over 300 people were killed in Lebanon today by the hands of Israel. They dropped 160 bombs in areas in Lebanon in the span of only 10 minutes. dont stop talking about it. it isnt over
The passing down of the Straw Hat from the legendary Oda Eiichiro (Creator of One Piece) and the one & only Tanaka Mayumi (Luffy’s Japanese Voice Actress)
teamUSAsnowboardertasm!peter x teamCanadaFigureskaterF!Reader || WC: 3.15K
-when your olympic team goes into Cortina village without you, your teammate left a questionable crush, Peter Parker, in your head. when the power went out throughout the whole olympic village, guess who shows up at your dormstep?
tags : slight crack, fluff, angst if you squint hard enough,0 use of Y/N, major use of side characters (Hi Hattie!!), voluntary proximity, Team Canada being your second family, both you and peter are 18!, peter being the most awkward person oat, mentions of ex gf Gwen Stacy (at least shes not dead), winter version of summer olympic cardboard beds.
authors note !- hey party people! feels like its been forever (or 6 months) since i wrote on this blog. i missed it and it doesn't help that life's been a bitch for everybody recently. it took me wayyy too long to write this and im kinda happy with the final results. since winter is obviousy coming to an end, im excited to have more free time to write more! enjoy!!!
credits to @uzmacchiato for dividers!!
“Come on, you’re in Milan— this is the last place to be a homebody.”
Your teammate cooed, trying to shake you from your anchored stance. Your body had sat idle, refusal written through your facial expressions.
“And do what, Hattie? Watch you and a good portion of ‘Canada’s most prosperous winter athletes’ get shit-faced, and I have to drag a few, I don’t know,— 30 — back to the mobile homes? I refuse— no! I happily disapprove of my even stepping out of this room.” Your refusal was immediately met with a disapproving sigh, but your stance was clear.
18 in Milan? Watching a group of 30-some shameless Men and Women flirt with other athletes and listen to their perverted thoughts being publicized to anyone who dares to indulge? Absolutely not. You had just gotten off the plane, and the idea itself was overstimulating enough. A good tea and book would keep you afloat. But, as expected, your teammate was persistent.
“You are seriously out of your mind. Never mind us, this is also a chance to meet new faces, talk to new faces—hell— kiss new faces!” You hurtled a pillow at her as soon as the idea was sketched on her face.
“Haha. Mature,” your response was monotone, but the concept had made your heart flutter. Surely it’s just to get to your head, but unfortunately, it worked.
The sight of your gears turning gave a victorious reaction to your teammate, moving her to sit next to you. She snatched your phone, seemingly typing your password. You tried to act like it didn’t bother you; it was just her being stupid.
“Hattie, don’t search dumb shit on my phone. Go out, have fun, I’ll be—“Ah Ha!”— what?” You overlapped her shoulder, staring at the screen curiously, earning a snort from Hattie. There was the Roster of Team USA, 232 pictures littering the screen. She had scrolled to the men's snowboarding section, a group of 49 on the screen.
“Where is he?” Hattie’s eyes scanned the screen till she pressed on the seemingly youngest athlete on the roster. Oh my…
“Violà. The youngest snowboarder on team USA. 18 year old professional snowboarder, Peter Parker.” The sight of him had made your past fluttering problem relocate to your stomach. Eye candy was the most respectful way to describe him. He had a nerdy charm, but it didn’t overpower his strong facial features. His eyes were coffee brown, and his hair was messy and lush but it fit him. Overall, he was gorgeous. You had stared at his picture till your eyes started stinging, but it felt worth it just to gaze at him.
“He..” She pointed at the screen, staring at you,
“He could be out tonight, and you’re giving it up for books?” she whined. But—what if?
What if he was strolling in Cortina, roaming and looking for someone, rather than something?
You looked at Hattie desperately and sighed, giving her a look.
“A guy like that..” You mumbled, carding your hair anxiously, “…has no chance of being single. Have fun, Hattie, get out of my head… and room.”
Hattie snorted and got up, wiping her pants. “I tried. Have fun by yourself.” She smiled and walked out. Leaving your minds’ defenses destroyed by the idea of what ifs. You found your head on your pillow, imagining the curves from the popcorn ceiling to be mountains. You mumbled curses about Hattie, hoping the worst for her hangover.
Ping!
You rocked your head towards the sudden sound of your phone going off, sitting up and recollecting your thoughts.
Hades: I’ll see if I spot him in the wild, babe. Wish me luck!
You tossed the phone, leaving it dangling at the end of your bed.
Much to Hattie’s surprise, you had found solace in your books, packing a few books to keep yourself entertained. Well, they were packed to keep you entertained.
Now their use is much more suited to be described as a distraction.
You flipped through pages, but you couldn’t find retention within the sentences. Rereading didn’t help either. This was the only book you had packed that didn’t have an overwhelming undertone of romance to it, but even it was too much.
But it seemed everything had been ‘too much.’
The stiffness of the chair,
The roughness from the Sherpa carpet,
The overwhelming warmth from the fireplace?
You knew you were in over your head.
You let out a defeated groan, placing the book down and closing your eyes, hoping your thoughts wouldn’t betray you and succumb to the ‘what ifs.’
knock..
knock…
….
knock..?
You could feel the hesitation through the door, but you still got up to answer. You lazily dragged your feet, guessing it was just a drunken teammate who miraculously found their way to you.
You heard soft mumbling from the other side of the door, your curiosity finally kicking in. You twist the door handle and open the door cautiously, open enough to get a good look at the unexpected visitor.
Peeping, you caught a glimpse…
oh..!
You immediately slammed the door, letting out a particularly high-strung screech. Surely your eyes are blurry from the jumbled words, but there is no way, no chance…
Immediately feeling guilt, you flung the door open, trying to pick up the pieces of resolve you still had left. He hadn’t moved from his spot, probably still in shock, but your eyes weren’t wrong.
Peter Parker was standing an arm's length away from you.
So much for going out.
The apologies spilled out as fast as they had come into your brain.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay? I don’t know what got into me, that’s so embarrassing-“
“No, no- it’s fine your fine, it’s just uh- I’m uh—hi...”
His unparalleled kindness made you truly realize how deep into this you actually were.
Heat crawled up your face, and hoping your fluster wasn’t visible, you gave him a shaky smile, “hi..”
“I-I’m Parker- Peter. Peter Parker. I just uh- just wanted to see if your power was still on?” You paused for a second, confused at the question. Why wouldn’t it be working? That’s when you decided to take a closer glance at him. Check if he might’ve been drunk, of course.
His hair was dripping wet, and he still had water running down his face. He must’ve been cold.
“Uhm- no? I mean mine is working just fine, I don’t—“VRRRR..!”—“ both you and Peter draw your attention to the back of the room, where suddenly in that same instance, everything has shut off. Heat, water, lights. Gone.
“Shit.”
You and Peter glanced at each other before he put on a what you personally perceived as a guilty smile.
“I must be bad luck, huh?”
You smiled politely even though you didn’t want to say it out loud. “It’s fine, my fireplace is still working. Come in, you look cold.”
He let out a relieved sigh as you stepped to the side, letting him in.
He’s much prettier up close.
His movements were hesitant, and he looked almost scared. You flickered a soft smile on your face, settling into how awkward this whole situation is.
“Sit anywhere, I don’t bite.” He chuckled, finally meeting your eyes with a goofy smile.
“Thank God, I have enough of that back home.” Though his joke had fallen terribly short, you still gave him a small giggle, hoping humoring him would spark a conversation instead of a chain of unbearable silence.
“You don’t have to laugh, that wasn’t funny.”
“At least you’re self-aware?” His smile had gotten noticeably larger, making that tingly feeling reappear from earlier in the night.
The silence had lasted momentarily, both of you never truly making real eye contact. You cautiously sized him up, taking careful notes of his features. As you go up his head, you remember how soaking wet his hair is. Has he been standing here drenched in water the whole time?
“Oh my gosh. Has your hair always been that wet?!” You made haste to your room, grabbing a clean towel. He had stayed in place, looking around like a lost puppy.
“I must’ve forgotten when I came out of the shower, I didn’t even—“head down,”— realize..” he reluctantly followed your orders, keeping his head still as you aggressively ran the towel through his hair.
“My bad,” he muttered under his breath.
“What are you sorry for? Just making sure my pristine guest doesn’t catch a cold.” You both giggled, letting the moment sink into a quiet moment of intimacy…
..intimacy between two strangers.
You jolt back immediately, Peter flinching at your reaction. “What?”
“I’m sorry, it’s just— are you comfortable with me doing that? We don’t really-“
“I just stood here and let you do it for about a minute. I’d hope I’m comfortable with you.” He retorted.
“Yeah, but we just don’t…know each other-Like that?” You pulled on the hems of your shirt, heat settling onto your face.
Peter paused for a moment, letting your troubles float in the air for a few seconds. He then sat on the floor closest to the fireplace, dragged a blanket down with him, and patted the open area right next to him. “Well then, let’s get to know each other. Don’t want my pristine host to feel uncomfortable,” a smile —almost wimpy at that— broke through, and you settled next to him, the tension slowly breaking into something you couldn’t quite place yet...
It wasn’t as awkward as you thought.
That is— letting your VERY fresh crush stay in your dorm while the power was still out.
You had learned a lot about Peter in a short time, actually. You had especially learned that TMI was foreign to his knowledge.
He was the goofy type. The type who talks with his hands. Your type.
Currently, you both lie on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, covered in the warm shared blanket, talking about whatever has come to both of your minds.
“How do you have time to train if you’re constantly in school, though? Like I devote all my energy to skating, you’re crazy.”
Peter laughed easily at the comment, taking a second to think.
“My aunt, she gave me the option to switch to homeschool, but I felt like I would miss out on important stuff.”
“…like?”
He paused for a second, turning his head to look at you. A sickly sweet smile kicked onto both of your faces as you both maintained eye contact.
“What?” You breathed out a laugh.
“Nothing, it’s just I-well, I wouldn’t really miss out on shit.” He laughed, and you followed suit.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I- I mean, I had okay friends? And I had rigorous coursework, but I can live without that….maybe Gwen? That’s about it.”
Gwen…
“Gwen?” You sat up a little, getting leverage from your elbows. The blanket had fallen successfully to your hips. “Girlfriend?”
He didn’t make eye contact; his mouth had only opened slightly before he formed a word. “Uh huh...yeah.”
