#woc!reader

𓃦⠀ ⠀ ͙ ⠀ ⠀ 𝓷𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬⠀: ⠀turkish rose almond nectarine blossom pear milk .

𓃦⠀ ⠀ ͙ ⠀ ⠀she’s embodying the pink color as if she created it . truly loves everything ⠀pink ! ⠀would be friend with ⠀bimbo ! reader .

𓃦⠀ ⠀ ͙ ⠀ ⠀high maintenance girl ; ⠀always take care of herself, make sure her hair and nails are always done, applies her make up religiously everyday even when she’s at home ( has a indoor make up routine just for this )

𓃦⠀ ⠀ ͙ ⠀ ⠀french tipped stilettos, miu miu princess, miss dior perfumes, body milk, skin care countess, doll lashes, too faced addict, pink lip combos, bubble gum eye shadow, jimmy choo heels ⠀.

𓃦⠀ ⠀ ͙ ⠀ ⠀she has her own silk robe with her initial sewed on it, wears indoors fluffy heels . . prioritize a clean environment as much as a perfect hygiene . ⠀ hates when things are a bit messy or dirty, it makes her uneasy .

𓃦⠀ ⠀ ͙ ⠀ ⠀i said everything pink, but she does not always wear pink . sometimes her accesories are pink, like a headband, the charms dangling around her bag, the baby pink polished nails, the dior heels in her feets . . . loves wearing brown and white sometimes . can be seen wearing black but not without her favorite chanel bag ( which is obviously pink )

⠀ 𓃹݁ 𓈒 ⠀𓏲 ⠀ ⠀𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 ⠀ ⠀:

dean winchester ⠀ ⸝⸝ ⠀ pope cody ⠀ ⸝⸝ ⠀ sam wilson ⠀ ⸝⸝ ⠀ korra smith ⠀ ⸝⸝ ⠀ nami, the cat burglar ⠀ ⸝⸝ ⠀ jack abbot ⠀ ⸝⸝ ⠀ cassie mckay ⠀ + ⠀ more . . .

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⠀ 𓃹݁ 𓈒 ⠀𓏲 ⠀ ⠀ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒 ⠀ ⠀:

none ⠀ yet, ⠀ come back later ⠀ .

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⠀ 𓃹݁ 𓈒 ⠀𓏲 ⠀ ⠀ 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒 ⠀ ⠀:

mood boards ⠀ ␥ ⠀ reader analysis ⠀ ␥ ⠀ head canons

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⠀ 　⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀♱

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⠀⠀ 𝒾.⠀ 𓂅 ⠀·⠀⠀⠀　𝒕𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⠀ : @pittsick @mtcloudsworld @rh1nestcned @faiux @nuitts @cup1dssorrow , ⠀𓊆 to be added to the taglist , comment under this post or fill up the form 𓊇⠀.

"okay," al-hashimi took a breath before calling out your last name, "joy, and whitaker you're with me."

'oh fuck me' you thought.

"what's open?" al-hashimi asked.

"trauma one." dana responded before working on something near her desk.

after your very subtle break-up with dennis, you haven't been running into him too much. not at work or at home. you only remember he lives with you whenever you stay up too late and hear mary or when you see his backpack near the door.

other than that, you don't exist to him. or at least he doesn't exist to you. he's professional at work, greets you when in front of the students he's been guiding throughout the er.

but for some odd reason, whenever you walked away, you felt eyes on your back. little holes piercing through your skin like lasers.

everytime you sat down, everytime you got up, when you breathed, when you charted. you felt eyes on your arm or your back.

almost everyone in the er could tell he wasn't over you. joy and ogilvie, the observant people they are, picked it up on the first interaction they saw dennis have with you. but you were less obvious with not being over him, because in your mind you were and that false truth projected to everyone else. somehow.

you hated that you were still perceived by him. the stench of desperation and humiliation comes back to you all at once whenever you remember how hard you fought to stay with him. you were glad to put that all behind you now.

and even though it's been two months, you and your therapist agreed that you were making good progress in terms of getting over him. turning a new leaf in terms of yourself improvement.

you quickly got out of your head when you heard the EMTs give dr. al-hashimi all of the information she needed to help the patient.

"oh fuck," dennis whispered to himself as he walked into trauma 1.

you looked at dennis while hearing the last bit of information from the emts. the color drained from his face matched his horrified expression.

everything was moving too quickly you barely got a good look at the patient. it wasn't until you recognized that specific shade of brunette hair until you realized it was her.

'poor mary,' you thought as you directed your attention towards her bloodied, battered appearance.

she looked like hell, even though she was on the verge of going to heaven.

"one, two, three," al-hashimi counted down as you all transferred mary to the trolley bed.

as the nurses started to hook her up to the equipment to check her vitals, you watched as al-hashimi started to check her reflexes.

princess went to cut her clothes after checking her blood pressure.

whitaker went straight for her head, using his light to check her pupils and assess her physical capacity.

"how's the airway whitaker?"

"uh, good volume, good stats," whitaker then stuck a wooden stick down her throat, "and she has a gag reflex. she's present." he reported quickly. "joy can you do a sternal rub on her chest, please?"

"nice," you watched over joy as she performed the quick examination, "spontaneous eye movement, responds to pain." you said as you continued to guide joy through the examination.

mary had a big bruise on her chest, most likely from the seatbelt. and her face looked like she had been in a fight, dark blood around her nose. light blood painted her forehead and parts of her hair.

mary groaned as whitaker's hands carefully checked her pretty face, which was now slightly cut and bruised.

