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Summary: While moving in together, you find something Clark never meant you to read yet.
Word count: 7k+
Warnings: fluff
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The new apartment smells like cardboard and fresh paint and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne. Clean, warm, familiar. The kind of scent that settles into your lungs and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
Home already, somehow.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by half-opened boxes and crumpled packing paper, when Clark straightens up in the kitchen doorway. He’s holding an empty cabinet door in one hand, brow furrowed in concentration, until he notices you looking at him.
That sheepish, boyish smile appears. The one that still makes your chest flutter even after everything. After years. After knowing him in ways the world never will.
“We forgot paper towels,” he says, solemn. Like it’s a confession. Like this might be the thing that finally proves neither of you is qualified to live like an adult.
You blink at him for a second. Then laugh.
“Of course we did,” you say, shaking your head. “We remembered the coffee maker but not paper towels.”
He winces slightly. “That’s on me.”
“No, it’s on us, baby,” you say. “This is a shared failure.”
He laughs softly, relief easing his shoulders. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promises, already reaching for his jacket. “Ten, max. I’ll just run downstairs.”
He hesitates before leaving, eyes lingering on you in a way that feels deliberate. Like he’s committing the image to memory, your hair pulled back messily, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose on you, surrounded by boxes labeled Kitchen and Bedroom and Our Stuff in his careful handwriting.
He steps closer, crouches down in front of you.
Before you can say anything, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything, doesn’t rush toward the next moment. Just affection, given freely.
Like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
“Don’t unpack anything suspicious without me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.
You snort. “No promises.”
That earns you a grin—fond, hopelessly in love—and then he’s standing again, slipping on his jacket, glancing back one more time before opening the door.
The lock clicks behind him.
The apartment goes quiet.
Not empty, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that exists only when you’re building something with someone. When silence isn’t absence, but comfort.
You sit there for a moment longer than necessary, just taking it in. The light filtering through the windows. The way the space already feels shaped around him. Around you.
Then you turn back to unpacking.
Clark’s boxes are… exactly what you expect.
Neat. Carefully taped. Every one labeled in that slightly slanted handwriting you know so well. You open a box marked Kitchen and find everything wrapped meticulously, towels folded evenly, utensils bundled together with rubber bands.
You smile to yourself. Of course he did this.
The next box reads Books (Misc.).
That one draws your attention immediately.
You open it and begin lifting out familiar spines—journalism textbooks from college, thick hardcovers with cracked spines, novels he insists he only read once but you’ve caught him rereading late at night more times than you can count. There’s a battered paperback with a folded corner you recognize; he’s had that one since before you met.
Each book feels like a quiet reminder: I know you. I know this life.
Then your fingers brush against something that doesn’t feel like the others.
Smooth. Cool. Leather.
You pause.
Nestled between two hardcovers is a notebook. Dark blue. Leather-bound. The edges are worn, the spine softened like it’s been opened and closed many times. Cherished.
You lift it carefully, like it might be fragile.
Your brow furrows.
You’ve been dating Clark for a while now. Long enough to know his habits. His routines. Long enough to know he’s not the kind of man who leaves things unexplained—not intentionally, anyway.
And he doesn’t keep a diary.
You’ve never seen him write in anything like this. Never noticed a notebook tucked away. Never seen him carry it, never heard him mention it in passing. For someone who’s otherwise so transparent with you, this feels… different.
Private.
Your thumb rests against the edge of the cover.
A small voice in your head speaks up, gentle but firm.
This is private.
You hesitate, the weight of the notebook suddenly heavier in your hands. You imagine Clark’s careful way of holding things he values. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t paying attention. The trust between you—earned, mutual, precious.
You should put it back.
But curiosity slips in—not sharp or invasive, just confused. Tender. The kind that comes from closeness, not entitlement.
Why has he never mentioned this?
You glance once toward the door, as if he might somehow already be back, watching.
Your fingers tremble slightly as you open the cover.
Just a peek, you tell yourself. Just the first page.
The paper inside is thick, slightly yellowed with age.
And then you see the handwriting.
Clark’s.
Careful. Earnest. Familiar.
Your breath catches in your throat as you read the first line.
For my wife, Y/N.
Your heart stutters so hard you actually have to put a hand to your chest.
For a second, you think you’ve misread it. That your eyes are playing tricks on you. You blink once. Twice.
The words don’t change.
Wife.
The room tilts, just slightly—not enough to knock you over, but enough to make everything feel unreal, like the ground has shifted beneath your feet. You sink back onto your heels, the notebook heavy in your hands, heavier than any box you’ve lifted all day.
Wife.
He hasn’t proposed.
You’ve talked about the future—carefully at first, like people do when they’re afraid to hope too much. Conversations that started with someday and maybe and eventually grew into when and we. You’ve talked about living together, about places you might want to travel, about growing old in ways that felt half-joking and half-serious.
But this?
This feels like peeking behind a curtain you weren’t meant to see yet. Like stepping into a moment that was supposed to belong to another day. Another version of you—dressed up, heart racing, standing across from him while he asks the question out loud.
Your hands tremble as you turn the page.
The paper whispers softly, like it knows it’s holding something sacred.
I’ve held this diary since the moment I met you in the Daily Planet lunchroom. November 30th, 2021. The day my world changed color, suddenly brighter, like a rainbow I didn’t know I’d been missing.
Your breath catches painfully in your throat.
November 30th, 2021.
You remember that day. The awful salad. The broken microwave. The sandwich he offered you like it was the most natural thing in the world. You remember thinking he was kind in a way that felt rare, disarming.
You didn’t know you’d changed his world.
Tears blur the ink almost immediately. You swipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, then stop—afraid of smudging the words, as if they might disappear if you’re not careful enough with them.
I’m giving you this on our wedding day. I don’t know what our lives will look like then, or how many ordinary, beautiful days will have passed between now and that moment, but I know this much with absolute certainty.
If one day, any day, you ever feel like I don’t love you, like I’ve grown distant or the world has tried to convince you otherwise, I want you to open these pages and see how completely, how endlessly, you are wrong.
Every word here is proof of how I fell in love with you and how I kept falling, again and again, without ever meaning to stop. I loved you then. I love you now. I will love you for the rest of my life.
Yours forever,
Kal-El
Your chest aches in the best, most devastating way.
It’s not the sharp kind of pain. It’s warm and overwhelming, like your heart has grown too big for your body. Like something is blooming inside you without asking permission.
Never stopped falling for you.
You press the notebook to your chest for a moment, breathing around the emotion, trying to steady yourself. The apartment feels impossibly quiet, like it’s holding its breath with you.
Then, slowly, reverently, you keep reading.
Every page is dated.
Every entry is a memory you recognize.
11/30/2021
I think I met the love of my life today.
I don’t know if that’s ridiculous. I don’t know if it’s too soon to even write that sentence. But if I don’t write it down, I’m afraid I’ll convince myself later that I imagined how it felt.
Daily Planet lunchroom. Same cracked tile floor. The microwave was broken again. Someone burned popcorn. Perry was arguing with someone down the hall. It was just… another day.
And then she was there.
She was sitting by herself at one of the small tables near the window, shoulders slightly hunched, staring at a salad like it had personally wronged her. She looked exhausted. Not just physically, like the world had asked too much of her lately. There was something about the way she sighed that made my chest tighten.
I don’t usually act on impulse. I think too much. I hesitate. I measure consequences.
But today I didn’t.
I walked over and held out half my sandwich before my brain could stop me. I didn’t even introduce myself first. Just said something awkward about how the salad looked like it needed backup.
She looked up at me, like really looked, and for half a second I thought I’d made a mistake.
Then she smiled.
Not polite. Not small. A real smile that reached her eyes. She laughed and said I was “brave but misguided,” and suddenly the noise of the room faded into nothing. I don’t know how else to describe it. It was like the air changed density. Like the world sharpened into focus around her.
We talked. About nothing important. About everything. She teased me gently. Asked questions that showed she was actually listening to the answers. When I told her my name, she repeated it like it mattered. When she told me her name, I repeated it because it did matter.
When she went back to work, I stood there for a second too long, holding the empty plate, feeling… undone.
My hands were shaking.
I’ve lifted mountains. I’ve stopped trains mid-crash. I’ve flown through storms without fear.
I have never, ever felt like this.
If this is love, then it’s quieter than I expected. Steadier. Like something ancient settling into place.
I don’t know what will happen next.
I just know I don’t want to forget how today felt.
12/14/2021
First date.
Coffee was supposed to be an hour. That’s what I told myself before I left my apartment. That’s what I told her when we sat down. I even checked the time at the start, like that would somehow keep things contained.
It didn’t.
It lasted almost four hours, and I didn’t notice the time passing until my cup had gone cold and the café started emptying around us. I don’t think either of us wanted to be the one to say it first, that it should probably end, like saying it out loud would break something fragile.
She talks with her hands when she’s excited. I noticed that almost immediately. Little movements at first, then bigger ones when she got passionate about a story. She smiles before she finishes her sentences, like she already knows how they’ll land. And when she listens, really listens, she tilts her head just slightly, eyes focused, like she’s saving every word somewhere important.
No one has ever listened to me like that before.
I found myself talking more than I usually do. About work. About Kansas. About things I don’t normally share. It felt natural, like my mouth was ahead of my caution for once. She never rushed me. Never looked bored. Every response made me want to tell her more.
When we finally left, neither of us wanted to go straight home, so we walked. No destination. Just side by side, letting the city unfold around us. The air was cold, and she tucked her hands into her coat sleeves. I kept noticing small things, the way she matched her pace to mine without realizing it, the way she pointed out things she liked as if she wanted me to see the world through her eyes.
The city felt different with her there. Smaller. Kinder. Like it was giving us space. Letting us borrow it for a while.
I kept thinking I should impress her. Say something clever. Something charming. Something worthy of the way she looked at me. But every time our eyes met, my chest felt too full for pretense. Every rehearsed line disappeared. All I could do was be honest.
And she seemed to like that.
I felt safe.
That word keeps circling back. Safe. Not because I’m strong, not because I could protect her if I had to, but because I didn’t feel like I had to be anything other than myself. I didn’t feel watched. Or measured. Or like I was hiding parts of who I am.
I walked her home and stopped outside her building. I told myself not to linger.
I lingered anyway.
When she said goodbye, smiled at me one last time, and turned toward the door, I felt it, physically, like something tugged inside my chest, like part of me wanted to follow her without question.
I stood there longer than necessary after she went inside, just breathing, memorizing the feeling.
I replayed her laugh the entire way home.
I still am.
01/22/2022
Dinner with her.
We went somewhere small tonight. Nothing fancy. One of those places that smells like oil and salt and warmth the moment you open the door. The kind where the tables wobble slightly and the menu hasn’t changed in years.
She ordered before me because she already knew what she wanted. I liked that. I ordered fries, intending to share them, but I didn’t say it out loud. I just assumed. That probably says something.
They came out hot, steam curling into the air between us. We talked while they cooled, about work, about something she’d read, about nothing important. I was halfway through a story when she reached over.
No asking. No hesitation. Just gently, like it was understood.
She took one fry, careful not to brush my hand, and went right back to listening like she hadn’t just done something quietly significant.
She didn’t even look guilty.
A few seconds later, she noticed me staring.
“What?” she asked, smiling around the bite.
The corner of her mouth curved up like she already knew the answer. I felt my face ache from smiling back before I even realized I was doing it.
Anyone else, I would’ve said something. Joked. Pretended to be annoyed.
Instead, I felt… calm.
Something settled into place inside me. Not a spark. Not a rush. Something steadier. Like my body recognized her before my mind caught up. Like some part of me had already decided: this is where you’re supposed to be.
I didn’t mind losing the fry.
I didn’t mind anything at all.
Oh.
This is it.
This is how it starts, not fireworks or drama or some grand moment you tell people about.
Just a shared table. Warm food. Easy silence.
Belonging.
03/05/2022
Fifth date.
I told her.
I knew I was going to tonight. I’d known all day, maybe longer. The thought sat in my chest like a weight—heavy, necessary. I kept telling myself that if this was going to be real, if she was going to be real to me, then she deserved the truth. All of it.
Still, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
We were sitting close, closer than before. The lights were low. The city outside the window hummed softly, distant and unaware that my entire world was about to split open. I could hear my own heartbeat. I kept rehearsing the words in my head, terrified that if I didn’t say them perfectly, I’d lose her.
Superman.
Krypton.
The truth.
I’ve faced down enemies without fear. I’ve stood between the world and destruction without hesitation. But tonight, my palms were damp, my throat tight, my voice almost too small to trust.
I told her anyway.
I told her who I am. Where I come from. What I can do. What I can’t. I told her about the loneliness. About the responsibility. About how sometimes it feels like I’m made of glass despite being unbreakable.
I watched her face the entire time.
I was ready, so ready for her to pull away. To stiffen. To look at me like I was something dangerous or unknowable. I was ready for disbelief, fear, distance. Ready for the sound of my own heart breaking quietly while I pretended I understood.
She didn’t do any of that.
She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t stare at me like I was a spectacle. She didn’t flinch when I said the word Superman. She didn’t look for the door.
She listened.
The same way she always does. Head tilted slightly, eyes steady, hands folded together like this mattered. Like I mattered.
When I finished, the silence stretched. I could barely breathe. I felt exposed in a way I never have before. Like I’d peeled myself open and handed her everything unguarded.
Then she reached for me.
She took my hand—warm, grounding, real—and said, “Thank you for trusting me.”
That was it.
Not I need time.
Not I’m scared.
Not I don’t know what to say.
Just gratitude.
Trust meeting trust.
Something inside me broke open then. Something old and carefully guarded. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been holding back until that moment, how alone I’d been even when surrounded by people.
I don’t think she knows what that moment did to me.
I don’t think she knows she became my safe place tonight. That for the first time in my life, the truth didn’t feel like a burden, it felt like a bridge.
I fell in love with her again. Deeper than before. Permanently. In a way that doesn’t fade or loosen or ask permission.
If she ever doubts how much she means to me, I want her to remember this night.
I want me to remember it.
06/18/2022
She fell asleep on my shoulder.
We were supposed to watch the movie all the way through. She picked it. I remember that, she was excited about it, insisted it was better than I thought it would be. She curled up beside me like she always does, close enough that our arms touched, close enough that I could feel her warmth even before she leaned into me.
About halfway through, her head tipped just slightly toward my shoulder. I felt it before I saw it, the gentle weight of her settling, like she was testing whether it was okay.
I didn’t move.
A few minutes later, she tucked herself in properly, her head resting just under my chin, her hair brushing my jaw. Her breathing changed slowly, quietly, until it evened out into something soft and steady. The kind of breathing that only happens when someone feels completely safe.
I could feel everything. Every small shift of her weight. Every tiny exhale. The way her fingers twitched once, then relaxed, trusting I was there.
The movie kept playing. The plot resolved. The credits rolled.
I didn’t move.
Forty-two minutes passed. I know because I counted, not because I was bored, but because I wanted to remember how long I’d been allowed to hold this moment. My arm started to ache. My shoulder went numb.
I didn’t care.
I’ve stopped disasters. I’ve lifted impossible things. I’ve been praised for saving the world more times than I can count.
Tonight, the most important thing I did was stay perfectly still so she could rest.
I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I memorized the way she fit against me, like she had always been meant to. I thought—very quietly—that if this was all love ever asked of me, I would give it gladly.
I would do it forever if she asked.
And if she never did, I think I still would.
09/02/2022
Work.
Nothing remarkable was supposed to happen today.
Just another morning at the Planet. I was standing by my desk pretending to read an article when I felt it.
That gentle pull. That awareness.
I looked up without thinking.
She was across the newsroom, half-hidden behind a monitor, focused on her screen. And then—like she felt me looking—she glanced up.
Just a second. Maybe less.
Our eyes met.
She smiled.
Not big. Not obvious. Just enough. Just for me.
My heart did something ridiculous. The kind of thing I’d laugh at if it were anyone else. I felt it in my chest, in my hands, all the way down to my feet like I’d forgotten how gravity worked for a moment.
We didn’t speak. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.
It felt like a secret we were sharing in plain sight, something small and precious tucked between deadlines and coffee cups.
I looked back down at my desk, fully aware that my smile was impossible to hide.
I still get nervous when she looks at me like that.
I’ve faced impossible odds. I’ve stood against things that should have terrified me. But that quiet smile across the newsroom still makes my pulse stumble like I’m fifteen and hopelessly obvious about it.
She makes me feel young. Not careless, but alive. Like someone who’s still discovering what love can be, who hasn’t reached the end of the feeling yet.
Lois noticed. Of course she did. She smirked when she passed my desk.
Jimmy noticed, he raised his eyebrows and whispered “cute.”
Cat noticed. Steve noticed. I think Perry noticed too, though he pretended not to.
I don’t care.
They can notice all they want.
All I want—all I will ever want—is for her eyes to keep finding mine. In crowded rooms. In quiet mornings. Across every place life puts us.
For the rest of my life.
11/30/2022
One year.
I don’t think I really understood what today would feel like until it was already happening. I knew it mattered. I knew it was important. But I didn’t expect the weight of it, the way it would sit in my chest all evening, heavy and warm and almost too much to hold all at once.
A year.
That sounds so small when you say it out loud. Twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five ordinary days stacked gently on top of each other. Days that didn’t look remarkable from the outside. Days filled with work and quiet dinners and laughter over nothing.
But when I looked at her tonight, really looked at her, I felt the miracle of it.
The fact that she’s chosen me. Every day. For an entire year.
Not the idea of me. Not the parts that are easy or impressive. Me. The quiet mornings. The long nights. The truths she learned early and never turned away from.
She gave me her gift first.
She didn’t hand it to me right away. She asked me to sit down, her voice careful, almost shy. I noticed her hands shaking as she set it on the table between us, wrapped in brown paper, the edges taped too neatly. Like she’d redone it more than once. Like she’d worried about it.
“I need you to know,” she said quietly, eyes fixed on the package instead of me, “I tried my best.”
That alone made my chest tighten.
When I unwrapped it, I understood why she’d been nervous.
It was a painting.
Not small. Not casual. Not something done in an afternoon. This was time. Intention. Patience. The kind of work you only do when you’re willing to put your heart somewhere visible and vulnerable.
It was the farm.
My parents’ farm.
She’d painted it in late-afternoon light, the kind that turns everything golden and soft, the kind that always made me feel safe growing up. The house stood steady and familiar, the porch just right, the fields stretching out behind it the way they always do. Endless. Open. Like they belong to anyone who needs space to breathe.
And in the center—
All of us.
Ma and Pa.
Me.
And them.
My birth parents.
All of us standing together, arms around one another, no distance between us. No time separating what was lost from what was found. No planets. No years. No absence.
Just together.
Like it was always meant to be that way.
For a second, I couldn’t breathe.
She rushed to explain, words tumbling over each other as if she were afraid the silence meant she’d done something wrong.
She told me she used pictures to paint the farm I have hanging in my apartment since she hasn’t been there yet. Told me she watched the video again—the one that came with me when I was sent to Earth—paused it, rewound it, studied my birth parents’ faces so she wouldn’t get them wrong.
She told me she didn’t want to mess it up. That she just kept thinking—
Her voice softened then.
—that they’d want to see me happy. That my parents—all of them—belong together in my life. Even if it never looked like this in real life.
My hands were shaking when I held the frame.
She painted Ma’s smile exactly right. The gentleness in my Pa's eyes. That quiet pride he never needs to announce. And my birth parents—hopeful, loving, looking at me like I was everything.
She gave me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.
A world where nothing was lost.
I didn’t cry right away. I think I was too overwhelmed. I just stared, memorizing every brushstroke, every careful decision she’d made with love. Trying to understand how someone could see me so clearly.
“I didn’t know if it was okay,” she whispered. “But it felt important.”
I pulled her into my chest without thinking. I couldn’t help it. I needed to feel her there, solid and real.
It was the most understood I have ever felt in my life.
Then it was my turn.
I won’t pretend I didn’t agonize over her gift. I did. For weeks. I wanted it to be something beautiful. Something lasting. Something that carried meaning even if the words failed me.
Inside the small velvet box was a necklace.
Gold. Delicate. The chain thin and warm. And at its center, a butterfly—crafted so carefully it looked like it might lift off at any second if the light caught it just right.
She went very still when she saw it.
I remembered something she told me once—quietly, almost like she didn’t want to make it important. That butterflies were her mother’s favorite. That they reminded her of gentleness. Of transformation. Of staying, even after someone leaves.
I chose it because of that.
Because I wanted her to have something close to her heart. Something that carried love forward instead of marking loss. Something that said she is held—by memory, by love, by me.
It cost more than I usually allow myself to spend on anything. More than was practical. More than was reasonable.
But she’s worth it.
All of it.
She cried then.
Not loudly. Just leaned into me, clutching the necklace like it was something fragile and sacred. My hands weren’t steady when I fastened it around her neck. I don’t think I trusted myself to be.
It looked like it belonged there.
We didn’t say much after that.
We just sat together, her painting propped carefully against the wall, the butterfly warm against her skin, the quiet settling around us like a promise.
A year.
One year of choosing each other. Of learning each other. Of loving in ways that still surprise me.
I still can’t believe she’s with me.
I still wake up amazed that someone so thoughtful, so kind, so deeply human, has chosen to share her life with mine.
If this is what one year feels like, I want all the years.
Every single one.
With her.
02/11/2023
She had a bad day.
I knew the moment I saw her.
She tried to hide it, smiled when she walked in, asked how my day was—but her shoulders were too tight, her voice just a little too careful. I didn’t call it out right away. I’ve learned that sometimes she needs space to land before she can let go.
Later, when the apartment had gone quiet, she finally sat beside me on the couch and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath all day.
She didn’t want fixing.
She didn’t want answers.
She didn’t want me to make it better.
She just wanted someone to sit with her.
So I did.
I stayed exactly where I was. Close enough that our knees touched. Close enough that she could lean if she wanted to—but I didn’t pull her in until she chose it herself. When she finally rested her head against my shoulder, it felt like permission.
I wrapped an arm around her slowly, carefully, like she was something precious.
We didn’t talk much. A few quiet words. Long stretches of silence. I could feel the tension leaving her shoulders little by little, like she was setting something heavy down piece by piece. Like she trusted me to hold the weight with her, even if I couldn’t take it away.