You shifted uncomfortably, the tension from earlier wrangling its way back into your conscious part of your brain. “Ah.”
He closed his eyes and let out a deep sigh, wiping his face for no apparent reason. “She was…a lot,” his use of past tense caught your attention, but you weren’t gonna do anything without confirmation. “She was just amazing. She was so down-to-earth and humble about everything; it felt like a safe space.” He talked about this girl as if he owed her his life, and deep down, you felt you couldn’t measure up to that.
The idea of having someone having to rely and depend on you for such a long period of time made you feel weird, alienating at that. You hadn’t realized you even zoned out until you heard “but-“, your attention refocusing back to him.
“I couldn’t love her…not how she wanted me to. She was... amazing, yeah, but we were... how do I say it...” he snapped, hoping it would spark a wave of recollection in his brain.
“..on different wave lengths..?” You offered, but were met with silence.
“..on different wavelength…yeah.. I was just too busy for her. She needed more from me, and I couldn’t love her properly. It was just ‘eat, snowboard, study, repeat,’ and I didn’t have room for her in there. And don’t get me wrong, I still loved her, but she needed somebody who could keep up with her. I just- couldn’t.” He sighed, his palms now fully covering his face. “I….just told my whole love life to a girl I just met who probably couldn't care less.” He let out a breathy laugh, but you, for the first time tonight, didn’t return the favor.
It was an awkward silence, partially because this conversation made your head spin with ideas, and partially because you, in some ways, completely get him.
“I get it.” You said, your eyes never breaking contact with the ceiling. “I’m sorry. She seemed amazing.”
“Yeah, but I just want her to be happy...” he sighed. Your teeth gnawed on the bottom of your lips, and your mouth moved faster than you could process the words:
“But don’t you as well? Deserve to be happy, I mean.” It was a second of silence, but it felt more drawn out. He had sat up, mirroring you at this point, listening.
“Well, you shouldn’t let your passions dictate your relationships. You sound a little sappy if I may add,” You both chuckled quietly at the comment. “You’re kind, very smart, and overly trusting from what I can tell, don’t cancel yourself out just because you have one too many things on your plate.”
It was quiet for a second, and his lack of response did scare you, but alas, you kept going.
“We’re in Milan, Parker. Some of the best athletes have flown out to be here. A lot of them are in the same boat as you. Spent half of their career playing hockey, snowboarding—“figure skating...”—figure skating! Anyone could be out there tonight, and you’re just gonna give it up? For stupid snowboarding? No way, Peter..go out and find someone. I promise it’ll be worth it…”
“Well, I don’t think I have to go far.” He mumbled, and after a distinct pause, a laugh came as a natural response from both of you. You nudged him softly on the side, but you couldn’t hide the excitement written on your face.
“Flirting with the girl that you not only just spent an hour talking about your ex with, but you also only met her...—“6 hours ago-“— 6 hours ago, is a risky move, Parker.” You cooed, unconsciously drifting closer to his body warmth. He laughed, completely on his side at this point, one hand slithering across your waist to consciously pull you closer.
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he rasped softly, “how can I make it up to you?” The reflection of the fireplace onto his glasses perfectly paired with his brown, doe eyes.
What a tease.
You thought playfully, rubbing your chin to try to formulate an answer.
“You could….stay with me tonight, watch the sunrise over the mountains tomorrow morning?” He bit his lip, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Are you sure…? Anything more, I don’t know- closer, less cold, needs more… face-to-face contact?” You giggled childishly at his last comment.
“Just say you want to kiss me, Parker.”
…..
“I want to kiss you, Parker.”
He mimicked, but it fell short as your foreheads had pressed together already, his grasp around your waist had curled tighter. You slowly took his glasses off, and your hands cupped his face, fingers shaking slightly on his heated cheeks. It didn’t go unnoticed by Peter.
“You sure you wanna do this?” He asked one last time, “We can take this slow...rain check this and go for a coffee in the morning?”
“I think 6 hours is slow enough. Can we get this show going?” You snickered, helping Peter close that pesky gap.
At first, your teeth knocked together, both of you stopping to laugh, then again, which led to a chain of sloppy, heavy kisses.
The surreal sensation was hitting hard, a combination of his freshly washed hair still dripping hesitantly onto your forehead, the fireplace screaming unceasingly, and the faint taste of probably his dinner still on his lips. It was overstimulating in the best place possible, your whole body becoming sensitive to even his simplest touch.
You had shifted yourself to his lap, effectively straddling him, somehow not breaking lip contact. You hear him let out a strong sigh as you both pull away to catch a quick breath. You were trying to read his face; you knew that much. You pushed his hair back to get a full view of his features, leaving a new sense of giddiness to settle in your stomach.
He left a dizzying kiss on your forehead, the hot air blowing once he lifted as he was trying to catch his breath. “So-“
“Uh huh.” Your breath hitched with a lazy smile kicking to your face. You felt his hands climb up your sides, but you feel his soft shaking.
“You’re shaking, Parker.”
“So are you.”
..
"…. Can we do that again? my- my eyes were closed. I didn’t get the full experience."
"Oh my god." You snorted, softly pulling his nape back to get a better perspective. “You’re so stupid.”
“And you’re still kissing me so-“
You brushed his lips softly, Peter pulling you closer for a more proper kiss. It was slower than before, as all the adrenaline had almost fizzed out, but it was still just as meaningful.
“I hope she’s not sleeping, I brought her back some—oh??” You practically pushed Peter off of you, his whole body slamming to the ground.
“Fuck!” He groaned in pain. You both looked over at the doorway to see Hattie and a few of your (very drunk) teammates filling up your doorway. Embarrassing felt too light a word to describe how you felt. You removed yourself from his lap, which induced a whine from him, and stood up, walking frantically towards them.
In a team fashion, everyone had the same star-struck look on their face. especially the ring leader. Hattie let out a screech before wrapping her arms around you and surprisingly lifting you in the air, giggling like a toddler. Her words were so incoherent, but you had a hunch about their meaning.
You looked back at Peter, who was now swarmed by the rest of your team, their words slurring and poking him like he was a never-before-seen artifact.
Your eyes softened as you both made eye contact. “I’m sorry,” you mouthed towards him, earning you a childlike grin and a sincere “It’s okay.”
Hey guys. I’m gonna be so honest LMAO i have so much rage inside my body lately just living in America. I am not reading, writing, or even contemplating things right now :/
I plan on opening my requests next Monday! (9/22) so get those ready!
In the meantime, stay educated, stay loud, stay safe!
I may also take an opportunity to cleanse my TL as well as my followers!
Fuck Charlie Kirk, fuck the trump administration, fuck those who empathize with both.
Free Palestine, free the Congo, free those who are being unjustly killed and monitored by their governments.
You can unfollow if you want, I don’t care. We all go on with our days until we can’t.
✧.* G.W x Reader
☁︎ angst // grief // comfort
✎ A Hufflepuff Quidditch co-captain is shattered by Cedric Diggory’s death, withdrawing from classes, games, and friends as grief consumes her. George Weasley notices her absence and, quietly worried, steps in. He doesn’t try to fix her pain but sits with her in her silence, making sure she feels seen and not alone.
𖦹 2k
[masterlist]
Much Love, Saige
★ request : @l00ny-m00ny
ϟ taglist ϟ : @falsedivide @procookie2007 @damagedbreign @promisingflowerz-13 @moonkissedpoet @marianaissocool @mumofunicorns @theinkofyourfeather @littlemadamred @raiweasley @iluvhrj @hoeforlifee @a1ienmush
The low crackle of the fire in the hearth, the muted glow of the lamps, the soft hum of the earth just beyond the round windows—normally it was all comfort, the sort of warmth that made you feel like home was stitched into every cushion, every honey-colored stone. But now it was unbearable. Every corner of the room carried shadows of laughter you would never hear again.
Cedric’s laughter.
You sat curled in one of the armchairs, knees tucked up under your chin, staring into the flames like they might burn away the heaviness in your chest. They didn’t. They only reminded you of the way Cedric’s grin would flicker in firelight, of the nights you stayed up too late planning Quidditch strategies together, scribbling plays on scraps of parchment until you both fell asleep mid-sentence.
Co-captain. That had been your title, your shared responsibility. His presence had been so steady that you hadn’t realized how much of yourself leaned on it until it was gone. Now the team had no captain at all. You hadn’t gone to practice since—since the night of the Tournament. Since the night Cedric’s name had turned into a whisper, then a memory, then a wound.
You pressed your palms against your eyes until you saw stars. It didn’t help. Nothing did. Not the endless cups of tea that your housemates left at your side, not the way Professor Sprout gently asked if you were eating, not the concerned glances you kept catching from people who didn’t know what to say.
Because what could they say?
This was grief. Raw, ugly, unrelenting grief. And you hated how unfamiliar it felt. You had never lost someone before—never like this. The world had always felt safe, fair, steady. But now it was broken in a way you couldn’t fix.
And Hogwarts, your sanctuary, had become unbearable. The Quidditch pitch, once your second home, felt like a battlefield littered with memories you couldn’t touch. The classrooms felt like cages, every word from a professor floating past without meaning. Even the common room, so full of soft blankets and familiar warmth, ached like an old scar every time you looked at Cedric’s favorite chair.
You told yourself you were fine with solitude. You told yourself you needed it. But solitude was cruel, too. It left space for the images to crawl in—the gleam of the Cup, the way Cedric had looked walking beside Harry, the silence that followed when only one came back.
The fire popped loudly, jolting you back to the present. You realized your throat hurt, that you’d been holding back tears so tightly it was like trying to swallow glass. For once, you didn’t fight it. You let your forehead drop to your knees, arms curling tight around yourself as you cried quietly, the sound muffled by the thick cushions around you.
No one came to check this time.
Except—someone did.
You didn’t notice him at first, lingering just beyond the entrance. George Weasley wasn’t supposed to be there; this was Hufflepuff’s space, not his. But his tall frame stood uncertain in the doorway, ginger hair catching the dim firelight. He didn’t say a word. He only looked at you—shoulders hunched, small against the armchair—and something in his expression softened, all the usual mischief gone.
He hesitated like he wanted to step closer, then didn’t. After a long moment, he quietly slipped away, leaving you alone again.
You never even knew he’d been there.
