the only love I know is fictional

25 living vicariously though y/n

[honeypiehotchner]

go save the world, i'll be around (Clark Kent x Fem!Reader) -- one shot

I have not watched Smallville and this is purely inspired by the scenes with Ma and Pa Kent and me missing my grandparents' farm. Also I'm posting this while tipsy bc sober me didn't think I should post it xoxo

Warnings: uh so much angst, but also lots of fluff, matchmaker!Krypto, major movie spoilers, genuinely that might be it!!

Summary: You and Clark are childhood best friends, growing up just across the field from one another. When he moves to Metropolis and announces himself as Superman, it causes a rift so large that you aren't sure you'll ever cross it. Until Superman comes home, sick and out of his mind, and only two things can help: sunlight and you.

WC: 7.7k

After a taxing day of farm chores, despite enjoying every second of it spent with the Kents, you’re finally lying down in your bed, ready for an entire night’s sleep.

Except, you don’t make it that far, because your eyes are just about to close when you hear a soft whirring outside, followed by bright lights hitting your window. Car headlights, you think at first, but then you realize they’re too high up. They’re coming from the sky? 

“What the hell?” you mutter, slowly crawling out of your bed and peering through the blinds.

It’s… Well, you have no clue what it is, but it’s not a helicopter. You’re tempted to go back to bed when you spot two figures rushing through the field that look a lot like Martha and Jon.

You don’t care that you’re in your pajamas -- a Mighty Crabjoys t-shirt that Clark let you borrow years ago and sleep shorts that you’ve had to patch holes in three times now. You scramble and nearly trip as you shove your feet into your boots by the front door before hauling ass across the field.

It’s been years, your heart warns you. But who else would it be, coming in here on something like that? Your brain responds.

And too, you’ve seen the news recently. Superman has been at the heart of a lot of controversy with Boravia and Jarhanpur -- nonsense, as far as you’re concerned, because there is no way in hell that Boravia, of all places, is trying to help the Jarhanpurian people. 

But a lot of people think he shouldn’t have intervened, especially after the Hammer of Boravia showed up in Metropolis and beat Superman pretty decisively. And to make matters worse, a private video of Clark’s biological parents leaked, and apparently what they had in mind for him is not at all what he has thought. 

Last you heard, he turned himself in -- because of course he did -- and it’s had Martha and Jon worried sick ever since they saw the footage of his arrest.

All of it makes your heart ache for him, even more than it usually does. 

But you can’t think about that right now.

Your feet slow as the flying craft lands and a door opens, stairs unfolding. Clark-- Superman walks down them, held up by…a woman.

Your heart lurches into your throat, your feet rooting themselves in place.

No one has seen you yet. You can easily turn and go back home and go right to sleep. Show up for work tomorrow at the Kents’ farm and play dumb, pretend you didn’t hear or see this random flying craft in the yard.

But you can’t. You won’t be able to live with yourself if you don’t go see if he’s okay, or if there’s anything that you can do to help.

You trudge forward, putting your feelings about Clark aside. It’s been years. He hasn’t been back here, aside from what you’ve heard to be brief and secretive trips -- as in, he’s dropped in for about fifteen minutes for his Ma and Pa’s birthdays, and then gone away again. You get it. After announcing himself as Superman, albeit still keeping him separate from Clark Kent, he wants to protect his Ma and Pa as much as he possibly can. It just means that, well, you haven’t seen him, the two of you haven’t talked, and the last words you ever said to each other weren’t exactly nice.

When you finally make it to the Kents’ house, the front door is wide open, save for the screen door that creaks loudly as it opens. Still, you call out to them to let them know you’re coming in.

“We’re in Clark’s room!” You hear Martha call back before she says something else, and you think you hear your name.

You brace yourself for meeting Clark’s girlfriend -- because that’s who she must be, right? -- as you walk down the hallway. You’d know the way even with your eyes closed.

You step hesitantly into the doorway of Clark’s room, your breath catching in your throat when you see him. Clark’s Pa kneels beside the bed, his palm on his son’s forehead. Clark is sweating, he’s shivering, his eyes are closed and he’s mumbling something, something about his parents and their message and how it’s all wrong. 

Martha turns to greet you, squeezing your elbow lovingly. At the foot of Clark’s bed -- his tiny, twin-sized bed that he stopped properly fitting on when he was fourteen but insisted on keeping -- stands one of the most beautiful women you’ve ever seen.

She sticks out her hand. “Hi, I’m Lois.”

You take her hand and offer a smile, introducing yourself. “Lois…Lane, right? I’ve read your stuff in the Daily Planet.” You haven’t, not entirely. You’ve just heard a lot about it because it’s all Martha and Jon talk about.

“Oh,” Lois smiles. “Thank you.”

“And thank you for bringing him home,” you say, casting a quick glance at Clark where he lies still now, his mumbling stopped. “Is he…Is he gonna be okay?”

Lois nods firmly. “Yes. Mr. Terrific says he’ll be fine, he just needs to rest.”

Mr. Terrific. A member of the Justice Gang. Someone you’ve only seen on the box, and Lois has met him. She’s talking like this is normal, like she fits in.

Because she does, you realize. You remember the way you left things with Clark and you remember that it’s you. You’re the one that doesn’t fit.

Tears well in your eyes when you look at him, noticing the black lines where blueish-green veins should be. What happened to him? You don’t even know if you want to know, if you can even stomach it.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask, turning toward Martha.

She reads you like an open book, she always has. “Oh, honey,” she says, rubbing your arms. You know she can tell you’re restless, which means you know what she’s going to suggest. “Why don’t you go home and get you some sleep? You helped us all day.”

You take in a deep breath, glancing at Clark again. Jon runs his fingers through Clark’s curls, silent tears falling down his cheeks. You don’t know what it is. You don’t want to leave Clark, even though he’s got everyone he probably needs, and that there’s no guarantee he’ll even be happy to see you if he-- when he wakes up.

“How about you take the guest bed tonight?” Martha says instead, catching your attention with another squeeze to your elbow.

“Oh, I don’t-- I mean,” you pause, wiping your nose. “If Lois is staying, I don’t want to put her out.” You turn to look at Lois, to see what her verdict is, but she’s staring at her phone with wide eyes.

“Sorry, I need to make a call,” she says. “It’s-- It’s important, I swear, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stay the night if this is what I think it is.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you and Martha watch her dart down the hall, pressing her phone to her ear.

“Come on,” Martha rubs your arms, grounding you. “Let’s get you to sleep.”

You know better than to argue with Martha Kent twice, so you let her walk you across the hall to the guest bedroom, the same one you used to sleep in when you and Clark had sleepovers. There was no way you’d be allowed to sleep in his room -- not that the both of you would’ve fit on his bed anyway. And sometimes, you and Clark still whispered across the hall, or more often than not, Clark would make stupid faces in the moonlight, causing you both to giggle and never get enough sleep before a day of romping around in the sun, helping Ma and Pa with farm chores.

You take midday naps in here now mostly, since you’re up and working on the Kents’ farm before six almost every morning. Taking cat naps here before the evening work has become routine. So it feels weird now, to be sitting on the bed with Martha next to you, in the dead of night.

You also just don’t understand why she’s next to you.

“Go be with your boy,” you nudge her side, kicking your boots off and pushing them under the bed. “I’ll be fine.”

“I can see him from right here, and his Pa’s got him,” she argues, patting your knee lovingly. “Now I’m worryin’ about you.”

You knock your shoulder into hers affectionately. “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay.”

She absolutely does not believe you, and you don’t blame her.

“Listen,” she says softly. “I know how you feel about Clark.” She waits for you to look at her. “And I know the two of you didn’t leave off on the…best of terms.”

“It’s water under the bridge,” you assure her, even though it’s not. It’s water over the bridge, all the time. You’re never not thinking about Clark, though it’s not like you even try, since you’re spending all your time with the Kents. But you don’t want her worrying about you like this, not when her son is just across the hall in much worse shape than you.

“Maybe when he wakes up, the two of you can talk,” she says. “It’s long overdue.”

“Maybe,” you tell her. Because while you agree it’s long overdue, you highly doubt the two of you will talk. He’ll probably leave the second he feels just a little bit better. There won’t be any time for talking or reminiscing with an old friend.

Which, the more you think about it, might be for the best.

+++

Your sleep is restless and fitful. Whenever you think you’re about to finally fall into deep sleep, you jolt awake, looking across the hall to see if your mind is playing tricks on you. Or if that really is Clark, lying in his bed again, in his Superman suit.

One time when you wake up with a start, it’s because something is licking your face. Martha and Jon don’t have any dogs, so imagine your surprise when you see a fluffy white dog right in front of your face, ears perking when he sees you looking at him.

You squint your eyes, realizing he’s…wearing a cape. The dog is wearing a Superman cape.

You can’t help it, you actually laugh out loud.

“What’s your name buddy?” you whisper, turning over the Superman pendant on his collar. “Krypto. I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you belong to Mr. Sleeping Superhero over there.”

Krypto jumps happily on your chest, knocking the wind clear out of you before he launches off the bed and floats onto the floor. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s not even six yet, and the sun has just barely started to rise.

“Do you need some food? Water?” you ask, standing up. “I’m following you, bud.”

Krypto barks and you immediately shush him, as if doing that is any quieter, but at least he only barks the one time.

You expect him to go down the hall toward the kitchen, but he doesn’t. Instead, he goes into Clark’s room.

You freeze in the hall, watching Krypto spin in circles, practically screaming at you to follow him. You shake your head, as if he can understand you. Part of you feels like he might.

When you turn around to head back to bed, the damn dog barks again. Loudly.

“Shh!” you whip around, your hands flailing in a come on, man gesture.

“Are you shh-ing a dog?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper, and gravelly like nothing else. You almost think it isn’t him who just spoke, until he cracks one eye open and looks at you.

You smile too, despite yourself. “Maybe,” you reply. “What are you doing awake?”

“Heard Krypto barking,” he says, eyelids drooping again as he smirks. “Was gonna tell him to shh.”

You roll your eyes. “Go back to sleep, Clark.”

“Come here first,” he says. Then adds, “Please?”

And damn you, you can’t tell him no, especially not when he’s sick like this. So, you do as he asks, much to Krypto’s delight. You enter Clark’s room and stand beside his bed, waiting. He lifts his hand, the movement weak as he searches for yours. You give it to him.

“M’sorry,” he breathes, loosely threading your fingers with his.

“For what?” you whisper.

“Not calling,” he sounds like every word takes more and more of his energy. “Or writing. Or coming t’see you. Or--”

“Clark,” you shake your head, tugging on his hand a little. “We can talk about this tomorrow when you’re rested.”

“Okay,” he exhales, his body practically melting into the mattress. “Can I have a hug?” he asks, voice small. “I didn’t get one before I left.”

It’s true. He didn’t. Because you were too frustrated and hurt to offer one, and he would never take one without asking. 

“Of course,” you say, leaning down to wrap your arms around him in what will no doubt be the most awkward hug after almost four years. But instead, he wraps his arms around you, and pulls you over on top of him. “Clark!” you squeal, giggling quietly into his neck before lifting your head to glare at him playfully.

“Sorry,” he grins, and gosh, he’s just so tired. “Missed you.”

You don’t even know if he’ll remember this in the morning, if he even has any idea of what he’s saying right now.

“I missed you too,” you say despite the fact. You lay your head down on his chest, sighing deeply. “I’m sorry I was such an ass when you left.”

His arms tighten around your waist just a little, nothing like you know they’d do if he was actually feeling like himself. “Don’t be sorry. I was being mean.”

You want to protest that, but he needs his rest more than the two of you need to talk about this right now. “Go back to sleep,” you whisper, moving to get off him.

But he doesn’t let go. “Can you stay?”

You look at him, but his eyes are closed again. You crack a smile because, believe it or not, this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself in this predicament, though it was probably six or seven years ago the last time it happened. “Can you even sleep like this?”

He nods. “Will you stay?” he asks again. “If it’s comfy for you.”

Some of the best naps you ever had were with your head on Clark’s chest, and he knows it, too.

“Yeah,” you murmur, settling back down. “I can stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathes, and then he’s out like a light again.

+++

Sometime in the early morning hours, Krypto curled up between your and Clark’s feet, so when you wake up, you’re well and thoroughly trapped. In a good way.

Sunlight streams through the windows, warming you as you start to stir, and hopefully, you think, already working its magic on making Clark feel better.

Once Krypto senses you’re awake, he’s jumping off the bed and spinning in circles again, waiting for you to join him.

The only problem is that you have two arms wrapped tight around your middle like twisting vines. You expect it to be harder than it is to wiggle out of Clark’s hold, and it kind of worries you how easy it is. When you stand up, you press your hand to his forehead, sighing a little in relief. He’s not clammy, and the black veins have almost completely faded away.

You brush his curls back with a smile before you part from him. You’ve definitely slept through a bit of the morning farm chores, so you should get dressed. Thankfully, you have some extra clothes in the guest room, so you quickly get changed before heading to the kitchen.

Martha made some breakfast, so you scarf some down, all while she fusses over you and tells you that you don’t need to help Pa with the chores. All that tells you is that she saw where you were sleeping and she’s hoping the two of you have made up. You don’t give her the chance to ask you outright before you head outside.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Jon’s affectionate scolding immediately meets your ears once you get close to the barn.

“Helping you, what’s it look like, old man?” you grin, grabbing one of the milk buckets and moving it closer to him. “Can’t run the farm all by yourself, you know.”

He makes a disapproving noise immediately followed by a smile. “How’d you sleep, kid?”

“Pretty good,” you nod, scratching the cow’s neck while he milks her. “What about you?”

“Just fine, got my six hours,” he jokes. He waits a beat, and you know exactly what’s coming next. “Saw you sleeping with Clark.”

“He trapped me,” you chuckle, brushing it off. “He’s still sleeping.”

“Yeah, he’ll prob’ly sleep for a while in the sun.”

“I think so too.”

“Did you two talk?”

You let out another chuckle, shaking your head. “Jon…”

“Oh, don’t Jon me,” he waves his hand at you. “I know how that boy feels about you.”

You know it too. But neither of you will ever talk about it. What good will it do anyway, talking about it now? He’s going back to the city to save the day and you’re going to stay right here.

“Yeah, yeah,” you wave Jon off in the same way he did to you. “What else needs to be done?”

He grumbles through telling you what he got done while you were dozing with Clark, and you head off to fill the gaps of what he didn’t quite get around to.

Some hay in the barn needs moving, and you feel like flinging some bales around will help you clear your head.

Well, you want it to clear your head. All it ends up doing is giving your mind free rein to start digging up old memories.

“I can’t just pick up and move to Metropolis right now, Clark! That’s crazy!”

“Why not?” It was the third time he had brought it up in a week. “We could rent a place together, we could--”

“I wouldn’t fit in there,” you told him again, for what felt like the fiftieth time. You understood why Clark wanted to move to the city. But it just wasn’t for you. “There’s nothing there for me.”

He had frowned then. “But I’ll be there.”

“That’s not enough, Clark. I can’t follow you around my whole life.”

“So you’re just-- You’re just gonna stay here your whole life?”

“Well someone has to help out on the farm!”

It was a low, and downright rude jab to make that day. You knew how hard it was for Clark to move away from the Kents. You knew he wrestled with it, with wanting the job at the Daily Planet and wanting to never leave his Ma and Pa’s side. With wanting to help the world and announce himself as Superman, and with wanting to stay just Clark forever. You knew that despite the Kents’ unwavering support in his decision, he was still, in those last few days, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

And then you had to say that to him. Make it sound like you were the one doing the “right” thing by staying here and helping his parents around on the farm, and he was doing the “wrong” thing by moving out so he could have a bigger, better life and even help others in ways that you just don’t understand and never will. Because you’re not like him.

You fling another hay bale with a little too much strength, groaning in defeat when it just bounces and falls back down.

Just as you’re about to pick it up again, Clark’s voice echoes from behind you. “Need any help?”

You glance over your shoulder, smiling a little when you see he’s changed into sweatpants and a flannel. That’s the Clark you know. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“Krypto woke me up,” he says. He grabs the bale one-handed and tosses it up.

“Show off,” you mutter, letting him handle the last two. The dog in question circles your feet, jumping and yapping happily. “I didn’t know you had a dog now.”

“He’s my cousin’s,” Clark says with a grimace. “He’s…a lot.”

“He’s cute,” you giggle, bending down and picking him up after letting him jump at your feet for a bit.

“Oh, be careful, he’s--” Clark’s words fall short when you start laughing. “Well clearly he likes you.”

“He’s sweet!” you giggle, watching in awe as Krypto leaps from your arms and flies around the barn. “Of course he can fly.”

“Yeah,” Clark chuckles, and he sounds relieved to see Krypto flying around. “Did you have breakfast before you came out here?”

You nod. “Did you? And should you even be walking around?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “And yeah, I ate. Sat with Pa for a minute.”

“Good,” you nod, turning around, scanning the barn for anything else you can throw yourself into so you don’t have to talk to Clark. Not that you don’t want to catch up with him, it’s just.

“Thanks for staying with me last night-- or, this morning, I guess. You didn’t have to, I know we…left off on rocky terms.”

It’s just that.

You sigh, wiping your sweaty palms on your overalls. “It’s fine, Clark, seriously. You were half out of your mind. What happened yesterday?”

“Long story,” he says. Then adds, with a grimace, “Kryptonite poisoning.”

Your eyes blow wide. “Kryptonite pois-- I thought you said there wasn’t any left on Earth!”

“There’s not, it’s--” He cuts himself off, clenches his jaw. “It’s a lot to explain.”

You nod once, a jerking movement because you’re trying not to let it show just how much this is ripping your heart into pieces. 

You’ve always known the real reason why you and Clark won’t ever work. It’s because the moment he announced himself as Superman, he stopped being the Clark Kent you grew up with. Sure, nobody knows that Superman is really Clark Kent, the journalist at the Daily Planet who always somehow scores an interview with the man himself, but that doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.

The point is that for you, you’ve always known Clark has powers, that his real name is Kal-El, that he comes from Krypton, but he’s just Clark to you. It was never about him being Superman or technically a metahuman or Kryptonian or whatever-- He’s just Clark. He’s just the kid you grew up with. The kid you met one afternoon when he knocked on your front door, asking your mom if you could come outside and play. And if your parents would like any lemonade, because his ma made some, and it’s the best lemonade ever. 

That’s Clark. 

That’s the boy you know, the boy you found yourself falling in love with at sixteen and realized maybe you had loved him all that time. That’s the boy who took you on your first date to a drive-in movie, who got you home one minute after the time he said and apologized so profusely to your dad that it had him in tears. That’s the boy you love, and you feel like he doesn’t exist anymore. Like he’s been taken over by this split identity of Superman and journalist Clark Kent. 

And you just. You don’t fit anywhere in that narrative.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, swallowing down the emotion when it threatens to crack your voice. “You don’t have to explain.”

His face twists, no doubt hearing the hurt you try to hide because whether you like it or not, Clark knows you. “No,” he says. “No, please, don’t do this--”

“I’m not doing anything, Clark,” you snap, brushing past him. “I just need to go check on the chickens.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you say, and his feet halt. “Go get some rest. You’ll probably need to leave soon.”

He just nods, and you don’t look back once you’ve left the barn.

+++

The chickens don’t need to be checked on, and you’re sure Clark knows it. Jon has had the same routine since you both were little: the chickens are checked on first.

Still, you walk around the pen with them, scolding them when they try to peck at your feet. You’ve always thought they can sense when you’re frustrated, and that seems to be happening right now. They’re practically trying to force you to leave, pecking your feet to tell you just go talk to him, stop bothering us with your pacing!

You don’t listen to them.

But you don’t get much warning before you see Krypto flying toward you, followed by Clark yelling after him.

“Leave the chickens alone! Krypto! Leave it!”

You exit the pen and meet Krypto halfway, wrangling him into your arms, giggling at the way he squirms and licks your face.

“Don’t bite her!” Clark yells, sounding a lot like his Ma.

“He’s fine,” you laugh, and Krypto wiggles out of your arms, grabbing ahold of the strap on your overalls and pulling you along. Once you’re close to Clark, though, Krypto lets go and heads for the sky, yipping triumphantly.

“Gosh, I’m sorry, he’s-- I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Well, he’s kind of always a nuisance, but not usually--”

“Clark,” you laugh. “It’s fine.” You reach up and scratch Krypto’s belly mid-flight, and he seems delighted that you’ve done it, circling back around so you can do it again. You look over at Clark, noticing the flannel is gone and there’s a newfound determination on his face. “Heading out?”

“In a minute, yeah, Ma’s getting my boots, and I had to chase down Krypto,” he rambles, pausing. “And. I wanted to say I’m sorry before I go.”

“You don’t need to--”

“I do,” he argues. “I never should’ve tried to pressure you into following me to Metropolis, not so soon after your parents passed--”

“Clark,” you warn. “You need to go, and I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

He nods, looks up at Krypto, then back at you. “When I get back,” he says. “Can we talk then?”

You know better than to think or hope that he’ll come back here. He’s got a world to save. He’s busy.

“Sure,” you say, knowing he won’t be back anytime soon. And because you know it’ll be a while, you can’t help it, you fling yourself at him, squeezing him into a hug.

He hugs you back just as tight, sighing into you.

“Be safe,” you tell him. “Promise me?”

He nods, whispering into your hair, “Promise.”

+++

You know better than to watch the news as things are happening in real time, but you can’t help it. Usually you catch up on everything after the fact, after Superman has saved everyone and is safe himself and Clark has called Ma and Pa to let them know he’s okay.

Instead, this time, you’re sitting in between Ma and Pa Kent on their couch, all of you gripping each other’s hands like your lives depend on it.

You watch the rift start to rip through the city from the news helicopter filming it from the sky. You’re nauseous just thinking about all of the people there. How does Clark do it? How does he save all these people and not let the weight of it crush him -- even mentally?

No one can get eyes on Superman and that worries you the most, not knowing where he might be. There’s a flash of blue and red here and there, but nothing to ease your nerves.

When the truth about Lex Luthor breaks from the Daily Planet, you gasp in disbelief at everything you see, though you can’t say you’re surprised. None of it ever seemed right -- his hatred toward Superman and the way he somehow got ahold of that video.

It doesn’t feel like any of you breathe a single, normal breath until there’s confirmation that the rift has closed and Superman is walking around on the ground. You watch him help anyone he sees, offering high fives and hugs to every kid that passes by, just being himself the way you know him to be.

But when you see Superman speaking with Lois Lane, smile on his lips and hands tucked behind his back, you look away.

“I’m gonna get us some lemonade,” you sniffle, standing up and heading for the kitchen.

You pull three glasses down and scoop some ice into them, wiping your tears as you grab the lemonade pitcher from the fridge. 

He’s safe. That’s all that should matter right now. He’s safe. The city is safe. Luthor is in custody, Boravia’s invasion of Jarhanpur was stopped, everyone is okay. That’s what matters.

So then why are you upset over Clark-- Superman speaking to a reporter who might be his girlfriend?

You shake your head, pouring the lemonade, trying to get the stupid tears to stop falling, but they won’t. It’s a rush of emotion, knowing Clark is safe and he saved the city again, but you know those two things mean he won’t be coming back here anytime soon. There’s a lot that still needs to be done in the city, a lot of people probably still need his help. You shouldn’t be this upset.

Soft footsteps pad into the kitchen and you try to pull yourself together, but it’s no use. One hug from Ma Kent and you’re a mess all over again, crying into her shoulder. Pa, the mush that he is, joins just a moment later, weeping right alongside with you, holding you both tight.

“He’s okay,” Ma whispers, rubbing circles into your back. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You believe her. It will be okay.

You’re going to go about your life, and Superman is going to go about his. And it’ll all be okay.

“I’m gonna take a walk,” you sniffle, the deep breath you take in rattling your chest. “Just-- To calm down.”

“Okay, kiddo,” Pa Kent whispers. “Want me to come with you?”

You shake your head. “No. No, thank you, though.”

“Come back for supper,” Ma says with a raise of her eyebrows, telling you that you had better not lock yourself away in that house across the field -- again.

“I will, promise,” you murmur, rubbing her arm.

“Here, take your lemonade,” she pushes the drink into your hand. “Be careful, hon.”

“I’m just gonna walk around the property,” you assure her. “I’ll be back soon.”

With your ice cold lemonade in hand, you shove your feet into your boots at the door and head outside, turning your house.

Your parents’ farm that only became yours because of their sudden deaths, written into their wills and everything and you had no idea. They probably had planned to tell you. And it’s not that you didn’t expect them to leave the farm to you, you just never expected both of them to be gone so soon. One right after the other.

Some days you think it’s sweet that your ma only had to be alone up in Heaven for a month before your pa joined her. Some days you just think it’s plain cruel, for both of them leave you so soon.

You didn’t have it in you to keep their farm fully up and running. You’d need more manpower than yourself alone, and there wasn’t enough money for that. So, you sold off all the livestock and equipment that you no longer needed, giving yourself a substantial savings alongside what your parents left you to live off of, and to at least keep the house and land in your name. But some days you wonder if it’s enough, if you did the right thing.

Everything is so overgrown now, and you know you need to do something about it, but you’ve just not had it in you. You gulp down more of the lemonade, tears stinging your eyes, but for different reasons this time. Now, you just wish your parents were here. You just wish you could pull open the screen door and shout, “Ma! Pa, I’m home!” and they’d answer you.

You walk around the small ranch house to the barn in the back where your pa’s old truck lives. You’ll never sell it, even though it doesn’t drive right now, and hasn’t in some time. One day, you’ll fix it up and drive it somewhere.

Maybe Metropolis. Maybe you’ll visit Clark.

A laughable idea, honestly. It’s a long drive to the city, and there’s no guarantee he’d even want to see you there.

You prop yourself up on the hood of the truck, looking out over the field. Gosh, you spent so many days here, running around with Clark. It’s impossible to find a childhood memory that doesn’t have Clark in it in some form. It’s as beautiful to remember as it is tortuous.

You set your lemonade down in the grass and lean back onto the hood, propping your leg up so you can rest your eyes. They’re heavy from crying so much, and you’re all out of lemonade to drink, so you might as well try for a cat nap.

You’re starting to doze off when you feel something licking your face.

“Krypto,” you murmur, still half-asleep, not even sure that’s who it is, but who else would it be? You crack one eye and you see him. One ear perked, head tilted, hovering just above you. “What are you doing here?” you giggle, reaching up for him, but he lifts higher out of your grasp. “Don’t be a punk!” you chide, pulling him down to your chest, scratching behind his ears and under his belly. “Where’s Superman, huh?”

As if on cue, you hear Clark yelling after Krypto. The dog in question flies away from you and you hear a comical thud as he collides with Clark.

You slide off the truck and poke your head out the barn, seeing Clark -- still in his suit -- being tugged along by his cape toward the barn, pitcher of lemonade in hand with an extra empty glass. He sets both down at his feet once he spots you, though, and you break out into a run before you can think twice. 

You were so certain he wouldn’t be back that seeing him now makes you feel like you’re dreaming. You have to hold him so you know this is real.

Krypto flies around above your heads as you launch yourself at Clark, wrapping your arms and legs around him like a koala. He barely stumbles, his super strength unfazed by your tackling. His arms wrap around you, securing you against him, and he sighs, tension melting out of him.

“We were watching the news,” you gasp into his neck. “I’m so glad you’re okay-- You saved everyone.”

“Mr. Terrific closed the rift,” he says, ever humble and not wanting to take all the credit. “And the Justice Gang helped at the Jarhanpurian border, I was just--”

You can’t help it, you start giggling. 

“What?” you can hear him smiling through the question. “It’s true! I couldn’t have done it alone, no way.”

“I know,” you say, lifting your head to look at him with wide eyes. “And all that stuff about Luthor, I just--” You shake your head. “I can’t.”

“I know,” Clark breathes, arms tightening around your waist. “But he’s in custody now, and the Jarhanpurian people won’t have to worry about him or Boravia. And he had so many people trapped in his pocket universe, they’re all out now, they’re going home to their families.”

You nod along, not understanding half of it, but just glad that it all boils down to everyone being okay. “And…the video. Your parents’ message.”

Carefully, Superman sets you down, but he takes your hands. “I know. I didn’t get a chance to explain it before I had to leave but-- I swear to you, I only ever heard the first part of their message, I had no idea--”

“Clark,” you pull his hands to your chest, placing one over your heart, something you used to do when you were teenagers. It always calmed him down, got him to focus on your heartbeat instead of whatever else was overwhelming him. “I never in a million years would believe that you of all people were hiding some-- some secret harem or some scheme to rule over everyone. You’re good, Clark. You, your ma and pa, you’re good people.”

He smiles, soft and relieved. “Thank you.” 

“And I’m sorry for snapping at you before you left -- this time and last time,” you add with an awkward chuckle. “I just-- I can’t leave here, Clark. It’s all I’ve got left of them.”

“I know, I know,” he says before you can even finish. “I understand. I never should’ve tried to push you so hard.”

“And I never should’ve made you feel bad for going,” you say. “You did the right thing. You’ve helped so many people, and you’re just going to help more, and that’s what matters. You fit in there. It’s good for you.” You pause, dropping his hands finally and shifting on your feet. “And Lois seems good for you, too.”

“Lois?” The shock is evident in his voice and his face, and he nearly laughs. “What do you mean Lois is good for me?”

Now you’re the one that’s confused. “I mean, she’s good for you. She flew you here!”

“Because we’re friends,” he argues. “And she went to Mr. Terrific for help to find me after I turned myself in. She told me it was stupid, but I did it anyway, and got myself trapped in Luthor’s pocket universe with Kryptonite--”

“That’s how you got Kryptonite poisoning?” You want to shove him, but you know he won’t budge. “Clark Kent! What is wrong with you!”

“I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cries, arms flailing. “I don’t know! I was trying to find Krypto!” He pauses, lips splitting in the same boyish grin that you remember. “You thought I was dating Lois.”

“What was I supposed to think!” you glare at him, but you’re fighting a smile. “You come in here after three years of not visiting and you’re being held up by a gorgeous woman--”

“Don’t you ever let her hear you say that, she won’t let me live it down--”

“So, yeah, Clark, I thought you were dating her! It’s been three years! I thought you moved on!”

“Almost four,” he corrects you. “And no, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t what?”

“Moved on from you,” he whispers the words like a confession. “You think every time I dropped by for just a few minutes to see Ma and Pa that I wasn’t also looking for you?”

“I was hiding from you,” you grumble. “I would hear you when you came in. You should really work on that.”

“On flying quieter?” he laughs.

“Yeah,” you snort. “You’re lucky we live in the middle of nowhere, and that I’m the closest neighbor. What d’you think anyone else would say, hearing you barreling in here and then blasting out ten minutes later like a missile?”

“What if we don’t have to worry about that anymore?”

“What?”

“What if I stay here for a bit,” he says, clarifying. “What if I…” he pauses, glancing around. “Help you fix up your farm? Maybe get your pa’s truck running. Spend a few weeks here in the sun for a change.”

“What about your job?”

“I’ve got some vacation time,” he shrugs. “I can do some work from here--”

“Clark--”

“I just need to talk to Perry about it, but I think he’ll agree--”

“Clark!” you laugh, shoving his chest now, and as expected, he doesn’t move an inch. “You’re crazy.”

He shakes his head, that dumb smile on his face. “Just crazy about you. Never stopped.”

You just shake your head back at him, wondering if what you’re hearing is true. “Are you sure?” you ask. “What about Superman?”

Clark’s eyebrows furrow. “What about him?” he retorts, and it’s just so silly, hearing him say that as his cape moves in the breeze.

“He still needs to save the day,” you reply. “Can he do that from here?” 

He shrugs. “Of course he can.”

“Are you sure?” you ask again.

And Clark, the way he knows you inside and out, the way only he can understand you like no other from growing up alongside you, steps forward and carefully places his hands on your arms. “Hey,” he says. “Where’s this coming from?”

You shake your head. It’s stupid. He’s standing here, telling you to your face that he wants to stay here for a while, and you don’t believe him. You’re acting like you want him to leave. 

“I don’t-- We don’t fit anymore, Clark,” you murmur, wanting to tuck yourself into his chest and run away from him at the same time. “You’re-- You’re Superman.”

“No, honey, I mean, I am, but I’m just Clark,” he cries. “And you’re you--”

“Exactly!”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“I mean, exactly, I’m me, and that’s why--”

“That’s why I love you!” Clark practically screams, and it makes you stop. He doesn’t like raising his voice ever, especially not at anyone, and you know this. But he’s doing it now, and he looks guilty for it just as much as he looks like he doesn’t regret it. “Sorry.”

“You love me?” you ask. “Like-- You love me, or you’re--”

“Gosh, I’ve--” He tugs at his hair that has started to curl again now that he’s here, and he laughs, all light and the same as it’s always been. “I’ve been in love with you since we were sixteen.”

Your breath hitches.

“I-- Leaving here when I moved to Metropolis was hard because I was leaving Ma and Pa, but it was hard because I was leaving you, and I didn’t-- I knew you couldn’t come with me, I knew it wasn’t right to ask you to, but I just couldn’t stand the idea of not waking up across the hall from you, or waking up and running around in the sun with you all day.” His voice catches then, his eyes watery. “I miss-- I miss you, and I should’ve come to see you, but I was so worried about keeping you safe, and keeping my parents safe. I-I don’t tell anyone where I was raised because I don’t want anyone even getting close to touching you--”

“Clark, I know, I know why you do it.” You grab his hand, once again placing it over your heart. “I miss you too. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He lets out a laugh, a tear slipping down his cheek. “I think I do have an idea and I think I missed you more.” 

“Oh, it’s a competition now?”

“Not even a competition, I know I missed you more, honey.”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance even though it’s the sweetest thing because it’s just so Clark to argue with you about who missed who more -- and to insist that he did. His hands slip from yours and rest back down at his sides. “We should get back to the house, though. Ma made supper and told me I had better come back and eat.”

“Yeah, she actually sent me here to retrieve you.”

“And here I thought you were coming to see me out of the goodness of your own heart, Kent.”

“Well, obviously I--” You let him flounder for a moment before breaking out into a grin and he pauses, tilting his head with one of his famous Clark stares. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not,” you tease. Without another moment’s thought, you say, “Race ya!” and take off toward the house.

Krypto spots you from across the field and immediately takes off after you, Clark not far behind from the sounds of his laughter -- and telling Krypto to be careful as he lunges toward you. Krypto just flies above you, though, wanting more belly scratches as you run.

You’re not sprinting as fast as you could and you know it, and Clark does too as he catches up all too easily, reaching out for your hand to pull you back toward him.

And there, underneath the Kansas sun, Clark Kent kisses you for the second time in your life, smiling into it like he just can’t believe you’re letting him -- or that you pull him back in when he tries to break away. 

“I should’ve asked--” is all he gets out before you’re kissing him some more. 

“Yes,” you say into the next one, just so he knows his question is answered. 

His arms circle your waist and he sighs into your lips. “I love you,” he says again. “I should’ve told you that a long time ago.”

“Me too,” you whisper, pausing to rest your forehead against his. “I think I’ve loved you since that day you knocked on the screen door. Do you remember?”

“Of course I do,” he grins. “We got the water guns out and hid behind the cows! Remember--”

“Martha!” you laugh. “Gosh, I swear she hated us.”

“No, she loved us.”

“Maybe you, she was your cow.”

He kisses you again, unable to help himself. “I love you. I’m just gonna have to keep saying it.”

“Good,” you murmur, kissing him again. “Because I love you, and I plan to say it more.”

He smirks, raising an eyebrow, “So it’s a competition?”

“Not a competition Clark,” you quip. “You said you’ve loved me since we were sixteen, I said since that first day, so I’ve got about--” You check an imaginary watch. “--ten years on you. You’ve got some catching up to do.”

He laughs loudly then, tossing his head back. “Yes ma’am, I do,” he says, pulling you back in.

[mcrdvcks]

safety net

summary: Wayne Enterprises Metropolis' branch has some numbers that aren't adding up. Your older brother Bruce wanted to send one of his accountants to clean it up, but you insisted you could handle it. Enter Clark Kent, a reporter who is investigating the very same thing you are. word count: 26.7k+ pairing: clark kent x wayne!fem!reader notes: this has been sitting in my drafts since AUGUST. and here it finally is :) i hope y'all enjoy this long awaited fic warnings/tags: reader is bruce wayne's younger sister, implied battinson, no use of y/n, mystery, money laundering, some dc universe/comic references, soft!clark, flustered!clark, clark really is just a cutey in this, light violence, mentions of blood, bamf!reader, very very very slight sugar mama energy, fluff, slow burn - would it be me if it wasn't slow burn? that's how you'll know if i'm replaced by an alien because i LIVE AND BREATH SLOW BURN

The city looks different from Gotham. Cleaner at first glance, brighter, though you can already sense the rot humming beneath the surface. Metropolis wears its optimism like a polished glass tower, but you know enough about shadows to recognize them even when they’re hidden in broad daylight.

Your heels click steadily against the marble floor of the Wayne Enterprises Metropolis branch office, the sound deliberate, carrying authority. You’re not here to play the silent shadow to Bruce’s brooding. This is your assignment—your investigation. One of the research subsidiaries has numbers that don’t add up, contracts routed through shell companies, money flowing somewhere it shouldn’t. Bruce wanted to send Lucius or one of his accountants. You told him no. You’ll handle it.

The young receptionist looks up from behind a glossy desk, nerves flickering across his face when he catches the Wayne crest pin on your lapel. He stumbles over his words, offering you coffee, water, anything at all. You smile—warm, practiced, and sharper than he realizes. A Wayne doesn’t need to be cold to be intimidating. Sometimes kindness disarms people far more effectively.

By the time you leave the office with a slim folder tucked under your arm, you have what you came for: proof that something is feeding into LexCorp’s pocket. Not just a bad contract, but a deliberate arrangement. And if Lex Luthor has his hands in Wayne Enterprises, it isn’t something you can ignore.

Outside, the wind whips against you, carrying the noise of Metropolis—car horns, chatter, a faint hum of construction. You’re adjusting the strap of your bag when a voice stops you.

“Excuse me, miss—Wayne, isn’t it?”

You turn. A tall man with dark hair, glasses sliding down his nose, is holding up a press badge that reads Daily Planet. The way he approaches is careful, almost shy, but there’s something steady in his eyes, a quiet gravity. “Yes,” you answer smoothly, weighing him in a glance. Not the slick predator type you’re used to back home. He radiates an earnestness that feels almost… provincial. “And you are?”

“Clark Kent. Reporter.” His voice is soft, polite. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help noticing—you’ve been looking into LexCorp’s connections here, haven’t you?”

You arch an eyebrow. That’s not the kind of thing a reporter should know unless he’s already digging into the same trail. “I don’t recall making a press statement.”

He shifts, flustered but holding his ground. “You didn’t. It’s just… some of the pieces line up. Missing funds, off-shore accounts, shell corporations. I’ve been following the same story for the Planet.”

Interesting. You cross your arms, not defensive, but curious. “So you’re investigating, too.”

He nods, lips pressing together as though he’s unsure how much to say. The hesitation only makes you study him closer. He doesn’t read like the aggressive reporter type. There’s a gentleness, almost awkward, as if he’s more comfortable listening than demanding answers. Strange for a man in his profession. “Well, Mr. Kent,” you say finally, tilting your head, “I don’t usually share my work with strangers. But it seems we’re walking the same road. Perhaps we’ll run into each other again.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth, subtle but genuine. “I’d like that.”

You move past him, deliberately letting your heels strike the pavement with the rhythm of someone who knows exactly where she’s going. But you can feel his gaze lingering, not predatory, not calculating—curious. Watchful. Almost as though he sees something more than what you’re presenting to the world.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You have a job to do. You don’t need a polite, soft-spoken reporter complicating it. Still, when you slide into the backseat of the waiting car and glance out the window, you catch sight of him again—Clark Kent, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders set like a man carrying more than anyone realizes.

---

The next morning, you’re already halfway through a cup of burnt Metropolis coffee when the elevator doors slide open on the top floor of the Daily Planet. It hadn’t been on your original schedule, but the numbers in that slim folder wouldn’t leave you alone last night, so you’d decided to see who else was pulling on the same threads.

The newsroom buzzes with the chaotic symphony of phones ringing, reporters shouting across desks, and the endless clatter of keyboards. Gotham’s newsrooms always carried an edge of cynicism; this place feels almost idealistic by comparison. Almost.

“Miss Wayne.”

You turn, expecting some overeager intern. Instead, it’s Clark Kent—jacket a little too big, tie slightly crooked, but with that same unshakable steadiness in his eyes. He looks surprised to see you, though not displeased.

“Mr. Kent,” you answer, tilting your head. “I thought reporters usually chased their leads, not waited for them to walk through the door.”

The corner of his mouth twitches—somewhere between a smile and an admission. “Sometimes they do both.”

You follow him to his desk, stacked with folders, printouts, and a battered notebook filled with looping handwriting. He pushes his glasses up nervously as you glance over the mess. “You’re investigating Wayne Enterprises’ connection to LexCorp,” you say evenly, “yet you don’t look like a man who hates dead ends.”

“I don’t,” he admits softly, “but I don’t like coincidences either. Lex Luthor doesn’t do anything without a reason.”

You watch him for a moment, this mild-mannered man who speaks with the certainty of someone who sees deeper than he lets on. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t flash credentials, doesn’t try to impress you—he simply lays out his truth like it’s as solid as bedrock. It’s disarming. “Do you always trust strangers with your work?” you ask finally.

His gaze lifts to yours, and the weight in it makes you blink. Not heavy, not menacing—just… unflinchingly honest. “Not usually. But I think you’re not here by accident either.” You laugh lightly, a spark of admiration threading through the sound. He’s not wrong.

Before you can reply, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. “Kent! I want something I can print before noon!” Then he notices you. “And who the hell are you?”

“Wayne,” you say crisply, extending your hand. “Bruce Wayne’s sister.”

The newsroom goes still for a heartbeat. Perry blinks, takes your hand, mutters something about Gotham’s shadow bleeding into Metropolis, and storms off. Clark gives a faint, apologetic shrug.

“I see your editor runs a tight ship.”

“You could say that,” Clark murmurs, lips curving just slightly.

You leave a card on his desk. “If you come across something you think I should see, call me. If you’re right about Lex, I don’t intend to sit idle.”

He studies the card as though it holds more weight than paper should. “And if you find something first?”

You pause at the edge of the bullpen, letting the hum of the newsroom wash around you. “Then you’ll be the second to know.” When you step into the elevator, you glance back once. Clark is still at his desk, glasses low on his nose, but his eyes are fixed on you. Not curious this time—watchful. Protective, even.

---

Metropolis at night doesn’t breathe the same way Gotham does. Gotham thrives in its darkness; Metropolis tries to push it back with neon, glass, and relentless electricity. Still, even here, the shadows creep in around the edges, and you’ve always been good at slipping into them.

The Wayne Enterprises folder is open across your hotel desk, scattered with photocopies of contracts and red-ink annotations you’ve been scratching down for hours. Every line you trace circles back to the same name: LexCorp. It’s obvious, but too clean. Almost as if someone wanted you to find it.

You sigh, shove the papers into a leather satchel, and decide a walk might clear your head. The streets hum quieter at this hour, though Metropolis never truly sleeps. You’ve made it three blocks before you hear it—footsteps, just slightly out of rhythm with yours.

You stop at a streetlight, pretending to check your phone, and glance at the glass storefront reflection. Two men, trying too hard to look casual. Too close.

Amateurs, you think, though that doesn’t make them less dangerous.

When the first one closes the gap, you’re already turning, shoulder slamming into his chest. He staggers back, surprised by the force, and you use that heartbeat to pivot, heel cracking down on the second man’s instep. He yelps. You don’t hesitate—your elbow finds his ribs.

The first man recovers faster than you like. He grabs for your arm, but you twist out, the satchel slung tight against your side, and drive your knee up toward his stomach. He curses, doubles over, and that’s when you hear it—an unmistakable rush of air, like a gust of wind slashing the night.

In the space of a blink, both men are gone. One dangles from a lamppost, unconscious, the other groans faintly from where he’s been pinned high against a brick wall with steel piping bent around him like makeshift cuffs.

And standing between you and the wreckage is him. Superman.

You’ve seen him on television, of course. Who hasn’t? The cape, the crest, the impossible presence that seems more myth than man. But seeing him in the flesh, a living wall of calm power, feels different. There’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there before, a quiet certainty that the world is, for one rare moment, safe.

“Are you hurt?” His voice is rich, steady, and absurdly gentle for a man who just bent steel like wire.

You straighten, brushing dust from your coat, your pride intact. “No. I was handling it.”

His mouth curves slightly, not mocking, not indulgent—just faint amusement. “I could see that. But two against one isn’t fair odds, even for a Wayne.”

Your eyes narrow. “So you do know who I am.”

“Metropolis isn’t Gotham,” he says simply, as though that explains everything. And maybe it does. Here, people notice names.

You study him—impossibly broad shoulders, the way his cape stirs in a wind you can’t feel, the almost otherworldly calm radiating off him. Everyone talks about his power, but standing here, you realize it isn’t his strength that’s disarming. It’s the way he looks at you, like he genuinely cares what your answer will be. “Thank you,” you say finally, because you were raised with enough grace not to ignore it. “But don’t expect me to call for backup every time I walk down the street.”

That faint smile again. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

With that, he’s gone—vanished upward into the stars with another rush of air. You stand there for a long moment, heart hammering not from fear but from the sheer velocity of his presence.

When you finally make it back to the hotel, you catch yourself in the mirror, hair disheveled, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. And you think about Clark Kent—the reporter with the too-big jacket and earnest eyes.

For just a second, the two images overlap.

You shake it off, annoyed at yourself. Clark Kent is a mild-mannered journalist. Superman is… Superman. There’s no sense in imagining a bridge between them.

And yet, you can’t help it—the idea lodges somewhere deep, stubborn as a seed.

---

You stare at the folder spread across your hotel desk, contracts lit by the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. The hum of the city outside is faint through the thick glass, but it’s there, a reminder that Metropolis never truly sleeps. Neither do you, apparently.

Your phone vibrates against the wood. The name glowing on the screen makes your shoulders sink and soften all at once. “Alfred,” you say when you answer, your voice quieter than you meant.

“You sound tired,” he replies, that familiar dry lilt wrapping around you like a worn blanket. “I would remind you that even Wayne's must occasionally close their eyes, but I suspect you’d ignore me as you always have.”

A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re not wrong.”

There’s a pause, then the subtle shuffle of papers on his end. “Master Bruce mentioned you’d taken it upon yourself to look into matters in Metropolis.”

“Of course he did,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “And let me guess—he doesn’t approve?”

Alfred exhales, and it’s the closest thing he ever gives to a sigh. “He worries. About the company. About you.”

“I can handle myself,” you say firmly, perhaps too quickly. Your eyes flick to the faint scuff on your coat where one of the men grabbed you earlier. “I did handle myself.”

Alfred’s silence tells you he hears more in your words than you wanted to give away. “Then I trust you,” he says finally. “But perhaps tell me what precisely you’ve uncovered before you vanish into another mess, hmm?”

You tap your hand against your thigh, pacing the room as you explain: the paper trail, the shell companies, the money that all flows back to Lex Luthor. And then, lower, almost reluctant, “someone tried to stop me tonight. Two men. They weren’t expecting me to fight back.”

“Two men?” Alfred repeats, and there’s an edge beneath his calm now.

“They’re handled,” you reassure. Your throat tightens, memory flickering with the sudden rush of air, the cape, the impossible strength. “Superman intervened.”

There’s another pause. “And what did you think of him?” Alfred asks carefully.

You sink onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the question heavier than you’d like to admit. “He’s… not what I expected. Everyone talks about the power, the spectacle. But he’s—” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “—gentle. Too gentle for what this city will throw at him, maybe. But steady. It’s strange, Alfred. He felt… safe.”

There’s the faintest hum on the line, Alfred’s version of a thoughtful noise. “Strange,” he says softly, “that you’d trust a stranger in a cape more easily than your own brother.”

“Don’t start,” you warn. But there’s no heat in it.

The line clicks faintly, and then another voice cuts in—quieter, lower, brooding even through the distortion of the speaker. “You should come home.”

You close your eyes. “Hello to you too, Bruce.”

“You’re exposed,” he says, no preamble. “Metropolis isn’t Gotham. Their games are different, but the rules are the same—you make enemies when you start digging. If Luthor’s involved, he won’t stop at intimidation.”

“I know,” you answer steadily. “That’s why I’m here. This isn’t just corporate sabotage—it’s deliberate. Someone wanted me to see the trail. I need to find out why.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.” The words are sharper than he means them to be, you know that. It’s his way of saying I can’t lose you.

“I’m not reckless,” you counter. “Not like you. And I’m not alone.”

There’s a beat of silence. You wonder if he hears what you mean, if he catches the flicker in your voice when you say it. Finally, he mutters, “don’t trust him too easily. That’s all I’ll say.”

Before you can reply, the line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly, staring at the city lights through the window. Bruce will stew in his cave, Alfred will sigh in the manor, and you—well, you’ll keep walking the line you’ve chosen.

Still, you can’t stop your mind from replaying Superman’s face, the steadiness in his eyes, and the way Clark Kent’s gaze in the newsroom had felt exactly the same.