"whitaker, orders?" al-hashimi questioned him.

as you started to examine mary's arms, which were looking fine, whitaker brushed past your backside as he went straight to the computer. "a ct to rule out internal bleeding, a cbc, cmp, ua, and a blood alcohol-tox screen."

you inhaled sharply when you felt him. there was no way he was being serious right now.

"nice." al-hashimi praised as she stood at the foot of the bed.

you glared at whitaker's back as he typed into the computer. watching his arms flex, his short sleeves making most of his arms visible. his arms were filling out his scrubs.

'i thought i was better than this fuck.' you cursed yourself before taking in a deep breath, returning your attention back mary.

"where am i?" she weakly asked, you could tell she was using most of her energy to do so.

princess continued to work with the monitor, starting to prepare any medicine mary might need.

"you're at a hospital, you were in a car crash. you're okay now." you placed your hand near her head, trying your best to comfort her.

whitaker glanced back, his eyes squinting slightly and his breath catching. it's been months, he should be over it by now. he had someone.

as your pager beeped in your pants, you picked it up and put it to your ear. "ct is ready to take her." you informed the room, al-hashimi nodded at you.

"alright, you guys can take her up now." al-hashimi ordered.

you watched as whitaker and the nurses rolled mary off to get her ct.

taking off your gloves and grabbing some hand sanitizer, you pushed open the doors and headed back out to the main floor.

you didn't realize it, but you were breathing faster than usual. not sure if it was the adrenaline from saving someone in somewhat critical condition or being in a room with the two people who you once thought ruined your life and trust in people.

seeing whitaker, being that close to him, made you remember all of the times he held whenever you two were cooking together. nothing too special, regular domestic memories. moments that you missed dearly. and even though you thought you were getting bad, that persistent need for validation was still there. the need to prove yourself was still there.

you didn't spend too much time in your head as the intruding nature of the ed brought you comfort after the awkwardness in the trauma room.

for mary's sake, you hoped she was okay. for whitaker's, you hoped she'd croak.

as the hour continued on, you pushed through. you passed on your patients onto the nightshift doctors before you went to catch up on your charting.

after typing and chatting for about another hour, you finally felt somewhat at peace. not anymore peaceful than you would be at home, but as peaceful as you could get in the emergency department.

"we're going out for drinks tonight, wanna come cuck?" trinity's sly smile brought you a sense of familiarity.

you gave her a playful glare before responding, "ha ha ha very funny, but no thank you."

"suit yourself, i'll see you at home?"

"see ya then." you smiled at her before gathering your belongings.

making your way to triage, through the waiting room, and up the stairs. you needed a moment, or moments, alone to yourself before you went home. nothing too serious, just a time to reflect on the day you had. and a way to celebrate almost clocking out on time.

as you pushed open the metal door to the roof, the cool evening air hit your skin. you sighed a breath of relief as you were thankful for hearing the sounds of the city. the coldness pierced your skin, bringing you back to your sleepy reality. you paused as you saw whitaker standing behind the railing.

his hands were in his pockets, his broad back was turnt away from you. his arms filling out his shirt ever so slightly. you could even see the silver chain he wears around his neck glinting under the moonlight.

you tried to control your breathing and your heartbeat, debating if you should turn around or approach him. either option would make you anxious beyond repair.

"hey," you spoke softly but loud enough for him to hear.

he turned his back so you could see half of his face.

"hey."

as the cool, evening air hit your skin, you sighed a breath of relief. thankful for hearing the sounds of the city. the coldness pierced your skin, bringing you back to your sleepy reality.

"how's- how's mary?"

"she's okay, she's gonna be okay. nothing people haven't recovered from before." he nodded his head, not sure if he was reassuring himself or you.

you walked towards him, resting your arms on the railing as you tried to admire the view.

whitaker sniffled then rubbed his nose quickly, you could see it in his eyes that he'd been crying. there were still tears fighting to spill, his nose and cheeks were red as well. he looked cold. but he didn’t necessarily look sad, he looked guilty and remorseful.

and you weren't sure if you wanted to throw him off of the roof or put a blanket around him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

the silence was comforting, reminding you of the many nights you and whitaker spent together. alone, sleeping, or spent talking about your pasts in that dark room. surrounded by nothing but medical books, a few things that reminded him of home, and his comforting smell.

you don't think you would ever tell him this, but you missed him way more than you thought you should have. every moment you spent awake you were constantly fighting your brain to not bring up his face, his voice, his naturally sad but sweet looking eyes. you wanted to be over him, you knew you should have been. you missed his touch.

you wondered why you didn't turn around the second you saw his back.

"how have you been?" you asked, hesitance taking over your voice.

you could tell the question threw him off guard.

"you're wondering?" his smug smile made you light-headed. "i've been okay." the way his face was lit under the moonlight made him look more cinematic than he usually looked.

you followed up, "any trouble in paradise-"

"you know i miss you."

you wanted to slap him.

with the genuine look on his face, you could tell he was being serious. you were used to seeing his face whenever he was vulnerable as you've been on the receiving end of almost all of his rants. you thought back to the time when he told you, 'you're one of the only people i can be honest with.' thinking about it again made you want to throw up, despite how warm and wanted it made you feel.

"you made a cuck in a relationship that i had no business fighting for, and now you miss me?"

"i never broke up with you. i don't think missing you is too far-fetched."

"just one girl isn't enough for you?"

"i like having options, i always thought it was going to be you though."

"what?" your eyes widened at this information. you thought for sure it was set in stone that he and mary would go on to have an unfathomable amount of kids, spend their summers at his family farm, spending time with their neighbors they couldn't stand.

but the idea that it would have been you instead of her. even you thought, knew, you were not good enough to be apart of his world made all of those feelings up back. the same feelings that had you sobbing every night he wasn't in your bed, holding you. the same feelings that had your stomach dropping at the mere mention with someone with the letter 'M' as their first initial.