I watched her breathe. I watched her relax.
I wished—again—that she could see herself the way I do.
Strong, even when she’s tired.
Kind, even when the world hasn’t been.
Brilliant in ways she never gives herself credit for.
Braver than she knows, simply for showing up every day and trying.
She thinks strength looks loud. Unbreakable.
But this—this quiet endurance, this softness she allows only with me—this is the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
Loving her feels like standing in sunlight. Not blinding. Not overwhelming. Just steady and warm and certain. Like something you can build a life in.
I finally understand what “home” means.
It isn’t a place.
It’s this moment, her leaning into me, the world quiet for a while, knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
With her.
07/29/2023
She met my parents today.
I’ve been nervous about a lot of things in my life. I’ve faced fear head-on more times than I can count. But today, today my stomach was in knots in a way that surprised me.
I brought her home.
Not just to Kansas. Not just to the farm.
Home.
I didn’t warn her much beforehand. Maybe I should have. I only said that my parents would love her, and that was true—but it didn’t feel like enough. I don’t think I realized until today how much it mattered to me that they see her the way I do.
She wore something simple. Comfortable. Herself. She was polite without being stiff, warm without trying too hard. When Ma hugged her, I watched her melt into it like she’d been waiting for that kind of welcome without knowing it.
Ma loved her instantly. I could tell by the way she touched her arm when she laughed, by how quickly she started asking questions—not the polite kind, but the ones you ask when you want to know someone. Pa watched quietly at first, like he always does, measuring more than he speaks.
Then she offered to help in the kitchen.
She didn’t have to. She just did. Like she belonged there.
I stood in the doorway for a while, pretending not to watch as she laughed with Ma, as flour dusted her hands, as she listened to stories about me growing up with the same attention she always gives me. I saw something in Pa's expression then. Something soft, approving, settled.
At dinner, she asked them about their lives. Their history. She listened when Pa talked about the land. She thanked Pa for the meal like it meant something to her.
When Pa finally said, “We’re glad you’re here,” I felt something loosen in my chest that I didn’t know I’d been holding.
Later, when she stepped outside with me and the cicadas filled the evening air, she slipped her hand into mine like it was second nature. Like she’d always known how to find me.
I realized then that this wasn’t just me bringing her into my world.
She was already part of it.
If there ever comes a day when she doubts—when the world feels loud or unkind or she wonders where she belongs—I want her to remember this. The way my mother smiled at her like she was already family. The way my father looked at her like she was someone worth trusting with what matters most.
I don’t know when I’ll say it out loud.
But today made something very clear to me.
She isn’t just someone I love.
She’s someone I’m building a life with.
Every single day.
10/26/2023
Tonight reminded me why I survive.
I came home barely holding myself together.
I don’t usually let it get that bad. I tell myself I won’t, that I’ll pull back sooner, that I’ll know my limits. But tonight I misjudged things. Strength. Timing. My own belief that I can always take one more hit if it means someone else doesn’t have to.
By the time I made it back to my apartment, my ribs felt like glass. Every breath was shallow and sharp, like my lungs were cutting against something broken inside me. My shoulder burned, deep, angry pain that wouldn’t quiet no matter how I shifted my weight. I could feel blood drying along my side, stiffening my suit, pulling at my skin every time I moved.
I didn’t knock.
I couldn’t risk standing upright long enough to do it.
I just leaned against the doorframe for a second, forehead pressed to the cool wood, wondering how much she’d see the moment I stepped inside. Wondering if I could make it to the couch without worrying her too much. Wondering—selfishly—if I could keep this from being one of the nights that lives in her fear.
She heard me anyway.
She always does.
The door opened before I could decide anything, and there she was.
Not panicked.
Not shouting my name.
Not frozen in shock.
Just there.
Her eyes found me instantly, sharp and assessing, taking everything in at once—the blood, the way I was favoring my right side, the way my shoulders were held too stiff, like they were bracing against pain I didn’t want to admit to yet.
I could hear her heart.
It was racing. Fast. Uneven. Terrified.
And still—her voice was calm.
“Hey,” she said softly, like she wasn’t looking at someone who’d barely made it home. Like she wasn’t scared out of her mind. “Come sit down. Slowly. I’ve got you.”
Those words, 'I’ve got you', did something to me. I felt my knees weaken the moment she said them, like my body finally believed it was allowed to stop fighting.
She moved with such care. Every step deliberate. Every touch gentle and precise, like she was handling something precious instead of broken. She didn’t rush me. Didn’t bombard me with questions or try to assess everything at once.
She knew (somehow) that her calm was the thing keeping me upright.
That her fear, however loud it was inside her, wasn’t what would help me heal.
I watched her swallow it down for me.
I watched her steady her hands before she touched me, watched her breathe slowly on purpose, watched her make herself quiet so I could finally exhale.
She helped me sit, eased my weight down inch by inch, murmuring small reassurances the whole time. Nothing dramatic. Nothing heroic. Just constant presence. Proof that I wasn’t alone in the room with the pain.
When she cleaned the blood from my hands, she did it like she’d done it a hundred times. Cloth warm, pressure careful, movements practiced. But I could hear her heart the entire time, still racing, still afraid.
It never slowed.
And still, she stayed steady.
She talked while she worked—not about what happened, not about what could have gone wrong. Just small things. The grocery list. Something funny she’d read earlier. The way the neighbor’s dog barked all afternoon.
Grounding sounds. Anchors.
I realized then how much effort it must take. How much strength it takes to choose calm when fear is screaming in your chest. How brave you have to be to love someone like me and still soften your hands when they come home hurt.
That’s when it hit me. Again.
Anyone can love the invincible part of me.
The symbol.
The strength.
The idea of safety.
But she loves the part of me that limps home at midnight, trying not to bleed on the floor. The part of me that miscalculates. The part of me that hurts. The part of me that needs someone else to be strong for a moment.
She didn’t ask me to be Superman tonight.
She let me just be Clark.
The way she held me—careful, unafraid, unwavering—did something to me. It settled somewhere deep and permanent, like a truth clicking into place.
I fell in love with her again tonight.
Not loudly.
Not all at once.
Just deeper.
And I don’t think there’s an end to how far that goes.
04/10/2025
We talked about moving in together.
It wasn’t supposed to be a big conversation.
We were sitting on the couch, legs tangled, the TV on low in the background. I don’t even remember what we were watching. She said it casually, almost offhand—something about how much time we already spend together, how it might just make sense.
My heart immediately started racing.
I tried to play it cool. I nodded. I said something reasonable. I even managed to keep my voice steady for a few seconds.
I failed.
I felt my smile give me away before I could stop it. I felt the warmth spread through my chest, that light, buoyant feeling that only she gives me. I don’t think I realized how much I’d been hoping for this until she said it out loud.
We talked about logistics—closets, commutes, who has the better couch—but underneath it all was something quieter and deeper. Certainty. Not excitement that burns out fast, but the kind that settles in and stays.
Ever since that conversation, my mind hasn’t stopped wandering.
I keep imagining mornings.
Her hair messy, sleep still clinging to her voice when she says my name. Sunlight spilling through the window, dust floating in the air like it’s been waiting just for us. The sound of her moving around the kitchen while I pretend not to watch, the comfort of knowing that no matter how the day unfolds, we’ll come back to each other at night.
I imagine shared spaces—books mixing on shelves, her things slowly finding their way into every corner. Little arguments about nothing. Quiet routines that become sacred simply because they’re ours.
I’ve already imagined a ring.
Not just the ring itself, but the way her eyes will widen when she realizes what I’m asking. The way her hands will shake just a little when I take hers. The way saying her name followed by my wife will feel like the most natural truth I’ve ever known.
I don’t know when I’ll ask.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—honest, unhurried, full of love.
But I do know this: the answer has lived in me for a long time. Longer than I realized. Since the day I offered her half my sandwich in a noisy lunchroom and felt my world shift in a way I couldn’t name yet.
Everything since then has just been catching up.
If love is choosing someone every day, then I’ve already made my choice.
I’m just finally ready to say it out loud.
11/11/2025
Lois asked me today why I haven’t proposed yet.
She didn’t mean it unkindly. Lois rarely does, even when she pretends otherwise. We were finishing up a story, the newsroom mostly empty, and she leaned back in her chair, studied me for a long moment, then said it like it was obvious.
“So,” she said, “are you ever going to put a ring on her finger, or are you just going to keep pretending she’s not wildly out of your league?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
Because she’s right.
I know she is.
I’ve always known.
Lois kept going, softer this time. “You love her. Anyone with eyes can see that. So what are you waiting for? You scared?”
I thought about that long after she turned back to her screen.
Am I scared?
Yes.
But not in the way she meant.
I’m not waiting because I’m unsure. I’m not hesitating because I don’t know what I want. I don’t wake up questioning whether she’s the one. That answer has lived in me for years now, steady and unmovable.
I’m waiting because I’ve never been this sure before in my life.
Everything else I’ve ever faced—every fight, every impossible choice—has always come with certainty baked in. I knew what had to be done. I knew I could endure it. I knew the risk.
This is different.
This isn’t about survival.
It’s about forever.
I want it to be right. I want it to feel like us—unrushed, honest, full of intention. I don’t want to trip over my own eagerness and risk losing something this precious by moving too fast, by letting the moment feel careless instead of considered.
She deserves a proposal that feels like a promise kept, not a step taken too quickly.
I want the timing to be gentle. The kind that says I chose you every day before this, and I will every day after.
I know she’s out of my league.
She always has been.
But she chose me anyway. She keeps choosing me. And that still humbles me more than I know how to say.
So no Lois, I’m not waiting because I’m afraid to commit.
I’m waiting because this is the most important question I will ever ask.
And when I ask it, I want my hands steady, my heart open, and the certainty she’s given me reflected back to her without doubt or hesitation.
I already know the answer.
I’m just making sure the moment honors how much she means to me.
Always.
Your tears fall freely now, blurring the words, splashing onto the pages of a love story written quietly, faithfully, just for you. You don’t try to stop them. There’s no point. This is what it feels like to be seen so completely it almost hurts.
The notebook trembles in your hands.
Then—
The soft jingle of keys at the door.
You gasp, sharp and startled, like you’ve been caught somewhere you weren’t supposed to be. Your head snaps up, heart slamming against your ribs. Panic flares—not guilt exactly, but something close enough to make your chest tighten. You scrub hastily at your cheeks with the heel of your hand, trying to erase the evidence, trying to breathe like your world hasn’t just quietly, irrevocably shifted.
The door opens.
Clark steps inside, paper towels tucked under his arm, jacket half-unzipped, hair slightly mussed from the breeze outside. He looks relaxed—content in that soft, domestic way he’s been wearing all day.
Happy.
Then his eyes find you.
Sitting on the floor.
Diary open in your hands.
Eyes red. Face flushed.
He freezes.
Not just still—suspended. Like time has paused mid-breath.
“…Hey,” he says carefully, voice gentle but alert, like he’s approaching something fragile. “What’s wrong?”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You push yourself to your feet slowly, the movement unsteady, like gravity has changed without warning. You clutch the notebook to your chest instinctively, fingers curling into the leather as if it might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough.
“I—” Your voice breaks immediately. You swallow, try again. “I’m so sorry.”
That stops him.
He blinks, confusion flickering across his face. “Sorry?”
“I didn’t mean to,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “I was unpacking and I found it and I didn’t know what it was and I shouldn’t have opened it, I know that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I’m really sorry, Clark. I never wanted to invade your privacy.”
For a heartbeat, he just looks at you.
Then realization dawns.
You watch it ripple across his face: the widening of his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his shoulders tense as understanding crashes in. Horror. Embarrassment. Tender, helpless panic.
“Oh,” he breathes. “Oh—Y/N, I—”
The paper towels slip from his arm as he sets the bag down too fast, hands fumbling like his body can’t quite keep up with his thoughts. “No—hey, no, you didn’t do anything wrong. I swear, I wasn’t hiding it from you. I just—I wanted it to be for later. For the right moment.”
His voice falters, vulnerability bare on his face. “I was waiting. I didn’t want to rush it. I wanted everything to be… right.”
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. “I know. I know. I just—reading it felt like stepping into something I wasn’t meant to see yet.”
His expression softens instantly.
Before either of you can say anything else, you cross the space between you in three quick steps and throw your arms around him.
Clark stiffens in surprise for half a second—pure reflex—before he melts into you completely. His arms wrap around you strong and sure, one hand pressing gently between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid to let go.
He holds you like you’re something precious.
Like you’re fragile.
Like you’re endlessly, irrevocably loved.
You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in—home, warmth, safety—and your voice shakes when you speak.
“It’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever written about me,” you whisper. “About us.”
He exhales, long and unsteady, like he’s been holding that breath for years. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closing briefly as if to steady himself. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes are glossy, shining with emotion he isn’t trying to hide.
“You weren’t supposed to read it yet,” he murmurs softly, thumb brushing beneath your eye, wiping away a tear with reverent care. “I was waiting for the right moment to propose. After we settled in. After this felt like home.”
Your breath catches.
“But,” he continues quietly, a small, almost bashful smile tugging at his mouth, “everything in there is true. Every word. I’ve loved you since the moment you smiled at me over a sad microwave lunch.”
A wet laugh slips out of you despite everything. “You really wrote it all down.”
He nods, almost shy now. “I wanted proof,” he admits. “For you. For forever. In case the world ever got loud. In case you ever doubted how sure I am.”
You lift your hands to his face, cradling him the way he always cradles you, thumbs brushing his cheeks. Your heart feels too full, like it might burst if you don’t say this out loud.
“I don’t need proof,” you say softly. “But I’m really glad I have it.”
He smiles then.
Wide. Radiant. Hopelessly, undeniably in love.
And in that moment—standing barefoot in a half-unpacked apartment, surrounded by boxes and cardboard and the life you’re still building—you know.
Even without a ring.
Without a question asked out loud.
Request. Clark and reader work together and have been dating for a while, when an intern joins the Planet and takes a liking to Clark. He is genuinely oblivious to her flirting and helps her with anything she needs because he wants her to feel comfortable. He doesn't notice she only ever asks for his help–not reader's, Lois' or Jimmy's. Even when Lois tells him that's what she does, he shakes it off. The intern in question is constantly making jokes about her being "Clark's favorite" and he just laughs, thinking she was harmless. He even stays late at night to help her and misses one or two dates with his girlfriend. Reader feels jealous but is patient and understanding because that's just who he is as a person. Generous and caring. When he misses yet another date because he's helping the new girl and stands her up, reader decides it's time to talk about boundaries. On her way home, there's trouble downtown and she gets hurt. It was only then that Clark realizes what he's done to his relationship, and fixes things.
I hope this makes sense and is worthy of writing, I love your stuff! 💗
I almost missed your request because I had already finished the fic and I got nervous lol, but here it is.
Your life seemed stable, almost perfect. You had a well-deserved job at the Daily Planet, surrounded by friends who never stopped worrying about you. And, above all, there was him—your boyfriend, Clark Kent. You had only been dating for four months, but in that time you had discovered he was the most endearing person you had ever met. His smile could light up even your heaviest days, and every time you praised him, no matter how simple the compliment, he blushed like a nervous teenager. That vulnerability made him even more charming.
You had met at work. You had been there longer, but you shared the same space almost all day. Your desk was only three steps away from his—close enough to notice how, quietly, he found any excuse to come near you. Cat, Lois, and Jimmy had witnessed his interest from the very beginning; even Cat, with her teasing tone, was the one who insisted the most that Clark was hopelessly in love with you. They never forgot that afternoon when the two of you got locked in the archive room for almost two hours, and how, after that, Clark gathered the courage to ask you out. From then on, everything changed. Now, you were about to celebrate five months together—and one month since you had made the big decision to move into the same apartment. It seemed that nothing could disturb that happiness.
Until Perry showed up with news.
“Nine interns,” he announced, adjusting his glasses while reading a thick file. “Last year, Lois and you took care of guiding them, but this time it’s Jimmy and Clark’s turn. There will be five people in their section: two in photography and three in writing. They’ll arrive in an hour.” He looked up at you with his usual stern tone. “Where’s Kent?”
It was obvious Perry knew about your relationship with Clark; the chief seemed amused by how much the reporter loved to brag that you were his girlfriend. For Clark, it was almost a sin for anyone not to know.
“He must be at the printers,” you replied immediately, smiling naturally.
Perry shook his head in frustration.
“I’ll go find him myself…”
You didn’t think twice before hurrying out, though deep down you knew finding Clark was never simple. He could be anywhere—maybe chatting with a coworker, or maybe saving lives somewhere in the world.
Peeking into the meeting room, pretending to review some papers, you felt a small jolt. Clark was right behind you, smiling with that shy charm that always disarmed you.
“Good morning, miss,” he whispered, making you turn around with a nervous smile.
“Clark, Perry’s looking for you. The interns just arrived, and you’re paired with Jimmy,” you said, urging him to hurry toward the office.
But as calm as ever, he gently took your hand and handed you a coffee cup with your name handwritten on it. In the other hand, he held a rose—slightly messy, yet perfect for your desk. Before you could say anything, he leaned down and brushed your lips with a short kiss that left your cheeks burning.
“Go on,” you murmured.
“Alright,” he answered simply, turning away and walking down the hall.
Cat appeared right after, wearing a sly grin.
“Floating on cloud nine, huh?” she teased—and though you thought she meant Clark, she quickly added in a playful tone, “Honey, you’re lost in love. You spend your days in the clouds of romance.”
You lowered your gaze, blushing, unable to respond.
“So, how’s work going? I heard they want to film a new movie here,” you said, trying to change the subject.
Cat took her time, then looped her arm through yours, and the two of you walked back to your desk. She dropped into the chair in front of you and started telling you everything in vivid detail. You listened attentively, though your fingers toyed with the rose you had just received. You placed it in the vase on your desk, replacing the wilted one from before.
An hour later, the building was once again filled with murmurs and hurried footsteps echoing over the polished floor. It wasn’t deafening, but enough to remind everyone that the newsroom never rested. Perry stepped out of his office with a furrowed brow and firm voice, calling you and Lois. You stopped what you were doing and walked toward him with your notebook in hand.
“Kate and Logan will be assigned to Jimmy,” Perry announced in that tone that left no room for discussion. “Give them varied tasks, let them learn how to capture the right shots. It’ll help them with everything.”
You looked at the two young interns nodding enthusiastically: a blonde girl with a nervous smile and a dark-haired boy who looked like he could barely resist running off with his camera. Their excitement made you smile faintly.
Perry continued,
“Then, young Eiden and the ladies Claire and Margot will be working with Clark. Political pieces, entertainment articles… even Cat can give them some guidance. And as for you two,” he added, looking straight at Lois and you, “I know I said no interns this time. But this has nothing to do with them. I want two articles. On my desk in an hour.”
Lois raised an eyebrow, you nodded silently, and Perry walked away, leaving behind a tense air mixed with anticipation.
The interns began introducing themselves with hesitant but eager voices. However, your attention stopped on the redhead in the group—she couldn’t take her eyes off Clark. She even nudged her partner gently aside to step forward and speak first.
“Margot Renith,” she said brightly, extending her hand to Clark. Her eyes sparkled as if she were talking to a celebrity. “I’ve read so many of your articles—too many, actually. About Superman, about what you do… it’s wonderful.”
Clark, a little uneasy, adjusted his glasses before replying kindly,
“Thank you, Margot. That means a lot.”
You watched the scene silently, suppressing a small laugh. There was nothing unusual about it—Clark always drew admiration, though this girl seemed to take it a little further. You turned, ready to return to your desk, when suddenly Clark appeared again with his interns close behind, each of them scribbling down every word.
“And this,” Clark said, with a slight blush as he pointed toward you, “is one of the most important writers at the Planet. She’s also an editor when needed.”
His nervous smile and the way he looked at you made your heart skip for a moment.
“Nice to meet you,” the interns said in unison.
“You’re in good hands,” you replied warmly, while Clark organized the group and asked them to follow him to Cat’s desk.
You took the chance to step closer and whisper,
“Get back to work, Clark. If you get distracted, Perry’s going to end up angry with me.”
He lowered his voice, leaning slightly toward you.
“I’m sorry… but I can’t help noticing how beautiful you look today.”
You laughed softly, trying to hide the blush rising on your cheeks so the interns wouldn’t notice.
“See you after work,” you replied, brushing his arm briefly and discreetly.
What you didn’t know was that just a few steps behind, the redhead Margot was watching the two of you, her brow furrowed and lips pressed into a tight line that betrayed a sharp pang of jealousy.
And then it began.
The first month passed without major incidents; everything seemed to move within the usual rhythm of the Daily Planet. The rush, the clatter of keyboards, the constant murmur of conversations between journalists — everything remained the same. However, there was something different in the air: the presence of the new interns.
It didn’t make you uncomfortable or paranoid. It wasn’t the first time someone tried to get Clark’s attention — sometimes with smiles that lasted too long, other times with little coffees or boxes of donuts left on his desk. You knew it, and it didn’t surprise you. Clark was kind, generous, and always willing to help. Beyond that, he was a handsome man — too handsome for your peace of mind, even if he didn’t believe it himself. You knew it, though you hid it behind a mask of normality.
It all started with something simple.
“I brought you this, Clark. I’m really grateful for your help,” said Margot, one of the interns, as she handed him a cup of coffee with a hopeful smile.
“She’s been here for two weeks,” murmured Lois, amusement curling at the corner of her lips.
You smiled as you arranged the papers on your desk.
“Another admirer,” you commented softly, turning your attention back to the article you were co-writing with Lois.
At that moment, you let it slip away like water through your fingers. A simple anecdote, nothing worth dwelling on.
As days went by, Margot began to grow bolder. It wasn’t unusual to see her show up in short skirts or with striking makeup; after all, Cat did it and always looked elegant. You had no problem with fashion, but you preferred the comfort of lycra pants — they made you feel secure. What became strange came later: it wasn’t the skirt or the new lipstick, but the way she presented herself in front of everyone.
That afternoon you were with Clark, Lois, and Jimmy in the common room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, and the walls hummed with the noise of keyboards and telephones. Margot appeared holding an article in her hands, her expression radiant.
“I got my first compliment from Perry!” she announced excitedly, as if the entire building needed to know.