You shake the thought away, burying it under contracts and red ink. Tomorrow, there will be more questions to chase. Tomorrow, you’ll see Clark Kent again. And tomorrow, you’ll decide if you’re ready to test just how many secrets Metropolis is keeping.

---

The Daily Planet lobby smells of ink and old coffee—comforting in a way, a heartbeat beneath the city’s glittering glass. You walk in with your satchel over one shoulder, folder tucked tight against your ribs. There’s a steeliness in your step, sharpened by last night’s attempted ambush and the memory of a cape cutting through the air.

When the elevator doors open onto the newsroom, the chaos greets you like an old acquaintance—reporters shouting across desks, the hum of a dozen phone calls happening at once. And right there, in the middle of it all, Clark Kent, hunched slightly at his desk with his glasses slipping low as he types with the deliberation of a man weighing every word. “Back again?” he says when he notices you, voice warm, carrying just enough surprise to make you smirk.

“Don’t sound so shocked,” you reply. “Wayne Enterprises’ money isn’t going to untangle itself, and you’ve got half the city wired into your phone lines. Seems efficient.”

He chuckles softly, rising with an awkward grace that still manages to take up all the space around him. “Efficient isn’t usually how people describe this place.”

He offers coffee—he doesn’t ask, just picks up a second mug from the counter and places it in front of you. The steam curls upward, rich and bitter. You lift it carefully, studying him over the rim. “Careful, Kent. People will start to think you’re charming.”

A faint flush creeps across his cheeks, though his eyes hold yours, steady. “And what would you think?”

You pause, savoring the taste of the coffee and the way he asked that as though he truly wanted the answer. “I’d think you’re harder to read than you look.”

The two of you sit side by side at his cluttered desk, spreading papers between you—his notes, your contracts, diagrams of shell companies. Your handwriting scrawls sharp in red ink beside his looping cursive. Piece by piece, the picture forms: LexCorp subsidiaries tied to construction bids, energy grids, political donations. It’s intricate, deliberate.

“Someone wanted this to be seen,” Clark says finally, leaning forward, his voice low so it doesn’t carry over the newsroom.

Your head tilts slightly. “Exactly what I told Bruce.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who waits for permission,” he says.

“Good instincts,” you murmur, lips curving.

A comfortable silence stretches—papers between you, the hum of the newsroom around you, but his presence grounding the moment. You shouldn’t feel at ease here, with someone you barely know, but you do.

The silence is broken by Perry White storming past, barking about deadlines. Clark straightens quickly, fumbling with his notes. You press a hand lightly to the paper stack, steadying it before it scatters.

He looks at you then, glasses sliding just enough for his eyes to be clear, earnest and startlingly familiar. You freeze, breath caught for a fraction of a second. There’s something in that gaze—something that tugs at the edge of memory.

You cover it with a smooth smile, withdrawing your hand. “You’d better get back to work, Kent. Wouldn’t want your editor to bite your head off.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he admits, sheepish, though the corners of his mouth curve like he’s glad you noticed.

You gather your things, sliding the satchel back over your shoulder. “Send me anything you find. And Clark—” you pause just long enough to make sure his attention is yours— “don’t keep me waiting.”

When you leave the newsroom, you don’t glance back. But if you had, you’d see Clark standing at his desk, watching the elevator doors close with the same quiet intensity Superman carried when he asked if you were hurt.

And though you bury yourself in contracts and calculations for the rest of the afternoon, a truth nags at the edge of your mind. You are circling something dangerous—not just Lex Luthor’s schemes, but Clark Kent himself.

Because somehow, against every ounce of your better judgment, you are beginning to trust him.

---

Metropolis hums differently at night than it does in the day. The skyscrapers glow like beacons, the sidewalks pulse with energy, and the cafés on the corner spill golden light out onto the street. Gotham’s nightlife was smoke and shadows; here it’s neon and glass.

You push open the door of a small café tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, the kind of place that tries to be inconspicuous and fails because it’s too charming. Clark had suggested it—quiet, off Perry White’s radar, a place where you could talk without the Planet’s chaos humming around you.

He’s already there when you arrive, seated at a small table near the window. Jacket folded neatly over the chair, tie still slightly crooked, glasses catching the soft lamplight. When he looks up, that unshakable steadiness in his eyes makes your steps falter for just a second. “Miss Wayne,” he says warmly, standing to pull out your chair. His manners are almost old-fashioned, but not in a rehearsed way—like it simply never occurred to him to be anything but considerate.

“Clark,” you return, settling into the chair. “I’m starting to think you have a habit of finding me before I find you.”

He chuckles, sitting across from you. “Reporters tend to chase things. Sometimes people, too.”

A waitress appears, drops menus, takes your drink orders. When she’s gone, Clark leans forward, lowering his voice. “I looked into those contracts again. There’s a pattern. The shell companies trace back to energy infrastructure—power grids. If Luthor’s behind this, he isn’t just funneling money. He’s building leverage.”

You sip your coffee slowly, meeting his gaze over the rim. “You think he’s trying to control the city’s power?”

“I think he’s already started.” His jaw tightens for the briefest moment, and you catch it—the flicker of something deeper, almost personal. But he covers it quickly, adjusting his glasses. “It’s not just about money with Luthor. It never is.”

You study him. He talks about Lex not like a reporter chasing a billionaire but like someone who’s been watching him for far longer than an article would require. “Tell me something, Clark,” you say, leaning back. “Why are you chasing this story so hard? Luthor’s a titan here. He can bury journalists for breakfast. What makes you keep poking?”

His eyes meet yours, unwavering. “Because if people like him aren’t held accountable, then no one is safe. Not in Metropolis, not anywhere.”

The simplicity of the answer hits harder than any grand speech could. You’re used to Gotham’s cynicism, where everyone has an angle. Clark’s sincerity feels like standing in sunlight after too long underground.

You force a smirk to cover the warmth blooming in your chest. “Careful, Kent. That sounded almost heroic.”

This time his smile is small but genuine, reaching his eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

The waitress brings your food—two sandwiches, fries to share. You dig in, letting the conversation drift. He asks about Gotham; you paint it honestly—gritty, relentless, a city that eats its own but occasionally spits out someone strong enough to fight back. He listens, really listens, not just waiting for his turn to speak. When he talks about Smallville—cornfields, Friday night football, a life so simple it feels like fiction—you find yourself laughing at the mental image of him awkwardly towering over high school classmates.

There’s a pause between bites, a lull in conversation. You catch him watching you again, not in the way men in boardrooms do, calculating or hungry. Clark looks at you like he’s cataloguing details—your laugh, the way you tap your fingers against your cup, the slight arch of your brow when you’re skeptical. It’s a gaze that makes you feel seen rather than inspected.

You clear your throat, breaking the moment before it settles too deep. “If we’re working together on this, Kent, I should warn you—I don’t play well with others.”

His smile deepens, soft and unshaken. “I think you do better than you think.”

For a second, you forget the contracts, forget the danger, forget the cape that swept down from the sky the night before. There’s just the quiet clink of dishes, the glow of lamplight, and a man who feels far steadier than anyone you’ve met in either Gotham or Metropolis.

You lean back, finishing the last sip of coffee. “Don’t get used to dinners like this. I’m not here to make friends.”

He nods, though the warmth in his eyes betrays him. “Understood.”

But as you both step out into the city night, side by side, you catch yourself thinking that maybe—just maybe—you don’t mind making one exception.

---

The Wayne Enterprises Metropolis tower gleams against the skyline, its steel-and-glass façade polished to an almost smug shine. To the average passerby, it’s just another symbol of wealth and stability. But to you, it’s a puzzle box. And tonight, you intend to pry it open.

The lobby is quiet at this hour. A single security guard sits behind the marble desk, his eyes glued to a muted television. You stride across the floor, ID clipped to your jacket, heels clicking just enough to sound official but not confrontational. The guard barely glances up before waving you through.

Elevators whisk you up thirty floors to the research subsidiary’s wing—biotech, officially. But the numbers you pulled last week didn’t match. This wasn’t about cell cultures or prosthetic trials. Someone had been rerouting funds, slipping them into shell corporations with clinical precision.

Your keycard slides into the lock. The office opens with a soft chime, fluorescent lights flickering awake. It smells faintly of disinfectant and stale paper. You move quickly, scanning desks, rifling through files. Paperwork tells a story far more clearly than corporate press releases.

And there it is. A folder marked innocuously as energy grant allocations. Inside: transfers to companies with forgettable names—Silverbrook Holdings, Astra Limited, Convergent Systems. On paper, they’re nothing. But you’ve seen enough Gotham shell companies to recognize the sleight of hand.

You snap photos with your phone, flipping page after page. The numbers don’t just disappear; they converge. And when they do, the name at the center gleams like a rot beneath the glass: LexCorp Energy Division.

You exhale sharply, leaning back in the chair. It’s deliberate. Someone inside Wayne Enterprises is feeding Luthor. And worse, they want you to know it. The trail is too neat, too clean. A noise pulls you from your thoughts—the faintest creak in the hallway outside. You freeze. The office is supposed to be empty at this hour.

Closing the folder, you slip it back into the cabinet, phone clutched in your hand. You step quietly to the door, ears straining. Footsteps. Slow, measured, coming closer.

You move into the shadow between the filing cabinets, waiting. The door opens. A man steps inside—tall, sharp suit, eyes sweeping the room with the cool precision of someone who doesn’t believe in coincidence. He doesn’t see you at first. His attention is fixed on the cabinet you just closed.

You recognize him from corporate briefings—Wayne Enterprises’ Metropolis liaison, a man meant to be overseeing this very branch. Which means either he’s oblivious to the rerouted funds, or he’s the one holding the knife.

You could confront him. Call his name, demand an explanation, make it a matter of authority. But your instincts whisper otherwise. Gotham taught you well—sometimes it’s better to watch before you strike. You remain in the shadows, silent, as he pulls the same folder, flicks through it with a faint smirk, then tucks it under his arm. And when he leaves, you let out the breath you’d been holding.

You step back into the light, pulse hammering. If he’s taking that folder, he knows someone else has been sniffing. Which means you’ve just painted a target on yourself.

Your phone buzzes. A message; unknown number.

Stop digging. Or you’ll regret it.

The words glare back at you, simple and ugly. You stare at them for a long moment before tucking the phone away, jaw set. Whoever sent it underestimated the one thing Bruce never could beat out of you: stubbornness.

---

The newsroom is louder than usual when you step off the elevator the next morning—phones ringing nonstop, the click of keyboards faster, voices pitched higher. You scan the floor, folder tucked under your arm, and spot Clark at his desk. He looks up as though he felt you coming before you spoke. His glasses catch the light, but his eyes are steady, calm, maybe even relieved. “You’re here early,” he says, standing halfway as you cross to him. His tone is mild, but there’s something beneath it—a weight, an edge. Concern.

“So are you,” you answer, sliding the folder onto his desk. “I thought journalists slept until noon.”

The corner of his mouth tugs. “Depends on the story.” You don’t sit right away. Instead, you watch him. He’s too composed for someone who’s been running himself ragged on a story with this many teeth. No late-night exhaustion, no bleary haze. If anything, he looks sharper than yesterday. And yet when he asks, “rough night?” it’s soft, careful, like he’s stepping onto thin ice.

You freeze a fraction too long. “Define rough.”

Clark leans forward, lowering his voice so it doesn’t carry. “Define however you want. Just… you don’t look like someone who got eight hours of sleep.”

You huff a quiet laugh, dropping into the chair across from him. “I wasn’t attacked, if that’s what you’re fishing for.” Not exactly. “But you were right about the pattern. I went back to Wayne Enterprises last night. Their Metropolis liaison, Richard Halvorsen? He’s involved. I watched him pull the very file I’d been digging through.”

Clark’s brow furrows, the shift almost imperceptible but not lost on you. “Did he see you?”

“No. But I got this before he took it.” You push the copied documents across the desk. “Funds routed through shell companies, infrastructure bids that don’t exist, all ending up with LexCorp’s Energy Division. It’s a straight line if you know how to look.”

He flips through the pages, jaw tightening. “Halvorsen’s just the beginning. Someone’s cleaning this money before it reaches Lex. That’s why it’s so hard to trace.”

You study him, the way his hand lingers just a little too long on the paper, knuckles pale from pressure. “You talk about Luthor like you’ve been chasing him for years.”

Clark doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t answer either. His silence speaks louder than words.

You tilt your head. “You’ve got personal skin in this, Kent. Don’t bother denying it.”

His eyes meet yours, steady as stone. “Does that bother you?”

The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. You want to say yes—that a journalist with an angle is dangerous. But what comes out is, “not if it means you’ll fight harder to get it right.”

The space between you goes quiet, but not empty. His gaze holds yours a heartbeat too long before he finally exhales, setting the papers down with deliberate care. “Then we keep going,” he says, voice quiet but certain.

A shadow falls across the desk—Perry White, barking orders as usual. “Kent! Lane’s tearing up half the mayor’s office, and I need you two—” His eyes flick to you. “Wayne? What the hell are you still doing here?”

“Just making sure your boy doesn’t bury himself in a bad story,” you reply smoothly.

Perry snorts, unimpressed. “Good luck with that.” He storms off.

You and Clark exchange a look, laughter caught at the corners of your mouths. For the briefest moment, the weight of shell companies and billionaires and late-night ambushes lifts, replaced by something light, almost easy.

But when the laughter fades, the intensity in his gaze remains. You can feel it—unspoken, steady, protective.

And for the first time in a long while, you realize you’re not just chasing a trail. You’re walking it alongside someone who might actually see you, even in the shadows.

---

By late afternoon, the sun slants through the Daily Planet’s windows, gilding the newsroom in warm light. Reporters are still shouting across desks, but the chaos feels muted when you and Clark are tucked away in a small conference room, papers spread like a map across the table. Clark pushes a sandwich across to you—quiet, unassuming. “You haven’t eaten.”

You glance at it, then at him. “What are you, my secretary?”

His smile is faint, almost shy, but it doesn’t fade. “Call it professional courtesy.”

You roll your eyes but unwrap it anyway, taking a bite to shut him up. The truth is, he’s right. You lose track of hours when you’re chasing something like this.

Clark’s notebook sits open between you, looping handwriting spelling out names: Richard Halvorsen at the top, then a branching web of shell companies, subsidiaries, false addresses. You add your own notes in sharp red ink, arrows and exclamation marks where the money jumps too neatly to be coincidence.

“See this?” you say, pointing to one of the entries. “Astra Limited. It doesn’t exist. At least, not in any real capacity. No staff, no offices, no payroll.”

Clark leans closer, the smell of coffee clinging faintly to him. “Then why route millions through it?”

“Because someone needed a buffer.” You tap the paper. “Halvorsen’s the one signing off the contracts. But whoever’s really pulling the strings doesn’t want his name tied directly to LexCorp. So they use Astra.”

Clark’s brow furrows, concentration etched across his face. You watch him work—how his focus sharpens, how his quiet intensity cuts through the noise. He isn’t just playing reporter; he’s tracking patterns with the precision of someone who understands how dangerous these games are.

For a while, you’re silent except for the scratch of pens and the shuffle of papers. It feels almost… companionable. You don’t let people in easily—Gotham taught you better—but Clark’s presence doesn’t feel invasive. It feels steady, grounding.

At some point, you lean back, stretching your shoulders. Clark glances up, eyes flicking from your face to the clock on the wall.

“You don’t have to keep running yourself ragged,” he says softly. “This isn’t all on you.”

A laugh escapes you, low and humorless. “That’s where you’re wrong. I carry the Wayne name. If my company’s feeding Luthor, that’s on me whether I signed the papers or not.”

His gaze doesn’t waver, calm and unshaken. “It’s not on you. It’s on the people abusing the name.”

The way he says it makes you pause. Like he knows something about carrying a legacy he didn’t ask for.

You tilt your head. “You talk like someone who knows what that feels like.”

For the first time, he looks away. “Maybe I do.”

The silence stretches, not awkward but heavy with things unsaid. You study him—the set of his jaw, the flicker of something almost vulnerable in his eyes. And for a dangerous heartbeat, you want to press. To see what secrets he’s keeping.

Instead, you smirk, breaking the weight of it. “You’re a mystery, Kent. Mild-mannered reporter one second, philosopher the next.”

He chuckles, soft and genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The conference room door bangs open. Jimmy Olsen pokes his head in, eyes flicking between the two of you with undisguised curiosity. “Uh, Perry’s looking for you, Clark. Something about the mayor’s office meltdown.”

Clark gathers his notes quickly. You slide your papers back into your satchel, rising smoothly.

“Guess we’re not done here,” you say, slipping past Jimmy.

Clark falls into step beside you, his voice low enough only you hear. “We’ll keep pulling the threads. Whoever’s behind this—Halvorsen, Luthor, whoever else—they’ll slip up.”

You glance at him, lips curving faintly. “Then let’s be there when they do.”

For just a second, the chaos of the Planet fades—the phones, the shouting, Jimmy watching curiously from behind. There’s only Clark beside you, solid as stone, and the quiet certainty that you’ve found a partner worth trusting.

---

The address on the contract looks legitimate on paper: Astra Limited, Suite 405, Weston Financial District. On a spreadsheet, it’s just another line item. In reality, it’s the kind of lead you know will either dissolve into nothing or crack everything wide open.

Clark insists on coming along. He frames it as professional interest—two sets of eyes are better than one—but the way he hovers just a step closer than necessary, the way he keeps glancing at the street around you, tells another story. He’s not just reporting. He’s making sure you’re safe.

“Suite 405,” you murmur as the elevator dings and you step into the stale, fluorescent-lit hallway. The carpet is worn, the directory outdated. Offices here are the kind that don’t get visitors.

Clark follows you down the hall, notebook in hand, though you notice he hasn’t written a word. His shoulders are taut beneath his ill-fitted jacket, posture too alert for a man out chasing a corporate paper trail.

You stop in front of the door marked 405. The brass plate is scratched, the lock scuffed from years of use—or maybe forced entries. You try the handle. It turns easily. The office beyond is bare. No desks, no chairs, no computers humming in the background. Just four walls, a thin layer of dust, and the faint smell of old paint.

“Empty,” Clark says softly, stepping inside. His voice echoes faintly off the walls.

You pace the room slowly, fingers trailing the plaster, scanning for any sign of life. “Shell company. They never meant for anyone to walk through this door.”

Clark crouches near the window, eyes scanning the sill. “Except someone’s been here recently.” He brushes a finger across the dust—leaving a clear streak where someone else had leaned not long ago.

You join him, gaze narrowing. “Cleanup crew. They pull files, wipe hard drives, then leave the shell behind.”

“Which means,” Clark says, standing again, “whoever was here knew someone would come looking.”

The words hang in the air. You both glance at the lock again—no forced entry, no signs of resistance. Too easy. Deliberate. You exhale sharply. “Halvorsen wanted me to find this. Or at least, wanted someone to.”

Clark’s eyes meet yours, steady as always. “That doesn’t scare you?”

A smirk flickers across your lips. “Scares me? No. Annoys me? Absolutely. I don’t like being played.” For a moment, the smirk softens into something quieter when you notice the way he’s watching you—concern threaded through the calm. You cover it quickly, stepping back toward the door. “Nothing more to see here. Let’s get out before the dust gives us tetanus.”

Clark chuckles faintly, following you out. But as the door clicks shut behind you, he glances back once more, expression shifting into something far heavier than humor.

Back on the street, you slip your sunglasses into place, tucking the satchel tighter under your arm. Clark matches your stride, his long frame keeping an easy pace beside you. “You realize,” you murmur, “that walking into empty offices isn’t exactly Pulitzer material.”

“Maybe not,” he admits, smile small, “but it’s part of the story. And so is whoever’s leaving breadcrumbs for you to follow.”

You glance at him sidelong. “For me? Not you?”

His gaze lingers on yours a second longer than necessary. “They know your name carries weight. Mine doesn’t. Not yet.”

You want to argue, but you don’t. Instead, you find yourself strangely comforted by the way he said it—like he has no doubt your path is the one that matters, and his role is to walk it beside you.

---

The hotel room feels too quiet when you close the door behind you. After the empty office on Weston and the way Clark walked you back—steady, deliberate, as though making sure you’d reach the hotel unscathed—the silence is almost jarring.

You drop the satchel onto the desk, shrug out of your jacket, and sink into the chair. The glow of Metropolis lights filters through the curtains, a softer brightness than Gotham’s endless neon haze. For a while, you just sit, fingers idly tracing the edge of the phone on the desk, debating.

Finally, you dial. Alfred picks up on the second ring. “You’ve called sooner than I expected,” he says dryly. “I was just preparing myself for another day of silence.”

You lean back in the chair, the corner of your mouth quirking. “You sound disappointed.”

“Merely surprised,” Alfred replies. “I assumed you were too busy gallivanting about Metropolis to bother with old men like me.”

You laugh softly, but it fades quickly. “It’s not gallivanting. The trail is deeper than we thought. Halvorsen isn’t just sloppy—he’s deliberate. There’s an entire web of companies feeding into LexCorp. Someone wanted me to find it.”

Alfred hums low, the kind of sound that usually means he’s filing information away for Bruce. “And you’re quite certain you should be following this web on your own?”

You hesitate, glancing toward the jacket you’d just draped over the chair. There’s a faint smell of coffee clinging to it—Clark’s choice of café, his quiet voice echoing in your memory. You shift in your seat. “I’m not alone,” you say carefully.

There’s a pause, then the faint rustle of movement on Alfred’s end. “Ah,” he says finally, with all the weight of someone who’s seen a hundred things you haven’t said out loud. “And this not-alone… would his name happen to be Kent?”

You blink. “How—”

“Master Bruce has people who read the Daily Planet, you know. The name was mentioned. A journalist. You didn’t think you’d be subtle, did you?”

Your mouth tightens. “Clark’s been useful. He knows how to dig. He knows Luthor. He’s—” You stop yourself. Too much truth pressing at the edges of your throat. “He’s good at this.”

There’s another pause, longer this time. Then a new voice cuts in, lower, gruffer, immediately recognizable. “Good, or good at distracting you?”

You close your eyes. “Bruce.”

“You knew I’d hear,” he says. “If Halvorsen’s compromised, you don’t know how deep this goes. You can’t trust anyone outside the family.”

“I can trust him,” you snap before you can stop yourself.

The silence on the line sharpens. Then Bruce says, cool and certain, “you barely know him.”

You lean forward, fingers digging into the arm of the chair. “I know enough. He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t posture. He—” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together hard.

Alfred’s voice slides gently back in, smoothing over the sharp edges. “We only worry, miss. Especially when Luthor’s name is involved. He plays for keeps, and so do his people.”

You take a slow breath. “I know the risk. But I’m not backing down. And I’m not cutting Clark out, either.”

For a moment, you think Bruce will argue, but all you hear is the faint click of him leaving the call. Alfred sighs softly on the other end. “He doesn’t like it,” Alfred says quietly.

“He never likes anything,” you mutter, though your chest tightens anyway.

There’s a rustle, then Alfred’s voice gentler than before. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful. With Luthor. With Kent. With all of it.”

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I promise.”

When the call ends, you sit for a long time in the dim light, staring at the city beyond the window. You should feel steadier, anchored by the familiar rhythm of Alfred’s concern and Bruce’s suspicion. Instead, you feel the opposite—off-balance, unsettled. Because the truth is, when you said I can trust him, you weren’t just convincing them. You were trying to convince yourself.

---

The following day, the newsroom is its usual storm of ringing phones and shouted copy edits, but you’re quieter than usual when you step in. The weight of last night’s call lingers like a stone in your chest—Bruce’s suspicion, Alfred’s concern, your own too-quick defense of Clark.

Clark notices immediately. Of course he does. “Morning,” he says gently, voice low enough that it doesn’t get swallowed by the newsroom’s chaos. He sets a fresh coffee on the edge of your borrowed desk before you can even sit down. “Thought you might need it.”

You take the cup, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Warmth flares there, unwanted but undeniable. “Thanks,” you murmur, keeping your tone even.

He studies you as you open your satchel, spreading papers across the desk with more force than necessary. “Something wrong?”

“No.” The word comes sharper than intended. You force a breath, softening it. “Just tired.”

Clark doesn’t press. He never does. Instead, he slides into the chair across from you, notebook already open, pen resting lightly between his fingers. He’s patient, giving you room, but his gaze is steady—like he’ll wait all day for the truth if he has to.

You busy yourself with the files, flipping to the copies you made of Halvorsen’s contracts. “I went through the numbers again. Astra Limited isn’t the only shell. There’s Silverbrook Holdings too—registered in Coast City, but it doesn’t exist. Same pattern. Money routed, laundered, cleaned, then deposited into LexCorp’s Energy Division.”

Clark leans in, scanning the figures, his brow furrowing. “Halvorsen’s the start. But someone else is moving the money after him.”

You nod. “Whoever it is, they’re good. They’re using people with enough influence to make it all look legitimate. I wouldn’t be surprised if this stretches across multiple cities.”

His pen stills on the page, then he looks at you again. “And you’re carrying it like it’s your responsibility alone.”

The words make your chest tighten. You set the paper down, meeting his gaze. “It is my responsibility. Wayne Enterprises is mine as much as Bruce’s. If someone’s using our name to feed Luthor, it’s on me to stop it.”

Clark doesn’t argue. Instead, he says quietly, “then let me help.”

It’s simple, unadorned. No speeches, no conditions. Just steady sincerity.

You search his face, half-expecting to find calculation, some hidden angle. But there’s nothing except that unflinching honesty. It disarms you more than the cape ever could. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for,” you say finally.

His mouth curves, small but certain. “I think I do.”

The silence stretches, weighted but not uncomfortable. You sip the coffee he brought you, letting the warmth settle in your hands. For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe you don’t have to carry this alone.

But then your phone buzzes on the desk. A new message, unmarked number. Just like last time.

Walk away, Wayne. Last warning.

Clark notices the way your hand stills on the phone. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t push. But his eyes sharpen, just slightly, behind the glasses.

And you realize—with an odd, unexpected sense of relief—that whoever’s sending threats may not understand one thing: you’re not walking away.

Not now. Not with Clark beside you.

---

Morning sunlight gleams off the hood of the car waiting at the curb outside the Daily Planet. The engine hums low, sleek lines catching the eye of every passerby. A Wayne Enterprises-issued Aston Martin, deep navy with polished chrome trim.

You lean against it casually, sunglasses perched on your nose, satchel resting by your side. If you’re going to chase leads across state lines, you might as well do it in comfort.

Clark arrives right on time—though from the look on his face, he hadn’t expected this. He stops short on the sidewalk, blinking between you and the car like he’s stumbled into the wrong movie. “You drive this?” he asks, voice caught somewhere between bewildered and impressed.

You smirk. “Would you rather we take the bus?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, fluster tugging at his features. Finally, he settles on, “I usually just… take the train.”

“Of course you do,” you tease, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Get in, Kent. Coast City’s not going to drive to us.”

Clark circles to the passenger side, moving with that careful, slightly too-large grace of his. When he sinks into the leather seat, he shifts uncomfortably, as if the car itself might protest having him in it. “This probably costs more than my apartment,” he mutters under his breath.

You glance at him, amused. “Relax. It’s just a car.”

He looks at you then, glasses sliding just low enough that you catch the barest glimmer of something familiar in his eyes. “It’s not just a car. At least, not to people like me.”

That makes you pause, just for a heartbeat. You grip the wheel, then gun the engine. The car leaps forward, smooth as silk onto the highway.

For the first few miles, silence fills the space between you—comfortable, almost. Clark watches the cityscape give way to open stretches of road, the sunlight catching in his hair. You catch him sneaking glances at you, as though trying to reconcile the Gotham confidence with the woman who just asked if he wanted the bus.

Finally, he says, “you and Bruce… you come from this world of wealth and power. But you don’t act like it.”

“Maybe that’s because I’ve seen what it does to people,” you answer easily. “Money’s a tool. Power’s a liability. You don’t survive Gotham if you believe otherwise.”

Clark considers that, quiet for a long time. “In Smallville, if someone’s truck broke down, the whole town would come help push it. No one thought twice about it. We didn’t have much, but… we had each other.”

You glance at him sidelong, lips twitching. “You really are a farm boy.”

A flush creeps across his cheeks, but he smiles anyway. “Guilty.”

The miles roll by, city fading to countryside, countryside to the glittering coast. The contrast between you is stark—leather seats, designer sunglasses, precision-engineered horsepower versus his rumpled tie, notebook balanced on his knee, quiet earnestness. And yet, it doesn’t feel like distance. It feels like balance.

Somewhere near the state line, Clark breaks the silence again. “Do you ever wish you’d had that? The small-town kind of life?”

You keep your eyes on the road, lips curving into a faint smile. “Sometimes. But then I remember—I wouldn’t be me if I had. And honestly? I like who I am.”

His gaze lingers on you, steady and unflinching. “I do too.”

For once, you don’t have a retort. You just drive, the hum of the car filling the silence, his words hanging between you like something unspoken but undeniable.

---

The drive stretches long, but by the time the car crests the last ridge and the skyline of Coast City comes into view, the sun has already begun to dip. The city sprawls smaller than Metropolis but brighter than Gotham—its streets cleaner, its edges softer. To most people, it looks like opportunity. To you, it looks like a mask.

Silverbrook Holdings sits at the far edge of the financial district in a pale stone building that could belong to a dozen other companies. From the street, it looks respectable: glass windows, discreet signage, the kind of place no one thinks twice about.

Clark steps out of the car, squinting up at it with his hands in his pockets. “Doesn’t exactly scream criminal empire.”

You shut the door with a firm click. “It’s not meant to. That’s the point.”

Inside, the building lobby is clinical—white walls, polished floors, fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. A receptionist desk sits in the middle, unmanned. The silence is sharp, too neat.

Clark glances at you, his expression shifting just enough to betray unease. “Not even a secretary?”

“Not even a potted plant,” you mutter, scanning the room.

The elevator works, but the directory by the door lists only two tenants: Silverbrook Holdings and a generic-sounding “West Coast Trade Consultants.” You press the button for Silverbrook’s floor, the car humming softly as it rises.

When the doors slide open, you both step into another empty hallway. Offices line either side, blinds drawn tight, doors locked. At the end of the corridor, the nameplate reads Silverbrook Holdings – Suite 700.

You pull a lockpick kit from your satchel—sleek, efficient, something Bruce always pretended not to know you owned. Clark raises his brows. “What?” you say, kneeling at the lock. “Did you think growing up with Bruce Wayne meant I don’t know how to open doors?”

His lips twitch, amusement barely contained. “I’m just… impressed.”

The lock clicks and you push the door open. Like Astra Limited, the office is empty—but not in the same way. Desks sit abandoned, chairs tucked neatly in place, filing cabinets bolted against the walls. There are papers here, scattered across one desk, though the dust is thick enough to suggest no one’s touched them in months.

Clark moves toward the window, scanning outside. “No lights on in the building across. No signs of recent visitors.”

You sift through the papers. Receipts, delivery slips, blank forms. All signed with the same name: Morgan Edge.

You freeze, holding one up. “Edge,” you mutter. “Halvorsen routes the money here, Edge disguises it as development bids. Then it gets passed along.”

Clark steps closer, reading over your shoulder. His voice is quiet, steady. “Whoever’s pulling the strings, they’re not hiding anymore. They’re daring us to follow.”

You set the paper down, looking at him. “You don’t sound surprised.”

He meets your gaze without flinching. “I’m not.”

Something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten. He knows more than he’s saying—you can feel it in the steady calm of his voice, the way he keeps himself perfectly measured. You want to push. To demand answers. But instead, you tuck the papers into your satchel and straighten. “Then we keep following. Until we know where it really ends.”

Clark nods, and for a second, the weight of the world seems to settle in his shoulders. But when he looks at you again, there’s that familiar warmth in his eyes—quiet, steady, unshaken.

And in that moment, standing in an empty office hundreds of miles from Gotham, you realize the trail isn’t the only thing you’re chasing.

By the time you and Clark leave the Silverbrook office, the sun has dropped low, casting the city in golden haze and deepening shadows. The air smells of salt and exhaust, Coast City’s streets alive with evening crowds heading to dinner, bars, and late shifts.

Your stomach growls—loud enough that Clark tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Don’t say it,” you warn, locking the car.

“I wasn’t going to,” he replies, though his tone is soft, teasing. “But there’s a place around the corner—family-owned diner. Not much to look at, but the food’s good.”

You arch a brow. “Of course you’d know the diner.”

He shrugs, sheepish. “Reporters travel. And I like to eat.”

Against your better judgment, you follow him. The diner is exactly what you expect: cracked leather booths, buzzing neon sign, the faint smell of grease clinging to the air. But it’s warm, full of noise and chatter, and somehow comforting.

You slide into a booth. Clark sits opposite, folding his long frame into the narrow space with practiced ease. He orders black coffee and a burger; you order something small, though you’re hungrier than you admit.

For a while, you talk about the case—Edge, Halvorsen, how cleanly the money jumped through hands. But the conversation drifts as the food comes, slipping into quieter territory. “You know,” you say around a fry, “this isn’t what I expected Metropolis’s golden boy reporter to be doing. Chasing shell companies and dirty money trails. Don’t you have city council scandals to write about?”

Clark smirks, sipping his coffee. “Those are easier. Luthor’s harder. And people need harder.”

You study him across the booth. “You talk like someone who’s been fighting him longer than you let on.”

He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t answer either. Instead, he sets his coffee down and says, “what about you? Gotham’s not exactly a city that forgives idealists. Why keep fighting?”

You lean back, shrugging lightly. “Because if I don’t, who will? Bruce carries his war one way, I carry mine another. Gotham eats people alive, Clark. The only way to survive it is to push back.”

His gaze lingers on you—quiet, steady, almost admiring. “You sound like someone who doesn’t know how to quit.”

“Wouldn’t be much of a Wayne if I did,” you reply, smirking.

There’s a beat of silence. Then he says softly, “I like that about you.”

The words settle in your chest like an unexpected warmth. You look down at your plate, smirk fading into something quieter. For a moment, the investigation, the threats, the empty offices—all of it fades under the glow of neon and the steady way Clark looks at you, like he’s cataloguing every detail without judgment.

When the bill comes, you reach for it. Clark beats you to it. “Reporter’s salary, Kent,” you remind him dryly. “This booth costs more than your paycheck.”

His smile is sheepish, but unyielding. “Then consider it a small rebellion. Let me have this one.”

You let him, watching as he tucks his wallet back into his jacket. He looks proud of himself in the simplest way, like buying dinner in a diner is some kind of victory. And to your surprise, it makes you smile. As you step out into the night, the city lights reflecting in the dark ocean nearby, you catch yourself thinking—not for the first time—that maybe you trust him more than you should.

---

The highway stretches long and dark as you steer the car back toward Metropolis, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow over the leather interior. The road hums beneath the tires, steady and hypnotic. Clark sits in the passenger seat, jacket draped across his lap, tie loosened at his collar. He’s relaxed in a way you haven’t seen before, one arm resting on the window ledge, the other idly flipping a pen between his fingers. Every so often, he sneaks a glance at you, like he’s checking to see if you’re still real in this moment of quiet. “You drive like someone who doesn’t believe in speed limits,” he says finally, his voice low but laced with humor.

You smirk, eyes still on the road. “Speed limits are suggestions. Besides, this car was built for it.”

Clark chuckles, shaking his head. “You and your cars…”

“What about them?” you ask, glancing at him sidelong.

“You talk about them like they’re extensions of you,” he says. “Like they’re armor.”

The words catch you off guard more than you want to admit. He isn’t wrong. Cars have always been both luxury and shield—a way to control your environment, to feel untouchable even when everything else felt like a fight. You cover the pause with a dry, “better than talking about them like they’re trophies.”

Clark smiles faintly. “I wasn’t criticizing. Just… noticing.” You grip the wheel a little tighter. He notices too much, sees too much. And yet you don’t feel defensive the way you usually do. Not with him. A few miles pass in silence, the hum of the road the only sound. Then, softly, Clark says, “you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”

You glance at him again. He’s not looking at you, but out the windshield, eyes fixed on the horizon. His voice is steady, but there’s a gentleness in it that disarms you. “I’ve been getting threats,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

That makes him look at you, sharply. “Threats?”

“Text messages. Anonymous.” You force your voice steady. “They want me to walk away.”

“And you won’t.” It isn’t a question.

You shake your head. “No.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just says quietly, “then I’ll be there.”

The words hang between you, simple but absolute. You grip the wheel harder, pulse quickening in ways that have nothing to do with the car’s speed. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The city lights finally appear on the horizon, a glowing crown against the dark. And though you know what waits—Halvorsen, Edge, Luthor, threats in the shadows—you let yourself sink into the quiet certainty of Clark’s words. Then I’ll be there.

---

The Daily Planet hums louder than usual when you and Clark return, the newsroom alive with reporters buzzing over fresh leads. You drop your satchel onto the desk, sliding the Silverbrook papers across the surface, while Clark flips through his notes. “Morgan Edge,” you say flatly. The name tastes sour. “Halvorsen routes the funds, Edge launders them. He’s the bridge to Lex.”

Clark nods, adjusting his glasses. “And he doesn’t hide well. Edge likes attention. He likes being seen.”

Before you can answer, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. “Kent! Where’s that city hall piece? Lane’s running circles around you—again!” He slaps a stack of papers onto a nearby desk, muttering something about journalists who move at the speed of glaciers.

As he storms off, Lois sweeps in from the other side of the bullpen, heels sharp against the floor. She doesn’t slow as she calls out, “Edge is hosting a gala tomorrow night at the Metropolitan Grand. Whole city elite’ll be there. Half the council, Luthor, probably even the mayor. I’ll be covering it.” She disappears into Perry’s office before you can get a word in, leaving the words hanging in the air.

You turn to Clark. “A gala?”

He sighs, shoulders sinking just slightly. “That’s Edge. When he wants to remind people he’s untouchable, he throws a party. Charities, business expansions, new investments—always a cover for something else.”

You smirk faintly. “Then it’s our invitation to get closer.”

Clark shifts, uncomfortable. “You make it sound simple.”

“Not simple,” you correct, gathering the Silverbrook papers into your satchel. “Necessary. People talk at galas. Especially people who think no one’s listening.”

His eyes meet yours—steady, reluctant, but with that familiar undercurrent of he’ll follow you anywhere, no matter the risk. “You do realize Edge will recognize you,” Clark says carefully.

You tilt your head. “Good. Let him. He already knows I’m digging. Might as well look him in the eye while I do it.”

For a long moment, Clark studies you across the desk. Finally, his mouth curves, faint and rueful. “You don’t play small, do you?”

“Never,” you say, slipping on your jacket.

And as you walk past him, you hear the quietest chuckle, warm and steady, like he’s resigned to whatever storm you’re dragging him into next.

---

The idea comes up the next morning in the Planet conference room, papers and coffee cups scattered between you. You’re running through the guest list for Edge’s gala when the thought strikes you like lightning. “Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes at Clark across the table. “Do you even own a nice suit?”

He blinks at you. “Of course I do.”

You arch a brow. “Define nice.”

There’s the faintest flush creeping up his neck. “...It’s clean.”

Your laugh bursts out before you can stop it. “Oh my god. Clark Kent, the man planning to sneak into one of the most exclusive galas in Metropolis, thinks ‘clean’ is the requirement for a tux.”

His ears turn pink. “It’s not a tux—I mean, I have a suit. It’s… fine.”

You lean across the table, smirk tugging at your lips. “Fine doesn’t cut it. You’re walking into a ballroom full of sharks, billionaires, and politicians. You’ll stick out like an intern at a shareholders’ meeting.”

“I don’t need to impress anyone,” he mutters.

“Wrong,” you counter smoothly. “You need to blend in. There’s a difference.”

Clark fumbles for a rebuttal, but you’re already sliding the last of the papers into your satchel. “Come on, farm boy. We’re going shopping.”

The tailor’s boutique smells faintly of cedar and pressed wool, a world of dark-paneled walls and gleaming mirrors. You move through the racks with ease, pulling suits in navy, charcoal, and black with practiced fingers. Clark follows like a man led to the gallows. “This really isn’t necessary,” he tries again as you shove a hanger into his hands.

“Try it,” you say firmly, pushing him toward the fitting room.

The curtain swishes shut, and for a moment, silence. “This is… tight.”

“Tailored,” you correct through the curtain, grinning. “It’s supposed to fit you.”

A pause. Then, more flustered, “I think this costs more than my car.”

You lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Consider it equal.”

The curtain rustles. “Equal?”

“You bought dinner in Coast City,” you remind him lightly.

“That was twenty bucks,” he says, voice strangled.

“And this is balance,” you insist. “Stop arguing.”

There’s a sigh. Then the curtain pulls back—and for a heartbeat, you forget to breathe. The suit frames him perfectly: charcoal wool, sharp lines, shoulders squared. The tie is crooked—of course—but the effect is devastating nonetheless. Clark shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, tugging at the cuffs. “Well?” he asks, eyes flicking nervously to yours.

You swallow, recovering quickly. “You clean up… better than fine.”

His flush deepens, but the corner of his mouth curves. “I still don’t think it’s equal.”

You step closer, fingers brushing against his collar as you fix the knot of his tie. “It is if I say it is.”

The air shifts—suddenly charged, closer than it should be. His eyes hold yours, steady but uncertain, like he’s caught between stepping back and leaning forward. For a dangerous moment, the investigation, the gala, the entire city disappears. There’s just the quiet sound of your breath and the heat of his presence. You clear your throat, stepping back. “Good. You’ll pass.”

Clark exhales, almost like he’d forgotten how. He glances at the mirror, then back at you, and that small, quiet smile lingers. And for the first time, you realize that while the gala may be full of sharks, the real danger might be standing right in front of you.

---

The Metropolitan Grand Hotel gleams like a jewel against the city skyline, its chandeliers blazing through wide glass windows, music drifting out onto the steps. Cars line the curb—sleek, expensive, the kind that only make sense to people who measure wealth in billions. You step out of yours first, heels clicking on polished stone. The dress you’d chosen hugs your frame with understated elegance—charcoal silk with clean lines, its sheen catching the light. It matches Clark’s suit exactly, the two of you paired so seamlessly it looks intentional. Which, of course, it is.

When Clark rounds the car, smoothing his jacket self-consciously, his eyes flick to you—and for once, words fail him. His usual steady calm wavers, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to remember how to speak. “You…” he clears his throat, tugging at his tie. “You look…”

You smile faintly, saving him from himself. “So do you. It almost looks like we planned this.”

The flush creeping up his neck gives him away, but he offers his arm anyway, old-fashioned, earnest. You slip your hand against it, and together you ascend the steps into the lion’s den. Inside, the ballroom is a storm of glittering gowns, sharp tuxedos, and too-bright smiles. Champagne flutes clink, laughter echoes beneath the string quartet’s music, and deals are being made with every handshake.

“Morgan Edge loves these events,” Clark murmurs beside you, scanning the crowd. “He feeds off the attention.”

“Good,” you reply smoothly, eyes sweeping over the guests. “Makes him easier to find.”

It doesn’t take long. Edge stands near the center of the room, broad-shouldered in a dark suit, his grin wide and wolfish as he charms a knot of councilmen. His hand gestures are broad, his voice carrying just enough to remind everyone he’s the loudest in the room. You and Clark linger at the edge of the crowd, sipping champagne you don’t intend to finish. Your eyes narrow as you watch Edge lean in, laughing too loudly at some councilman’s joke. “He knows we’re here,” you murmur.

Clark glances down at you, brow furrowing. “You’re sure?”

“Look at his shoulders,” you whisper. “He’s performing. Too much. He’s showing off because he wants us to see him do it.”

Clark studies Edge a moment longer, then nods slightly. “You’re right.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course I am.” You mingle, keeping your distance, trading polite smiles with Metropolis elite. Clark moves with you, just slightly behind, quiet but steady. He doesn’t need to speak—his presence is enough to make you feel anchored even as you tread among sharks.

At one point, Perry White brushes past, eyebrows climbing as he takes in Clark at your side. “Kent,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Didn’t know you owned a tie that straight.”

Clark stammers something half-coherent, cheeks pink, and Perry just shakes his head, moving on. You bite back a laugh, murmuring, “you really don’t blend in as badly as you think.”

His eyes flick to you, soft and steady. “That’s because of you.”

For a second, you forget to breathe. You cover it by sipping champagne, pretending not to notice the warmth in your chest. Edge finally moves toward the balcony, peeling away from his councilmen. You and Clark exchange a glance. Without words, you follow. The night air outside is cooler, the hum of the city a low thrum beneath the gala’s music. Edge stands at the railing, staring out as though he’s been waiting. “Well,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “if it isn’t Gotham’s other Wayne. And a reporter.” He turns, grin sharp. “Quite the pair.”

You don’t flinch. “Silverbrook Holdings,” you say evenly. “It all runs through you.”

Edge’s grin widens, as though you’ve just told him a joke. “Careful, Miss Wayne. Accusations like that don’t play well at parties.”

Clark steps closer, quiet but firm. “You’ve made it obvious. Too obvious.”

Edge’s eyes flick between you, sharp and calculating. Then he chuckles. “Maybe I wanted to. Maybe I wanted you to follow the trail. Funny thing about curiosity…” His smile turns wolfish. “It tends to get people killed.” The threat hangs in the cool night air, sharp and deliberate.

Clark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. You hold Edge’s gaze, your expression cool, controlled. You don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. And when Edge finally brushes past you back into the ballroom, his laughter low and mocking, you and Clark are left standing on the balcony, the tension between you sharp as glass. “He’s daring us,” you murmur.

Clark’s voice is steady, low. “Then we’ll call his bluff.”

Your eyes meet his in the moonlight. And for the first time tonight, the danger feels less heavy, less suffocating—because Clark is there, steady and unflinching. The gala winds down, champagne flutes emptied, laughter thinning as the night stretches long. You and Clark keep your eyes open, drifting through the crowd like smoke.

Then you spot him—one of Edge’s men, not Edge himself but someone who lingered too close to him on the balcony. Short conversation, hushed but sharp, then a quick exit through the side doors. You glance at Clark. “Follow him.” He nods once, steady. The streets outside are quieter, the city humming under a velvet sky. You trail the man through backstreets, keeping just far enough behind that he doesn’t turn. Clark walks at your shoulder, his frame blending into shadows more easily than you expect.

The man slips into an alley between two shuttered shops. You follow—and that’s when you hear it. The shuffle of feet, the scrape of metal, too many breaths for one man. You stop short. “We’re not alone.” Shapes emerge from the dark—four men, broad and heavy, eyes glittering under the streetlamps. They fan out slowly, cutting off the exit. Clark stiffens at your side, but before he can move, you put a hand against his chest. “Get behind me.”

“What?” He sounds almost scandalized.

“Do it,” you snap, slipping a heel off your foot. The other follows, and with a quick twist, the steel spike embedded in the sole slides free. A flick of your wrist sends it spinning through the air—embedding itself in the shoulder of the closest thug. He howls, stumbling back.

Clark blinks, wide-eyed. “Your shoes—?”

“Gotham fashion,” you mutter, already pulling another gadget from your satchel—a compact baton that telescopes with a flick. You drop into a fighting stance. “Still standing there, Kent?”

The goons charge. You meet them head-on, baton cracking across one jaw, then slamming into another’s ribs. A booted foot swings at your midsection—you pivot, slashing with the knife-heel you’d kept in your hand. It bites fabric, then skin.

Behind you, Clark finally moves. One thug lunges with a pipe—Clark catches his arm mid-swing. For a moment, it looks almost comical: Clark, wide-eyed, holding the man frozen like he doesn’t know his own strength. Then—wham—he drives a single punch into the thug’s chest. The man flies backward, crumpling into a heap against the wall. Clark winces. “Sorry!”

The absurdity almost makes you laugh—but you’re busy jamming your baton into the last thug’s gut, twisting it sharply. He groans, drops, and you stand barefoot amid the wreckage, chest heaving, baton dripping with sweat and blood. Clark looks around at the groaning men, his tie crooked, his knuckles reddened from one punch. “You… you’re barefoot.”

You glance down at the ruined heels embedded in the thugs, then back at him. “Occupational hazard.” For a long moment, you just stand there together in the alley, the night humming around you. Four men groaning on the ground. Your chest rising and falling. Clark watching you like he doesn’t quite know whether to be impressed or terrified. Finally, you smirk, tucking the baton back into your satchel. “Guess you can throw a punch after all, Kent.”

His lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Guess so.” And though your feet are bare against the cold pavement, with Clark steady beside you, you’ve never felt more firmly planted.

The valet stand glows beneath golden lights when you and Clark emerge from the alley, both of you rumpled but steady. You’re barefoot, clutching your satchel like a lifeline, soot streaked along your arm where one of the thugs grabbed you. Clark, impossibly, still looks almost put together—except for the tie hanging askew.

The valet spots you from across the driveway and rushes to open your car door. He flashes a polished smile—right until the ignition turns over and the world erupts. The explosion tears through the night, a roar of fire and twisted steel. Heat blasts across your face, glass shatters like gunfire, and the once-pristine Aston Martin blossoms into a fireball, pieces of metal raining down onto the pavement. Guests at the gala scream, scattering back inside, alarms shrieking in the distance.