——-
George hadn’t meant to end up outside the Hufflepuff common room that night. He wasn’t the type to lurk, and it wasn’t exactly easy to sneak into another house’s space without drawing suspicion. But something had pulled him there anyway—a mixture of curiosity and concern that he didn’t want to name.
He’d seen you before, of course. Plenty of times. You were hard to miss on the Quidditch pitch, always sharp and steady, Cedric’s equal in skill and leadership. Together, the two of you had been unstoppable, and George had admired that—respected it, even when you were the opponent. He’d also liked the way your laugh carried across the field when a practice turned lighthearted, or how you always had a streak of earth on your cheek after training, like the ground itself didn’t want to let you go.
But now you were… gone. Not literally, but absent in a way that unsettled him.
You hadn’t been to a single class in days. You hadn’t shown up to meals, either. The Quidditch pitch stood strangely empty without you, your team going through motions with downcast eyes. George tried to shrug it off—Hufflepuffs had their own, they’d look after you—but it gnawed at him all the same.
He noticed things. He always had. And what he noticed most of all was how you seemed to shrink into yourself. When he passed by the library once, you were there at a table, not even pretending to read, just staring at the same page as if words had stopped existing. Another time, he caught sight of you in the courtyard, head bowed, shoulders hunched, as though you were trying to fold yourself out of sight.
It unsettled him because it wasn’t you.
And George Weasley hated feeling helpless.
He told himself it wasn’t his place. You had your friends, you had your house. You and Cedric had been inseparable, and George wasn’t sure he’d ever had the right to step into that space. Still, every time he saw you, or rather, every time he noticed the hollow where you used to be, something tugged at him.
Fred teased him for being distracted. “What’s got into you, Georgie? You’ve nearly let a dungbomb off in your own pocket three times this week.”
George had only shrugged, brushing it off with a crooked grin. But he didn’t tell Fred the truth—that sometimes he caught himself looking for you in the Great Hall, scanning the Hufflepuff table just to see if you’d come back. That sometimes his stomach sank when your seat stayed empty.
That sometimes he thought about walking over, saying something, anything.
But he never did. Not yet.
—————
The fire in the Hufflepuff common room had burned low, only embers left to glow faintly against the stone hearth. Most of the house had gone to bed long ago, but you stayed rooted in the same armchair, staring at nothing. The silence pressed in on you, heavy, broken only by the occasional crackle of coal.
You didn’t hear the portrait door creak open. You didn’t notice the footsteps on the soft rug until they stopped just a few feet away.
“Y/N?”
The voice was quiet, not one that belonged in this space. You lifted your head slowly, almost warily, and there he was—George Weasley, framed by the dim light. His red hair caught faint gold from the dying fire, but his usual grin was nowhere to be found. His expression was careful, uncertain.
You blinked at him, throat tight, but said nothing.
He shifted on his feet, hands shoved into his pockets. “I, uh… I know I’m not supposed to be here. Thought I’d get chucked out by a herd of badgers on the spot.” He gave a small, awkward shrug, like he wanted to make you smile but knew better than to try too hard. “But… I noticed you haven’t been to class. Or practice. Or anywhere, really.”
Your chest tightened. The reminder cut deeper than he probably meant it to. You wrapped your arms around yourself, gaze dropping back to the fire.
George stepped closer, just enough that you could feel his presence but not enough to crowd you. He hesitated again, and when he spoke, his voice was softer. “Look, I’m not gonna tell you it’ll get better, because I reckon that’s not what you need to hear right now. But… I didn’t want you to think nobody noticed. You don’t have to do this all by yourself.”
For a long moment, you couldn’t find words. Your throat burned too much, tears pricking hot in your eyes again. But something shifted, just a little—the crushing weight eased by the smallest fraction. Because he was right. You weren’t invisible. Someone had noticed.
Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “It feels like if I move… if I go back to classes, or to the pitch… it’ll be like he’s really gone.”
George’s jaw tightened, and he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.” He lowered himself onto the arm of the chair beside you, not too close, but near enough that his warmth was there if you wanted it. “You don’t have to move until you’re ready. I just… didn’t want you sitting here thinking no one saw you.”
The tears slipped free then, silent but relentless. You didn’t fight them. You didn’t apologize for them either. George didn’t try to stop them—didn’t tell you to cheer up, didn’t crack a joke to force the heaviness away. He just sat there, keeping watch in the quiet.
And somehow, that was enough. You still hurt. You still would tomorrow, and the day after. But for the first time since the world had shattered, you didn’t feel completely alone in it.
The silence between you stretched, filled only by the low hiss of the fire and your unsteady breaths. You hated crying in front of people—hated feeling messy and undone—but George didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just stayed, steady as stone, his presence anchoring you to something that wasn’t grief.
You swiped at your face with the heel of your hand, embarrassed by the sound of your sniffles. “Sorry,” you murmured, though you didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.
“Don’t,” George said softly. His voice had lost all its usual sharp edges, stripped bare of teasing. “Don’t be sorry for this. Not for him.”
That only made the tears sting sharper. You turned your face into your knees again, hiding, but George leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs so he could stay at your level.
“You know…” He paused, searching for words. “Cedric was—he was a good bloke. One of the best. He made people feel like they mattered.” His voice caught slightly, and he cleared his throat. “I think he’d be glad you’re letting yourself feel it. Shows what he meant to you.”
Your shoulders shook at that, the ache swelling until it overflowed. It wasn’t fair—none of it—but George’s words landed true. Cedric had mattered. And now the empty space where he’d been was unbearable.
For a while, you just cried, silent but unrelenting. George didn’t move away. At last, cautiously, he shifted, resting one warm hand on the armrest beside yours, not touching, but close enough that if you wanted to bridge the gap, you could.
You hesitated, then let your fingers drift sideways, brushing against his. He didn’t startle. He simply turned his palm upward, letting you slip your trembling hand into his. His grip was firm, grounding, no words needed.
You exhaled shakily. The knot in your chest was still there, still heavy, but it loosened just enough that you could breathe.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
George tilted his head, studying you with a gentleness you hadn’t known he was capable of. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything.”
“You came,” you said quietly, the words breaking. “Everyone else… they don’t know what to say. But you came anyway.”
Something softened in his eyes then, something almost unguarded. He gave your hand a small squeeze. “Then I’ll keep coming. Even if you don’t say a word.”
I AM SO DONE RIGHT NOW (I cannot even begin to explain how furious, upset, and heartbroken this is making me) because someone STOLE MY FIC, Daddy Doesn’t Wear a Cape, AND UPLOADED IT ONTO CHARACTER.AI WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. I REACHED OUT POLITELY (I explained everything clearly, I showed proof, I even gave them the chance to fix it) AND THEY HAVE NOT RESPONDED. NOT A SINGLE WORD.
AND YES I CAN SEE THEY ARE ACTIVE. THE GREEN ACTIVE BUTTON DOES NOT LIE. THEY ARE IGNORING ME. (Like how is it that hard to just admit you stole someone else’s work and apologise?)
Let me make this perfectly clear because apparently it needs repeating. THIS IS MY STORY. Nearly every single part of that bot is FROM MY FIC.
LOOK AT THESE.
Their AI bot:
My fic:
Look at the two passages side by side. The stolen bot version starts almost exactly like mine, with the same explosive opening line, the pillow being thrown, and the parent reacting in that mix of surprise and careful gentleness.
The details of the child’s behaviour, the curls, the dinosaur pyjamas slipping off the shoulder, the missing sock, are mirrored almost perfectly (SERIOUSLY?? Like did you even try to hide it??) Even the pacing of the dialogue, the back-and-forth shouting, and the little touches of character-specific traits, like identifying what their “real dad” wears, are directly lifted from my story (I cannot even… this is literally my scene, word for word in rhythm and tone).
They have changed names, Caroline to Julie (LORD KNOWS I LOVE THE NAME CAROLINE THAT IS WHY I NAMED HER CAROLINE DAISY KENT), and then simplified or trimmed some sentences, but the structure, rhythm, emotional beats, and the way the scene builds tension and humour are all from MY work (ARE YOU KIDDING ME??).
The way Clark reacts, caught between amusement and heartbreak, is identical in tone and timing (LIKE DID YOU THINK NO ONE WOULD NOTICE??). The small details, like the child’s tiny but fierce fury, the specific references to pajamas and socks, the pacing of the verbal exchange, the first shout as a battle cry, are not coincidences (NOT COINCIDENCES. THIS IS MY WORK, TAKEN AND SLAPPED INTO A BOT).
ALRIGHT ANOTHER ONE, THESE ARE FROM THEIR BOT:
FROM MY FIC:
Now look at this second part. The stolen bot version mirrors my scene almost beat for beat. The back-and-forth testing, the specific questions, the child hesitating but then showing trust, the little magical moment of floating in Clark’s arms, all of it is lifted from my fic. The pacing is identical, the tension and humour in the exchanges are the same, the way the child’s fury melts into wonder, the parent’s gentle, careful reactions, the emotional beats where you appear in the doorway, every single moment is recognisably from my story.
They changed names again, simplified descriptions, and added a new child, Noah, but those are only surface-level edits. The rhythm, the emotional timing, the way the scene builds from suspicion to full acceptance, and the intimate, domestic humour and tenderness are all directly taken from my work. The floating test, the exact style of dialogue, the little cues like the daughter clinging, the parent’s sheepish smile, the sleepy reactions of the second parent, all of that is mine. It is unmistakable that this bot copied my fic and repackaged it.
And now, to make everything even more infuriating, here is a screenshot of their bio on Character.AI (and they have the SAME USERNAME here on Tumblr, too)
WHAT?? Are you serious?? So you think it is okay to just TAKE OTHER WRITERS’ WORK and casually shrug it off with some vague excuse like “oh you’ll know why”? You see my fic, my words, my characters, my emotional beats, and your response is to basically admit it and act like it is nothing?? THIS IS NOT OKAY. This is not some casual borrowing or inspiration. THIS IS MY WORK. You stole it, put it in a bot, and have the audacity to tell people “oh you’ll know why” as if that makes it fine.
I have sent you about three messages now and I saw that you are online based on the GREEN ACTIVE BUTTON. I am also pretty sure my friends have reached out to you as well and they have sent you messages too. HOW is it possible that you are STILL ignoring us??
I want to make it absolutely clear that I am NOT the kind of person who jumps to attack or call people out online, but THIS HAS COMPLETELY CROSSED THE LINE. I was very clear from the start that if you ever used AI to reproduce my fic, I would hold you accountable and take every step necessary to protect my work.
