as an avid fan fiction reader since i was 11 (i am now 21) within multiple fandoms i fear i need to make a masterlist of all my faves. as someone who actually knows ball. im just lazy and clueless on how to do it
Before he was your boyfriend, Clark Kent was just another face on the subway.
A kind and handsome stranger who helps in a moment of need — and has you questioning just how fast you’re allowed to move from breakups. A stranger that you just keep running into by chance - until he isn’t really a stranger anymore.
If only he’d ask you out.
Or: Before the list, comes the theory.
prequel to the love list - not required to read this, but there are some references! 11k, intended nd!reader, strangers to lovers, no spoilers
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You first meet Clark Kent on a Tuesday.
It's a foggy one, a blanket of mist draped across Metropolis, and you're frazzled because you're late.
You're not exactly in your right mind when you're late.
It's a sort of fight or flight mode - though you're definitely preferential to flight. You really hate being late. But as you walk as fast as you can, a speedy sort of half-jog, it's not even your lateness you're fixated on.
It's the goddamn tag in your shirt.
You can feel it, itchy and pressed against the back of your neck. It scratches with every step. Your hands flex. Every cell in your body wants to stop, find somewhere to pause, and fix your shirt.
You're far too late to even entertain the idea.
This is normally not a problem for you — though, actually, that's not true. Normally, you're much better prepared than this, that is.
In a rush, you'll just snip tags off and deal with the spiky remains. It's not ideal, but you can manage.
When you have time though, you do it properly. You have a little seam-ripper at home, that lives among your sewing supplies, dedicated to removing pesky labels.
Today, your mistake is your excitement.
A new shirt, a nice woollen material that you know will keep you warm in the coming, cooling days —much like today.
Given how it feels your body doesn't even attempt temperature regulation at times, clothes that can are prized.
If you're too warm? Good luck getting any work done. Too cold and you'll be shivering the whole day. It bugs you a bit that you seem particularly sensitive to temperatures that others brush off.
You hurry down the steps to the subway, your boot sliding an inch on the wet tile. You clutch your bag tighter, willing yourself to stay upright, and feel the scratch of the tag on the back of your neck again.
You huff loudly, regaining your balance.
The mistake of excitement is that you haven't worn this shirt out yet—purchased only the day before. Usually there's a test run, to make sure this doesn't happen. Not today.
But by the time you'd realised your mistake, you'd been out the door, with no time to turn back.
And now it's worse because you've been running — which means you're warmer than usual, sweating a bit beneath your coat, your socks feel too tight, and the goddamn tag is scratching you.
Rounding the corner of the subway station, you skid again on the wet ground, barely keeping your balance again.
You spot your train up ahead. Its doors are just beginning to close.
No! With a start, you head for the train anyways, thinking by some miracle you'll make it.
You cannot be late — you can't- because if you are, it'll ruin the whole day and you'll have to wait til you're all the way back home again to get settled and—and—and—
Someone sees you coming and holds the door.
There's a burst of relief as you manage to slip through the train doors, which slide shut with a heavy bang! the moment they're released. You flinch at the noise, still trying to catch your breath.
This day is miserable, you decide.
The train begins to roll along. You remember abruptly you should thanking whoever saved you from being much later than you could've been.
You turn your head, then have to tilt it up to see his face.
The person who held the door is a very polite looking, very tall man, dressed in office attire. He's wearing a nice winter coat, same colour as his hair - and thick-rimmed spectacles. His lanyard flashes a Daily Planet Press badge.
You swallow. Okay, sure, your subway saviour is the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen. No big deal.
"Hi." You find your voice, still breathing heavily. "Thank you. Sorry."
The man smiles —holy fuck— then clears his throat, nodding his head somewhat awkwardly.
"You're welcome." He says and you suddenly can't tell if the wobbliness in your knees is from the train or his voice. "Definitely been me on the other side of those doors before."
He smiles at you so genuinely that it makes you feel even more off kilter. You find it surprisingly easy to smile back.
The train rattles along the tracks, curving around a corner, and you realise you should probably hold on to something. You grab the nearest pole, conveniently bringing you closer to the man.
Now that you have a moment, turbulent waters settling for the duration of your journey, sensations start prickling again.
The sweat on your collarbones, cooling while you still feel overheated beneath your thick coat. Your hair, lightly plastered to the back of your neck. The tag.