"i mean, i like mary. she's pretty, funny, kind. but you're comfortable, considerate, caring." you didn't understand why he decided to continue talking, but you've missed his voice as well.

you knew it was scraps, what he was giving you. calling you comfortable as an attribute, a supposed compliment but you had a feeling he wouldn't be able to elaborate on that. you knew that he was just going to break your heart again. probably until you two died of old age together.

but the part of you that hasn't been comforted in months started to take over your mind. the part of you that had to avoid seeing dennis's face as it brought back too many memories, seeing his sweet, cherub face that made you crazy. as in he had this effect on you that you weren't even sure how it could exist. to be completely honest with yourself, you were obsessed with him. it was clear to anyone that you liked him more than he liked, or even wanted you. but you weren't sure how much you cared about that as long as he liked you in someway.

"comfortable.. what does that mean to you?" your eyes narrowed as you tried to laser his face off. even though it didn't work, it somewhat did in your mind.

"like you're cozy? nice to lay with, you feel like home." his head turned towards yours, looking you in the eye with his blue ones.

your heart stopped for a moment.

'i hate his face,' you thought. even though you knew that you didn't.

"wow what a way to describe someone." you sarcastically replied. you weren't sure why you were playing hard to get as if your heart wasn't racing hearing him describe you like that.

as if the concept of being 'home' to someone you begged any higher power for wasn't one of the only things you ever wanted. besides being a doctor.

you knew he wasn't shit. but you still loved him, or had some sort of weird bond with him. those kind of feelings don't go away easily. if it was truly up to you, you wouldn't have broken up with you when you did. you only did it for self-esteem reasons, because your therapist told you so. although you weren't too sure of the ethics on that.

"i think it describes you perfectly," his smile shifted into something sweet. his eyes had a glint of admiration. before they shifted to an expression of guilt.

"about two nights ago me and mary got into a fight," dennis's eyes softened as he confessed to you. "i moaned your name and she starting screaming about how i wasn't over you, that i was being inconsiderate. it was crazy.."

you were somewhat appalled by his nonchalance. but your desperation for him was back in full force, so you couldn't care as much as you should have.

"i wouldn't be happy if that happened to me," but on the outside, you were able to keep your composure. honestly, if dennis had ever moaned her name you would have pushed him out of the window. you were already having violent thoughts towards him, thinking of this made you even more upset.

"i know," dennis laughed. laughed in your face, or at least that's what it felt like. the way his face crinkled whenever he smiled made your knees weak. "i'm being serious when i said missed you though." his genuine demeanor assured you more than it should have.

'dennis, do you not realize you're an asshole who made me a cuck in my own home?' is what you would have said if you weren't desperate to get back with him. he was horrible to you. well he wasn't, he was actually very nice, and sweet, and kind, and adoring. he was horrible in the sense that he got away with dating two women.

"dennis.. i'm just not sure if i'm ready to be with you again."

"are you saying.. there's a possibility that you will be?" the expectant look on dennis's face had you sure that you were now ready. his soft nature was one you found charming.

you thought about dennis's irresistible charm. how it was one that you were so heavily drawn to and you had no idea why. and then you thought about his place in society. how being seen with him gave you a confidence boost, made you feel important.

you used him just as much as he used you. so you couldn't be too mad at him. even though you never played with his feelings in the way he did yours, you weren't sure if you were any better? and yeah, maybe this wasn't the definition of love your parents instilled into you when you were younger. but you were your own person, and if this was what love was to you. then who were they to try to tell you different?

if you liked being used, who could stop you?

who would stop dennis? certainly not himself. and not you either.

dennis looked at you with a hunger in his eyes.

he closed the distance in between you two. placing one hand on his waist, another cupping your cheek.

he didn't even ask, he just pressed his lips against yours. you kissed back, basically sealing your fate.

after a minute, you pulled back. needing to get some air after practically being suffocated by him.

dennis still had your face in his hand as he spoke to you, "i know you try not to but i see the way you look at me, you've missed me too. i'll leave her, like actually this time i promise. i wanna be with you." the intensity of his eye contact made you struggle to keep holding eye contact with him, but you persisted anyway.

you swallowed before speaking, "forever?"

"i'm yours, forever."

and after that night, you two were back together. you hadn't heard anything about mary after dennis promised that they would break up. you thought it was kind of shitty to break up with someone who just got into a car crash but deep down you didn't care too much. you had dennis and that was all you needed.

you had him day and night. you two continued to walk in parks, eat in restaurants, walk around farmer's markets in the area. you two also cuddled at night, every night. you never had to wonder where he was or who he was with because he was by your side constantly.

talking yourself to sleep with him became a daily occurrence. and whenever you weren't talking yourselves to sleep, he was usually eating you out until you couldn't take it anymore. the amount of times he made you cum was enough to knock you.

you were happy in your relationship, satisfied. and so was dennis.

he was happy in the way he knew you wouldn't leave again. he knew you wouldn't let him go again, i mean you love him so much why would you want to leave again? he was sure that you two were going to be together forever. no matter how childish that sounded.

he always liked you more than mary anyway, you were easier to control considering how badly you wanted him. he wasn't sure what it was that had you so drawn to him, but whatever it was he hoped it wouldn't go away anytime soon.

dennis wasn't sure why he was so drawn to you either besides your pliant nature.

and one day, after he somehow managed to convince you of giving up your lifelong dream to be a doctor by retiring way earlier than anyone in your profession. he wasted no time trying to knock you up. even though his multiple attempts of baby trapping didn’t work until you actually decided to go back to medicine after the year you were away from it made you realize what you actually liked to do.