This is not a small misunderstanding or a harmless mistake. MY FIC is my work, my effort, my creativity, and seeing it stolen and thrown into a bot like it is nothing is completely unacceptable.
Who knows how many other AI users are doing this with other writers’ fics, not just mine. This could be happening on a much larger scale, and it is honestly terrifying and infuriating. I am so thankful that someone reached out to me because if not, I would never have known. This is a huge violation of trust and respect, and I will NOT ignore it.
Let this be clear: STEALING AND/OR REPACKAGING SOMEONE ELSE’S WORK IS NOT OKAY, AND WILL NEVER BE OKAY!!
-when your schedule engulfs you, leaving you sleepless, you rely on your roommate mate to wake you up, but in your half asleep state, you did the stupidest thing ever...
-cw: the stupidest fic ever omg, mostly just fluff, a little bit of hurt peter, slightest like barely mentioning of sex.
(if its scientifically inaccurate no its not idc.)
“But you can’t lie,” Peter repositioned himself. “You can’t be mad because you do like me.”
As you stumbled into your apartment, drowsy and uncoordinated, you dragged yourself to the couch, immediately soaking in its formed comfort. You let your bag slide off your shoulder, and wrapped your hands around the pillow that your head rested on. This was your first feel of comfort since 6AM, and you were not going to waste it.
“You seriously need to drop your morning shifts,” The voice echoed through the apartment, the owner coming into view soon after.
“Mmm hi petey..” You mumbled, curling up into the couch as you felt the presence of someone kneeling infront of you. You groaned as Peter pulled on your ear playfully, causing you to open an eye.
“You look really…bad..” Peter took a pause to sip his coffee, rubbing your ear with that stupid wholesome smile plastered on his face. “Like, ‘Mom of 8 homeschooling all of them while her husband is out in town’ bad.” He wasn’t wrong, and you knew it. Your schedule was tight. Cafe opener at 6:30 , classes, 10 minute lunch, classes again, server at 6 till 11, study, sleep, repeat. But you couldn’t stop, it wasn’t practical nor convenient for you whatsoever.
“Are you the husband in said scenario?” You giggled ,Peter twisting your ear lightheartedly. You were grateful for him, in ways you couldn’t really put into words. He grounded you, closing you laptop whenever he could see your eyes get heavy, leaving food out for you so you don’t have to buy any after work, occasionally swinging by if he was done with patrol and walking home with you. It’s a pleasure to have him, but, you wish you had him. Peter was a sight for even the sorest eyes. From the way his smile always seems so welcoming, to the late night talks you share while helping clean his post-fight bruises. You loved that boy, you just didn’t know if that boy loved you..
“You patrolling tonight?” You asked, fixing a loose piece on his head that bothered you.
“Yeah I’m dipping at 5:00. Need me to wake you up?” he moved his head so you didn’t have to reach that far. you smiled tiredly, almost shedding a tear at his caring nature.
“Yes you beautiful piece of hunk..yes.” you cupped Peters face before he playfully leaned in, causing you to push his face back into a giggling fit. “Let me sleep you weirdo.” You teased, turning around and getting comfortable, letting yourself lull into sleep.
“Helloooo” a soft voice had tickled your ear but you ignored it, still deep in sleep, you were shaken slightly, your body stirring slightly. You reached up slowly to grab support on the top of the couch, instead being met with a familiar latex feel. You smiled warmly, but still had exhaustion written all over your face. The 1ish hour nap wasn’t enough, but you had to make do. You hadn’t opened your eyes yet, but you kept a tight grasp onto Peters hand, leaning on it for both support and comfort. You had felt him help you up my saying things your mid-REM brain wasn’t picking up, your only responses being furrowed eye brows and lazy hums. You knew you to get ready, so you left a soft kiss of Peter’s cheek (which felt bumpier than usual),you felt Peter tense almost immensely, leaving you to giggle at his reaction.
“I gotta get ready, thanks again Petey… be safe mkay?” You muttered tiredly, only getting a response of what sounded like rambling. You stopped in the bathroom and splashed cold water in your face from the sink, slowly waking up. You stepped into the shower, washing off what was left of your exhaust temporarily, but even through the water you could hear Peter pacing through the walls. “you okay Peter?” You yelled, earning a stuttering response in the process. It was weird, it’s not like you hadn’t kissed him on the cheek before.
You stepped out and dried off, still confused by his tone change. Maybe he was self conscious, his skin did feel bumpy, you thought to yourself, letting your hair fall from the shower cap. But honestly? It was very soft for it to be so textured. You had sat down at your vanity, putting dots of moisturizer and primer onto your face. but- it did taste like coffee… you popped open your concealer, putting it over your dug out eye-bags. His skin tasted like coffee..
You took a pause, trying to think of how that would be possible..
.
..
…
Oh fuck. Your eyes widened at the realization that you, in your grogginess, kissed Peter on the lips, completely missing his cheek. You instantly got up, immediately opening your door only to be met with an open window and flowly curtains.
It wasn’t off to say that you were a mess during work. Your mind was running wild and it showed through your body language. You had told your coworkers (who definitely weren’t praying for this day to come), and ended up getting more advice then you had asked for.
“What do I even say?” You chirped, breaking the silence between your other coworker, as you were both on break. “Like- I’m sorry I was running off of 1 hour of sleep I can’t tell the difference between a cheek and lips.”
“Have you seen the way Peter looks at you? Yeah dude, when you get home just call out you’re gonna be crazy sore tom-“ you threw an empty cup at your coworkers head, face flushed and full of embarrassment. You groaned angrily as your coworker giggled. “Just talk to him babe,” She resumed “If in a distant reality he actually doesn’t like you, tell him the truth, it’ll be awkward for a week or two, but then you’ll be fine okay?” You finally looked at her, your teeth dug into your skin. You nodded and took a grounding breath.
“Okay.”
Your apartment seemed extra loud today, as when you opened your door, it creaked extra loudly, the floorboards were reacting in ways you didn’t appreciate at this certain moment, and you accidentally bumped in your side table. Rattling everything that sat on it. You took a deep breath, walking towards the kitchen, grabbing a water and finding yourself on the fire escape, curled up and waiting for Peter. You usually came home before him, so you waited silently for the time to arrive.
Your body started to show the signs of fatigue, as it was about 11:40pm at this point. You groaned to get up, you’d just have to talk to him in the morning. As you stepped in, you walked back into the kitchen, propping yourself onto the kitchen counter, grabbing yourself a mug for your night time tea. That’s when you heard the sudden crash by the fire escape. You peaked your head out, your breath caught when you saw the reason for the sound. Peter stood there, looking a little disoriented, but looking straight at you.
“Peter-“ you gasped, trying to get down but somehow Peter was already half way to you. He was limping slightly, he looked hurt and weak, but somehow he was walking faster than he would’ve if he was healthy. “Peter I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to-“ you started, feeling a sudden urge of guilt for some reason. Peter immediately shut that up as he sloppily tore his mask off, and firmly locked his lips onto yours. They were different from earlier— bruised and chapped— but still it still felt just as warm. You didn’t hesitate you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to your skin. You could feel the sweat transfer from his forehead to yours, but the sickeningly warm kiss canceled all of the responses to your environment. He had such an unrestrained grip on your waist, but the sting felt so rewarding.
After what felt like forever, you had both pulled away, your breaths deep and uncoordinated. You slightly pushed down the collar of his suit, leaning your head to the side to leave pecks on his neck. He let out a content sigh, brushing through your hair. “have I ever told you that you suck? I got my ass beaten just cuz I couldn’t stop thinking about you..” he mumbled, causing your attention to go back on to his face, then scanning his body.. Up close, he looked worse. His face was badly bruised, marks all over his face, you couldn’t even imagine how the rest of his body looked. You wrapped your hands around his neck, he put his head on to your shoulders comfortingly.
“You do look pretty bad” your responded with a snort, “Is this night gonna be a self regeneration type of bruises, or a 'you need me to baby you to trick you that they'll regenerate faster' typa night...” You muttered, running a hand through his matted, sweaty hair.
“The latter.” You groaned as Peter let out a soft giggle. It was silent for a while, letting everything soak.
“You know-“ you started to admit, “I didn’t mean to kiss your earlier.” Peter looked up, and smiled wider.
“oh..I could’ve sworn you were a serial sleep kisser.” Peter snorted and you pushed his shoulder playfully.
“Asshole.”
“Well drunk actions are sober thoughts.”
“I don’t drink?”
“Drunk off of melatonin.” You rolled your eyes at his playfully actions, earning yourself a kiss on the cheek. “But you can’t lie,” Peter repositioned himself. “You can’t be mad because you do like me.”
“A lot yes.” You added, rubbing circles on his neck.
“Sooo, it’s fine.” He smiled leaning into another kiss.
Tumblr is hiding the request :( but I do remember it's been waiting for quite a while so I wanted to say thanks so much for your patience and for the lovely request!!
Request: hey lovely, how are you??? if it suits you, could I request tasm!peter x reader with reader comforting peter this time, maybe because he's just been having a really hard time and he's overwhelmed and stressed with his duties? <333
cw: allusions to canon angst, survivor's guilt
tasm!Peter x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words
There are days when Peter can’t stand to look at his hands not covered by Spider-Man’s gloves, because all he can see is the blood staining them. Not the blood of people he’s hurt, even, but the blood of people he didn’t help. Didn’t, couldn’t. It all muddles together. Most of the time, Peter’s moving too fast to think of anything but the present—the next split-second of action, the closest structure to shoot a web at, how many shouts versus screams versus sirens on the ground below—but sometimes he’s not quick enough, and the past catches up to him.
The only thing to do is move faster.
Peter can do it this time. He can stop it—whatever it is, the thing looming, the great terrible that’s going to wreck someone’s life unless he’s there to shield them. Work is a distraction. Sleep is a time suck. There are people out there who need him, and who says Spider-Man can’t be everywhere at once? He’s fast. He’s really fast. A mugging in Hell’s Kitchen, a fire in Midtown, an amber alert crossing the bridge into Brooklyn, a robbery, a shootout, back over to Manhattan to break up a fight on the street.
He stops home when his hands won’t quit shaking. Slips in through the window instead of the front door, moving through his own home on burglary-silent footsteps. It’s for nothing; you’re already in the kitchen anyway.