Jimmy, mid-sip of coffee, froze awkwardly. You couldn’t help but smile at the suddenness of the moment, while Lois watched her curiously. Clark, however, looked at her with genuine pride — the kind of pride a mentor feels when seeing his apprentice’s progress.
“I knew it,” said Clark, taking the article and showing it to you so you could read it.
“Yes… it’s really well written for an intern,” you admitted, acknowledging the effort.
“I know,” replied Margot, practically savoring her own success. Without hesitation, she stepped closer to Clark, pressing her shoulder against his and holding onto his arm to read the article alongside him.
Lois’s eyes widened, surprised at how naturally she did it. Clark, however, remained calm, focused on reading.
“That’s because I’m Clark’s favorite,” Margot said playfully, and Clark simply handed the article back to her without confirming or denying it.
“Well done, Margot,” he said calmly, as if closing the conversation.
The silence that followed was heavy. Everyone expected the intern to leave, but she stayed there, chatting cheerfully about how Clark had completely transformed her writing in just one month. Her voice filled the space — almost as if she wanted to make sure no one else could steal her moment.
You listened while feeling Clark’s hand resting naturally on your waist, a silent gesture full of meaning. You both held the coffee cups you loved sharing so much. Clark smiled, a bit embarrassed by all the praise, and you nodded occasionally, trying to stay composed.
However, Jimmy and Lois didn’t seem as indifferent. Both watched Margot seriously, as if they saw something the rest were trying to ignore.
The constant murmur of keyboards and telephones in the newsroom seemed to fade as you adjusted your coat, ready to head out to dinner with Clark. Six months had passed since everything had begun between you two, and the date was near; the thought of celebrating made you smile unconsciously.
You walked down the hallway lit by the yellowish glow of the lamps until you reached the printing room. There, among scattered papers and the metallic hum of the machines, was Clark. He was holding an article in his large hands, patiently explaining something to Margot, who watched him far too closely — as if every word was an excuse to study his expressions. Her soft, overly forced laugh sought his attention, leaning toward him with a sparkle in her eyes that had nothing to do with journalism.
You gently tapped the glass door, and both of them looked up at the same time. At that instant, Clark’s smile lit up the room in a way that erased everything else. He set the article aside and walked toward you.
“Are you leaving already?” he asked, his warm voice sounding like it was meant only for you.
“Yes,” you whispered, meeting his gaze with complicity. “We said we’d have dinner.”
He tilted his head slightly, lowering his gaze as if the words weighed on him.
“Oh, right…” he murmured, pressing his lips together before explaining. “It’s just… I haven’t finished this article yet. I’m still working with my interns.”
Your brow arched slightly as you looked around.
“I only see one intern,” you said, letting the remark fall calmly.
Clark nodded, barely noticing.
“The others went to get coffee,” he replied, as if that were enough. Then he looked at you again with that tenderness that could dissolve any doubt. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.”
He smiled — and in that smile was a certainty Margot could never imitate.
“All right, I’ll go then,” you said, giving space to his commitment.
Clark didn’t quite allow it: he set the paper aside and walked with you to the elevator. The hallway was nearly empty, the lights reflecting his tall silhouette beside yours. Just before the doors opened, he took your hand softly and brought it to his cheek, brushing it with affection.
“I’ll be listening to every step until you get home,” he whispered, as if making a vow.
Your lips curved into a calm smile.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get there safely.”
He leaned down and pressed a long, slow kiss to your lips, filled with tenderness and stillness — as if time had stopped right there.
“I love you,” he said softly as he pulled away, his eyes locked on yours.
“I love you too,” you answered, feeling like nothing could break that moment.
You stepped into the elevator, and as the doors slowly closed, Clark lifted his hand in a small wave that made you let out a soft laugh. Your heart beat with gentle peace as you descended.
When you stepped out of the building, you crossed paths with the two interns returning with cups of coffee in their hands — confirming exactly what he had said. There were no lies. No hidden intentions.
But it happened again. A week later, when he had promised to meet you at home for dinner, he was late once more. You waited patiently, wearing the red dress he loved so much, your makeup perfectly done, and the heels that echoed through the empty living room as you paced back and forth. But as the night grew longer, instead of seeing him appear, you received a message on your phone:
“Honey, we got delayed again. God, forgive me. We’re trying to finish as soon as possible, but the file got lost and it’s chaos here. I’ll be home soon. I love you.”
The illusion fell over you like a bucket of cold water. The red dress meant nothing if he wasn’t there to see it. You walked over to the mirror, sighed, and with slow movements began to remove your makeup. The mascara faded between your lashes, your cheeks lost their blush, and the smile you had prepared never appeared. You slipped off the dress with a gentle pull, left your heels aside, and after brushing your hair, climbed into bed with a frown. You wanted to understand that it was work, that it wasn’t his fault… but the fear that something was slipping between you pressed tightly against your chest.
The door opened just as those thoughts began to fill you with doubt. You recognized the familiar sound of his footsteps, his jacket falling onto the chair, and the rustle of fabric as he changed into his pajamas. You pretended to be asleep, turning to the opposite side, unwilling to give him any words. The mattress sank when he got into bed, and then, with that strength of his that seemed to know no limits, he gently turned you toward him so you would look at him.
“Clark, I’m tired,” you said in a low voice, heavy with restrained anger. He knew it—he could feel it in every tense muscle of your body.
He said nothing at first. He simply lifted you as if you were light as air and settled you on top of him, resting you against his chest as though you were his favorite pillow.
“That doesn’t fix anything,” you murmured, though you couldn’t help the faint smile that escaped your lips when you felt the warmth of his embrace.
He looked down at you, his voice calm, almost pleading.
“I know… I’m sorry. I swear I was excited to see you—I thought about it all day. But the file got deleted, it just disappeared.” His fingers began to trace slow circles along your back, as if each touch could erase your anger. “Not even the backup I saved was there—nothing.”
You looked at him in disbelief.
“You, Clark Kent?” you asked, raising your voice slightly. “You didn’t save a copy?”
Clark let out a frustrated sigh, scratching the back of his neck.
“I did… but none of them were there. It was like everything vanished. The intern had to help me because honestly, I don’t know what I would’ve done without her.”
You pressed your lips together and rolled your eyes. The mention of the intern didn’t help at all, though you said nothing. You rested your head against his chest again, listening to his heartbeat.
“Well… maybe I’ll forgive you,” you finally said, with a tone of resignation that made him smile instantly.
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, about how you’d look in that red dress you promised to wear…” he murmured, lowering his voice as his hand playfully slid down to rest on your backside.
“Don’t even think about it. You were late, and I’m tired,” you replied quickly, without lifting your head.
Clark froze immediately, like a kid caught in mischief, and laughed softly against your hair.
“All right… but tomorrow, yes.” And his tone was so certain, so teasing, that it almost made you forget your anger.
There, with your body curled against his and his steady breathing surrounding you, silence slowly settled between you. The world could keep being chaos, but in that bed, for a moment, there was only the two of you.
The following week, the routine in the newsroom seemed the same. You arrived a little before closing time to meet Clark, just as you had agreed, and looked for him down the hallways.
You found him again in the printing room. Margot was there too, leaning against the table with the confident air of someone who wants to be noticed, twirling a pen between her fingers while watching him speak. Clark was holding some documents, explaining something about the article’s edition, but she hardly seemed to listen. Her eyes were fixed on his profile, on the curve of his jaw, on the way he adjusted his glasses. She smiled with a hint of mischief, as if every one of his gestures was an excuse to get closer.
When you walked in, Margot straightened her back and forced out an unnecessary laugh, far too loud for whatever Clark had said. She tried to catch your gaze, as if to make it clear that she was with him.
Clark, on the other hand, barely seemed to notice. The moment he saw you, his face changed completely: his professional seriousness crumbled, replaced by that warm smile that seemed to light up even the darkest corner of the office.
“Ah, you’re here already,” he said softly, setting the papers aside as if they no longer mattered. “Give me a minute, sweetheart.”
Margot used the pause to step in, leaning toward him boldly.
“Clark, do you want us to go over it again tomorrow? I could stay late if you need me to.”
He nodded absently, completely missing the suggestive tone in her voice.
“Yeah, thanks, Margot. I appreciate your help.” But even as he spoke, he was already walking toward you, as if everything else had simply disappeared.
“Ready to go?” he asked, taking your hand naturally, without even glancing back at the intern’s annoyed expression.
“Yes,” you replied calmly, as if in that moment, he was the only thing that mattered.
Margot narrowed her eyes, clearly irritated by the way you both seemed to inhabit your own private world, one no one else could enter. No matter how much she tried to assert her presence, there was no space left for her.
Clark, oblivious to everything, leaned toward you as you walked toward the elevator.
“Did you know I spent the whole day thinking about what you’d want for dinner tonight?” he murmured playfully, his forehead brushing against yours.
You smiled, letting out a soft laugh.
“I hope it’s not pizza again.”
“I promise something different,” he replied with a wink.
The elevator doors closed, leaving Margot behind with her smile wiped away.
Maybe the third time hurt the most.
Margot, with her uncanny ability to pry into things, had found out—without you or Clark knowing—that it was your anniversary. She had overheard Lois whispering to Jimmy in the hallway, and while you carefully prepared dinner with nervous anticipation, Margot smiled silently, like someone who already knows a wound is about to open.
The clock moved mercilessly forward. The candle on the table melted into a pool of wax. The smell of dinner faded from the kitchen while you, your makeup smudged and your red dress hanging from a chair, sat in your pajamas, your hope shattered. Then you heard the door open. Clark came rushing in, holding a bouquet of fresh roses, his shirt wrinkled, his expression weary.
He knocked softly on the bedroom door, turning the knob several times.
“Sweetheart… please open the door.”
“No,” you answered flatly from the other side.
“I’m sorry, I really am.” His voice was low, almost pleading. “I lost track of time, and—”
“Of time?” you interrupted sharply, your voice rising. “Clark, it’s our anniversary! It wasn’t just any dinner.”
Silence. He rested his forehead against the door.
“Please, open up. I just want to talk to you.”
Finally, with tears in your eyes, you opened the door. You looked straight at him, your face marked by anger and heartbreak.
“The worst part is that this time it’s not even about Superman,” you said, your voice trembling but steady. “That, I would’ve understood, Clark. I always do. I’m always here waiting while you risk your life out there. But now you tell me your job is so hard… so hard that you forgot our anniversary.”
Your voice echoed against the walls. Clark lowered his head, unable to meet your gaze, clutching the roses against his chest as if they could shield him.
“It’s just that… I lost the file again,” he muttered shakily. “I already took the computer for maintenance, but nothing worked. Margot had to help me… without her, I wouldn’t have made it home.”
Your eyes widened in disbelief; you felt the blood boil in your veins.
“Margot again?” you asked bitterly. “Is she always the one who saves you?”
“It’s not what you think,” he said quickly, looking up in desperation. “She just helps me with the articles. I… I was thinking about you, about us, I swear.”
“Thinking about me?” you let out a bitter laugh. “Thinking about me while spending the whole night with her at the office?”
“It wasn’t like that,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “I was stuck with that damn file, and by the time I realized… it was already late.”
“Exactly. It was already late.” Your words were knives.
Clark reached out his hand toward you, but you stepped back.
“Please… forgive me.”
“Go to bed, Kent.” You turned your back to him, your voice firm even though your heart ached. “I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
You got into bed, wiping your cheeks, leaving the bouquet of roses abandoned on the table. The same excuse. The same emptiness.
The next morning, the office buzzed with its usual rhythm. Clark walked out of the building with Perry, caught up in a quick conversation. You sat at your desk, still feeling the knot in your throat, when a shadow leaned over your table.
It was Margot. Smiling, with an air that was far too confident, she dropped a small chocolate beside your papers.
"I'm so sorry. It’s my fault Clark didn’t make it to dinner. It’s just that… we got caught up talking." Her smile was poisoned.
You frowned, confused.
"Talking?"
"Yeah," she replied casually, shrugging. "We finished the article. Everyone else had already left, and the two of us stayed chatting. Then he said he’d be late for his dinner… sorry." She paused dramatically, tilting her head with feigned guilt. "It’s just that those files keep disappearing, it’s like… fate wants us together." She let out a light laugh, as if sharing a private secret, and skipped away.
You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You looked down, trying to convince yourself it was just another one of her provocations, but the seed of doubt was already planted.
Clark arrived minutes later, his steady stride and that tired smile that usually brought you calm. But this time, you saw something different: Margot rushed ahead, bouncing toward him, and with far too much familiarity, took his arm. Clark nodded in thanks, unaware of the look that pierced straight through your heart.
Was something happening?
You stood up without thinking, the sound of your chair scraping breaking the soft murmur of the room. You walked toward the exit, unable to stay there a second longer. You didn’t see how Clark turned his head to watch you leave, worry etched in his face. You didn’t see how Margot pulled him back sharply, as if she didn’t want him to follow you, nor how Perry, in his firm tone, reminded him they were on a deadline and led him back to his desk.
You were already outside, your heart tight, and the creeping feeling that maybe—just maybe—Margot had gotten exactly what she wanted: to plant doubt.
You stepped out, trying to catch your breath, trying to make sense of whether you were really living this with Clark. Each step felt heavier, the doubt growing deeper in your chest until, after several blocks, you reached the park and sat on a cold iron bench, hugging your arms tightly around yourself.
The murmur of the city felt like a distant echo when, suddenly, the world exploded.
A deafening blast shook the ground beneath your feet. The bomb had gone off only a few meters away, and within seconds, the air was filled with black smoke, thick dust, and heat that burned your skin. The park turned into an improvised battlefield—people running in every direction, screams of terror, shattered glass flying like knives.
Your eyes locked onto her: a little girl, no more than six years old, frozen in fear right at the edge of a collapsing construction site. You didn’t hesitate. You ran with every ounce of strength your trembling body could summon and pushed her out of the way, shielding her beneath you.
The impact was brutal. A rain of stone and steel crashed down on you. You felt the sharp thud of a beam on your shoulder, rocks tearing the skin on your forehead and hand, a burning pain that stole your breath. Still, you held the child beneath you, covering her body with yours like a human shield. The dust blinded you, the screams merged with the roar of destruction, and the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth.
And then, through the smoke and chaos, the red cape fluttered.
Superman. Your Clark.
He burst onto the scene like an unstoppable force, shoving aside twisted beams as if they were branches, lifting collapsed walls, carrying injured bodies to safety. His eyes darted quickly, calculating, searching. But when he finally saw you, time stopped.
There you were: half-buried under blocks of concrete, your face bloodied, hair stuck to your forehead, your trembling hand hanging limp. His eyes locked with yours, and in that instant you knew he had recognized you. Not by your clothes, not by your silhouette amid the dust… but by your gaze, and by the necklace that glimmered faintly under the broken light of the fire.
Clark froze for a second that felt eternal. His breath hitched, his lips parted as if to call your name, but he forced himself to hold back. No one could suspect that Superman knew this trapped woman. No one could discover the truth.
He knelt in desperation, lifting the massive slab that was about to crush you. He held it with superhuman strength while freeing you carefully, as though one wrong move might shatter you completely.
Your eyes were still on him, but pain was already clouding your vision. You tried to say something, anything, but only a faint breath escaped you, barely audible. He leaned closer, and you caught the anguish in his blue eyes.
"Easy… I’m here," he whispered, his voice trembling, so low no one else could hear.
You wanted to believe him. You wanted to cling to his promise. But just as your fingers tried to brush his, your strength left you. Your body collapsed unconscious against his arms. The last thing you saw was his silhouette leaning over you, his cape whipping violently through the smoke.
Clark saw you still holding the child, as if your instinct had been to keep her safe until the very last second. He handed the girl first to the paramedics rushing through the chaos, and only then did he take you into his arms, trembling at the weak flutter of your pulse.
In that moment, he was not Superman. He was simply Clark—the man who had arrived too late, now fighting himself not to fall apart while holding you.
He flew so fast the wind cut his skin. He wasn’t crying yet—he couldn’t. No one could know he knew you, no one could suspect what you meant to him. He reached the nearest hospital, one not yet overwhelmed.
"She’s injured," he announced firmly, setting you gently on the gurney.
The nurses rushed at once—one connecting monitors, another preparing intravenous lines. The sharp beep of the machine filled the silence.
"Pulse is low, 60 and falling," said one nurse, feeling your wrist.
"Oxygen saturation, 82%," added another, fitting the oxygen mask over your face.
"We need to cannulate immediately. Sixteen-gauge IV."
Clark didn’t take his eyes off you; every word from the medical staff was like an invisible blow. He feared that closing his eyes for even an instant might mean never seeing you again.
An older doctor approached, quickly examining your abdomen.
"Right side is rigid… possible internal bleeding. Start rapid infusion."
The nurses obeyed. A clear liquid began to flow into your vein, trying to hold your pressure steady. The monitor kept sounding irregular alarms.
"Another attack?" asked one doctor to the man in a suit who had come in with Clark, assuming he was with him.
"Yes…" Clark answered, his voice breaking, unable to explain more.
A nurse reached for a form.
"We need to identify her for the records."
"No. Later," the surgeon cut in urgently. "Get her to the OR now! Her pressure’s at 70 over 40—if we wait she could go into irreversible shock."
Clark lowered his head, fighting back tears that blurred his vision.
"I… I know her boyfriend. I’ll call him."
No one questioned his lie; they were too busy trying to save you.
The gurney rolled swiftly down the hallways. Clark followed as far as he could, his footsteps hammering in his chest. He heard the doctors’ voices, every word a knife:
"There’s free fluid in the abdomen."
"She’s losing too much blood, likely a major vessel rupture."
"Prepare for emergency laparotomy."
"Internal hemorrhage confirmed."
Clark stood frozen, pacing up and down the corridor.
He couldn’t take it anymore. He flew straight to his apartment. He changed hurriedly, but looking around hit him harder than any explosion: the balloons already sagging, the roses wilting in their vase, the table set for an anniversary that never was. Everything still there, waiting for you. The dinner he had booked at that luxurious restaurant you’d longed to visit now meaningless. The tears he had held back fell uncontrollably. He covered his face with his hands, realizing what he was about to lose.
He returned to the hospital. He landed silently on the rooftop, unseen. Then he descended a service stairwell and sank into one of the chairs outside the operating room door. His hands trembled. He heard nothing—not the bustle of doctors, not the murmur of nurses. All he could feel was the emptiness left by your weakening pulse, your life slipping through his fingers, and the terrifying possibility that this time he might not save you.
Clark sat in front of the OR door, his elbows resting on his knees, his face buried in his hands. He had sent quick messages to Lois and Jimmy, asking them to keep quiet, to tell no one else. He didn’t want pitying looks, didn’t want newsroom rumors. He just needed company.
The phone vibrated in his pocket. A call. On the screen, the name: Intern M.
He took a deep breath before answering.
"Yeah?" he replied in a low, rough tone, trying to sound calm.
On the other end, Margot’s voice came through, dripping with fake professionalism.
"Clark, your girlfriend hasn’t come back. We can’t leave our article like this. I’m sorry, but it’s unprofessional. I understand you love her, but if she’s jealous of me, that’s no reason to ruin your work."
Clark closed his eyes, clenching his teeth. His breathing quickened.
"Then do it." His voice cracked so loudly that several people in the room turned to look at him. He immediately lowered his gaze, holding back his anger. "All those weeks I spent explaining it were useless. Tell someone else to do it." He hung up abruptly.
Silence returned, broken only by the sound of his own racing heart. He wiped his tears with his sleeve. He needed to calm down, but every time he thought something could’ve happened to you, his head started spinning. And hearing someone belittle you like that, insult you that way, was the last thing he needed.
That’s when he heard hurried footsteps. He looked up and saw Lois and Jimmy running down the hallway. Lois had tears in her eyes; Jimmy held her arm to keep her from stumbling.
"Where is she?" Lois whispered, her voice trembling.
"In surgery," Clark said, barely managing to get the words out. Lois sobbed, covering her mouth with her hand.
"How… how did it happen?" she asked, her eyes red. "Didn’t you feel it with your… Kryptonian thing?"
Clark shook his head, swallowing hard.
"No."
Lois frowned, almost angry.
"You should’ve felt it, you should’ve sensed the bomb."
Jimmy shook his head gently, as if asking her not to blame him anymore. Lois lowered her head, biting her lip to stop herself from saying more.
"Did you talk to her before it happened?" Jimmy asked carefully.
Clark closed his eyes, and this time, he couldn’t hold back the tears.
"No. She was mad at me." His voice broke as he said it.
Jimmy looked down. He knew there was no worse punishment than having anger be your last memory. And Clark knew it better than anyone.
The hours passed slowly, like centuries. Lois and Jimmy stayed with him for two hours, saying little else, just sitting in silence—sharing tears, squeezing his hand. When they finally returned to the newsroom, they only told Perry and Cat. They didn’t give details, didn’t start rumors. Only short messages of support began to appear on Clark’s phone. Words that couldn’t heal the wound, but reminded him he wasn’t completely alone in that endless wait.
The clock kept ticking, each second like a hammer, and behind those doors, the question that was tearing him apart kept beating: would you survive that surgery?
Clark turned off his phone. He didn’t want more calls, more excuses—he didn’t want to hear any voice but yours when you finally woke up. He stood up immediately when the doctor came out, looking tired but composed.
"Superman told me about my… my girlfriend," Clark said, his voice trembling, every word an effort.
The doctor nodded.
"Yes. She lost a lot of blood. We managed to stabilize her. The bruises on her hands will heal with time. What worries us are her organs—they were exposed to the smoke and are extremely sensitive. We’ll keep her under observation tonight. If she makes it through without worsening, tomorrow we’ll move her to the stable patients’ ward."
Clark swallowed hard, his gaze pleading.
"Can I see her?"
The doctor shook his head gently.
"Not yet. Tomorrow, yes. I’m sorry."
Clark lowered his head, closing his eyes tightly. He stayed there, in the cold hallway, unmoving. He didn’t eat, didn’t drink, didn’t even step outside when the sun went down. He only allowed himself to stand by the window, looking at the night sky—but he didn’t fly. He couldn’t. It felt as if leaving that place meant losing the only connection to your heartbeat still fighting in another room. The hours turned eternal.
"You can go in now." The doctor’s voice was a lifeline in the middle of the void.
Clark turned instantly, nodding quickly. They handed him a special gown to enter, and he adjusted it with trembling hands.