Clark’s arm is instantly across your shoulders, pulling you into his chest, shielding you from the spray of debris. For a heartbeat, you’re frozen there—your ear pressed against the steady hammer of his heart, your breath caught against the wall of his chest. When the flames settle into a crackling wreck, you push back, jaw clenched. “Of course,” you mutter, brushing ash off your dress. “Of course they’d torch my car.”

Clark doesn’t move his arm right away, still standing close, his eyes fixed on the wreck. “We should get you out of here,” he says quietly, voice edged with something tighter than usual.

You shake him off gently, though part of you doesn’t want to. “No car. Taxis won’t stop near an active fireball. Your place?”

He hesitates, then nods once. “It’s close enough to walk.”

You both set off down the block, the noise of sirens swelling behind you. The night air is cool against your bare feet, every step jarring against rough pavement. You keep your chin high, refusing to let discomfort slow you, but Clark notices anyway. After a few minutes, he stops. “What are you—”

Before you can finish, he bends, unlaces his shoes, and slips them off. He’s still in his socks when he sets them down in front of you. “Here.”

You stare at him. “Clark…”

“They’ll fit badly,” he admits, ears going pink. “But pavement’s worse.”

You glance at the shoes, polished leather, easily at least two sizes too big. “You’re serious?”

He shrugs, faintly sheepish but unyielding. “You’ll walk easier. Please.”

You sigh, slipping your feet into them. They flop comically with every step, making you look more like a child playing dress-up than the sister of Gotham’s most infamous billionaire. But the relief from broken glass and asphalt is undeniable. Clark falls into step beside you, long strides careful to match yours. “Don’t get used to this,” you say dryly, glancing down at the clownish effect.

His mouth curves faintly. “I won’t.” A pause. “But I’d do it again.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly, and you cover it with a smirk. “You’re absurd, Kent. But you know what actually sounds good right now?”

“What?”

“A Big Belly Burger.”

Clark blinks at you, as if he didn’t expect that. Then he laughs—full, warm, unguarded. “In those shoes? In that dress?”

You gesture at his socks. “In those?” The two of you veer off the main street, following the neon glow of the fast-food chain. The line inside stops dead when you walk in—two soot-streaked figures, you barefoot-in-shoes four sizes too big, Clark in his tuxedo shirt and rumpled tie. You ignore the stares, stepping up to the counter with all the authority of a Wayne and ordering two burgers, fries, and a shake.

When you slide into the booth across from Clark, the vinyl squeaking under your gown, he’s already laughing softly again. “This… this isn’t exactly how I thought the night would end.”

You take a long sip of the milkshake, deliberately ignoring the way people are still gawking. “Welcome to my world.”

Clark takes a sip of his chocolate shake, still grinning faintly at the absurdity of the two of you sitting there in gala clothes streaked with soot. “You really don’t care what people think, do you?”

You shrug, dipping a fry into your vanilla shake. “Why should I? Let them stare. Half of them have probably never seen a Wayne eat fast food before.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see it either.”

The corner of your mouth curves. “Don’t get used to it.”

For a moment, you eat in companionable silence. Then, almost absently, you say, “I once brought a stray cat into the manor. Alfred nearly had a heart attack.”

Clark looks up, eyes warm with curiosity. “A cat?”

“Scrawny little thing,” you say, smiling faintly at the memory. “Gray fur, torn ear, the meanest hiss you’ve ever heard. I was maybe ten? I snuck him in through the kitchen and tried to hide him in my room. Alfred caught me when the cat clawed its way into the study and knocked over one of Bruce’s model airplanes.”

Clark laughs quietly, picturing it. “What happened?”

“I got scolded, obviously. But then Alfred sat down with this ridiculous look on his face because the cat wouldn’t stop staring at him. Next thing I know, he’s feeding it scraps of roast chicken under the table.” You lean back, grinning. “We found out later the little monster had a sweet tooth. Wouldn’t touch regular milk, but strawberry milkshakes? He’d lap them up until his whiskers were pink.”

Clark laughs outright now, low and warm. “You’re kidding.”

“I am absolutely not. Bruce hated it—claimed the cat would ‘compromise security.’ But Alfred kept sneaking it strawberry shakes until it wandered off one day and never came back.”

Clark shakes his head, still smiling. “I think I like the idea of Alfred, legendary butler, smuggling milkshakes to a stray cat.”

“You would like him,” you say softly.

His smile gentles, fading into something quieter. He stirs his shake idly with the straw. “I had a dog. Shelby. Big, golden, sweet as anything. I used to sit out on the porch with her after chores and tell her everything I couldn’t tell my parents. She’d just sit there, tail thumping, like she understood every word.”

You watch him, the way his eyes soften at the memory, the way his voice drops just slightly, rich with fondness. “What happened to her?” you ask.

“She lived a long time,” he says quietly. “Saw me through high school. One winter, she just… slowed down. Fell asleep by the fire and didn’t wake up.”

There’s a lump in your throat you didn’t expect. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head. “She was happy. That’s all I could ask for.”

The two of you sit there in the glow of neon, soot still streaking your clothes, shoes mismatched under the table, sharing stories about long-gone pets like it’s the most natural thing in the world. For a brief, fragile moment, the weight of Wayne Enterprises, Lex Luthor, and Morgan Edge feels distant—something for tomorrow.

Tonight, there’s just Clark, the warmth in his eyes, and the lingering sweetness of milkshakes on your tongue. By the time you reach Clark’s building, the city has gone quiet, the chaos of the gala and the explosion reduced to sirens fading into the distance. His apartment sits on the top floor of an older building—no grand lobby, no valet, just a narrow staircase and the hum of a neighbor’s television spilling through thin walls. He unlocks the door with a sheepish look, holding it open for you. “It’s not… much.”

You step inside, and it’s exactly what you expected. Small, tidy, lived-in. A bookshelf lined with dog-eared paperbacks. A couch that’s seen better days. A desk stacked with notes and clippings. The faint smell of coffee and laundry soap lingers in the air. “It’s very… you,” you say softly, turning in the space.

Clark smiles faintly, setting his jacket over the back of a chair. “That’s one way to put it.”

When you glance at your reflection in the window, soot smudges stare back at you, streaking your gown and arms. “I need a shower before I set this place on fire,” you mutter.

Clark clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s only one. But—you can go first. I’ll find you something to wear.”

You arch a brow. “Something of yours?”

His ears pinken, but he nods. “Shirt. Sweatpants. They’ll be… big.”

“Better than walking around in an ash pile,” you concede.

He disappears into his bedroom, returning with folded clothes—gray sweatpants, a soft plaid shirt, and a T-shirt that looks like it’s been washed a hundred times. He holds them out with both hands, like an offering. “Thanks,” you say, brushing his fingers as you take them.

The bathroom is small, steam curling quickly once you turn on the water. You peel off the ruined gown, streaked with smoke and dust, and step under the spray. The heat burns away the grit, loosening muscles you didn’t realize were tight. For the first time since the explosion, you breathe. When you emerge, hair damp, wrapped in Clark’s shirt and sweats, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror: bare feet lost in fabric, the plaid hanging loose across your shoulders. Somehow, it feels more like armor than the dress ever did.

Clark glances up from the couch when you step out. His mouth opens—then closes. His eyes flick away quickly, but not before you catch the flush blooming across his cheeks. “Shower’s free,” you say lightly, settling onto the edge of his couch. He nods, almost too quickly, and disappears down the hall.

You sit back, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, listening to the water run. The apartment feels quiet, warm, safe. And for the first time in a long time, you wonder what it would be like if this were normal—if nights ended not with fire and threats, but with milkshakes and borrowed clothes in a space that feels like home.

The sound of running water drifts faintly from the bathroom down the short hallway. You curl deeper into Clark’s couch, damp hair clinging to your shoulders, his shirt soft against your skin. For the first time all day, your body feels clean, though exhaustion still hums beneath your skin.

Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. Alfred. You hesitate, then swipe to answer. “You’ve been busy,” he says before you can speak, his tone clipped, but edged with that familiar warmth. “Care to explain why one of the Aston Martins just disappeared from my tracking feed? Its transponder went dark an hour ago.”

You close your eyes briefly. “About that.”

“Oh, don’t tell me.” His sigh is heavy enough to carry across the line. “The car, Miss, please don’t say the car.”

“It exploded,” you admit flatly.

A pause. Then, dry as bone, “of course it did. I suppose I should be grateful you weren’t still inside it.”

“I wasn’t. Relax.”

“You know very well that relaxation is beyond my skill set where you’re concerned.” His voice softens, the bite easing. “And what happens when Master Bruce discovers this in the morning?”

Your head tips back against the couch cushion. “He’ll brood. He’ll growl. He’ll say I should’ve walked away. Same old song, Alfred.”

“This time the song has teeth,” Alfred replies sharply. “Your brother’s already out there tonight. When he comes home and learns his sister’s car has been reduced to ash in Metropolis of all places, I daresay the manor’s walls will quake from his temper.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “He’s not my keeper.”

“No, but he is your brother. And he does care, even when he refuses to admit it.” Alfred pauses. “You’d best prepare yourself for the storm that’s coming.”

Your gaze drifts toward the bathroom door, where water still runs steady. Clark’s voice hums faintly in the background, low and indistinct, as if he’s humming to himself. Something about it—gentle, grounded—settles your nerves. “I’ll handle Bruce,” you say finally. “Like I always do.”

Alfred exhales slowly, as if resigning himself. “Very well. But promise me this: don’t mistake allies for shields. Especially ones you’ve only just begun to know.”

You bite your tongue, unwilling to give him the reassurance he wants. “Goodnight, Alfred.”

“Goodnight, Miss. Try not to reduce any more property to rubble before sunrise.” The line clicks dead. You set the phone down, running a hand over your face. The apartment smells faintly of steam and soap, a world away from Gotham’s endless tension. You tell yourself Alfred’s right, that Bruce’s fury will be swift and inevitable. But right now, you don’t want to think about Gotham. Right now, all you can think about is Clark Kent, and how close his voice is behind that bathroom door.

The bathroom door clicks open, and a wave of steam rolls into the apartment. Clark steps out barefoot, hair damp, dressed down in a plain T-shirt and sweatpants. The sight of him like this—no tie, no blazer, no armor of mild-mannered reporter—hits harder than you expect. He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry it took so long. Hot water’s… temperamental.”

You smirk faintly from the couch. “After tonight, you’ve earned it.”

His gaze flicks over you briefly—the sight of you in his shirt, sleeves hanging loose past your wrists, your bare feet tucked under you on the couch. His throat works as he swallows, and he looks away quickly, moving to sit in the chair opposite. For a while, silence settles between you, broken only by the faint hum of traffic outside. Clark runs a hand through his damp hair, the movement so unselfconscious it feels like something you weren’t meant to see. “You okay?” he asks finally, voice low.

You shrug, though the weight of Alfred’s words still presses at the back of your mind. “Better than the car.”

That earns a soft chuckle from him, though his eyes stay serious. “It’s not nothing. Someone wanted you gone tonight.”

“They’re going to have to try harder,” you reply evenly.

His mouth curves, not quite a smile but close. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You study him for a long moment, the way the lamplight warms his features, the steady calm that never seems to waver. You wonder—not for the first time—what it would take to break through that composure, what secrets lie under the surface. Instead, you lean back, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “You know, your wardrobe isn’t half bad. Comfy.”

He raises a brow, faintly amused. “Not quite gala attire, though.”

“Please,” you scoff. “If anyone saw us at Big Belly Burger, they know we’re trendsetters.” That draws a real laugh from him—quiet, warm, the kind that lingers in your chest long after it fades. The apartment goes still again, but this time it’s not uncomfortable. The storm outside—Lex, Edge, the explosion—feels distant here, held at bay by four thin walls and the steady presence of Clark. You don’t say it, but part of you already knows: Alfred was right. Bruce will rage when he finds out. But sitting here, wrapped in borrowed clothes and the quiet strength of the man across from you, you don’t care. For tonight, this is enough.

---

Morning sunlight seeps weakly through Clark’s curtains, catching on the cluttered desk and the dog-eared books. The apartment smells faintly of coffee—brewed hours earlier, if the pot’s warmth is anything to go by.

You’re half-asleep, face buried in Clark’s pillow. Last night you’d muttered something about “not sleeping on the couch” and somehow ended up here, stretched diagonally across the bed. Clark had taken the edge, back stiff and deliberate, as though he was afraid to move a muscle. The sharp buzz of your phone breaks the silence. You groan into the pillow, flopping an arm blindly toward the nightstand. Clark beats you to it, scooping up the phone with sleep-heavy fingers. “Hello?” His voice is low, rough with morning.

A pause. Then a voice sharp enough to slice through glass, “who is this?”

Clark blinks, suddenly more awake. “Uh… Clark Kent.”

The pause lengthens. “Clark Kent,” the voice repeats, heavy with suspicion. “And where is my sister?”

You groan again, rolling onto your back and prying one eye open. “Give me that,” you mutter, snatching the phone from Clark’s hand. “Good morning, Bruce,” you rasp, still thick with sleep.

“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” he snaps. “Alfred informed me your car was destroyed last night, that you ignored direct threats, and now—now some strange man answers your phone in the morning?”

Clark sits frozen at the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, hands folded like a schoolboy caught in church. You rub your temple. “First of all, he’s not strange. Second of all, I’m fine. Third of all, stop spying through Alfred.”

“I don’t need to spy,” Bruce growls. “You’re in over your head.”

“Bruce—”

“You’re stubborn. You think you can handle this alone. But if someone put a bomb in your car, it means they’ve marked you. And whoever this Clark Kent is, he won’t keep you safe.”

Your eyes flick toward Clark. He looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight, glasses askew from where he must’ve grabbed them half-asleep. The irony almost makes you laugh. “Bruce, I can handle myself. And I don’t need you swooping in to drag me back to Gotham like a disobedient child.”

“You need backup,” he says flatly.

“I have backup,” you shoot back, glancing pointedly at Clark.

There’s silence on the other end, weighted and disbelieving. Then Bruce exhales sharply. “We’ll talk later.”

The line clicks dead before you can reply. You drop the phone onto the blanket, dragging your hands over your face as you fall backwards back onto the pillow. “He’s going to kill me.”

Clark clears his throat gently. “So that was… your brother.”

“Mm,” you grumble into the pillow. “In all his brooding glory.”

Clark hesitates, then says softly, “He doesn’t like me.”

That earns a laugh from you, muffled but real. “He doesn’t like anyone. Don’t take it personally.”

Clark smiles faintly, though you catch the flicker of something deeper behind it. Then, quietly, he says, “still. I’ll prove him wrong.”

You pause, lifting your head to look at him. His hair’s still damp from last night, sticking up in uneven tufts, and yet his eyes are steady, unshaken.

The apartment is hushed after Bruce’s call, sunlight spilling through the blinds in uneven stripes. For a while, neither of you speaks. You lie back against Clark’s pillow, eyes half-closed, listening to the shuffle of him moving around the kitchen. The smell of coffee soon fills the air, rich and grounding. When you drag yourself out of bed, Clark’s already at the small counter, pouring two mugs. He looks up when you pad in barefoot, sleeves of his plaid shirt still hanging long over your hands. “You don’t have to—” you start.

He smiles faintly. “It’s coffee. I can handle it.”

You slide onto the stool at his counter, wrapping your hands around the warm mug he sets in front of you. The place is cramped, but there’s something about the way sunlight cuts across the small table, the way Clark moves quietly in his own space, that makes it feel… steady. “You’re domestic,” you say finally, sipping.

He raises a brow. “That a compliment?”

You smirk over the rim of the mug. “Depends who you ask.”

His mouth curves into that shy half-smile again, but his eyes don’t leave yours. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, sipping coffee in silence. The world outside feels far away, muted. No Luthor, no Edge, no Gotham waiting to demand explanations. Just two people in a sunlit kitchen, pretending for a heartbeat that this is normal. Then Clark says softly, “your brother’s worried. That much was obvious.”

You grimace. “He’s always worried. He turns it into anger so he doesn’t have to admit it out loud.”

Clark nods slowly, his fingers tapping the side of his mug. “Maybe. But he’s not wrong about one thing.”

You tilt your head, wary. “Which is?”

“You are in danger.” His tone is gentle, but it lands heavy. “Last night proved that. Whoever’s behind this—they’re not bluffing.”

You set the mug down a little too hard. “So what? I should run back to Gotham with my tail between my legs? Let Bruce lock me in the manor and scowl at me across the dining room table?”

Clark’s brow furrows. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then what are you saying?”

He hesitates, eyes steady on yours. “That you don’t have to face it alone.”

The words hang between you, heavier than anything Bruce said last night. You want to argue, to push back the way you always do when someone tries to share your burdens. But the way Clark looks at you—earnest, unflinching—makes it harder. You break eye contact first, muttering, “you’re infuriating, Kent.”

His smile is small, but it lingers. “So I’ve heard.” The moment passes, but not completely. You finish your coffee in silence, rinsing your mug in his sink, deliberately ignoring the way he watches you like he’s memorizing every detail. By the time you grab your satchel, Gotham feels closer again, shadows pressing at the edges. The investigation waits—Halvorsen, Edge, Mercy, Luthor. Bruce’s storm looms on the horizon. But for now, as Clark locks the apartment door and falls into step beside you, you let yourself breathe in the quiet certainty of his presence.

By the time the two of you step out of Clark’s apartment, the city is already humming with morning traffic. People hurry to work, taxis weave between lanes, vendors open their carts. You tug Clark’s shirt a little closer around yourself, the hem nearly brushing your thighs. The sweatpants drag along the pavement with every barefooted step into his oversized sneakers. Clark glances at you, lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.

“Don’t,” you warn, narrowing your eyes.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he says, though his voice is warm with amusement.

You smirk. “You were thinking it, though. Just remember, Kent—I can weaponize heels. Imagine what I could do with your sneakers.” That earns you a quiet laugh, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the morning bustle.

The hotel lobby feels like stepping back into another world. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, staff in pristine uniforms glancing curiously at the sight of you and Clark walking in together. Your satchel bounces against your hip as you stride toward the elevator, ignoring the stares.

In the mirrored walls of the lift, you finally get a good look at yourself: damp hair, Clark’s plaid shirt hanging loose, his shoes at least two sizes too large. He looks at you in the reflection too, but quickly drops his gaze to the floor, cheeks faintly pink. “You don’t blend in,” he murmurs.

“Neither do you,” you shoot back, watching his tie-less, clean-shirted figure stand out against the sea of businessmen.

The corner of his mouth curves. “Fair point.”

Your suite is exactly as you left it: neat, impersonal, expensive in the way only hotels can be. You toss your satchel onto the desk and dig through the closet for fresh clothes. Clark lingers by the door, his frame too large for the space, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. “I’ll wait outside—”

You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You’re fine. Unless you’re scandalized by the idea of a woman changing clothes.”

His ears turn red immediately. “I’ll—uh—I’ll just… look away.”

You laugh under your breath, pulling a dress from the closet and ducking into the bathroom anyway. A few minutes later, you emerge in clean clothes—your own this time—heels clicking against the floor. The transformation is stark: no soot, no borrowed flannel, just sharp lines and effortless poise. Clark looks up, startled. His eyes linger just a second too long before he clears his throat. “Better,” he says softly.

You smirk. “Don’t get too comfortable. I can ruin a dress just as easily as your shoes.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. But as you slip past him to grab your satchel again, you catch the faintest shift in his gaze—like he hasn’t quite decided if seeing you in his clothes or your own unsettles him more. And you don’t let yourself admit which of those two options you prefer.

By mid-afternoon, the Daily Planet’s conference room looks like a war room. Papers are spread across the long table—contracts, receipts, copies of copies—scrawled through with Clark’s careful notes and your sharper red ink. Lois pokes her head in once, curious, but Perry bellows something about deadlines and she disappears again, leaving you and Clark to your own quiet storm. Clark flips through a ledger, brow furrowed, glasses slipping low on his nose. “Here—look. After Edge, the money shifts again. To Hobbs Imports. Registered under an address in the Narrows.”

You take the page from him, scanning the columns. Hobbs Imports. A shipping company that’s supposed to deal in construction materials. Except the numbers are bloated, padded with transactions that don’t line up. “The Narrows?” you echo.

Clark nods. “Bad neighborhood. Drugs, gangs, extortion rackets. The cops barely touch it. If Hobbs is operating there, it’s a front.”

You lean back in your chair, fingers drumming against the edge of the paper. “So that’s where the trail goes next.”

Clark glances up, meeting your eyes. “You’re not suggesting—”

“I’ll check it out tonight,” you cut in smoothly, sliding the papers into your satchel.

His head snaps up. “Alone?”

You arch a brow. “Yes.”

For once, Clark actually stammers. “That’s—no, that’s—absolutely not safe. You can’t just—” He stops himself, words tangled, frustration clear in the flush rising up his neck.

“Clark,” you say evenly, “it’s safer if you stay out of this one. You’re a reporter. Not a fighter.”

His jaw works, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. “That didn’t stop me last night.”

“You threw one punch,” you remind him, smirking faintly. “And apologized to the man after.”

His ears go pink, but he doesn’t back down. “I still helped.”

“You did,” you admit. “But Hobbs isn’t a gala. It’s not champagne and marble floors. It’s alleys and knives. I don’t need to worry about you on top of everyone else trying to kill me.”

The words hang heavy in the air. Clark’s fingers curl against the papers in front of him, knuckles whitening as though he’s holding something back. For a second, you wonder if he’ll push harder, if he’ll demand to come anyway. But finally, he exhales, steady but reluctant. “Fine. But if you’re not back by morning—”

You tilt your head. “You’ll what? Call Bruce?”

His mouth curves, small and humorless. “I’ll find you myself.”

The certainty in his voice makes you pause, even as you sling your satchel over your shoulder. His eyes meet yours, unflinching, and for a heartbeat the room feels smaller, closer, charged with something unsaid. You break it with a smirk. “Try not to lose sleep, Kent.” And with that, you leave him at the table, his notebook still open, his jaw tight, his gaze following you until the door swings shut.

---

Night drapes the Narrows in a blanket of shadow and neon rot. Hobbs Imports squats at the edge of a crumbling dockyard, its sign half-lit, its windows black. Shipping crates stack like monoliths around the building, graffiti scrawled across their sides, the smell of salt and rust hanging in the damp air.

You move like smoke, hood up, shadows swallowing you whole. The fabric of your jacket conceals slim compartments—grapnel line coiled at your hip, collapsible baton tucked against your thigh, a small EMP charge nestled in a pocket. Not Bruce’s level of arsenal, but Alfred had made sure you weren’t walking into fights with nothing but sharp words and sharper heels. The chain-link fence around Hobbs Imports is rusted, padlock brittle. A thin device from your pocket hums once, and the lock pops open. You slip inside, every footstep deliberate, quiet, measured.

Inside the warehouse, the air is colder. Empty crates line the walls, but the center floor isn’t empty. Stacks of ledgers sit atop a folding table, papers scattered, the faint smell of ink sharp even in the dark. You tug your hood lower and cross to the desk. The papers tell the story clearly—funds rerouted from Silverbrook through Hobbs, then washed again through “West Point Traders.” Another shell. Another mask. Another layer feeding upward into LexCorp’s Energy Division.

You snap quick photos with the slim camera hidden in your cuff, tucking the device away before slipping the top ledger into your satchel. A sound pricks your ears—footsteps. Not heavy enough for a patrol. Not hurried enough to be panicked. Steady, careful. You freeze in the shadow of a crate, baton sliding soundlessly into your hand. The footsteps pause, then shift, moving closer. And then a whisper. “You really weren’t going to let me stay behind, were you?” Your jaw tightens. Clark. He emerges from the dark, tie long gone, jacket discarded, the outline of his glasses faint in the warehouse gloom. He looks… out of place here, but not uncertain. His eyes find yours under the hood, steady even as his voice drops to a murmur. “This isn’t safe.”

You step out of the shadows, scowl sharp. “I told you—this isn’t your fight.”

“I know,” he says, quietly but firmly. “But you’re here anyway. And if something happens…” He hesitates, words catching before he steadies them. “If something happens, I need to be here.”

For a heartbeat, you can’t look at him. Anger flares—at his stubbornness, at his recklessness—but underneath it, something you don’t want to name hums in your chest. “You’re impossible,” you mutter.

A faint smile curves his mouth. “So you've said.”

Before you can retort, the sound of heavy boots echoes from the far end of the warehouse. Flashlights slice through the dark, voices barking orders. The ledgers on the desk weren’t abandoned—they were bait. You slip back against the crates, Clark close beside you. Four men stalk into the warehouse, weapons glinting faintly under the beams of light. They fan out, boots clanging against the metal floor. Clark leans down, whispering, “what’s the plan?”

You draw your baton with a soft click, hood still shadowing your face. “You stay behind me.”

He opens his mouth—then shuts it, sighing through his nose. “Fine. But I’m not apologizing if I hit someone this time.” Despite yourself, a smirk tugs at your lips.

The first thug’s flashlight cuts across your hood, and the shout comes instantly, “there! By the crates!”

You move before the beam steadies. The collapsible baton snaps out with a metallic crack as you swing low, knocking the man’s legs from under him. He crashes into a stack of pallets, light skittering across the floor. Another one charges, pipe raised. You flick your wrist, and a small disk—an EMP charge the size of a coin—snaps from your palm and clings to the metal. It sparks once, discharging, and the pipe sears hot. The thug yelps, dropping it with a curse.

Clark, beside you, stiffens when the man lunges barehanded. With a soft, almost apologetic grunt, Clark steps in and delivers a single, straight punch. Wham. The guy goes airborne, crashing into a crate hard enough to rattle its bolts. Clark blinks at his own hand, then mutters under his breath, “...golly.”

“Golly?” you hiss, ducking under a swing from the third man.

“It slipped out!” he says defensively, catching another thug’s arm and tossing him—just a little too far—into the side wall. The impact echoes like a thunderclap.

You slam your baton into your attacker’s ribs, then sweep his legs. He groans, sprawling across the cold concrete. Two men still stand. They hesitate now, watching Clark adjust his glasses calmly, as though he hasn’t just sent two of their friends flying. You flick another gadget from your belt—a smoke capsule. It bursts at your feet, curling white haze through the warehouse. Shadows leap and twist. The two thugs panic, swinging blindly. You move through the fog like a blade, baton snapping against jaw and shoulder until they crumble.

When the haze clears, six men are groaning on the floor. The warehouse is littered with broken flashlights and dented crates. You stand barefoot on the concrete, chest heaving, baton dripping sweat. Clark straightens his glasses, cheeks pink. “I, uh… might’ve hit them harder than I meant to.”

You plant your hands on your hips, smirking despite the adrenaline still humming in your veins. “I noticed.”

He glances at the wreckage, then back at you, voice low. “You okay?”

You nod, tugging your hood back. “Better than they are.”

Clark exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… that wasn’t subtle.”

“No,” you admit, sliding the baton back into your belt. “But it was effective.”

His mouth twitches into the faintest smile, though his eyes stay serious. “You know this means they’ll escalate.”

“They already blew up my car,” you remind him dryly. “Not sure there’s much left to escalate to.”

Clark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he steps closer, lowering his voice until it’s only for you. “Then we make sure you stay ahead of them.”

You wipe the sweat from your brow, the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and stride back to the desk where the ledgers sit. Clark follows, silent, though his presence looms steady and close at your back. You flip through the pages with brisk, practiced hands. The trail runs clear—Halvorsen to Edge, Edge to Hobbs, Hobbs Imports into yet another pipeline. But this time, the signature at the bottom of half the transactions stops you cold. “Bruno Mannheim,” you murmur.

Clark leans closer, brow furrowing behind his glasses. “Intergang.”

You glance up sharply. “You know them.”

“Everyone in Metropolis knows them,” he replies, voice low but even. “Mannheim’s been a ghost for years, but his people… they run the Narrows. Weapons, drugs, extortion. They have their hands in every dark corner of the city.”

You tap the page, lips pressed tight. “Which means the men we fought tonight weren’t just hired thugs. They were Mannheim’s.”

Clark exhales slowly, the weight of it heavy in the dim air. “That puts this on a whole different level.”

The name feels heavy in your chest, a chain tightening. Edge is dangerous. Luthor is worse. But Mannheim is chaos in human form—unpredictable, vicious, with an army behind him. “Halvorsen to Edge. Edge to Hobbs. Hobbs to Mannheim,” you mutter, stringing it together. “And from there, straight to LexCorp’s Energy Division. Every step dirtier than the last.”

Clark studies you, steady, thoughtful. “You’re not walking away from this, are you?”

You meet his eyes. “Would you?”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze drops back to the ledger, tracing the name with quiet intensity. “Mannheim doesn’t show up unless he wants to be seen,” Clark says softly. “If his name is here, it’s because he doesn’t care who finds it. That means he’s planning something bigger.”

You close the ledger with a sharp snap, tucking it into your satchel. “Then we find out what. Before he makes his move.”

Clark’s eyes linger on you for a long moment, something unspoken flickering behind them. Then he nods, quiet and firm. “Together.” The word lands heavier than you expect. You let it settle in the silence of the warehouse, the thugs groaning faintly on the floor. And though you won’t say it out loud, the thought curls tight in your chest: Bruno Mannheim may have an army, but you’ve got something he’ll never see coming. Clark Kent.

---

The Daily Planet newsroom is alive when you arrive: the phones are already ringing, Lois is barking at someone over a deadline, and Perry White is storming across the bullpen with a cup of coffee like it personally wronged him. You weave through the chaos, satchel heavy on your shoulder, and slide into the small conference room where Clark is waiting. He’s already there, of course—tie straight, glasses perched carefully, notebook open with neat lines of writing. He looks up when you enter, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Morning,” he says gently.

“Barely,” you mutter, tossing the ledger you pulled from Hobbs onto the table. “I hope you had more coffee than I did.”

His lips twitch, amused, but he gestures at the steaming paper cup waiting at your seat. “Figured you might need it.”

You raise a brow, but take it anyway, sipping gratefully before flipping open the ledger. “So. Mannheim.”

Clark leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “Half the city’s been whispering about him for months. Drugs, weapons, rackets—you name it. But if he’s tied to Edge and funneling to Lex, then this isn’t just crime. It’s infrastructure. Mannheim’s making himself the pipeline.”

You tap your pen against the page, mind sharp. “Which means if we cut him off, the whole system stumbles.”

Clark nods slowly, his brow furrowed. “But Mannheim won’t go quietly. He’ll fight to keep his grip. And if last night was any indication, he already sees you as a threat.”

You smirk faintly. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.”

His gaze lingers on you, steady and unblinking, and for a moment the weight in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “Or it means you need to be careful.”

“Careful doesn’t get results,” you say evenly.

He exhales, quiet but firm. “Neither does reckless.”

The tension hums between you, sharp but not hostile. You break it by flipping another page, tracing the columns of signatures. “He’s sloppy here,” you murmur. “Too many names, too many shells. If I follow this—”

“We,” Clark corrects softly. You glance up. “We follow it,” he says again, voice steady. Something in his tone—quiet, unyielding—makes you pause. For once, you don’t argue.

The door swings open suddenly. Lois pokes her head in, sharp-eyed and curious. “You two playing detectives again? Perry’s gonna blow a vein if you keep hogging the conference room.”

“We’re working,” Clark says smoothly, his mild tone hiding the iron in his spine.

Lois’s gaze flicks between you, narrowing slightly. “Uh-huh. Just don’t forget who the real investigative team around here is.” She points to herself, then disappears back into the noise.

Clark chuckles softly under his breath. You shake your head, hiding a smile behind your coffee. By the time the morning rush slows, you’ve sketched out the next link in the chain: Mannheim’s logistics. A shell trucking company tied to Hobbs, operating out of the docks. It’s dirty, dangerous, and screaming for a closer look. Clark looks at the map you’ve drawn, then back at you. “You’re already planning to go there tonight, aren’t you?”

You shrug, nonchalant. “Maybe.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are.” And though he doesn’t say it outright, you know: he’ll be there too.

---

The air at the docks is thick with salt, oil, and rust. The water slaps against pylons in uneven rhythms, chains creak in the wind, and shadows spill long across the cracked pavement. Hobbs Imports’ trucks are lined up in rows, their engines cold, but faint lights flicker inside the warehouse. You adjust your hood, scanning the perimeter. “Too quiet.”

Clark stands beside you, his tie long gone again, glasses fogged slightly from the damp. “That’s supposed to be good, isn’t it?”

You smirk faintly. “Not when you’re walking into Mannheim’s backyard.”

You slip inside first, Clark close on your heels. The warehouse is cavernous, rows of shipping containers stacked to the rafters. At first glance, it looks like any other smuggling operation—but then you spot them. Weapons. Not rifles, not pistols. Sleek, angular guns with glowing coils, crates stamped with foreign markings. Energy weapons. “Lasers,” Clark murmurs, eyes wide.

“Not the kind you buy off the street,” you reply tightly, crouching to pry open a crate. Inside, rows of compact handheld blasters gleam under the faint light. Military-grade. Black-market tech. Far beyond what local gangs should be carrying.

Clark swallows, adjusting his glasses. “Intergang’s upgrading.”

Before you can answer, the warehouse lights blaze on all at once. A dozen thugs step out from between the crates, weapons raised. Their leader smirks from the catwalk above. “Cute of you to show up. Mannheim said you’d sniff your way here sooner or later.”

You grit your teeth, baton snapping out in your hand. “Figures.”

The first volley of energy blasts shrieks through the air, slamming into steel. Sparks rain down, the walls rattling with heat. You dive behind a crate, Clark stumbling after you, the air crackling with sizzling beams. “We’re pinned,” he hisses.

“No kidding,” you snap, tossing a smoke capsule. The fog billows, masking the next wave of fire—but before you can move, the floor beneath you shifts. A hiss, a groan of metal—and then the section of warehouse you’re on shudders downward. Panels snap shut above, walls rising around you, forming a box. “Trap,” you breathe, springing up just as the last panel seals overhead. The thugs’ laughter echoes faintly from outside the steel walls.

The room is small, barely larger than an elevator. The air feels wrong already, heavy and thin, and vents rattle faintly overhead. You press a hand against the wall—it’s reinforced. Clark runs a hand over the seams, eyes narrowing. “They’re drawing the air out.”

Your chest tightens at the realization. Not spikes, not fire. Suffocation. You whip out a device from your belt, a compact charge, and slap it against the wall. It sparks once, fizzles out, and dies. Reinforced, too thick. “They planned this,” you mutter, pacing the perimeter. “No weapons, no gadgets. Just… wait for us to choke.” Clark’s face is grim, his breath steady despite the thinning air. He looks at you, and for a heartbeat his expression softens—like he’s on the edge of a choice he doesn’t want to make. You glare, refusing the creeping panic. “Don’t look at me like that. We’re not done yet.” But even as you say it, the vents hiss louder, the air sharper in your lungs, and the walls feel like they’re closing in.

The hiss of air being siphoned out of the trap grows sharper, each breath thinner than the last. You press your palm against the wall, trying to find a seam, some weakness you could exploit. Your mind races—grapnel too short, charges too weak, EMP fried on contact. You’re a Wayne. There’s always a solution. But for the first time, the calculations spiral into dead ends. “Think,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the small enclosure. “There has to be—”

“Stop.” Clark’s voice cuts through the panic. He’s calm—too calm. His eyes fix on you with something heavier than resolve. “There isn’t another way.”

You whip around, glare sharp even through the haze. “Don’t you dare—”

But he doesn’t let you finish. His arms are around you in a sudden, startling sweep, and before you can protest, the ground disappears. The air rushes in your ears, steel walls giving way to open sky. The trap shrinks behind you, swallowed by the warehouse roof as you soar upward—weightless, breathless, the city sprawling in lights beneath your feet. You clutch instinctively at his shoulders, the wind whipping your hood back.

And then—just as suddenly—he descends. His boots hit pavement outside the warehouse with barely a sound, the impact absorbed like it’s nothing. He lowers you carefully, steadying you until your feet touch solid ground again. Your pulse thrums in your throat, lungs dragging in sweet, clean air. You stumble back a step, staring at him.

But it’s not Clark standing there. It’s Superman. The glasses are gone. The tie, the shirt—gone. In their place: a suit of deep blue, the red crest blazing against his chest, cape catching the wind like fire. The same man, but impossibly more. You blink at him, breathless. “How—how the hell did you—” You gesture wildly at the air, the cape, all of him. “You picked me up, you flew us out, and you changed clothes in the middle of it? How is that even—”

He winces, sheepish, the corners of his mouth tugging in a nervous half-smile. “It’s… complicated.”

You stare at him, heart hammering, every line of his frame radiating something you can’t quite put into words. You want to demand answers, to yell, to shake him. Instead, you hear yourself whisper, almost dazed, “Clark?”

And the way he looks at you—gentle, unshaken, utterly himself beneath all that impossible power—tells you everything before he even nods. The realization still hangs heavy in your chest—Clark Kent, the quiet, steady reporter at your side, is Superman. But there’s no time to untangle it. Because when your eyes snap back to the warehouse, you see the shadows moving. The trap was only the opening act.

Figures pour out from between the stacked containers—Mannheim’s men, a dozen or more, and every one of them armed. Not handguns, not knives, but sleek rifles glowing at the seams with humming energy coils. Upgraded tech, smuggled in through Hobbs. They spread across the dock, forming a semicircle around you and Clark. The leader steps forward—tall, scarred, a grin like a predator. “Well, well,” he drawls. “The Wayne brat. And a… friend. Mannheim figured you wouldn’t take the hint. Guess we’ll send the message louder.” He raises his hand. The rifles charge, light building in their cores.

Clark’s body tenses beside you. For the first time since the reveal, you see him as both parts at once—the farmboy with too-big shoes and the impossible figure standing in the cape. He shifts forward, just slightly, instinctively putting himself between you and the weapons. Your own hand darts into your belt pouch. Smoke pellets. Flashbangs. Grapnel line. Alfred would kill you for blowing through so many in a week, but Bruce would approve. “Don’t just stand there,” you mutter, flicking a pellet to the ground. Smoke blooms across the dock, curling thick in the damp air.

The thugs fire anyway—beams shrieking through the fog, scorching holes through metal. You dive low, baton snapping out, and strike the closest man across the wrist. His weapon clatters away. Another swings his rifle like a club—you duck under it and drive your knee into his gut, sending him sprawling. Behind you, a whump echoes—Clark catching a blast square in the chest and barely flinching. The thug gawks, frozen, right before Clark gently, almost too gently, taps him across the jaw and drops him cold. “Golly,” he mutters again, shaking his head.

“Stop saying that!” you hiss, slamming your baton into another man’s knee.

The dock becomes chaos—energy beams slicing through the smoke, crates exploding into splinters, men shouting in panic as their weapons misfire. You move with precision, every strike calculated, every gadget deployed at just the right moment. And Clark—no, Superman—moves differently. Not flashy, not reckless, but efficient. A blur of motion here, a blurred fist there, weapons twisted in half, men disarmed with the ease of swatting flies. He doesn’t look like he’s fighting so much as containing the fight, careful not to break the men in half when he could.

By the time the smoke clears, the dock is a ruin. Thugs groan on the concrete, weapons sparking uselessly. The leader is pinned to a container wall by Clark’s hand, feet kicking a few inches off the ground. Clark’s voice is calm, even. “Tell Mannheim this doesn’t scare her off.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “And tell him I’m watching.” The man sputters, terror washing over his earlier bravado. Clark lowers him gently—deliberately—and he collapses, scrambling away before limping into the shadows.

The dock is silent again. You stand there, chest heaving, baton still in hand. Smoke drifts in thin curls around you. Clark turns to you, cape brushing against the wind, eyes steady and—God help you—still gentle. You lower your baton slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”

He hesitates, looking almost… nervous. “Then don’t. Not yet.”

For a long moment, you just stare at each other, the wreckage of Mannheim’s men around you. Your world has shifted on its axis, and yet somehow, Clark still feels like the anchor at the center of it. And you’re not sure if that steadies you—or terrifies you more. You sling your baton back onto your belt and exhale hard, pulling the last ledger from your satchel. The adrenaline in your veins hasn’t burned off yet, but your mind pushes forward—there’s still a trail to follow.

Clark kneels by one of the smashed crates, lifting the charred remains of a weapon. “These aren’t homemade. Mannheim didn’t build this kind of tech.”

You flip through the ledger pages, scanning the faded ink under the glow of Clark’s eyes—he seems to emit a kind of light just by being near. The transactions string out like barbed wire, looping through shell after shell, until finally one name stands out: Graves Incorporated. “Mercy Graves,” you say aloud, tapping the signature at the bottom of a shipping manifest. “Lex Luthor’s right hand.”

Clark looks up sharply. “You’re sure?”

“Positive. This isn’t Mannheim’s endgame. He’s the middleman, just like Edge. The money and weapons flow through him, but they’re funneled upward.” You close the ledger with a snap. “And that funnel leads straight to LexCorp.”

Clark’s jaw tightens. “Luthor likes to keep his hands clean. If Mercy’s name is here, he’s making sure the paper trail points everywhere but him.”

“Which means we’re close,” you say, eyes narrowing. “Too close.”

Clark rises, cape brushing the ground, the weight of him filling the space in a way Clark Kent never could. Yet his voice is the same—gentle, steady. “Close enough that Luthor will notice. And he won’t take it lightly.”

You shove the ledger into your satchel, the wordless understanding sinking between you. Mannheim’s men had weapons far beyond street-grade. Someone supplied them. Someone paid for them. And only one man in Metropolis has the ego, the money, and the reach to orchestrate something this vast: Lex Luthor. Clark steps closer, his shadow folding over yours. “We should leave before Mannheim sends reinforcements.”

You meet his gaze, forcing steel into your voice. “We’ll follow the trail in the morning. Graves first. Then Lex.” He hesitates, eyes softening like he wants to argue. But instead, he just nods. And as you both walk away from the smoking ruin of the docks, satchel heavy on your shoulder, one truth settles deep in your bones: you’ve just crossed the line between investigating Luthor and declaring war.

The walk from the docks is quiet, both of you wrapped in the aftermath of what just happened. The night air smells of smoke and brine, heavy with the hum of the city. You keep glancing sideways at him—at Superman, cape trailing behind him, shoulders broad against the skyline. And yet, every time you catch his profile, you see Clark. The glasses may be gone, the tie and shirt traded for something impossible, but the man is the same.

Finally, you stop walking. He slows, turning back to you, the cape brushing lightly in the wind. There’s tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “Are you mad?” he asks softly.

The words hang there, simple but heavy. You almost laugh—after everything tonight, that’s what he’s worried about? You take a step closer, tugging your hood down so he can see your face. “I should be. God, I should be furious. I should be cursing you out, calling you an idiot for keeping this from me.” His throat works as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. “But…” you continue, voice softening. “That would make me a hypocrite. Wouldn’t it? You’ve been hiding who you are. I’ve been doing the same. You’re not the only one with masks.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you speak. The city hums around you, a thousand lives unfolding in windows and streets, but the world feels narrowed down to just the two of you. Clark exhales slowly, some of the tension slipping from his shoulders. “I didn’t want you to think I was… lying. Not really. I just… I wanted you to know me as me. Not as him.” He gestures vaguely to the crest on his chest, almost sheepish. “I wanted to earn that on my own.”

You study him, searching his face, and find nothing but raw sincerity there. No games, no angles. Just Clark, the man who buys you coffee and apologizes when he throws a punch too hard. “You did,” you say finally. “You already did.” His eyes flicker, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Then he smiles—small, warm, almost shy, the way he always does. It’s Clark’s smile, not Superman’s. And standing there in the glow of the city lights, you realize the lines between the two aren’t as sharp as you thought. He isn’t two people. He’s one. And you trust him.

---

The two of you end up back in the Planet’s conference room, the table once again covered in papers, ledgers, and your sharp red notes. Morning bleeds into afternoon as you and Clark map the threads one more time, following each dollar, each signature, until the picture is undeniable. Halvorsen. Edge. Mannheim. Mercy. And finally, Lex. You lean back in your chair, stretching your sore shoulders. “It all starts with Halvorsen. He’s the keystone. Fire him, and the bridge collapses.”

Clark nods, jotting it down in his neat, looping hand. “Wayne Enterprises cuts him loose. That sends the message that the money trail isn’t buried anymore.” He taps his pen against the page. “I’ll write the article. Public, clear, every name along the chain spelled out. Edge, Mannheim, Halvorsen. People need to see the scope.”

You smirk faintly. “You’re going to expose Lex Luthor in print? Brave.”

His eyes meet yours, steady. “Truth has teeth. That’s the only weapon I’ve got.”

“And it’s a good one,” you admit, pulling your phone out. “I’ll call the board, get Halvorsen’s dismissal pushed through. By the time your article runs, he’ll already be out on his ass.”

There’s a long pause as you both stare at the mess of papers—the wreckage of a conspiracy stretching from Gotham to Metropolis. Then Clark says softly, “and Mercy?”

You exhale, grim. “That’s trickier. She’s Luthor’s blade. She doesn’t flinch. If Mannheim’s thugs had energy rifles, she put them in their hands.”

Clark frowns. “We can’t handle her the way we handled Mannheim’s men.”

“No,” you agree, lips tightening. “But the authorities can. Once your article lands, the feds will have no choice but to open an investigation. And when they do…” You let the words trail off, imagining the image: Mercy Graves standing in a pristine corporate lobby, FBI swarming around her, cool gaze finally cracking.

Clark leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “You’ll be there.”

“Of course,” you say evenly. “Wayne money funded those subsidiaries. If the feds are raiding her, I’ll be standing right there when they put the cuffs on.”

He studies you for a long moment, something unspoken passing through his eyes. Finally, his mouth curves into the faintest smile. “Then I’ll be standing there too.” For a while, the room is quiet. You sip cold coffee, he scratches another note into his notebook. The plan is sharp in its simplicity: sever Halvorsen, expose the network, let the government drag Mercy into the light. But beneath it all hums a darker truth—that Luthor himself will still be sitting behind his desk, untouchable, watching.

---

The Wayne Enterprises tower in Metropolis gleams under the midday sun, its glass walls polished, its lobby bustling with employees who glance nervously toward the boardroom on the mezzanine floor. You stand at the window above it all, phone pressed to your ear, watching as Richard Halvorsen—sweating, red-faced—argues with security. His tie is loosened, his hands flailing in protest, but the two guards are unmoved. They flank him like statues as they march him toward the revolving doors. “Tell me I’m not mistaken,” Alfred’s dry voice murmurs in your ear, a grounding constant against the noise of the lobby.

“You’re not,” you reply smoothly, eyes tracking Halvorsen as he stumbles over his own briefcase. “Our esteemed liaison is being escorted out as we speak.”

Below, Halvorsen twists mid-stride, pointing upward as though he knows you’re watching. His voice doesn’t carry through the glass, but the venom in his expression is clear. You don’t flinch. Alfred exhales softly on the other end. “Your father always said—money leaves a trail, but arrogance leaves footprints. I suppose Halvorsen couldn’t resist stomping around in both.”

You smirk faintly, lips curling at the edges. “Arrogance got him caught. Arrogance just cost him his career.”

Outside, Halvorsen is shoved through the glass doors into the street. A few onlookers gather, whispering, but he only straightens his suit jacket and storms off into the crowd like a man unwilling to admit his fall. “Master Bruce is still pacing,” Alfred continues, voice softer now. “He’s half-convinced you’ll be next in the papers if you keep dancing with men like Mannheim.”

“Bruce always thinks I’ll fall,” you murmur, gaze lingering on the revolving doors as they settle back into place. “But I don’t. Not yet.”

“Not ever, if I can help it,” Alfred replies. “Just promise me one thing, Miss. If you insist on shouldering this crusade—don’t carry it alone.”

Your mind flickers—Clark in the cape, the ledger in his hands, his steady voice promising, together. You clear your throat softly. “I’ll try, Alfred,” you say.

“You’ll do more than try,” he corrects, but his tone is gentler. “Now, go on. Let the papers have their story.” The line clicks dead. You tuck the phone into your satchel, exhaling slowly as the last trace of Halvorsen vanishes into the city. The keystone is gone. The bridge is collapsing. And Lex Luthor—wherever he is—knows it. And for the first time, you feel the weight of the storm shifting in your direction.

---

The Daily Planet is quieter in the evening. The newsroom hum is reduced to a handful of clacking keyboards and the occasional ring of a phone. The harsh fluorescent lights seem softer, shadows long across desks littered with papers and empty coffee cups. Clark is still at his, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened at his throat, glasses slipping low on his nose as he types steadily. His expression is focused, brow furrowed in concentration, but there’s something unassuming about it—like he doesn’t realize how he looks framed in the warm lamplight of his desk.

You lean against the edge of the doorway for a moment, watching him, before stepping forward. “You ever stop working, Kent?”

His head jerks up, startled, eyes widening slightly when he sees you. Then his mouth curves into that soft, shy smile that always sneaks past your defenses. “Guess not,” he says lightly. “At least not until Perry kicks me out.”

You drop into the chair across from him, crossing your legs, eyes on him. “Good thing I’m here to do it first.”

He blinks. “You are?”

You smirk. “Tomorrow night, I’m taking you out. A real dinner this time. Not greasy burgers at midnight.”

Color creeps up his neck almost instantly, the pen in his hand stuttering against the notebook. “Oh. Uh—dinner. With you.” He clears his throat. “That… sounds nice.”

“Relax,” you tease, leaning forward. “You don’t have to sound so shocked. I do eat food other than fries, you know.”