staying in medicine for another 5 years, you were beyond satisfied having dennis by your side.

even when he was cold, even when he was lying to you about the littlest things. you were still happy.

through the days of him trying to be intimidating to any man who talked to you. or controlling what you wore, you were still happy.

and you’d remain happy for a very long time as long as dennis was by your side.

he chose you, there was nothing he could do wrong in your eyes because he picked you.

you were wanted, you fit in. you were acceptable to society.

note b4: Reader is explicitly a person of colour but without specific mention of hair, eye, or skin colour. If you identify with these experiences, you’ll likely relate. For context, I’m Lebanese (Middle Eastern/Arab), so expect some strong Middle Eastern vibes and implied American immigrant background. would v recommend projecting ur own culture onto this, i find there's always overlap :3

That’s the first thing you tell your parents.

“What kind of white?” your mother asks, suspicious. “Irish white? We like those ones.”

You pause. How do you explain that technically he’s not just white—he’s not even from this planet? Now probably isn’t the time to get into the ontological weeds of Kryptonian ethnicity.

“...I think so?” you offer, weakly.

“You think so?” your father scoffs over the speakerphone. “You don’t know?”

“He was adopted, okay?” you scramble. “It’s... kind of messy. But his family’s from Kansas. Small town. Corn-fed. Beef-and-potatoes Kansas.”

“Mashallah,” your mother mutters. “So, he’s white-white.”

She sighs. Long. Dramatic. You hear her bargaining before it begins.

“Why not date a nice Middle Eastern boy? What about that dentist from church? The one with the Hyundai?”

You groan. “Because I didn’t fall in love with the dentist, Mom. I fell for Clark. He’s very polite, very tall, very nice.”

“Ooh,” she begins, a new thought interrupting your spiel. “You could always try a Vietnamese boy. They are very hard-working, you know.”

“Him being white doesn’t mean anything,” you say, voice tightening. “It’s just… different. Okay? Please don’t scare him.”

Another sigh. “White people don’t eat right, they don’t season their food, and they always walk around with wet hair. Why is your hair wet in public? Do you not own a towel?”

You bury your face in your hands. “Please, please don’t bring that up.”

“And what’s his name again?”

“Clark.”

“Clark? Like the shoes?”

“Clark Kent.”

“Oh, Mashallah. Two first names.”

You met Clark’s parents early in the relationship—totally by accident. They showed up at his apartment one Sunday while you were there for dinner, catching you barefoot, barefaced, and mid-chew. You nearly died of embarrassment, totally unprepared for the surprise visit.

Meeting your partner’s parents is always a big deal, but these two? They almost adopted you on the spot.

The Kents were hands-down the kindest people you’d ever met—humble, earnest, and emotionally available in that wholesome Midwestern way. You’d never had anyone’s dad insist on doing the dishes before.

And that was it. His whole family. No loud cousins, no competitive aunties, no endless family friends who’ve somehow known you since forever. Clark’s idea of family ended with two people and an occasional pie.

You, on the other hand, were a one-person nation-state. It was something you were never sure how to introduce people to. It can be overwhelming, and maybe shamefully, embarrassing - that still left you feeling protective over the loud, big family you've got.

So, you were never sure when or how to bring it up with someone like Clark, someone who seemed so conventional when you first met him, always had and craved the simple life, so the speak.

But Clark wasn’t traditional—not in the ways that mattered. Sure, he certaintly looked all-American with the jawline, the politeness, and the crisp button-downs, but in practice, he was more open-minded than some people of colour you’d grown up with. 

He never flinched at trying new food, never called anything “exotic,” and didn’t blink twice at eating with your hands or using bread instead of cutlery. To him, it was an invitation to learn - something exciting, like a new book or a planet he hadn’t visited yet.

Despite your messy, mismatched schedules and drifting between apartments without officially moving in, Clark did have one old-school streak that never wavered: he wanted to meet your parents properly.

Not in passing. Not by accident. But like a gentleman.

He brought it up one night, entirely unprompted, after handing you a cup of tea the exact way you liked it. “I think I’d like to meet your family,” he said, casual, but with that soft nervousness in his voice that he rarely showed. “Like, really meet them.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels right. I mean… you’re important to me. I figure they should know that.”

And maybe that was the most traditional thing about him: not the door-holding or the ties or an old pickup truck. But the way he wanted to do things right—not by some rulebook, but because it mattered to you. Because he respected your roots enough to ask for a place in them.

“Yeah… yeah, okay,” You nodded, hesitant. 

He picked up on it right away. “What is it?”

“I just… Clark, they’re a lot,” You let out a light chuckle. “There’s a reason why I don’t talk about them a lot.”

“Oh… are you not close?” He wondered, small frown on his face as he guided you by the curve of your back to sit down onto your couch.

“No, it’s not that we’re not close—we are. It’s just... they’re a lot.”

He chuckled like he didn’t quite get it. “Sweetheart, respectfully, I’ve saved the world from alien invasions, time paradoxes, and the occasional god. I think I can handle a big family.”

“‘Big family,’” you scoffed. “Clark, our weddings have more guests than some towns have people. And they're also just... have such big obligations and responsibilities, if that makes sense."

You rubbed your hands over your face, words tumbling out now.

“They love hard, but it’s… loud. And nosy. And they will feed you until you burst and then ask why you’ve gained weight. They will tell you what’s wrong with your career, your clothes, your iron levels - sometimes all in one breath.”

Clark tilted his head, still smiling but a little more cautious now. “Okay…”

“They’re not bad people, they’re great," You quickly insist. "Just… they don’t really do boundaries. Everyone knows everything about everyone. There’s a family group chat that’s basically a surveillance network. My grandma knows I got a cold before I know I got a cold.”