"She’s not in the stable ward yet. But once your visit is over, we’ll move her there, and you’ll be able to stay with her," the doctor explained.
Clark didn’t wait another second. The door opened, and the sound of the machine tracking your heartbeat hit him square in the chest. The steady beeping was the only thing reminding him that you were still there—still fighting.
He used his vision, subtly, just to be sure: the swelling in your organs was going down, the internal bleeding already under control. For the first time in hours, he could breathe again, if only a little.
"I’ll leave you," the doctor said softly, stepping out and leaving him alone with you.
Clark moved closer slowly, as if one wrong step could break you. He sat by your side, took your cold hand in his, and his tears began to fall uncontrollably.
Clark approached slowly, as if he feared breaking you with just one step. He sat beside you, took your cold hand, and tears began to fall uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry…" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I failed you. I failed you as Clark and as Superman. I should’ve been there, and I wasn’t. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, but I don’t want to lose you. I couldn’t live in a world without you." He pressed your hand against his face, letting his forehead rest on it as he sobbed like a child.
That was when he heard your weak voice, almost like an echo.
"Clark?"
He lifted his head abruptly. Your eyes were slowly opening, disoriented. The sight hit him hard—you were alive.
"Oh, sweetheart…" he murmured, wiping his tears with his sleeve before leaning closer.
"The girl…" you said, your voice raspy as you licked your dry lips. "Where is she? There was a…"
"She’s fine," Clark replied quickly, brushing your cheek gently. "She’s stable now. Lois interviewed her parents—she’s safe."
Your eyes searched for his. He couldn’t take it anymore; the guilt was tearing him apart.
"Forgive me, love. Please forgive me. I didn’t make it in time. I haven’t made it in time this entire month. I failed you on our anniversary, I failed you as a man and as a hero. I don’t deserve your love. God…" His voice broke again, and the tears returned.
You looked at him with a small, tired smile.
"It’s okay, Clark… it’s fine."
He shook his head, desperation burning in his eyes.
"No, it’s not fine. Nothing’s fine if you’re hurt." He leaned closer, gently running his fingers through your hair.
Clark buried his face in your hand again, holding on as if that touch were the only reason he had left to breathe.
Days passed in the hospital. You remained under observation, and Clark stayed with you. Perry, knowing how hard both of you had worked, gave him a few days off without hesitation. The room was small, barely big enough for a sofa—which, for someone as tall as Clark, was painfully uncomfortable—but he never complained. He made do, knees bent, head resting on a cushion, waiting each day for you to heal. You watched him at times, doubt growing in your chest: should you tell him what Margot had said?
One morning, Clark was folding the blankets neatly, smoothing out his wrinkled shirt.
"Go home," you told him softly but firmly. "You’re tired. You haven’t slept well."
He looked up at you and shook his head.
"I’m fine. A little sunlight is all I need." He smiled, as if nothing in the world could break him as long as you were there.
A light knock at the door interrupted the conversation.
"Visitor," announced a nurse, opening the door.
"Thanks." Lois’s voice filled the room. She carried a bouquet of tulips in her hand. Upon entering, she stopped when she saw the vase beside your bed, already filled with fresh tulips. "Told you, Jimmy. Clark beat us to it." She frowned in mock disappointment.
"I told you we should’ve gone with the lilacs," protested Jimmy as he followed behind her.
"Olsen’s just looking for an excuse to buy another carnivorous plant," Lois said, rolling her eyes. She handed the bouquet to Clark before walking over to you. "How are you?"
"Healing," you answered with a small smile.
"I’m glad." Lois nodded and sighed. "The newsroom’s a mess. And by the way, the gossip’s out of control. Which one do we start with first?" She dragged a stool next to you, while Jimmy collapsed onto the sofa—fitting much better there than Clark ever had.
You smiled at the scene, and Clark, now sitting beside you on a small bench, gently took your hand. His eyes stayed fixed on you, as if Lois and Jimmy were nothing but background noise.
"Start with the crazy intern," Jimmy said suddenly.
You and Clark turned to him at the same time.
"Crazy?" you asked, frowning.
Lois raised an eyebrow and pulled a USB drive from her jacket pocket.
"Recordings. The other two interns working with Clark made them. She was deleting articles… ones that, conveniently, always disappeared from your computer, Kent." She looked at you seriously.
Your eyes widened in disbelief. Lois continued:
"Perry confirmed it. He said to put a password on your files, and Margot’s been reported. Also, the pieces you kept praising her for weren’t even hers—the other two wrote them."
"The poor guys were being threatened," added Jimmy from the couch. "They said if they talked, she’d ruin them. And they mentioned something about you." He pointed at you. "The day of the accident, she came up to you before you left the building. They think that because they stayed quiet, you ended up here."
"Why?" you asked, your heart tightening.
Jimmy fumbled with his phone, looking nervous.
"They told me to show you this." He turned on the screen and played a video.
The image shook slightly—it was Jimmy recording. In front of the camera stood Claire, a young intern with a nervous face who kept her eyes down.
"We want to apologize to you," she said timidly. "If we had spoken earlier about how awful Margot was to us, you’d be fine now. But she forced us to stay with Mr. Kent for every late meeting."
Beside her, Eiden, the other intern, nodded.
"Yeah… we’re sorry. Mr. Kent was always very kind and professional. On your anniversary, we tried to hurry; we actually finished early, but Margot spilled coffee on my computer on purpose. We couldn’t do anything. We stayed for hours. She blamed me, and… well, Mr. Kent didn’t get angry, he just looked frustrated because he wanted to leave. In the end, we stayed until everything was done."
The video stopped.
Lois crossed her arms.
"That’s why Perry said this will be the first and last time he lets interns work under Clark and Jimmy’s supervision." She shook her head.
Silence filled the room. Clark squeezed your hand tightly, his eyes locked on yours, as if screaming without words: See? I wasn’t lying. No one matters more to me than you.
You looked at him closely. Clark had his gaze lowered, thoughtful ever since Lois and Jimmy had left. The tension of the past few days still lingered in the air, as if the emotional wound took longer to heal than the physical one.
“Are you sad because you won’t see your favorite intern anymore?” you asked, your tone half-ironic.
He shook his head slowly, not even lifting it. He moved the stool and sat beside you, taking your hand in his—so large and warm that it seemed to envelop yours completely.
Clark pulled the stool closer and sat beside you, holding your hand gently.
“My mom always told me that teaching was essential, that when someone younger comes with questions, an adult shouldn’t feel envy or annoyance, but patience.” He paused, lowering his gaze. “And that’s what I tried to do with all the interns.”
He rubbed his forehead, as if it weighed on him to admit it.
“I didn’t see much interest from the boys, and Margot kept asking me questions all the time. I thought I was doing my job well, that I was truly teaching something. I believed I was following what my mom taught me: giving second chances, being patient, never giving up on anyone.”
You looked at him tenderly, understanding him better now.
“But you did teach, Clark. Eiden and Claire turned in good work, didn’t they?”
He nodded.
“Yes, but I thought that was their own merit, not mine. And when Margot told me I was a great teacher, I accepted it because I wanted to believe it.” He took a deep breath, a bitter smile crossing his lips. “And in the end, it wasn’t appreciation… it was manipulation.”
You squeezed his hand.
“No wonder you answered all her questions, Clark. Not because you cared what Margot thought of you… but because you truly believed she wanted to learn.”
He lifted his eyes to you, his voice soft.
“Exactly. I wanted to see the best in her, like I always try to with everyone. And all I did was give her space to use me.” He leaned a little closer to you. “Forgive me if that hurt you, love. It was never about her. It was about that urge I have to believe everyone deserves to be heard.”
“I know,” you said with a weak smile. “And even if you’re sometimes too good, that’s what makes you who you are.”
Clark smiled, tears glimmering in his eyes.
“Still, I won’t let anyone ever make you feel lesser again.”
You looked at him in silence, giving him space to continue.
Clark lifted his gaze and, for the first time, let the truth in his heart escape.
“How could I stop loving, from one day to the next, the woman I want as the mother of my children?” His eyes grew wet. “There’s no one else in my mind or in my heart. Only you. Everything I do, everything I try to improve, it’s because I imagine a future with you. And if I was ever kind to anyone else, it was just my nature… it never meant anything.”
Your breath caught at his words. Clark leaned closer, caressing your cheek tenderly.
“How long have you been thinking about whether we’ll have children?” you finally asked, genuine curiosity in your voice.
Clark adjusted himself a little, his lips curving into a shy smile.
“Since you moved in with me. I thought it’d be nice to buy our own house. With several bedrooms and… a big field.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head.
“A field? In Metropolis, that’s impossible, love.”
“Of course,” he replied playfully. “That’s why I’ve been looking at plots in Smallville. There are plenty. I thought it would be the perfect place. Quiet, safe… I imagined our kids running around without fear, knowing their mom and I would always be there for them. And even if the world sees me as Superman, I want them to see me as Clark Kent. Their dad. Nothing more.”
You looked at him—this man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, yet in that moment thought only of you and a shared future.
“Clark, I’m sure that when that time comes, our children will be proud. Not of Superman, but of Clark.”
Clark leaned in carefully, so as not to hurt you, and pressed a long, delicate kiss to your lips.
“I love you,” he whispered, curling up against you gently, as if afraid of breaking you.
You held him weakly, resting your forehead on his chest. And there, between the machines keeping pace with your heart and the distant hum of the hospital, it felt as if the whole world had vanished. There were no villains, no chaos, no doubts. Only Clark, you, and the promise of a future where nothing mattered more than the two of you.
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This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.
Note: I’d like to give a shout-out to @smilereads because it was her idea, and I decided to write a sequel. Please enjoy it—though I know you already will, haha.
Part 1
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: After accidentally discovering that her awkward coworker Clark Kent is actually Superman, everything she thought she knew about desire, admiration, and love begins to unravel. But the real shock comes when Clark admits he already saw the drawings she tried so hard to hide — and that he’s spent just as much time imagining her too.
Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content • Mutual Obsession • Voyeuristic Themes • Explicit Language • Masturbation Mention • Oral Sex • Multiple Orgasms • Unprotected Sex • Possessive Language • Emotional Vulnerability
WC: 9,700 words approx.
You walked quickly toward your apartment, not looking back, not stopping at any traffic light longer than necessary. You climbed the stairs because you didn’t want to wait for the elevator, and when you finally closed the door of your home behind you, you pressed your forehead against the cold wood and stayed there for a long while, just breathing. All the pieces were coming together in your head like a puzzle you never asked to solve. Clark. Superman. The same man. The same broad, strong body. The same way of tilting his head when he listened carefully to something. The same soft smile he gave before leaving. Did Clark want you to know his secret? Or was it just an accident that his glasses fell off right when you looked at him? Or did he know what you had drawn and was playing with you? No… or yes. You couldn’t be sure of anything.
You left your bag on the floor, right by the door, and walked without turning on the lights to your room. The darkness helped you think, or at least you wanted to believe that. You sat on the edge of the bed and reached your hand under the mattress, where you had hidden the envelope with the drawings. You took it out carefully, as if it were something sacred, and opened it with trembling fingers. You took out the drawings one by one, spreading them on the bed to see them clearly in the moonlight streaming through the window. The first was a half-body drawing of Superman, in the blue suit and red cape, but with his hair messier than usual. The second was Superman without his shirt, the one you had made the other night, with drops of sweat and defined muscles. You stared at it for a long time, and your mind began changing the details: if you put glasses on him, if you lowered that curl you liked so much, if you took away the cape. And then he stopped being Superman and became Clark. Your coworker. The man who brought you coffee every morning.
You took a pencil from your nightstand, the same one you used to draw when you couldn't sleep, and on a blank sheet, you began to draw quickly, with confident strokes. You drew Superman but with his glasses halfway down his nose, just as you had seen him a while ago in Jimmy's apartment. You drew the messy hair, the strong jaw, the broad shoulders. And when you finished, you held the drawing in front of you and compared the similarities. Everything fit. The height was the same. The shoulders had the same width. The shape of his hands, the position of his feet, the curve of his smile. Everything. Every detail you had spent months drawing without knowing it was exactly the same as Clark.
As you changed into your pajamas to keep comparing your drawings, you sighed. Finally, you returned to the bed. Your heart beat so hard you thought it would burst from your chest; you didn’t even notice a noise that appeared—or maybe you did, but you thought, It’s just something hitting something somewhere. All those drawings you made of Superman, all those nights you spent imagining what it would be like to have him close, what it would be like to feel his hands on your waist, what it would be like to kiss those lips… all that time, it was Clark. Clark, the shy one, the one who always blushed when you looked at him. Clark, the same man you’d asked for his height in the elevator, unaware that you were measuring Superman.
You went completely still. The noise repeated, clearer this time. Someone was tapping at your window.
But you lived on the fifth floor. There was no balcony, no ledge—just a window facing the empty street behind the building. Your whole body tensed. You set the drawing down on the bed carefully, without a sound, and rose slowly, your bare feet sinking into the carpet. The only light in the room was the glow from the city, that orange-and-gray haze that never fully goes out in Metropolis.
You walked toward the window with your heart in your throat, feeling as though at any moment it would leap out of your chest. You grabbed the curtain with your fingertips and pulled it aside just a few centimeters.
And then you saw him.
Clark was there. On the other side of the glass. His hair was messier than ever, as if he had flown at full speed to get here. He still had his glasses on, but they were crooked, like he had put them on in a hurry. His chest rose and fell quickly, breathing hard, and his hands were resting on the window frame. He saw you through the glass and didn’t smile. He just looked at you. With those eyes that you now knew were the same as Superman’s. Without thinking, without asking yourself how he had gotten there, without asking yourself why you weren’t afraid, you opened the window.
The cold night air rushed in, blowing your hair and making the curtain fly back. Clark didn’t wait for an invitation. He swung one leg over, then the other, and in less than a second, he was inside your room, standing in front of you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"Clark?" you whispered, your voice barely a breath. It sounded like a question, but in truth it was a statement. You already knew it was him. You’d already figured it out. But saying it out loud, looking into his eyes, with him standing inside your room after coming in through a fifth-floor window—it made everything real in a way that left you breathless. Your lungs filled with held-in air, as if your body had forgotten how to let it go.
You looked him up and down. Him. Clark. The man you’d thought until hours ago was shy and clumsy, and now you saw him climb through a window as if it were nothing. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"I thought… you wouldn’t notice," Clark said, and his voice sounded different. It wasn’t the nervous voice he always used in the office when apologizing for bumping into your chair. It was deeper, steadier, more confident. But his posture was the same: shoulders slightly hunched, head a little bowed, as if he wanted to take up less space than he actually occupied. You couldn’t see his face clearly in the dim light—only his blue eyes shining in the dusk, reflecting the city’s glow.
But his steps brought him toward you, slow, careful, as if he were afraid of scaring you.
"I would have gone crazy if you hadn’t…" He paused, and you heard him swallow. "…if you hadn’t figured it out. That’s… what I… wanted."
He admitted it. Said it plainly. No turning back. No excuses. Clark had wanted you to know the truth.
Your mind did another backflip. Your ears began to ring, that ringing that appears when you’re so nervous you might faint. You looked at him without fully understanding, though deep in your heart, you knew exactly what his words meant.
“Why?” you asked, your voice so low you barely heard it yourself.
Clark did not answer immediately. He stood in silence, staring at you, and in that silence your head filled with images. The drawings. All the drawings. Superman without a shirt. Superman with droplets of sweat. Superman holding a waist. Superman kissing you on the page. Your face next to his. Your hands on his chest. Everything. He’d had your sketchbook. He’d held it in his hands for hours before you came to retrieve it.
"You… saw them?" you asked in a low voice, so low that you trembled saying it. Your hands pressed together, fingers intertwining as if they could protect you from the answer you already knew was coming.
But before he could reply, shame crept up your neck, into your cheeks, to your ears. The drawings. He had seen the drawings. Those intimate, personal sketches where you’d poured out everything you imagined, everything you desired, everything you’d never dared say aloud. Your whole body flushed with embarrassment. Your hands shook. Your eyes filled with tears—not from sadness, but from sheer nerves.
"Clark, I…" you tried to say, but your voice broke in your throat. You swallowed hard. Your fingers played with the hem of your shirt, twisting it endlessly. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Those drawings… you shouldn’t have seen them. I shouldn’t have made them. They’re so inappropriate, so… I never wanted anyone to see them, least of all you, least of all now knowing that you’re… that you are…"
You couldn’t finish the sentence. Each word came out more twisted than the last. You felt like you were sinking, like the floor was opening beneath your feet. He was standing there in front of you, and everything you’d drawn in the privacy of your room was now in his head. He knew how you imagined him. He knew you’d drawn him shirtless, knew you’d drawn him touching you, holding you, kissing you. He knew that in your dreams, he was yours.
"I’m a bad person," you whispered, more to yourself than to him, and you squeezed your eyes shut, as if you could erase everything just by closing them. "You’re going to think I’m sick, that I’m unprofessional, that I’m a…"
You didn’t finish the sentence. Because Clark moved.
It wasn’t a large step. Just a tilt of his head, a lean closer, but it was enough for you to feel his warmth on your skin, for the air between you to become dense and hot. When you opened your eyes, he was centimeters from your face. His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t disgust. It was something else. Something that traced down your spine like a shiver and ignited your skin from within.
"Actually, I did more than just look at them," Clark said again, but this time his voice was deeper, rougher, as if the words cost him effort to speak.
Your heart lurched. Your lips parted to ask what he meant, but no sound came out. You could only stare at him, eyes wide, as he moved even closer, until his chest nearly brushed yours. His hands—those hands you’d drawn so many times holding your waist—rose slowly to your shoulders, and you felt each finger like a live coal.
"I came to apologize," Clark said, his voice barely a thread. "For using you in my imagination inappropriately."
Your legs went weak. You had to grab his arms to keep from falling, and when you touched him, you felt his tense muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. He didn’t pull away. On the contrary, his hands closed gently around your shoulders, squeezing just barely, as if he were afraid of breaking you but also as if he couldn’t let you go.
"Using me inappropriately…" you repeated, not quite understanding, yet understanding everything at the same time.
"Every day," Clark whispered, and his warm breath brushed your lips. "In the office, when I see you draw with your head tilted. In the elevator, when you stare at me without saying a word. In my bed at night, when I close my eyes and can only think of you."
A small, barely audible whimper escaped your throat. You couldn’t help it. His voice, his closeness, the weight of his words—they were unraveling you completely. You could feel every one of his fingers on your shoulders, the heat of his body enveloping you, his breathing growing faster, heavier.
"I’ve been so desperate for you," Clark said, and this time his voice trembled. "For so long I’ve lost count. And when I saw your drawings… when I saw what you imagined, what you wanted… I nearly lost my mind."
His hands moved from your shoulders to your arms, from your arms to your ribs, from your ribs to your waist. His fingers pressed into the curve of your hip with a gentleness that contrasted with the tension thrumming through his whole body. He was holding you as if you were the most fragile thing in the world, but there was something in his gaze—something dark and hungry—that told you that gentleness might shatter at any moment.
"Do you know what I did?" he asked, and the question wasn’t really a question. It was a confession. His forehead rested against yours, his lips grazing yours with every word. "I locked the door. I closed the windows. I sat on the bed with your sketchbook open in my hands, looking at those drawings you made of me. Of you. Of us."
Your breath caught. Your hands, still gripping his arms, clenched tighter. You could feel his veins pulsing beneath your palm, his heart pumping as fast as yours.
"I touched myself thinking of you," Clark said, his voice breaking on the last syllable. "While I looked at those drawings where you have me like that—so close, so deep inside you… I touched myself until I couldn’t anymore. And I… I’m sorry."
An immense heat flooded from your chest to your belly, and you felt your legs tremble and your core clench with every word from his mouth. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Clark. Shy Clark. The one who always looked down when you spoke to him. He was here, in your room, confessing that he’d been so desperate for you he couldn’t restrain himself with your drawings.
"I didn’t come just to apologize," Clark continued, his hands sliding a little higher up your back, drawing you toward him until there was no space left between you. His chest pressed against yours, and you could feel everything: the hard muscles, the heat, the racing rhythm of his heart. "I came because I can’t take it anymore. I came because you need to know that what you drew is nothing compared to what I’ve imagined. What I’ve dreamed. What I’ve wanted."
His nose brushed your cheek, then your jaw, then trailed down to your neck. You felt his open lips on your skin—hot, damp—and a moan escaped your lips before you could stop it. His fingers tightened against your lower back, pressing you into him, and then you felt it. Hard. Throbbing. Pressed against your belly through the thin fabric of his trousers and your pajamas. There was no mistaking it. No room for doubt.
"You see what you do to me?" Clark murmured against your neck, and his voice was so rough, so needy, it made you shudder entirely. "Just by looking at you. Just by having you close. I’ve been like this for days, weeks, months. And when I saw those drawings… when I saw how you wanted me…"
He lifted his head and looked into your eyes. His were dark, nearly black, pupils so dilated you could barely see the blue. His chest rose and fell with every heavy breath. His lips were parted, red, wet, and his gaze roamed your face as if he wanted to devour you with his eyes before doing so with his mouth.
"I need you to know it wasn’t just once," he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl. "I’ve thought about you every night since I met you. But since I saw those drawings… since I knew you imagined me like that too…"
His hand rose to your chin and lifted it gently, forcing you to meet his gaze directly. His thumb brushed your lower lip and pressed it just slightly, as if he were caressing something he’d wanted to touch forever.
"Clark…" you whispered, your voice as broken, as needy, as his.
"Tell me I’m not the only one," he said, and there was a plea in his words, something fragile behind all that strength. "Tell me that what you drew is what you want. Tell me I do this to you too. Tell me you’ve thought about me as much as I’ve thought about you."
His blue eyes gleamed in the half-dark, waiting for your answer as if his life depended on it. His hands still rested on your hips, his fingers barely trembling against the fabric of your pajamas. You could feel his heart beating hard, as hard as yours, and his breath mingling with yours in the small space between his lips and yours.
And in that moment, as you stared straight into his eyes, something clicked inside your head. Something you’d been denying yourself for months, maybe years.
You’d always thought you drew Superman so often because he was a hero, because he was famous, because he was the most important man in Metropolis. But now, with Clark in front of you—with his messy hair falling over his forehead exactly as in your drawings, with his broad shoulders you’d recognize anywhere—you realized the truth.