His laugh is soft, awkward, but genuine. “No, I—it’s not that. I just… wasn’t expecting…” He trails off, words tangling hopelessly.

You reach across the desk, fingers brushing against his loosened tie. His breath hitches as you straighten it with deliberate precision, tugging the knot snug against his collar. Your voice drops, low and even. “It’ll be somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting a tie on properly.”

He swallows hard, eyes fixed on you like he’s afraid to blink. “Right. A tie. Got it.”

You let the fabric slip from your fingers, satisfied, then lean back in your chair. “I’ll pick you up here after work tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you out of the building.”

His smile turns sheepish, almost boyish. “I wouldn’t dare.”

For a moment, the silence stretches between you, charged but not uncomfortable. The newsroom feels smaller, the world outside distant. Just him, you, and the faint hum of a lamp over his desk. Then you push to your feet, grabbing your satchel. “Don’t stay up too late, Kent. You’ll want to look sharp.”

His gaze follows you to the doorway, lingering, warm. “I’ll try.”

You flash him a faint smile over your shoulder. “Good.” And when you leave the Planet that night, you’re already looking forward to tomorrow.

---

The newsroom is its usual madhouse—phones ringing, Perry White bellowing at some poor intern, Lois tossing papers onto desks with the precision of a grenade. In the middle of it all sits Clark, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen of his monitor as if it might offer him answers. He tugs at his tie, loosens it, retightens it, loosens it again. Then he frowns, adjusts his glasses, and sighs audibly.

Jimmy, sliding into the seat across from him with a camera bag slung over his shoulder, notices immediately. “Okay, what’s up with you, big guy? You look like you’re about to testify in front of Congress.”

Clark shakes his head quickly, lowering his voice. “It’s nothing. Just… dinner.”

Jimmy perks up, grin spreading wide. “Dinner? Like, dinner-dinner? With a girl?”

Clark gives him a look over his glasses. “Yes, Jimmy. With a woman.”

“Whoa.” Jimmy leans back, hands raised. “Didn’t know Boy Scout Kent was capable of asking someone out.”

“I didn’t,” Clark mutters, flustered. “She asked me.”

Jimmy’s grin nearly splits his face. “Even better. Okay, you came to the right guy. Jimmy Olsen knows dates. Trust me.”

Clark looks instantly doubtful. “Do I?”

Jimmy waves him off. “First rule—you gotta show confidence. Women can smell nerves like sharks smell blood.”

Clark frowns. “I’m not… nervous.” Jimmy just stares at him until Clark sighs and admits, “okay. Maybe a little.”

“Right. So,” Jimmy says, ticking points off on his fingers, “lose the glasses.”

Clark stiffens. “What? No, I can’t—”

“Trust me. Women love eye contact. Full, unfiltered, soul-to-soul.” Jimmy leans across the desk and dramatically removes Clark’s glasses, holding them aloft like he’s discovered buried treasure. “Boom. Instant smolder.”

Clark takes his glasses back immediately. “That’s terrible advice, Jimmy.”

“Fine, fine,” Jimmy says, undeterred. “Next rule—don’t talk about work. Journalists are boring. You start rambling about ledgers or corruption scandals, her eyes glaze over. You gotta go personal. Deep personal. Like childhood trauma. Or embarrassing nicknames.”

Clark stares at him, horrified. “That’s… that’s not first-date conversation.”

Jimmy shrugs. “Worked for me last week.”

“You don’t even have a girlfriend.”

Jimmy grins sheepishly. “Not currently, but that’s just because I’m keeping my options open.”

Clark sighs heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Jimmy, I don’t think any of this is helping.”

Jimmy smirks. “Hey, at least wear cologne. Like… a lot of cologne. Enough that she knows you walked in the room before you even sit down.”

Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to get me killed.”

Jimmy leans back, utterly unbothered. “Or you’re going to get kissed. Either way, you’re welcome.”

From her desk, Lois glances over, one eyebrow raised. “For the love of God, Kansas, don’t listen to him.”

Clark exhales, relieved. “Thank you.”

Lois points her pen like a dagger. “Just be yourself. That’s the only advice that isn’t complete garbage.”

Jimmy looks wounded. “My advice is great.”

“Your advice is why you’ve been ghosted three times this month,” Lois snaps. Clark can’t help it—he laughs, the sound easing some of the nerves twisting in his chest. He adjusts his tie one more time, ignoring Jimmy’s theatrical sigh. Tonight, he’ll find out whether “being himself” is enough.

The sun has barely dipped behind the skyline when you pull up outside the Daily Planet in a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte. The car hums low and sharp, polished to a mirror shine, its presence turning heads even before you step out. A far cry from the Aston Martin that burned to ash, but still distinctly Wayne. Inside the lobby, the security guard nearly trips over his words greeting you, but you don’t break stride. Heels click against the marble floor, your dress a clean silhouette of confidence, satchel slung effortlessly over one shoulder.

The newsroom upstairs is still buzzing—phones ringing, Lois arguing with Perry, Jimmy trying—and failing—to juggle two cameras at once. But all the noise dulls when you spot Clark. He’s standing by his desk, tie neat, suit pressed, hair combed carefully into place. He looks almost painfully self-conscious, adjusting his cuffs as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. When he sees you, his breath catches—just slightly—and he pushes his glasses up his nose with a nervous hand. “You clean up well, Kent,” you say, leaning casually against his desk.

He flushes immediately, tugging at his tie. “You… look… uh—” He clears his throat. “Incredible.”

You smirk, stepping closer. “That’s more like it.”

Jimmy pops up from behind his chair, grinning wide. “Hot date, Kent?”

Clark fumbles, “It’s not—well, I mean—it’s just—”

You cut him off smoothly, looping a finger under Clark’s perfectly straightened tie and tugging it just enough to make him stumble closer. “Dinner. Somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting this to good use.”

Clark’s ears burn red. “Right. Dinner.”

Lois glances up from her desk, eyes sharp, amused. “Try not to faint, Kansas.”

Clark shoots her a mortified glance, but you just grin, tugging him toward the elevator. “Ignore her. Come on. We’ve got reservations.”

As the two of you walk through the lobby and out onto the street, Clark slows when he sees the Maserati waiting at the curb. His jaw slackens just slightly. “This is yours?”

You nod. “For now. The Aston’s gone, remember?”

He runs a hand along the glossy paint, looking both impressed and bewildered. “I… usually just take the bus.”

You arch a brow, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I know. But tonight, you’re riding with me. Get in, Kent.” Clark hesitates only a second before obeying, moving awkwardly in the tailored suit, ducking into the car with all the grace of someone who doesn’t think they belong in leather seats that expensive. You watch him settle in, flustered, hands folded neatly in his lap like he’s afraid to touch anything. It makes you smirk, heat curling low in your chest. “Relax,” you murmur, starting the engine. “It’s just dinner.” But both of you know it’s more than that.

The Maserati slips into Metropolis traffic with a low growl, the city lights glittering across the windshield. You ease the car into the avenue’s flow with the kind of confidence that comes from practice, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easily on the gearshift. Beside you, Clark sits rigid in his seat, shoulders squared, hands clasped in his lap. His tie is perfect, his suit immaculate—but the expression on his face is priceless. Wide-eyed, caught somewhere between awe and sheer discomfort. You glance over, smirking. “Relax, Clark. You’ve been in one of my cars before.”

His head tilts, eyes still on the blur of neon streaking past the windows. “That was different.”

“Different how?”

Clark hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “The Aston felt like… well, like it was yours. You were comfortable in it. Like it fit you.” He gestures vaguely at the Maserati’s gleaming console. “This one feels… newer. Like it doesn’t quite belong to you yet.”

You raise a brow, amused. “You’re saying my car has to match my personality?”

He gives you a sheepish half-smile. “Something like that.”

“Interesting,” you muse, downshifting smoothly at a light. “What does that make you, then? Bus passes and worn-out shoes?”

Clark laughs under his breath, warm and quiet. “Something like that, yeah.”

You let the silence linger for a moment, the car humming beneath you, before you say, “for the record, you handled the Aston better than most.”

That makes him glance at you sharply. “I didn’t even drive it.”

“You didn’t need to,” you say with a shrug. “Some people panic just being a passenger. You didn’t. You belonged in it.” His ears flush pink, and he turns to look out the window, clearly unsure what to do with that. The faintest smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. The city rolls past—neon signs, sharp glass towers, the occasional honk of impatient traffic—but the cabin of the car feels like its own pocket of stillness. You catch Clark stealing another glance at you, his eyes lingering a little longer this time before he quickly looks away. “You’re nervous,” you tease softly.

“I’m not nervous,” he insists, though the way he tugs at his cuff immediately betrays him.

Your smirk widens. “Good. Because where we’re going? You’ll want to look like you belong.”

That earns you a puzzled look. “And where’s that?” You don’t answer, just let the car glide into the city’s wealthier district, where the restaurants glitter like jewels above the streets. Clark shifts again in his seat, tugging his tie like it’s suddenly too tight. You smile to yourself, eyes fixed on the road. If he thought the Aston was intimidating, he has no idea what’s waiting for him tonight.

The Maserati purrs to a stop in front of La Terrasse, one of Metropolis’s most exclusive restaurants. Its glass façade gleams in the evening light, chandeliers glittering inside, the sort of place where the air itself seems to whisper wealth and power. Valets in sharp uniforms step forward instantly, one opening your door with a polite bow while another moves to Clark’s side.

You step out with effortless grace, heels striking marble, the kind of entrance you’ve perfected since childhood. Clark, however, unfolds himself from the car with far less elegance, tugging self-consciously at his jacket while trying not to look like a farm boy dropped in the middle of high society. “Good evening, Ms. Wayne,” the maître d’ says at once, recognizing you. “Your table is ready.”

Clark’s head jerks slightly toward you. “They… they just know you?” he whispers, startled.

You smirk faintly, sliding your arm through his. “Perks of the family name.”

Inside, the restaurant glows with golden light. Waiters glide between tables carrying silver-domed trays, champagne flutes sparkle on white linen, and the low murmur of conversation hums like an orchestra. It’s a world Clark clearly doesn’t set foot in often. His shoulders tighten as a server whisks his coat away, leaving him standing in his perfectly pressed suit. You catch the stiffness in his posture, the way his eyes flick across the room like he’s searching for an escape. “Breathe, Clark,” you murmur, steering him toward your table. “You look like you’re about to get grilled by Perry.”

“That’s not far off,” he mutters, tugging at his cufflink.

You lean in slightly as you sit, voice pitched low just for him. “Relax. You belong here. Trust me.”

His eyes meet yours across the table, uncertain but softening. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this.”

“Good,” you reply, taking your menu. “Means I won’t have to worry about your ego.” That earns you a quiet laugh, genuine and warm. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.

When the waiter arrives, you order without hesitation—something rich, something indulgent, paired with wine that makes the waiter’s eyes widen in appreciation. Clark stammers slightly over his choice, nearly ordering meatloaf before you nudge him toward the steak. “You’re trying to bankrupt me,” he jokes weakly once the waiter leaves.

“Please,” you scoff. “This is pocket change.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “You and I live on different planets.”

“Maybe,” you say, sipping your water. “But tonight we’re at the same table.” The words hang between you, heavier than they should. Clark looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze shifting—like he’s seeing past the name, past the armor, down to the person sitting across from him. And for the first time, you let him. The first course arrives—perfectly plated, an art piece more than a meal. The waiter sets it down with quiet precision, and you thank him smoothly before turning your attention back to Clark. He sits straight in his chair, fork in hand, staring at his plate like he’s not entirely sure he belongs in front of it. “Relax,” you murmur with a smirk, lifting your glass. “It’s just food. You won’t break it.”

His cheeks flush pink as he cuts into the dish with careful precision. “I’m used to diners and home cooking. This is… something else.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He looks up at you, his expression softening. “It’s not. Just different. I grew up on meatloaf and mashed potatoes. My ma used to can vegetables every summer—shelves of them, stacked floor to ceiling in the cellar. My pa would roast corn in the back field and swear it tasted better than anything from the store.” There’s a warmth in his voice when he talks about it, like each memory is a thread pulling him back to Kansas, to a place that shaped him.

You sip your wine, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Sounds… comforting.”

He smiles faintly, shy. “It was. Not glamorous, but real.”

You set your glass down. “Not everything has to be glamorous.” His gaze lingers on you a beat longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of it before he looks away, adjusting his glasses like he’s embarrassed for being caught.

By the time the main course arrives, the air between you feels easier, less like a tightrope and more like a current pulling you both forward. Clark asks about Gotham—about the differences between the two cities—and you answer honestly, though you skip the darker details. You counter by asking about the Planet, about what drew him into journalism in the first place.

“I wanted to give people a voice,” he admits, twirling his fork absentmindedly. “When I was a kid, I couldn’t always stop bad things from happening. But if you tell the truth—if you shine a light on it—sometimes that’s enough to change things.” There’s no bravado in his tone, just quiet conviction. It hits you harder than you expect, how much of himself he’s willing to lay bare without realizing it.

You lean in slightly, chin resting on your hand. “That’s very noble of you. But also dangerous.”

He shrugs, smiling faintly. “I don’t mind dangerous.”

That makes you laugh softly, the sound surprising even yourself. “Careful. I might hold you to that.” His smile widens just a fraction, boyish and earnest. Dessert comes and goes—something decadent you ordered without asking him, and something he sheepishly admits is the best thing he’s ever tasted. When the plates are finally cleared and the check discreetly handled before Clark can even think to protest, you rise from your chair, smoothing your dress. “Come on, Clark. I’ll drive you home before you combust from too much sugar.”

He stands quickly, ever the gentleman, pulling your chair in before following you out. And as you walk through the golden glow of the restaurant’s chandeliers toward the waiting Maserati outside, you realize that for all the chaos surrounding Mannheim and Luthor, tonight has been something rare. Normal. Almost like the world could pause, just for the two of you.

The Maserati rolls to a stop in front of Clark’s apartment building, the engine purring low before you cut it off. The city is alive around you—neon signs blinking, sirens in the distance, the low thrum of Metropolis never really sleeping. Clark shifts in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly, nervous energy clinging to him even now. Before you can reach for the handle, he’s already out of the car, circling quickly to your side. He pulls your door open with a tentative smile, offering his hand. “Gentlemanly,” you tease, sliding out.

“Just manners,” he says softly, ears a little pink. You’re about to reply when the sound of shouting cuts down the block. A car alarm blares, followed by the unmistakable crash of glass. You both turn—three men sprinting out of a corner store, bags slung over their shoulders, weapons flashing in the streetlights. Clark exhales quietly, shoulders straightening. He shrugs off his suit jacket, stepping close enough to drape it around your shoulders. His voice is gentle, firm. “Wait here.”

Before you can answer, he’s gone—a blur that the human eye shouldn’t be able to track. The jacket still carries his warmth, heavy and grounding against you as you lean against the car and watch. It doesn’t take long. A gust of air, a flicker of blue and red across the street, and in moments the men are disarmed and pinned against a squad car that wasn’t even there a heartbeat ago. By the time the bewildered police arrive, Superman is already striding back toward you, cape catching in the breeze. He lands lightly on the pavement, face unreadable for a moment as he stops a few steps away.

You tilt your head, smirking faintly despite your racing pulse. “Put the glasses back on.”

He blinks, thrown. “What?”

“The glasses,” you repeat, tugging the jacket closer around you. “Put them back on.”

Confusion flickers in his eyes, but he reaches into his pocket and slides them into place. “Why?”

You step forward, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, your voice low. “Because I want to kiss Clark Kent. Not Superman.”

His hands hover at his sides, trembling slightly like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. You don’t give him the chance to decide—you lean in first, closing the gap, lips brushing his in a kiss that’s softer and deeper than you imagined. He stills for only a heartbeat before his hands finally move—hovering near your waist, then slowly rising to cup your face with reverence, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though you’re something fragile, priceless. His kiss deepens cautiously, warm and steady, grounding you even as the world tilts.

When you part, the city noise floods back in. His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath shaky behind the glasses you insisted he wear. “Golly,” he whispers.

You laugh against his mouth, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Clark.”

“Guess I am,” he murmurs, but his smile is brighter than the neon glow above you both. Finally, you step back just enough to breathe. His hands hover awkwardly at your sides, like he doesn’t want to let go but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

You smooth the lapel of his suit jacket where it rests on your shoulders and murmur, “according to my sources, Mercy Graves is going to be arrested tomorrow. Early morning raid.”

Clark blinks, surprise flickering behind his lenses. “That soon?”

“Mm.” You tilt your head, watching him. “You’ll want to be there. After all, it’s your article that kicked the door open.”

Something flickers across his face then—something between humility and pride. “I just… wrote the truth.”

You smile faintly. “Sometimes that’s enough to start a war.”

For a moment, the weight of what’s coming presses between you—the inevitable clash with Luthor, the storm that Mercy’s arrest will unleash. But instead of flinching, Clark steadies, eyes softening as they meet yours. “I’ll be there,” he says simply.

You believe him without question. You step closer again, your hand brushing against his tie. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to stand next to the feds alone. Terrible photo opportunity.” That earns you a laugh—quiet, genuine, the kind that tugs at something warm in your chest.

Before he can say more, you lean in again, kissing him once more—not hurried, not desperate, but deliberate. His breath catches against yours, and though his hands hover uncertainly at first, they eventually find your waist, light and careful, like he’s still afraid of holding too tightly. When you part, his forehead rests against yours, glasses cool against your skin. “Goodnight,” he whispers.

“Goodnight,” you murmur, tugging his tie lightly before slipping back toward the driver’s side of the Maserati. You watch him linger at the curb as you pull away, suit jacket still around your shoulders, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror but never once stepping back inside until your taillights disappear into the Metropolis night.

---

Morning in Metropolis comes too fast. The Maserati idles at the curb near LexCorp’s Energy Division headquarters, its polished façade now swarming with federal vehicles. Black SUVs block the entrances, agents in jackets spill into the glass lobby, and the usual parade of perfectly coiffed executives scatter like startled pigeons.

You step out, heels striking against the pavement, Clark’s suit jacket draped over your shoulders. The tailored lines don’t quite match your dress, but they add a kind of edge, a piece of him carried with you into the storm. Cameras flash immediately, reporters jostling for position, their voices rising above the chaos.

Clark is already there, notebook in hand, glasses catching the morning light. He looks different than he did last night—more composed, every inch the journalist, pen moving quickly as he notes every detail. Yet his eyes soften when they find you, his smile brief but steady.

“Wayne,” one of the agents calls as you approach. “Appreciate your cooperation. Your testimony’s on file, and the board’s documents helped fast-track this warrant.”

You nod coolly. “Halvorsen handed us the thread. All we had to do was pull.”

Inside, the lobby is a battlefield of a different kind—sleek glass and chrome disrupted by agents rifling through files, seizing hard drives, barking orders. And in the middle of it all, standing like a blade unsheathed, is Mercy Graves. Her suit is flawless, hair sharp, expression unreadable as two agents flank her. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t even blink, as they produce cuffs. Her gaze flicks upward, scanning the crowd until it lands on you. And for a brief, breathless moment, you feel the weight of her stare—calm, calculating, promising this isn’t over.

Clark steps closer, voice low at your side. “She’s not afraid.”

“She doesn’t have to be,” you murmur. “She thinks Luthor will dig her out.” Mercy tilts her chin, lips curving into the faintest smirk, even as the cuffs click into place. Then the agents lead her away, cameras flashing in a frenzy, the hum of shouted questions filling the air.

You stand shoulder to shoulder with Clark as it unfolds, his pen moving quickly, his presence solid beside you. When the lobby finally clears, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the faint scent of ozone from the electronics being carted off, you glance at him. “You did this,” you say quietly.

He blinks, startled. “We did.”

You shake your head. “It was your article that turned whispers into evidence. Your words lit the match.”

Clark looks down at his notebook, flustered. “I just told the truth.”

“And that,” you reply, tugging his jacket tighter around your shoulders, “is more dangerous than any weapon Mannheim could get his hands on.” The silence that follows hums with something unspoken. He shifts slightly closer, the warmth of him brushing against you even in the chaos. And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in, pressing a brief, certain kiss against his lips. Cameras flash in the distance, but you don’t care. When you pull back, his eyes are wide behind the glasses, his hand hovering uncertainly before rising to cup your cheek. You smirk. “Told you I wanted Clark Kent. Not Superman.”

His smile is small but steady, his voice almost a whisper. “Then that’s who you’ll always have.”

---

Late morning sunlight filters through the tall windows of your hotel suite, casting gold over the marble floor and the faint mess of files spread across the desk. You’ve kicked off your heels, Clark’s suit jacket still draped over your shoulders as you sit with your laptop open, replaying Mercy’s arrest through endless angles from the morning news cycle. Your phone buzzes sharply across the table. Alfred. You answer, leaning back in your chair. “Alfred. You’re calling early.”

His voice comes steady, polite as ever, though you know the weight behind it. “I thought perhaps I’d catch you before you entangled yourself in another… eventful morning.” A pause, then, “imagine my surprise when the news was filled with Miss Graves being escorted in handcuffs, with you standing beside Mr. Kent like a pair of proud prosecutors.”

You exhale, rubbing your temple. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. Better we controlled the narrative.”

“You do realize your brother is pacing the manor like an agitated tiger?” Alfred says, calm but clipped. “I’m told he’s read Mr. Kent’s article three times, and each time muttered your name as though invoking it might summon you for an explanation.”

You smirk faintly. “Then it worked. The article landed exactly where it needed to.”

“Indeed,” Alfred murmurs. “Though Master Bruce has expressed… curiosity.” His tone sharpens just slightly. “About Mr. Kent.”

Your lips curve. “Of course he has.”

“You mentioned him before, in passing. A reporter. A colleague. Your… ally.” Alfred’s hesitation is almost imperceptible, but you catch it. “And now his name is attached to federal raids and headlines of corporate scandal. You must realize what conclusion Bruce will draw.”

You lean forward, voice low. “That I finally found someone who’s not afraid to put his neck on the line.”

Alfred is silent for a beat, then sighs. “I suspect Bruce will want to verify that for himself.”

“Let him,” you say, smirking. “Clark can handle it.”

“Mm. That may be so. But allow me to offer you one small warning.” Alfred’s voice softens again, threaded with something fatherly. “Secrets have a way of bleeding into the open. Be certain you’re prepared when they do.”

You glance toward the jacket draped over your shoulders—Clark’s jacket, still faintly smelling of him, steady and warm.

Your lips curve faintly. “I’ll be ready.”

“Of that,” Alfred says, and you can hear his smile, “I have no doubt.”

The call ends, leaving you alone with the morning sun and the faint echo of Alfred’s warning. And you realize—when Bruce finally comes storming into Metropolis, Clark Kent will be at the center of it.

tags: @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @tumamahuevos @burkayyy @beediona @helloimamistake @evermoresivy @singlethreadofivy @tezooks @steviebbboi @harleycao @wkhannah

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

Everything about this was perfect. No notes. 100% perfection 🤌

[lovelornparagraphs]

scrumptious (clark kent x fem!reader)

synopsis: he just can't stop kissing you.

warnings: established relationship, kissing (frequent), physical affection, light banter, not proofread!!

wc: 1.8k

The porch swing creaks softly beneath the two of you, the evening settling over the Kent farm in shades of gold and lavender. Crickets have started their chorus, and somewhere out in the pasture, the cows are making lazy noises as they settle in for the night.

Clark sits beside you with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, a glass of lemonade forgotten on the railing.

"You know," you murmur, nudging his knee with yours, "your mom definitely noticed you staring at me through dinner."

A faint pink warms his cheeks.

"I wasn't staring."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I was..." He smiles sheepishly. "Looking."

"There's a difference?"

"Golly, I hope so."

Before you can tease him again, he leans over and presses the gentlest kiss to your lips.

He pulls back barely an inch.

"...Hi."

You laugh. "Hi."

Then he kisses you again.

When he finally lets you breathe, you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Clark."

"Hm?"

"You just kissed me."

"I know."

"So why'd you do it again?"

He considers the question with complete sincerity.

"...I wanted to."

You burst into laughter, hiding your face against his shoulder.

"You're cute."

"I've been told."

He says it so earnestly that it only makes you laugh harder.

His arm slips around your waist, pulling you comfortably against him. The smell of fresh hay, clean laundry, and sunshine clings to his flannel.

You could stay here forever.

The breeze stirs your hair across your face.

Without thinking, Clark brushes the strands behind your ear.

His fingertips linger.

His expression softens into something unbearably fond.

"There it is again," you whisper.

"What?"

"That look."

"What look?"

"The one that says you're about to kiss me."

"...Maybe."

"You just did." A soft whisper.

"I remember."

"So don't."

"I'll try."

He lasts all of four seconds.

His forehead bumps yours first, almost as if he's negotiating with himself.

Then his nose brushes yours.

Then—

Another kiss.

You sigh dramatically against his lips.

"Oh my—Clark"

"What?"

"You have a problem."

He smiles into the kiss before pulling back.

"I might."

"You've kissed me, like..."

Clark groans playfully. "I wasn't counting."

"I was."

"And?"

"...Six."

"Hm."

He steals another quick peck.

"Seven."

"You did that on purpose!" You lightly swat his chest.

He grins—the wide, boyish grin that makes him look years younger—and catches your hand before you can pull it away.

His thumb traces slow circles over your knuckles.

"I miss you," he says quietly.

You blink.

"I've been here since yesterday."

"I know."

"You've barely left my side."

"I know."

"So how can you miss me?"

His smile turns shy.

"I don't know."

The honesty of it squeezes at your heart.

"I just... every time I look at you..." He exhales through a small laugh. "I feel like kissing you."

"You have been kissing me. And apparently that's still not enough."

"It isn't."

There's no swagger in the confession.

You shake your head with an affectionate smile.

"You really are the sweetest man alive."

His ears turn pink again.

"You think so?"

"I know so."

This time, you're the one who closes the distance.

Your kiss is slow enough that the world seems to stop around you.

When it ends, Clark rests his forehead against yours, eyes still closed.

"I love weekends here," he murmurs.

"The farm?"

"The quiet."

He brushes another kiss against your temple.

"You."

Another at the corner of your mouth.

"The way nobody expects anything."

One on your cheek.

"The way you smile when my mom makes pie."

Aother.

"The way you fall asleep during movies."

Another.

"The way you steal my hoodies."

You laugh helplessly.

"I don't steal them."

"You permanently borrow them."

"I return them eventually."

"...Months later."

You shrug.

"They smell like you."

Clark's expression melts.

"...You can't say things like that."

"Why?"

His smile grows helpless.

"Because then I..."

"You what?"

"...Want to kiss you."

"You were already doing that."

"I know."

"And you're smiling like you're about to do it again."

"I am?"

You groan dramatically, though you're already smiling. "There is no hope for you."

"I don't think there is."

He cups your face with both hands, as though you're something impossibly precious.

"I've spent so much of my life trying to hold back," he says softly. "Trying to be careful. Trying not to... overwhelm people."

His thumbs brush your cheeks.

"But with you..."

You search his eyes.

"...I don't feel like I have to pretend I don't love you as much as I do."

Your chest aches in the best way.

"You don't have to."

"No?"

"No."

"So..."

He smiles, hopeful.

"I can kiss you again?"

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"You absolutely can."

His answering grin is brighter than the porch light behind him.

"Good."

He kisses you once...

Then twice...

Then a third time because you keep laughing between them, and he quietly decides that's his favorite sound in the world.

You slip out of Clark's embrace, cheeks sore from smiling.

"You know what?" you announce.

"What?"

"You've exceeded your kiss quota."

Clark blinks.

"...I had a quota?"

"You do now."

"And what is it?"

"Zero."

His eyebrows lift in exaggerated surprise.

"...Zero?"

"That's right."

He stands from the porch swing, towering over you with a look of amused disbelief.

"I don't remember agreeing to these terms."

"You don't have to."

"I don't?"

"Nope."

You take one careful step backward.

He takes one forward.

"You look like you're planning something," he observes.

"So do you."

"I'm just standing here."

"Suspiciously."

A grin spreads across his face—the kind that always gives him away.

"So," you say slowly, "you're not going to try and kiss me?"

"I can behave."

"Mhm." Disbelief in your tone...

"I can."

"You've been saying that all evening."

"I mean it this time."

You narrow your eyes.

"...You're lying."

"I've never lied less in my life."

The smile tugging at the corners of his mouth tells you everything you need to know.

"Oh, absolutely not."

You whirl around and dart toward the farmhouse.

Behind you comes Clark's startled laugh.

"Hey!"

The screen door bangs cheerfully as you hurry inside.

"Martha!" you call with a laugh. "Your son is—"

"—being unfairly accused?" Clark finishes from somewhere behind you.

You glance over your shoulder just long enough to see him stepping through the doorway, trying—and failing—to look innocent.

Jonathan chuckles from the living room, newspaper folded in his lap.

"I don't know," he says. "Looks like she's got a head start."

"You hear that?" you tease, backing toward the hallway. "Your dad's on my side."

Clark shakes his head, smiling.

You point triumphantly at Clark.

"No kissing."

He sighs dramatically.

"I haven't kissed you in at least..." He checks an imaginary watch. "...Thirty seconds."

"Exactly."

"I've shown remarkable restraint."

"You've shown the opposite of restraint."

With a laugh, you turn and make a break for the hallway.

"Hey!"

Your footsteps echo across the hardwood floor as you race toward the staircase, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.

You make it exactly three steps up before strong arms wrap gently—but securely—around your waist.

A delighted squeak escapes you.

"Clark!"

"I caught you."

"I noticed!"

"You run slower than you think."

"I was being polite!"

"So was I."

Before you can protest again, the floor disappears beneath you.

With effortless ease, Clark lifts you up and settles you over his shoulder.

"Clark Kent!"

"I know."

"You cannot just—"

"I just did."

You dissolve into helpless laughter, lightly thumping the middle of his back with your fist.

"Put me down."

"Hm."

"Please, Clark." You laugh breathlessly.

"I know, baby, I know."

He starts up the stairs at an easy pace, one arm securely around the backs of your legs while the other steadies you.

"You don't play fair."

"Don't play with a super-human."

"I can't believe you're doing this."

"I can."

"You've become far too confident."

"I wonder whose fault that is."

"Definitely not mine."

"No?"

"No." You deny playfully. All while knowing the truth. Clark was right.

He reaches the top landing, still carrying you as though you weigh nothing at all.

"You know," you say, trying to sound stern despite laughing, "your parents are downstairs."

"I know."

"They can hear us."

"They're probably pretending they can't."

You hide your face against the back of his shoulder, groaning with embarrassed laughter.

"I'm never surviving this."

"I think you will."

He nudges open the bedroom door with his foot.

The familiar room is quiet, moonlight spilling through the windows onto the neatly made bed.

Only then does he carefully lower you back onto your feet.

His hands linger at your waist just long enough to make sure you're steady.

"There," he says, looking entirely pleased with himself.

"I escaped for almost..." You pretend to calculate. "...Twenty seconds."

"A personal best."

You poke him lightly in the chest.

"You carried me all the way up here just because I ran away."

"You ran away because you knew I'd follow."

"...Maybe."

His smile softens into something wonderfully fond.

"I like chasing you."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"Why?"

"Because," he says, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, "I know exactly what happens when I catch you."

"Oh?"

His forehead comes to rest against yours.

"I get to be close to you again."

The playful grin you were wearing fades into something softer.

"You really are hopeless."

"I've accepted that."

You loop your arms around his neck.

"I'm not complaining."

"I was hoping you weren't."

You smile up at him.

"So... does this mean the chase is over?"

Clark's eyes sparkle.

"For now."

He leans in and leaves one feather-light kiss on your forehead, another on the tip of your nose, and finally one on your lips—slow, sweet, and unhurried.

When he pulls back, you're both smiling.

"I guess," you murmur, "I can make an exception to the no-kissing rule."

"I was hoping you'd reconsider."

"You looked very persuasive."

"I had a good incentive."

"And what was that?"

"You."

[satellite-evans]

like father, like son

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Clark's world is turned upside down when his father passes away unexpectedly. As he navigates the overwhelming grief of losing him, you remain by his side.

Word count: 6.7k+

Warnings: grief, hurt/comfort, funeral, hopeful ending

Request: Your’e so incredible at writing angst and I was wondering if you’d ever write about Clark’s father dying and reader navigating how shes gonna be Clark’s support system throughout his grieving process. In all the comics he dies and I’ve never seen it written in x reader fan fiction and I’d loveee to see your interpretation of how Clark and reader deal with such a tremendous loss

A/N:

Hey nonnie, thank you so much for your request!!! Hope you’ll like it!!!♥️

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.

Clark was late.

Under any other circumstance, that sentence wouldn't have meant much. Life in Metropolis rarely moved according to schedule, especially when the man you loved happened to spend half his days stopping disasters before anyone else even knew they existed. You had long since learned that dinner could go cold because an apartment building caught fire or because someone decided to rob a bank at exactly the wrong moment. Sometimes he'd call from halfway across the city, apologizing between hurried breaths, promising he'd be home as soon as he could. Other times your phone would buzz with a simple text.

Running five behind. Love you.

There was always something.

Tonight there was nothing.

The pasta had long since stopped steaming. The television droned quietly in the background, though you couldn't have said what was playing. Every few minutes your eyes drifted back toward the digital clock on the oven before reaching automatically for your phone. No missed calls. No messages. You typed out three different texts asking where he was before deleting each one. Clark hated making people worry. If he hadn't reached out, there had to be a reason.

The sound of a key finally scraping against the apartment door pulled you to your feet before you even realized you'd moved.

Relief came first.

Then it disappeared just as quickly.

"Hey," you started, a smile already forming.

It faded the moment Clark stepped inside.

He was still dressed for work. Blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie hanging loose around his neck, messenger bag slipping carelessly from one shoulder. His hair looked windswept, though not in the usual way it did after flying. It looked as though he'd been running his hands through it for hours.

But none of that was what stopped you.

It was his face.

Every bit of warmth had drained from it. His skin looked almost gray beneath the apartment lights, his jaw tense enough to ache, his eyes unfocused as they wandered across the room without really seeing any of it. He looked like someone who had walked home in a dream and wasn't entirely certain where he'd ended up.

"Clark?"

He looked at you then.

Slowly.

As though he'd forgotten you were supposed to be here.

His expression didn't change. No tired smile. No quiet "Hi, honey." No teasing apology about being late.

He simply stared.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

He closed the apartment door with unusual care, one hand lingering on the handle long after it clicked shut. His fingers loosened around his keys. They slipped from his hand, clattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp metallic echo that filled the silence between you.

Clark didn't even look down.

You crossed the room in seconds.

"Hey." Your voice softened instinctively. "Talk to me."

He blinked as if your words had reached him from somewhere far away. Only then did you notice how bloodshot his eyes were. They weren't red from exhaustion or lack of sleep. They weren't irritated from smoke or dust after some rescue.

He had been crying.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.

"Baby, what happened?"

For several long seconds he said nothing.

His mouth opened.

Closed again.

His throat worked around words that refused to come, and you watched his chest rise in one uneven breath after another. Clark Kent, who always seemed to know exactly what to say, suddenly looked like language itself had abandoned him.

Then, barely above a whisper, he managed one word.

"...Pa."

Your mind refused to process it.

"What?"

He swallowed so hard you saw it.

"My dad."

His voice cracked around the second word, splintering into something so raw it hardly sounded like him anymore.

"He..."

Another breath.

Another failed attempt.

"He died."

The apartment became impossibly quiet.

Jonathan Kent?

No.

That couldn't be right.

Not Jonathan.

The man who greeted everyone with a smile that reached his eyes. The man who insisted on sending you home with leftovers every time you visited the farm. The man who hugged you like family before you and Clark had even said the word love to each other.

He couldn't be...

Clark gave a tiny shake of his head before you'd spoken a single word, almost as though he knew exactly where your thoughts had gone.

"It was his heart."

His voice sounded hollow.

"They said it happened fast."

He stopped.

His lips trembled.

"They..."

The sentence never finished.

His hand came up to cover his eyes as if hiding from the words would somehow make them less real. His shoulders, broad enough to carry collapsing buildings and crashing airplanes, suddenly folded inward.

It happened so quickly you barely caught him.

One second he was standing.

The next his knees gave way.

You wrapped both arms around him before he reached the floor, feeling the full weight of him sink against you. Clark clung to you with both hands, his forehead pressing into your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, as though you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly come apart.

"I'm sorry."

The words were barely audible, carried into the fabric of your sweater more than spoken aloud. His forehead remained pressed against your shoulder, his hands clutching the back of your shirt with surprising desperation. You had never felt Clark hold onto anything like this. Usually, whenever life knocked him down, he was careful not to let too much of his weight settle on anyone else. Even exhausted, even bruised, there was always something restrained about the way he leaned on people.

Not now.

Now he seemed to be holding onto you because he wasn't entirely convinced he could stay standing without you.

You slid one hand slowly into his hair, your fingers combing through the dark curls at the nape of his neck. "Clark?"

"I'm sorry."

Your brow furrowed.

The apology sounded genuine. Not polite. Not automatic. It was the kind of apology that came from somewhere deep enough to make your own chest ache.

"What are you apologizing for?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his grip tightened almost painfully around your sweater. You felt him inhale, but the breath caught halfway into his lungs, breaking apart before it ever became steady.

"I should've known."

His voice was hoarse, scraped raw.

"I should've..." He swallowed hard. "I don't know."

The confession seemed to frustrate him as much as the grief itself. He let out a humorless laugh that lasted less than a second before it dissolved into another shaky breath.

"I just..." His fingers flexed against your back. "Something should've felt different."

You stayed quiet.

You'd learned a long time ago that Clark didn't need someone to finish his sentences. He needed someone willing to wait for them.

"I always know they're there."

His words came slowly now, as though he was trying to explain something he'd never had to put into language before.

"Even when I'm here."

He lifted his head just enough to look somewhere over your shoulder instead of at you.

"If I wanted to..." His voice cracked. "I could focus and hear Ma humming while she's making coffee. I know the sound of the porch swing when Pa sits outside after dinner. I know which floorboard creaks in the hallway because he never remembers to step over it."

His lips trembled.

"I never listened because I was checking on them." A sad smile flickered across his face before disappearing again. "I listened because..." He stopped, struggling to find words large enough for the feeling. "Because they were there."

Silence settled between you.

"I always knew they were there."

The last sentence came out almost childlike.

Small. Lost.

His eyes finally found yours, red-rimmed and impossibly tired, and something inside them seemed to give way. "And now..." His breathing faltered. "I keep reaching for him." Almost unconsciously, his hand lifted toward his own chest, as though some instinct still expected to find his father there, before falling uselessly back into his lap. "I keep... trying to listen."

He stopped, swallowing around words that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry.

"And there's nothing."

The word barely rose above a whisper, but it seemed to hollow him out from the inside. You watched the realization settle across his face all over again, not simply that Jonathan was dead, but that the silence wasn't temporary. It wasn't the kind that ended when someone came back from the store or walked in through the front door after finishing chores. There would never again be a heartbeat to find if he reached for it. Never another laugh drifting across the Kansas fields while Clark worked beside him. Never the absent-minded whistle Jonathan always seemed to do while repairing the tractor, or the familiar creak of the porch steps beneath his boots at the end of the day.

That was the grief written across Clark's face.

Not one terrible moment.

A lifetime of ordinary moments that had ended all at once.

"I know that sounds ridiculous," he whispered.

"It doesn't."

"I flew there."

His eyes drifted toward the apartment window as if he could still see the farm from here.

"They'd already..." His jaw tightened so hard you thought it might hurt. "The paramedics were packing up."

His voice grew quieter.

"The house was so loud."

You frowned slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"People."

His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the apartment walls, seeing a place hundreds of miles away instead.

"The sheriff," he said quietly. "The neighbors. Someone crying outside. The radio in the ambulance." His throat worked painfully. "So many heartbeats."

He swallowed, and for a moment you thought he was finished.

"But not his."

The words settled heavily between you, too final to push away. He closed his eyes as another tear escaped down his cheek. "I've never..." His voice faltered. "I've never heard the farm without him in it."

Your own vision blurred. Slowly, you reached up and cupped his face, brushing away the tears with your thumbs. His skin felt cold despite the warmth of the apartment, his breathing uneven beneath your hands. When he finally looked at you, there was nothing left of the man who stood in front of cameras or walked into danger without hesitation. There was no certainty in his expression, no quiet confidence that everything would somehow work itself out. There was only a son who had just discovered the world could become unrecognizable in a single afternoon.

"I keep thinking..." His voice was so quiet you had to lean closer to hear it. "If I'd left work earlier... if I'd called him this morning instead of thinking I'd do it tonight... if I'd gone home this weekend instead of next..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I know it wouldn't change anything." His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the admission. "I know that." Another tear slipped free. "But my mind won't stop making bargains anyway."

Your heart ached because you understood exactly what he meant. Grief was cruel like that. It didn't care about reason or facts. It took every memory, every decision, every ordinary moment and turned it over in desperate search of one tiny change that might somehow rewrite the ending. It convinced you that if you looked hard enough, there had to be a version of the day where the phone never rang.

You rested your forehead gently against his, your hands never leaving his face. "You know what I think?"

He barely moved, only the smallest shake of his head.

"I think the little boy who used to race through cornfields looking for his dad still believes he can find him if he searches hard enough."

Clark's breath caught sharply.

"You're not trying to solve this because you're Superman," you whispered, your thumb slowly tracing beneath his eye. "You're doing it because you're his son. Sons aren't supposed to know how to lose their fathers. They look for reasons because the alternative is accepting that there wasn't anything they could have done."

The words seemed to stop something inside him. His face crumpled all over again, but this time it wasn't panic. It was recognition. As though you'd finally named the ache he'd been carrying since the phone rang.

"I just..." His voice broke into something heartbreakingly small. "I wasn't ready."

It was the truest thing he'd said all evening.

Not ready for the call from Martha. Not ready to walk into a house that had always felt impossibly alive and realize something essential had been taken from it. Not ready to discover that, for all his strength, all his speed, all the impossible things he could do, there were still moments that reduced him to exactly what Jonathan had always insisted he was before anything else.

Just his boy.

You pulled him back into your arms before he had the chance to retreat into himself again, and this time he came without hesitation. He folded against you completely, burying his face in the curve of your neck, his hands clutching the back of your sweater with the quiet desperation of someone trying to anchor himself to the only thing that still felt steady. His shoulders shook as another sob finally escaped him, softer now, exhausted rather than frantic, the kind that came after fighting against grief for far too long.

You didn't tell him it would get easier. You didn't promise that time healed everything or that Jonathan would always be with him. Those were truths for another day, when the wound wasn't still fresh enough to bleed with every breath.

Tonight, your only job was to carry what little weight you could.

So you held him.

The drive to Smallville passed in almost complete silence.

Clark had insisted on driving.

You hadn't questioned it, even though the trip that normally took hours could have lasted less than a minute if he'd wanted it to. Flying would have been easy. Effortless.

This wasn't about getting there.

It was about postponing the moment he had to arrive.

His hands never left the steering wheel. They stayed locked in the same position for mile after mile, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the leather that the skin across his knuckles had gone pale. Every so often you watched his grip loosen for the briefest second before tightening all over again, as though his body remembered how to relax only to immediately decide it couldn't afford to.

Neither of you reached for the radio.

The only sounds inside the truck were the steady hum of the tires against the road and the occasional click of the turn signal whenever the highway gave way to familiar country roads.

Outside, Kansas stretched endlessly beneath a fading evening sky.

Fields of corn swayed in the breeze exactly as they always had. Weathered fences divided acres of farmland. Windmills turned lazily in the distance. A farmer climbed onto his tractor as though this were any other day.

Everything was exactly the same.

That was the cruelest part.

The world hadn't changed to acknowledge that Jonathan Kent was gone.

The fields he'd worked were still standing.

The roads he had driven every morning were still there.

Life had simply... continued.

Clark's eyes never left the road, but you watched his jaw tighten as familiar landmarks appeared one after another. The old grain elevator. The church where the annual harvest festival was held every autumn. The diner where Jonathan insisted they made the best pie in Kansas despite Clark teasing him every single time.

You wondered if he was seeing what was in front of him.

Or remembering everything that had happened there instead.

When the farmhouse finally appeared over the hill, your chest tightened.

It looked exactly as it always had.

White paint.

Red barn.

The porch swing Jonathan had repaired himself after one particularly bad storm.

A light glowed warmly from the kitchen window, spilling across the front porch.

For one impossible second your mind expected the front door to open and Jonathan to step outside, wiping his hands on an old dish towel with that familiar smile already spreading across his face.

"There they are!"

You could almost hear him.

Instead, the front door opened slowly.

Martha stepped outside.

She had always seemed so steady.

The kind of woman who somehow made every room feel safe simply by standing inside it.

Tonight she looked smaller.

Not physically.

Grief had a way of folding people inward, softening the edges of them beneath a weight no one else could see.

She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself against an evening that wasn't particularly cold, her eyes searching the truck before it had even come to a complete stop.

Clark shut off the engine.

Neither of you moved.

His hands remained on the steering wheel long after the truck had fallen silent.

He stared at the farmhouse.

At the porch.

At the empty rocking chair beside the front door.

You reached across the center console and rested your hand gently over his.

Only then did he blink.

As though remembering where he was.

He climbed out of the truck.

For a single heartbeat, he and Martha simply looked at one another across the yard.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them smiled.

They didn't have to.

Whatever strength Clark had managed to hold together during the drive disappeared the instant he saw her standing there alone.

"My boy."

Her voice was soft.

Tired.

Full of a love that had survived one impossible day already.

Clark crossed the yard in two long strides.

He reached her almost before you'd registered he'd started moving, and the second Martha opened her arms, he folded into them without hesitation. He bent instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder like he had done a hundred times as a child, and for the first time since the phone call, he let himself be somebody's son instead of someone everyone else depended on.

"Ma..."

The word broke apart before he could finish it.

"I'm sorry."

Martha's own eyes filled immediately, but she only held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head exactly the way she must have when scraped knees and childhood nightmares had still been the worst things she'd ever had to comfort him through.

"Oh, Clark."

His shoulders shook beneath her hands.

"I'm so sorry."

"No."

"I should've been here."

"No."

"I should've come home sooner."

She pulled back just enough to cup his face between both hands, making him look at her despite the tears running unchecked down both their faces.

"This is not yours to carry."

"It should've been."

"It isn't."

Her expression softened in a way that somehow made your own throat tighten.

"If I'd known..." he whispered.

"I know."

"No, Ma, if I'd just..." His voice cracked. "If I'd come last weekend instead. If I hadn't kept saying next week..."

She shook her head before he could finish.

"Clark."

The way she said his name was gentle, but it carried the same certainty that had guided him since he was a little boy.

"Listen to me."

He did.

"Your Pa spent every single day of his life making sure you understood one thing."

She brushed away a tear with the pad of her thumb.

"He loved you because you were his son."

Not because he could fly.

Not because he could lift tractors or outrun storms or hear heartbeats from miles away.

Just because he was Clark.

"He never looked at you and saw someone responsible for fixing everything."

Her own voice wavered now.

"He saw the little boy who tracked mud through my kitchen, who stayed up too late reading with a flashlight under the covers, who still called every Sunday just to ask if we needed anything from Metropolis."

A watery smile touched her lips for only a moment.

"He never expected miracles from you."

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

"He just..." Martha's voice finally broke. "He just wanted his son to come through that front door."

She rested her forehead against his.

"And you did."

For a long moment neither of them spoke.

Mother and son simply stood in the middle of the yard, holding onto each other. both grieving the same man in different ways, each trying to be strong enough for the other while quietly falling apart themselves.

You stayed where you were beside the truck.

It didn't feel like your place to step into that moment.

Jonathan had welcomed you into this family without hesitation, had always greeted you with a hug before you'd even crossed the threshold, had somehow managed to make the farmhouse feel like home every time you visited. Even so, this grief belonged to them first. You folded your hands together, giving them the privacy they deserved, your own heart aching as you watched Clark's shoulders shake beneath his mother's embrace.

Martha who noticed you immediately.

She slowly lifted her head from Clark's shoulder, her eyes finding yours across the yard. Even through the exhaustion written into every line of her face, something softened.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Her voice was quiet, but it carried across the evening air.

"What are you doing all the way over there?"

You hesitated, suddenly feeling unsure of where to put your hands, your feet, yourself.

"I just..." You offered a small, uncertain smile that disappeared almost immediately. "I wanted to give you both a moment."

Martha's eyes filled again.

"You never have to stand over there."

The invitation wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

It was the same warmth she'd shown you from the first day Clark had nervously brought you home, insisting you call before making the drive because she'd "have something in the oven by then."

You crossed the yard slowly, almost reluctantly, stopping a respectful distance away. Suddenly, you weren't sure what to do with yourself. Jonathan had always been the one to close that distance first, waving you over before you'd even reached the porch, pulling you into one of his warm hugs while insisting you come inside because dinner was nearly ready. Standing there now, with only the wind moving through the fields, the absence of that familiar welcome felt almost tangible.

"I'm so sorry, Martha."

The words felt painfully small the moment they left your mouth.

"So, so sorry."

Martha reached for your hand before you could say anything else, holding it gently between both of hers. Her hands were cooler than you remembered, but the gesture was exactly the same as it had always been, warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

"I know," she said softly, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart."