Clark’s lips twitched. “Sounds… efficient.”

“Oh, God,” You let out a breathy laugh, hands flailing a little. “Clark, you grew up on a farm with, what, two parents, a dog, and like three neighbours? You guys probably had a landline and privacy. You probably got told ‘just be yourself’ and believed it. I love you, but your idea of family is, like, a Norman Rockwell painting.”

Clark grinned, a bit sheepish. “We did have a landline.”

“Exactly! Meanwhile, my family treats me like I’m in a constant job interview. There’s always some cousin setting the bar, and it’s always a competition I didn’t enter. Someone’s always winning a scholarship, or getting engaged, or starting a business while also curing a disease. It’s exhausting.”

He reached over and gently squeezed your knee, like he knew you needed grounding. “But they love you?”

You sighed. “Of course. Deeply. Loudly. In twelve different dialects. But they love intensely. And I just want you to be prepared. Because to them, meeting someone’s boyfriend is a thing. Like, a thing-thing. You’re basically one polite nod away from being considered part of the family and receiving your own roster of passive-aggressive updates.”

He blinked, but he was smiling now, like he’d been handed a challenge. “Well… guess I’d better bring my A-game.”

You sighed, feeling your ramble escape you.

He smiles at that. “They love you. So, that means I’ll love them. It’s no sweat.” He said it like it was the most simple thing. He was quiet for a moment. Then:  “Do you think they’ll like me?”

You snorted. Instantly. You couldn't help yourself, he asked so earnestly.

He looked wounded, caught off guard by your response.

“No, no—I didn’t mean it like that,” you said quickly. “Of course they’ll like you. You’re a golden retriever in a Henley.”

Clark still looked unsure.

“They’ll just… be surprised,” you explained. “That I’m dating—”

“—an alien?”

“—a white guy.”

He blinked, then nodded. "Right.”

“I mean, I know you’re technically both,” you said, laughing a little. “But it’s the whiteness they’ll fixate on. The alien thing’s almost easier. At least that’s rare.”

“Hm… And that sort of thing matters to them?”

“Kinda,” you shrugged. “Dating within the culture is just easier. They get the jokes. They know the food. They know the unspoken shame, history, prejudice. If it’s not within, it’s adjacent. Or Irish, or something since they’re basically honourable people of colour with all the colonising and whatnot.”

Clark hummed for a moment. “Interesting.”

Clark Kent was, for all intents and purposes, very white.

Clark says “gosh darn” without a hint of irony, wears his shoes indoors (which sparked a minor domestic war early on), and has an unshakable love for Will Smith—as if memorising The Fresh Prince theme song is some secret white guy rite of passage.

He can two-step and square dance like it's nobody's business, and once took a film class he hated so much he still complains about how “pretentious” it was. He calls every dog he meets “buddy,” says “oop, just gonna sneak past ya” in crowded spaces, and treats the weather like it’s a conversation topic with national importance.

Clark’s polite to a fault, awkward with slang, and has a habit of explaining obvious things like he’s narrating a nature documentary. The guy barely swears—unless you really push him, and even then, he’ll mutter it under his breath and immediately apologise to the nearest inanimate object.

(Maybe that last is more of a Clark thing than a White thing.)

But then, there’s Clark—the exception.

He can actually cook - and seasons his food well, which sealed the deal for you. It made sense since his mother was a beautiful cook herself. He’s not religious, but will patiently correct anyone who assumes Jesus wasn’t a brown Middle Easterner. He regularly eats falafel and can pronounce some words in your language better than you, just from how much time he spends chatting with street food vendors and exploring local markets.

Clark’s, literally, not like other white guys.

Sure, on the surface he fits the Midwestern mould, but his experience as an alien—literally from another planet—makes him marketably different. Where most white partners might carry the baggage of colonialism or cluelessness, Clark carries something else: a deep-rooted sense of otherness that’s familiar in a way most people can’t grasp.

He’s faced suspicion, fear, and outright hostility not just because of where he’s from, but who he is. That makes him more patient, more willing to learn, and surprisingly humble about what it means to belong.

Being “white” for Clark isn’t just about skin tone - it’s complicated by the fact that he’s always been an outsider, even among those who look like him.

So when he steps into your family’s world, it’s not ignorance or entitlement he brings, but curiosity, respect, and a quiet determination to fit in on his own terms. And that makes all the difference.

You and Clark landed in your hometown the next weekend. He insisted on taking a plane with you, despite his abilities. Something about “doing this properly.” Something about “the human experience.”

You thought you’d prepared him enough, just by warning him: They’re a lot. But every five minutes on the flight, he was whispering questions in that earnest, hopeful way of his.

“Will they be okay with me wearing socks to bed?” he asked, clutching the armrest like turbulence might be emotional, not atmospheric.

“Yes, Clark,” you said, flipping through a half-crumpled magazine. “They’re not running a surveillance state. Yet.”

He nodded, serious. “Okay. Just—some people think it's weird.”

“Yeah, well, wait 'til you see what my uncle sleeps in. You’ll be the normal one.”

He exhaled like that helped. You watched him fiddle with the little plastic cup of water in his tray, shoulders tensed like he was bracing for turbulence that never came.

Another beat of silence.

“Do I take my shoes off when I enter the house?”

“Of course.”

“Even if I just ran out to the car?”

“Especially if you ran out to the car.”

He nodded again.

And when the flight attendant came around, he turned to you, very serious again. “Would it be too much if I wore a button-up shirt and a sweater vest?”

You stared at him. “Clark.”

He looked down. “Too much.”