One hand still on the pole, you reach back and pinch at your shirt collar, shuffling it about to try find some relief. The tag scratches along your skin and you squirm uncomfortably.
Do you have scissors with you? You'll cut it off right here, right now, if you can.
The train car you're in rocks to a rumbling stop at the next station. The doors open and a few more people file in, inadvertently pushing you closer to the handsome stranger who helped you earlier.
Your eyes catch — he smiles again and your face burns.
The tag distracts you from his closeness. Waiting til the train steadies out again, departed from the latest station, you release the pole. You shift your bag forward, off your shoulder, and your hand dives in.
If you have scissors with you, they'll like be in mini sewing kit you keep with you. You hunt around blindly. The tag itches still.
Your other hand deviates from holding your bag open, moving to grab at the back of your shirt.
It's not effective, both hands occupied as the train sways, and something pinches tight in your throat. You're getting wound tighter and tighter.
"Are you alright?"
Your head jerks up. It's the handsome stranger. He's watching you, your arms contorted and a crease in your brow, with an expression of polite concern.
"I-" You begin. He likely doesn't actually want to know — people say things to be polite without meaning them all the time, you've found.
Despite it, the awfulness of your morning leaves you with no energy to pretend. Or lie.
You sigh, "I have a tag. On my shirt. I forgot to cut it off before I left the house."
It's a relief when your fingers close around the familiar shape of your sewing kit, square with rounded corners. You retrieve it quickly, releasing the collar of your shirt to pop it open.
The train judders suddenly and you get shoved forward as the car passes over uneven tracks. You just clasp the pole in time to keep yourself from tasting the grime of the subway floor.
The man grabs the pole too, an inch between your hands, and you find yourself meeting his gaze again.
He smiles crookedly, "Would you like some help?"
It takes a beat to realise what he means. His gaze darts down to the sewing kit still clutched in your hand - and when you can't move your tongue, he gestures somewhat awkwardly to the collar of your shirt.
"The tag, I mean," He stammers. "It would be difficult—not that I don't think you could- it's, uh, the angle, I suppose, that would… make it hard."
He nods firmly after, as if it reinforces his point.
You blink at him - and can see your perturbed expression in the reflection of his glasses.
"Um, yeah, yes," You finally find your words.
It's unlike you at all to be so completely struck by a random stranger— crushes tend to be few and far between for you.
Yet, this man, his kindness and his awkward boyishness, is definitely doing something to you. Making you extra foolish. As if your morning needs to get much worse.
You undo the latch on the kit in your hands and fish out the scissors, silver glinting beneath the subway lights. They're travel-sized. If you think they look little in your hands, it's nothing compared to his.
You hand them over and then, with an awkward pause, turn away slightly.
One hand still clutching the pole tight, your fingers leaf under the fabric of your collar, then the tag. It forces a shiver out of you as you turn it out.
"Okay, um, I'm gonna have to, just-" The warmth of his hand hovers over your neck, but he doesn't touch you. His fingers stay solely on the fabric.
The train pulls into another station, whirring to a stop. The doors glide open with a hiss.
People filter in in both directions. You're jostled a bit closer to the pole you're holding and your face burns when the man holds his arm up on the other side, almost around your shoulder, a guard against the moving crowd.
"Sorry," He says. "I'm gonna wait til we're moving again."
You nod, then realise you're holding your breath.
The doors shudder, then slip back together, and the train is moving on again. Your eyes seek out the rotating sign announcing the stops, mentally tallying how many left before yours.
Another four stops. You have time.
"Okay, hold still."
The arm braced around you retracts and the warmth returns to your neck. The fabric of your shirt tightens as he angles it just right, every graze felt across your skin like pinpricks.
You hold your breath. An overwhelming awareness shudders down your spine at the closeness you're sharing with this stranger.
Then—fwiiip. With one slow, precise snip, the tag is freed.
"All done." He says, and you peer over your shoulder to find him smiling. He's holding the villain of your morning between his fingers up like a prize.
You sag in relief and smooth down your collar. It's surprisingly a neat slice, the tag lying down flat — flatter than you would've managed on your own. Not without wrangling your shirt off which — well, even you can tell that's not appropriate.
There's less space between the stations now, as you get closer to the central business district. The train stops more frequently, with more people getting off than getting on.