You gasp at seeing him, hand fluttering to your chest, but the surprise turns quickly to something else. “Peter?”
“Hey.” Peter pecks you on the lips, reaching into the cupboard behind for a bag of chips. He grabs a banana while he’s in there, plus as some peanut butter and—fuck it—a bag of pasta. He’ll eat it dry.
“Hey,” you echo him. You sound weird, careful almost. “Are you in for the night?”
Peter has to stop crunching on pasta to hear you properly. “Hm? No. Just for a minute.”
“Why don’t you stay?” You take a step closer to him. Peter realizes he’s begun inching towards the window instinctively, itching to get a move on. There’s definitely something weird going on with you. You’re looking at Peter like he’s a ghost and moving towards him like a siren. “You look tired. You could use a break, and I…I miss you.”
“I’ll see you later,” he says. Not mentioning that you’ll probably be asleep by the time he gets back, and you still will be when he goes out again. Peter doesn’t have to say it; you know from experience.
You touch a tear in his suit gingerly. “What happened here?”
Peter shrugs. “Tussle with a fire escape. Don’t worry, I won.”
“You got stabbed by a fire escape?”
“Stabbed is kind of a strong word. It was more like a slashing sort of thing…” He’s trying to joke around, but shit, you’re doing that thing. You’ve turned your eyes up to his, making them all wide and shiny. It’s hypnotic. It’s a look that digs claws into Peter’s guts, and you know it. “It’s not that bad. The bleeding’s already stopped. Super healing, you know?”
You look so in distress, it’s getting his adrenaline pumping again. Peter doesn’t know what to expect from you. You look like you could burst into tears, or yell at him, or tear his suit right off.
What Peter’s not expecting is for you to reach up and put your arms around his shoulders. He’s not expecting his throat to get so intolerably tight.
“It’s okay,” he tries weakly, patting your back.
You go up onto your toes to hold him closer. There’s a solemnity seeping out of you, a vast, quiet upset, but your voice when you speak is gentle. “I’m sorry.”
Peter splinters like a ship wrecking. He’s taken under by the sea.
“I know.” You’re mindless of the blood and grime getting on you as you press your body to his, curling around him like you’re his shield and not the other way around. That’s his job. He’s Spider-Man. “I know, I’m sorry. Come here, lovely.”
Peter doesn’t realize how he’s clutching at you until you try to move him. It’s slow and awkward, tiny steps all the way to the couch. His fingers are wound tightly enough in your top that he might be hurting you, he’s not sure. Peter’s hardly ever sure whether he’s really helping or just hurting. Now, he might be hurting you and it’s no help to anyone but him. Selfish.
“It’s okay,” you say in that soft, tenderhearted voice. His mask was pushed up above his face to eat, but you take it off the rest of the way, setting it behind you. Peter appreciates that you don’t toss it the way he so often does, discarding it like trash in some corner to be found the next time he needs it; he doesn’t think he could take that right now. You kiss his tears like he’s worthy of care.
“I have to go,” Peter chokes out. “I need to—”
“You can’t,” you tell him. There’s no room for argument in your tone, but it’s the farthest thing from firm. Kind, almost apologetic. You soothe a touch over his shoulder. “You can’t, baby. You can’t help everyone. It’s not all your responsibility.”
His shoulders jolt and curve at the same time, a feeble attempt at protecting him from some inner fracturing. You don’t try to hide him from it. You only hug Peter again, as if devoted to the task of looking after what jagged pieces are left afterwards.
“I’m sorry you feel like it is,” you murmur into the curve of his neck.
Peter has always known he was selfish. He’s been punished for it more than once, and when the universe stopped doing it to him he took up the mantle. He lets it drop now. It’s selfish, it’s weak, it’s greedy, but Peter puts his face in your shoulder and cries until you have to remind him to breathe.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” Will it? Things ever only seem to be okay for brief lapses, aberrations of time before it all crumbles again. Like you can hear his doubts you say assuredly, “I’ve got you.”
It means more than you probably know. Or maybe you do, the way you seem to know everything that goes through Peter’s head. He may feel like he has every fragile soul in New York City cupped in his palm, but you have him.
“Breathe,” you remind him again. When he does, your lips press to his temple. “Were you really going to have dry pasta for dinner?”
Peter chuckles weakly. “So what?”
“You’re going to break a tooth, Peter.”
“My teeth are made of stronger stuff than most people’s.”
“No, they’re not.” You call his bluff with nothing but amused fondness in your tone. “Let me make you something good, okay? Stay here tonight.”
It’d be easy to say yes. Peter thinks some part of him had surrendered to the idea even before you pulled his mask away. Still, he suspects you’re not above hiding it from him should he resist.
He doesn’t. “Okay,” he mumbles, nose rubbing your neck. He can’t fully tell if it’s his skin, yours, or both that are so slick with his tears.
Your relieved sigh is enough to dispel any regret. “Thank you.” You kiss him again. “I’ll make it worth your while. You feel like fettucini alfredo?”
“With the good sauce?”
“From the can,” you confirm. Peter can feel your smile when he hugs you tighter, this time from love rather than desperation. You promise again, the words heavy with understanding, “I’ve got you.”
𝒮 YNOPS𝑖S,ㅤㅤclark kent has a talent for getting exclusive interviews.
❪ 𝗦𝗨𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗡 ❫ ᡴꪫ clark kent & wayne!reader 4,3k fluff ｡ cw. not-proofread.
The Wayne family was hard to miss.
This was not only due to the sensationalist newspaper headlines about the family, but also because of their wealth and influence, which had been built up over generations. And of course, because of their tragedies too.
Even so, despite your fame because of your surname, you, Bruce Wayne's younger sister, certainly weren't one for being in the spotlight. You only appeared in public at Wayne Enterprises meetings and charity gala balls. In fact, you were even more reclusive than your brother.
But Bruce had his reasons. Every night, he would leave the mansion in his vigilante costume to fight crime and try to make Gotham a safer place. Your motives weren't as heroic as your brother's, though. The truth is that you always felt uncomfortable in the public eye, and you actually preferred your solitude. There was something about being alone and not having to perform for others all the time. It was peaceful. So you made sure that you didn't have to leave your comfort zone by focusing on your work at Wayne Enterprises and your hobbies far away from the spotlight.
And life is not a bed of roses. And unfortunately, you couldn't always escape the spotlight.
“Thank you for coming with me today,” said Bruce, who was sitting next to you in the back seat of the car. “I know you're not usually interested in events like this.”
Saying that you weren't interested was the mildest thing that could be said about your view of events like that. If it was a charity gala, for example, you'd have no problem going — after all, it was an event with a purpose, and a good purpose. But a millionaire's birthday party where you didn't even know what his face looked like? Those were events you didn't even make an effort to attend.
The problem was that Bruce had practically begged you to go with him, and as usual, you couldn't bring yourself to say no to your brother. After all, he was already having a hard time as a masked vigilante. You couldn't let him almost die of boredom at that boring event.
Not to mention that you didn't travel often. Much as you liked staying at the mansion, Gotham sometimes seemed to suffocate you, and escaping was the best option.
Metropolis always caught your eye. Not because of the alien attacks or Superman (the symbol of peace and hope) but because, despite the chaos, it seemed like a calm place where you could walk the streets without cameras pointing in your direction and recording your every move. In a sense, it was liberating.
Also because, deep down, you wanted to spend more time with your brother without talking about the company or his Batman business.
“It's all right. As Alfie says, sometimes I need to go out and see the sunlight.”
“It's good to see you out of the house.”
“Just don't get used to it,” you said, giving a sideways smile that made Bruce laugh.
It didn't take long to arrive at the party venue. As soon as the driver parked in front of the entrance, you and Bruce were met by a sea of flashlights. There were photographers and onlookers everywhere, and you soon realised that not all of them were there on business. You noticed a few fan signs indicating that the birthday boy had invited a lot of famous people.
The hall was decorated in white and gold with a minimalist aesthetic, which felt very predictable. There was also a huge screen showing various photos of the birthday boy — he certainly had a lot of self-love!
You and Bruce greeted the birthday boy, who you discovered was called Robert. It didn't take long for others to greet him too, which gave you and your brother the cue to wander around the room. There were people you knew, as well as people you had never seen before. Some greeted your brother and walked straight past you, for which you were grateful, while others noticed your presence and recognised you. Some even mistook you for Bruce's girlfriend, which made the atmosphere unpleasant when your brother had to explain that you were actually siblings.
You were sitting next to Bruce in a conversation circle, but the subject was work — just what you didn't want to talk about at that moment. You remained silent, only speaking when addressed. But your mind was elsewhere. You wondered whether it was too early to leave, what would be served at the buffet and how much better it would be to be in your hotel room, watching the city. There were so many things you'd rather be doing than being there.
When the presence of the people around you became unbearable, you left Bruce's side without saying a word, looking for some fresh air. You didn't need to warn your brother to where you were going, after all. He knew you well enough to know where you might be (not to mention he was a great detective).
After wandering around for a while, you noticed a small garden at the back. In the centre was a round, two-storey fountain with water gushing out of the top. It was surrounded by a circular area of well-kept grass and gray bricks. There were wooden benches and peony bushes surrounding it as well.
You were so focused on the flowers that you barely realised there was anyone else in the garden. It was only when your body collided with a stranger's that you came back to reality.
“Forgive me,” you said. “I was distracted.”
“It's OK.” He smiled awkwardly and adjusted his suit, which was slightly too big for him. “I wasn't paying attention either.”
“Are you a journalist?” you asked, noticing the man's ID badge around his neck. There was a photo of him smiling, along with the name Clark Kent.
“Yes!” he said, smiling and extending his hand towards you. You slowly shook his hand, feeling a shock run through your body at the contact. “I’m Clark Kent, a journalist for the Daily Planet.”
“I've heard of you,” you said, letting go of his hand.
“You heard about me?” Clark looked at you in surprise, the tips of his ears reddening slightly.
“Yes, you're the journalist who always manages to interview Superman.”
Although it wasn't in your nature to read newspapers or articles unrelated to the business affairs, you still found it hard to resist the occasional superhero headline, such as those about Superman and Batman. Well, it was also important to stay informed about global events.
“Well, I'd say it's just luck being in the right place at the right time,” Clark said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “And what's your name?”