You blinked back the sting behind your eyes.

"I wouldn't have been anywhere else."

Something fragile passed over Martha's face, the corners of her mouth lifting into the faintest, saddest smile.

"Jonathan would've been happy you were here. He couldn’t stop talking about you, and how proud he was of Clark that he chose you as his life partner."

Your throat tightened. Without thinking, your eyes drifted toward the porch, almost expecting the front door to swing open and Jonathan to appear with that familiar grin, asking why everyone was still standing outside when there was coffee getting cold on the kitchen table. Instead, the porch swing rocked gently in the evening breeze, empty except for the memories attached to it.

"I keep expecting him to come out that door," you admitted quietly.

Martha followed your gaze. For a long moment she simply looked at the farmhouse, at the windows glowing warmly against the coming dusk, at the home she'd shared with Jonathan for decades.

"So do I."

She didn't try to hide behind comforting words or quiet strength. She didn't pretend she was coping better than she was.

It was simply the truth.

Clark’s hand searched for yours with quiet instinct, fingers finding yours almost immediately before weaving themselves between them. The gesture was so natural, so unconscious, that it made your chest ache. He didn't look at you. He didn't have to. The small squeeze of his hand said everything he couldn't put into words.

You squeezed back just as gently.

Sometimes love wasn't knowing the right thing to say.

Sometimes it was simply refusing to let someone grieve alone.

For a long while, the three of you remained exactly where you were, standing together beneath the porch light without moving toward the house or away from it. Eventually Martha drew in a slow, unsteady breath and looked toward the front door.

"We should go inside," she murmured, her voice catching almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't feel much like home right now."

Clark finally lifted his eyes to the farmhouse. They lingered on the porch, the empty swing, the kitchen window where the light still burned, before he gently squeezed both your hand and his mother's.

"It still is," he said quietly. "It just... needs us in it."

Martha smiled. It was small and exhausted, but unmistakably real.

"Your Pa would've said exactly the same thing."

Clark lowered his head with a broken smile of his own.

"I know."

The funeral took place three days later beneath a sky so painfully blue it almost felt cruel.

Smallville seemed to empty itself into the little white church on the edge of town. Every pew filled long before the service began, and people continued standing quietly along the back walls and outside beneath the open doors. Farmers arrived in polished boots that still carried traces of dirt from the fields. Elderly couples walked in hand in hand. Teachers who had retired years ago. Mechanics. Cashiers from the grocery store. Children Jonathan had once coached in little league who now had children of their own. Men spoke in hushed voices about the time he'd helped rebuild a barn after a tornado. Women remembered casseroles that had appeared on their porch after difficult winters without anyone ever asking for them. Someone quietly laughed through tears about the old tractor Jonathan had somehow managed to keep running decades longer than it should have.

You realized, listening to the conversations around you, that half the people in this room weren't here because Jonathan had done one extraordinary thing for them.

They were here because he'd spent an entire lifetime doing ordinary things with extraordinary kindness.

One fence repaired.

One meal delivered.

One conversation on a front porch that lasted longer than it needed to because someone looked like they needed company.

One life at a time.

Clark accepted every hug offered to him. He thanked every person who stepped into the receiving line, shook every hand, listened to every story about his father with quiet patience, even when you could tell he barely heard the words. His smile never quite reached his eyes, but he gave it anyway because that's what Jonathan would have done. Watching him was like watching someone move through water. Every gesture looked slightly delayed, as though grief had slowed the world around him by just enough to make everything feel unreal.

When the pastor quietly announced that Jonathan's son would like to say a few words, Clark froze.

You felt his hand tighten around yours.

He hadn't wanted to speak.

The night before, he'd sat awake at the kitchen table long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at a notebook that remained mostly blank.

"I can't do it," he'd whispered.

"Yes, you can," Martha had answered gently as she rested a hand over his. "You don't have to say everything. Just tell them about your father."

Now, standing in front of the church, Clark unfolded the piece of paper he'd carried in his jacket pocket all morning.

He looked down at it for several long seconds.

Then he smiled to himself.

Small.

Sad.

He folded it back up.

"I wrote something," he admitted, his voice carrying softly through the sanctuary. "I even practiced it." A few quiet smiles appeared around the room. Clark glanced toward the casket, his eyes lingering there. "But..." His smile trembled. "...Pa would've spent the entire service making fun of me if I stood up here reading from a script."

A gentle wave of laughter rippled through the church.

Not because the joke was particularly funny, but because everyone could picture Jonathan doing exactly that.

Clark let the sound settle before speaking again.

"My dad believed every problem had a solution."

He rubbed one thumb nervously against the folded paper still in his hand.

"If your fence broke, you fixed it. If the crops failed, you planted again next season. If your neighbor needed help, you showed up before they had the chance to ask." He smiled faintly. "And if something couldn't be fixed..." His eyes drifted downward. "...he still believed nobody should have to carry it alone."

Silence settled over the room.

"When I was little," Clark continued, "I honestly thought my dad knew everything."

Another soft laugh drifted through the pews.

"He always had an answer." His smile grew just enough to soften his face. "And when he didn't..." He looked toward Martha. "...he had a way of making you think we'd figure it out together."

His voice became quieter.

"I got older."

A slow breath.

"I realized he didn't have every answer," Clark said with a faint, bittersweet smile. "He just never stopped trying to become the kind of man who could help."

He lowered his eyes for a moment, gathering himself before continuing.

"When I found out I was adopted..." His voice tightened almost immediately. "I spent a long time wondering who I was. I wondered if I belonged here. I wondered whether being different meant I'd always be different."

The church became impossibly still.

Clark looked toward Martha, whose eyes never left him.

"My father never wondered."

The words came out rough, his voice catching around them.

"Not once."

A tear slipped free before he continued.

"He found me abandoned in a field, brought me home, and..." He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "That was it."

He looked down at the folded paper in his hands, turning it over between trembling fingers.

"He didn't ask where I came from. He didn't spend his life waiting for me to become somebody else. He never looked at me and saw a burden or a problem that needed solving." His throat tightened. "He looked at me once..." He paused, swallowing hard enough that the microphone picked it up. "...and decided I was his son."

His hand closed around the paper until it crumpled beneath his fingers.

"That was enough for him."

No one moved.

The room had become so quiet that somewhere near the back of the church you could hear someone trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears.

Clark stood in that silence for a moment before drawing a slow, uneven breath.

"I've been called a lot of things."

A small smile touched his face, fragile enough that it looked like it might disappear at any second.

"Reporter."

A few knowing smiles spread through the congregation.

"Boyfriend."

His eyes found yours.

The look that passed between you lasted only a heartbeat, but it said everything Jonathan never needed to say aloud. The way he'd always pulled out an extra chair for you at Sunday dinner. The way he'd hugged you goodbye every single visit. The way he'd quietly welcomed you into the family long before anyone made it official.

Clark looked away before his composure disappeared completely.

"I've been called other things too."

His voice softened.

"But none of those titles ever mattered as much to me as one."

He stopped.

The sentence refused to come.

His mouth opened once.

Then closed again.

He pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his lips, fighting for a breath that wouldn't shake, and the entire church waited with him. No one looked away. No one hurried him. They all seemed to understand that this wasn't a speech anymore.

It was a son trying to imagine introducing himself to the world without his father in it.

When Clark finally managed to speak, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"The title I've always been proudest of..."

His eyes filled completely.

"...was being Jonathan Kent's son."

The words hung in the sanctuary long after he'd finished speaking.

Clark lowered his head, unable to say another word.

He didn't have to.

There wasn't a single dry eye left in the church.

Long after the last car disappeared down the gravel road and the quiet murmur of voices faded into the distance, Clark remained where he was.

The cemetery had emptied hours ago. Fresh flowers rested against polished headstones, their colors softened beneath the golden light of late afternoon. Somewhere beyond the rows of graves, the wind carried the rustle of cornfields and the distant cry of birds settling for the evening. It was peaceful in the way cemeteries often were. Too peaceful.

Jonathan's headstone looked impossibly small.

You stood several steps behind Clark, close enough that he would know you were there if he reached for you, far enough that this moment could still belong to him. He hadn't spoken since everyone left the church. He hadn't cried either. He simply stood staring at the stone carved with his father's name, as though his mind still hadn't accepted that a lifetime could somehow be reduced to a few dates separated by a dash.

Eventually, he lowered himself onto one knee.

His fingertips brushed carefully across the engraved letters, tracing each one with the same quiet concentration someone might use to memorize a face they were terrified of forgetting. His hand lingered there for a long time before he finally spoke.

"I keep listening."

His voice was barely louder than the wind.

"I keep thinking..." He stopped, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. "I keep thinking if I focus hard enough, I'll hear him."

Silence answered him.

Not dramatic silence.

Just the ordinary sounds of Kansas continuing exactly as they always had.

The grass swayed.

Branches shifted overhead.

A pickup truck rumbled somewhere in the distance.

Clark let out a quiet laugh that broke apart almost as soon as it escaped him.

"You know what's stupid?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"I can still hear Ma back at the house."

His gaze never left the headstone.

"She's making coffee because she doesn't know what else to do with herself." His lips twitched faintly before the expression disappeared. "I can hear the porch swing moving every time the wind catches it." He drew in another slow breath. "There's a freight train about twelve miles east." Another pause. "Lois is probably arguing with Perry about a headline right now."

His voice grew softer with every sentence.

"The whole world is still..." He searched for the word. "There."

Another long silence settled over the cemetery.

"But not him."

The words seemed to leave something hollow behind.

"I spent my whole life knowing that if I wanted to..." He pressed his fingertips more firmly against the cool stone. "I could find him."

His eyes closed.

"I never needed to."

A tear slipped quietly down his cheek.

"I just knew I could."

His shoulders sagged beneath a weight that no amount of strength could lift.

"And now I keep reaching for something that isn't there anymore."

That was the sentence that finally made you move.

You crossed the few steps separating you without saying a word and lowered yourself into the grass beside him. The earth was still warm from the afternoon sun. You sat close enough that your shoulders almost touched, but you didn't reach for him immediately. Grief had a rhythm of its own, and you'd learned over the last few days not to interrupt it.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable.

It was simply shared.

Eventually, almost absentmindedly, Clark leaned sideways until the weight of his shoulder rested against yours.

It was such a small movement that anyone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

"So..." he whispered after a while. "This is what people mean."

You turned your head slightly.

"When they say someone's gone."

You nodded.

He stared out across the cemetery, his expression distant.

"I always thought..." He exhaled slowly. "I don't know."

"You can say it."

"I thought there'd still be..." His brow furrowed in frustration. "Something."

He laughed softly at himself.

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It does."

He looked at you for the first time since sitting down.

"There is something left."

He frowned.

"What?"

You reached over, gently taking his hand where it rested against the grass. His fingers were cool despite the warmth of the evening.

"The way you laugh."

He blinked.

"The way you stop to help people even when you're exhausted."

Your thumb brushed slowly across the back of his hand.

"The way you make pancakes every Sunday because that's what he always did."

A tiny, surprised breath escaped him.

"The way you hold doors open. The way you always ask if everyone got home safely. The way you call your mom every week because you know she'll pretend she doesn't worry if you don't."

Another tear rolled down his face.

"You think those things came from nowhere?"

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Clark... your father isn't only buried here."

You nodded toward his chest.

"He's walking around inside you."

Clark's eyes drifted back to the headstone.

"I don't know how to do this."

There was no shame in the admission anymore.

Only exhaustion.

You leaned your head carefully against his shoulder.

"You don't."

He frowned.

"What?"

"You don't know how."

You looked out across the endless Kansas fields stretching beyond the cemetery.

"Nobody does."

"I feel like..." He searched for the words for a long time. "...like somebody picked up the whole world and put it back down crooked."

"It probably feels that way because they did."

He let out a shaky breath.

"I can't fix this."

You nodded once.

"No."

"I hate that."

"I know."

He was quiet for a long time before speaking again.

"So..." His voice had become very small. "What am I supposed to do now?"

You thought about Jonathan.

About the way he'd always laughed with his whole chest. The way he'd insisted everyone stay for another slice of pie. The way he'd looked at Clark with uncomplicated pride every single time he walked through the farmhouse door.

Then you answered as honestly as you could.

"You miss him."

Clark closed his eyes.

"You let yourself cry when it hurts."

Another silence.

"You tell stories about him until they stop feeling like stories and start feeling like memories you get to keep."

Your fingers remained intertwined with his.

"And you let the people who love you carry you for a while."

He didn't answer.

So you continued.

"One day, somebody will say something that sounds exactly like him, and you'll laugh."

A faint smile appeared despite the tears.

"And then you'll remember why it sounds like him."

His throat tightened.

"And you'll cry."

You smiled gently.

"For a while, yes."

He looked at you.

"And then?"

You looked back toward the stone.

"And then one day you'll laugh first."

Clark considered that for a long time.

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do."

His thumb slowly brushed across your knuckles.

"My dad used to say..." His voice was steadier now, though still fragile. "'Grief is just love that doesn't have anywhere to go.'"

You smiled through your tears.

"That sounds exactly like Jonathan Kent."

A real smile found Clark's face then.

Not a happy one.

Not even an unbroken one.

But unmistakably real.

"It does."

His gaze lifted toward the endless Kansas sky, where the first hints of evening had begun to soften the horizon.

"You know..." he said quietly, "I spent my whole life believing I was sent here to save the world."

His eyes returned to the earth beneath which his father rested.

"But Pa..."

His voice caught for only a moment.

"He spent his whole life showing me why it deserved saving."

The sun slipped lower, washing the cemetery in amber light.

Clark reached for your hand before you reached for his. His fingers threaded through yours with quiet certainty, holding on not because the grief had become any lighter, but because, at last, he had stopped trying to carry it as though it were his alone.

taglist: @sunlightkent @mollymal @clarkswhore-jpeg @kristne13 @slytherinscreamqueen @lotsostrawberrybear

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

This had me in actual tears it was so beautifully devastating

[satellite-evans]

favorite type of talk

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: After your first time, you and Clark stay wrapped up together and talk :)

Word count: 3k+

Warnings: fluff

Request: i loveee your work!! can you please write some talk after their first time and it’s like clark’s favourite thing cause the readers always like yapping or always feels like she’s on a high or smth and he thinks it’s adorable or something similar? honestly i’ll love anything you write with clark :))

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.

It was quiet. Very quiet.

Not the kind of quiet Clark was used to.

Not the faint rhythm of a city that never really let him forget it was alive. Not the layered, constant awareness he carried every second of every day.

This was different.

This quiet was small. Close. Intimate.

It wrapped around him instead of stretching endlessly outward.

Because the only thing he could hear now… was you.

Your breathing, still trying to find its rhythm again. A little uneven, a little soft, like your body hadn’t quite decided whether to rest or stay suspended in that lingering warmth.

And your heartbeat.

Just a little faster than normal. Not racing anymore, but not settled either. It fluttered in a way that made something in Clark’s chest tighten, something warm and almost disbelieving.

After sleeping with him.

For the very first time.

Clark felt… giddy.

It was such a strange, boyish feeling, so out of place with everything he was supposed to be. Grounded. Controlled. Steady.

And yet it bubbled up anyway, quiet and bright, like he couldn’t quite contain it.

Like he hadn’t been part of it himself.

Like he hadn’t been there with you, hadn’t felt every moment of it just as deeply.

His mind replayed it in fragments, not sharp or overwhelming, but soft, glowing at the edges.

The way you touched him. Careful at first, then more certain. Curious.

The way he touched you, slower than he’d ever moved in his life, like he was afraid of missing something if he went too fast.

The sounds you made. Quiet, breathy, honest in a way that made his chest ache.

How soft your skin felt beneath his hands. Warmer than he expected. Realer than anything he had ever held.

Every single detail felt etched into him, not just remembered but kept.

Like something he would carry for the rest of his life.

Clark lay on his back, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting loosely around you. His fingers traced absent patterns along your arm, slow and careful, like he was still grounding himself in the fact that you were right there.

Still here.

That this hadn’t disappeared the moment it was over.

Like if he stopped touching you, even for a second, he might wake up and find it had all been something he imagined.

You were half draped over him, cheek pressed to his chest, your breath still uneven but softening. Your hair was slightly messy, warm against his skin, and every so often your nose brushed him when you shifted, small and absentminded.

There was a kind of lightness in you.

Clark had noticed it before, in quieter moments, but it felt stronger now.

Like something inside you had loosened.

Like your thoughts weren’t lining up neatly anymore, just spilling out, soft and unfiltered.

“I think,” you murmured, voice a little dreamy, “if I tried to stand up right now, I’d just… fall over.”

Clark huffed out a quiet laugh, the sound low and warm, vibrating beneath your cheek. His hand smoothed up and down your arm instinctively, soothing, affectionate, like he couldn’t help but take care of you even in the smallest ways.

“That so?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you said, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. Your eyes were bright, a little unfocused, and Clark felt that familiar, fond realization settle in.

You were about to start talking.

“Like my legs forgot how to be legs,” you continued, very serious about it. “Which feels unfair, considering I need them. Usually.”

Clark’s mouth curved into a soft smile, his gaze warm as it settled on your face. “We can file a complaint later.”

You snorted, the sound quick and unguarded, then immediately softened again like it melted out of you. Your hand drifted lazily across his chest, fingertips brushing over him in slow, wandering paths.

It wasn’t purposeful.

Just… curious.

Like you were still discovering him.

“You’re making jokes,” you murmured. “That’s not fair either.”

“No?” he asked gently.

“No,” you said, squinting at him slightly like you were trying to make a point but couldn’t quite keep your thoughts lined up. “You’re supposed to be… I don’t know. Serious and mysterious.”

Clark’s brow lifted just a little. “Is that what I’m supposed to be?”

You nodded, very solemn for about half a second before it softened again. “Yeah. Brooding. Definitely brooding. You’ve got the face for it.”

“I do?” he asked, amused.

“Yeah,” you said, reaching up and lightly touching his cheek like you were demonstrating. “Strong jaw. Thoughtful eyes. Very broody potential.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clark said, though the smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him instantly.

He could never quite manage brooding around you.

Not when you looked at him like that.

Not when you touched him like he was something worth exploring.

Silence settled for a moment, but not the kind that felt empty.

Your fingers traced over the faint line of his collarbone, then up toward his shoulder, then back down again, slow and thoughtful. Like you were mapping him out, memorizing the shape of him through touch alone.

Clark let himself relax into it.

Into you.

Into the quiet miracle of this.

Your weight against him. Your warmth. The way your breathing was evening out little by little.

The way you stayed.

He wasn’t used to that part.

People didn’t usually stay like this with him.

Not knowing everything. Not feeling everything.

But you did.

And then, softly, like a thought you couldn’t quite hold in anymore, you spoke again.

“You know what I was thinking about just now?” you said, your voice softer this time, but no less full, like the thoughts were already lining up behind your lips, waiting their turn.

Clark shifted slightly beneath you so you were more comfortable, his arm tightening around you without even thinking about it, instinctive and careful all at once. His hand slid a little higher along your back, thumb brushing slow, absent circles there.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked, his voice low, steady, like he didn’t want to disturb whatever quiet little world you were in.

“How weird it is that this is real.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, your hand brushing his shoulder, his chest, lingering there like you needed to confirm he was solid. “Like, you. Me. This whole… thing.”

His gaze softened further, something warm flickering behind his eyes. “Weird?”

“In a good way,” you added quickly, your nose scrunching a little. “In a ‘how did I get this lucky’ kind of way.”

Clark went still for a moment.

Not frozen, just… quiet in a different way. Like something in your words settled deeper than he expected, somewhere under everything else.

“You think you’re the lucky one?” he asked softly.

You blinked at him, then broke into a small, incredulous smile, like the question itself was ridiculous. “Clark.”

“What?” he asked, but there was something vulnerable there now, something quieter than before.

“You’re…” You waved a hand again, your thoughts clearly moving faster than your ability to organize them. “You’re you.”

He tilted his head, amused despite himself. “That’s a compelling argument.”

“No, I’m serious,” you insisted, pushing yourself up just enough to look at him properly. Your hair fell around your face, a little messy, a little perfect, and Clark had the sudden, overwhelming urge to just… look at you for a while.

“You’re kind,” you continued, counting it off slightly on your fingers like you needed structure to keep going. “And you’re patient. And you look at me like I’m… I don’t know. Important. Like I matter in some big, cosmic way.”

Clark’s hand came up to rest against your cheek without hesitation, like it belonged there. His thumb brushed lightly along your skin, slow and grounding.

“You do matter,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”

The sincerity in his voice made something in your chest ache in the best way. For a second, it almost stole your words.

Almost.

“I feel like I’m floating,” you admitted, your voice dropping softer now, like you were letting him in on something fragile. “Like everything’s a little brighter and a little slower. And I can’t stop thinking, which is probably annoying, I’m sorry, I just… I keep noticing things.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Clark murmured immediately, his thumb still moving gently against your cheek.

“I know, I just…” You exhaled, then continued anyway, because of course you did. “Okay, listen.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m listening.”

“Like your heartbeat,” you said, settling your cheek back down against his chest as if to prove your point. “It’s really steady. I noticed it earlier, but now it’s like… I don’t know, it’s calming. Like if I just stayed here long enough, I’d start matching it.”

Clark’s fingers stilled for just a second at that, something in your words catching him off guard, before they resumed their slow tracing along your arm, even gentler now.

“And the way you held me,” you continued, voice softer, more thoughtful now, like you were replaying it in your head. “You were so careful. Like… not in a weird way. Just… like you were making sure I was okay the whole time. Like nothing bad could happen.”

Clark swallowed quietly, his hand shifting slightly on your back, holding you a little closer without even realizing he was doing it.

“I was making sure you were okay,” he said, just as softly.

“I know,” you said, smiling a little against his chest. “That’s what I mean. You didn’t rush anything. You kept checking on me without making it feel like… I don’t know, like a checklist or something. It just felt… natural.”

Your fingers traced a slow line along his chest, thoughtful, absent.

“And safe,” you added quietly. “I felt really safe with you.”

That landed somewhere deep in him.

Not loud, not overwhelming. Just… solid. Like something locking into place.

“I’m glad,” he said, his voice low, steady, but there was something more in it now. Something fuller.

“And your hand,” you continued, like your brain had already moved on but your heart hadn’t quite caught up. You took his hand and guided it again, pressing it more firmly against your side. “It fits perfectly here. Like it was supposed to go here. Which sounds dramatic, but I’m right.”

Clark let out a quiet breath, his fingers naturally settling where you placed them. “I think you might be.”

“And earlier,” you went on, clearly not done, “when you pulled me closer like this—” you nudged yourself closer to demonstrate, even though you were already very much there “—that was unfair.”

“Unfair?” he echoed, a hint of a smile returning.

“Yeah,” you said, very serious about it. “Because how am I supposed to recover from that? You just… did that. Like it was nothing.”

Clark huffed out a soft laugh. “I didn’t realize I was causing lasting damage.”

“Oh, it’s permanent,” you said immediately. “I’m never leaving now, by the way. Just so you’re aware.”

“I’ll start clearing some closet space,” he replied, just as easily.

You hummed approvingly, then continued, because of course you did.

“And your apartment smells like you,” you added, very seriously.

Clark blinked. “It does?”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding slightly. “Like… clean laundry and something warm. I don’t know how to explain it. But it’s nice. It makes me feel safe.”

That did something to him.

Something quiet and steady that settled right under his ribs, heavier than before but not uncomfortable.

Good.

He swallowed softly, his hand shifting again at your back, holding you just a little closer. “I’m glad.”

You relaxed more fully against him, like that single sentence anchored you further into the moment.

“And I don’t want to move,” you went on, your voice turning softer, almost sleepy now, but still carrying that bright, wandering energy. “Because this feels too good. Like if I move, it’ll… I don’t know. Break the moment or something.”

“It won’t,” Clark said gently.

“I know,” you said, even as you shook your head a little. “But it feels like it might. So I’m just going to stay here. Forever.”

“I don’t think I’d mind that,” he replied, a small smile in his voice.

You tilted your head up again, studying him like you were trying to memorize his face this time, your gaze lingering on every detail.

“You’re really okay with me talking this much?” you asked.

Clark let out a quiet breath, something warm settling in his chest as he looked at you.

“It’s my favorite part.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What is?”

“This,” he said simply. “You talking. Just… being like this. Letting me hear everything.”

Your expression softened, something a little shy flickering through before your usual warmth returned.

“Really?”

“Really.”

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear with slow, careful fingers. He let his hand linger there, thumb brushing your cheek again, softer this time.

“You don’t hold anything back,” he continued, his voice softer now, like he was choosing each word carefully, like this mattered more than he knew how to fully explain. “You say what you feel, even when it’s messy or doesn’t quite make sense yet. I like that. I like knowing what makes you happy. What you notice. What you think about.”

He paused just slightly, his thumb still tracing slow, absent circles against your skin, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“It feels like I get all the important parts,” he added quietly.

You smiled at that, small and warm and a little dazzled, like something in his words settled somewhere deep and unexpected.

“So you like that I ramble,” you said, tilting your head just enough to look up at him, a hint of teasing slipping back in.

“I like that I get to hear what’s going on in your head,” he corrected gently, his gaze steady on yours.

There was no hesitation in it. No hint of tolerance.

Just… fondness.

You studied him for a second, really studied him, like you were trying to figure out if he meant it as much as it sounded like he did.

Then your smile grew, softer, deeper, something a little more touched.

“That might be the nicest way anyone’s ever said ‘you talk too much.’”

Clark chuckled, the sound low and warm, his chest moving slightly beneath you. His hand slid down to rest at the small of your back, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles there, like he couldn’t quite stop touching you.

“For the record,” he said, “I don’t think you talk too much.”

You narrowed your eyes at him slightly, playful but suspicious. “You don’t have to say that just because we—”

“I’m not,” he said quietly, cutting you off before you could finish, not sharp, just certain.

That made you pause.

“…okay,” you said, softer now.

He held your gaze for a second longer, like he wanted to make sure you believed him.

Then you let yourself relax again, settling back down against him, your cheek finding its place on his chest like it belonged there, like it had always belonged there.

“Good,” you murmured. “Because I’m not done.”

“I figured,” he said, closing his eyes briefly, just to feel you there, the weight of you, the warmth of you, the way you fit so easily against him.

You let out a content little sigh, your fingers continuing their lazy, wandering path over him, tracing nothing in particular. Just… feeling.

“Okay,” you said softly. “Next thought.”

Clark smiled to himself, eyes still closed, his arm tightening around you just a little, instinctive, protective, like he was holding something fragile and precious all at once.

“I’m listening.”

You paused, like you were sorting through everything in your head, your fingers slowing slightly as your thoughts tried to line themselves up.

Then you spoke again, softer this time.

“I think…” you started, then hesitated just a little. “I think this is my favorite version of you.”

Clark’s eyes opened.

He looked down at you, something in his expression shifting, quiet and attentive.

“Yeah?” he asked, just as softly.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice a little more grounded now, though still warm, still floaty around the edges. “Not the reporter. Not… anything else.”

Your hand moved slightly against his chest, like you were anchoring yourself to him as you spoke.

“Just this,” you continued. “You being… soft. And close.”

You hesitated for a fraction of a second, like the next word mattered more.

“And mine for a little while.”

Something deep and steady in Clark shifted at that.

Not sudden.

Not overwhelming.

Just… certain.

His hand came up again, cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair, holding you there like something precious, something he didn’t want to lose.

“I’m always yours,” he said before he could overthink it.

The words left him easily.

Too easily.

And for a second after, he didn’t move at all.

You went very still.

Not tense.

Just… still, like everything in you paused to take it in.

Clark felt it. The way your breathing hitched just slightly. The way your fingers stilled against him.

For a brief moment, he wondered if he’d said too much.

If he’d gone too far.

Then you smiled against his chest, softer than before, something quieter and more certain in it now.

Your fingers curled slightly in his shirt, holding onto him in a way that felt instinctive.

“Okay,” you whispered, like you were tucking that away somewhere safe, somewhere you could keep it.

Clark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his hand smoothing gently over your hair.

A small pause settled between you.

Comfortable.

Full.

Then, very quietly, already drifting but still you, still full of thoughts that refused to fully settle:

“Also… I think I’m definitely not walking anytime soon.”

Clark let out a soft laugh, the sound fond and a little breathy, his lips brushing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

“That’s alright,” he murmured. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

“Good,” you mumbled, your voice already softer, sleepier. “Because I wasn’t planning to.”

Your hand shifted slightly, curling more securely against him, like even in your half-drifting state you wanted to make sure he was still there.

Clark’s arm tightened around you in response, instinctive, protective, his hand resting warm and steady against your back.

And you stayed.

Exactly where you were.

Tangled up with him, your quiet rambling slowly fading into softer, sleepier murmurs, your words blurring into half-sentences and little hums of contentment.

Clark didn’t interrupt.

He didn’t move.

He just listened.

To every word. Every pause. Every small, drifting thought that slipped past your lips.

Like it mattered.

Like it was something rare.

Something he didn’t want to miss.

And maybe, to him…

It was.

taglist: @mollymal @kristne13 @sunlightkent @clarkswhore-jpeg @fire-joestar

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

This was the softest, sweetest thing I've read in a long time 😭

[satellite-evans]

forever with you

Pairing: David!Clark Kent x reader

Summary: Clark gives a heartfelt wedding speech <3

Word count: 1.9k+

Warnings: fluff

A/N:

this is something that was in my drafts for ages lol so I aoplogize beforehand if its bad xxx

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 music fades into something gentle, something warm, the kind of melody that doesn’t demand attention but wraps itself around the room like a shared sigh. It's quietly alive beneath the low murmur of voices, beneath the clinking of glasses and soft laughter, until the reception hall feels less like a place and more like a feeling like contentment, joy, love settling comfortably into every corner.

Your feet ache from hours of dancing, from spinning and swaying and being pulled back into Clark’s arms again and again like gravity itself insists on it. Your cheeks ache from smiling so much it feels unfamiliar, like you’ve unlocked a muscle you didn’t know you were capable of using this way. And your heart feels so full it borders on painful, like it might burst right out of your chest if you let yourself think too hard about the fact that this is real.

You’re married.

Clark’s hand is warm in yours, fingers laced together easily, naturally, as if they were always meant to fit that way. His thumb moves in slow, unconscious circles against your skin, grounding and steady. He hasn’t let go of you all night. Not during the dances, not during the laughter, not even when people pulled him away for congratulations. Somehow, he always found his way back.

He leans down now, tall frame bending instinctively toward you, and his lips brush your ear as he whispers.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

It’s the same question he’s asked you a thousand times before. On quiet mornings. On difficult nights. In moments of fear and moments of joy. Like he’s checking in not because he doubts you, but because he wants to know you, every second of you.

You nod, a quiet laugh slipping out before you can stop it. “Perfect,” you whisper back.

The word feels fragile in your mouth. Too small. Too simple for something this big, this overwhelming, this achingly beautiful. But it’s the only word that doesn’t crumble under the weight of everything you’re feeling.

Perfect.

Clark smiles, the kind of smile meant just for you—soft at the edges, full of warmth. His forehead dips briefly to rest against your temple, and for half a second, the rest of the world disappears entirely.

Then—

The sharp, clear clink of a glass cuts gently through the room.

Heads turn. Conversations taper off. Chairs scrape softly against the floor as people shift, attention drawn forward. The energy changes—not abruptly, but expectantly, like the air before a deep breath.

You feel it before you see it.

Clark straightens beside you, shoulders rolling back just slightly as he draws in a breath. It sounds different than his usual steady inhale—just a little unsteady, just a little heavier. His hand tightens around yours, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor himself.

Across the room, Lois grins like she’s been waiting for this moment all night. She raises her glass with a playful tilt.

“Well,” she calls out, voice bright and teasing, “I guess it’s the groom’s turn for a speech.”

Laughter ripples through the hall—warm, affectionate, filled with familiarity. A few cheers follow. Someone whistles. Martha presses a hand to her chest, eyes already shining.

You feel Clark squeeze your hand just a bit tighter.

He stands.

And somehow—somehow—even now, after the vows spoken with trembling voices, after the rings slipped onto waiting fingers, after the laughter, the tears, the kisses, the dancing—your breath still catches at the sight of him.

Clark Kent.

Your husband.

He looks impossibly handsome, suit slightly rumpled from hours of movement, hair not quite as perfectly neat as it was earlier. There’s a softness to him now, an openness, like the weight of the day has settled into his bones in the best way. He adjusts the microphone with careful hands, clearing his throat once, then again.

He glances out at the room—at his parents, at friends, at coworkers, at people who have loved him for years and people who have only just begun to know him.

Then his eyes find you.

They always do.

The room seems to fade.

He clears his throat once.

Then again.

The sound carries softly through the microphone, small and human and unmistakably him. A few people smile already, recognizing the nerves he didn’t quite manage to hide.

“Uh,” he starts, and a gentle chuckle rolls through the crowd before he can stop himself. Clark huffs out a quiet laugh, one corner of his mouth lifting as he rubs the back of his neck. “Hi.”

The laughter that follows is warm, affectionate. Not mocking, never that. It’s the sound of people who love him, who know him. You feel it ripple through the room and settle in your chest like a familiar embrace.

You smile back at him without thinking, heart swelling at the sight of his sheepish grin, the faint flush at his cheeks. Even now, even today, he looks a little surprised that everyone is looking at him like this.

“I—” He exhales, shaking his head slightly. “This wasn’t supposed to make me nervous,” he admits, glancing down at the podium for a moment before lifting his gaze again. His eyes shine—not with fear, but with something too big to hold quietly. “I’ve… I’ve talked in front of people before.”

That earns another ripple of knowing smiles, a few murmured laughs. Lois raises her eyebrows theatrically from her table. Someone near the back mutters, “Understatement,” and Clark smiles wider, shoulders loosening just a fraction.

“But this—” His voice softens, dropping into something more intimate. “This feels bigger.”

He looks at you again.

This time, he doesn’t look away.

The room seems to dim around the edges, like the world has gently narrowed until it’s just the two of you. You feel his gaze settle into you—steady, reverent, full of awe—as if he’s memorizing this moment all over again.

“When I was a kid,” Clark begins, “my parents taught me that love is a choice.”

Jonathan nods slowly, pride and emotion written plainly across his face. Martha presses a hand to her mouth, eyes already glassy.

“They taught me that it’s something you show up for every day,” Clark continues. “Not just when it’s easy. Not just when it’s loud or grand. But in the quiet moments. The ordinary ones. The ones no one else sees.”

His voice is calm, but there’s weight in it—years of belief, of lessons learned at a kitchen table in Smallville.

“They showed me that love is steady,” he says. “Patient. Real.”

He swallows.

“And for a long time… I thought love was something I watched from the outside.”

Your throat tightens instantly, like your body knows where this is going before your mind catches up.

“I thought it was fragile,” he admits, the word chosen carefully. “Temporary. Something that people were kind enough to offer—but not something that stayed.”

He lets out a breath, slow and controlled.

“I learned how to stand on the edges. How to protect myself by not reaching too far. By not wanting too much.”

Your chest aches.

“Then I met you.”

The words are simple. Unadorned.

The room goes completely silent.

So quiet you can hear the distant clink of glass from the bar, the subtle hitch in Clark’s breathing as he steadies himself.

“You didn’t just see me,” he says, voice thickening. “You looked at me.”

His eyes flicker over your face, your tears, your smile, the way you’re holding yourself together by sheer will.

“You asked questions,” he continues. “You listened to the answers. Even the ones I didn’t know how to explain yet.”

A tear slips free, trailing down your cheek.

“You stayed,” Clark says, emotion creeping into every syllable. “Even when I tried to pull away. Even when I didn’t know how to let someone stand that close.”

His hands curl briefly at his sides.

“Even when I didn’t think I deserved to be chosen.”

Your vision blurs completely now. You don’t bother wiping the tears away. You don’t want to miss a single second of this.

“You taught me,” Clark says, voice steadier now, grounded by the truth of it, “that love isn’t about being perfect.”

He shakes his head softly.

“It’s about being honest. About letting someone see every part of you. The strong parts, the hopeful parts… and the scared ones too.”

His hand lifts slightly, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you, to ground himself in your touch. He lets it fall back to his side, trusting the moment to hold him instead.

“I’ve faced a lot of impossible things in my life,” he says quietly.

There’s a murmur of understanding. Some knowing, some unaware of just how true that statement is.

“But loving you?” He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh. “That’s never been hard.”

His smile is soft, genuine, awed.

“It’s the easiest, most natural thing I’ve ever known.”

Someone sniffles loudly. Then another. You hear a quiet sob near the front row.

“You make me laugh when the world feels heavy,” Clark continues. “You remind me to rest when I forget that I’m allowed to. You remind me that hope isn’t just something to fight for, it’s something to live in.”

His voice cracks, just slightly, and he pauses.

Just long enough to breathe.

“And today,” he says, swallowing hard, “you said yes.”

A fresh wave of tears spills over your lashes.

“You chose me,” he says, awe clear in his voice. “Not just for today. But for every day after this.”

He shakes his head, overwhelmed.

“Every morning. Every night. Every version of me I haven’t even grown into yet.”

His eyes glisten openly now.

“And I promise—” His voice wavers, and he doesn’t try to hide it. “I promise to choose you right back.”

He smiles through tears.

“On the quiet days. On the hard days. On the days when we’re dancing barefoot in the kitchen at midnight,” a few soft laughs ripple through the room, “and the days when we’re too tired to speak at all.”

His breath shudders.

“I promise to protect your heart as fiercely as I protect this world,” he says, the words heavy with meaning. “To listen when you speak. To learn when I fall short. To grow with you, not away from you.”

He straightens, voice steadier now, stronger.

“To love you with everything I am,” he says. “Human. Hopeful. And whole.”

His gaze never leaves yours.

“You are my home,” Clark finishes, barely above a whisper. “My greatest truth.”

A tear slips down his cheek.

“My forever.”

For a moment, no one moves.

It’s like the entire room is holding its breath.

Then it breaks.

Applause crashes through the hall. Cheers. Tears. Open sobbing. Martha stands, hands pressed together, crying without restraint. Jonathan wipes at his eyes, jaw tight with pride. Lois is a complete mess—mascara streaked, laughing and crying at the same time as she claps.

Clark sets the microphone down gently and walks straight toward you.

You stand before you even realize you’ve moved.

You meet him halfway, hands coming up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing away tears as he leans his forehead against yours, breath warm, familiar.

“I meant every word,” he whispers, voice breaking.

You laugh softly through your tears, pressing a kiss to his lips, then another. “I know,” you whisper back.

The room erupts again—cheers, applause, joy—but it all fades into the background.

All you feel is him.

His warmth.

His love.

His steady heartbeat beneath your palm.

You’ve said I do.

And the rest of your life has already begun.

taglist : @fire-joestar @kristine13 @rogersbarber @mollymal

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

This was beyond beautiful and now I'm sad I'll never get to marry Clark Kent 😭

[sc3ptre]

Imagine Clark Kent planning to propose to reader, but he gets so flustered and nervous that when he kneels, all he can muster is a desperate, breathy, “Please.” Saw this idea from a woman sharing her proposal story on twitter!! 🫦🫦🤤🤤

The star that leads to you

Pairing: corenswet!clark kent x fem!reader

⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938

a/n: The plan was for this to be 5k words long TOPS but i'm a bottom so...

Classification: (Suggestive) Fluff | Moderate workplace PDA, suggestive comments and explicit/implied sex scenes w/superpowered intimacy (destruction of the bed), normal relationship anxiety and overthinking, sci-fi talk and kryptonite exposure, use of superpowers in daily life.

Word count: 10,3k

Divider by me ;)

The days leading up to any leave or holiday were always the most chaotic. In journalism, there was no such thing as getting ahead. No matter how many drafts you filed, how many interviews you wrapped up or how many loose ends you tied off, the work simply piled up somewhere else, waiting for your attention.

You made your way through the bullpen with Jimmy trailing closely behind. For the past few days, a persistent unease had settled beneath your skin. Everyone seemed to need something from you before you left, another question, task or last-minute request, and on top of that, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. 

Eyes appeared to follow you wherever you went.

Right now, though, the only thing demanding your attention was Jimmy's steadily rising panic.

"I…I can't do that." He shook his head again, likely for the hundredth time that morning.

"Jimmy, it's just my email." You stopped at the coffee station, reaching for your mug and filling it. "All I'm asking is that you log in once a day, check if anything's worth investigating and follow up if necessary." You stirred your coffee before lifting your eyes to him. "You won't have much to do…Lois will be helping too."

"What do I do if he contacts you?" Jimmy asked quietly, watching your hands move with nervous intensity.

"What if who contacts me?" you asked, only sparing him a brief glance.

"You know." He shrugged. "Superman."

A laugh escaped you as you picked up your mug and started back toward your desk, taking a sip as you walked. "You think Big Blue has an email address?"

"I…" Jimmy frowned as he tried to explain himself. "Well, I believe he's a modern man."

You snorted into your coffee.

"Who knows," he continued. "Maybe he'll want to meet up. To…talk."

You stopped beside your desk and turned to face him fully, narrowing your eyes. "About what?"

"I don't know." Jimmy lifted both hands. "Whatever it is you two usually talk about."

"Sure, Jimmy. Maybe he'll need help setting up an email account." You nodded thoughtfully. "Let's just hope nothing too big happens while I'm gone so I can enjoy some uninterrupted rest." 

As you spoke, your gaze drifted across the bullpen and landed on Clark.

Your eyes narrowed immediately at his staring but the moment your eyes met, he jerked into motion. His attention snapped downward as he began fumbling with the papers on his desk, shuffling folders that clearly didn't need sorting and reaching for things that weren't there.

You had only held his gaze for all of two seconds before he folded completely under it, which was suspicious. Your attention lingered on him even as Jimmy continued talking.

"Alright, but just in case, tell him I'm perfectly fine with meeting in dark alleys during pouring rain and all that." Jimmy nodded once, looking entirely too eager for the possibility.

"He's more of a rooftop kind of guy, but I'll pass the message along." The reply came automatically, your focus already elsewhere. “Thanks Jimmy.”

Your gaze dropped to your own desk as Jimmy finally wandered off. Taking your seat, you looked over the organized chaos spread across the surface and got to work clearing away the last of it, though most of the clutter simply disappeared into drawers and folders. You wanted to return to a clean workspace, not a disaster waiting for you after a week away.

Your final drafts had already been submitted and every article due before your leave had been filed and approved. There were still two hours until lunch and for the first time in days, there was nothing immediately demanding your attention.

You intended for the following week to be dedicated entirely to rest. Well, rest and unpacking the mountain of moving boxes currently occupying Clark's apartment, which was now yours too.

The thought alone made you look up.

Clark now sat perfectly still at his desk, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the bullpen. His head was tilted slightly, his attention caught by something none of the rest of you could hear. If there was one thing you'd learned about him, it was that there usually was something, a distant cry for help, an emergency unfolding miles away or a hundred voices filtering through the world at once.

You watched him for a moment until he rose from his chair, the movement quick and purposeful. He reached for his messenger bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder as he stepped around his desk, his eyes finding yours immediately.

The look was familiar, it was the same one he always gave you right before disappearing. You pushed yourself to your feet and followed after him, weaving through the bullpen until the two of you reached one of the quieter hallways.

"How bad is it?" you asked worriedly.

The question and tone had nothing to do with your upcoming week off. You were never worried about canceled plans, you were worried about Metropolis. If Superman was needed in the middle of a workday, something somewhere had gone terribly wrong.

Clark suddenly turned and you barely had time to react.

The momentum of your hurried pace carried you directly into his chest and as always, the impact barely moved him. Before you could stumble back, his arms were already wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours.

It caught you completely off guard. You knew kissing with your eyes open wasn't particularly romantic but you couldn't help the way they widened in surprise. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him as you failed to kiss him back.

Only when he pulled away did you finally speak. "That bad?" you asked, eyes searching his face frantically.

Clark blinked as his brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You have to go to your other thing, right?" You gestured vaguely. "I know you heard something."

The confusion on his face matched your own. Still, his arms remained around you.

"I did." He forced himself to pause and collect his thoughts because keeping things from you had never gotten easier. "It isn't bad, sweetheart. I just need to go check it out."

At the same moment, footsteps echoed from farther down the hallway, so he reluctantly released you. Neither of you was particularly interested in becoming a more serious conversation for Human Resources yet. 

You cleared your throat as Clark adjusted the strap of his bag and the silence stretched until the employee rounded the corner and disappeared again.

"Will you be long?" 

"I'm not sure." He shook his head softly.

You nodded. "Be safe…I'll cover for you." 

Your hand came up to pat his chest before you stepped back. Already turning toward the bullpen, you glanced down at your watch, mentally calculating how many hours "checking something out" usually translated into but a few steps later, another thought occurred to you. 

"Oh… anything special I should make for di–" You turned to face him just as a rush of wind swept through the hallway. Your words died instantly and the corridor stood empty, Clark now gone. You sighed. "Takeout it is." 

Muttering to yourself, you turned and headed back toward the bullpen.

Lately, Clark had been acting strange, not in the usual "I'm the last son of a dead planet" kind of way. This was different, he was distracted, restless and keeping himself busier than usual. At first, you'd assumed it had something to do with the upcoming week off. Maybe he felt guilty about stepping away from work for that long and the idea of slowing down made him uneasy, but you'd made it clear more than once that the vacation wasn't meant to be a break from who he really was.

You would never ask that of him. Clark Kent could take a week off but Superman never truly could, which only made his recent behavior feel all the more unusual.

You supposed your concern must have been written all over your face.

"Where is he?" Lois stopped in front of Clark's desk, a thick folder tucked beneath her arm.

The question snapped your attention away from his absence. Straightening your shoulders, you forced your expression into something more neutral before walking over.

"His parents needed him at the farm." You motioned vaguely toward the elevators.

Lois looked unconvinced. "He was supposed to send Perry a final draft for tomorrow's print edition."

"Is that it?" You pointed toward the folder she held. She barely lifted it before you plucked it from her grasp and pivoted back toward your desk. "I'll do it."

You dropped into your chair and opened the file immediately.

"It isn't exactly impartial." Lois crossed her arms.

"It never will be, Lois." You flipped through the first few pages of his notes. "We're about to move in together and I doubt he'd react particularly well to me firing him when I become Editor-in-Chief."

Your grin finally earned a small laugh from her.

"Besides," you continued, glancing back down at the paperwork, "I need something to do, otherwise today is going to feel even longer than it already does."

The humor faded from her face. "Is something wrong?" Her voice lowered enough that the question felt genuine rather than curious.

You opened your mouth, then stopped. For a moment, you simply stared down at the pages in front of you. "I don't know. I'm usually really good at reading him." Your fingers paused against the pages. "But I just can't do it."

"You can't?" The surprise in her voice was immediate as she settled herself on the corner of your desk. "You think it's about the two of you moving in together?" she asked. "If it is, don't. You've been together for so long…most people would've expected you to move in together the second you both got to Metropolis."

A soft laugh escaped you. "No. No, that's not it…I mean, I hope not." You leaned back in your chair. "It's all going well." The words came easily because they were true. "As much as I love him, moving in with my first ever boyfriend straight out of college would've been a terrible idea."

Your smile softened. "We learned how to live separately first…how to have our own lives. I think that was the right decision and I know he does too."

Lois nodded. "So what's the problem?"

You hesitated, then cleared your throat and rolled your chair a little closer, lowering your voice despite the noise of the bullpen around you. "Have you ever wanted something so badly that you're afraid to call it what it is?"

Her brows knitted together. "Is that supposed to be a riddle?"

You laughed despite yourself. "No." Your gaze drifted away, settling somewhere beyond the bullpen. "There's something I want this whole situation to be..." The words felt strangely fragile once spoken aloud, like giving them a voice somehow made them more real. "What if I start asking the questions I want to ask and find out it isn't?" Your fingers toyed absently with the edge of the folder. "Then I'd be mad at him for not wanting to move at the pace I want to move at."

Lois watched you carefully and for once, she didn't rush to answer. "This isn't a race."

A small smile tugged at your mouth before quickly fading. "If it were, he'd win…I just wish I knew what we're running toward now." Your voice dropped quieter. "And if he still wants to get there with me…precisely."

You let out a long breath, hoping it would carry away some of the anxiety that had been nesting in your chest for weeks. The truth was, you had never once believed Clark would leave you, that fear had never existed.

You knew how he looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, you knew the certainty behind every promise he made, every plan he included you in and every future conversation that naturally assumed you'd be standing beside him.

The fear wasn't losing him, it was timing and getting it wrong.

Had moving in together been too soon? Was he having second thoughts now that it was actually happening? Maybe he simply wasn't ready to leave behind living alone, he needed more time before taking another step forward and the answer was that simple…Or maybe you were working yourself into knots over something that had never crossed his mind at all.

"You're one hell of a reporter, Y/n." A smile tugged at the corner of Lois's mouth. "I've never known you to hesitate when it comes to asking questions."

She pushed herself off the desk and headed back toward her own. 

The conversation ended there but her words lingered as your eyes wandered across the bullpen again and they landed, inevitably, on Clark's empty desk. 

His abandoned coffee cup still sat beside his keyboard and a stack of notes remained exactly where he'd left them. Everything still looked normal, so why didn't it feel that way?