“Way too much.”

When you finally landed, it hit you all at once—your city’s humidity, the familiar chaos of your hometown airport, the dread and love that swirled whenever you came back. And Clark, despite being physically indestructible, looked like he was bracing to be body-checked by a culture.

You spotted your younger cousin already waiting near the baggage claim, waving excitedly. Behind her: your uncle. And your other cousin. And your other-other cousin. Oh God.

“They came to the airport?” Clark murmured.

“They always come to the airport,” you said.

“It’s like a parade.”

“It’s like the Olympics,” you muttered, adjusting your tote bag. “You’re the foreign delegation.”

Clark straightened up. “Okay. I’m ready.”

“You’re not ready.”

And you were right.

Because the second they spotted you both, it began—an avalanche of greetings, hugs, questions. 

Clark barely had time to breathe before someone was putting a mango in his hand and telling him their immigration story. 

Your cousin complimented his teeth (“Are they real?”). Your aunt whispered something about his calves in her language. Your uncle asked him if he watched cricket.

Clark smiled politely. “Not really, but I’d love to learn.”

"I like you already," Your uncle smiled.

Your aunt folded her arms, talking at you with that knowing look. “So, what exactly do you do again? Something with ‘creative’ in the title? You know, those jobs that don’t really pay?”

You winced but tried to stay calm.

Another uncle frowned, voice low but sharp. “Your mother said he was white… didn’t say he was this white.”

Someone else muttered, “Better than the last boyfriend though. At least he doesn’t look like he'll disappear every other week.”

Your cousin chimed in, “Does he even speak your language? Did you know my boyfriend's a polyglot? Most Americans barely even speak two languages.”

"Oh, Shut up, Jen. Latin doesn't count," You roll your eyes.

"Don't talk like that to your cousin, you know she's had it rough since dropping out of Marketing school." Your aunt lightly smacks your shoulder, making you wince.

"Mom!" Your cousin groans. "I didn't drop out, I'm on academic leave."

"It's an embarrassment to the family."

Clark, unshaken, extended his hand smoothly. “Clark Kent. Lovely to meet you all.”

Your aunt cut in quickly, “Have you eaten yet? Yallah, we have all of Rahmid’s Butcher waiting at home. You’re not vegetarian, right?”

“No, ma’am,” Clark said, clearing his throat.

That aunt gave a small approving nod toward you. “Then he’ll survive dinner.”

You took a deep breath, rubbing your temple as the family’s questions and commentary kept coming in waves.

And Clark—Clark just smiled, nodded, said thank you in his thick American accent, and charmed them all like he was born to it. Like he’d been training for this his whole life.

Later, on the ride back to your parents’ place, you leaned over and whispered, “You good?”

He nodded, a little stunned. “They’re… intense.”

“Yup.”

“And that mango was warm. Does he carry them all the time?”

“Yup.”

"And the whole... academic leave thing?"

"Her mom's the one that told her to go on it, she's just being a hard-ass. It's... nobody means it, if that makes sense."

A beat goes by. You’re afraid you’re about to feel a wave of embarrassment as you watch his eyes flicker with something unrecognisable. He then says; “They were very sweet.”

“They are.”

“...Are they always like this?”

You sigh and nod. “Mhm."

“Must’ve been nice,” Clark says softly.

You just smile a bit at that and squeeze his hand.

This was supposed to be a small family barbecue.

You were naive to believe that.

By the time you and Clark arrived, it was already in full swing—less backyard hangout, more intergenerational summit. A pan-ethnic, tupperware fuelled diplomatic incident. Everyone was there. Grandparents. Aunts. Uncles. Cousins you hadn’t seen since they were in diapers. A neighbour. Possibly a judge. Your Uncle’s lawyer from thirty years ago.

The moment Clark stepped into the backyard, he was hit with a wall of sound, smoke, and unsolicited hospitality.

Your dad was manning the grill like it was a battlefield—sweating, scowling, tongs in hand. Kids were running barefoot between folding chairs. Aunties were gathered in tight circles, speaking low and fast with surgical gossip precision. Every table was covered in a patterned tablecloth that could cause optical illusions, and some kind of salad that had not seen refrigeration in hours.

Clark looked like he’d just stepped into another universe.

“You okay?” you asked under your breath.

“I don’t know where to stand,” he said, quiet and wide-eyed. “Is there… like, a designated boyfriend zone?”

You handed him a soda. “Just keep moving. Standing still is how they catch you and hug you forever.”

“I love hugs,” He remarked.

“I know, sweetie, but these people don’t just hug, they hug, tell you a little passive aggressive thing for not visiting enough, then pat you on the back twice and make you rethink your life,” You said.

You went through the standard routine: greeting everyone with a kiss on the cheek, carefully introducing Clark to each person. The familiar flood of “white boy” and “tall man” comments followed him wherever he went, and he made sure to crouch a little when meeting some of your shorter relatives—always accommodating, always trying to fit in. Clark was good at reading the room.

As you wandered through your childhood home, a comforting chaos surrounded you. In the kitchen, aunts bustled around, chopping vegetables and tossing salads, while the lounge was filled with the sound of cousins yelling at each other over video games blaring from the TV.

Clark couldn’t help but pause and stare at the walls plastered with every relative you’d ever had. And their kids. And their kids’ kids. Photos spanning back to when your great-grandfather looked like a serious gentleman posing with a massive mustache and a fez. This was something a lot bigger than what he had in Metropolis or Kansas.

“Aunty, this is my boyfriend, Clark,” you said, kissing her cheek. “Clark, meet Aunty.”

Clark leaned in, kissing her cheek with careful precision. “How many aunties do you have, exactly?”