When you said your name, Kent just stared at you in silence, his eyes wide, as if you had said the most shocking and surprising thing in the world. After a few seconds, he opened and closed his mouth as if he didn't know what to say. Finally, he broke the awkward silence.
“Wayne... Like Bruce Wayne's sister?’
“Yes, is there a problem with that?” You asked, walking over to one of the wooden benches and sitting down.
“Problem?” He looked at you, dumbfounded. “No! No! Why would I have a problem with that?” He sighed and adjusted the glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “It's just… I never imagined I'd meet you like this.”
You nodded with your head to indicate that you understood what he meant. After all, it wasn't every day that the reclusive billionaire heiress, who rarely left Gotham, attended a birthday party in Metropolis. Clark was certainly always in the right place at the right time.
“Ah... Uh... Wow,” Clark repeated your name, as if he was still trying to take in what was happening. The journalist then sat down at the other end of the wooden bench, fixing his gaze on the water fountain. “Wow, this is incredible...” Clark muttered to himself, but you heard him.
“What?” You turned to him, curiosity piqued.
“That just sounds like a dream.” Kent laughed and turned towards you, smiling broadly. “How has your stay in Metropolis been? Are you enjoying the city?”
You were taken by surprise by his question. You had expected him to ask you about your family, the company or your future work and investment plans. You never thought that the first question the journalist Clark Kent from the Daily Planet would ask you would be how you feel about being in the city. He was certainly something different from this world.
“Well, there haven't been any alien attacks so far, so I guess everything's going well.” You said this jokingly, which made Kent chuckle.
“I’m sure that if something like that happened, Superman would turn up.”
“You sound like a fan.”
“Well...” Clark swallowed at your statement. “He seems like a nice guy.”
“He seems to be from your interviews.” You commented, looking away from him. “And I don't doubt that you are too. After all, you're the only person he gives interviews to, so I suppose you're similar. Morally, I mean.”
“I'm just trying my best.” Clark smiled, his cheeks reddening.
“That sounds like enough to me.”
Then, a silence fell between them. It wasn't an awkward silence, though. It was quite the opposite. There was a certain comfort in it. While you enjoyed it, Clark's mind was a whirlwind of questions. He wanted to ask you everything, from your favourite colour to the charities you support. But he didn't have the courage. He didn't want to ruin the moment. You seemed so serene and relaxed that it would have been a sin to interrupt.
“I have to go.” you said, finally breaking the silence that had lasted for a few minutes. You got up from the bench and Clark followed your lead, albeit a little awkwardly.
The journalist followed your gaze and spotted a man standing at the entrance to the garden. He realised that it was indeed Bruce Wayne. Without further ado, Kent gently grabbed your wrist, drawing your attention back to him. Clark felt a shiver run down his spine when your eyes met.
It was now or never!
“Would you mind giving me the opportunity to interview you?” Clark asked, slowly releasing your wrist.
“An interview?” you asked in surprise.
“Yes, I’d really like to ask you a few questions, especially about your charity work.”
“Well, you can call me and I'll think about the interview.” You then said goodbye to Clark and set off to see your brother.
The rest of the night passed in a blur. You enjoyed dinner and dessert while Mr Smith, the host, gave a long speech of thanks and talked about his future work that you really didn't bother listening to. Once you finally returned to the hotel and changed out of your heels and long dress, you threw yourself onto the bed and stared at the white ceiling of the dark room.
You finally felt free. In that hotel room, at least, you could breathe easily, safe in the knowledge that no one was looking at you funny or expecting anything from you.
You were simply yourself.
Suddenly, however, the peace disappeared when memories of your eyes meeting Clark's flashed through your mind like a film reel. Even when you closed your eyes tightly and tried to think of nothing, the image of his unruly curls, bent glasses and adorable dimples came back to haunt you.
Clark Kent's oddly charming demeanor had made quite an impression.
When you returned, Gotham was still the same. It felt like the complete opposite of Metropolis, and for a moment, you missed its warmth and welcoming atmosphere. Nevertheless, you always found something comforting about Gotham's bad weather; it felt familiar even if it was sad.
You sighed as you looked out of the window of your office at Wayne Enterprises. It was a cloudy, grey day. People were hurrying down the street and cars were honking their horns non-stop. At the company, employees were busy with their job responsibilities. The world kept turning, yet ever since you returned from Metropolis, you had felt like you were stagnating. You started to miss something you had never even had.
Suddenly, the landline phone on your desk rang.
“Yes?” you said as soon as you put the object to your ear.
“Miss Wayne,” said Cerise, your secretary. “There's a journalist from the Daily Planet who wants to speak to you.”
A journalist from the Daily Planet…
Clark Kent.
You met the young journalist at the birthday party of a millionaire whose name you couldn't remember. The most memorable part of the evening had perhaps been your encounter with the awkward man who looked like he'd stepped out of a book. Sometimes, in the dead of night, when you looked at Gotham through your brother's technological contact lenses — especially when you couldn't sleep — you found yourself wondering if you had invented Clark Kent. After all, he was too perfect and too kind to be human. But that phone call was proof that the night had indeed happened.
You were surprised for a moment. You hadn't expected him to contact you so soon after returning to Gotham. In fact, you hadn't thought he would have the courage to do so, or even remember what you had told him.
Well, you can call me and I'll think about the interview.
The truth was that you were trying not to think about the interview or seeing Clark again. However, your mind betrayed you, making your thoughts turn to the man's curly, messy hair and adorable dimples.
Apparently, he was determined to secure the interview. Sometimes it didn't seem like such a bad idea. After all, Kent didn't seem like a sensationalist journalist intent on twisting your words to fit a media-fuelled narrative. He seemed decent.
“Tell him to come to Wayne Manor at four o'clock this Friday afternoon.” You said, hoping that you wouldn't regret this crazy idea.
“Is there anything else, Miss Wayne?”
“Just that. Thank you, Cerise.”
Friday came around sooner than you had hoped, and with every passing hour, you could feel your anxiety slowly eating away at you. It was as if it were savoring your desperation.
Although Bruce took a neutral stance when you warned him about your appointment with the journalist, you couldn't help but notice a file in the Batcave with Clark's name printed on the front. You had to stop yourself from looking at it. On the other hand, Alfred had been responsible for reassuring you. He always said that this was a big step you had taken and that he would be there if you needed him. And, of course, he made it clear that he was proud to see you stepping out of your comfort zone.
But still, nothing could stop you from freaking out a little. You changed your clothes every two minutes, unsure of which outfit would be best for the situation. You had already walked around the entire mansion, trying to clear your head and drink a couple of cups of camomile tea, but to no avail. You could still feel the lingering regret. However, when the doorbell rang, you realised that there was no turning back. You couldn't back down in front of Clark, especially since he had made the effort to travel all the way to your house just for an interview. You couldn't back down when he had been nothing but polite and kind to you. After all, you could have refused the interview, but you didn't. And Clark was just doing his job.
You were sitting in an armchair in the living room of the mansion when Clark entered, followed by Alfred. He stood with a slightly shy posture, as if embarrassed to be there, but his eyes still wandered to every corner of the room. He seemed enchanted by the building's gothic, medieval, and colonial style, with modern touches. The Wayne Manor never failed to impress its guests.
“Madam, your guest has arrived.” Alfred said before leaving the room.
“Miss Wayne!” Clark exclaimed excitedly when your eyes met.
“Mr Kent.” You greeted him with the same formality.
“Oh, please, you can just call me Clark," he said, dismissing the formality, though you noticed the tip of his ears turning pink.
“Alright, Clark,” you said, emphasising his name. You pointed to the spot on the sofa in front of you, inviting the journalist to sit down.
He looked the same as when you last saw him. He wore a slightly oversized suit, and it looked like Clark had tried to tame his curls, but they were still messy and fell over his forehead in an angelic way. His eyes were still the same beautiful shade of blue, framed by his glasses.
“So...” Clark looked at you and you could have sworn you saw a hint of curiosity in his eyes. His body language suggested that he was excited, even though he seemed slightly embarrassed to be standing there in front of you. “How are you doing?”
“I'm doing fine.” You said vaguely, not wanting to admit that you were extremely nervous about what was about to happen. “You?”
“I’m great.” Kent smiled slightly. “Thank you so much for accepting my invitation! It’s an honour to be the first journalist to interview you!”
“And how do you usually do that?” you asked, trying to sound calm.
“Before we begin, I want to say that if you feel uncomfortable or want to end the interview at any point, I won't mind,” said Clark. Always so attentive. “I don't want you to feel pressured to do this.”
“It's OK. I agreed to this interview,” you said, trying to convince both your guest and yourself.
“Would you mind if I recorded the interview?” Clark asked, pulling a notepad and a recorder from his briefcase.
“What?” You asked, confused by his request.
“Well, since this is your first interview, I thought you might feel more comfortable if we had more of a conversation. And I would like to record the conversation so that I don't forget your answers.”
“Is that how you do it when you interview Superman?”
“Ah... yes!” Clark replied, blushing.
“Okay then, you can record it.”
“I promise I'll only use it to transcribe the interview, and then I'll delete it.”
You nodded, and the journalist quickly started recording.
“So, Miss Wayne,” said Clark, glancing briefly at his notepad before beginning the interview. “What motivates you to get personally involved in Wayne Enterprises’ social projects, when you’re not someone who’s always in the spotlight?”
“I don't particularly understand what one thing has to do with the other.” You sighed. “Wayne Enterprises' social projects are extremely important to my brother and me. They're our way of helping the city we grew up in and trying to make it a better place, even though it's taken important things away from us. Honestly, I just want people to have the chance of a decent life, and to avoid going through what my brother and I went through as children. These projects aren't for me; they're for Gotham's citizens and children, so I don't see why I should be in the spotlight.”
Clark looked at you with what seemed to be a compassionate expression, and you felt a weight lift from your heart. You had only told Alfred about it, and for a moment you felt good knowing that you had been heard.
“What are the biggest challenges you face in balancing your personal life with your work at Wayne Enterprises?” After scratching his throat, the journalist returned to his question.
“My personal life isn't very hectic, if that's what you mean. I spend most of my time working because it's the only way I know to keep busy.”
“You only work?” Clark asked in a worried tone.
“What? No! I have my hobbies and things I like to do when I'm not working. I just don't like going out to crowded places and things like that.”
“Well, the mansion's pretty big. You should have plenty to do here,” Clark said with a closed smile.
“Well, you haven't seen the library yet.” You replied, adjusting your posture in the armchair. This moment was becoming increasingly comfortable.