A truth you’d been hiding from yourself for a very long time.
You drew Superman because he looked like Clark. But it wasn’t just that. It was worse. It was that you refused to admit you were thinking indecently about your shy coworker. About Clark, who was only ever kind, who brought you coffee without being asked, who smiled at you with that shyness that melted you inside. You couldn’t allow yourself to desire Clark. Clark was your friend, your colleague, the man everyone said would end up with Lois. So you turned to Superman. You drew Superman so you wouldn’t have to admit that really, for months, the one you’d wanted to draw was Clark.
Maybe that was why you loved saying goodbye to him in the elevator. It wasn’t by chance that you always stood next to him. It wasn’t chance that your shoulder brushed his when the elevator moved, and you felt that tingle run over your skin every time it happened. Maybe that was why you loved receiving coffee from him. Because you took the chance to look at his enormous hand holding your cup, and then you compared yours to his, measuring the size of his fingers, imagining how they would feel on your skin.
All those small things you’d ignored, all those times you’d looked away when he got too close, all those nights you drew Superman but thought of Clark without daring to admit it even to yourself… it all made sense now.
"You have no idea," you said, and your voice came out rough, needy, as if you’d been holding those words in for years.
Clark’s eyes widened a little, surprised by the intensity of your response. But you didn’t have time to see more, because you were already moving.
You rose on your tiptoes, grabbed the fabric of his shirt with both hands, and kissed him.
It wasn’t a soft kiss. It wasn’t an exploratory kiss. It was a kiss of "I’ve waited too long and I can’t anymore." Your fingers tangled in the cloth, wrinkling it, gripping it, as if you were afraid that if you let go, he would disappear.
Clark made a muffled sound against your mouth, a low groan that vibrated on your lips and ran through your entire body. His hands, which had been still on your hips, suddenly clenched tighter, as if he were only just reacting, as if your kiss had caught him off guard. But you didn’t give him time to think. Your need to feel him, to touch him, to confirm he was real and there—it was greater than any shame or doubt. Clark had said enough. He’d confessed that he’d seen you, imagined you, touched himself thinking of you while looking at your drawings. There was nothing left to hide. Nothing left to pretend.
You would show him.
Clark returned the kiss with the same urgency, the same desperation. His tongue found yours, and the kiss grew deeper, wetter, messier. His hands released your hips and ran up your back, grabbing the fabric of your pajamas as if he wanted to tear it. You took that moment to pull at his shirt, tugging it upward, and he understood.
He pulled back from your lips just enough to grab the hem himself and rip the shirt over his head, tossing it into some corner of the room without caring where it landed.
And then you saw him.
His bare chest in front of you. The same muscles you had drawn so many times, the same defined pectorals, the same broad shoulders, the same tanned skin that gleamed in the faint light coming through the window. But it wasn't a drawing. It was real. He was there, centimeters from you, hot and trembling and breathing as fast as you were.
Your hands rose to his shoulders, just as you had imagined so many times. Your fingers traced the curve of his muscles, the hardness of his skin, the warmth radiating from him. It was exactly as you had drawn him. Exactly. But a thousand times better because it was true, because it was now, because it was him.
Clark looked at you with dark eyes, nearly black, and his hands slid down to your thighs. He grabbed you behind your knees, and with a gentle but firm movement, lifted you off the floor. You wrapped your legs around his waist without thinking, clinging to him as if you had always been meant to fit together like this. Your pajama top rode up a little, and the skin of your thighs pressed against his bare ribs, hot against hot.
Clark held you as if you weighed nothing, with an ease that reminded you who he really was. His hands settled on your lower back, right where your pajama top ended and your bare skin began, and his fingers pressed gently into that curve you had drawn so many times.
As you kissed him again—slower this time, deeper—your hands moved up to his head. Your fingers tangled in his curls, the same curls you had drawn over and over without knowing they were his. Clark's hair was soft between your fingers, softer than you had imagined, and when you tugged gently, he groaned into your mouth.
"Just like that," Clark murmured against your lips, his voice breaking. "That's how I imagined you. Your hands in my hair. Your legs around me."
You gasped at his words. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, almost as fast as his. You could feel his hard erection between your legs, pressed against your most intimate place through the fabric of your pajama bottoms and his trousers. There was no way to ignore it. No way not to move against it, seeking more pressure, more heat, more of him.
"Clark," you whispered his name, and it sounded like a prayer.
He carried you to the bed without letting you go, without separating his mouth from yours. When your back touched the sheets again, he stayed above you, braced on his forearms, his hips nestled between your open legs. His weight on you was perfect. Not crushing, not suffocating. It enveloped you. It filled you.
His lips left yours and traveled down to your jaw, to your neck, to the curve of your shoulder. He kissed and nibbled gently, alternating between wet caresses and small bites that made you arch your back. Your hands remained tangled in his hair, tugging just slightly whenever he found a spot that made you shudder.
"I've dreamed of this," Clark murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating through you. "Every night. Every damn night."
You closed your eyes and let his words, his kisses, his hands carry you away. Because you had dreamed too. You had imagined too. You had drawn every centimeter of his body without knowing it was him, without knowing it had always been him. And now you had him. You had him for real.
His lips continued their path down your neck, biting softly, licking after, leaving a hot, wet trail that made you tremble all over. His hands, enormous and firm, slid under your pajama top, grazing your bare skin with rough palms. Every centimeter he touched ignited as if you had a fever. You arched your back against him, seeking more contact, more skin, more of everything.
"I want to see you," Clark murmured against your collarbone, his voice so rough it barely sounded human. "All of you. I want to see all of you."
He didn't need to ask twice. Your hands went to the hem of your pajama top and you pulled it up slowly, feeling his eyes fixed on every piece of skin you revealed. When the fabric passed over your head and you tossed it aside, you were left in just your bra in front of him.
Clark stared at you for a moment, his lips parted, his breath halted, as if he were seeing something he had waited for his entire life.
"You're more beautiful than in my dreams," he said, and it didn't sound like a compliment. It sounded like a confession. Like an undeniable fact.
His hands rose to your ribs and traveled down slowly, caressing every curve, every bone, every empty space now filled by his fingers. He reached the waistband of your pajama bottoms—the loose ones you wore to sleep—and hooked his thumbs under them. He looked at you in silent question, and you nodded, lifting your hips just slightly to help him.
Clark slid the bottoms down, slowly, so slowly that you felt the fabric graze your thighs, your knees, your calves, until you were left in only your bra and the small scrap of fabric beneath. He tossed the pants to the floor and stared at you again, this time with eyes so dark they seemed black. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and his gaze traveled over your body as if he wanted to memorize every detail before touching it.
"God," he whispered, the word coming out like a moan.
You didn't want to be outdone. You pushed yourself up a little and brought your hands to his chest, caressing his pectorals, his shoulders, his enormous arms that you had drawn so many times. It was the first time you touched them for real, with no paper in between, and the sensation was so intense you felt almost dizzy. His muscles moved beneath his skin with every breath, hard and hot and perfect.
As your hands explored, Clark lowered his head to the center of your chest. His lips kissed the top edge of your bra, the exposed skin there, and his fingers found the clasp behind your back. He opened it with an ease that surprised you, and when the fabric fell away, when your breasts were bare before him, Clark let out a muffled groan that vibrated against your skin.
His mouth found one of your breasts, and you threw your head back, your hands gripping his shoulders, your fingers digging into his muscles. His tongue circled your nipple in slow, deliberate movements, while one of his hands traveled down your stomach until it reached the edge of your underwear. His fingers brushed against the damp fabric—because you were already wet, had been for a while, since he said your name—and Clark groaned at the feel of you.
"So wet," he murmured, and it wasn't a question. It was an observation. A marvel. Proof that he wasn't the only one, that you desired him too.
His fingers pushed the fabric aside and found your center, wet and hot and trembling. When he touched you, when he pressed just slightly, a moan escaped your throat and your whole body tensed. Clark lifted his head to watch you as his finger began to move—slowly at first, then faster, tracing circles that made you grip the sheet with one hand and his shoulder with the other.
"That's it," he whispered, watching your face transform, your eyes close, your mouth fall open beyond your control.
His name fell from your lips like a gasp, like a prayer. Clark, Clark, Clark. And as his finger kept moving, as his other hand rose to one of your breasts and squeezed gently, you felt something begin to grow inside you. Something hot, something enormous, something rising from your belly to your throat.
"I'm going to…" you tried to say, but couldn't finish the sentence.
"Let go," Clark said, and his voice was a soft command, a caress. "I want to see you. I want to feel you."
And you let go.
Your body arched completely, your legs trembled around him, your hands squeezed so hard they left marks on his skin. A long, broken moan escaped your lips as the first climax washed over you like a wave, shaking you from head to toe, leaving you trembling and breathless on the sheets.
Clark watched you come undone, and there was something hungry in his eyes. Something not yet finished. Something just beginning.
He didn't give you time to recover. He pushed himself up over you and brought his hands to his own trousers. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned them, as he lowered the zipper, as he removed his pants and underwear in one go, without shame, without care.
And then you saw him.
He was large. Larger than you had drawn, larger than you had imagined. Hard and throbbing, the tip glistening with pre-cum that already wet his stomach. Your mouth fell open involuntarily, and your legs spread wider, inviting him without words.
Clark lay back on top of you, this time with nothing in between. His skin against your skin, his chest against your breasts, his stomach against your belly. His weight was perfect, warm, real. He kissed you slowly, deeply, while his hips moved against yours and his erection slid between your folds, growing wet with your desire, mingling with it.
His tongue played with yours as you, without shame anymore, without fear anymore, ran your hands up his arms. You felt every muscle, every vein, every tremor. Your fingers traced his broad back, the curves of his shoulder blades, the spine that dipped down to his waist. Then you traveled down to his torso, his pectorals, his defined abs that you had drawn so many times. It was all real. It was all him.
Clark moaned against your neck as your hands caressed him, as your legs spread wider for him, as your hips began to move on their own, seeking his length, rubbing against it, feeling the pre-cum slicking everything.
"Please," you whispered, the first time you had ever asked for something like this in your life. "Clark, please."
He pulled his mouth from your neck and looked into your eyes. His face was flushed, his lips swollen, his hair plastered to his forehead. His hand rose to your jaw and held it with tenderness, with firmness, while his thumb caressed your lower lip.
"Look at me," he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl. "I want you to watch me when I have you."
His other hand went down between you and took hold of his length. He guided it to your entrance, brushing it just slightly, wetting the tip with your desire. The simple contact made you tremble all over, made your hips lift seeking more, made a moan escape your lips and get trapped against his thumb.
"Say my name again," Clark asked, moving his hips just enough for his tip to enter a centimeter, nothing more.
"Clark," you gasped, and your voice trembled, and your body trembled, and suddenly everything trembled.
That small movement, that small touch, was enough. The second climax hit you without warning, faster than the first, more intense. Your walls clenched around just the tip of him, and your whole body shook, your legs squeezed his hips, your hands grabbed his back, and Clark held you as you came undone again, his thumb on your lip and his eyes locked on yours.
"Just like that," he murmured, watching you shudder beneath him. "That's how I want you. Only for me."
When the tremor passed, when your breathing returned somewhat, Clark pushed. But not forcefully. He pushed slowly, carefully, entering centimeter by centimeter while he stared fixedly into your eyes. He was large, very large, and you could feel him filling you, stretching you, fitting himself to you. You threw your head back into the pillow as his hand remained on your jaw and his thumb continued stroking your lips. His eyes didn't leave yours for a single second. He looked at you with a mixture of tenderness and lust that melted you from the inside.
"You're perfect," Clark said, his voice broken, as he continued entering—slowly, very slowly, giving you time to adjust to him. "So tight. So hot. I've waited for you so long."
His hips pressed against yours when he was finally fully inside. Full. Complete. You could feel him pulsing within you, could feel every centimeter, every heartbeat. Clark stayed still for a moment, resting his forehead against yours, breathing as heavily as you, while his fingers caressed your cheek and his thumb never stopped brushing your lips.
"Are you okay?" he asked in a whisper, and there was so much care in his voice that your eyes filled with tears.
You nodded, unable to speak, and your arms wrapped around his neck to pull him closer to you. Clark smiled, just barely, and began to move.
At first it was slow, gentle, as if he were still savoring the moment, as if he never wanted it to end. His hips pushed against yours at a leisurely rhythm, entering and exiting slowly, making you feel every centimeter of him inside you.
"Oh, Clark," you moaned, lifting yourself so he could sink deeper into you.
Little by little, push after push, Clark increased his speed. His hips moved faster, harder, and the sound of his skin against yours filled the room along with the moans you could no longer—and didn't want to—hold back. His fingers gripped your hip firmly, leaving marks, and his other hand moved from your jaw to intertwine with yours on the pillow.
"You feel so good," Clark said, his voice broken by pleasure. "So tight, so hot. You're going to make me…"
He didn't finish the sentence. His body tensed completely, his movements growing more erratic, more desperate. You could feel his member throbbing inside you, each thrust going deeper, and you knew he was close. So were you. That heat was growing in your belly again, more intense than before, deeper.
"With me," Clark asked, his voice fractured. "Come with me."
And you did. At the same time. His body arched over you, a hoarse, long groan escaping his throat, and you felt him fill you, hot and thick, as your own orgasm shook you entirely, clenching around him, trapping him, making everything more intense.
Clark stayed over you for a moment, trembling, breathing raggedly against your neck. His weight was warm and comforting, and for an instant you thought it was all over.
But then he moved his hips again. A gentle, slow push, while he was still inside you.
"Clark," you whispered, your voice surprised.
He didn't answer with words. He just kept moving—slowly at first, then faster again. But you could no longer think. Your eyes grew hazy, tears welling from sheer pleasure, and your hands rose on their own to his head. Your fingers tangled in his soft curls, stroking them over and over as he continued moving inside you, as his still-warm seed mixed with your own desire and made each thrust wetter, easier, deeper.
"Again," Clark asked against your skin, and it wasn't a question.
He didn't need to ask twice. The third orgasm arrived like an unstoppable wave, gentler than the previous ones but longer, deeper, making you tremble all over as your fingers tangled in his hair and your legs squeezed his hips and your mouth opened in a silent moan.
Clark didn't stop. He turned you carefully, laying you on your side and then on your stomach, without pulling out of you, without stopping his movements. He lifted your hips just slightly and kept pushing, deeper from behind, and you buried your face in the pillow to muffle the moans you could no longer control. Your hands gripped the sheet so hard your knuckles turned white, and each of Clark's thrusts forced a muffled sound from your lips against the fabric.
"Just like that," he murmured behind you, his voice hoarse, broken. "That's how I want you. All for me."
The fourth orgasm caught you by surprise. It was shorter, sharper, a muffled cry into the pillow as your body tensed like a bow and Clark kept moving, thrusting, filling you. And then he came again too, with a long, deep groan, and you felt his seed fill you once more, hot and abundant, mingling with everything already inside you.
When he pulled out, you felt the liquid trickle down your thighs, warm and sticky, as you both trembled without being able to stop.
Clark collapsed beside you on the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes closed and lips parted. You looked at him for a moment, your body still trembling and your skin burning. Then you curled up against his chest, hiding your face in the hollow of his neck, feeling his heart beat as hard as yours. Your cheek brushed his hot skin, and your hands sought his side to cling to him as if he were the only solid thing in the world.
"Don't ever remind me of those drawings I made," you said in a murmur, pressing your face against his chest so he wouldn't see how red your cheeks were. "Ever again. I'm warning you."
Clark let out a low, tired laugh that vibrated in his chest and you felt against your lips. His hands moved up your back and began to caress you slowly, with a gentleness that contrasted with everything that had just happened. His fingers traced your spine over and over, calming you, enveloping you.
"I'm embarrassed," you said, your voice small, almost childlike, as you hid further against him.
Clark hugged you tighter, pressing you to his side, and rested his chin on the top of your head. You felt him nod, felt his breathing grow slower, calmer.
"I will," he whispered. "If you promise that every drawing you make, you'll show to me. Only to me."
You lifted your head so fast you nearly hit his chin. You looked at him with wide eyes, unable to believe what you had just heard. Clark returned your gaze with a small, shy smile—that same smile he always wore in the office, which you now knew concealed Superman.
"Clark, you're a pervert," you said, and though the words sounded harsh, your voice was soft, almost affectionate.
Clark smiled wider, and for the first time since he had climbed through your window, you saw him fully relax. His blue eyes gleamed in the dim light, and his hand rose to your cheek to caress it with the back of his fingers.
"We're on the same level of perversion," he admitted, his cheeks turning red—as red as they always got in the office. "You drew all of that. I saw it and couldn't control myself. I think we're tied."
You laughed—a nervous, liberating laugh—and pushed yourself up just enough to kiss him. It was a soft, short kiss, different from the others. A kiss that said, "It's okay, I forgive you," and "I'm like that too," and "I like that you're like that."
When you parted your lips, you stayed looking at him for a moment, your hand resting on his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath your fingers.
"You should have told me sooner," you said, looking into his eyes.
Clark tilted his head, confused, those thick brows drawing together in the middle when he didn't understand something.
"Told you what?"
"To ask me out," you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It wasn't hard, Clark. You just had to come to my desk and say, 'Do you want to get coffee?' or 'Do you want to have dinner with me?' Normal things. Things people do."
Clark let out a low laugh and shook his head. His fingers continued caressing your cheek, your jaw, your earlobe.
"It was," he said finally, and his voice sounded so sincere it made you feel tender. "It was hard. Your friends are always with you—Cat and Sam and Leslie never leave you alone, day or night. Besides, every time I planned to, every time I wanted to come close and say something, you ran away. Literally. You'd see me approaching and you'd get up from your chair and go to the bathroom or the coffee machine or somewhere else."
You looked at him and knew he was right. Because yes, you had been running from him. Without knowing why. Without understanding why you got so nervous whenever Clark got too close. Why your heart raced when he smiled at you. Why you hid to avoid having to speak to him alone.
"Well," you said, shrugging and hiding your face in his chest again. "It was because I liked you. And I didn't know how to handle it."
Clark was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than ever.
"I liked you too. From the first day I saw you drawing in that old notebook."
You closed your eyes and smiled against his skin. His arms wrapped around you tighter, and for a while, you just stayed there, listening to his heart beat beneath your ear, feeling his chest rise and fall with every breath.
They lay in silence for a long time, embraced, tangled, with the sheets in disarray and the city glowing outside, unaware that inside this small room, two people had truly found each other.
But the silence wasn't awkward. It was the kind of silence filled with everything that didn't need to be said, because their bodies had already said it for them.
At some point, without quite knowing how, you ended up leaning against the headboard of the bed. You were resting against his shoulder, legs stretched out, his tangled with yours. Clark had one arm around your shoulders and his other hand resting on your thigh, stroking your skin with his fingertips, as if he couldn't stop touching you for even a second.
You laughed for no reason, just because, just because you felt light and silly and happy. It was a soft little laugh that vibrated against his skin, and Clark looked at you with a furrowed brow but with a smile on his lips.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked, and his voice had that rough tone that came out after he'd been so close to you.
"Nothing," you said, laughing again, hiding your face in his shoulder. "Everything. That I'm here leaning against Superman, after having drawn him a thousand times without knowing he was my clumsy coworker."
Clark made a fake pout, offended, and his hand squeezed your thigh affectionately.
"Clumsy?"
"Clumsy," you repeated, lifting your head to look him in the eyes. "You trip over tables, Clark. Over chairs. Over your own feet. I once saw you fall off the escalator."
"That was one time," he defended himself, his cheeks turning pink again. "And someone had left a banana peel on the step."
You laughed harder, and he ended up laughing with you, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe you were there, with him, laughing at his misfortunes. His arm pulled you tighter against his side, and he rested his cheek on the top of your head.
"Tell me," you said after a while, your voice more serious but still soft. Your finger began tracing lines over his chest, following the curve of his muscles, drawing circles around his pectorals. "What it's like. The double life. How you manage to be Clark and Superman at the same time."
Clark sighed, the warm air brushing your hair. He was silent for a moment, as if arranging the words in his head before letting them out.
"It's not easy," he said finally, and his voice sounded deeper, more honest. "Sometimes I lose myself. I don't know who I'm supposed to be at any given moment. Clark is… Clark is who I want to be. The clumsy one, like you said. The one who blushes. The one who can have friends and drink coffee and laugh without the world expecting something from him. Superman is… a responsibility. Something I have to do because I can do it. But it's not who I am. Not entirely."
You listened in silence, feeling how each of his words vibrated in his chest and reached your cheek. Your hand kept stroking him, moving down to his abs, back up to his shoulder, unhurried, just to remind yourself that he was real.
"And Lois?" you asked, with no jealousy in your voice, only curiosity. Or maybe just a little jealousy, but well hidden. "She knows, doesn't she?"
Clark nodded. His jaw tensed slightly.
"Lois knows. But it's hard… she sees Superman. Not Clark. And I need people to see Clark." His hand rose to your chin and lifted it gently, making you meet his eyes. He had that expression again, that mix of tenderness and desire that melted you inside. "You see Clark," he said, and it was a statement, not a question. "You always did. That's why I liked you before you knew the other thing."
You changed the subject after a while. You talked about unimportant things: Jimmy and his jokes, Cat and her gossip, Perry and his shouting in the newsroom. Work stuff, life stuff, nothing stuff. But as he spoke, you watched him. Truly watched him. Clark. The man beside you, naked and disheveled and with bright eyes as he told you an anecdote about the time he broke his glasses in the middle of an interview.
And in the middle of that silly story, you suddenly realized something. Something that filled your chest with immense warmth.
You had spent so long working, so long running from one place to another, so long thinking about deadlines and drawings and editions and impressing Perry and increasing viewership and making sure the printer didn't make mistakes. So long living for work that you'd forgotten to live for yourself.
But now, there, with Clark leaning beside you and his laughter filling the room, you felt that maybe, just maybe, you deserved this. You deserved to be happy. You deserved a chance to be happy in a life full of work.
Clark must have noticed something in your gaze, because he stopped mid-sentence and stared at you with narrowed eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice soft, concerned.
You didn't answer with words. You sat up slightly and kissed him. It was a slow, deep, unhurried kiss. A kiss to tell him that you saw him. That you wanted him. That you were there and you weren't going anywhere.