You couldn't keep living with the uncertainty and maybe it was time to stop dancing around the questions that had been circling your mind for months, but as much as you wanted answers, you'd never been someone who forced them out of Clark, never someone who cornered him into confessions he wasn't ready to make.

Your gaze lingered on the empty desk for another moment before moving to the clock. Only five more hours and you'd finally be out of this place.

Clark flew to the Fortress of Solitude at a speed he'd never thought he could reach, responding to a signal from the Superman robots. He absolutely hated hiding things from you, no matter how good the reason but this was taking longer than planned. It didn't just involve the usual planning and sourcing, this was as close to science as he'd ever get.

The cold arctic air caressed his skin as he sped up, the crystalline structure growing in the distance as it revealed itself to him.

His feet eventually sank into the snow as the doors parted before him. The Fortress received him the way it always did, silently, the crystals catching his footsteps and scattering them into nothing. Four was already standing at the central console, two of the other robots positioned at the secondary array flanking what Clark recognized as the solar concentrator, reconfigured into something smaller and more precise than he'd last seen it.

"Sir, you're here." Gary, the fourth Superman robot, turned before Clark had fully cleared the entrance.

"I got your signal," Clark told him as he moved to the center of the main room.

"I calculated twenty minutes before your arrival." Four's optical sensors held on him a moment.

Clark didn't answer. He crossed closer to the console, eyes already moving over the readings. "Tell me."

Gary turned back to the array. "The theory is sound. Whether the application holds is a separate question." He indicated the containment chamber at the center of the concentrator, it was small, built for a single stone. "The isotope that produces the radiation is not inert by nature, it requires destabilization. Conventional neutralization attempts have failed historically because they addressed the emission rather than the source."

Clark’s brows furrowed. "You went after the isotope directly."

"We modeled different broad approaches over the last year. Sixteen produced either incomplete neutralization or structural destruction of the sample." Gary paused. "The seventeenth is this. Concentrated solar saturation at a specific frequency, not broad spectrum, which scatters. The isotope absorbs until it cannot sustain the radioactive chain. It burns out rather than being suppressed."

He looked at the chamber. "And the stone?"

"Structurally intact in our simulations. The color will change, the green is a function of the active radiation. Once the isotope is spent, the stone retains its crystalline structure but loses the glow. It will read as pale…residual hue only."

Clark was quiet for a moment. "You said it would only work on a very small piece."

"Correct. The solar saturation has to penetrate the sample completely and evenly. A larger stone creates differential exposure, the exterior burns out and the interior remains active. At the scale you require–" Gary moved to the secondary console and brought up the dimensional rendering, a stone large enough to yield a single, flawless diamond.  “–full penetration is achievable. We have run the model four hundred and twelve times over the last hour."

"And it holds?"

"In simulation. Yes." Another beat. "We will not know with certainty until we attempt it on an actual sample."

Clark exhaled slowly, he'd known that was coming.

"You cannot be present for the extraction phase," Gary continued, without inflection, as if this were simply logistical. "Or the initial handling. Your proximity to an active sample at that size would still produce symptomatic response. We will handle and chamber the stone. You will monitor from the secondary console at a distance of approximately fifteen feet. Once it is inside the concentrator and sealed, the chamber will contain the emission. You can approach then."

"And the concentrator–" Clark glanced at the machine. "Same as the healing protocol?"

"Modified from it. The frequency is different as healing requires broad cellular stimulation. This requires narrow isotopic targeting but the core mechanism is the same." Gary looked at him directly. "It should not harm you. The chamber is sealed, the emission goes inward, not out...but again, it’s a hypothetical."

Clark nodded once. He stood there a moment, looking at the small containment chamber and the re-rigged concentrator, it’d been a year of work sitting quiet and precise on a console in the Arctic.

"You've been thorough," he said finally.

"You were specific about what it needed to mean, sir." Gary nodded, as Clark turned to look at him. "When you told me what the ring was for," He continued. "I did not think imprecision was appropriate."

"And the piece I chose?" Clark asked, looking around for it.

One of the other Superman robots pushed a closed lead box onto the console. "Still untouched, sir." Twelve nodded. "As are the other uncut stones, as you requested."

"The band?" Clark asked as One approached, opening a chamber on his own structure and revealing it.

Clark reached for it and held it up to the light between his fingers. He still remembered waiting for you to fall asleep so he could measure your ring finger, holding his breath the entire time, terrified you might wake and catch him in the act. The memory made warmth settle in his chest.

"It's perfect," he said quietly.

"It must be, sir. You've been working on it for almost a year," Gary spoke.

"And it's finally done."

Gary lifted a cautionary finger. "Remember there are still hypotheticals, sir. We must test the machine."

Clark shook his head. "It's going to work and when it does, I want her here for it." He turned to look around the Fortress, taking in the crystalline walls, the hum of advanced technology and the sanctity of the space. "You know the plan." His gaze swept across the main chamber. "I want this place spotless and the sunglasses ready." He drew a breath, letting the weight of the moment settle over him. "The day has come…I can’t wait any longer." He turned back to the robots. "Thank you, all of you."

"No need to thank us, sir, as we will not appreciate it. We have no consciousness, we are merely automatons here to serve," Gary reminded him.

Clark simply pressed his mouth into a thin line, long accustomed to their peculiar bluntness while some of the Superman robots scurried away, already beginning to clean. Gary, however, lingered.

"Shall we prepare for the baby?"

Clark's head snapped toward him, eyes slightly widened. "What baby?"

"My knowledge indicates it is a natural succession of events, sir."

He smiled despite himself, shaking his head. "Let's prepare for a ceremony first…That's if she says yes."

"She will," Twelve said brightly in passing, already carrying a stack of crystalline components toward the secondary console.

"Shall we rehearse the speech?" Gary pressed. "We have yet to hear it."

"No can do, Gary." Clark's voice was gentle but final. "And you won't...It’ll be for her ears only."

He stuck around long after, helping clean and organize with no real need other than the comfort of keeping his hands busy. He had thought about the day plenty, in the small hours of the morning when sleep wouldn't come, during long flights over empty ocean and in the moments just after saving the world when everything went quiet again. He had imagined it a hundred different ways, in a hundred different places and it had to be perfect.

You got home late, stopped at the door as you still couldn't quite figure out how the new lock worked. After a moment of fumbling that felt much longer than it should have, you finally managed to push inside, carrying takeout bags and immediately running into scattered moving boxes in the dark.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath as you reached for a light switch and turned it on. "Clark?" You called into the silence of the apartment, leaving the bags on the kitchen counter. 

You then walked toward the bedroom, weaving around moving boxes you'd take care of soon, phone already in your hand as you dialed his number.

You pressed call, setting the phone on the bed as you began to undress.

Back at the Fortress…

"Superman, we have intercepted a call from your human lover."

Clark chuckled, shaking his head as he moved gear out of the main room. "There's no other kind, Gary. It's just 'lover.' Please, patch it through."

There was a soft crackle and then, "Clark?” Your voice slipped through the sound systems, warm and familiar and Clark felt the anxiety in his chest ease at the sound of it.

"Hi, sweetheart. Everything okay?" 

"Uh, yeah. Where are you? I'm at your–" A pause, then a quiet correction. "Our place...Any idea when you'll be back? It's starting to get late."

Clark realized then that he'd lost track of time completely. He began heading toward the exit, your voice trailing after him as you launched into what was clearly the beginning of a longer rant. The sound of you faded from the Fortress's speakers and transferred directly into his ears as he lifted off, flying fast in the direction of your voice.

He heard you kicking off your shoes and the soft thump of your pants hitting the floor.

"I'm not saying I'm worried and I don't expect you to always be back at a certain time…That's just not reasonable. I mean, I knew what I was getting into before we ever started dating–" Then came the sound of the closet door sliding open as you were surely, definitely, picking a shirt of his to sleep in. "Not that it's complicated or anything. I feel like that word has never really applied to us. I mean, I hope not. You've never been complicated to me, even after you told me who you really were."

He heard the rustle of fabric as you peeled off your shirt and the soft sound of your bra hitting the floor. Clark flew even faster.

"I remember telling you Kal was a pretty good name," you said and he could hear the smile in your voice. You cleared your throat, "I also remember that one time I moaned it while we were–"

A faint breeze drifted through the room, making you turn to the window to check if it was open. You suddenly screamed, shirt clutched to cover your naked chest as your heart hammered so loud he could count every individual beat.

Clark unexpectedly stood there unmoving and smiling unapologetically, hair slightly messy from the flight. "Having sex?" He continued for you, grin widening. "I also remember." 

You exhaled a sharp breath, rapidly pulling his shirt over your head, feeling his eyes on you, "I get carried away."

He shrugged, still grinning. "It's happened more than once."

Your eyes narrowed at him, already desperate to change the subject. "Mind making a little more noise next time? I intend to live long."

He stepped toward you, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you to his chest. "You make enough noise for the both of us, don't you think?"

"Ha. Funny." You said dryly because it was true. Once close to him, you felt his chest while observing his face as you always did, checking for injuries. He looked untouched, which was always ideal, but… "You're really cold."

He smiled and something changed in his expression. "Do you know where you packed the winter clothes?"

You blinked, eyes going to the moving boxes and suitcases scattered across the bedroom, your mind already cataloging the rest of the clutter throughout the apartment. "I'm not sure. Why?"

Clark let go of you, eyes scanning through the boxes as he activated his x-ray vision.

"It's about to be summer, Smallville…And I don't think you've ever needed them."

He walked out of the bedroom, looking into boxes as you trailed behind him, accidentally stepping on the long cape pooled at his feet.

"Oops, sorry," you muttered as you coughed yourself with a gentle hold on his shoulders.

"You're going to need them."

"Need what? Apologies?" you asked, lifting a brow.

"Winter clothes," he specified with a breathy chuckle, stopping by a box that read ‘Kitchen’ in your handwriting.

"In June?" You watched as he opened the box anyway. "That says ‘Kitchen’, Clark."

He fumbled for a second as he lifted it from a pile and put it on the ground, then he carefully opened it and pulled out your winter coat by the hood.

"That's why it was so light," you said under your breath.

"We're taking a trip tomorrow."

Your eyes widened slightly as you searched his face and found no humor there. "Did you use that little trick to find my passport and book the trip?"

"Never needed a passport to fly Clark Kent Airlines." He grinned.

"Never needed a coat to sit on a plane." You shrugged with a gentle smile. "Where are we going?"

Clark's smile faltered. His eyes searched the room, looking for anything to change the subject and landed on the takeout bags still sitting on the kitchen counter. "We should eat dinner before it gets too cold," he said, already reaching into the box and pulling out a scarf, hat and gloves. "You'll need your snow boots too." He set everything on the couch, almost distractedly and walked right past you into the bedroom, already peeling off his suit.

Your eyes followed him, narrowing at the deflection. "Good thing we have a microwave." You noted as you followed after him. "You've been acting weird lately."

"Weird?" He echoed with a light, forced chuckle. "There's nothing weird about me…Besides the obvious." He paused, pulling his shirt over his head. "Which you like telling me you love." There was another pause, longer this time. "You still do, right?"

"You mean the part of you that likes to take me along while soaring through the sky?" You questioned hypothetically, already nodding to yourself. "Yeah."

"That's good…That’s really good." He reassured himself more than you as he changed into a plain shirt and plaid pajama pants. "That you still do."

"I don't like how you keep saying 'still,'" you pointed out quietly, looking at him as if you could read his mind…and you probably could, if you weren’t suddenly scared of what you might find.

He chuckled breathily, stepping toward you and placing both hands on your arms, caressing them gently. "You're making me really nervous right now."

You narrowed your eyes at him again. "I weirdly think you're doing that to yourself." You paused, letting the words settle. "I love you, Clark…No amount of weirdness is going to change that."

His hands went to your face, cupping your cheeks slowly, thumbs brushing over your skin with so much love in his eyes that it made your chest ache. Tomorrow had to be perfect..because you were.

"I'll fly slowly," he murmured, in an attempt to reassure you.

"No, you won't…and that’s fine," You laughed softly, poking his stomach playfully. "Just make sure you hold me tight."

He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingered long enough to make your eyes flutter shut. "I love you so much," he confessed against your skin. "I don't know how to hold you any other way."

Moments like that had a way of dissolving whatever fear or doubt had quietly accumulated and that night was no different. By the time you had dinner and you'd both found your way to sleep, there was nothing left to worry about.

The next morning was perfect. Genuinely and unqualifiedly perfect, the kind that felt almost unfair in how completely it arrived. No alarm pulled you out of it, no distant sound of something collapsing somewhere that would take him away before you'd finished waking up, just sunlight coming in at an angle through the curtains and Clark, who woke up like he had nowhere else to be and no intention of pretending otherwise. 

He pressed kisses into your skin slowly and without urgency and the morning dissolved the way good mornings do, in warmth, weight and the breathlessness of someone who loves you, knows how to show it…and how to make you feel it. You lost track of time entirely and you didn't try to find it.

At some point he slipped away. You hadn't noticed the exact moment, sometime in the narrow window between you getting up and the shower warming, enough time for him to go somewhere and come back, which for Clark could mean almost anywhere. When you stepped out of the bathroom, towel around your chest, a bouquet was sitting on the kitchen counter and beside it, breakfast, already plated and still warm.

You ate together at the counter, knees touching, talking through where the art should go and whether the bookshelf fit better against the east wall or broken up between two rooms. 

It wasn't much later that he started mentioning getting out for the day.

You didn't question it. You started getting everything he'd laid on the couch the night before, working through the layers methodically while he stood somewhere behind you watching you with an expression you couldn't fully read.

"I think you should add another scarf," he suggested. "Just in case."

You looked at yourself in the mirror, at the coat, hat, gloves, boots and the scarf that already looped twice around your neck… and it was June. "Clark." You turned to look at him with a gentle, reassuring smile. "This is enough…You'd think we were going to the Arctic."

You meant it as a joke. You were already smiling when you said it, turning back to the mirror to adjust the hat which meant you didn't see his face go completely still behind you.

Flying with Clark was its own category of experience, one that didn't get easier to explain the more times you did it, only more familiar. The first five minutes were always the same, your stomach hadn't made peace with the altitude yet, your eyes stayed forward or shut and some part of your brain spent the whole time insisting that this was not how bodies were supposed to work but underneath all of it, was certainty. He had never once made you feel like you might fall, not for a second. His arms around you were absolute, his chest solid and warm against your cheek and the cold that hit everything else somehow didn't touch the space he made around you.

"We're almost there!" he called over the wind.

You didn't answer, only nodded against him and held on.

Then, gradually, the quality of the air changed as the speed bled out of it. You felt him adjusting his descent in small corrections and a minute later your feet met the ground with a soft crunch that traveled up through your boots and into your knees. It was snow, fluffy and undisturbed in every direction.

You kept your eyes shut even as he released you and you stood on your own.

"Sweetheart." He called softly, you could hear the smile in it. "You didn't need to close your eyes."

"Oh. I thought I'd–" you started explaining as they fluttered open.

The light hit first, that particular brightness that had no equivalent, white reflecting white under a sky that was almost cloudless. You blinked against it, adjusting and inevitably, as you looked around, your gaze landed on the structure in the distance and everything else stopped.

Your lips parted.

It rose from the landscape like it had grown there, which in every way that mattered it had. It was an eruption of crystal spires reaching at different angles, pale blue-white and enormous even from that distance, catching the flat Arctic light and fracturing it into something that barely looked real. 

You took a few steps toward it without deciding to.

"Is that your–" you started, pointing at it in awe as the words died somewhere between your throat and your lips. You stood frozen in the snow, staring at it.

Clark stepped beside you, footsteps quiet in the snow as the wind tugged gently at his cape. Your shoulders almost brushed when he spoke, "I'll show you around."

You faced him then. He was smiling down at you with his hand extended between you, patiently waiting for you to take it, which of course, you did. 

The two of you walked the remaining distance without rushing. There was no path, no track worn into the snow from use, no indication that anyone came and went from this place by foot. Just the flat white expanse and the crystal rising out of it and now, appearing behind you in a clean double line, your footprints beside his. You looked back once at the trail you were leaving and felt something open up in your chest that you weren't entirely prepared for.

He had never brought anyone here, you understood that without needing it said. This was the place that belonged to the man beneath everything else, the person who was both Clark Kent and Superman and neither of them entirely. He was bringing you into that, he was walking you to the door of the most private place he had and holding your hand while he did it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You looked up at the Fortress as it grew larger with every step, feeling the weight of being trusted with something irreplaceable.

His thumb moved slowly, across the back of your hand as the entrance came into view and the doors began to open before him.

The inside of the Fortress opened up in a way that made you stop walking for a second without meaning to. Everything climbed, walls, ceilings and structures you didn't have names for, all of it crystalline and catching the same pale light from a dozen different angles at once. It was somehow colder and warmer at the same time, the air sharp but the light itself almost golden where it pooled. You could feel Clark watching you take it in, his hand still wrapped around your gloved one, waiting for you to need him to say something.

"Welcome back, sir."

You turned at the voice as footsteps approached from your right. For a moment, you simply stared.

Clark had talked about the Superman robots before, he'd mentioned their names, their functions and the way they helped maintain the Fortress but none of those descriptions had prepared you for seeing them in person.

"Ms. Y/l/n. I have long possessed information regarding you. It is noteworthy to finally confirm your existence through direct observation.”

You looked up at Clark first, a small laugh escaping before you could stop it, then back at the robot in front of you, eyes dropping briefly to the number four stamped into his chest plate.

You smiled softly. "Nice to finally meet you too, Gary."

Gary turned smoothly toward two more robots crossing the floor behind him. "I have observed that Superman references us during conversations with his human lover…Identifying the species is unnecessary, as there is no other kind of lover for him." A brief pause, as if confirming the data was correctly filed. "This is Twelve. She is new."

You looked at Twelve and smiled.

Twelve looked back, head tilting slightly in your direction. "Oh, she looked at me!"

Seven approached next, arms already extended, holding a folded red blanket and a metallic blue thermos. Gary continued without missing a beat. "We have prepared warm blankets and tea. The tea has been heated for three minutes to the ideal temperature of eighty degrees Celsius, with two sugars, per Superman's specification."

"I'll take the tea." You took the thermos from Seven, wrapping both hands around it gratefully. "Don’t think the blanket will be necessary. Clark already had me wrapped up like a burrito before he swept me off my feet…Literally." You took a sip, the warmth spreading through your body.

"'Swept off my feet,'" Gary repeated, processing it audibly. "This is a common idiom among your kind. I hope you also intend it in the romantic sense, in the event further confirmation is required."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, glancing up at Clark. "Confirmation for what?"

Clark cleared his throat, a little too quickly. "Let me, uh, give you a tour." His hand found the small of your back, gently steering you down the hall before you could press further.

"We shall prepare for the activities, then," Gary said, already turning toward the main room. "The clock is, figuratively, ticking."

"Thanks for the tea!" you called back over your shoulder, lifting the thermos in salute.

"They're not very good at saying 'you're welcome,'" Clark told you quietly as you walked.

"Noted."

He smiled as he watched you sip more tea. "So…what do you want to see first? The glass bedroom or the bathroom? The toilet seat is heated."

You stopped walking, eyes widening slightly at the possibility of a glass bed. "Are you serious?"

His grin only widened, he shook his head. "There's no glass bedroom."

You let out a breath, shaking your head as you started walking again. "They’re doomed…The Superman robots are certainly learning from your sense of humor, Clark. Your jokes are setting their development back by decades...They need an upgrade."

"We should probably get you better winter gear, then. If you're going to be spending more time here." He glanced over at you, already thinking out loud. "I'll look into some kind of heating system." He kept walking, leading you down the corridor. "There aren't many rooms, but there's one I really want you to see."

You looked over at him, slowing your steps. "Clark…wait."

The teasing had dropped out of your voice entirely and he heard it instantly. He stopped and turned to face you and for a moment neither of you said anything.

You chose your words carefully, offering a reassuring smile. "You've already trusted me with so much…and I'm honored to be here, truly, I am, but..." You shook your head slowly. "You don't have to do this, any of this."

He listened in out of worry, the way he sometimes did without really meaning to, to your heartbeat. It was steady and still unafraid, just nervous in the ordinary way. "What do you mean?"

"This is your legacy, Clark. It's a piece of where you come from. It could just be yours…I'd understand that.” You paused, “Once I've seen it, I can't unsee it. I’ll become a part of it too, whether you meant for it to or not."

He stepped closer, taking your unoccupied hand in his. "I've always wanted you to know all of me...every piece, if you're willing to hold it." His voice dropped, steady and certain. "This isn't a sacrifice, sweetheart. Showing you this doesn't cost me anything…You've always belonged at the center of who I am. This–" he glanced around, at the crystal stretching up into the light, "–this is just proof of it."

You nodded slowly. Your breath caught and you sniffled, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes. "Do you happen to know the temperature at which tears freeze?" you asked, voice thick.

He laughed softly, pulling you gently forward by the hand as he led you toward the next room. "Yeah, I think a heating system really would be a good idea."

"Wouldn't a heating system melt the whole place, though?"

"It's Kryptonian crystal," he explained. "Not ice. It can withstand a lot more than that. It's just naturally cold in here."

"Well, insulation would ruin the aesthetic anyway, so think it through." you decided and felt him softly squeeze your hand.

He spent the better part of an hour walking you through the Fortress. Through the rooms that mattered and rooms that didn't but that he showed you anyway because you asked, small alcoves of crystal that hummed faintly when you got close enough. You stayed in a state of quiet awe through most of it but the room that stopped you completely was the one lined with his suits. Row after row, the same emblem rendered over and over in different materials and ages, the symbol of an entire dead world that he had carried across galaxies and made his own among people who barely understood what it meant.

You felt his eyes on you the entire time, watching you take it in and no matter how simple or obvious your questions were, he answered every one of them and you could hear the smile in his voice with each one.

Eventually, the two of you made your way back to the main room, where all of the Superman robots stood arranged in a loose half circle and at the center, set on a low pedestal, sat a small sealed box. You knew exactly what was inside before you directly saw it, that particular sickly green you'd only ever glimpsed in passing, in places you tried not to look too long.

Your hand tightened around Clark's, your first instinct pulling him back half a step.

"It's okay, sweetheart." His voice was steady, hand staying exactly where it was, not pulling away from yours. "Gary?"

Gary approached, holding out a pair of sunglasses toward you. "Please keep these on until we give the all clear," he said. "Your eyes are not equipped to withstand what you are about to see."

You took them carefully, turning them over once. They looked like ordinary sunglasses, maybe a little heavier and the lenses a shade darker than you expected. 

You slid them on. "Is this some kind of science class?"

"I certainly won't be the one teaching it," Clark said, the corner of his mouth lifting. He looked past you toward the console. "Gary, are we ready?"

"Whenever you are, sir." Gary moved toward the main console, where two of the other robots were already standing by, lights along their forearms beginning to pulse in slow sequence.

"Clark, what's going on?" you whispered, eyes flicking between the box and his face. 

"I wouldn't let anything happen to you, you know that, right?" He squeezed your hand as his gaze met yours. 

"You, on the other hand–"

"I like experimenting." He shrugged, like it cost him nothing.

Your eyes widened slightly, "With Kryptonite? Since when?"

"Uh…a year, give or take." He smiled down at you and then his eyes lifted to Gary, he nodded once. "Gary. We're ready."

Gary moved to the console without hesitation and the rest of the robots fell into position around the central platform like they'd rehearsed it a hundred times, because they had.

Twelve lifted the small box from the pedestal, carrying it with both hands toward the center of the room, where a shallow chamber sat recessed into the crystal floor, lined with something dark and metallic that looked nothing like the rest of the Fortress.

"That’s a containment chamber," Clark said quietly to you as his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. "Built specifically for this."

"Sir," Gary said, eyes still on the console, "might I suggest you and Ms.Y/l/n retreat to the secondary platform. Fifteen feet, as discussed."

Clark's hand tightened slightly around yours. "Come on."

He guided you back, until you were standing on a raised section of crystal floor that put you above and away from the chamber. From there you could see the whole room laid out steps beneath you, the concentrator rising above the platform like an enormous lens angled toward the sky, panels of crystal catching light that wasn't there yet.

Seven lifted the lid of the box and even through the dark lenses the green light intensified, throwing long shadows across the floor, catching every facet of the Fortress and scattering it back in shades of sick emerald. Nestled inside, on a bed of dark fabric, sat the stone. Smaller than you'd expected and uncut, glowing from somewhere deep inside itself like it had a pulse of its own.

Twelve lifted it with a pair of long, articulated tools and lowered it carefully into the chamber. A transparent shield slid closed over the top, sealing it in. The glow didn't stop but it dimmed, pressing against the inside of the shield like something trying to get out.

"Sample secured," Gary announced. "Beginning calibration."

The concentrator began to hum. It started low, almost beneath hearing, a vibration that traveled up through the crystal floor and into the soles of your boots. Far above, panels began to rotate, realigning toward the chamber below and what little Arctic sunlight there was began to gather and bend, funneling down through the lens.

"Finally," Clark breathed, watching it. "We've been working on this for so long…there’ve been thousands of simulations." His jaw worked once. "I didn't want to tell you until I knew it would work."

"Tell me what?” You asked quietly, eyes never leaving the scene as worry crept in. “And do you actually know?"

"I trust the math." He nodded firmly.

The column of light reached the chamber and the room changed color. For a moment the green and the gold fought each other, the stone lit from above in concentrated solar light while it pulsed back against it, radiating that same sickly glow like it was resisting. The light intensified in stages, the hum climbing in pitch and beside you Clark's hand went rigid in yours.

You immediately looked away from the machine, eyes moving across his face, searching instinctively for every symptom you'd learned to recognize over the years. "Clark? What’s happening?"

"It's fine." His voice was rough. The green glow spilling from the chamber reflected across his face as he kept his eyes fixed on the stone. His fingers tightened once more around yours. "This is the part where it resists…Gary said it would resist."

"Isotopic activity decreasing," Gary reported. "Forty percent…Thirty-five."

You watched his shoulders ease slightly, the tension starting to bleed out of him the way it had a moment ago and then it spiked.

The green flared violently, brighter than it had been at any point and the hum from the concentrator stuttered, a half second of dissonance that set your teeth on edge. Clark's hand crushed around yours, hard enough that you gasped and beside him his knees buckled enough that you felt him catch himself right on time.

"Sir." Gary's voice changed, the flatness cracking for the first time. "Output is exceeding modeled parameters. Fifteen feet is no longer sufficient at this intensity…I recommend immediate retreat."

"No." Clark's voice came out through his teeth, low and rough.

Twelve approached. "Sir, your vitals–"

"I said no." He straightened, forcing it, his free hand braced against the crystal wall beside you, now that sweat had broken out along his hairline despite the cold. "This is the spike before it breaks…It has to be. We modeled this."

"We modeled a spike.” Twelve corrected and for the first time there was something almost uncertain underneath the calculation. “Not this one."

"Clark, baby." Your voice cracked. Both your hands were on his arm now, gripping tightly enough to feel the tension underneath his skin, the controlled violence of him holding still on purpose. "Clark, please, if it's hurting you–"

"It's not going to last." He said it through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the chamber, on the violent pulse of green fighting against the gold. "It's a means to an end. It has to burn through, that's the whole point, it can't resist forever–" He cut himself off, breath hissing out through his nose and you felt his legs lock, refusing to let his body do what it wanted to do, which was fold.

"Gary," he called, "how much longer?"

"Unknown. The output is not behaving according to any modeled curve."

"Then we wait." His hand gripped yours again like an anchor. "We wait."

The green surged again and this time you heard him make a low and involuntary sound. His head dipped slightly as if something heavy had pressed down on him. His eyes shut for a second and every muscle in his jaw worked under the strain, the effort visible in the smallest movements of his face.

"Clark, look at me." You said as you stepped in front of him, both hands coming up to his face, so he’d look at you. His eyes opened and once they found yours, they held on. "Whatever this is about…it’s not worth the pain."

"It is…" His voice was barely above a whisper now. "You’ll see."

The green light convulsed one more time, violent and bright, the air around the chamber shimmering hard enough to blur the shape of it until it broke, the same way ice breaks, all at once, the resistance simply gone. The green collapsed inward on itself and the gold flooded in to fill the space it left behind and the hum of the concentrator dropped, smoothed out and settled.

"Isotopic activity," Gary announced and there was no mistaking the relief in it now, flat as he tried to keep it, "Twenty percent…Twelve percent...Six percent."

Clark's head lifted as he watched over your shoulder, eyes moving away from yours while yours simply couldn’t. He exhaled, long and shaking and you felt the tremor in his body ease as you too turned to watch.

"Two percent," Gary continued. "Zero point eight…Zero point three…Zero point zero…one." He paused. "Within acceptable margin…The sample is inert."

The column of light thinned, it drew back up into the ceiling and the panels above began to rotate closed and the machines powered down in sequence as the Fortress went quiet.

The shield over the chamber slid back and where the green stone had been, something else sat now, pale and almost colorless, holding the ambient light of the room differently than it had before, no longer pulsing or alive with that sickly glow. 

Your lips parted at the sight as Clark straightened slowly, drawing himself back together piece by piece before stepping down from the platform and offering you his hand. You took it, following him as your eyes met his.

“It’s okay,” he said before you could ask. “I’m okay. It’s over.”

You crossed the floor behind him while every robot in the room stood motionless, watching him the same way you were. He stopped at the edge of the chamber and looked down at the stone for a long moment before reaching in and picking it up with his bare hand.

Nothing happened.

He stood there holding it, turning it slightly, watching the light shift across its surface and you realized you’d stopped breathing somewhere in the last minute and hadn’t started again. He looked up, found your gaze and set a gentle hand against your cheek.

“It’s safe now. You can remove your glasses,” he said, still looking at you.

Your hands were already moving. The Fortress returned in full, unfiltered color as you stepped closer to him, staring at Clark holding something small and pale in his open palm, like the last few minutes hadn’t happened at all, like he’d been waiting this entire time just to show you this.

You swallowed. “I think…we need a breather,” you said, mostly to yourself.

You were already turning toward the nearest corridor when Clark suggested he take you somewhere outside. It took him only a moment to follow your movement and you didn't see what all the shifting and movement among the robots behind you had been about but only felt the change in atmosphere as Clark caught up.

His arm slid around your waist and a second later, the ground dropped away.

Air rushed past as he lifted you into the sky, carrying you through the open structure of the Fortress until the cold Arctic light returned in full. He set down on a platform high among the tallest crystalline spires, where the wind moved freely and the horizon stretched wide and white. 

Snow shimmered below and the sky was pale, endless.

“I don’t…” You let out a breathless laugh, the wind catching at your words. Your eyes swept the view once before you turned back to him. “I’m not sure what I just saw in there.”

Your voice tightened slightly. "And trust me, I tried to keep my eyes open through all of it, but you scared me." You gave his chest a firm hit with your fist. "What were you thinking, Clark Kent?"

The impact barely moved him, it only made him chuckle lightly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze stayed on you, unreadable in that scary way that always came just before something important.

Slowly, he reached into his belt and your attention locked instantly. 

He pulled out a carved band, holding it between two fingers like it mattered too much to be careless with. You could hear, or maybe just feel, your heartbeat speed up, loud enough that it felt like it filled the space between you.

He reached in again and produced a small, rough stone, one that bent the light in a way you'd never seen any diamond do, every facet catching a slightly different shade as it turned.

You watched as he closed his hand around it and when he opened his palm again, fragile shards fell away, revealing a small, clear stone underneath, which he carefully set into the first empty socket on the band. 

You blinked, eyes following his hand as he reached in again and drew out another rough stone, this one glowing faintly the same way the untouched walls of the Fortress had. He crushed it the same way, the stone giving under his grip, not shattering so much as yielding, and a larger stone emerged from inside it, settling into its place on the band.

Then he reached into his belt one last time and pulled out the disabled kryptonite. Of the three, it was by far the clearest, though somehow it still caught the light in a way none of the others quite managed.

He crushed it in his hand and set the final ‘diamond’.

You stared at the ring as his eyes began to glow red, the heat focusing into two narrow beams that swept carefully along the edges of each setting, sealing the stones into place. Once he was satisfied they were secure, he lifted the ring to his lips and let out a slow breath of super breath, cooling the metal until it no longer shimmered with heat.

Your heart was pounding now, lips parting slightly as you watched him lower himself onto one knee, his eyes never leaving yours. When his knee touched the platform, he paused, drew in a breath that seemed to cost him more than it should have and swallowed. He held the ring up toward you and whatever he'd rehearsed every day for the past year caught somewhere in his throat.

"...Please."

Your brows lifted slightly, lips curving into a smile you couldn't have stopped if you tried, your heart stumbling so hard in your chest you thought you might actually faint.

It was all a blur of mumbled words, tears, tight embraces, breathless laughter and the strange sensation of height shifting under your feet as the hours folded into one another. You slid your glove off so he could finally slip the ring onto your finger and in the space of a heartbeat the both of you were already cutting through the sky, Clark holding you close as the arctic shrank into light beneath you.

What followed was a mess of emotion and surging energy you had never seen from him in that state. You made it home in record time and the first stop had been the bedroom, the both of you, but especially Clark, letting go of everything he had been holding back. Everything that had stayed trapped behind restraint finally spilled out, fast and unguarded, until the bedframe gave way under the force of it and you both broke into breathless laughter in the aftermath.

After that, everything blurred again.

You sat on the couch as a streak of motion moved through the apartment, Clark unpacking every box in milliseconds, placing everything exactly where you had mentally mapped it out. The remaining cardboard vanished just as quickly, carried away like it had never been there. He returned almost immediately after, kneeling at the edge of the couch in front of you with the same restless energy still burning through him, only now softened by relief and joy. You met it halfway on the carpet, where time stopped mattering in any real sense.

It was late when the rush finally eased into something his body could keep up with at a normal human pace. Only then did you think about food.

You ended up on the kitchen counter, one hand lifted as the ring caught the warm light and threw it back in shifting color. Clark stood at the stove shirtless, moving between pots and fridge with distracted focus, adding things, adjusting heat and insisting you needed to eat before you fell asleep. You had been fighting sleep for a while already, after so many rounds, caught between exhaustion and the aftershock of everything.

The cold air from the opened fridge brushed your bare legs and it brought back the memory of earlier that day without warning.

“Tell me again,” you breathed, eyes fixed on the ring.

Clark stopped, whatever he was doing was abandoned in an instant. He stepped closer, placing both hands on either side of you against the counter, caging you in gently without pressure. His gaze didn’t go to the ring at first. It stayed on you, studying your face and reaction, like that mattered more than anything else he had built.

“Jewel Kryptonite,” he started, voice calmer now.

His hand lifted slightly as he spoke, indicating the first stone.

“I found it in the Fortress but it comes from the Jewel Mountains of Krypton. Its primary function was amplifying psychic abilities…telepathy and mental projection for Kryptonians. In my case…” He hesitated, just briefly, choosing the right way to place it. “It represents my mind…my subconscious, dreams, grief and memories. The parts of me nobody reaches…the parts I want you to have access to.”

He shifted his attention to the largest stone, the one in the middle.

“The Fortress crystal…origin and inheritance. It’s everything I was given, my legacy, my people’s knowledge…Krypton on Earth and Kal-El’s home.” His eyes softened slightly as they stayed on you. “Which you've gone out of your way to love and accept too in ways I never expected or thought possible.”

A quiet breath left him before he continued.

“And the last one but not least…never that.” His thumb brushed lightly against your hand where the ring sat. “Disabled green kryptonite. That was the hardest part and the reason this took so long…It’s what I trust you most with, my vulnerability…but not the only one.”

His gaze lifted fully to yours at that.

You moved closer instinctively, arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him in as if distance had become unnecessary. You raised your hand again, watching the ring catch the light between you both.

“Who you come from… who you are… and what you trust me with,” you murmured, more to yourself than anything else. Then something else caught your attention.

“What about the band?” you asked softly. You had noticed it earlier, the faint engravings when the light hit just right, the House of El symbol hidden in the design, it was subtle but definitely intentional.

It was clear nothing about it had been accidental.

He exhaled through a small smile. “Everything I am,” he said, quieter now, “set into the thing that led me to you.”

Your brows softened.

“I made it out of my ship.”

The confession pulled the breath straight out of you. “It took you a year,” you said, voice catching slightly, “and so much effort and thought and I–”

"I love you." His voice caught, eyes filling again as they held yours. "I loved you the day I met you…I love you today,” He paused, “Y/n, I'll love you long after we leave this Earth."

You sniffled as a tear slipped down your cheek before you even realized it had formed but still, you smiled, voice cracking with emotion. "And I'll love you as long as it exists."

Clark lifted a hand, thumb brushing the tear away with a tenderness that contrasted everything else about him and gently tilted your face toward his as he pressed his lips to yours, leaving no distance between what he had built and what he had finally given away.

He might have been unable to say anything when he was down on one knee, but that didn’t mean he had no words for you. He simply doubted they existed in any language and if they did, they had a terrible tendency to fall galaxies short.

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

"Tell me again" and then he tells her all the tiny details he put into the ring 😭

[kimoralov3]

pull 'em down, turn me 'round

pairing: clark kent x reader

description: clark's been growing his hair out lately, and you've definitely noticed. how could you not?

warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected sex (please wear a condom for the love of god), kitchen sex, floor sex, oral (fem receiving), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, light spanking, loads of pet names from clark, one sir from reader, orgasm denial (only for a second), brat/brat tamer dynamics, clark switches between being mean and nice because this is my self indulgent fantasy, cumming inside, slight aftercare, praise, pre-established relationship, swearing, i'm probably forgetting smth i have not slept in almost 24 hours, clark should be his own warning

word count: 3.8k

a/n: this insanity was obviously created due to the set photos lol; divider is from @stanmarvelous and the pics are from twitter/pinterest. any errors are purely mine because i wrote half of this past midnight and have not slept since

You were among one of the first people to discover that Clark Kent and the infamous Superman were one in the same.

You didn't mind the cancelled dates, or the nights where he stumbled into the apartment after a fight with a particularly determined foe. Not many words were passed between the two of you as you laid him down on the couch, putting ice packs on his bruised sides.

"What did I do to deserve someone like you?" Clark would ask afterwards, arm wrapped around you as if you could fly away at any moment.

"Don't know, but pretty soon I'm gonna start charging you for my services. Medical care isn't cheap, you know?" You'd tease, a giggle passing through your lips when Clark would roll his eyes at you.

Outside of the whole superhero thing, you and Clark lived a relatively normal life. You'd wake up together, shower together, eat breakfast together, then head off separately to your jobs.

You and Clark were currently laying on your couch on one of your sparse joint off days. His head was laying on your chest while the two of you watched reruns of The Good Place. Clark had his arms wrapped around your middle, his full attention on the TV.

"Do you think we would make it into the Good Place?" He asks suddenly, lifting his head up to look at you head on. You smile softly at the curl that falls down his forehead, pushing it back behind his ear.

"I think we can certainly try. But that's kind of the whole point, you know? Even when you try and do something good, you end up fucking up somehow." You say with a shrug. "It's a big philosophical question that we are certainly not qualified enough to answer."

"I think all that matters in the end is that you tried in life. It's the content of your heart and character that really matters." Clark mumbles, going back to the TV like it was no big deal. It was one of the things you loved the most about him; he wanted to believe that if you did your best, everything would work out in the end. Even after all this time, he was still that optimistic guy you met 2 years ago.

"Yeah, something like that." You mutter, your fingers continuing their path through his hair. The two of you just sit there, enjoying each other's company. As your hands are coasting through his hair, you realize something. "Are you growing your hair out?"

"Huh?" Clark asks as he lifts his head up once more. "Oh, well, not intentionally. I just haven't gotten it cut in a while. Do you not like it or something?"

"No no, I do like it." You respond quickly, tugging on a strand thoughtfully. "It's cute. I like your hair longer."

"Oh." Clark says, his cheeks tinted slightly pink. "Well okay then."

The two of you went back to just enjoying each other's company, and you didn't think much of the conversation.

But Clark could not stop thinking about it. Ever since that day, he's started putting a bit more effort into how his hair looks. Not that he wasn't before, but longer hair means that you need to spend more time caring for it properly.

He wanted to look good for you, that's all.

And he kept his promise—he didn't go out to get his hair cut. And that was when you finally started to notice.

"Wow, Clark, your hair is really starting to get long." You say with a giggle as you bump his hip. The two of you were standing together in the kitchen; you chopping up vegetables and Clark rinsing the rice.

"Oh yeah, guess I haven't noticed." Clark says timidly as he drains the water from the rice. It's clear that he's lying through his teeth, but you choose to be nice and not comment on it.

"That's fair, you've been pretty busy saving the world and whatnot." You tease as you toss the vegetables in their own bowl.

Clark scoffs and rolls his eyes at that, shaking his head. "I think saying that is a bit of a misrepresentation of what it is I do."

"I think the citizens of Metropolis thank you very much for stopping whatever scheme Livewire has set up for the week." You say, setting everything aside and hopping up to sit on the counter.

"Well, it's not like I can just let her roam around and do whatever she wants." Clark states, setting the bowl of rice aside to stand between your legs. Your arms move up and around his neck on autopilot, pulling him in closer to you.

"My handsome, long haired savior." You say, your mouth split open by your grin. Clark always got a little big-headed when you complimented him like this, so you made sure to do it. Very often.

"Oh yeah? You really like the longer hair this much?" He asks as he rests his hands on your thighs.

You hum softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Of course I do. Plus, it gives me something to hold onto."

Clark groans out your name at that, burying his face in your neck. "You can't just say stuff like that out of nowhere, sweetheart."

"What, it's true." A giggle slips past your lips, your legs wrapping around Clark's waist. "Having something to grip onto can come in handy."

"We're supposed to be making dinner, and here you are trying to get me all riled up." Clark complains as he lifts up his head to look at you, but his heart isn't in it. "Are you doing this on purpose?"

"What? Of course not, I would never do that to you on purpose." You say with a fake gasp, hand to your chest to play up the dramatics even more. "I am a lady, Mr. Kent. I would never rile you up for the purpose of having sex."

The look Clark gives you makes it clear that he doesn't believe a word coming out of your mouth, but when you bat your pretty little lashes at him, there's nothing he can do to resist. "You're a tease, did you know that?" He mutters as he trails kisses down your jaw and neck.

"Am not." You say with a scoff as you tilt your head back slightly. "I just know what I want, and when I want it."

"You mean you're bossy." Clark corrects as he moves his lips down to and across your collarbones, sucking a hickey right there. "But that's okay, I can handle a bit of bossiness."

"Clark." You whine, already tugging at the strands of hair at the nape of his neck. Patience had never really been your strong suit, especially when it came to Clark and his mouth.

"'S okay, sweetheart. I got you." You can feel his breath through the fabric of your shirt, watching intently as he works his way down your body. He pulls you closer to the edge of the counter, causing you to gasp and grip onto the counter tighter. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall."

Any other time, you'd knock him a down a peg or two for the smugness that was coloring his tone, but you couldn't bring yourself to care when you were watching his fingers quickly undo the button on your jeans.

You'll get him back for this later. Much later.

You lift your hips up slightly to assist Clark in getting your jeans off, watching the way his eyes dilate as your underwear come into view. "Fuck." You loved when he got like this; when he became so focused on you and your pleasure and his usual farm-boy manners slip away.

"Like what you see?" There's still enough fight in you for that comment, but it quickly fades away when Clark kisses you over underwear. You whine his name, trying to lift your hips to urge him to do more.

"Uh uh, stay put." His hands wrap around your waist, keeping you pressed down firmly onto the counter.

"Yes, sir." The words are out before you can stop yourself, and you barely have time to register what you said before Clark has torn your underwear in half. "Clark—"

"Shut up." He says firmly before beginning to mouth at your clit. Your breath catches in your throat as you look down at him, watching as he licks stripes up and down your slit.

"Clark, please." You moan as you thread your fingers through his hair, trying to push his head down deeper.

Clark pulls away with a chuckle, his fingers digging into the skin of your thighs. "Please, what? If you're gonna act like a brat, then I'll treat you like one."

There was this look in his eye, the one he only got every once in a blue moon. The look that meant that you wouldn't be able to walk straight tomorrow. As soon as you feel his lips on you once more, you try to savor the feeling. The warmth of his tongue as he circles your entrance, teasing you for a moment before dipping in. Your back arches as your eyes roll into the back of your head, the grip you have on Clark's hair and the edge of the counter becoming almost forceful.

For any other guy, it would be too much and he would've pulled away. Thank god for Clark and his Kryptonian genes.

The way that Clark was flicking and sucking and biting was all too much. "Clark, please." The plea comes out almost breathless, all your strength going to keep yourself upright on the counter.

"What is it, hm? Use your words for me, baby." Clark mutters as he nips gently at your clit. "I can't give you what you need unless you tell me, remember?"

"Fuck, just don't stop." You were sure that if he stopped now, you would explode and that wouldn't be any good for either of you. "Please don't stop, Clark. Please keep going, please."

Clark smirked at that, reinforcing his hold on your thighs. "Well, if you insist." That's all the warning you get before he puts almost twice the effort he had before into sucking on your clit, his tongue working it's way in and out of you. Your eyes are practically screwed shut, small pants and moans of Clark's name falling from your lips at the intense pleasure.

"Oh my god, I'm gonna cum." You whine as your legs begin to shake. The coil in your stomach is close to snapping, causing you to grind your hips up against his mouth. Your hand that's in his hair tightens for a second as you finally let go, a moan ripping through you as your release takes over you.

The smell of sweat, your perfume, and Clark's cologne are mixing together in the air around the two of you, your focus going in and out. But Clark? He's focused on helping you ride through this orgasm, his movements slowing down but never stopping completely. "Oh my god, Clark!"

As you came down from your orgasm your hold on the counter slipped a bit, but luckily Clark could hold you up all by himself. You expected him to stop now that you've cum, but his head was still buried between your legs and he was eating you out like a man starved. "Fuck baby, you taste so good. 'S this all for me?"

"C-Clark, I can't—" You gasp, trying to pull away from his hold on you. The overstimulation was too much, but at the same time you wanted more. You wanted Clark to throw you over the edge, over and over and over again until you physically couldn't take anymore.

"Shh, it's okay. You can handle another, I know you can." Clark whispers, sucking and flicking your clit. "Give me another one, yeah?"

And when Clark asked you for something, especially all pretty like with his head between your legs and treating you like you were the only thing that mattered, who were you to tell him no? You're not really sure where Clark ends and you begin at this point, but you don't really care. All that matters right now is the pleasure coursing through your veins.

The second orgasm is somehow more powerful than the first, but this time you could hear the soft grunts Clark was letting out into your pussy. If you didn't already know that he was impossibly hard, you might just think that he would spend the rest of the night down there to give you as many orgasms as you wanted.

Clark makes sure that you're fully sat on the counter before standing up himself, looking at you like he could just ravish you. "You don't know what you do to me." He groans out before smashing his lips against yours.

You use the little bit of strength you have left to pull him closer, one hand finding it's way to his hair and the other grabbing his ass. The two of you stay like for a while, your lips melded together as the two of you try to become Clark. You whine when the two of you pull apart, trying to pull him closer. "I need you. Please?"

"Anything you want." He mutters as he sucks on your collarbone, pulling you off the counter and flipping you around so that he could bend you over. "Just need to make sure that you're ready for me, yeah? Can you be a little more patient for me, sweetheart?"

Your arms are resting on the counter, the cool temperature helping to ground you a bit so you don't grind against Clark like an eager slut. Not that he would complain.

Clark keeps a hand on your waist as he unbuckles his pants and takes himself out of his boxers. "So pretty. So good for me, too." He whispers as he presses kisses along your shoulder. The whine that slips out is involuntary, as well as the way your hips shift back to feel even a hint of him. "Patience, baby. Don't wanna hurt you."

"Just put it in." You beg, pushing back once more. There's a sharp slap against your ass, causing you to gasp and jolt forward.

"What did I just say?" He scolds, rubbing his tip against your slit. "Be patient. Only good girls get rewards, remember? Don't be a brat."

"'M sorry, just—please? I'll be good, I'll be so so good, just put it in." You beg, looking over at your shoulder at Clark. On the surface he looks like his usual calm and composed self, but you know better, because you know him. You can tell that he's on the verge of losing all his control, and now you're determined to be the reason he does.

"Clark, please?" You ask, putting that little lilt in your voice that you know always gets to him. It's almost as if you can see the final thread snapping, and you barely have time to react before Clark is lining up with your entrance and burying himself to the hilt.

"You just couldn't be patient for another second, could you?" He grunts as he slowly pulls out and thrusts back in, enjoying the way your breath hitches in your throat. "I thought you were good at following instructions, what happened to that?"

"No fun." Is all that you can get out, too preoccupied with the slow, deep strokes Clark is giving you. He's doing this on purpose; giving you what you want but holding back just enough so that you won't be cumming again anytime soon. But frankly, you're a bit wound up right now and that just won't cut it. "Clark—"

"No," He says firmly, pressing on your back to make you lay flat on the counter. "I already told you; if you want to act like a brat, then I'm going to fucking treat you like one. And brats don't get what they want."

The speed of his thrusts speed up, knocking the wind from your lungs. Clark's grip on your waist is tight, and you're honestly glad because there is no way your legs work anymore. The feeling of him slamming in and out of you, the way that he's trying to keep his weight off of you— it's all too much too fast, especially after having two back to back orgasms.