“You have a library?” The man in front of you asked in astonishment.
“I can show you after we’ve finished the interview,” you said indifferently, but your heart fluttered at Clark’s excitement about the library — something so simple.
“I'd love to!”
And so you returned to the interview.
“Gotham is often seen as a chaotic and dangerous city. What makes you want to stay here instead of moving somewhere safer?”
“My parents did everything they could to help this city. Bruce and I are their legacy. I can't just abandon Gotham, it's become too familiar to me. When I was younger, I promised myself that I would do everything I could to make Gotham a safer place. A place where people feel at home and aren't afraid for their lives. I know it's a long way off, but I won't give up.”
“You're really different from how the media portrays you.”
“Well, it's just speculation. They do not know me” You gave a small smile.
“While we're on the subject of security, what do you think about Batman? Is he a threat or an ally to Gotham?”
You knew that question would come at some point. Even though it was Clark conducting the interview, you knew he wouldn't miss the chance to ask about Batman. Everyone was curious about the city's vigilante. Sometimes, at social events, people would ask you about him and usually, you would simply ignore the questions. After all, you knew who Batman was, and you were well aware of the motivations behind the mask. You knew that Bruce was Gotham's greatest ally, and that you both shared the dream of making Gotham a better place. You just used different methods to achieve your goals.
“Batman is not a threat to the city. He's just someone who has been victimised by the system and is trying to help Gotham thrive and stop these 'villains' from making crime worse.”
“You sound like a fan.” Clark's words took you by surprise. It was the same thing you had said to him when he had complimented Superman at your first meeting. You thought it was just a coincidence, but the smile on Clark's face suggested otherwise.
“Maybe. After all, he's the hero of my city, just like Superman is of yours.” You said, smiling slightly.
“So you like him?”
“I never said that.” You replied quickly, suppressing a laugh.
“So... Superman or Batman?” Clark squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, eager to hear your opinion.
“Are you serious?” You looked at him in surprise.
“That's the most serious question I've asked so far!”
“The truth is,” you said, biting your lip thoughtfully, “I think they're both great, and they'd make a great pair of allies. I don't see any reason for the two of them to be rivals when they're on the same side.”
“Wow,” said Clark, looking at you with his lips parted. “So you have no preference among the heroes?”
“No,” you replied with a smile.
Clark asked you more questions, and as time went on, the interview gradually became more like a conversation between two friends than something that would end up on the front page of the Metropolis newspaper. The atmosphere in the room was relaxed, and you felt that you were enjoying each other's company. You both smiled easily. You chatted about mundane matters, your likes and interests, and the things you didn't like. You also shared embarrassing stories that made you laugh for minutes on end.
Clark always seemed to have something interesting to share. He wasn't being snobbish or making it about himself; quite the opposite. He shared things because he thought they were interesting stories that might make you smile. And your interest in the journalist only grew.
When you offered to show Kent the library, he almost jumped for joy, which made you laugh. As you watched him talking about the books he had seen there — the ones he had already read and the ones he wanted to read — you realised that accepting the interview had not been a bad idea, and that if you were to give any other interview, it would definitely be to him, without a shadow of a doubt.
As night approached and the sky began to darken, Clark told you that he had to leave; after all, he lived in Metropolis and had an article (about you) to write. Of course, though, you made him stay for a few minutes to enjoy the biscuits Alfred had made with you while you drank tea.
“See you soon, Clark,” you said, smiling slightly as you said goodbye to the journalist.
“See you soon?” He turned around so quickly that you thought he might break his neck. He looked in your direction, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses and a toothy grin spreading across his face, revealing his dimples.
“Yeah...” you said, feigning disinterest. “If you don't get too excited.”
In a matter of seconds, he straightened his posture and tried to look serious, as if he wasn't excited at all about seeing you again. However, he still found it hard to hide the smile and the excitement in his voice.
“Well, see you soon, Miss Wayne,” he said, surrendering and smiling openly in your direction.
You couldn't help but smile discreetly in return.
Yeah, Clark Kent really did have a talent for getting exclusive interviews.
a/n.: clark spent a long time writing the interview because he kept listening to the recording repeatedly just to hear your voice and laughter.
Imagine going to prom with Clark Kent and getting punch spilled on you then watching as Clark grabs the entire bowl and pours it on himself so you aren’t left out
- When your 3 AM patrol leaves you in shambles, the comfort from your best friend picks you up, leaving both of you wanting more ☆
-cw: fluff but some angst, reader gets their shit rocked badly, descriptive details about injuries (blood, burn marks, glass shards, broken ribs), an electro cross-over cuz why not, when your duo is chill but your both vigilantes, use of Y/N once, VERY corny ship name, everyone seems to ship you two together, Clark is a star wars fan, Fucking up a sandwhich turned romantic?, slow burn(?), playful Clark!
a/n: can you tell im a marvel baby? this was fun to write, its not the best but i hope you can enjoy!
Earth-04181938. Or home, whichever one you want to call it.
Let’s start this story one last time. I promise I won’t tell it again.
My name is y/n l/n, and I was bitten by a radioactive spider that phased through a nearby rock while I was taking pictures of a radioactive spill into our water systems by Lexcorp when I was an intern at the Daily Planet. And for the past five years, I have been the one and only Arachne.
The Daily Planet had been specifically buzzing with life that evening. The Bullpen smelt like freshly printed paper, it seemed everyone was on track to finish their deadlines, and the city— oh the beautiful city, had been completely silent, meaning you had time to fully edit and reconstruct the pictures Clark oh so needed for Superman and Lois required for Arachne (which looked better then Superman’s by a long shot, but your weren’t telling that to Clark.)
Clark was weird; he had joined the Daily Planet about the same time Superman made his first big break in Metropolis, but you didn’t think much of it. There could be no way that Superman, heroic, selfless, and an all-American alien, was the same as the Kansas sweetheart that was Clark Kent. Clark was an amazing person, but not Superman amazing. He lit up the room with just his smile, always seemed interested in what anyone said, even when he had 0 idea of the topic, and had such perfect dimples that could hypnotize you in almost an instant. All those things made him your perfect crush. But you felt bad. You were so incredulously down for Clark, but if hypothetically you two had become something more, you didn’t know if you could give up the little schoolgirl crush Arachne had on Superman.
She deserved something, you know, she swung around all day dealing with petty criminals and cats in trees (with the occasional bone-breaking fights), she deserved at least one (non-fighting, she obviously won all her fights) win. Arachne loved chatting with superman, wether it be post-fight damage control, or the hundreds of “friendly” coffee dates you two had went on, accidentally starting a fan-base called “Superchne” (pronounced Super-Knee.) filled with people who swore the both of you were dating, and as much as you wanted it, you could never put superman in that position. Maybe in another universe…
“How’s Superman looking?” A voice boomed behind you, causing an unmistakable smile to spread across your face. He leaned on your desk, his head finding comfort on your scalp, a gesture he had done many times before, causing you to giggle. You switched tabs from Arachne to Superman, earning a satisfied whistle from Clark. It was one of your best ones yet. The sun seemed to be shining directly in his face, making him look nothing less than a Greek god. The lens had caused a little rainbow over his head, and the best part? It was almost as if he was posing for you, a grin so homey and his chest popped out so confidently, oh yeah. You were satisfied, Clark was satisfied, Perry would definitely be satisfied, and you were set.
“Jeez.. those look amazing..” Jimmy stated, and Lois soon joined the huddle.
“If those are Superman’s, imagine the ones you got for me of Arachne.” You smiled at Lois, flipping back to the tab with Arachne on it. You had multiple breath-taking shots (all taken by the beautiful drone you had managed to set up). Lois giggled excitedly and gave you a high five ecstatically.
“How do you even- do that?” Jimmy asked, shocked, but VERY curious.
“Superman’s, I take hand Pictures of, but Arachne, due to her inability to ever stay still, I have a drone that takes candid pictures every .3 seconds that practically follows her around. She’s fine with it, so.” You explained your tone steadily as you scrolled through the array of pictures, stopping at the last one, which was a picture of you and Superman. You kneeled, taking care of a few excited kids, while Superman stood in the back, watching you with a look you couldn’t quite describe. You felt Clark’s breath hitch softly on your scalp, while Jimmy and Lois simultaneously exclaimed “aweee”, causing you and Clark to turn your heads, Clark detaching his chin from your scalp, and your eyebrows furrowing.
“Do you see the way he looks at her?” Lois cooed teasingly.
“I think it’s a look of respect, nothing more.” Clark rebutted
“Okay, no, that’s definitely a look of adoration,” Jimmy reassured.
“No- I think he just- likes the way she works.” You stutter slightly, earning you weird looks from Lois and Jimmy, but one of appreciation from Clark.
“Oh boo, you both are party poopers, you guys aren’t team Superchne?” Jimmy quipped, earning two dragged-on laughs from both you and Clark. “Whattttttttt!” You laughed awkwardly, “I mean, it could be platonic-“
“And who knows it could make Arachne super uncomfortable-“ Clark added on.
“And maybe Superman-“ you followed.
“Well, maybe not Superman,” Clark stated at the same time you stated “probably not Arachne though…” earning both of you flustered looks. Lois and Jimmy just watched, amused looks, grinning at the stupid interaction.
“Do you 4 get any work done?” Perry’s voice startled all of you, but Jimmy immediately recovered, having a light bulb go off. “Perry, look at these two.” Jimmy turned your screen to Perry’s sight. “What do you see?” Perry took a pause, everyone anticipating his next words.
“You would have to be a complete and utter imbecile to think those two aren’t in love.” Jimmy and Lois cheered as you and Clark groaned. “I switched teams last year when that picture leaked of them sitting together in a Firehouse Subs after getting their asses kicked for 2 hours, and they were both scarfing down their sandwiches while Arachne was rubbing her foot against his leg? Yeah, they’re endgame.” Jimmy reassured himself, proud of himself.
“I wouldn’t they they got their asses kicked…” you mumbled..
“Scarfing seems over the top…” Clark murmured. You both had your brains turned fuzzy and flustered, for reasons only your own person knew. Today couldn’t be any worse, though, right?
