “Okay, but you have to promise not to laugh or tell anyone.”

“I would never laugh at you.”

“Even if I tell you I have a secret blog dedicated to Superman and sometimes I literally follow the sounds of sirens just to see him in person?”

Clark froze. “Wait—what?”

“I said don’t laugh!”

“I’m not laughing!” His voice cracked. “I’m just… surprised. That’s all. You’re into Superman?”

“‘Into’ is an understatement,” you muttered. “It’s like—he’s this impossible thing, right? And yet he feels real. Kind. Safe. I know it’s insane. It’s probably a trauma response or something. But—God, Clark, I’ve seen the way he looks at people. Like they matter.”

Clark blinked. “You’ve seen how he looks at you?”

“Not just me. Everyone. But yeah, once or twice.” You grinned, a little too proud. “There was this time he looked right at me after saving a building collapse. Just a glance. But it felt like he saw me, you know? Like he knew me.”

Clark coughed. “That’s… very specific.”

You missed the way his cheeks went pink.

“I know it’s pathetic,” you said quickly. “But maybe if I got a moment alone with him — a real moment — I could… I don’t know, talk to him. Make him see I’m more than a fangirl.” Clark’s jaw clenched. “Are you… putting yourself in danger to get his attention?”

“…No,” you said too fast.

He gave you a look.

“Okay, a little danger. But not real danger! I just go to crime scenes sometimes. Very carefully. You know, with my telephoto lens and pepper spray.”

“You could get hurt.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not stupid.”

Clark opened his mouth, but something flickered across his face — like he was holding back a storm. Then, with the quiet voice he always used when he was afraid for you, he said, “You matter even when you’re not being seen. You don’t need Superman’s eyes on you to matter.”

Your heart thumped. Hard.

You swallowed. “Clark…”

But before either of you could say another word, his phone buzzed. Something in his expression shifted.

“I have to go,” he said quickly, standing up.

You frowned. “Is it a story?”

“Yeah. Big one.”

“Need help?”

“No!” he said too quickly. “I mean — not this time.”

He gave you one last look, then rushed out the door.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

That night, you ignored your instincts.

You knew Superman would be there — there’d been a chemical truck crash reported in Suicide Slum, right near your neighborhood. You grabbed your camera and slipped out the door before logic could catch up to you.

And of course, you were too late.

The street was already blocked off. Flames roared from the wreckage, smoke curling into the sky. Superman stood in the middle of it all, his cape whipping behind him, eyes glowing faintly as he melted down the last of the leaking gas pipes. You stayed behind the police line, mesmerized. This was it. The golden hour. He was illuminated like a statue, like a god. You raised your camera—

—And someone screamed.

A loud crack echoed through the street as a rusted fire escape tore loose from the building above you. You didn’t have time to think. Just to look up and see the twisted metal falling straight toward you. You closed your eyes, but impact never came. You were in the air. In his arms.

Your camera clattered to the ground, forgotten. Superman cradled you like glass, one arm beneath your knees, the other steady around your back. His chest rose and fell quickly. His eyes — those impossibly blue eyes — locked onto yours.

“Are you hurt?” he asked. Your heart stuttered. “N-No. Just… shocked.” He looked you over carefully, as if checking for invisible cracks. You stared. “You… you saved me.”

“Of course I did.”

A beat.

You looked at him, then blurted out, “I run a blog about you.”

He blinked. “You… what?”

“I just—I need to say it. I’m not crazy. I just think you’re… good. And kind. And when I look at you, I feel brave. Like maybe there’s still something worth believing in. And I know it’s not fair to put all that on you, but—” You stopped yourself, horrified. “Oh my God, I’m rambling. Please forget I said anything.”

He smiled, soft and private. “I won’t forget. But I’m honored.” You stared at him, eyes wide. “Wait. Seriously?”

He nodded. “But maybe… next time, don’t put yourself in danger just to see me.” You let out a breathy laugh. “Noted.”

Then, impossibly, he leaned in — just slightly.

“You matter even when you’re not being seen,” he murmured. The exact words Clark had said.

Your breath hitched.

Your eyes searched his face. “Do I… do I know you?”

Superman hesitated. Then he carefully set you down, gaze lingering.

“I should go,” he said.

“Wait—”

But he was already gone. A rush of air. A streak of red and blue. You stood there, stunned, in the echo of his flight.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

The next morning, you stumbled into the Planet, groggy and overwhelmed.

Clark was already at his desk.

When he saw you, his eyes lit up — but there was something unreadable in his face, too.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… last night was a lot.”

He nodded, reaching for his coffee. “I heard Superman was there.” You gave him a look. “Yeah. He saved me.”

A beat.

“I think he… might know me.” Clark tilted his head. “What makes you say that?” You stared at him. “He said the same thing you did. Word for word.”

Clark didn’t blink. “Maybe we just think alike.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Clark, are you—”

He stood quickly. “Coffee?”

“Clark—”

But he was already walking away, flustered.

You blinked after him, mouth open.

Then, very slowly, you reached for your phone and opened your blog.

Anonymous asked: “Do you think Superman’s ever been in love?”

You smiled to yourself, heart pounding.

You answered:

“If he has… I think he’d choose someone who saw the man behind the cape.”

eddie munson x reader 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

death , angst

MAMAS BACK

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

ᥫ᭡ Dustin Henderson missing Hellfire was not just unusual — it was downright apocalyptic.

Eddie Munson paced across the Hellfire room with all the dramatic flair of a rockstar mid-breakdown.