"Clark, slow down." You moan, fingers slipping on the counter. "Too much, it's too much."

"You can take it." Clark growls, his hand wrapping around your throat and pulling you up so your back meets his chest. This new angle tears a moan from inside you, your hand clawing at Clark's arm.

"Fuck!" You shout, your eyes screwing shut as you struggle to keep yourself in enough control to not let Clark win.

You're failing. Hard.

"Are you gonna cum again, pretty girl?" Clark whispers as he nibbles on your ear, trailing kisses down your neck and shoulder. "Gonna cum on my cock?"

You nod frantically, your body tilting forward slightly. Clark allows you to, making sure that you don't slam into the counter on your way down. He also picks up the pace, chuckling softly at the weak moan that escapes your lips.

"Need a little help there?" He asks mockingly, his hand sliding down your body and in between your legs to rub tight circles on your clit. "Come on baby, I know you can do it. Cum for me."

Spots of white cloud your vision as you cum this time, your moan fading in and out. You can vaguely make out Clark whispering small praises in your ear as you come down, but you're still too out of it to focus on what he could be saying. Your body is limp, and you no longer have any control over it. But that doesn't matter, because Clark carefully pulls out and lays you on the floor.

"Did so well for me, princess." Clark whispers sweetly as he presses kisses against your chest, gently massaging your sides. "Do you think you can give me one more?"

The more logical part of your brain is screaming at you to say no. To tell Clark to get off of you, because you may never walk again after this. But the greedier, more Clark hungry part of you wants you to say yes. Wants you to keep saying yes and to not let go of him, because there will never be so much thing as too much Clark Kent when it comes to you.

That louder part of you wins, that stubborn little bitch.

"Okay." You whisper, smiling weakly at the look of pure glee that comes across Clark's face.

"Thank you, baby." Clark mummers as he leans down and presses a chaste kiss against your lips. "Thank you." He repeats as he slides back in, groaning at the way you wrap around him.

One of his hands lifts your leg up to wrap around his waist while the other laces your fingers together. He rests his forehead on yours as he starts moving, the thrusts slow and fueled by love and passion. A soft sigh floats it's way in the air, and you can't tell if it came from you or from him.

"I love you." You hum, bringing his hand up to your lips to place a kiss on it. The grin that overtakes his face can only be described as goofy, and he doesn't even have to reply for you to know just how much he loves you back.

His love is in the way he's holding you like you could break at any moment. His love is in the way he kisses from your jaw to you neck to your chest, because he knows that it soothes you and keeps you grounded during intense moments like that.

"Doing so well for me." He says, almost like a prayer. "Always so good for me."

You giggle softly, pressing a kiss on one of the freckles that littered his shoulder. "Only for you."

Clark lets out an unintentional moan at that, his grip on your hand and waist tightening ever so slightly. "I'm gonna cum." His head drops to the crook of your neck, his breath tickling your ear.

"Please, Clark. Inside." You whine, not caring how pathetic or desperate you might sound right now. Clark doesn't need to be told twice, only making it three more deep thrusts before he's spilling inside of you with a loud moan. His release triggers your fourth and final one, your teeth sinking into his shoulder in an attempt to quieten the sounds coming from your mouth.

Clark thrusts shallowly a few more times, kissing you once more as he slowly and carefully slides out of you. "Stay here for a second, okay?" He instructs, leaving one last kiss on your nose as he gets up.

He disappears into the bathroom to get a towel to clean you up, while you lean yourself up against the bottom cabinets. He returns fairly quickly, immediately dropping to his knees and pressing a warm towel between your legs to help get rid of the mess.

"Sorry." He apologizes sheepishly, the tips of his ears tinted pink. You chuckle softly, shaking your head at his sudden embarrassment. "I guess I got a little carried away there, huh?"

"Don't apologize, I enjoyed myself. Like, a lot." You say reassuringly as you push back some of the hair that had fallen in his face.

"Good." Clark declares as he finishes cleaning you up, setting the towel aside to be dealt with later. "Here, let me." He says as he helps you stand up, allowing you to rest your weight on him while you regained feeling in your legs.

"Guess this is what happens when you grow your hair out." You laugh, taking a moment to look at your discarded clothes and the forgotten dinner the two of you were supposed to be making.

"Yeah, I guess so." Clark mumbles, scratching his neck as he takes in the damage for himself. "Why don't you go sit down and rest? I can finish up here."

"Well, if you insist. I'll never turn down an opportunity to sit down and gawk at you." Clark rolls his eyes at your comment, lightly smacking your ass.

"Careful, unless you're looking for round two. And I don't think that you can handle that at the moment." He warns, taking off his shirt and putting it on you so that you'd be covered. Even when he was scolding you, he couldn't help but be a gentleman. It's one of the reasons why you loved him so much.

"Alright, but don't hesitate to call me if you need help, okay?" You say, giving Clark a playfully strict look as you make your way to the living room.

Yeah, Clark was never allowed to cut his hair again. And if all the scissors and clippers in your shared apartment seemingly disappeared overnight? Well, that was between you and the trash cans.

@ivysprophecy @arkofblake @robinavitchabbotslut

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

This right here 🤤

[bee2124]

Real men have failed me but fictional men never have 😛

[powerhayakawaa]

when you're trying to find a good fanfic to read but your tumblr fyp is genuinly shit

[belleeebelleee]

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Bucky thinks you're too young for him, despite the fact that he's already half in love with you.

The first time James Buchanan Barnes looks at you too long, he nearly walks into a glass door.

Sam laughs so hard he wheezes.

“Man, that is embarrassing,” Sam Wilson says around his grin.

Bucky scowls at him, rubbing his shoulder where it clipped the frame. “Shut up.”

Sam’s eyes slide toward you across the compound gym.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the mat with Alpine sprawled in your lap, completely unaware of the catastrophe you’ve apparently caused. One of the recruits is talking your ear off while you nod politely, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“You got it bad,” Sam says.

“I do not.”

“You walked into a door.”

“Poor design.”

Sam snorts. “Sure.”

Bucky ignores him. Mostly because there’s nothing he can say without sounding defensive.

Or worse.

Truthful.

Because the problem is this:

You’re too young.

Not immature. Not reckless. Not incapable.

Just young.

Young in the way sunlight is young. Like fresh starts and futures and people who still buy furniture instead of inheriting ghosts.

And Bucky—

Bucky is over a hundred years old with blood on his hands that will never come clean.

So no.

Absolutely not.

Not happening.

Unfortunately, his heart seems to have missed the memo.

You join the Avengers in the least dramatic way possible.

No alien invasions.

No secret prophecies.

No world-ending catastrophe.

You’re simply very, very good at your job.

You’re a trauma medic attached to a relief organization the Avengers occasionally partner with, and after patching up three agents, one diplomat, and Sam Wilson himself during a mission in Madripoor, Fury offers you a permanent position.

You say no.

Twice.

The third time, Pepper Potts calls personally.

By the fourth offer, you finally cave.

Which is how you end up living in the compound three floors beneath a supersoldier who actively avoids you.

At first, you assume he just doesn’t like people.

Natasha informs you otherwise.

“Oh, he likes people,” Natasha Romanoff says dryly over breakfast. “Just not many.”

You glance toward the empty seat Bucky abandoned the second you walked into the kitchen.

“…Did I offend him somehow?”

Natasha actually chokes on her coffee.

Across from her, Sam suddenly becomes deeply fascinated by his cereal.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Natasha says immediately.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sam agrees.

You narrow your eyes.

Neither elaborates.

You begin noticing things after that.

Little things.

Bucky always leaves the room when you enter it—but somehow your favorite tea always appears stocked in the kitchen.

You mention once that the compound hallways are freezing, and two days later there’s a thick knit blanket folded neatly outside your door with no note attached.

You complain about a stubborn cabinet hinge in your apartment.

The next morning it’s fixed.

No one admits responsibility.

But when you thank Bucky casually over dinner just to test a theory, he nearly inhales his drink.

“…Wasn’t me.”

You smile slowly.

“Okay.”

He stares at you like you’re dangerous.

Which is ridiculous.

You’re wearing bunny slippers.

The age gap becomes obvious one night during a movie marathon.

You, Sam, Peter, and Bucky are sprawled across the common room while some absurd eighties action movie plays on the screen.

Peter groans dramatically. “This CGI is awful.”

“It looked good at the time,” you argue.

Bucky turns his head.

“At the time?”

You freeze.

Sam bursts into laughter so violently he almost falls off the couch.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “She thinks the eighties are ancient history.”

“They are ancient history,” you defend.

Bucky stares at you with something between horror and disbelief.

“You were born after the eighties?”

“…Yes?”

“The nineties?” he asks weakly.

“Yes.”

Peter pipes up helpfully. “She was born in 1998.”

Bucky looks like someone shot him.

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Sam says gleefully. “He is not.”

Bucky stands abruptly.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Sam loses it completely.

After that, Bucky avoids you harder.

Which would almost be impressive if he weren’t terrible at hiding the fact that he cares about you.

He watches you constantly.

Not in a creepy way.

In a protective way.

Like he’s making sure you’re breathing.

You catch it in fragments.

His eyes tracking you during missions.

His body subtly positioning between you and danger.

The way he relaxes when you laugh.

The way he goes still when someone touches you for too long.

You start understanding the truth before anyone says it aloud.

Bucky Barnes is in love with you.

And for some insane reason—

You’re falling for him too.

It happens slowly.

Then all at once.

You fall for his quietness first.

Most people assume silence means emptiness.

Bucky’s silence is full.

Heavy with observation. Care. Thoughtfulness.

He notices everything.

The exact way you take your coffee.

The songs you hum absentmindedly.

Which nightmares leave you restless.

You realize he starts leaving the compound gym earlier on mornings after you wake from bad dreams.

Like he’s trying to make breakfast before you get there.

Like feeding people is the only comfort he knows how to offer.

And God.

When he smiles?

Rare. Small. Crooked.

It feels precious.

Like discovering something hidden beneath ice.

The problem is that Bucky refuses to let anything happen between you.

The closer you get, the more distance he forces between you afterward.

You’ll spend hours talking on the roof at night—sharing stories and terrible coffee and quiet laughter—and then he’ll avoid you for three straight days.

It hurts more than you expect.

Because you know he feels it too.

One night, after a mission in Prague, you finally corner him.

He’s sitting alone in the hangar cleaning his weapons when you walk in.

“Did I do something wrong?”

His hands stop moving instantly.

“No.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.”

You fold your arms.

He sighs.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Bucky—”

“You should be out with people your own age.”

The words hit like cold water.

You stare at him.

“…What?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“And?”

“And I’m not…” He swallows hard. “I’m not someone you build a future with.”

Anger sparks sharp and immediate.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His jaw tightens.

“You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re scared.”

That gets his attention.

Steel-blue eyes snap to yours.

“You don’t know what I am.”

“I know exactly what you are,” you fire back. “You’re kind. You’re loyal. You’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing. You bring me tea when I’m stressed and pretend you didn’t. You stay outside the medbay when I work late because you think I don’t notice.”

His expression fractures slightly.

“You deserve someone better.”

“No,” you say softly. “I deserve to choose.”

Silence stretches between you.

Raw.

Fragile.

Bucky looks wrecked by it.

By you.

“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I remember too much.”

Your anger fades instantly.

Slowly, carefully, you walk toward him.

He goes perfectly still.

“I know,” you say gently.

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“That’s not helping.”

Despite everything, you laugh quietly.

His eyes close briefly like the sound physically affects him.

“You’re gonna wake up one day,” he says roughly, “and realize you wasted your life on an old man with too many ghosts.”

You crouch in front of him.

“James.”

He looks at you helplessly.

“You are not hard to love.”

Something inside him breaks.

You see it happen in real time.

Like a wall finally cracking after decades under pressure.

His metal hand flexes once.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to believe you.”

Your heart aches.

So you do the only thing that feels right.

You take his hand.

Both of them.

Flesh and metal.

Equally.

“I mean it.”

Bucky stares at your joined hands like he’s never seen anything so devastating.

Then he pulls away.

Not harshly.

Worse.

Carefully.

Like it costs him everything.

“I can’t.”

And he leaves.

You cry exactly once about it.

Natasha finds you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning eating dry cereal from the box.

“You look terrible,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She takes the cereal from you.

“…He said no?”

You nod miserably.

Natasha sighs the sigh of someone deeply exhausted by male stupidity.

“He loves you.”

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, he’s also an idiot.”

A startled laugh escapes you.

Natasha bumps your shoulder lightly.

“Give him time.”

Time, unfortunately, turns out to involve disaster.

Because of course it does.

This is the Avengers.

Nothing emotionally significant can happen without explosions.

The mission in Bucharest goes sideways fast.

An arms deal.

Bad intel.

Too many hostiles.

You’re there strictly as medical support, tucked safely in the quinjet several blocks away.

At least, that’s the plan.

Then the building collapses.

Your comms erupt with shouting.

“Medic down—”

“—need extraction—”

“Where’s Barnes?”

Dust fills the air.

You’re dragged from the wreckage half-conscious with blood running down your temple and your left leg trapped beneath concrete.

And then Bucky arrives.

You’ve seen the Winter Soldier before.

Cold.

Efficient.

Terrifying.

But this?

This is different.

This is rage.

Pure, horrifying rage.

He tears through debris with his metal arm like the rubble personally offended him.

Someone tries to stop him.

That person immediately regrets it.

“BUCKY—” Sam shouts.

Bucky ignores everyone.

His eyes find you.

And you swear the entire world stills.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly.

He drops to his knees beside you.

Hands shaking.

Actually shaking.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough with panic.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Your attempt at humor nearly destroys him.

You can see it.

Blood loss makes everything hazy, but one thing becomes crystal clear:

Bucky loves you so much it terrifies him.

He lifts the concrete slab like it weighs nothing.

The second you’re free, he gathers you against his chest.

Protective.

Desperate.

Your face presses against tactical gear and leather and the frantic pounding of his heart.

“You’re okay,” he mutters, like he’s trying to convince himself. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

His forehead rests briefly against your hair.

For one tiny moment, the world disappears.

No missions.

No history.

No fear.

Just him.

Just you.

Then your pain catches up.

You hiss sharply.

Bucky immediately pulls back. “Medbay. Now.”

The quinjet ride is chaos.

You fade in and out while Bruce works on your leg.

Bucky never leaves your side.

Not once.

At some point you wake to find him sitting beside your cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s praying.

“You stayed,” you murmur.

His head snaps up instantly.

“Yeah.”

“You hate medbays.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“Still counts.”

A faint huff of laughter leaves him.

Relief flickers across his face just hearing you joke again.

You watch him quietly.

Disheveled hair.

Blood on his gloves.

Exhaustion carved into every line of his body.

And underneath it all—

Love.

So much love.

“Bucky.”

His eyes meet yours.

“Come here.”

He hesitates.

Then obeys.

You shift carefully, making room for him beside the cot.

“Doll—”

“Please.”

That word wrecks him every time.

He sits carefully beside you.

You lean into him immediately.

No hesitation.

His entire body locks up.

Then slowly—

Slowly—

He wraps an arm around you.

Like holding you is both instinct and privilege.

You rest your head against his shoulder.

“I meant what I said before,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then quietly:

“I know.”

“You still think you’re too old for me?”

A long pause.

“…Yeah.”

You snort softly.

He looks offended.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You tilt your head back to look at him. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re using age because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared someone might actually love you enough to stay.”

Bucky goes still.

Dead still.

The truth lands hard.

You see it.

And because apparently you enjoy emotional violence, you add gently:

“I think everyone leaves you eventually, and you’re trying to leave first.”

His breathing catches.

For a second you think he might walk away again.

Instead, he whispers:

“You make me want things.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“What kind of things?”

“A home.” His voice is barely audible. “A future. Somethin’ normal.” He swallows hard. “Kids, maybe.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Bucky looks horrified he admitted that aloud.

“You’d be a good dad,” you say softly.

He laughs once.

Broken.

“No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t.”

“You already are.”

His brows pull together.

You smile faintly. “You take care of everyone. Especially the people you love.”

The word hangs there.

Love.

He doesn’t deny it this time.

Instead, he reaches up carefully and brushes hair away from your face.

His fingertips linger against your cheek.

Warm flesh hand.

Not the metal one.

Like he still thinks the other might hurt you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

Your heart pounds.

“Why would I do that?”

His eyes darken with emotion so intense it almost hurts to look at.

Then finally—

Finally—

He kisses you.

Soft at first.

Tentative.

Like he’s waiting for the world to punish him for wanting this.

But the second you kiss him back, everything changes.

His hand slides behind your neck.

He kisses like a man starved.

Like he’s been holding himself back for months and doesn’t know how to do it anymore.

It’s not frantic.

It’s worse.

Careful.

Reverent.

Every brush of his mouth says something he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

You pull back breathless.

Bucky’s forehead drops against yours.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.

You laugh softly.

“Because you kissed me?”

“Because I’m never gonna stop wanting to do it again.”

Dating Bucky Barnes is surprisingly domestic.

You expect intensity.

Drama.

Brooding declarations in the rain.

Instead, you get:

Quiet mornings.

His hand at the small of your back.

Shared coffee.

Movie nights where he falls asleep with his head in your lap despite insisting supersoldiers “don’t nap.”

You get Alpine deciding you’re her favorite human.

You get Bucky standing in the kitchen at midnight making grilled cheese while listening to you ramble about terrible reality television.

You get a man who loves fiercely but carefully.

Like your happiness is something precious he’s been entrusted with.

The age gap still bothers him sometimes.

Usually in small ways.

Pop culture references.

Technology.

The occasional existential crisis when you tease him about being born before penicillin.

“You are never saying that sentence again,” he informs you gravely.

You grin. “You were literally alive during swing dancing.”

“So were old people in the nineties.”

“You are old people in the nineties.”

He glares.

Then kisses you to shut you up.

Which honestly feels like a win.

The real turning point comes six months later.

It’s after a mission.

A bad one.

You wake in the middle of the night to find Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.

Nightmare.

You recognize the signs now.

Without speaking, you move closer and press against his back.

His shoulders tense briefly.

Then sag.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“No.”

Honest.

Always honest with you now.

You wrap your arms around his waist.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Long silence.

Then quietly:

“I saw you die.”

Your chest aches.

“In the dream?”

He nods once.

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The fear in his voice destroys you.

You turn him gently until he faces you.

“You know what’s really unfair?” you murmur.

“What?”

“You think loving you is a burden.”

His eyes flicker downward.

“But loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Emotion crashes across his face so openly it startles you.

You touch his jaw softly.

“I’m not going anywhere, James.”

And for the first time—

He believes you.

You can actually see it happen.

The shift.

The surrender.

His walls finally lowering completely.

Bucky pulls you into his lap and buries his face against your neck.

Holding you so tightly it feels instinctive.

Necessary.

“I love you,” he says roughly.

Not tentative.

Not fearful.

Certain.

“I love you too.”

He kisses you afterward like he finally understands he’s allowed to.

A year later, Sam finds Bucky in the compound kitchen staring at a jewelry website with naked panic.

Sam nearly drops his smoothie.

“Oh, this is serious.”

Bucky slams the laptop shut.

“Get out.”

Sam grins slowly. “You’re proposing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re absolutely proposing.”

Bucky scowls.

Sam’s expression softens unexpectedly.

“You happy?”

Bucky glances toward the hallway where your laughter echoes faintly from another room.

His entire face changes.

Softens in a way that would probably terrify his enemies.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I am.”

He proposes on the roof.

No audience.

No elaborate setup.

Just the city lights below and cold evening air curling around both of you.

You’re rambling about something completely ridiculous when he interrupts suddenly:

“I wanna spend the rest of my life loving you.”

You blink.

“…What?”

Bucky looks nervous.

Actually nervous.

More nervous than when facing down armed mercenaries.

“I had this whole speech planned,” he mutters, frustrated. “Was supposed to be better than this.”

Your heart starts pounding.

He drops to one knee anyway.

“I know I’m older than you.”

You snort through sudden tears. “Slightly.”

“Brat.”

You grin shakily.

Bucky takes your hand carefully.

Reverently.

“But every good thing I have now started with you.” His voice roughens. “You made me believe I could still have a life after everything.”

Tears spill down your cheeks immediately.

“So yeah,” he says softly. “Marry me?”

You don’t even let him finish reaching for the ring box before you’re kissing him.

Bucky laughs against your mouth for the first time since you’ve known him.

Pure happiness.

Unrestrained.

“Yes?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yes.”

Again.

“Yes.”

He slides the ring onto your finger with shaking hands.

Then pulls you into his arms like he never intends to let go again.

And this time—

He doesn’t.

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

This was everything Bucky deserves and more 🥹

[juniebjonesin]

ᴄᴀʟʟ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴇᴛ ʟᴏꜱᴛ

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky barnes doesn’t know what to do with freedom. so he does the only thing he can think of—he makes a flyer.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › bucky x female reader ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › mentions of alcohol/drinking, handyman bucky, post tfatws, lowk grumpy x sunshine, semi slow burn, some fluff, heavy banter, yearning to the max, acts of service love language, strangers to something more, domesticity, first kiss, soft bucky, reader is a little too trusting but it works out, not beta read we die like men. ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 10.9k

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › guys if this is ass plz lie, ive lost my writers spark entirely and this is something i had to drag out from the bottom of the barrel so i apologize in advance.

Bucky's staring at a blank wall in his apartment.

It’s been blank for three months.

He hasn’t put up art, hasn’t mounted shelves. Hasn’t even leaned anything against it to pretend he might one day decide. The paint is that neutral off-white landlords choose when they don’t want tenants getting ideas, it reflects the late afternoon light in a way that makes the room feel larger than it is.

Larger. Emptier.

He folds his arms over his chest and studies the wall like it’s a problem he’s been assigned.

He’s “free” now. No handler. No mission briefs. No coded directives slipped under doors or encrypted messages lighting up burner phones, no one telling him where to go, who to be, or what mistakes to fix. He thought freedom would feel big. He thought it would be loud in a good way, like fireworks or a door kicked open. He thought it would feel like breathing after being underwater too long.

It doesn't.

It feels… empty.

The kind of empty that echoes. The kind that makes every sound in the apartment too sharp, the refrigerator humming, pipes ticking in the walls, the faint traffic noise drifting up from the street.

He shifts his weight.

Bucky knows what you need to have in today's world to do something, to be something that matters. He doesn’t have half of it. He never went to college, the war kind of interrupted that. He doesn't know where he would start with a resume, “Assassin, covert operative and international fugitive” doesn’t format well in bullet points. He tried LinkedIn, once, then deleted it in under five minutes after they asked what his minimum salary was at a past job.

He doesn't have a plan, he's got what he always thought he wanted from his life and now that he has it, it's collecting dust in his empty apartment.

He knows what he does have. A truck. Old yet reliable, rebuilt twice over with his own hands. Mechanical skills. He can fix almost anything with an engine. Most things without one. A terrifying resting face, that he’s been told scares even the brutalist of criminals away. More than once.

And time. So much time.

He runs a hand over his jaw, exhales, and finally looks away from the wall. He tried therapy. He still goes once a week where he sits on a couch across from a woman who asks him what he wants now that he’s allowed to want things.

He doesn’t have an answer.

He tried the gym. That just made him feel like he was waiting for something.

He tried walking around Brooklyn without a destination. That lasted two hours before he found himself counting exits and scanning rooftops out of habit. Freedom is supposed to come with direction, that’s what people imply. You earn it, and then you use it.

Bucky doesn’t know how to do that, how to do freedom. He moves into the kitchen, if you can call it that. It’s more of an open counter situation, and pulls open a drawer. Inside are exactly three pens, a rubber band, and a folded takeout menu.

He grabs a pen. Stands there for a long moment. Then he finds a pad of paper in another drawer that thick, slightly yellow, the kind meant for grocery lists and tears off a sheet. He sits at the small table by the window. The city moves outside. Car horns, voices, someone laughing. Someone arguing, a siren in the distance.

He stares at the blank page. He doesn’t need a career, per say. He needs… something to do. Something simple. Something useful. So he writes in block letters.

NEED HELP?

He pauses. That’s vague, he thinks, but maybe vague is good. He continues. Adding in things like, Protection. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff.

He considers crossing out “stuff.” Leaves it. He taps the pen against the table thinking with a hum, people won’t call a stranger without reassurance.

He sighs and writes: Not a serial killer.

He leans back and stares at it. It’s terrible. And honest.

He adds his name and cut little strips into the page, writing his number on each one as a DIY tearoff. He learned that word from Sam when he told him he should look up some DIY key holders for his apartment.

He studies the finished product. It looks like something a bored teenager would tape to a telephone pole as a joke. So he makes another one.

And another.

By the time the light shifts toward evening, there are fifteen slightly crooked, slightly uneven flyers spread across his table. He stares at them like they might explain themselves. This is stupid, he thinks to himself. This is civilian nonsense. And it is defintely not a plan. But at least it’s something, and it's better than staring at a blank wall trying to guess how many layers of paint are on it.

He grabs a roll of tape from under the sink, shrugs into his jacket, and gathers the stack. The hallway outside his apartment smells faintly like old carpet and someone’s overcooked dinner. He heads down the stairs instead of taking the elevator, an old habit, and steps out into the early evening air.

Brooklyn hums.

He’s lived here long enough now that the rhythm of it doesn’t jolt him anymore. It’s background noise instead of threat assessment, mostly. He tapes the first flyer to a lamppost outside his building, presses the tape flat with his thumb and steps back.

It looks ridiculous, he moves on to the next one anyway.

He tapes one outside a laundromat, another near a bus stop, one by a small grocery store on the corner. He hesitates outside a coffee shop, then shrugs and sticks one to the bulletin board already crowded with yoga class ads and guitar lessons and “ROOMMATE WANTED” strips.

He doesn’t overthink it.

If he overthinks it, he’ll stop.

By the time he’s done, the stack is gone and his hands are slightly sticky from tape residue. He stands on the sidewalk, truck parked at the curb, and looks around. That’s it. That’s his grand re-entry into civilian life.

A handful of flyers that say “Not a serial killer.”

He huffs a quiet, humorless laugh and climbs into his truck.

Three days pass.

Nothing.

His phone remains silent except for spam calls and a pharmacy reminder. He tells himself that’s expected. That people use apps now, platforms and ratings with verified accounts. Not hand-scrawled paper tabs.

On the fourth day, he walks past the lamppost outside his building. The flyer is still there completely untouched. No numbers torn off. Rain has wrinkled the edges slightly, but the ink hasn’t bled. He stares at it longer than necessary thinking maybe he should take them down.

Before someone reports him.

Before someone thinks it’s suspicious. Before he has to admit that even offering help isn’t enough to make someone need him.

He leaves it up.

A few blocks away, you’re struggling with a box labeled “KITCHEN???” in thick black marker.

The label is inaccurate. It contains exactly one mug, three mismatched plates, and an alarming number of tangled charging cables. You’re sweating. You’re slightly overwhelmed yet feeling the most giddy you had in years.

You’re trying to balance the box against your hip while fishing your keys out of your bag with the other hand. That’s when you see it.

The flyer, taped slightly crooked to the lamppost.

NEED HELP? Rides. Heavy lifting. Fixing stuff. Not a serial killer. – Bucky 718-325-7038

You blink.

Then you laugh. Out loud and it echoes a little on the sidewalk, surprising even you.

“Not a serial killer,” you repeat under your breath. “Well. That’s reassuring.”

You shift the box to your other hip and step closer.

The paper is slightly damp at the edges. The handwriting is bold, deliberate. Careful in a way that suggests the person writing it wasn’t joking, exactly. Just… blunt. There are little handmade tear-off tabs at the bottom with a phone number.

None of them have been taken.

You glance up and down the street. It’s early afternoon. People moving, cars passing, no one paying attention. You tug one of the tabs free. The paper rips with a soft, decisive sound. You fold it once and tuck it into your back pocket.

“Just in case,” you murmur to yourself, like that makes it reasonable.

You don’t actually intend to call. But something about it, about the absurd honesty that makes this new neighborhood feel slightly less intimidating. Like there are real people here.

Like maybe you didn’t just move into a city of strangers.

You juggle your box again and finally get the building door open. Inside, the hallway smells like old wood and someone’s incense. You don’t know a single soul here.

Not one.

After six hours in Brooklyn you have a new apartment, new job starting Monday, no furniture besides a mattress you haven’t unwrapped yet. You drop the box inside your door and lean back against it, exhaling.

You did it. You moved. This means you’re brave now. It also means you’re also starving, sweaty and slightly terrified. You pull the little tab out of your pocket and look at it again.

Bucky. Not a serial killer.

You snort softly, slipping it into your purse that sat in the kitchen, if you can call it that, next to an array of takeout menus left littered on the counter by the previous tenant. Just in case. You sit back on your heels, breathing slightly heavier than necessary, and let your gaze drift to the small strip of paper sitting on the counter.

It looks small there. Almost insignificant.

Like it couldn’t possibly matter.

You push yourself up with a quiet exhale, brushing dust from your palms as you take in the apartment again—really take it in this time. The stacks of boxes are a little less intimidating than they were this morning. You’ve made progress. There’s a mug in the sink now, your mug. A hoodie draped over the back of the door. Your shoes kicked off by the wall like you plan on staying.

It doesn’t feel like a stranger’s place anymore.

Not entirely.

You move slowly through the space, opening a box here, shifting something there. You line your toiletries along the bathroom sink, straighten the sheets on the mattress you finally unwrapped, plug in a lamp so the corners don’t feel quite so shadowed. Each small action presses you further into the room, like you’re anchoring yourself piece by piece.

Like you’re proving to yourself that you’re really here.

Brooklyn.

You pause in the middle of the living room, hands settling on your hips as the quiet settles around you again. It’s different now. Not as sharp. Still unfamiliar, but… softer at the edges. Outside, the city hums. Car horns, voices drifting up from the street, music faint and distant like it’s being carried on the air just for you.

You step closer to the window, the one you’ll later learn sticks, and peer out at the street below. People move like they know exactly where they’re going. Like they belong to the rhythm of it.

You want that.

Not just the city. Not just the apartment.

The feeling.

You glance back at the room. At the half-unpacked boxes, the bare walls, the life that hasn’t quite settled into place yet. You could stay in tonight. Finish unpacking. Eat something out of a container balanced on your knee and fall asleep early.

That would be the easier choice, the safer one. Your fingers tap lightly against your thigh as you consider it. Then you shake your head.

“No,” you murmur to yourself, quieter but firmer. “That’s not why you came here.”

You didn’t drive hours and sign a lease you can barely afford just to sit in silence and wait for your life to start. You didn’t leave everything familiar behind just to recreate it in a smaller space.

You came here to live.

Even if it’s messy, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if you don’t know what you’re doing yet. Especially then. Your gaze drifts back to your purse for a second, to the place where you tucked the little tab away. Something about it lingers in your mind, faint but present. Not a plan. Not even a real option.

Just… a possibility.

You grab a different jacket from one of the boxes, tug it on over your clothes, and glance at yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. You look a little tired. A little overwhelmed.

But there’s something else there too.

Something brighter.

“Okay,” you say softly, like you’re making a deal with yourself. “One drink.”

You grab your keys, hesitate only a second, then head for the door. The lock clicks behind you with a soft, final sound.

Hours later, the city feels very different.

Louder, warmer, brighter.

You hadn’t meant to drink that much. It just sort of… happened. One conversation slid into another. Someone bought you a round because you mentioned you’d just moved. You laughed more than you expected to. The music felt good in your chest.

You wanted to feel like you belonged.

Now you’re standing on a sidewalk that looks vaguely familiar but not enough, the neon sign behind you flickering slightly, the night air cooler against your flushed skin.

Your phone battery blinks 4%.

You squint down the street.

How do people get taxis here? Do they just… appear? You raise your arm experimentally. Nothing happens. A group brushes past you, laughing. You step aside too quickly and nearly trip off the curb.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay.”

You could Uber.

You open the app only to find surge pricing.

Of course.

You check your wallet. Not nearly enough cash after buying that last round and leaving a surmisable tip for the bartender, who was kind enough to let you know that you had put your jacket on inside out after your third drink.

You glance around again, the city suddenly less charming and more overwhelming. Your stomach dips and fear spreads low and cold. You don’t know where the nearest bus stop is, or which line to take, you don’t actually know which direction your apartment is from here.

The alcohol in your system stops feeling warm and starts feeling inconvenient. You dig through your purse, fingers fumbling past lip gloss, receipts, keys.

Your hand closes around paper. You pull it out.

Slightly crumpled.

NEED HELP?

You stare at it.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, half laughing, half mortified.

This is insane. You shouldn’t.

You absolutely should not text a stranger who specified he isn’t a serial killer. Your battery drops to 3%. You hesitate for three long seconds.

Then you type.

Hi. Are you real?

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

Bucky’s phone vibrates against the table. The sound cuts through the apartment like a gunshot.

He freezes and for half a second, his brain does something old and dangerous—threat assessment, immediate spike of adrenaline, body already half-rising.

He grabs the phone to see an unknown number.

A text.

He stares at it. His pulse does not settle. Are you real? That could mean anything. That could mean someone found him, that could mean trouble.

Or—

Another text comes in.

I think I need help.

His jaw tightens.

He’s already standing. He doesn’t deliberate, doesn’t ask for clarification, just grabs his keys off the counter, shoves his feet back into his boots without tying them properly, and is out the door in under thirty seconds.

The truck engine roars to life beneath him, familiar vibration steadying something inside his chest.

He types one-handed at a red light.

Location?

Three dots appear. Disappear.

Then:

Outside Harper’s. On 5th I think. By the hot dog guy??

He knows exactly where that is. He’s there in four minutes.

He spots you before you spot him.

You’re sitting on the curb now, elbows propped on your knees, arguing mildly with a man behind a food cart about whether mustard counts as a vegetable.

You look… small.

Not in stature. Just in the way someone looks when they’re trying very hard to seem fine.

Bucky parks sharply at the curb and steps out. The night air hits him cool and sharp. The city noise presses in — laughter spilling from bar doors, the hiss of the food cart grill, bass thudding faintly through brick walls.

He scans automatically. No visible threat, no one crowding you. Just you. He approaches slower.

“You texted me?” he asks.

You look up and squint as if were the middle of the day and not half past one in the morning. Your eyes travel from his boots to his shoulders to his face.

“You’re not a serial killer, right?” you ask, entirely serious.

He blinks. “No.”

You consider him for another beat.

“Okay, good.” You try to stand. It does not go smoothly. Your foot catches the edge of the curb and you pitch forward slightly.

His hands are on your arms before you hit the ground. Gloved yet warm. Steady and solid.

You freeze for a second, looking up at him from far too close. He smells like clean soap and something faintly metallic. His grip is firm but not bruising.

“You needed help because you’re drunk?” he asks, voice flat but not unkind.

“I needed help,” you correct, wobbling slightly. “Because I don't know how New York works. And I also may be a little drunk.”

He exhales slowly.

“Why didn’t you take the subway?”

You blink at him. “…There’s a subway here?”

He just stares at you, something in his expression shifts and his irritation drains. Not completely but enough for a soft breath to leave his lips as he stands back to look at you.

“How long you been here?” he asks.

"What time is it?"

He glances at his watch. "Quarter 'til two."

“Like twenty hours,” you reply honestly.

That adds up, he thinks to himself and nods once.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “C’mon.”

He keeps one hand lightly at your elbow as he guides you toward the truck. You talk the whole way over-explaining where you live.

“Okay so it’s near a brick building over by a big brown bridge—which I know doesn’t help because they’re all brick—but there’s like… a plant in the window? I think? And the stairs creak.”

He doesn’t interrupt.

He already knows the building, he’s driven past it a hundred times just like he has every building in Brooklyn. He opens the passenger door for you and waits until you’re seated and steady before closing it gently. Inside the truck, the world feels smaller, quieter. You lean your head back against the seat with a relieved sigh.

“Thank you for being real,” you mumble.

He starts the engine. “You text random numbers often?”

“Only the ones that clarify they aren’t serial killers.”

A pause. Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a quiet laugh.

It’s brief. Quiet and low, but real. And you smile at the sound without realizing it. As the truck pulls away from the curb, Bucky glances at you from the corner of his eye to see you’re watching the city pass by, like it’s something you’re still deciding whether to trust.

He understands that feeling more than he’d like to. And for the first time in days, the empty space in his chest feels… lightly occupied.

He parks in front of your building with the kind of precision that suggests he’s memorized the street long before tonight. The engine rumbles low beneath you for a moment before he turns the key and everything settles into quiet. The sudden absence of vibration makes the world feel oddly still, like stepping off a moving walkway and having to find your balance again.

You peer out the window.

“Oh,” you breathe, surprised. “This is it.”

“I know,” he replies simply.

Of course he does.

He’s already out of the truck before you’ve fully processed that, boots hitting pavement with a solid thud. When he opens your door, the night air curls cool around your flushed skin, carrying the faint scent of rain drying on concrete.

You slide down from the seat carefully this time. He keeps a hand hovering at your elbow—not gripping, just there. Just in case.

The building looms a little taller than it had earlier in the day. Dark windows. Narrow staircase just inside the glass door. The porch light flickers faintly like it’s unsure of its commitment to illumination. You hesitate on the sidewalk. It’s not the alcohol now. It’s the strange awareness that this is the end of something. A brief pocket of safety in a night that could have gone differently.

He notices.

He always notices.

“Up you go,” he says quietly, nodding toward the door.

You move together toward it, footsteps uneven on your part, measured on his. The city continues behind you—cars passing, someone shouting down the block, a siren wailing faint and far—but here on the stoop it feels contained. Close.

You fumble slightly with your keys as your fingers don’t want to cooperate.

He waits.

Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t rush you. Just stands behind and to the side, broad shoulders blocking some of the street’s draft, presence steady and grounded like a wall you can lean against if you needed to.

The key finally slides into the lock.

You pause before turning it.

He’s close enough now that you can feel the residual warmth coming off him, the faint scent of clean cotton and motor oil and night air. You glance over your shoulder. His expression is carefully neutral, but there’s something softer at the edges. The crease between his brows less pronounced than earlier, the sharp lines of his jaw less guarded.

“You can call again,” he says, stiff but sincere. “If you need something real.”

Not judgmental. Not mocking.

Just… open.

And you smile. Not the bright, tipsy grin from earlier. Not the exaggerated one you’d been wearing in the bar to prove you were fine. This one is quieter and softer. It reaches your eyes.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

His name leaves your mouth gently, like it belongs there.

Something in his chest shifts. He hasn’t heard it like that in a long time. Not as an order. Not barked across a battlefield. Not attached to expectation or obligation.

Just his name. Warm. Human.

He clears his throat lightly.

“Welcome to Brooklyn,” he adds, almost gruff again as if to steady himself. “It’s loud. And it smells weird in the summer. But it’s… alright.”

You laugh softly.

“I’ll brace myself.”

He nods once, gaze drifting up to the building behind you.

“Hope the city treats you well.”

There’s more under that than the words carry. A quiet wish. A hope that it doesn’t chew you up the way it can. That it gives you something instead of taking.

You hold his gaze a second longer than necessary.

“Maybe it already has,” you say before you can overthink it.

His mouth opens slightly, like he might respond to that. Instead, you turn the key. The lock clicks open and you push the door inward and step across the threshold, turning back just before it closes fully.

He’s still there. Hands in his jacket pockets now. Shoulders squared against the night air. Watching to make sure you’re inside. Safe.

You lift your hand in a small wave. “Goodnight, not-a-serial-killer.”

A faint huff of breath escapes him, almost a laugh.

“Goodnight,” he replies.

The door shuts.

The sound of the lock sliding into place echoes softly through the stairwell. He waits, hums while he counts to five.

Listens for movement inside—footsteps climbing stairs, a door opening above. When he hears the faint creak of wood and the muffled thud of something being set down, only then does he step back.

Only then does he turn toward his truck.

The city hasn’t changed in the last five minutes. Still buzzing. Still alive. But something in him feels… different. Lighter, maybe.

Or at least less empty.

He slides into the driver’s seat and rests his hands on the steering wheel without starting the engine yet. You called, out of all the numbers in the world, you called him. Not because he was assigned, not because he was ordered, but because you needed help. And he showed up. The thought settles deep, warm and unfamiliar.

Upstairs, you lean back against your closed apartment door and exhale slowly. Your heart isn’t racing anymore. Your head still spins faintly, but beneath that is something steadier.

Safer.

You push off the door and wander toward your mattress, kicking off your shoes halfway there. The apartment doesn’t feel quite as cavernous now, the corners less shadowed, the silence less sharp.

You fish your phone out of your purse and glance at it.

2% battery.

You type quickly before it dies.

Made it upstairs. Thanks again.

You hit send.

Across the street, Bucky’s phone buzzes just as he turns the key in the ignition.

He looks at the screen, the corners of his mouth just barely ticking upwards, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a long moment.

Then he types back.

Good. Get some sleep.

He hesitates before typing out another message.

City’s easier in the morning.

He sends it before he can reconsider. Upstairs, your phone dies before you see it.

But somehow, curled up on your mattress with the window cracked just enough to let Brooklyn’s nighttime hum drift in, you sleep a little easier anyway. And downstairs, parked at the curb a moment longer than necessary, Bucky sits in the quiet of his truck and realizes that for the first time since he put those flyers up with his number—

He hopes it rings again.

The buzz of his phone comes just as Bucky’s settling into the quiet.

He’s halfway through reassembling the carburetor of a bike he doesn’t even own, just something he found on the curb and decided to fix because his hands need purpose the way lungs need air, when the vibration skitters across his kitchen counter.

He stares at it. Unknown number, again.

His jaw tightens automatically. Old habits.

It buzzes again. He wipes his hands on a rag before picking it up, thumb hovering like he’s about to disarm something instead of open a message.

Hi. It's me again. But it’s not a drunk emergency. I can’t open my window and I think I’m suffocating.

He blinks.

Then another message.

I’m not actually suffocating. Probably. But it’s very dramatic in here.

He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

He types back with one thumb.

Be there in five.

A heart appears immediately.

He doesn’t hesitate.

The building looks different in daylight. Less romantic, with more peeling paint and crooked mailboxes.

He takes the stairs two at a time anyway. You door is already open when he reaches the third floor.

You're standing there like you've been pacing, hair pulled into a messy twist that’s given up in several places, socks on, oversized sweatshirt swallowing your frame. No makeup this time, no glittering party lights reflected in your eyes.

Just… you.

Sober. And clearly mortified.

“Oh my god, hi,” you blurt, words tripping over each other as soon as you see him. “I promise I’m not dying. I just—okay so I tried to open the window and it wouldn’t budge and then I panicked and convinced myself the oxygen was running out and—”

“You know that’s not how air works, right?” he says flatly.

Your mouth snaps shut. “…I did. In theory.”

He steps inside without another word, brushing past your shoulder. You smells like laundry detergent and something citrusy. The apartment is small and bare, boxes still stacked like uneven towers along the walls.

The window in question is in the living room. Old frame. Painted shut.

He walks over, studies it for three seconds.

“You tried pulling?”

“Yes.”

“Pushing?”

“Yes.”

He grips the bottom sash, metal fingers bracing, flesh hand curling over the wood. A small twist of pressure. A sharp upward shove.

The paint seal cracks with a soft pop and the window slides up. Cool Brooklyn air spills in within thirty seconds. He steps back.

You just stare at it, then at him. “…I hate you a little.”

“Join the club.”

You press a hand over your face, laughing despite yourself. “I swear I’m not helpless.”

“Never said you were.”

“You definitely implied it.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “I implied you’ve never met a window before.”

Your eyes narrow, but there’s laughter dancing behind them. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m efficient.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Sometimes it is.”

You huff, crossing your arms—but you're smiling. Bright and unfiltered, the kind of smile that feels like sunlight hitting bare skin.

It’s… a lot. He’s not used to a lot.

He clears his throat. “You’re not suffocating.”

“Thank you, Doctor Barnes.”

“Don’t call me that.”

You grin. “Mechanic Barnes?”

“No.”

“Freedom Flyer Guy?”

He gives you a look and you laughs again, softer this time. “Sorry.”

A pause settles between you. Not heavy. Just… there.

You shift your weight. “So. I owe you.”

“You don’t.”

“I absolutely do. You just saved my life.”

“You were never in danger.”

“You don’t know that. What if I had spiraled? What if I started hyperventilating? What if I fainted and hit my head and then actually suffocated because the window was closed?”

He just stares at you. “…That’s not how any of that works.”

You point at him triumphantly. “See? You care.”

“I care about physics.”

You beam like he just confessed undying devotion, your eyes twinkling as they bore into his. He looks away first.

“I’m not charging you,” he says.

“I’m not letting you leave without compensation.”

His brows draw together. “Compensation.”

“Yes.”

“I fixed a stuck window.”

“You provided emergency ventilation services.”

“You’re impossible.”

You step closer, hands on hips now, chin tipped up in stubborn determination. “I’m ordering takeout.”

“That’s not payment.”

“It is if you stay and eat it.”

His instinct is to refuse.

He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t sit.

He doesn’t… stay.

But the apartment is quiet except for you and the faint rush of air through the open window. The city noise floats in—distant traffic, someone laughing on the sidewalk, a dog barking.

You look at him like you expect him to bolt. Like you're used to people bolting.

He exhales slowly.

“Fine,” he says. “But nothing fancy.”

Your face lights up like he just handed you the moon. “Yes!”

He winces slightly at the volume.

“Sorry!” you whisper immediately, clapping a hand over your mouth. “I get excited.”

“I can tell.”

You grabs your phone, already scrolling. “Okay, what do you like?”

“Food.”

You snort. “Wow. Insightful.”

“Anything.”

“Any allergies?”

“No.”

“Any strong opinions about noodles?”

He blinks at you.

You gasp, soft yet dramtic. “You don’t have strong noodle opinions?”

“I was alive before noodles were complicated.”

“I don't know if that's a joke or not but that’s deeply concerning.”

He almost smiles. Almost.

You settle on something Thai. Spicy. “It’ll be here in thirty.”

He nods once.

Then you both look at the apartment. No couch yet, no chairs. Just boxes and hardwood floors.

You drop down cross-legged without hesitation. “Floor picnic?”

He hesitates a fraction of a second before lowering himself across from you, back resting against a stack of sealed boxes labeled BOOKS in loopy handwriting.

For a moment, you just sit there.

It’s quiet. Not the uncomfortable kind, just… new. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So. You fix windows often?”

“Second one this week.” he deadpans.

“Wow. You’re basically a specialist.”

“I’ll update the flyer.”

Your laugh bursts out of you before she can stop it, bright and easy. “Please do. ‘Professional Window Hero.’”

“Hero’s a stretch.”

“You got here in, like, five minutes.”

“You were two blocks away.”

You blink, lips parting in light suprise. “You live that close?”

He nods and your smile softens. “That’s… nice.”

“Why.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug. “Feels less scary knowing someone I’ve technically met before is nearby.”

He shifts slightly. “You shouldn’t rely on strangers.”

You tilt your head. “Are we strangers?”

The question hangs there. He studies you face, watching the open curiosity, no edge, no ulterior motive.

“Mostly,” he answers.

You nod slowly, accepting it without flinching. “Okay. Mostly strangers who eat Thai food on the floor.”

“Accurate.”

You lean back on your palms, looking around the half-empty room. “I know it doesn’t look like much yet.”

“It’s fine.”

“I moved here four days ago and everything still feels… unreal.” Your voice softens at the edges. “Like I’m house-sitting someone else’s life.”

He doesn’t interrupt. You glance at him, gauging if he’s listening.

He is.

“I was just…so tired,” you say, quieter now. “Of dreaming about things that only existed when I was asleep.”

He frowns faintly. “Like what?”

“Everything.” You laugh, but it’s not as bright this time. “The job I wanted. The city I wanted. The version of me that wasn’t waiting around for something to happen.”

The breeze moves through the room again, stirring the edges of unpacked papers.

“So I stopped waiting,” you continue. “Packed up my car. Drove here. Signed a lease I could barely afford. Figured if I was going to be scared anyway, I might as well be scared somewhere interesting.”

He studies you gently.

“You moved without knowing anyone.”

“Yep.”

“That’s reckless.”

You grin. “You know some people would call that brave.”

“Debatable.”

“See?” you say, pointing at him. “This is what I mean. You see the worst-case scenario. I see the possibility.”

“I see reality.”

“I see potential.”

“You see suffocating from a closed window.”

You laugh again, bright again and unashamed. “Okay, that one was dramatic.”

“A little.”

“But you still came.”

He looks down at his hands, the metal rubs againt the glove as the leather glints under the overhead light.

“You asked me too,” he says simply.

You watch him for a second too long, stirring something warm and heavy that starts to press at his ribs when the knock at the door saves him.

You scramble up, nearly tripping over a box in your haste. “Food!”

He hears your cheerful thank you through the doorway, the rustle of paper bags, and the quick shuffle back. You set everything between you two like it’s treasure and the smell fills the apartment. You eat straight from the containers, knees occasionally bumping.

It shouldn’t feel like this.

Easy.

But it does.

Bucky watches you, the way that you talkswith your hands, animated, telling him about the tiny coffee shop you found that morning. About the subway map that “looks like abstract art.” About how you got lost for forty minutes and ended up discovering a park you now claims as yours.

“You got lost on purpose,” he says.

“I absolutely did not.”