Well, you were right, ‘today’, April 17th, wasn’t any worse, but 3 AM on April 18th should’ve been considered due to its ridiculous irony. One second, you’re on night duty, stopping petty criminals, then exactly 3 hours and 43 minutes later, you’re being smashed into a light pole by Electro at 225 mph, breaking a few ribs on impact. Great, more injuries to your now double-sided list of injuries you had gotten in the past hours. You had agreed with Superman that Electro was your designated Villain, but Golly, did you need him right now?
“Jeez, Sparky- you’re usually not this passionate about bending me-“ you quipped, before dodging a car and swinging it back to electro. But in what had seemed to be an instant, he had gotten hold of your webs, and suddenly you felt yourself being what it must’ve been, being cooked inside out. You fell once again, but this time into a car, leaving bruises and a dented roof. Your muscles moved jaggedly, trying to make aggressive motions, but failing miserably, making you jolt and flinch like crazy. You were in and out of consciousness, your suit felt (and smelt) burnt up, and everything looked hazy, but you had to get up. You stumbled, rolling off the car. You had to use your web slinger to find a safe area to take a quick breather, even if the slinger was malfunctioning. Your judgment was cloudy, yes, but you had one mission, and that was to swing into safety. Even through jolts, you had swung far into the air, before you felt a tingle shoot through your body, causing you to lose control and phase through someone’s nearby window, knocking over a few tables and hitting your side into a couch, then your head on a wall.
You had coiled up, taking shaky breaths and twitching involuntarily while letting out groans of pain and dismay. You urgently pulled your mask up and greedily sucked air into your system, but it only made you sting more. After a little, you had sat up against the wall. You were dazed, but you had to examine your body, which looked worse the better your eyes focused. Your suit, in its black and red glory, was ripped and burnt everywhere. The places where it was ripped, your skin showed gnarly gashes, some still oozing bubbly blood, others were turning colors. You hadn’t even noticed the big shard in your side until now, pulling it out in a painful manner that you should’ve known better than to do. Where you had burn marks, though, the flesh was cooked, smelling pungent and crisped. Lastly, you noticed the swelling that had occurred in your chest, the result of broken ribs. You let out a devastated moan, knowing that in the end, you still had work in 5 hours. You prayed your regeneration would cut the B.S. and do what it needed to do. Groaning at the thought, you heard a familiar staticky, but taunting voice coming from outside, making your skin crawl.
‘The itty-bitsy spider came up the water spout..” Electro teased, “Down came the rain, and washed the spider out-“ you groaned stumbling up your head pounding as you spider-senses went off, but it was different, it wasn’t electro causing your senses to go haywire, you suddenly snapped your head to the near light source, seeing a 6’4, 225 pound wide-eyed man stand in the door way, toothbrush in mouth, obviously getting ready for bed.
Your shoulders relaxed— oh, this was just Clark’s apartment— you thought— happy to see him.
….
oh.
Oh. shit.
Your shoulders immediately tensed up as you wiped the blood from your face to pull what remained of your mask back over your face. He tried to approach you, but you quickly whipped away, phasing through his window, going back outside.
You felt sick. If you died in this fight right now, you’d be very unhappy ending it with Clark like that. You were fucked, but that was the least of your problems. You had to finish this fight; it had woken up too many people and put too Many in danger. “Hey, Sparky!” You yelled, getting Electro’s attention, putting both of your fists in a fighting stance,readying for his next attack.
The fight ended at 5 AM. You (barely) came out the victor, being able to tame electro, minimizing civilian damage, but maximizing your own damage. Your body was shutting down fast. You needed somewhere to pass out in, where you could take a quick nap to rejuvenate, but alas, through the cheers and screams of your glory, a large gust of wind came from above you, and you suddenly felt soft, not forced hand wrap around your body. Your senses were at an all-time high, so you flinched and turned to fight, only to be reassured by Superman.
“Took you long enough,” you tried to joke, only for it to come out as a whimper. your body shutting down right before your own eyes.
“Shh shh hey it’s okay, you’re okay, you’re fine. You did great.” You were shaking so bad in his grasp, if your mind wasn’t practically in another dimension, you’d be embarrassed, but your brain was scattered, and your body was in so much pain it felt practically numb. Superman bent over and whispered comfortingly into your ear, “You can rest.” Your breath had become sharper, trying to balance. “I’ll call out for you; work can wait till later. Perry’s just gonna have to extend your deadline hmm?” In your delirious state, you took a shaky sigh of relief, laying your head on his shoulder, your vision shutting off almost immediately, leaving your unconscious body in his warm grasp.
The soft wave of sun through the windows and the unmistakable smell of pancakes had managed to lull you out of a peaceful sleep in a more than comfortable bed. You shivered slightly, grabbing more of the comforter to cover yourself in. You nuzzled your head into the edge of the blanket, trying to recall the events that led you to be in this half-drowsy state.
Patrol..electro….bad fight… Clark-
Oh Clark.
You slowly sat up, wincing from the still self-regenerating wounds, wanting to immediately call Clark to apologize and explain yourself, when you realized something was off.
This isn’t your apartment.
You looked down at your body, seeing that you were wrapped in bandages too tight to have been done by you, and on top of that, you were being greeted with a VERY oversized tee that had Queen Padme Amidala plastered in the middle, a shirt you had bought Clark last month as a birthday gift. what the-
“Usually when a friend needs to sleep over-“ a voice chimed in, causing your spider senses to flare— “they would use the door to enter, and not fling themselves through my living room.” Clark’s tone was teasing. He stood in the doorway way leaned against the frame, wearing a shirt that did miracles for his biceps, His glasses halfway on his nose, his hair tousled in a way only someone who just woke up could rock, carrying a plate of pancakes with eggs and bacon accompanying them. You didn’t know what to say, how to start, or how to stop the flush in your cheeks as he walked over with the food, making the situation feel 10x more domestic.
“Clark i-“ you tried to respond, earning a finger to Clark’s lips, with a brighter smile someone should be wearing, having just figured out their best friend is a vigilante.
“Eat first, the last time you’ve eaten was 2 days ago. Your body needs the food to regenerate faster, no?” he said, crouching down next to you, laying his head over his crossed arms on top of the bed. All you could do was stare at him, before graciously nodding, accepting the fork, and almost immediately scarfing down the pancakes, displaying how hungry you were. He smiled as he watched you eat, grazing his fingers against your knee. “How are your ribs? I saw that you had big chunks floating around, and I didn't know if they still hurt as much.”
You scoffed. “You saw them? Jeez, Kent, I didn't know you had a portable X-ray in your house.” You laughed, earning a grin from Clark.
“Well, I guess when you put it like that,” Clark replied, pulling off his glasses— “I could be considered a walking X-ray.” You stared at him for a second, trying to figure out what he meant, before you realized how disgustingly similar he looked to Superman without his glasses.
Oh
You stared at Clark, letting out a breathy laugh. “I- uhm- wow.” You stammered, your brain not forming fully coherent thoughts. Superman— I mean Clark— chuckled, his grin widening ever so slightly.
“Am I allowed to say that’s the same reaction I had last night when you crashed in here?” Clark cooed, making your face flush.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry- I’m so sorry about last night, that wasn’t how I wanted to tell you- I hope I didn’t get any blood anywhere, that was so inconsiderate of me-“ you rambled on, stopping at the hearty laugh Clark had responded with, making your face flush even more.
“You were flung into my apartment involuntarily, and you’re apologizing? Yeah- no doubt you’re Arachnid. I’m mad I didn’t notice before.” He gave you a warm smile before standing up. “Scooch. The floor’s uncomfortable.” You complied almost instantly, letting out a soft groan as you moved over on the bed. He gave you a slightly sympathetic look, joining you in bed. He made sure you were still comfortable. You both sat in silence, not knowing what to say next. I mean, you, Arachnid, and him, Superman? There was a lot to unpack.
“So- have you told anyone yet?” Clark asked, trying to break the silence. You shook your head no, not knowing who to tell. “You?”
Clark smiled, taking a deep breath. “Well, my parents, the ‘Justice gang’, Lois-“ he took a pause, and you interjected, “You told Lois before you told me?” You scoffed in disbelief. Clark gave you a shrug.
“Lois figured out through sheer luck, like 3 years ago. Plus, I didn’t know how you’d react.” His tone quieted at the last part. “But can’t I make that same argument for you?”
You sighed, nodding. You knew that if Clark ever distanced himself from you, you wouldn’t know what to do.. “I just- didn’t want to lose you, Clark.” He looked at you, leaning over and leaving a peck on your forehead. “You won’t. And you wouldn’t have. I would’ve understood. Superman or not.” You smiled, letting yourself melt under his touch.
“In the office, when we were looking at the pictures…did you mean it? When you said you wouldn’t mind- if we…” You merged your hands together, giving Clark an unexpected cough, clearing his throat.
“Well, I mean- I didn’t know because I don’t want to make it uncomfortable-“ he stammered, making you smile.
“‘Cause I don’t mind.” You said blatantly. You had waited for this moment for years now, and you weren’t gonna waste what could’ve been your only chance. Clark’s eyes widen, locking you. You had turned your body at this point, fully facing Clark. You felt bad, he looked overly flustered, but deep down, you knew how hot that made him. You crawled in front of him, going into the space between his legs, putting your hand over his. His breath hitched, but he immediately adapted, wrapping his hands delicately around your waist. You fixed the loose strand on his face, lowering your hand to cup his cheek. “..do you?”
“Do I….what?” His voice was husky as he took a sharp breath, drawing circles in your waist.
“Mind? Do you mind?” You craved his approval, that verification that proved the years of lingering touches, elongated eye contact, and syrupy sweet talk weren’t in vain. He paused, before breaking into a small grin, shaking his head no, leaning forward cautiously, and you let him.
You closed the gap instantly, your lips making the bare minimum of contact, but the signals seemed to go off crazy in both of your heads, causing both of you to crash into each other, prompting both of your eyes to flutter closed. Clark lifts you up, putting you in a straddling position, your hands moving to the back of his head. You let him take the lead, his hunger seeming to outmatch yours..
-
When both of your adrenaline levels seemed to die off. Both of your breaths were heavy as Clark left lazy pecks scattered through your whole face.
“Jeez, Kansas..” you breathed, “Does this mean we’re automatically team supernche now?” You mumbled, earning a hearty laugh from Clark.
“I guess so.” He cooed, leaving a soft peck on your lips that seemed to make everything feel better. And everything was better. Everyone you wanted to know, knew, and you were able to appease both yourself and Arachne, making that morning one you could’ve never forgotten..
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