When you parted your lips, you moved without thinking. You climbed into his lap, one leg on each side of his hips, sitting on top of him. Your bare center rested against his member, and though he wasn't hard yet, the warm skin of both of you brushed together in a way that made you close your eyes for a moment.
Clark let out a trembling sigh. His hands rose to your hips almost by instinct, as if they couldn't help grabbing you, as if his fingers needed to sink into your skin to believe you were there.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his curls again, and kissed him more. There was no rush. No desperate hunger like before. There was something calmer, more certain.
Your hips began to move slowly, grinding against him, feeling how below, very deep down, his member began to react to the heat of your core. Each movement you made caused his skin to brush yours, the tip of his penis sliding between your folds, getting wet with your desire, which hadn't entirely faded yet.
Clark groaned against your mouth, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, guiding your movements, wordlessly asking you not to stop. His erection grew between you, hard and hot, pressing right where you needed him most. But he didn't enter. He just rubbed, just slid, just reminded you how much you wanted him inside again.
You gasped with your mouth pressed to his, your hot breath mingling with his. Your breasts brushed his chest with every movement, and your hands moved from his hair to his cheeks, caressing him with a tenderness that contrasted with what you were doing below.
You parted your lips just enough to look into his eyes. His were half-closed, dark with desire, pupils so large you could barely see the blue. His mouth was red, swollen from so much kissing, and his chest rose and fell rapidly beneath your hands.
"You promised to fulfill all my drawings," you whispered, stroking his cheek with your thumb. Your voice was low, husky, barely a thread of air leaving your lips.
Clark looked at you and his eyes lit up. Not with lust, not with hunger. With something prettier. With charm. With a happiness so pure that for a moment he looked like he might cry.
"Just as I promised to fulfill everything you imagined," you completed your own sentence. You kissed him again. Your hips didn't stop moving while you kissed him—slow, circular, feeling how his member grew harder and harder between your legs, how the precum wet everything and made every rub smoother, wetter, more intense.
Clark moaned inside your mouth, and his fingers pressed into your lower back, pulling you against him, asking you for more. And you gave it to him.
You didn't do anything special. You just kept moving on top of him, rubbing against his hard, hot member, feeling how the tip pressed right at your entrance over and over without quite going in. It was a game, a question neither of you wanted to answer with words.
But at some point, during one of your circular movements, Clark thrust his hips upward at the same time you came down, and this time it happened. This time he entered.
It wasn't slow like the first time. It was all at once, in one go, as if he couldn't wait another second. Your body received him with the same urgency—wet and hot and ready for him for a while now. The air caught in your throat, and what came out was a rough moan, almost a strangled cry.
"Holy shit," you said, the phrase coming out through clenched teeth, eyes closed, head thrown back.
Clark didn't respond with words. He was looking down, to where your bodies joined, but then his gaze rose to your chest and stayed there. Your breasts bounced softly with every movement, with every small rise and fall you made as you adjusted to him again.
His hands left your back and went up to them, grabbing them with a mix of tenderness and hunger. His fingers squeezed softly, then harder, and when he lowered his head to take one in his mouth, a moan escaped your lips.
He sucked and licked as if he were thirsty for you, as if he had never tasted anything like it in his life. His tongue circled your nipple over and over while his hips began moving below, thrusting upward, finding a rhythm that made you grab his shoulders to keep from falling backward.
The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room. A wet, soft thud that mixed with your moans and his ragged breaths. You moved on top of him without thinking, letting your body do what his asked of it. Each thrust filled you completely; each time he pulled out almost entirely and came back in, you felt him dismantle you from the inside.
You sighed with such ardor that it burned in your chest. The heat rose from your belly to your throat, and your hands gripped Clark's shoulders so hard your nails dug into his skin. He didn't even flinch. On the contrary, he seemed to like it, because his mouth left your chest and he looked at you with dark, hungry eyes, and his hips pushed harder.
That was the sign. The orgasm arrived like a wave you'd felt building for a while, and when it broke, your whole body trembled. Your legs tightened around his hips, your fingers tangled in his hair, your mouth opened in a long moan you couldn't control. You came on him, soaking him, squeezing him so hard that Clark groaned your name with a broken voice.
You stayed trembling on top of him, strengthless, your breath in pieces. You leaned into his shoulder, your forehead resting on his neck, your nose brushing his sweaty skin. The tremor began to subside slowly, like the sea calming after a storm. You closed your eyes and just wanted to stay there, pressed against him, feeling his heart beat as fast as yours.
But Clark wasn't finished. His hand released your hip and rose to your chin. With two fingers, gently, he lifted your face to look at you. His blue eyes gleamed in the twilight, fixed on yours, and before you could ask anything, he kissed you.
It was a wet, messy kiss, full of saliva and need. His tongue found yours and caressed it while his hand moved to your nape and pressed you against him, pressing his forehead to yours, not stopping the kiss for a second. And at the same time, his other hand took your waist and began to move you.
He wasn't moving. Only his fingers guided your hips up and down—slowly at first, then faster—forcing you to keep riding him even though you had just come and your whole body was sensitive, too sensitive.
A moan caught in your throat and came out as a lament against his mouth. The past orgasm had left you so sensitive that every rub, every movement, every centimeter of him moving inside you was almost too much. The moans barely escaped, trapped in your throat and slipping out as languid, wet sounds while the saliva from both of you mixed on his lips and yours.
Clark wouldn't let you stop. You knew it. You felt it in the way he held you, in the way he didn't separate his mouth from yours except to breathe, in the way his hand on your nape didn't loosen at all.
You grabbed his shoulders again, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world moving too fast. You felt how his fingers on your waist guided you, how his hips began to push as well, how the rhythm became more intense, deeper.
"Clark," you managed to say, or rather moan; his name left your lips like a plea, like a prayer. He kissed you again to silence you, or maybe to hear you better—you didn't know. His lips crushed yours as his hand left your nape and went to your waist as well. Now he held you with both hands, and he began to fuck you harder. Faster. Deeper. His hips lifted from the mattress to meet yours, and each thrust made your hips come down harder on him. The sound of the impacts grew faster, wetter, more obscene.
You moaned uncontrollably, and your hands left his shoulders to go to your own breasts, which bounced wildly with every movement. You grabbed them, squeezed them, and Clark leaned toward them again, lowering his head to kiss the skin between them, to lick the hollow of your collarbones, to bite softly where his mouth could reach.
That was how they came together.
You felt Clark tense beneath you, his body going rigid a second before a rough, almost animal groan left his throat. And at the same time, the heat of him filling you from inside unleashed another orgasm in you—smaller than the previous ones but just as intense, a tremor that ran from your head to your feet as you clung to him without letting go.
You were spent. Your breathing was so heavy, so ragged, that it sounded like you'd just run a marathon. The same was true for him: his chest rose and fell against yours, and you could feel his heart beating so fast it seemed about to leap out of his chest.
You slumped onto his chest, too weak to do anything else. Your cheek rested on his shoulder, your arms hanging at your sides, your trembling legs on either side of his hips. He didn't say anything. He just held you with one hand on your back and the other on your nape again, stroking your hair with a gentleness that contrasted with everything you'd just done.
For a moment, you thought he wanted more. You felt him lift you slightly, his fingers tightening on your nape as if he were about to kiss you again. Your body tensed, ready to continue, to give him whatever he asked for.
But Clark didn't ask for anything. He just lifted you a little, just shifted you to the side with infinite delicacy, and then lay on his side, taking you with him.
You ended up face to face, your legs tangled with his, his forehead resting against yours. There was no more. No other thrust, no other surge, no other search. Just him, holding you, eyes closed, breathing slowly returning to normal.
And in that moment, with the sweat drying on your skin and your heart still beating hard, you knew. You knew that you had just seen the part of Clark that no one knew. The part that wasn't the clumsy journalist or the invincible hero. The part that moaned your name and blushed and looked at you as if you were the only person in the world.
clark trying to breakup with reader bc he thinks she deserves better than an alien boyfriend and reader is nottt having it and she’s yelling at him for ever thinking he could leave her (she knows hes just self sabotaging himself) and she ends up having clark underneath her and when she’s fucking his brains out she’s saying things like “how could you ever think i’d allow anyone else but me to have this cock ? this is mine”. i’d just loveee the concept of reader being possessive and standing her ground when clark thinks he can just walk away from her 😩
Waitttt anon your MINDDD!!! i love this plz be back when u have these sexy thoughts again
Thank u lots for the idea/request! love always, mani
Word Count: 1.6k
Content: MDNI (18+) Smut. Reader is a little rough with him but he likes it and deserves it. Angst and Fluff. Clark is called an idiot multiple times, but you'll see why.
Clark was an idiot. He was stupid, stupid man. He let some stupid comment from coworker get to him.
“I don’t think Superman could be in a relationship, y’know? He’s always busy and almost dying. Not exactly boyfriend material.” Steve said as Cat asked jokingly if Superman was seeing anyone. Clark glanced around the room at the seeming agreement of the comment and they moved on to another topic but it kept ringing in Clark’s mind. Not boyfriend material. And it was true. You sometimes stayed up late waiting for a message from him, worried sick. He’d flaked on a dozen dates because someone needed Superman.
And you, you were the best thing. So, so worthy of everything good but you had a boyfriend who couldn’t give that to you. He had always thought you were out of his league, c’mon, he wasn’t an idiot. He was your biggest fan, he had eyes. But you seemed to love him without any prejudice, any restraint or dissent. So he forgot about that and focused on being happy. And boy, was he happy. You were perfect, perfect for him. The dates were full of laughter, the late night talks were all comfort and honesty, the early mornings were sickeningly sweet like honey. And the sex, my god, the sex. It was insane. You were a siren, dirty and sweet. A challenge, he had the time of his life getting to know you and how to work your body, what you liked and what you loved. And you worked his just as well.
So, he was here, shaking as he held your hand and you sat in front of him. He had just spat it out, and your eyebrows were crossed as you inspected him.
“You wanna break up? With me?”
“I- uh. Yes.”
“Clark, at least have the balls to look at me.” You demanded, letting go of his hand and crossing your arms defensively. You looked particularly pretty today, so he rather not look up as he was saying it. Also, you could probably see in his face how awful he felt. He looked up, glancing at you once before his eyes drifted away to the window as if there was something interesting going on.
“And may I ask why?”
“Uh- I don’t think things are working out.”
“What things?”
“Y’know… things. Like you snore when you sleep sometimes.”
“You’re going to dump me because I snore sometimes?” You continued your inquiry because you didn’t believe for a second this was actually what he wanted. You knew Clark; he wasn’t a blabbering idiot. If he wanted to talk or had a problem, he’d come right out and say it. This wasn’t a sure Clark, this nervous and unserious man in front of you seemed like he had a gun pressed to his temple and was forcing him to do this.
“Among other things-“
“What other things? Clark, Jesus Christ, look at me. Look me in the eyes and repeat the words and I’ll believe you.” You put both of your hands on the table, smacking them down and making him look at you. He tried to focus on your eyes, a deep breath and instead of saying what he meant, his eyes started to fill with tears.
“I just think you deserve better.”
“Better? What are you talking about?” Clark looked up and blinked away the tears pricking his eyes as he looked up to the ceiling now.
“I- I’m an alien, for god’s sake! And I can’t be there for you all the time, I have so many things to do. You deserve someone who’s there for you.” Clark’s words were more rushed and seemed like he had been holding them in for a long time, like they had been hammering into the back of his brain since he thought them.
“Clark, you’re there for me! Where did this come from? You’re pissing me off now. You think I’m some sort of weak woman that can’t decide what she wants? What she needs?” You sounded angry, offended and confused as to the conversation you were having. You were supposed to go out for sushi and then come home and pretend to watch a movie while you fucked. How did it turn into this?
“No, I don’t think that. I think you’re amazing, as are all woman - not the point- but I don’t want you to settle.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m settling for Superman? Do you hear yourself? You’re a fucking catch, Clark. Do you not see what everyone thinks of you? How much they love you? I’m so lucky to have you. Don’t tell me what I want.” You whispered the last part, as if your anger was fading into sadness. The last thing he wanted. Clark’s mind had been somehow relaxed as he heard what you actually thought of him and let his fears and insecurities quiet down somewhat to listen to you. How there was no stutter in your breath, no doubt in your words. You were mad he had a considered doing this.
“I- fucking love you, Clark. I don’t want anything more, I don’t need it. I need you. Can you just- listen to me? To yourself?” Clark nodded, standing and taking you into his arms with a tight hug, mumbling sorry’s and I love you’s into your mouth as he finally convinced himself to push all those negative thoughts.
“Don’t do this, don’t sabotage yourself. Scared me to death, you idiot.” You said and finally took his kiss, the anger seemingly melting away from your mind as you felt how desperate and sorrowful he was against you. This had probably been eating at him, his stupid brain baiting him into thinking he was noble and kind to try and force you to find someone better. The tears kept falling from his eyes, and they were on the verge of falling once again half an hour later while you took a break from riding him with force of a knight in battle and were drawing small circles with your hips.
“Trying to leave me, huh? You want some other girl? Is that it?” You asked as you held his head back, pulling on his hair. His hands were steady and brushing on your hips, trying to get you to go faster again but with no increase. You were calling the shots and he was so into it.
“No, no, baby. I want you.” Clark shook his head, what a preposterous accusation to think you hadn’t ruined him for everyone else. There was nothing better, no one better.
“That’s right. How could you ever think I’d allow anyone else but me to have this cock? This is mine.” Clark groaned at your words, nodding his head eagerly.
“I’m yours. Everything is yours.” He was pretty sure your pussy had been molded to fit him too. It always felt like the perfect fit, the perfect press. You nodded with a smirk and went back to riding him with harder movements, hips grinding back and forth, up and down, feeling the perfect kiss of his dick onto your cervix.
Your hips rolled as you continued to ride him, still holding his hair back with your hand to force him to keep his head up looking at you. Looking at what he wanted to give away.
“You’re- you feel so good. Taking me so deep.” Clark whispered basically, eyes midway shut like he couldn’t keep them open with his dick receiving the tide of his life but he still wanted to look at you, not only because you wanted him to, but because he wanted to. You were a sight for sore eyes, sweaty and hot and your mouth hung slightly open to help you breathe. Your lips were plumped from the kissing and the necklace he got you for your sixth month anniversary hung from your neck. He was such a fucking idiot.
“What were you gonna do without me? Huh? Be alone? Find some Smallville girl? Some alien? Think they’d make you happy?” Clark shook his head, your grip getting harder and hips getting rougher as you even entertained the idea of Clark being without you. You could feel him twitching inside you, his palpitations on his tip making your pussy squeeze; Clark moaned at the feeling and pressed the fingertips of his hands harder into your hips. You knew he was close, you could tell all the signs by now. Idiot.
“No fucking way, baby. I’m it.” His moan was whiny and absurd as he unloaded inside you, a ridiculous amount of cum filling you up as you still fucked yourself on him, slower and with longer jumps. You pushed his head to look down; letting him see how his cum poured out of you with every slight movement. It wasn’t about finishing yourself off, you knew Clark wouldn’t let you go without making you finish; but about letting him see how much you knew him. What he liked; how to get him to spill his heart from his dick in copious amounts.
“I love you, honey. I love you to death. Forever, you and me. Right?” Clark spoke as he looked back into your eyes when your hand finally let go of his hair. You smiled, nodding as he kissed your whole face. You could tell he was sorry. You closed your eyes as you felt his mouth wander around your face, so it took you off guard when he grabbed harder onto your hips and lifted you off, gasp escaping your mouth. He placed you onto his face, holding you up by your ass as he looked at your pussy still gushing and swollen.
“I’m gonna spend forever between these legs.” He said and kissed the tip of your clit, looking at the mess of white he had created inside you, marked you his. He sucked your clit into his mouth, making your laugh get lost between a whine.
“I’ll take a break to get you a ring tomorrow, though.”
Jason’s been grumpy all morning. He even denied you cuddles when you tried curling up against him before sunrise, and now you feel restless.
You miss his hands in your hair, his sleepy kisses against your neck, the way he'd mumble for you to stay in bed while keeping you close to his chest. Your morning rituals matter. Without them, a gray cloud follows you around the rest of the day.
Jayyy,” you call as you skate out of your shared room, socks sliding easily across the floor.
He’s standing in the kitchen shirtless, like this is somehow part of your punishment too. His muscles are on view under the morning light cascading in. You grab onto his bicep before you fall. Usually, he'd lift you on the counter and stand between your legs while you ramble.
Today, he barely acknowledges you.
You groan. "Honey, I said I was sorry."
"Ten reps of I'm sorry," he mumbles, side eyeing you while holding his coffee.
You go to take the coffee from his hand. It's the only thing that could brighten your day now.
"Uh uh, what did I say?" Sleep still clung to his voice as it came out raspier, deeper. Heat pools in your lower belly. He holds the coffee away from your reach.
His hair's a mess, the black strands sticking out everywhere. He looks so good even when he's a grumpy mess.
You pout, and his eyes narrow.
"I'm sorry. I love you. Now shower me in love," you beg, reaching for the coffee. "Or at least lemme have a sip."
He holds the cup higher. "I don't know…maybe he can cuddle you." The coffee he made is probably just as bitter as his tone.
"Oh my god, it was a joke. I only want you."
"Then why the hell did you have to say, whatever the fuck his name is, is your hall pass?" he grumbles.
"It's Michael B Jordan," you say, "he's everyone's hall pass."
He glares. Unfortunately, it's kinda hot when he does it. His blue eyes fix on you, and his jaw is tight like he’s trying not to react. Your heart races at the way he's leaning against the counter casually.
"Jason—
"Nope," he cuts you off, and chugs all the coffee down. He goes to kiss your forehead as if on instinct, but stops halfway.
He grimaces. "No cuddles or anything for the rest of the day," he nods to himself, satisfied, like this is a perfectly reasonable plan.
But you know damn well he isn't going to last an hour without touching you.
wally stared at you as you laid on his bed with your eyes closed and a slight frown, hearing your small pants and getting hit with the warm puffs of breath you let out against his shoulder as you still tried to recover your breath, and he smiled to himself. it was one of his favourite sights and just one of his favourite moments, in a way the evidence of the manifestation of his love for you. he reached out and placed one hand on your waist to tug you closer to him, so that you’d rest against his chest. “baby?”
“hm?”
“i love you.” he kept his gaze locked on you, watching as you made yourself comfortable on top of him.
you smiled softly at his words, finally looking up to meet his gaze, your cheek pressed to his collarbone. “yeah?”
“mhm.” his smile mirrored your own.
“you do?”
“yeah, i do.”
“you love me?”
“of course i do, sweetheart.”
“you do what?”
he narrowed his eyes at you, knowing what you were doing, but he humoured you anyway. “i love you, baby.”
your smile widened at his quick response, a light blush colouring your cheeks despite your teasing. “that’s nice.”
wally’s brows furrowed as he saw you nuzzling your face back into his chest, but he still planted a peck to the crown of your head the moment it was in front of him. you could picture his pout even facing away from him. “do you?”
“do i what?” you did your best effort not to laugh in his face. he rolled his eyes.
“do you love me?”
you looked up again. “do you?”
wally grumbled, wanting to kiss that playful smile off your face. “yeah, i do, baby.”
“you do what?”
“i love you.” he practically whined, in his pouty face.
“cool.”
you tried looking back down but he was quick to grab your face in his hand to force it back up, pressing his forehead to yours, and this once you just couldn’t hold your giggles at his frown. his lips unconsciously quirked up too at your reaction, despite his annoyance, but he tried his best to suppress the smile. “do you love me?”
you hummed at the question, pretending to think about the answer, with his face still pressed to yours. “what do you think?”
“oh, i have no idea. i’m clueless. would you mind enlightening me?”
you were struggling to hold in more giggles, he obviously knew the answer already, you reminded him daily, which is what made his insistence so cute.
“i think you should know by now.”
“do you love me?” he pressed.
“well, now i don’t know.”
wally’s face dropped. you weren’t sure if that was even funnier or just scary. “don’t even joke like that.”
you once again broke in laughter, endeared by your whiny excuse of a boyfriend, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck as you pressed a loud kiss to his face, but he was still complaining.
“do you love me?” he tried again in an exaggeratedly whiny tone, his voice muffled by the deep pout on his lips.
“do you?”
“of course i do, babe! more than anything!”
“what more than anything?”
wally grumbled, but still played along, convinced that you’d finally give in if he did. “i love you more than anything.” he muttered, not so enthusiastic anymore.
“i love you more, baby.” you spoke between giggles.
wally raised an eyebrow at you, a playful smirk showing up on his face. “oh, you don’t wanna start that now.”
“yeah, i don’t, actually.”
“well, that’s too bad because i definitely love you more.” his arms tightened around your waist and he started peppering kisses all over your face.
“shut up!” you laughed despite yourself. “i don’t love you anymore!”
𝜗ৎ if ur one of the at least 600 people who saw this while it had no title Just pretend u didn’t..
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬 ✷ established relationship. domestic arguments. fluff & angst. financially reckless behavior. independent!reader. morally gray income sources. soft!red hood. bickering. slightly clingy jason. implied violence. criminal interrogation. protective behavior. unhealthy coping mechanisms disguised as acts of service. rich boyfriend problems.
Dating an independent woman, Jason had learned, was an exercise in chronic frustration. Not the exhausting kind—the kind that settled warm beneath his ribs, irritating and addictive in equal measure. The kind that made him want to grind his teeth one second and kiss her stupid the next. Because loving y/n was easy. Christ, it was the easiest thing he’d ever done. Existing around her, however, was another story entirely.
She refused help with the same ferocity Jason usually reserved for gunfights and emotional repression.
And that was saying something.
Jason liked taking care of people. It was buried somewhere deep beneath the violence, the sarcasm, the helmet, the terrifying reputation, and the lifetime’s worth of anger issues, but it was there. Raw and instinctive. He liked memorizing what people needed before they asked for it. He liked patching wounds, carrying heavy things, walking on the outside of the sidewalk, checking locks twice before bed. Maybe it came from a childhood where nobody took care of him properly. Maybe it came from being Robin once upon a time, before the world had split him open and rebuilt him meaner. Whatever the reason, taking care of someone he loved felt as natural to him as breathing.
Unfortunately for him, y/n would rather throw herself into oncoming traffic than accept assistance gracefully.