Your aunt laughed, eyes twinkling. “Don’t start counting or you’ll get dizzy. Some of us are cousins, some are family friends. We’re basically a village spread across six different countries.”

Before you could respond, another relative piped up, “So when’s the wedding? And kids? You know, grandchildren?”

You and Clark exchanged slightly panicked glances, your voices stumbling out, “Uh, well, we’re, um… taking things slow.” You say.

Your aunt gave a knowing look. “That’s what they all say. You know, if you're having fertility issues you should talk to your cousin who got IVF last year.”

You grabbed Clark’s arm, speaking urgently, “We gotta go, Clark's starving."

That shuts them up as you escape the kitchen.

"It smelt really good in there," Clark mumbled to you as he looked back behind him.

"You'll have containers of that when we go, promise," You told.

As you step into the yard, the long table groans under the weight of food. Your father stands rigid by the grill, flipping meat with precise attention. Your mother is nearby, arms crossed, eyes sharp, making sure nothing burns.

“Oh, great. My dad’s right there. Come on,” you say, nodding toward the barbecue.

“Wh- What?” Clark stammers, clearly caught off guard.

“My dad. Dad!” you call out firmly.

Your father looks up, his expression unreadable for a moment. He opens his arms and hugs you tightly. You pull him close, the familiar warmth grounding you. When you step back, Clark steps forward, extending his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir,” Clark says, voice steady but respectful.

Your father eyes him carefully, then shakes his hand firmly.

Your mother watches silently. As Clark turns toward her, she doesn’t say a word but allows him to lean in and kiss her cheek. Her eyes narrow slightly as she studies him.

Clark meets her gaze, nodding before stepping back.

The moment stretches, then your father breaks the silence, eyes glinting with mischief.

“So… Clark, huh? Named after shoes?” he asks, deadpan.

“Sorry?” Clark blinks.

“Clark shoes. The brand?” Your dad repeats.

“I… I'm not sure, actually, you know. I think they just liked the name,” Clark says, unsure how to respond.

Your father hums with a proud smile. “Hm. Well, you know, I’m named after my ancestor—a great warrior.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Weren’t you named after great-grandfather who sold wheat?”

“Okay, well… he definitely fought fights and won. Wheat was in very high demand. Warrior to me,” He replies, unfazed.

Your mother turns her gaze to Clark. “So, journalist, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Clark nods.

“Does it pay well?” She asks, folding her arms.

Clark clears his throat, “Uh… it keeps the lights on.”

Your father grins, eyes twinkling. “Good. Because we don’t want any freeloaders at this table.”

You chuckle nervously, stepping in. “Alright, alright, let’s eat before everything gets cold.”

Clark glances at you, a little overwhelmed but still holding it together, while your parents exchange a look that says, We’ll be watching you both closely.

Before he could begin to unpack that with you, someone shoved a paper plate into his hand and began loading it with food. So much food. Things he didn’t recognise. Things wrapped in leaves. Things that shimmered with oil, generations of love and barely restrained judgement.

“Eat, white boy,” your great-aunt commanded, like a threat.

He looked to you. You nodded. “Eat, white boy.” You repeated.

Clark ate a lot that evening.

He tried everything. Even when you knew he’d reached his limit—there was that familiar, slightly drowsy look in his eyes, the same one you’d seen after your whirlwind fly-around-the-world food tour—he didn’t seem to know how to say no.

When people asked if he wanted more, or just started piling food onto his plate without asking, he accepted it all with a grateful smile.

“Jesus, the guy’s got a stomach on him,” your cousin, around your age, whispered to you, half-amazed.

By sunset, Clark had been grilled by three aunties with the classic question: “What are your intentions?” He’d been pulled into selfies by two uncles—“Smile, habibi, you’re family now”—and offered a beer by someone definitely not of legal age but who swore it was “just one.”

He passed every test. Especially the kid one.

A swarm of cousins, ranging from about four to ten, had taken to orbiting him like tiny sharks. One asked if he could pick them up. Then two. Then three. You watched from across the yard as Clark—former farm boy, literal demigod—lifted all three at once. One on each arm, one clinging to his back. It was basically air to him, but he made a show of effort, grunting theatrically.

A cheer erupted. Someone filmed it. It was in the family group chat before the hour was out.

After the kids were done, one of the aunts stepped up and asked if he could lift her. Without hesitation, he hoisted her onto his shoulder like a feather.

“Are you sure you’re okay with being used as a carnival ride now?” you teased, watching a line form behind her.

“Yeah, absolutely,” he said quietly, grinning as your grandmother approached. “Isn’t this what being a superhero is all about?”

You chuckled and slipped away toward your father at the barbecue, where he was flipping skewers with a practiced eye. You pressed a quick kiss to your father’s cheek.

“I know you mentioned he was adopted,” your father said, nodding toward Clark, “but I’d put money on him being Irish. Strong people.”

“Soo… you like him?” you hummed, watching Clark carefully lift your grandmother onto his broad shoulders. She wore her usual unimpressed expression—until he spun her gently around, and her face broke into a wide, genuine laugh.

Your father’s smile tightened. “Look, I’m not going to lie. He’s a good kid, no doubt. Polite, strong, steady. But he’s still an outsider. White. From who-knows-where, really.”

“Dad, come on. Outsider? You sound like some talk radio guy. What if someone told you that before you came here?”

“It’s different,” he said, voice low. “He doesn’t know what we’ve been through. What it means to be us. To survive all that crap.”