“He’s never late,” Eddie grumbled. “Never. He shows up sick. He shows up sweaty. He shows up talking about some new nerdy science thing I can’t pronounce. But he always shows up.”

Jeff shrugged. “Maybe he finally listened to his mom and went to school for once.”

Gareth snorted. “Doubt it.”

Eddie threw up his hands. “That’s it. I’m storming Castle Henderson.”

He grabbed his vest, stomped out, and yelled over his shoulder,

“If I’m not back in twenty minutes, run my campaign in my honor!”

He rehearsed a whole lecture on the way over — something about loyalty and commitment and how dare you choose biology homework over being a half-elf ranger — but all of it evaporated the moment the door opened.

Because it wasn’t Dustin.

It was you.

Dustin Henderson’s older sister.

Hair tied up messily, tank top soft from years of washing, the faintest trace of strawberry lip balm on your mouth. You blinked at Eddie like he was a very loud, very confusing intruder.

“…Hi?” you said, half confused, half amused. “Can I help you?”

Eddie forgot how to human.

He lifted a finger. Pointed at you. Pointed at the door. Then remembered English.

“Is—uh—Dustin here? He’s missing. From Hellfire. The… uh… the afterschool club? With dice? And screaming?”

You laughed — a warm, breathy sound that hit Eddie square in the chest.

“He’s grounded,” you said, leaning on the doorway. “Mom caught him sneaking out the window to go bug Steve Harrington.”

Eddie nodded like this was devastating news to the universe.

“Well… that tracks,” he muttered.

You crossed your arms. “You wanna come in? Since you stormed our house and all.”

He did.

He absolutely did.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

Eddie swore — swore — he was only going to check on Dustin.

But then he kept showing up at the Henderson house.

At first, he’d knock and Dustin would shout, “I’m in my room!”

But Eddie always ended up in the kitchen… with you.

You doing homework.

You washing dishes.

You stealing fries from his plate while claiming “taxes.”

He didn’t mind.

Eddie wrote songs in his head about the way your laugh tilted upward at the end.

He stayed longer each time, lingering like he was afraid to leave the warmth of your orbit.

One day, you sat together on the driveway while Dustin biked circles around the cul-de-sac with Lucas.

You nudged Eddie’s shoulder. “You’re actually really funny, you know.”

He scoffed. “Don’t spread that rumor. My reputation as Hawkins’ resident freak would crumble.”

You smirked. “Too late. I already told Mom.”

Eddie pretended to faint.

You shoved him playfully.

He stared at you like you were sunlight he’d never known he needed.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

July was heat and freedom and the taste of cherry slushies.

Eddie picked you up in his van one night under the excuse of “needing to return a VHS to Family Video.”

He did not have a VHS.

He did, however, have sweaty palms and the courage of a man who listened to too much Metallica.

“Wanna hang out?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

You grinned. “Yeah. I do.”

He took you to the quarry where fireflies floated like tiny lanterns.

“Bet you’ve never seen them up close.” Eddie cupped his hands, then gently revealed a glowing firefly to you.

You gasped. He watched you instead of the light.

You leaned closer.

He swallowed.

And then — so carefully — he kissed you.

It was sweet. The kind of kiss that tasted like possibility.

“You sure about this?” he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, cheeks warm. “Very sure.”

Eddie kissed you again, deeper this time — like he couldn’t believe you were real.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

• Eddie teaching you D&D in the living room while Dustin yelled “NO PDA AT THE TABLE!”

Eddie kissed your cheek in retaliation.

• You wearing Eddie’s Hellfire shirt to bed.

He nearly had a heart attack when you opened the front door wearing it.

• Eddie letting you paint little black hearts on his nails.

He told everyone Gareth did it.

• Long drives in the van at midnight, windows down, hair wild in the wind, Eddie screaming lyrics off-key while you laughed.

• He gave you one of his rings.

“Hold onto it,” he said. “So I know you’re not just a dream.”

• You telling him, one late night on your porch,

“I like who I am with you.”

Eddie’s cheeks turned pink. “I like who I am with you too.”

For the first time in his life, Eddie Munson believed he could have good things.

He believed he could have you.

⏔⏔⏔ ꒰ ᧔ෆ᧓ ꒱ ⏔⏔⏔

When everything went wrong, you followed him.

You shouldn’t have.

He begged you not to.

But you weren’t leaving him to fight alone.

The demobats descended like a storm of knives.

Eddie fought with everything he had.

You screamed his name.

Wings slashed through the air, claws ripping skin, Eddie swinging his spear until his arms shook—

Then one of them tore into him.

Then another.

And another.

By the time it was over, the world spun in red and gray.

“Eddie—! Eddie—please—” you dropped to your knees, pulling him into your arms. His blood stained your hands immediately.

He blinked up at you through half-lidded eyes. “Hey, sweetheart…”

“Don’t—talk—save your strength,” you choked, brushing hair from his face.

He smiled weakly. “You… always did look good holding me.”

“Shut up,” you sobbed. “I’m getting you out—we’re getting you out—we’re gonna—”

“Hey.” His fingers brushed your cheek, trembling. “You made this… the best summer of my life.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“Don’t say goodbye,” you begged. “Eddie, please—stay with me—I love you—I love you—”

His body relaxed in your arms.

“Love you too,” he whispered.

Then his eyes closed.

His chest stilled.

And in the poisonous air of the Upside Down, you screamed — a raw, breaking sound — as you held Hawkins’ freak, your summer love, your Eddie Munson… while he faded in your arms.