Which was deeply inconvenient considering Jason Todd had money now. Not respectable money, obviously. Not “stocks and mutual funds” money like Bruce. Jason’s finances existed in a morally gray area populated by terrified drug lords, black-market deals, confiscated cash, and the occasional envelope Bruce shoved into his hands disguised as “mission funding” when they both knew it was guilt money.
Jason accepted all of it without shame.
And when he got a girlfriend? Jesus Christ.
He immediately developed the overwhelming urge to spend every cent on her.
Not in an obnoxious way. Not because he thought she couldn’t survive on her own. If anything, y/n surviving independently despite Gotham actively trying to eat people alive was one of the things he admired most about her. She worked herself ragged, paid her own bills, handled her own problems, and carried herself with this stubborn, infuriating pride that made Jason want to simultaneously shake her and marry her.
But he loved her. Of course he wanted to make her life easier.
Apparently that made him public enemy number one.
Every single attempt at paying for something turned into a war of attrition.
Coffee dates were the worst. Jason would buy their drinks with the smug satisfaction of a man fulfilling his divine purpose as a boyfriend, only for his phone to buzz ten minutes later.
Y/N SENT YOU $10.00
Jason would stare at the notification with pure resentment.
Once, after their fourth argument about it that month, he’d deliberately paid for dinner while she was in the bathroom, thinking he’d finally outsmarted her.
The next morning she’d transferred him exact reimbursement down to the tax.
Psychotic behavior.
Another time, he’d tried being direct about it.
“You know normal girlfriends let their boyfriends spoil them,” he muttered while leaning against her kitchen counter.
Y/n, sitting cross-legged on the counter eating a banana with the confidence of a woman impossible to embarrass, looked unimpressed. “Normal boyfriends don’t source their income like Batman’s most wanted.”
“That’s hurtful.”
“That’s accurate.”
Jason narrowed his eyes before pulling a thick stack of cash from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the counter beside her. “Take it.”
She glanced at the money, then at him, then back at the money. “I don’t want your guilt money from your daddy.”
“It’s not guilt money,” Jason corrected immediately. “It’s drug money.”
Y/n stared at him slowly, banana halfway to her mouth, looking genuinely uncertain whether she should kiss him or book him a therapist.
Jason had shrugged like that clarified everything.
Because to him, honestly, it did.
Then there were the bills.
God, the bills argument nearly killed him.
It had been late evening, rain tapping softly against the apartment windows while Gotham drowned itself in neon and smog outside. Y/n’s apartment wasn’t terrible, but it was small in that distinctly Gotham way—thin walls, unreliable heating, pipes that screamed like dying animals whenever someone showered. Jason practically lived there anyway despite technically owning a much nicer place. Mostly because he preferred her cluttered little apartment over any penthouse money could buy.
She was sprawled on top of him on the couch, wearing one of his hoodies and soft sleep shorts, her cheek pressed into his neck while he worked on his laptop balanced precariously against her lower back. One of his arms rested around her waist automatically, hand underneath the hoodie, fingertips tracing absent patterns against her skin while he typed with the other hand.
“Ugh,” she groaned suddenly into his throat. “My landlord is up my ass about rent.”
Jason’s fingers paused over the keyboard instantly.
“How much?”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
“You were gonna offer money.”
“I was gonna offer money.”
She made a triumphant sound against his skin. “Exactly. Denied.”
Jason clicked his tongue in annoyance, shifting slightly beneath her. “Baby, I basically live here anyway. Let me help with bills.”
“No.”
“You’re working doubles.”
“I’ll survive.”
“You shouldn’t have to survive,” he muttered.
That made her lift her head slightly. Her expression softened around the edges when she looked at him, because no matter how much they argued about this, she knew where it came from. Jason wasn’t controlling. Wasn’t condescending. He wasn’t trying to own her.
He just loved hard. Recklessly. Like a man who never learned moderation.
“I wanna do things myself,” she said quietly. “I need to prove I can.”
Jason looked at her for a long moment.
Most people saw anger first when they looked at him. Violence. Volatility. But underneath all of that, Jason understood pride better than almost anyone. Understood what it meant to claw your own survival out of the dirt with bloody hands. Understood how humiliating dependence could feel.
So instead of arguing, he just sighed softly through his nose and kissed the top of her head.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”
Which should’ve worried her.
Because when Jason Todd stopped arguing, it usually meant he’d already decided to do something significantly worse.
The next afternoon, while Jason was in the middle of interrogating a weapons trafficker, his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He glanced at the caller ID and immediately smiled beneath the Red Hood helmet.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“You paid my fucking rent?”
Jason leaned casually against the damp brick wall beside him while the criminal tied to the chair whimpered quietly in the background.
“For the next six months, yeah.” He checked his gun lazily. “Oh, and your car’s in the shop. Your brakes sounded like a dying walrus. Figured I’d get them replaced.”
There was silence on the other end.
Then came one long inhale that positively radiated fury.
Jason grinned harder.
“I’m going to kill you.”
“Yeah?”
“You are insane.”
“You still love me though.”
“I’m considering arson.”
“That’s my girl.”
The line went dead with an aggressive beep.
Jason stood there for another second staring at the phone in his hand, helpless affection spreading warm through his chest before he could stop it. The kind that made him feel seventeen again. Human again. Soft in places he usually kept armored shut.
If anyone ever saw the look on his face right now, Jason would actually have to kill them.
With a sigh, he slid the phone back into his jacket and finally turned toward the terrified criminal still zip-tied to the chair in the abandoned warehouse.
“You know,” he muttered while pulling another zip tie tighter around the guy’s wrists, “I buy one woman six months’ rent and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”
The guy had apparently developed a death wish.
“F-females,” he laughed nervously, sweat dripping down his temple. “Am I right?”
Jason’s smile vanished instantly.
Gone was the lovesick idiot paying for brake repairs. This was the man criminals whispered about in panic.
Jason grabbed the chair sharply, yanking it forward until the man nearly choked on his own breath.
“That,” Jason said quietly, “is my girl you’re talking about.”
The criminal went pale.
“And trust me,” Jason continued, voice calm in the way that scared people most, “you do not wanna disrespect the woman willing to date me voluntarily.”
“R-right. I’m sorry. Sorry.”
Jason stared at him another second before sighing heavily and releasing the chair.
Why are there almost no Hal Jordan fanfics??? Why aren't there any fanfics about him that don't portray him as an old man??? I want him to be 25 to 35 years old!! I want him to be a conceited jerk!! I want him to be controversial!! I want hot fanfics of him like that!!!
He's hot when he's young, and I need fanfics where he's described that way 😭😭😭😭
dick grayson x green lantern!reader
SUMMARY: after being around space for five years, you finally come back to reunite with your former team, only to find out that the boy you used to make fun of had the biggest glow up ever. ╱ suggestive, reader is a little shit, repost of what i accidentally deleted a while ago, do not expect a part two ˚.✦
Five years. That’s how long you’ve been gone. Patrolling galaxies, keeping order, fighting things that don’t even have names in Earth’s languages. You’d convinced yourself Earth wouldn’t feel familiar anymore, but when you push open the door to the little bar Donna picked for the Titans reunion, there’s something painfully nostalgic about it.
Wally’s the first to spot you, shooting up from his stool with a grin so big it looks cartoonish. “No way! Look who finally decided to come back from space!” He barrels into you with a hug that nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Roy’s right behind him, smirking with his boyish grin you’ve missed at the same time he slaps your shoulder. “Took you long enough, Lantern. Thought you forgot about us.”
“I’d never forget about you, man. Y’know space needed me.”
Donna waves from the booth, regal as ever. Garth gives a little salute with his beer. It’s warm and chaotic, it’s perfect.
And then your eyes fall on the guy sitting at the end of the booth, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, strong jawline. Hair longer and perfectly styled, legs that go on forever. He looks up at you with piercing blue eyes, and your first thought is, who the hell invited Superman’s model cousin?
You blink, pointing rudely. “Uh. Who’s this?”
The whole table goes quiet, then Roy bursts out laughing so hard he chokes on his drink. Donna rolls her eyes like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. Wally leans across the table, grinning wickedly. “You don’t recognize him?”
You stare harder. “Am I supposed to?”
The guy tilts his head, lips curving in the faintest smirk. “Wow. Five years in space and you still can’t see what’s right in front of you.”
That voice is weirdly familiar. Your stomach drops.
“…Dick?”
The table explodes, Roy’s wheezing while Donna’s hiding a smile behind her glass. Wally actually points at you like you’ve just lost a bet.
“Holy shit,” you mutter. “That’s Dick Grayson?”
Because the last time you saw him, he was shorter than you, hair hacked into that tragic little bowl cut, parading around in that ridiculous pixie-boot pantless suit, chirping out corny one-liners like Gotham’s answer to Peter Pan. You lived to roast him. His catchphrases, his hair, his height, nothing was off limits. He’d get all red and sputtery, which only made it funnier.
But this? This isn’t the same kid. This is a man who grew into every inch of himself while you were gone, and now he’s taller than you. Hotter. So much hotter.
Your jaw actually goes slack. “What the fuck happened to you?”
Dick just raises an eyebrow, taking a slow sip of his drink, not even giving you the satisfaction of a smile. “I grew up. Some of us do that.”
Ouch.
You slide into the booth, still staring at him like he’s an alien. “Don’t get me wrong, you look...” you catch yourself, smirking, “way less tragic than before. But, uh… wow. I leave for five years and suddenly you’re on magazine covers?”
“Not really your business, is it?” he says coolly, turning back to his beer.
That hits you like a slap. You’re used to Dick sputtering when you teased him, snapping back, rising to the bait. But this version of him? He doesn’t bite, doesn’t give you anything.
And suddenly, you want him.
Desperately.
Because nothing makes you hungrier than a challenge. And Dick Grayson, the boy you once mocked mercilessly, just became the man who won’t even look your way. You lean across the table, grin sharp. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re still mad I made fun of your haircut. That was years ago. Ancient history.”
Donna coughs pointedly into her drink, Wally kicks Roy under the table, and you sit back, smirking wider.
You’ve never been good at letting something go, especially when it’s standing right in front of you with broad shoulders and arms that look carved out of marble. So the rest of the night at the bar becomes a mission —not galactic peacekeeping, not saving a planet from collapse— no, this one is personal: win Dick Grayson back.
He’s sitting across from you, arms folded, half-listening to Wally ramble about some speedster escapade. You wait for your moment, leaning forward with that easy, reckless grin you perfected over five years of charming aliens out of blowing your ship up.
“So, Dick…” you drawl, deliberately using the name like a hook, “what’s your workout routine these days? Asking for a friend. And by friend, I mean me. Because,” you wave a hand vaguely at his chest, his arms, his everything, “this didn’t exist before. I would’ve remembered.”
Roy groans. “Oh my god.”
But Donna smirks into her glass, watching. Dick doesn’t even flinch. “Lots of training,” he says evenly, eyes not leaving his drink.
“Mm.” You rest your chin on your hand, studying him. “Well, it paid off. Glow-up of the century. You went from Robin Hood Jr. to…” you pause, biting back a laugh, “okay, actually, you kind of look like if James Bond and a Men’s Health cover had a baby.”
That gets Roy choking on his beer again.
Dick finally looks at you, brows raised. “Is this your way of apologizing for being an ass all those years?”
“Apologizing?” you echo, feigning offense. “I was motivating you. Clearly it worked, you’re welcome.”
The table bursts into laughter, but Dick just shakes his head, smirking despite himself. You see it, the tiniest crack in the armor. And you pounce. You slide out of the booth, slipping into the empty space beside him before he can stop you. He stiffens instantly, but you’re already draping an arm along the back of the booth, leaning in close.
“Don’t look so tense,” you murmur, low enough that only he hears. “I missed you. Even when you were short and tragic.”
His head whips toward you, glare sharp. “You don’t get to say that.”
You grin, unbothered, leaning in closer so your shoulder brushes his. “You’re right. I don’t. Not anymore. Now I just get to say,” your eyes flick down, shameless, “damn, Dick.”
Wally whistles. Roy mutters, “She's insane.”
Dick moves just slightly far from you and that causes you a hard chuckle. “Oh, Dickie, I see I still make you nervous.”
The laugh dies around you like someone cut the power. For a beat you think you misread it, that maybe the room’s heat, the beer and the reunion glow made the moment bigger than it was. Then Dick stands, a clean, clipped motion, the chair whispers back, his shoulders set like stone and the joke you just lobbed slams into something that’s not laughing.
“You always were terrible at reading a room,” he says, voice flat. He doesn’t look at you on his way out, he glances at the rest of the table with an economy of disdain that makes Wally shut up mid-quip.
You do not like being dismissed. You do not like the way his back looks when he leaves, the line of his shoulders pulling away is an insult you refuse to swallow.
“Dick,” you call as you get up, the same half-laugh you’d used when you were trying to make him blush. People are watching, the bar’s hum knitting itself into the space between you two, but it feels irrelevant. You follow him into the hallway where the light is harsher and the music softer.
He’s half through the back door before you catch the handle and push it open. The alley smells like fried food and rain and the city’s tired. It’s quieter, the bar’s laughter is a muffled echo. He leans against the brick, arms crossed, jaw working. When he turns at last, his eyes are hard and cold, very much not the playful glare you remember.
“Hey, what the fuck happened?” You blinked.
“You’re insufferable, you know that?,” he says. “You come back and you treat this like a show. You parade around with cosmic stories and then you parade right through me like I'm a fucking prop.”
“Woah, hey. I just got back, Dick. I don’t know how things have changed, alright? Y’all have been through a lot during these years. I’m just vibing.”
“No, you’re not!” He’s pacing the length of the alley now, hands cutting through the air like knives while his voice ricochets off the brick.
“You don’t get it! You walk in here like some goddamn space cowboy, cracking jokes, flirting with everyone, and then you sit there and objectify me like I’m some… some…”
“Calendar model?” you supply, smug grin sharp as a blade. “Honestly, you’d sell out the second those went to print.”
His head snaps toward you, furious. “Shut the hell up!”
You cross your arms, leaning against the wall, unbothered. “Not my fault you went from pint-sized Peter Pan to Batman’s hottest son. I’m just appreciating the glow-up.”
“You don’t appreciate anything!” he shouts, jabbing a finger at you. “You mock, you provoke, you treat people like toys in your comedy routine. And now you’re doing it to me again. I’m not your punchline anymore. I’m not your damn entertainment!”
“You’re right,” you say, in a deceptively solemn way. “You’re not my punchline. You’re my type.”
That does it. He storms forward so fast you barely register it until you’re pinned against the wall, his hand slamming next to your head with a crack that makes your chest jolt. His face is inches from yours, eyes blazing.
“You are infuriating,” he growls.
“And you’re gorgeous when you’re mad,” you purr, leaning into it, refusing to flinch. “Go on. Tell me more about how much you hate me. Maybe flex a little while you’re at it–”
He cuts you off with his mouth. No warning, just lips crashing into yours, all teeth and fury, stealing the air from your lungs. It’s not gentle. It’s punishment, possession and five years of unspoken tension detonating all at once.
You groan into it, half-laughing, half-dizzy, grabbing his shirt to yank him closer because if he’s going to shut you up, he damn well better commit. His teeth scrape your lip, and you nip back, the kiss turning messy. He tastes like beer and rage. When he finally rips back, almost pushing you against the wall, both of you are breathing hard. His voice is ragged, like he’s regretting kissing you.
“Not. Another. Word.”
You grin, recollecting some of his saliva from your lip with your tongue. “Mmph. Best silencing technique I’ve ever experienced.”
His glare deepens, but his hand is still fisted in your shirt, he’s not ready to let go. “You drive me insane,” he mutters.
“And you kiss like you’re trying to kill me,” you shoot back, smug even through your racing pulse. “I like it.”
He curses under his breath, then crushes his mouth back to yours, rougher, like he’s decided that if he can’t argue with you, he’ll just burn the words out of your throat instead. And God, you let him. Because it feels like war, and you’ve never been more eager to lose.
“You're mean,” he mutters against your mouth, his hands finding your ass to pull you as close as he could.
“I am.” you breath, biting his lip before sliding your tongue deeper in him.
“You treated me like shit when we were young. You practically bullied me.” He kept going, kneading your ass, almost brushing his fingers in your center, but he never really did.
“I did.” You respond breathless, finally feeling all his muscles tight, not letting you go even if you wanted. “But you kiss me like you want me to stay.”
His mouth never leaves yours long enough for air to make sense. Between ragged kisses he drags breath into you like confession and then, impossibly, says it.
“I missed you,” he breathes against your lips, each word a strike. “God, I missed you.”
You freeze for half a heartbeat, the world narrowing to the scrape of his voice and the press of him. Then you laugh and answer with your own foolish honesty pressed to his mouth. “Of course you did. I’m irresistible.”
“Don’t make a fucking joke out of it,” he growls, and it’s not the stern, clipped anger from the alley anymore; it’s something threaded through with ache. He reclaims your mouth like he’s trying to stitch time closed, pressing harder, as if the force of it could erase the five years between you.
You wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling at the nape where his hair is softer than you expected. His hands go lower, possessive at your hips, thumbs digging into your waist as if to keep you from floating away. Every movement is an accusation and an apology braided together.
“I don’t want apologies,” he says into the kiss, words muffled, urgent. “I wanted you. Even when you were a fucking bully, I wanted you. Do you know how maddening that was? To hate that I wanted you?”
He doesn't give you time to think about his confession because he starts kissing your neck, sucking skin right there at the alley. You tilt your head back, saying a soft Mmh, as his hands press your sides.
You arch into him, lips parting in a gasp as he grinds closer, and the tension between you explodes into heat. “Fuck, Dick. You really learnt how to kiss these past years.”
He licks your earlobe before going back to your mouth. “Yeah, I had practice.”
You chuckle into his mouth. “You sure did.” You tease, voice breathless, letting your hands roam his back, memorizing every curve, every muscle that’s grown while you were gone.
Dick is acting like a man possessed at this point, hands touching you everywhere over the clothes, wet kissing marking every piece of exposed skin. You force yourself to catch a long breath, tugging his hair in your hands.
“Hey.” You say softly, smirking a little and breathing harshly.
He arches an eyebrow, hands down in your ass and laughs when he understands why you stop. “Really? Fucking Green Lantern wants to take things slow?”
“Oh, no. Don’t be mistaken, Dickie. But we are in the middle of a fucking street in fucking Blüdhaven, with the fucking Titans waiting for us inside.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.” You offer him a kind but sarcastic smile.
Dick groans, pressing a forehead to yours, letting the energy between you simmer instead of combusting. “Yeah, we can’t exactly… finish this out here,” he mutters.
You grin, leaning into him just enough to feel the warmth of his chest. His hand slides to yours, fingers intertwining like nothing ever changed. You grin, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand.
“Truce?” you offer, voice teasing but warm.
“For now,” he says, voice low, brushing his lips over your temple in a soft, lingering kiss. “But you owe me, Lantern.”
“Oh, I intend to pay up,” you murmur, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, then glancing down the alley with a smirk. “Let’s just… not tell anyone about the fireworks outside the bar.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, Titans might actually kill us if they saw.”
You take his hand firmly, letting him pull you back toward the bar, walking with a synchronized rhythm, hips brushing, fingers still locked together. There’s laughter now, quiet and easy, the tension easing into something softer. He drops your hand when you two approach the booth and you don't mind it, because you would've done the same.
By the time you slip back inside, the others are mid-conversation, oblivious. Dick slides into the booth beside you. You don't tease him for the rest of the night, you knew he was gonna walk you home, invent any excuse to come up to your hotel room, and there you'd have enough time to tease him about everything.
a/n: luckily i had this saved in my laptop because this was one of my favorite fics that i've ever written
Content/CW -> fem! reader, one (1) suicide joke, lowkey a crack fic, this is my first smau be nice to me pls
— requested by the lovely @royalkaline
froggi yaps -> this is my first time writing a smau 🥺 pls let me know if you guys have any advice for the formatting etc!! hopefully this is still enjoyable <3
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Summary: Red Hood kidnaps someone for intel, only for them to sass him so relentlessly that he starts to question his life choices mid-interrogation. Somehow, it turns into coffee at 3 a.m. and a reluctant partnership.
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Jason Todd had made many mistakes in his life.
Dying was probably number one. Coming back to life angry enough to fight Batman was a close second. But agreeing to weekly 3 AM pancake meetings with a mouthy information broker who had zero sense of self-preservation?
That was rapidly climbing the charts.
"I'm just saying," you said, stabbing your fork into your third stack of pancakes (because apparently you'd made this a standing arrangement), "if you're going to have a signature weapon, maybe diversify? Guns are so overdone."
"They work," Jason said flatly, watching you drown your pancakes in enough syrup to give someone diabetes just from looking at it.
"So do swords. Arrows. A really aggressive attitude and some karate." You took a bite and made that sound again, the one that made him regret every life choice that led to this moment. "You know who has style? Nightwing. That man makes escrima sticks look good."
Jason's hand tightened on his coffee mug. "We're not talking about Nightwing."
"Ooh, touchy subject?" You leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity. "Is there drama? Please tell me there's drama. I live for this."
"There's no drama."
"That was the least convincing denial I've ever heard, and I once watched a guy try to convince me he wasn't a mob accountant while literally holding a ledger labeled 'Mob Finances.'"
Despite himself, Jason felt his lips twitch under the helmet. Which you somehow noticed, because you noticed everything.
"Was that almost a smile? Are we making progress?" You pulled out your phone. "I should document this. Day twelve of the Red Hood rehabilitation project—"
"I don't need rehabilitation."
"Everyone needs rehabilitation, Red. It's called growth." You snapped a picture of your pancakes. "Also, I'm posting this. My followers love the 3 AM pancake content."
"You have followers who know you have pancakes with a vigilante at 3 AM?"
"I'm an influencer in very specific circles." You typed something on your phone. "Very specific, morally ambiguous circles."
Jason decided not to examine that too closely.
This had been the pattern for two weeks now. You'd text him intel on the Scorpions—surprisingly good intel, actually. He'd follow up on the leads. And then somehow, somehow, you'd convince him to meet you at the Bluebird Diner for what you called "debrief sessions" and he called "you stealing my food while providing commentary I didn't ask for."
The Scorpions were falling apart piece by piece, and Jason was getting closer to the top of their operation. Marcus Webb had been exactly where you said he'd be, exactly as talkative as you'd promised. Three more mid-level dealers had been arrested. Two weapons shipments intercepted.