“Maybe not, but he’s just as human. And he’s really…” You lower your voice when you catch Clark’s glance in your direction, his smile briefly faltering as he goes to lift a baby—this time making a show of how big and heavy the little one is. “He’s someone I love,” you add quietly. “He’s one of the good ones, okay?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” your dad said, voice lowering a bit. “I’m all for you being happy. But you have to understand - it’s not just about liking someone. It’s about fitting in. With us. Our culture, our family, our expectations.”

He glanced toward the yard where your relatives were still bustling around. “He’s got a lot to learn. About respect. About how things work here. About what it means to be part of this. This family.”

You met his eyes. “Clark wants to learn.”

“Good,” your dad nodded, voice firm. “Because love isn’t enough if the rest of it isn’t there. This isn’t Kansas. It’s not some quiet farm. It’s family. Tradition. Responsibility. We don’t just hand out… khara memberships to anyone who shows up in a button-up and a smile.”

You sighed. “He knows that. He’s good, Dad, I… wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t know he loved me enough to try.”

Your father gave you a hard look but softened just a bit. “Just make sure he doesn’t wear his shoes inside, okay? Not like your cousin’s last boyfriend.”

Some time passes, as desert is handed out. From the same local bakery, with the same not-great cake, but you’ve all had birthday cakes there - it has the same cheap taste to it, that only THAT bakery could make. Clark, obviously, eats all of it. He even goes back for seconds. That definitely scores him points.

“You’re kind of killing it,” you said later, lounging beside him on a sun-warmed lawn chair dragged into the shade.

Clark looked at you, dazed but smiling. There was barbecue sauce on his sleeve and a turmeric smear near his collarbone. He held a juice box in one hand, a skewer in the other.

“I think your grandma called me baba ghanoush?”

“She likes you.”

“She also asked if I have a 401k.”

“That means she really likes you.”

He looked around—your dad still grilling while giving a lecture on interest rates, someone dancing barefoot, three cousins playing tag near a folding table, the sound of music coming from someone’s phone speaker. It’s quieter than it was earlier. These are the moments you remember most vividly.

“It’s a lot,” he admitted.

“Too much?”

“No,” he said, softly, and looked at you in that way he always did when he was saying something important. “It’s exactly right.”

You leaned back, your heart doing something quiet and glowing.

“You’re not even overwhelmed?”

“Oh, I’m deeply overwhelmed,” he said with a little laugh. “But it’s good. I love home, I love my parents, and the family I’ve made at Metropolis and all. But it’s… I don’t know, nice to be part of something so big.”

A beat goes by.

“You know… I—” Clark starts, then pauses. “I know what it’s like to be on the outside. I know, people see me - or they see… you know, Superman, and all they see is where I’m from. Not who I am. I’ve had that kind of hate thrown at me… for being different.. So I-I get the hesitance to let someone like me come here.”

You realise he overheard your conversation with your dad. “Look, what my dad said, it doesn’t—”

“-It’s okay,” Clark insists. “Honestly. I’m just… I want you to know that I get it. And that people fear what they don’t understand, whether that’s a different culture or a different planet. But… you know, being here—with you, with your family—I want to be part of it. I’m gonna try so hard and be the best white boyfriend anyone’s ever known. Okay?”

You look at him, eyes tracing over his features, so earnest, so sincere. He may not realise it yet, but this is the moment you decide you might just have to marry him.

“Okay,” You murmur softly, smiling.

“Okay,” He hums. 

As if cue, your mother appeared out of nowhere holding a sealed Tupperware container like she was delivering state secrets.

“For Clark,” she said, ignoring you completely. “You take this. You’re too skinny.”

“Too skinny?” You express, confused. "Mom, he's over 200 pounds."

He accepted it with both hands like it was treasure. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She patted his cheek once, approving. Then turned to you with a brow raise as if to say ‘not bad.’

Later that night, your cousin’s kid fell asleep on Clark’s chest.

You watched him look down at her with quiet awe, like he couldn’t believe something so small could trust him that easily.

You’d seen him save lives. Stop a flood. Carry a collapsing bridge. But that—him gently rubbing a toddler’s back while watching reruns with your uncle—made your heart fall through the floor.

You turned to your mum, watching them from the kitchen as you set down a tea towel, finishing drying dishes as she packed away leftovers into containers.

 “He’s… good with people,” you offered, nervous.

She shrugged. “He’s calm. And polite. And doesn’t talk too much. That’s a rare combo.”

You smiled. “So you like him?”

 She didn’t look up. “He’s good. And not just for a white boy,” She remarks

Your mother pauses for a moment, clicking the tupperware closed and raising her eyebrows. “But don’t let it go to your head. We still don’t know if he can dance.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Mom—”

“I’m serious!” she says. “We can’t have another wedding where the groom just does that side-to-side shuffle like he’s in a toothpaste commercial.”

You glance back into the living room where Clark—Clark Kent, the most powerful being on Earth—is gently rocking a snoring toddler, her sticky hand latched onto his collar. Your uncle just offered him a second helping of something fiery and fluorescent. He took it without blinking. Again.

“He’s… really trying,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

Your mother hears you anyway. She looks over, suddenly quiet. Then, as if trying not to sound too sentimental: “He makes you less sharp around the edges. Like you’re not always bracing.”

That one lands. Right in the chest.

You nod, blinking quickly. “Yeah. He does that.”

She stirs once more, thoughtful. “Alright. We’ll keep him.”

And just like that, it’s decided. Not with a big declaration. Not with a formal welcome. But with a spoon and a shrug and that matter-of-fact tone only mothers and monarchs have.

You lean against the counter and watch Clark from across the room. He’s still letting the kid drool on him. Still smiling through a third game of Uno with children who cheat shamelessly. Still politely answering questions about interest rates and fibre intake like he wasn’t bulletproof.

And somehow, impossibly, like he belonged.