“You just said you walked in circles.”

“That’s exploring.”

“That’s inefficient.” he grumbles.

You grin around a bite of noodles. “I bet you would’ve hated it.”

“I would’ve brought a map.”

“I had one!”

His face falls. “And you still got lost.”

You points at him with your sauce stained chopsticks. “You’re missing the point.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The point is I was somewhere new. Alone. And it didn’t feel lonely.”

He pauses mid-bite. You don’t seem to realize what you've said until a second later. Your eyes flick to him, softer now.

“Not entirely,” you amend gently.

The air shifts and he swallows the rest of his bite.

“You won’t always feel new here,” he says.

“I know.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“I hope not completely.” You smile faintly. “I don’t want it to stop feeling like possibility.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, he’s still figuring out what possibility even looks like. You finish eating slower than necessary, even when you're done neither of you rush to stand.

Eventually, you gather the empty containers, stacking them neatly.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For what?”

“For showing up. Even when it’s just… windows.”

He nods once. “You can call again.”

The words come out stiffer than he means them to.

“If you… still need something real,” he adds.

Your smile this time is different. Softer, bright but less blinding, more intentional.

“Okay,” you say. “I will.”

He stands, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans and you walk him to the door. The hallway light flickers overhead as you unlock it fully, stepping into the frame like you're guarding it.

He lingers on the threshold.

“I think you'll fit in just fine here,” he says, the words awkward but sincere. “It’s loud. And expensive.”

You laugh softly.

“And,” he adds, after a beat, “it’s not the worst place to start over.”

Something in your expression shifts.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

It lands somewhere deep in his chest just as last time. Warmer than he expects. He nods once, because he doesn’t trust his voice.

“Goodnight,” you say.

“Lock the door,” he replies automatically.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Yes, sir.”

He turns and heads down the stairs. Halfway to the landing, he hears the soft click of your lock sliding into place, and the ghost of a smile curves across his lips.

Only then does he keep walking.

The third time you text him, you stare at the screen for a full minute before hitting send.

Hi. Hypothetically— If someone bought shelves and then realized drywall is apparently not just… wall… what would that someone do?

Three dots appear almost immediately.

That someone would wait.

You grin.

For?

Me.

He shows up with a drill slung over his shoulder like it belongs there.

You open the door before he knocks this time, already smiling. “Hi.”

He pauses just slightly at the sight of you barefoot in paint-splattered shorts and one of those oversized band tees you sleep in. Your hair’s half-clipped up, pencil tucked behind your ear like you’ve been architecting something serious instead of arguing with brackets.

“You didn’t start without me,” he says.

“I considered it.”

“It's good you didn't. You would’ve hit a pipe.”

“I resent that.”

“You should.”

You step aside to let him in, eucalyptus and mint no longer the dominant scent of your place—now it smells like sawdust and fresh coffee and something citrusy you insist on spraying in the mornings because it “feels productive.”

He surveys the wall you’ve chosen. “What’re these for?”

“Plants, books, maybe a tiny ceramic frog. I don’t know yet. It’s about potential.”

He huffs. “Everything’s about potential with you.”

“And everything’s about worst-case scenarios with you.”

“It keeps you from flooding your apartment.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He levels you with a look.

You grin.

He gets to work, movements efficient, measured. Flesh fingers steady, metal ones precise throught the stretch of their leather glove. The hum of the drill fills the apartment, and you sit cross-legged on the floor watching like it’s a live performance.

“You know,” you say over the noise, “most people would charge for this.”

“I’m aware.”

“You don’t?” You ask curiously.

“You fed me.”

“That was one time.”

He glances at you. “You planning to stop?”

You blink. “…No.”

“Then we’re square.”

The shelves are up in under twenty minutes. You clap softly when he finishes, which earns you a flat look from Bucky.

“What?” You mutter.

“It’s a shelf.”

“It’s a level shelf!”

He exhales through his nose, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You don’t mention it. You just notice.

The dresser comes next.

You absolutely could’ve waited for building management to help. Or ordered professional movers.

But instead:

I have made a mistake. The dresser is winning.

He’s there in seven minutes. You open the door breathless, like you’ve been wrestling furniture for sport. “It’s heavier than it looked online.”

“They always are.”

He takes one look at the narrow hallway, the impossible angle to your bedroom door, and just nods once.

“Lift when I say,” he tells you.

“Yes, sir,” you reply brightly.

His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

You bite back a smile.

The two of you maneuver the dresser inch by inch. Your hands slip once and he steadies it without thinking, metal arm braced, body angled to shield yours from the corner.

“Careful,” he mutters.

“You’re the one who said lift.”

“You’re the one who didn’t bend your knees.”

“You sound like a gym teacher.”

“You’d have hated school with me.”

You laugh, breathless, as the dresser finally slides into place against your bedroom wall before you collapse onto the floor dramatically.

“We did it,” you declare.

“I did it.”

“You emotionally supported.”

“I told you what to do.”

“Exactly.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t leave. Not right away.

“Okay,” you say one afternoon, holding up the subway map like it’s an ancient scroll. “Explain this.”

He stares at it. Then at you. “It’s color-coded.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“It literally does.”

You’re standing at the entrance of the station, the late afternoon rush building around you. The air smells like hot concrete and something metallic.

“I get on the blue one,” you say slowly, “unless it’s express? Or local? And then it skips my stop? Why does it skip my stop.”

“Because it’s express.”

“Why would I want that?” You ask.

“So you get somewhere faster.”

“But not where I need to go.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

You beam at him behind the map. He steps closer, crowd pressing in around you. His shoulder leans into yours as he points at the map. “You take the local during rush hour if you’re only going a few stops. Express if you’re crossing boroughs.”

You squint. “And how do I know which is which?”

He gestures to the small black circles versus the white ones.

Your head tilts. “Oh.”

“You didn’t see that.”

“No.”

He sighs, but it’s softer than it used to be. “Stay to the right on the stairs. Don’t stand in the doorway, and if the train’s packed, wait for the next one.”

“I don’t mind packed.”

“You will.”

You grin up at him. “You’re very protective over public transit etiquette.”

“I’m protective over not getting shoved.”

The train roars into the station. You hesitate for half a second before stepping forward, his hand finds your elbow without thinking, guiding.

“Move with the crowd,” he says quietly near your ear. “Don’t fight it.”

You nod. Inside, it’s warm and loud and close.

You look up at him, eyes bright. “This is kind of fun.”

“It’s not.”

“It is if you decide it is.”

He shakes his head, but he doesn’t let go of your elbow until your stop arrives. After that, he walks you through shortcuts like he’s revealing state secrets.

“Cut through here if it’s raining.”

“Take the side exit after ten p.m.”

“Don’t get on the empty car.”

“Why?” You ask.

“Just don’t.”

You salute dramatically. “Yes, subway sargeant.”

“Don't call me that.”

You grin. You don’t stop.

You teach him photography in payment.

“Okay, your turn,” you tell him one evening, camera strap looped around your wrist.

He eyes it suspiciously. “What’s that?”

“My livelihood.”

“It looks old.”

“It’s film.”

He pauses. “They still make that?”

You gasp. “You wound me.”

You press the camera into his hands, guiding his fingers over the body. “Manual focus. No screen. You have to feel it.”

He studies it carefully, brow furrowed in concentration the way it does when he’s fixing something delicate.

“You adjust the aperture here,” you say, stepping closer. “Shutter speed there. It’s slower. Intentional.”

He glances at you. “Like you.”

You blink and find his eyes, his gaze like a soft sky blue with a dark edge that held the color in, looking at you like you were the eye of the storm. You look back. He looks away first.

You swallow your smile. “Exactly like me.”

You teach him how to look for light instead of just objects. How shadows tell stories. How grain makes things honest. He listens, really listens, so you start bringing the camera everywhere. To the bodega. To the park. To the subway platform at golden hour.

And somehow—he’s in half the frames. Leaning against brick walls. Looking out over the water. Brow creased at something you said.

He notices eventually.

“You take a lot of pictures,” he says one afternoon when you snap another shot of him sitting on the stoop outside your building.

“I’m a photographer.”

“Of me.”

You lower the camera slowly. “You’re in good light.”

He scoffs, but he doesn’t tell you to stop.

You don’t tell him that you’ve started a folder at work labeled The Brooklyn Study. That half of it is just him, that your boss called the shots “intimate” or that you flushed all the way to your ears and clutched the folder to your chest.

You keep that part to yourself. For now.

Over the next few weeks, the calls keep coming.

Is this radiator supposed to sound like it’s screaming?

He arrives to find you crouched in front of it like it’s a wild animal.

“It’s air in the pipes,” he says.

“It sounds haunted.”

“It’s not.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You watch him bleed it carefully, steam hissing softly.

“You’re very calm around loud, angry noises,” you observe.

He doesn’t answer that.

Sometimes you call and you don’t actually need help.

I think the shelf is… slightly crooked.

It isn’t. He adjusts it anyway.

The hallway light flickers weird.

He tightens the bulb.

Sometimes you just say:

Are you busy?

And when he answers no, you say:

Good.

You sit on the floor again. Or on your fire escape. Or at the small kitchen table you finally bought.

You talk. About work. About how strange it is building a life from scratch. About how sometimes the quiet feels too loud. He pretends he doesn’t notice that those are the nights you text the latest. He pretends he doesn’t notice that you hover a second longer when he stands to leave.

He pretends a lot.

But he starts remembering. Your coffee order—oat milk, no sugar. The way you wrinkle your nose when something’s too spicy. The fact that you hum when you’re editing photos. He starts bringing tools without being asked. A level. Extra screws. A small toolkit he leaves under your sink “just in case.” He checks your building door after you close it.

Always.

You start saving him leftovers.

Tiny labeled containers in your fridge. For Window Hero. Emergency Noodles. Do Not Skip Dinner.

He pretends he doesn’t see the notes but he eats every single one.

One afternoon you hand him a stack of redesigned flyers. His brows lift.

“They were tragic,” you say unapologetically. “No tear-off tabs, no clear services listed and a terrible font choice.”

He flips one over. It’s cleaner and more organized. Still blunt, but somehow warmer.

FREEDOM HELP. Need something fixed, carried, explained? Text. I show up.

Your number added beneath his in smaller print: Subway translations available.

He looks at you slowly. “You added yourself.”

You nod. “I’m your marketing department.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

“You needed one.”

A beat.

“…They’re better,” he admits.

You beam like you just won an award.

You start calling him before small problems become big ones. He starts answering before the second ring and soon the loneliness shifts. It doesn’t disappear, not all in one big fell swoop. It settles between you instead of sitting on your shoulders, in shared silence instead of empty rooms. One evening you sit beside him on the stoop, camera resting in your lap.

“You know,” you say softly, “I thought moving here would fix everything.”

He stares out at the streetlights flickering on. “Did it?”

“No.” You smile faintly. “But it gave me something to build with.”

He nods once. You bump your shoulder against his.

“Thanks for showing up,” you add quietly. He doesn’t look at you, but his shoulder presses back.

“Thanks for calling,” he says.

It starts small. So small to the point you hadn't even realized anything, until you did and now it's all you can think about. A brush of his shoulder lingering a second too long. The way your apartment feels less like a temporary landing pad and more like a home when his boots are by the door. The way silence doesn’t scrape at you when he’s sitting in it too.

You try not to think too hard about it at first.

You tell yourself it makes sense. He’s the only person you really know here. Of course you call him. Of course you look for him in a crowd on the subway platform without meaning to. Of course your camera finds him before it finds anything else.

It’s proximity. Convenience, familiarity even.

It’s not—

It’s not the way your stomach flips when he says your name like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to drop. It’s not the way you start cooking too much on purpose. It’s not the way you check your phone at night hoping for a text that never comes because he doesn’t text first.

You sit with that realization longer than you’d like.

Because if it’s not just circumstance…

Then it’s choice, and you know what choosing feels like now. It feels like packing your life into boxes and driving toward something uncertain, it feels like standing in a city that doesn’t know you exist and deciding you belong anyway.

It feels terrifying.

The night you call him, nothing is broken. There's no screaming radiator, no crooked shelf, no stuck window. You’re standing in your kitchen staring at two bowls with steam curling up and realizing you only need one, your thumb hovering over his name for a long moment.

Then you press it. He answers on the second ring.

“What broke this time?”

You huff a soft laugh despite yourself. “Hi to you too.”

A pause. “…Hi.”

You swallow. “I don’t need anything fixed.”

Silence stretches across the line. You can almost picture his face—brows drawn together, jaw tight, waiting for the catch.

“…Then why am I coming over?”

The words slip out before you can overthink them. “Because I don’t want to eat dinner alone.”

You don’t try to make it lighter, you don’t fill the quiet with a joke. You just let it sit there. On the other end, you hear him breathe in slow and measured. You almost backtrack, almost say never mind, it’s stupid, forget it.

But then:

“I’ll be there in ten.”

The line clicks dead and you stand in the middle of your kitchen for a long moment, heart beating louder than it should.

When he knocks, you’re suddenly aware of everything. The new couch you finally unpacked and assembled, the lamp casting soft amber light across the room, the way your hair looks, the way you look.

You open the door.

He’s in a dark Henley tonight, paired with his usual leather jacket, hair slightly wind-tousled from the walk. There’s a crease between his brows that smooths when he sees you standing there, not panicked. Not flustered.

Just… waiting.

“You’re not bleeding,” he observes.

“Disappointing, I know.”

He steps inside anyway. The apartment smells like garlic and sesame oil. Like home, almost.

“I made too much,” you say, gesturing to the dishes in the sink behind you like evidence. “Again.”

“You always do.”

“I don’t.” You pout.

“You do.”

You shut the door behind him, softer than usual.

“I have a couch now,” you announce, like it’s a milestone.

He looks at it. “You assembled it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“…Is it going to give out under me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Sit down and find out.”

He does, carefully, like he expects it to collapse out of spite.

It doesn’t. You sit beside him with a ghost of a smirk, knees brushing for a second before you both subtly adjust. The rest of dinner rests on the coffee table. The TV stays off as the city hum drifts in through the cracked window he fixed weeks ago.

For a while, you just eat. Not rushed, not quiet in a strained way, just something simple and easy.

You steal a glance at him when he’s not looking. The soft concentration when he untangles chopsticks, the way his shoulders don’t seem as tight here. You realize something slowly, like stepping into water and not noticing how deep you’ve gone until it reaches your ribs.

You don’t just call him because he’s helpful, you don’t just want him around because he’s familiar. You want him here.

Specifically. His dry comments, his steady presence, the way he fills space without overwhelming it. You want more than borrowed time and fixed shelves. The realization settles in your chest, warm and terrifying.

You clear your throat gently. “Can I ask you something?”

He glances over. “You usually do.”

“Why did you put up the flyers?”

His jaw shifts and you watch the way he looks down at his hands, at the faint scuffs on metal and skin.

“I didn’t know what to do with my time,” he says finally.

You wait but he doesn’t elaborate. “That’s it?” you ask softly.

His mouth tightens, like you’ve stepped near something he doesn’t show people.

“I spent a long time not choosing anything,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now. Less deadpan. “Where I went. What I did. Who I was.”

The words land heavy between you, thickening in the air, you don’t interrupt.

“I was… useful,” he continues. “Just not in a way that was mine.”

Your chest tightens.

“When that stopped,” he adds, “there was just time. And I didn’t know what to do with it.”

The room feels smaller, the air growing warmer.

“So you made yourself available,” you murmur.

He nods once. “That’s it.”

You study him carefully, the rigid line of his spine, the way he holds himself like he’s bracing for impact even now.

“You’re not bored,” you say gently as his eyes flick to yours.

“You’re just not used to choosing.”

The words hang there and something shifts in his expression. Something almost… soft. Not dramatic, not loud. But it hits, hard. You see it in the way his throat works when he swallows, in the way his gaze drops, then lifts again slower this time.

He looks… startled, like you handed him something he didn’t know he’d been missing.

“I didn’t want a job,” he says, almost to himself.

You stay very still.

“I wanted…” He exhales through his nose. “Purpose.”

The word settles between you like a fragile thing.

“You have that,” you say quietly.

He shakes his head faintly. “Fixing windows isn’t purpose.”

“No,” you agree softly. “But showing up is.”

His eyes meet yours again, steady and searching for something. You wonder if he sees it in you.

“You wanted someone to need you,” you continue, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth is there, plain and unadorned. He doesn’t deny it. And you realize something else at the same time, something that makes your pulse stumble.

You do need him. But not because you can’t lift a dresser, not because the subway map confuses you, not because you don’t know anyone else. You need him in the way you need someone to witness your life as it unfolds. To sit beside you while it’s messy and unfinished and becoming.

“Well I need you,” you add softly. "Not… just to fix a shelf or move a heavy dresser."

His shoulders loosen a fraction and you feel your heart let out a beat that you didn't know could make. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither of you. Maybe it’s just gravity curling around you both and pressing in on you, but when your knee presses fully against his this time, and neither of you pulls away.

The city hums outside, your couch holds steady beneath you. There's a beat that passes between you two, and when your eyes find his he looks at you like he’s seeing you differently now. Not as a problem to solve, not as a task to complete. But as a choice, and you realize, heart thudding slow and certain—

You want him to choose you, not because you’re the only person here, not because you called first. But because he wants to sit on this couch, eat these noodles, share this quiet.

And because he wants to do it wth you.

He exhales slowly.

“I don’t mind,” he says, voice rougher than usual, “not eating alone.”

Your chest warms. “Good,” you whisper.

The quiet after your words doesn’t feel fragile anymore.

It feels aware. He’s still looking at you differently—like the ground shifted half an inch and he’s recalibrating his balance. The takeout cartons sit forgotten on the coffee table, noodles going cold. Your gaze drifts, hesitant at first. To his hands. You’ve seen it, of course. Noticed it the first night he fixed your window. The glint of metal under warm apartment light when his jacket would slip past gloved wrist he seamless line where steel warms.

But you never asked. It felt like staring, like something earned, not taken.

You swallow softly. “Can I ask you something else?”

One brow lifts faintly. “You’re on a roll tonight.”

Your eyes flick down again, then back up to his face. “Your arm.”

He goes very still. You feel it instantly—that subtle tightening, the way his spine straightens like he’s bracing for something sharp.

“I’ve noticed it,” you add quickly, gentle. “Obviously. But I didn’t want to… I don’t know. Make it a thing.”

His jaw shifts once.

“It is a thing,” he says evenly.

“I know.” You tilt your head slightly. “But it’s yours.”

That makes something in his expression soften. Barely. You shift on the couch so you’re angled toward him more fully. “If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.”

He studies your face carefully, like he’s searching for pity. You don’t give him any, just curiosity, quiet and steady. After a long moment, he flexes his metal fingers once. The faint whir of internal mechanics hums low in the room.

“Lost… the original,” he says, voice stripped down. No performance. No deflection. “A… long time ago.”

You nod once, not pressing.

“It was replaced,” he continues. “Not exactly by choice.”

There’s weight there. History and shadows you don’t ask him to drag into the light tonight, you don’t need details to understand it wasn’t simple.

“It works better than the first one,” he adds, almost wry. “Stronger.”

“I’ve noticed,” you murmur, thinking about the dresser. The effortless way he steadies things. The careful control he uses so he doesn’t break them.

He glances at you. “Doesn’t always feel like mine.”

The honesty in that lands softly against your ribs, you hesitate, then softly murmur. “Can I see it?”

The question hangs between you. He searches your face again, slower this time.

“Yeah,” he says finally.

He turns slightly on the couch, resting his forearm along his thigh. The metal catches the lamplight—dark grey and golden seams, subtle scratches from use. Not polished or pure ornamental but real. You lean closer without thinking, breath slowing. Up close, it’s intricate, not just plating but delicate etchings along the fingers, tiny grooves and segments that shift when he flexes.

“It’s…” You shake your head faintly, almost in awe. “It’s kind of beautiful.”

He huffs softly. “That’s a new one.”

“I mean it.”

You lift your hand slowly, giving him every chance to pull away. He doesn’t. Your fingers hover for half a second before brushing lightly over the plating of his knuckles. Cool and solid, smooth in some places, faintly textured in others. You trace the seam where metal curves into the back of his hand, mesmerized by the craftsmanship of it, by the contrast of it against the warmth radiating from the rest of him.

He watches you instead of your hand. Your touch is careful, not clinical, just… curious.

“It doesn’t scare you?” he asks quietly.

You glance up, still brushing your fingertips lightly over the steel.

“No,” you say simply.

He studies you like he’s trying to understand how that’s possible.

“It’s part of you,” you add. “Why would that scare me?”

Something shifts in his breathing. Your thumb grazes the edge of his knuckles again, softer this time. Not examining, just feeling as he flexes his fingers once under your touch, almost experimentally.

You smile faintly. “Does… can you feel that?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Everything?”

“Mostly.”

You nod slowly, still tracing the lines like you’re memorizing them, you don’t flinch, you don’t hesitate. You just let your hand rest there a moment longer than necessary. When you finally look back up at him, you realize how close you’ve gotten.

Your knees are pressed fully against his now, your hand still resting over metal and seam and strength. There’s no fear in his eyes, just something open, something quietly undone.

“You don’t have to be useful all the time,” you murmur.

His throat moves when he swallows.

“I know,” he says.

But the way he says it sounds like he’s still learning how to believe it, your fingers slide gently from his knuckles to his wrist, resting there feeling the vibrational hum where a pulse used to sit.

The air between you feels warmer now, denser, like fog settling in over rolling hills. The radiator ticks softly in the corner, no longer screaming—just settling into itself. The lamp beside the couch casts everything in gold, softening edges that usually feel sharper in daylight.

You’re still sitting close. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds through denim and cotton, close enough that you can feel the faint shift of his breathing when you inhale.

“I like coming here,” he adds after a moment.

It sounds almost reluctant. Like admitting it costs him something, but he says it anyway. It makes a small smile pull at your mouth.

“I know that too.”

The words land gently between you, the kind of truth that doesn’t need to be dressed up. You shift on the couch, turning toward him fully now. Your knees slide against his thigh, your shoulder brushes his arm.

You shift closer without standing, without moving anywhere but forward.

“You’re the first person I called when I didn’t know what to do,” you say quietly.

You hadn’t meant to say that tonight, it just feels like the right place to put it. His jaw tightens, then loosens as he swallows.

“You’re the first person who’s called me because they just…” He exhales slowly, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back up again. “Wanted me there.”

The air shifts. Not into anything heavy or suffocating but charged, like the moment right before a thunder cloud in a summer storm breaks but, softer. You can hear your own heartbeat now. It doesn’t feel frantic, it feels certain.

He moves first. Slowly, so slowly you could stop him if you wanted to. His hand lifts, hovering near your waist. Not touching yet, just lingering there giving you time.

You don’t shift back, you don’t flinch. Instead, you lean the smallest fraction closer in silent permission. His fingers settle at your side, warm and steady through the thin fabric of your shirt, you can see the hesitant question in his eyes.

You answer it by closing the distance. The first brush of his mouth against yours is careful. Testing, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard, but you don’t. You tilt your head slightly, lips parting just enough to deepen it. It’s not dramatic, there are no fireworks, no sweeping orchestration.

Just warmth. His hand shifts at your waist, thumb pressing gently like he’s confirming you’re real. Your fingers slide up to his shoulder, curling into fabric. He kisses you like he’s learning something new, like he’s memorizing it. Soft, unhurried and a little uncertain but real, very real. You can feel the exhale he lets out against your mouth, the way tension leaves him in slow increments. When you pull back, it’s only an inch.

Foreheads nearly touching, his breath mingles with yours and it's like the seconds slowed around you, the whole world dipped into this sedated ease.

You’ve been kissed before. In doorways, in cars, in moments that burned bright and faded just as fast. This isn’t that. This feels like sitting on your couch with noodles growing cold, like subway maps and crooked shelves, like someone showing up every time you asked.

Like belonging. His thumb brushes lightly against your side again, almost absentminded.

“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your face one last time.

You smile, softer than usual.

“I didn’t call you because I was lonely,” you whisper.

His brows knit faintly.

“I called because I wanted you.”

Something in him settles at that, deep in his chest and curling through his ribs. He leans in again, and this time the kiss is less hesitant, still gentle but more sure. Fuller as you let out of a soft breath against him. Your hand slides up into his hair. His metal fingers flex slightly at your waist, cool through cotton but steady, controlled.

Then you feel it, something blooming behind your heart, not sparks or chaos. Just the steady warmth of something choosing you back. Outside, a car passes, someone laughs down the block. Inside, on your newly unpacked couch, with half-eaten takeout and lamplight glowing gold, you kiss him like this was always where you were headed.

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

I just love a good "Bucky finding peace and learning to just a normal life" fic and this was everything

[godmadeaterribleerror]

✦peaceful mornings✦

✧･ﾟ:bucky’s made his life rigid. It’s a remnant of when he was in the military, a way to keep himself in order, a way to have a little control. He never breaks the routine, even on a mission. It’s as necessary as breathing.

✧･ﾟ:he makes the bed. Puts on coffee, then washes his face. Brushes his teeth. Trims the beard, shaves it where he needs it, gets dressed in the clothing he lay out last night. The coffee finishes, and he takes it with breakfast. All perfectly boring, and dull, and he wouldn’t change that for anything.

✧･ﾟ:anything but you. When you move in together, Bucky doesn’t stop his routine, but you’d never ask him to. That’s one of the things he loves about you. How completely you accept him. So for you, he can adapt.

✧･ﾟ:if you’re just as rigid as he is, you move side by side. He puts on the coffee while you make the bed, and you stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink. He traces your lower back, and you lean your head on his shoulder, basking in the quiet peace before the day starts.

✧･ﾟ:if you’re not rigid, everything becomes built around you. He wakes up five minutes earlier, just to watch you sleep. His hand traces through your hair, and his thumb traces your cheek until you hum. He kisses you softly, then gets up and begins, making sure to tuck you in a little extra behind him.

✧･ﾟ:once he’s on his way, there are stops devoted to you. Little alters, to remind you both of his love. Bucky makes you extra coffee, and swaps extra dash washing for a better breakfast. He trims a little less because you like the scratch, and spends longer eating, watching the sunlight dance over your features as you eat. It’s just as calming to him as everything else. It reminds him that he can love. That there’s an angel across the table, and he’s allowed to hold your hand.

✧･ﾟ:he works in one day a week that he’s allowed to break the habits. It becomes its own beast, its own need. Bucky lays with you in his arms and smiles at the ceiling until you stir. You kiss him with swollen lips and little giggles, and he flips you over and wakes you up the proper way. With his cock dragging in and out of your pussy, or his fingers tracing worshipful lines over your hips.

✧･ﾟ:you tell him those are your favorite mornings, and they secretly his too. He hopes that one day he’ll be able to take two of them, then three, then four. Until then, he knows you don’t mind. That you mean it when you say you love all of him.

✧･ﾟ:he loves all of you back. That’s why, no matter how the world turns, he keeps you right at the center.

✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦ ✦Author's Note: from this headcanon request. this is what he's doing rn in my heart btw ✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦

[itskhali]

the devil couldn't reach me so he made bucky barnes a fictional character instead of my husband

[buckyinmyuniverse]

J.B. was here / So was she

Previous work (related but both can be read without the other, as in no plot here, just vibes and fluff)

Post by @buckyinmyuniverse

💬 0  🔁 0  ❤️ 0 · One room at a time Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader 🏚🦾🏠 The house sat at the end of a weed-bitten drive like it had been lef

Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

🏚🦾⚒️🏠

By the time Bucky pulled up to the house, the morning was still gray at the edges, all cool air and damp leaves and that faint mineral smell the place carried before the sun warmed the boards. He killed the engine, sat for a second, and looked at the front of the house through the windshield.

It looked the same as last week. Crooked shutter. Porch lean. Windows filmed over with age.

Different now, though.

Not because the house had changed.

Because he had a key.

That should not have felt like anything. It was practical. Temporary. A matter of access. Work started early, and the lock on the front door still stuck if you didn’t lift and push at the same time. Easier if one of them got there first.

Still, the key sat in his pocket with disproportionate weight. Warm from his body.

He got out, boots crunching over gravel, a thermos in one hand and a paper sack of breakfast in the other. Henley sleeves shoved up to his forearms despite the chill, old jeans, work gloves hanging from his back pocket. Basic. Functional. Forgettable.

Which would have been enough of a problem on its own, because he knew what the henley did. He was not stupid. He had seen mirrors before. Seen the way her eyes sometimes snagged and then moved away like she was pretending they hadn’t.

He just preferred not to examine that too closely.

Inside, the house greeted him with its usual complaints: the sigh of boards under his weight, the draft from the front parlor window, the persistent smell of plaster dust and old wood. He set the thermos and breakfast on the built-in in what would eventually be the dining room, then walked to the back room where they were starting today.

The wall between the kitchen and the old pantry wasn’t load-bearing. He’d checked twice. Then again. Still, he stood in front of it now with his hands on his hips, staring at the faded plaster and old hairline cracks, mentally running through the sequence.

Plastic sheeting first. Drop cloths. Mask. Score edges. Test section. Watch for hidden wires. Take it down slow.

Measurable. Contained. Straightforward.

He liked straightforward.

The front door opened behind him with a scrape and a thud.

Then her voice floated through the hall. “I brought coffee, but now I’m worried you also brought coffee and we’ve become embarrassing.”

Bucky closed his eyes briefly.

He knew that voice too well already. The exact register of it first thing in the morning. A little rough around the edges. Warm in a way that made the whole empty house feel occupied before he even saw her.

He stepped into the doorway and then made the tactical error of looking.

She stood in the front room with a cardboard drink carrier in one hand and a canvas tote over her shoulder, sunlight just beginning to catch at the ends of her hair through the grimy front window. She was dressed, as far as he could tell, for an entirely different activity than knocking out a wall.

Not impractical enough to be ridiculous. That would have been easier to dismiss.

Just… offensively cute.

A soft fitted sweater tucked into high-waisted jeans, the kind that made her look like some impossible hybrid of competent and lovely. Tiny gold hoops in her ears. Boots that were sturdy enough to count as workwear but still looked better than anything workwear had a right to. There was a scarf looped loose around her neck in a color that made her mouth look even softer.

Bucky stared at her for one beat too long.

Then another.

She noticed, because of course she did. “What?”

He leaned one shoulder against the doorway, folding his arms so he had something to do with them. “You know we’re doing demolition today, right?”

She looked down at herself as if checking. “Pretty sure.”

“You’re dressed like you’re going to charm a local bookstore into giving you a discount.”

That made her grin. “And you’re dressed like a hardware store fantasy.”

He said nothing to that.

Mostly because there was, as far as he could tell, no safe response.

She walked toward him, holding out one of the coffees. “Here. Peace offering.”

He took it carefully, fingers brushing hers for half a second too long because she did not seem to have any sense of self-preservation when it came to proximity. Or maybe he was the one lacking it. Hard to say anymore.

“Also,” she added, peering up at him, “that color again?”

He looked down at his henley. Dark red. The same old one, or close enough. “It’s a shirt.”

“It’s a very specific shirt.”

“It’s work clothes.”

“It’s devastating, is what it is.”

Bucky nearly choked on his coffee.

She swept past him before he could recover, like she hadn’t just dropped that at his feet and walked away from the scene of the crime. He watched her go with an expression he would later be grateful nobody had been around to witness.

By the time he joined her in the back room, she had set the coffees down and was tying her hair up with a pencil she found in her tote. The motion bared the line of her throat for one brief, unhelpful second.

He looked at the wall instead.

“Okay,” he said, more abruptly than intended. “Ground rules.”

She turned. “Hit me.”

“Literally, don’t. There’s enough head trauma in this house already.”

Her mouth twitched.

He pointed at the pile of gear on the floor. “Goggles. Mask. Gloves. You do not pull anything until I say it’s clear. There could be old wiring in there, and I don’t trust anything in this place that I haven’t seen with my own eyes.”

She gave him a tiny salute. “Yes, sir.”

Bucky stared.

Her expression went innocent in a way that was so transparent it wrapped back around to being dangerous.

He picked up a pair of safety goggles and held them out. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You implied enough.”

She took the goggles, smile widening. “Bossy this morning.”

He heard himself say, before common sense intervened, “Only because somebody has to keep you from demolishing a wall dressed like a magazine spread.”

That got him.

Her eyebrows lifted. Slowly. “Oh?”

He realized, far too late, what he’d admitted.

Not the full thing. Not even close.

But enough to make heat climb the back of his neck in a way he deeply resented.

He looked past her shoulder at the wall. “Mask on.”

She made a soft little sound that was suspiciously like a swallowed laugh and obeyed, which somehow felt worse.

An hour later, the room was transformed from neglected old pantry to active war zone.

Plastic sheeting taped off the doorway. Dust in the air. The first section of plaster gone, exposing lath and the dark hollow between studs. The rhythm of the work had settled into something almost meditative: score, pry, crack, pull, clear. Bucky did the heavier parts, controlled and exact even when force was required. She hauled debris, held the light, bagged trash, and handed him tools before he asked for them like she’d been learning his patterns in secret.

Maybe she had.

That thought lodged under his ribs and stayed there.

Sweat dampened the back of his neck. Dust streaked his forearms. His henley was clinging annoyingly in places he preferred not to think about, especially when she had started looking at him in those brief, startled glances and then pretending she was looking at the crowbar in his hand instead.

He drove the pry bar behind another strip of lath and pulled. Wood snapped with a dry crack.

“You know,” she said from where she was crouched over a contractor bag, “for a man who acts like feelings are an administrative error, you really do have excellent hands.”

Bucky froze.

Slowly, he looked over his shoulder.

She was not looking at him. She was tying off the garbage bag with suspicious concentration.

“You wanna repeat that?” he asked.

“No,” she said at once.

He set the pry bar down very carefully. “Thought so.”

Her cheeks had gone pink above the dust mask. He told himself not to notice. He noticed anyway.

To save them both, or possibly ruin them both more slowly, he turned back to the wall and knocked out another section. More plaster fell away. Behind it, the studs stood straight and weathered, old wood still sound.

“Hey,” she said, closer now.

Bucky pulled his mask down under his chin and glanced over.

She was standing with her gloves off, staring at the space inside the wall. At one of the studs, bare and exposed after who knew how many decades hidden inside plaster.

“What?”

She bit her lip the way she did when she was thinking something through. “Can we do something stupid?”

His first instinct was to say no on principle.

Then he saw that look on her face—that dangerous, luminous look that usually meant whatever came next would lodge in his chest and stay there forever.

He sighed. “Depends how stupid.”

Instead of answering, she bent to rummage through her tote and came up with a marker.

Bucky frowned. “What’s that for?”

She stepped into the open section of wall, ducking under the hanging plastic, and touched the wood lightly with her fingers.

“People do this sometimes,” she said. “Before they close up a wall. Dates. Notes. Little messages. Proof they were here.”

He stared at the marker in her hand.

At the stud.

At the patch of open wall they would eventually seal up again, hidden and intact, carrying whatever was written there for decades without anyone seeing.

Something in his chest shifted uneasily.

She glanced back at him, suddenly uncertain. “Only if you want to. We don’t have to. I just thought…”

Bucky didn’t let her finish that sentence. Couldn’t, maybe.

Because there it was again, that same question in another form.

Can this be kept? Can this mean something? Can we leave evidence that we intended to stay?

He took the marker from her before he could think better of it. Their fingers brushed, dusty and warm.

“What do people usually write?” he asked.

Her eyes softened. “Anything.”

That was not helpful.

He looked at the wood. At the grain of it. At the old marks left by other hands, other builders, long gone. For a second all he could think was that hidden things had not often been kind in his life. Hidden compartments. Hidden files. Hidden names. Whole years of himself buried where he could not reach them.

But this would be different.

Not concealed in fear.

Kept in trust.

He uncapped the marker and stood there, broad shoulders blocking the morning light, staring at the stud like it was a confession booth.

She stayed quiet beside him.

Finally he wrote, in careful block letters:

J.B. WAS HERE

He stepped back at once, almost embarrassed by it.

She looked at the words and then at him, laughter tugging at her mouth. “Very poetic.”

Bucky handed her the marker. “Your turn, smartass.”

She took it, smiling now, and under his name she wrote:

SO WAS SHE

He barked out a laugh before he could stop it. “That’s it?”

“She values mystery.”

“She values being annoying.”

She capped the marker and then hesitated, looking back at the stud. After a second, she added the date in smaller writing beneath both lines.

The room went quiet.

Dust moved through the sunlight in slow, floating threads. Somewhere outside, a crow called from the trees. Bucky stared at those few black words on old wood until they blurred around the edges.

It should not have mattered this much.

It was a joke, mostly. A small thing. Something no one might ever see again.

Still, it struck him with disproportionate force, the thought of those marks remaining inside the house long after the wall was finished. Their names—not even full names, not exactly, but enough. Enough to say we were here. Enough to say this was touched by our hands. Enough to say someone chose to leave proof of themselves without any plan to come retrieve it later.

He felt her move closer.

When he looked down, she was watching his face too carefully.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

And because he was tired, dusty, hungry, and losing the ability to lie to her with any consistency, the truth slipped out before he could reshape it.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he meant. “Just not used to…” He stopped.

“To what?” she asked.

He looked back at the wall.

At the date. At her handwriting beside his.

“Leaving something behind on purpose,” he said.

The silence after that was so gentle it almost undid him.

Then her hand, warm through his work glove, closed around his wrist.

Not to restrain. Not to fix. Just there.

Bucky let himself look at her.

Dust on her cheek. Hair escaping around her face. Sweater ruined now, finally, one sleeve streaked with plaster and the hem powdered white. She still looked too pretty for demolition. Too soft and bright for this gutted room. Too much like a future he had not learned how to stand inside without flinching.

And yet here she was.

In the mess. In the noise. In the middle of the work.

With him.

He swallowed once. “Your outfit’s destroyed.”

She looked down, then back up at him. “Worth it.”

“For one wall?”

Her gaze flicked to the writing on the stud, then back to him.

“No,” she said quietly. “Not just for the wall.”

Something hot and helpless moved low in his chest.

So he did what Bucky Barnes always did when a feeling got too large and had nowhere tactical to go.

He picked up the pry bar again.

“We still have half the room left,” he muttered.

Her smile went all soft around the edges, like she knew exactly what retreat looked like when it put on work boots and a scowl.

“Yes, boss.”

He shot her a look.

She only reached for another contractor bag, humming under her breath like she hadn’t just altered his internal landscape before noon.

By late afternoon, the wall was down to studs, the floor buried in debris, and both of them looked equally wrecked. Her pretty outfit had finally surrendered completely—dust in her hair, smudges on her jeans, sweater hopelessly sacrificed. His henley was damp at the collar and stuck to his back, forearms gray with plaster and sweat.

They stood in the middle of the stripped room drinking lukewarm water, looking at the bones of the house laid bare.

“It already feels bigger,” she said.

Bucky nodded.

It did.

Not just the room.

The day. The house. The terrifying shape of the future itself.

He glanced once toward the stud with their names on it. Hidden now behind hanging plastic and angled light, but still there. Waiting.

For the first time in a long time, the evidence of his presence somewhere did not feel like a liability.

It felt like a beginning.

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

Building a life with Bucky Barnes 🥺

[buckyinmyuniverse]

One room at a time

Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

🏚🦾🏠

The house sat at the end of a weed-bitten drive like it had been left there on purpose. Not abandoned exactly. More like forgotten politely. Its porch sagged a little on the left side. The paint had peeled down to old, tired wood. One upstairs shutter hung crooked by a single hinge, tapping in the wind with a slow, irregular sound that made Bucky’s shoulders tighten before he could stop them.

He stood with his hands in his jacket pockets and looked at it the way he looked at everything unfamiliar: perimeter first, weaknesses second, exits third.

The roof had held, mostly. Good pitch. Some damage near the eaves. Windows old, but not all of them broken. The treeline sat close enough to offer privacy, not so close it swallowed the yard whole. Back door. Cellar access. Two first-floor windows wide enough to climb through in a hurry. Three possible blind spots if somebody wanted to get close unnoticed. Floor plan still unclear, but he’d map it in ten minutes once he was inside.

Cheap for a reason, he thought.

Cheap enough to make him suspicious.

Beautiful enough to make him uneasy.

Beside him, she got out of the truck and just… stared.

Not wary. Not practical. Not even disappointed.

Interested.

That was somehow worse.

Bucky glanced at her. “You don’t have to pretend.”

She turned, one hand still on the truck door. “Pretend what?”

“That this isn’t a disaster.”

Her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Oh, it is a disaster.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Okay.”

“But,” she said, looking back at the house, “it’s a beautiful one.”

Bucky actually laughed once, low and brief, because of course she’d say something ridiculous like that. Of course she’d stand there in the thin October light, hair caught by the wind, looking at a dying house like it had merely fallen asleep.

He should’ve known then not to come.

Not because the place was dangerous.

Because she was already seeing a future in it.

The realtor had left the key in a lockbox and a sheet of paper clipped to the front railing with a list of disclaimers that got longer the further down the page it went. Foundation settling. Water staining in the rear bedroom. Updated electrical in only part of the first floor. No guarantees regarding plumbing, insulation, or appliances.

Bucky barely read it. He’d seen worse. Lived in worse. Hidden in worse.

The front door stuck halfway and needed a shoulder to open. He stepped inside first on instinct, the old floorboards groaning under his weight. Dust hung in the air, bright in the shafts of light cutting through the front windows. The place smelled like plaster, old wood, and the faint mineral damp of a house that had gone too many winters without enough heat.

He listened.

Nothing moved except the settling hush of the place around them.

Behind him, she slipped inside and stopped just short of colliding with his back.

“Oh,” she breathed.

It came out soft. Reverent.

Bucky looked around the front room again, trying to see whatever it was she was seeing. The wallpaper had bubbled away from the walls in long curled strips. The fireplace mantel leaned half an inch to the right. There was a water stain on the ceiling shaped almost exactly like a hand.

“It needs work,” he said.

She shot him a look. “You think?”

He moved farther in, checking the hallway, glancing through a doorway into what had once been a dining room. “A lot of work.”

She followed, fingers trailing over the banister, the cracked molding, the edge of a built-in shelf with all the absentminded tenderness of someone greeting an injured animal without wanting to scare it.

That feeling came again, low and unwelcome.

He knew that touch.

Not the literal one.

The intent behind it.

He’d felt it turned on himself a handful of times in his life, always startling, always impossible to meet head-on. That quiet, unarmed consideration. The refusal to flinch from damage. The awful implication that ruin was not the final word on a thing.

He cleared his throat. “You okay?”

She nodded, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was peering into the next room, where afternoon sunlight spilled across warped hardwood in one wide gold sheet.

“There’s so much original trim,” she murmured.

Bucky stared at the cracked casing around the doorway. “Is that good?”

She turned then, smiling properly now, and it hit him straight in the sternum.

“Yes,” she said. “That is very good.”

He had the stupidest, most immediate thought of his life:

I would learn whatever that means if you kept looking like that.

So naturally he said, “Hm.”

She laughed under her breath and wandered into the dining room. He followed because of course he did. Because somewhere along the line, tracking her movement had become as involuntary as checking sightlines.

The back of the house was worse. The kitchen had suffered for years in visible ways. A patch of ceiling had come down over one corner, exposing lath. One cabinet door hung open at an angle. The sink looked original and offended about it.

He crouched to inspect the floor near the back wall, pressing his palm to a darkened board. Soft. Water damage. He could replace sections, maybe. Sister the joists if it had spread farther than this. Strip it back to what was sound. Build from there.

Build.

The word landed strangely.

He stood too fast and bumped his shoulder against the counter.

“You found something?” she asked.

He looked down at the floor. “Rot.”

She came to stand beside him, close enough that her sleeve brushed his hand. “Can it be saved?”

He hated how quickly he answered.

“Yeah.”

Not because he knew for sure.

Because she’d asked it in that tone again.

Not hopeful exactly. Steady. Like the answer mattered, but she wouldn’t break if it was no. Like she trusted him to tell her the truth.

His jaw worked once. “Not all of it. But enough.”

She nodded, accepting that without fuss, and looked down where he was looking. For a moment they stood there shoulder to shoulder over a patch of damaged flooring, and Bucky had the strange sensation that they were not discussing wood at all.

Not all of it. But enough.

He stepped away first.

Upstairs, the back bedroom had the water stain the realtor mentioned, plus a hairline crack running from the corner of the window to the ceiling. The smallest room at the front had better light. The floors were uneven, but solid. One wall had once been painted a pale blue. The color survived in sheltered strips behind where furniture must have sat for years.

She went still in the doorway.

Bucky turned. “What?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

That was a lie.

He had learned hers by now—the soft kind, the harmless kind, the kind that really meant something happened inside me and I’m not ready to hand it to you yet.

He waited.

After a moment, she said, “This would be a nice room in the morning.”

His eyes went to the window. Trees beyond it, leaves gone gold at the edges. Light generous even through the grime.

“Yeah,” he said.

She took a few steps in, careful where the floor dipped. “You could put a chair there.”

He frowned. “I don’t need a chair.”

She looked at him like he was being deliberately dense, which, to be fair, he was. “Everybody needs a chair.”

“For what?”

Now she crossed her arms. “For sitting, Bucky.”

He gave her a flat look.

She huffed a laugh. “For reading. For coffee. For staring out the window when the weather turns bad. For sulking dramatically. I don’t know. Existing.”

Existing.

Said so simply.

As if that were a thing a room could be made for.

Bucky looked back at the patch of floor by the window. In his mind, despite every effort, something disloyal began assembling itself there: a worn armchair, a blanket over one arm, a lamp glowing in the early dark. A winter morning. Heat pushing softly through old radiators. Her passing the doorway in thick socks, carrying two mugs without asking if he wanted one because by then she would already know.

His chest tightened so hard it bordered on pain.

He moved past her into the hall.

The bathroom was a lost cause. The linen closet smelled faintly of cedar under the dust. In the master bedroom, one window had swollen shut in its frame. He tested it anyway, fingers at the sill, shoulder angled automatically for leverage.

“Still doing that?” she asked quietly.

He looked back. “Doing what?”

“Checking all the exits first.”

The house seemed to grow very still around them.

He let go of the window. “It’s habit.”

“I know.”

She didn’t say it accusingly. Didn’t say stop. Didn’t even say you don’t have to.

Just: I know.

Which was, somehow, harder to bear.

Bucky looked out through the cloudy glass at the yard below. Tall grass. Half-collapsed fence. A maple tree leaning red-gold over the back corner.

He said, because honesty sometimes came out of him sideways, “I like knowing how fast I can get out.”

Silence behind him.

Then her footsteps, slow on the warped floorboards, until she was near enough that he could feel her presence at his back like warmth.

“Okay,” she said.

That was all.

No fixing. No reaching in with both hands. No soft speech about safety or healing or what he deserved.

Just okay.

His throat went tight anyway.

He turned around. She was looking at him with that same maddening steadiness she’d offered the rotten kitchen floor, the original trim, the whole lopsided skeleton of the place.

Can it be saved?

Not all of it. But enough.

He looked at the room around them—the cracked plaster, the stains, the draft edging under the sill—and for one reckless second he could see it altered. Not perfect. Never perfect. But lived in. A quilt folded at the foot of the bed. Her book left facedown on the nightstand. His boots by the door. Their voices caught in the walls. Winter outside. Lamplight inside. No countdown. No order coming through an earpiece. No bag packed under the bed.

It hit him so abruptly he almost stepped back from it.

This house frightened him.

Not because it was unstable.

Because it asked a question he did not know how to answer.

Not can you fix it.

Can you stay?

Downstairs again, they stood in the front room while the light began to thin. Dust floated between them in slow bright motes. The realtor’s paper still fluttered outside on the porch railing, full of warnings and disclaimers and sensible reasons to walk away.

She tucked her hands into her sleeves and looked around one more time. Not pushing. Not selling him on it. Just there with him in the middle of all that wreckage, letting the silence be shared instead of awkward.

Bucky studied the fireplace, the sag in the floor, the staircase that would need reinforcing before winter. He saw labor. Time. Money. Setbacks. Splinters. Demolition. Mistakes. Long days. Longer nights.

He also saw her in this room with lamplight at her shoulder.

Saw Christmas lights looped badly around that banister.

Saw a coat dropped over the newel post.

Saw two sets of footprints in snow tracked across the threshold.

Saw, with a force that made him feel almost sick, a life that did not begin with impact and end with extraction.

Just… continue.

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. “You really think it could work?”

When he looked at her, he knew immediately he had made a mistake.

Because her whole face changed.

Not triumphant. Not relieved.

Only soft. Startled. As if she understood exactly what question he had actually asked, hidden underneath the practical one.

“Yes,” she said.

And then, after a beat, gentler:

“I do.”

Bucky glanced away first, jaw tight. He looked back at the front door. At the windows. At the stairs. At all the possible exits.

Then at the center of the room.

At the place you would stand if you meant to remain.

When he spoke, his voice came out rougher than he intended.

“Okay,” he said. “One room at a time.”

And something in the house—some old, waiting thing made of timber and dust and weather—seemed to settle around them, like it had heard.

[anotheranonymousfanwhore]

To rebuild a home and a life with Bucky 🥺

[efe-eeeee-deactivated20260324]

When im reading a fanfic with superhero’s but it’s x civilian!reader so I know it’s gonna be peak

PLEASE MORE X CIVILIAN READER FANFICS I BEG