You'd been right about everything.
Which was almost more annoying than the pancake thing.
"So," you said, pushing your empty plate away and immediately reaching for his bacon (again), "I heard something interesting today."
"Is this the part where you give me intel, or the part where you tell me more of your opinions about my life choices?"
"Why not both? I'm talented at multitasking." You ate his bacon with the confidence of someone who'd never been shot at. Or had been shot at and just didn't care. With you, it could honestly go either way. "The Scorpions are planning something big. Friday night, the docks, warehouse 17."
Jason pulled out his phone. "What kind of something?"
"The kind that involves a lot of weapons and probably some explosives. They're bringing in someone from out of town. Heavy hitter, from what I hear."
"You hear a lot for someone who claims to just deal in gossip."
"I'm good at my job." You shrugged. "Plus, people underestimate the short person in duck slippers. It's my secret weapon."
"You're not wearing duck slippers right now."
"No, tonight I'm wearing cat slippers. I'm trying to keep things fresh." You wiggled your feet under the table to show him the cat faces on your slippers, and Jason had the disturbing realization that he was starting to find your chaos endearing.
This was a problem.
"The docks," he said, steering the conversation back to something that wouldn't make him question his life choices. "What time?"
"Midnight. Very dramatic, very cliché. Honestly, criminals need to workshop their scheduling." You pulled up something on your phone. "I got you schematics of the warehouse. Three entrances, lots of cover, perfect sightlines from the rafters."
Jason took your phone, studying the detailed blueprints. "Where did you get these?"
"I know a guy who knows a guy who owed me a favor." You smiled sweetly. "I'm not just a pretty face with strong opinions about your helmet, Red. I'm a professional."
"A professional information broker who eats pancakes at 3 AM and wears animal slippers."
"Exactly. I'm a woman of many talents." You paused. "So, you going to storm the warehouse alone, or are you going to be smart and call for backup?"
"I work alone."
"No, you work alone because you have trust issues and a martyr complex. There's a difference." You pointed your fork at him. "What if I came with you?"
Jason choked on his coffee. "Absolutely not."
"Why not? I know the layout, I have intel they don't know I have, and I'm surprisingly good in a crisis."
"You're a civilian."
"I'm a Crime Alley native who's survived three gang wars, two Joker attacks, and a Fear Gas incident. I'm more qualified than half the GCPD." You leaned back in the booth. "Plus, you like having me around. Admit it."
"I tolerate having you around."
"Same thing."
"It's really not."
"You keep showing up to these pancake meetings, Red. If you actually hated my company, you'd just kidnap me for intel and leave. But here you are, two weeks running, drinking coffee at 3 AM and letting me steal your bacon."
Jason wanted to argue, but you were right. He could get your intel a dozen other ways. Could have cut contact after that first night. But instead, he'd saved your number (properly, not just as a burner contact), started looking forward to your increasingly ridiculous texts, and had even... and he'd deny this if anyone asked, started ordering the breakfast special before you arrived so it would be ready.
"I'm practical," he said finally. "Meeting like this is efficient."
"Sure. Efficient. That's definitely why you laughed at my joke about Batman's contingency plans yesterday."
"I didn't laugh."
"You made a sound."
"That wasn't a laugh."
"It was laugh-adjacent, and I'm counting it." You pulled out your wallet, throwing money on the table. "Same time Friday? After you storm the warehouse and inevitably get yourself into trouble?"
"I don't get into trouble."
"Red, you're a vigilante who died and came back to life angrier. You're the definition of trouble." You slid out of the booth, and Jason noticed you'd left enough money to cover both meals again. "Text me when you're done at the docks. I'll worry if I don't hear from you."
You walked out before he could process that last part.
Jason sat in the booth for a long moment, staring at the money you'd left, the empty plates, the text that came through thirty seconds later: seriously though. Text me. I'll send the GCPD if I have to.
He typed back: You don't know where the warehouse is.
Warehouse 17, the docks, midnight Friday. I literally just told you this. Do you have a head injury? Should I be concerned?
Jason smiled under his helmet before he could stop himself.
I'll text you.
Good. Also, your helmet thing is growing on me. Very "dystopian biker chic." Still think you could use a cape though.
I'm not wearing a cape.
Your loss. Capes are dramatic. Everyone loves drama.
You love drama.
Exactly. I'm everyone.
Jason shook his head, pocketed his phone, and left the diner. He had three days to plan for Friday night, to coordinate his assault on the warehouse, to prepare for whatever the Scorpions were planning.
And apparently, to worry about whether you were actually going to call the GCPD if he didn't text you.
Friday night came with rain.
Of course it did. Because Gotham had a flair for dramatic timing that would make Greek tragedy jealous.
Jason perched on the roof across from Warehouse 17, watching the Scorpions set up for their big meeting. You'd been right about everything... the time, the place, the heavy weapons. Crates were being unloaded, guards posted at every entrance, and in the center of it all, a man Jason recognized from intelligence reports.
Marcus "The Mauler" Griggs. Enforcer from Metropolis with a reputation for extreme violence and zero negotiation skills.
This was bigger than he'd thought.
Jason was considering his approach options when his phone buzzed.
You: You at the docks yet?
Jason: How did you know I'd be here early?
You: Because you're you. Also, because I'm watching you from the coffee shop across the street. Your silhouette is very distinctive.
Jason's head snapped toward the coffee shop. Sure enough, through the window, he could see you waving at him, holding a to-go cup.
He called you immediately.
"Are you insane?" he hissed into the phone.
"Probably," you said cheerfully. "Want some coffee? I got you the good kind."
"You need to leave. Now."
"Can't. Already here. Plus, I brought useful things." There was rustling on the other end. "Thermal imaging scanner, backup comms, and a first aid kit because let's be real, you're probably going to need it."
"I told you not to come."
"You told me you work alone. I ignored you. It's kind of my thing." Your voice was light, but there was steel underneath. "Red, I know this is bigger than you thought. Griggs is bad news, and you're outnumbered twelve to one. You need backup."
"So I'll call—"
"Who? Batman? The family you have complicated feelings about? Other vigilantes who might ask too many questions?" You paused. "Or you could accept help from someone who's already here, already invested, and makes really good company."
Jason closed his eyes. This was a terrible idea. You were a civilian. You had no training, no armor, no business being anywhere near this.
But you were also right. He was outnumbered, and this was bigger than a simple Scorpions operation.
"Stay in the coffee shop," he said finally. "Monitor the comms, be my eyes on the ground. That's it. You don't engage, you don't get involved, and if anything goes wrong, you run. Understand?"
"Aye aye, captain." He could hear the smile in your voice. "See? This is growth. You're accepting help. I'm so proud."
"If you die, I'm going to be very annoyed."
"If I die, you'll have to find a new pancake buddy. The tragedy alone should keep me motivated."
Jason ended the call and dropped down to meet you.
The coffee shop was small, warm, and blessedly empty except for you and a bored barista who'd seen too much of Gotham's weirdness to care about a vigilante walking in.
You handed him a coffee cup. "Black, three shots of espresso, because you seem like you need it."
"You can't actually see my face. How do you know what I need?"
"Body language. You do this thing where your shoulders get tense when you're stressed." You pulled out a laptop, setting it on the table. "Also, you're about to fight twelve guys and a enforcer from Metropolis. Everyone needs caffeine for that."
Jason took the coffee, and when he lifted his helmet just enough to drink, you deliberately looked away without him having to ask.
Something warm settled in his chest that had nothing to do with the coffee.
"Comms," you said, handing him an earbud. "I'll be able to see the warehouse layout and track heat signatures. You'll be able to hear me being a delightful combination of helpful and sarcastic."
"Lucky me."
"You say that now, but wait until I save your life with my exceptional commentary." You pulled up the thermal imaging on your laptop. "Okay, so. Twelve guys on the main floor, two in the office upstairs, and Griggs is in the center with the weapons shipment. What's the play?"
Jason studied the screen, formulating a strategy. "I take out the perimeter guards first, work my way in. You keep me updated on movement patterns."
"Classic Red Hood approach. Efficient, violent, with a hint of dramatic flair." You typed something. "I'm marking the guards' patrol routes now. You've got a thirty-second window when the east entrance is clear."
"You've done this before."
"I've helped coordinate information drops. Same principle, higher stakes." You looked up at him. "Red? Be careful. Griggs doesn't just hurt people. He enjoys it."
There was something in your voice, concern, real concern, that made Jason pause.
"I will," he said.
"Good." You turned back to your laptop. "Now go be a scary vigilante. I'll be your mission control."
Jason headed for the door, then stopped. "Why are you doing this?"
"The helping thing? Or the putting-myself-in-danger thing?"
"Both."
You were quiet for a moment, fingers paused over your keyboard. "Because someone should have helped you. Before. When things went bad." You met his gaze, even though you couldn't see his eyes. "And because you're trying to protect people who can't protect themselves. That matters."
Jason didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to process the fact that you'd somehow figured out more about him than most people who'd known him for years.
"Don't die," he said finally.
"Same to you." You smiled. "Now go. Your thirty-second window is in twenty seconds."
Jason went.
The operation went sideways approximately three minutes in.
"Okay, slight problem," your voice said in his ear as Jason tied up the second guard. "Griggs has enhanced hearing. Like, metahuman level. He definitely heard you knock out those guards."
"That would have been useful information before I started."
"I literally just found out! There was a file update ten seconds ago!" You sounded frustrated. "New plan: everyone knows you're there. Silver lining—you can be as loud as you want now?"
Jason heard footsteps rushing toward his position. "How many?"
"Six converging on your location. Four more heading to the exits to cut off escape routes."
"And Griggs?"
"Still in the center with the weapons. He's not running. Red, I think this might be a—"
"Trap. Yeah, I figured." Jason launched himself at the first guard, taking him down with brutal efficiency. "How long until police response?"
"GCPD won't come out here without serious motivation. Too close to the water, too many gangs." There was typing. "But I might be able to trigger a few alarms, get some attention..."
"Do it." Jason moved through the warehouse like a force of nature, taking down guards with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. "Where's Griggs?"
"Moving toward the office. Red, I think he's going for something. There's a case up there, reinforced, and... oh no."
"'Oh no' is not what I want to hear right now."
"The case has a biometric lock. Military grade. That's not money laundering equipment, Red. That's—"
The explosion cut you off.
Not a big explosion. Controlled. Precise. Exactly where Jason had been standing thirty seconds ago.
"Mines," you said, voice tight. "The warehouse is rigged with proximity mines. Griggs activated them remotely."
Jason looked down at his feet, at the barely visible trigger plate he'd almost stepped on. "How many?"
"Scanning now. I count... at least fifteen. Red, you need to get out of there."
"Can't. He'll escape with whatever's in that case."
"So let him! You can track him down later when you're not in a building full of explosives!"
But Jason was already moving, using his knowledge of the warehouse layout to navigate around the mines. You fed him positions in real-time, your voice steady despite the obvious stress.
"Two feet to your left. Another mine at three o'clock. Okay, you're clear to the stairs."
He made it to the office just as Griggs grabbed the case.
The man was huge, six and a half feet of muscle and bad intentions. He smiled when he saw Jason, showing too many teeth.
"Red Hood," Griggs said. "Heard about you. Heard you're tough to kill."
"Heard that about me too." Jason moved into the room, hyperaware of potential mine locations. "Put down the case."
"Or what? You'll shoot me in a room full of explosives?" Griggs laughed. "I don't think so."
"Red," you said in his ear, urgent. "He's got a dead man's switch. If his heart rate drops, all the mines detonate simultaneously."
"Of course he does," Jason muttered.
"What was that?" Griggs's enhanced hearing picked it up. "You got someone feeding you information? That's cute. They watching on cameras? Hiding somewhere safe?"
Jason's hand tightened on his gun.
"Tell you what," Griggs continued. "You back off, let me walk out of here, and maybe I don't track down whoever's helping you. Maybe I don't make them regret getting involved in Scorpion business."
"Red?" Your voice was quieter now. "What do you want me to do?"
Jason looked at Griggs, at the case, at the situation that had gotten completely out of control.
And made a decision.
"You're going to run," he said quietly.
"What?" Both you and Griggs said it at the same time.
"When I move," Jason continued, speaking only to you, "you're going to close that laptop, get out of that coffee shop, and run as fast as you can. Head west, away from the docks."
"I'm not leaving you in a warehouse full of mines with a meta-human who wants to kill you!"
"You don't have a choice. He made a threat. I'm eliminating the threat."
"By doing what, exactly?"
"Trust me."
"Red—"
"Do you trust me?" Jason asked, and the question felt bigger than the moment, bigger than the warehouse and the mines and the danger.
You were quiet for a long moment. Then: "Yeah. I do."
"Then run. Now."
Jason moved.
Not toward Griggs, toward the window. He crashed through it in a shower of glass, already pulling out grappling equipment as he fell. Behind him, he heard Griggs roar in anger, heard the triggering of the mines, heard the warehouse start to collapse.
He swung wide, using momentum to carry him away from the building. Behind him, Warehouse 17 went up in a series of controlled explosions, fire painting the night sky orange and red.
Jason landed on a neighboring roof, rolling to absorb the impact. His ears were ringing, his side hurt where he'd taken shrapnel, but he was alive.
His phone was ringing.
"I'm alive," he said immediately.
"You jumped out a window!" You sounded furious and relieved in equal measure. "You jumped out a third-story window into the Gotham harbor area!"
"I've jumped out of taller windows."
"That's not reassuring! That's the opposite of reassuring!" There was a pause, then: "Are you actually okay?"
Jason did a quick assessment. Bruised ribs, definitely. Some cuts from the glass. Nothing that wouldn't heal. "I'm fine. Are you clear?"
"I'm in the alley three blocks west, hiding behind a dumpster, because my life has become a series of questionable choices." You let out a shaky laugh. "Griggs?"
"Didn't make it. The explosion brought down most of the building." Jason stood up, wincing. "The case?"
"Destroyed in the blast. Whatever was in there, it's gone now."
They were both quiet for a moment, processing how close that had been.
"You saved my life," you said finally.
"You helped me take down a major criminal operation."
"Yeah, but you could have grabbed the case. Could have tried to fight him. Instead you..." You trailed off. "You chose making sure I was safe."
Jason didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to explain that somewhere in the last two weeks, you'd gone from annoying informant to something that felt dangerously close to important.
"Pancakes?" he said instead.
You laughed, and it sounded like relief. "Pancakes. Give me twenty minutes to get to the Bluebird. And Red?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for trusting me."
"Thanks for running."
Twenty-five minutes later, Jason walked into the Bluebird Diner still in full Red Hood gear, with visible injuries and probably looking like he'd just fought his way out of an exploding warehouse.
Because he had.
You were already in your usual booth, two cups of coffee waiting. When you saw him, your face went through several emotions... relief, concern, and then exasperation.
"You said you were fine!"
"I am fine."
"You're bleeding!"
"Just a little."
You stood up, marching over to him with a first aid kit you'd apparently had the foresight to bring. "Sit. Now."
"I can handle—"
"Red, so help me, if you finish that sentence with anything other than 'Yes, I'll let you check my injuries,' I'm going to force-feed you my opinions about your life choices for the next three hours."
Jason sat.
You worked in focused silence, cleaning cuts and checking for serious damage. Your hands were steady, gentle, surprisingly skilled.
"Did you take medical training?" Jason asked as you bandaged a cut on his arm.
"EMT certification. Seemed useful for living in Crime Alley." You moved to examine the cut on his temple, the one that had bled through his helmet. "This is going to scar."
"I have a lot of those."
"I'm noticing." Your fingers were feather-light on his face, and Jason realized he'd loosened his helmet enough for you to treat him without even thinking about it. "You know, most people would consider tonight a disaster."
"We stopped the Scorpions, destroyed their weapons shipment, and eliminated a dangerous meta-human enforcer. That's a win."
"You also got blown up and jumped out a window."
"Tuesday in Gotham."
You laughed, and the sound made something tight in Jason's chest loosen. "You're ridiculous."
"You're the one who agreed to be mission control for a vigilante you've known for two weeks."
"Three weeks as of today. I'm counting the kidnapping." You finished with his injuries and sat back, studying him. Even with most of his helmet still on, hiding his face, you seemed to see him. Really see him. "We make a good team."
"We do," Jason admitted.
"So." You pulled out your phone. "I have information on five more Scorpion operations. Some are small, some are bigger. Thought maybe we could make this a regular thing."
"Regular thing."
"You know. Partnership. You do the scary vigilante stuff, I do the information and logistics stuff. We meet for pancakes at inadvisable hours and judge each other's life choices." You smiled. "It's very professional."
"Professional."
"Okay, it's not professional at all. But it works." You slid your phone across the table, showing him the intel. "What do you say, Red? Want a partner?"
Jason looked at you, at your bright eyes and confident smile, at the way you sat in a diner at 3 AM with a vigilante and made it feel normal, at the way you'd trusted him enough to run when he asked.
He thought about working alone, about keeping everyone at arm's length, about the walls he'd built to protect himself from caring too much.
And then he thought about you stealing his bacon, sending him memes at 2 AM, calling him out when he was being dramatic, showing up when he needed backup even though he never asked.
"Yeah," he said. "I want a partner."
Your smile was brilliant. "Excellent. First order of business: we need code names."
"You can't call me Red Hood?"
"That's your vigilante name. I need a personal name. Something just for us." You considered. "How do you feel about 'Hot Stuff'?"
"No."
"'Scary McBrooding'?"
"Absolutely not."
"'Mr. Shoots First, Asks Questions Never'?"
"I'm regretting this already."
"'Regret' is a great code name, actually. Very dramatic." You pulled up your notes. "Okay, real talk. The Scorpions are going to retaliate for what happened tonight. We need to be ready."
Jason pulled the laptop toward him, studying your intel. You leaned in beside him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo (something fruity, which was somehow perfectly you), and started outlining your strategy.
Somewhere around 4 AM, Doris brought more pancakes without being asked.
Around 5 AM, Jason caught himself laughing at one of your terrible jokes.
And around 6 AM, when the sun started rising over Gotham and you'd both finally finished planning their next move, Jason realized that he'd found something he didn't even know he'd been looking for.
A partner. A friend.
Someone who saw him as he was... dangerous, damaged, trying his best... and decided to stick around anyway.
"Same time next week?" you asked, gathering your things.
"Same time next week," Jason confirmed.
You paused at the door, looking back at him with that smile that was starting to feel dangerously important. "Hey, Red?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you kidnapped me."
Jason watched you leave, phone already buzzing with what was probably another meme, and realized he was glad too.
Even if he'd never admit it out loud.
His phone buzzed again: PS - Still think you should get a cape. Just putting that out there.
Jason smiled under his helmet and went home as the sun rose over Gotham, already looking forward to next week's pancakes.
your boyfriend tries to teach you that 'no' is a complete sentence
A Lifetime Ago
when your mentor goes away on a mission with Batman, you're ecstatic to finally be working with Robin. the only problem? he really seems to hate you
Amidst The Fading Sunlight (NSFW)
when Jason finds a pair of handcuffs hanging from your bed, you never expect it to turn into the two of you tangled in the fading sunlight
At The Same Damn Time (NSFW)
you get punished for making jason and roy jealous
Chilling Out
during a party at Wayne manor, you have a panic attack, but Jason knows just how to help you
Chronic Illness Comfort
how they act with their chronically ill partner
Different Kind of Hero
when you faint, the hot paramedic is there to save the day. the only problem? he's kind of an asshole
Drive Me Crazy!
the small things he does that drive you wild before you start dating
Drunk In Love
no one takes better care of you while drunk than him
Finders, Keepers (NSFW)
slasher! au where you'll do anything to live & Jason intends to make good on that
Fist Fight
your boyfriend reacts to you getting into a fight
Frost and Flush
the way you compliment your boyfriend always makes his heart stop
Harness Your Hopes
when you fall into a depressive episode, he'll do whatever he can to help you feel better
Just Dance
your lame boyfriend won't dance with you? no problem, your best friend is always willing to fill in
Just Friends
he says you're just friends, but when he catches you with someone else, he can't bear it
Just Like That
your boyfriend refusing to dance with you was a wake up call—it's time to come home to the man you truly love (or, you break up with your boyfriend for them)
Late Night Comfort (NSFW)
somnophillia
Leaping Into The Light
he sees your old self-harm scars
Location
you send them your location and stop answering your phone. panic ensues
Meet The Waynes
When Jason brings you to meet his family, he expects awkwardness and prying questions. What he doesn't expect? You to bond with the youngest Wayne sibling
Mistletoe Memories
after a gruelling day of Christmas shopping, Jason rewards you by taking pics in a photobooth
Need (NSFW)
the ways in which your boyfriend makes himself feel like he’s in control again
Never Let Me Go
after an argument with Jason, you're left to fend for yourself outside of a bar
Nothing Else Matters
in the throes of appendicitis-induced pain, you make one crucial mistake: forgetting to tell your boyfriend that you're going into surgery
Pollenated (NSFW)
when your boyfriend gets exposed to something on patrol, you're the only one who can help him
Redtribution
Jason seeks justice for you after you get assaulted
Stay A While
you’ve always been one to suffer in silence, shutting yourself in your apartment for the duration of your episodes. but Jason Todd doesn’t want to sit idly by and watch you suffer alone, even if it annoys you
Take Me Home
they find out you've been living in your car
Ten Minutes
Jason is tired of your stubbornness always leading to injury
This Unruly Mess I've Made
in your mind, Jason Todd and the Red Hood are entirely different people, but when he comes over after patrol one night, the lines start to blur
☆˚.⋆ Blurbs:
jason saves your life
jason watches a horror movie with you
☆˚.⋆ Headcanons:
Passing Out From A Fever (ft. Dick, Jason, Tim and Wally)
Valentine's Day HCs (ft. Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Steph, Cass, Duke & Damian)
Touch Starved Best Friend (ft. Dick, Jason & Tim)
Camping Headcanons (ft. Dick, Jason, Tim and Wally)
Valentine's Day Headcanons (ft. Dick, Jason, Tim, Wally & Kon-El)
Volume Down (ft. Dick, Jason, Tim and Wally)
Rivals w/ Jason Todd
Don't Impress Me Much (ft. Dick, Jason, Tim and Wally)