"Thank you," You say, turning to face him properly. "Very much. It was making my morning bad."
The man frowns a bit at that, handing your scissors back. You tuck them into the kit and drop it into your bag, jostled again by the uneven tracks.
Your hands clutch the pole and your bag equally tight, looking back up at the man.
He's looking you, the tag still in his grasp. His lips part—but whatever he's going to say is lost as another subway speeds by in the opposite direction.
Wind howls loudly, a tunnelled vortex of air. You cringe at the volume.
Around you, the subway car rocks a bit wildly again, forcing you both to correct your stances to stay on balance. The tag disappears as he grips the pole with both hands. Your own hand sweats from holding the pole so tight.
Another shared look.
Oddly, the thought that crosses your mind next is a wish to have met this kind stranger under other circumstances.
Late, frazzled, losing your balance on public transport — it's not exactly your best foot forward.
Which is a strange thought to be having, considering you're three weeks since the breakup.
According to the internet, you should be drowning in tears at the moment. Maybe this is the rebound people talk about?
You glance up at the stranger, your eyes meet, and you both look away. You might not be imagining the smile you share.
The next station arrives. The man looks up as the train rolls to gradual stop, then his lips purse.
"Well, I hope it can be a good morning now. This is where I get off."
You look up at his voice and he's smiling at you again, genuine. It's a gorgeous smile. You nod, mouth a little dry. Unwittingly, you glance up and check which station you're pulling up to.
Your brows knit together. 17th St station? You remember his badge, glance down to double check. It still reads the same — The Daily Planet.
Which is crazy, because you could've sworn that the Daily Planet was at least a few blocks back, best reached through 12th St station. You haven't actually gone there, but you've studied the subway map before.
The doors open with a hiss. The man gives an awkward wave, paired with a bob of his head, and you take a beat before you realise it's directed at you.
Waving back, you begin to ponder the possibility that this complete stranger missed his stop just to help you.
You frown to yourself. No, that would be preposterous.
The train departs, dragging the platform out of your line of vision with a slowly increasing speed. Subtle as you can, you watch him through the grubby windows of the subway and subtly press two fingers to your wrist. Heartbeat steady—but a little jumpier than usual.
Huh.
The lights overhead flicker once and you have to grab the pole again to keep yourself steady.
Idly, you realise he still has the tag of your shirt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
On a different day, on a different week, you find out his name is Clark.
It's a Friday evening and your shift at the library let out 10 minutes ago. You've hesitantly joined the swathes of people rushing across Metropolis, heading every which way. Car horns chorus across the cityscape. Every place in the crowd is incredibly loud.
This is why you like Friday's the least.
Your shift ends at 5 - not staggered earlier or later like other days - and that's when the city is the busiest.
Still, if you can make it home, the weekend awaits you. Sweet, blissful alone time. Maybe you'll even splurge and treat yourself to some nice sourdough for tomorrow's breakfast.
A puddle splashes below your foot, evidence of winter's thaw setting in. You pass through it and try hard not to wonder if your sock got wet, holding your bag tightly.
It's only about two blocks from your work to the subway station.
Approximately 7 minutes walk, if you're not held up. You know because you've timed it before.
It's a bit of a hazard to walk with headphones on, but, to you, it's one of the more bearable ways to get through busy crowds.
You're aware though, ducking and twisting, avoiding the crush of bodies. Your teeth clench tightly. You're definitely more aware than some people.
A shoulder bashes into yours, some self-important douchebag pushing through the crowd like he's the only one with somewhere to be.
The push knocks you off balance momentarily. You stumble back into someone, throat thickening in discomfort, and wish you were smaller than you are.
"Woah, easy there," The person you've hit into says, hands pressing you back upright. Your skin prickles, but even so, you turn to thank them — them blink in surprise.
It's Lois Lane.
"Oh," You can see the familiarity peak on your face at the same time. Her polite concern melts into something closer to delight - which is a surprise to you. "y/n! Hi!"
Glancing around to make sure you're not in the line of fire for any other assholes, you smile back.
After a moment, you remember that people think it's rude to keep your headphones on when they talk to you. You push one side off your ear, scrunching your hair up slightly, "Hi, Lois."
Lois Lane is one of those people who you knew would do great things from the moment you met her.
There's just a certain star quality she exudes. She's tough as nails. Takes no excuses or prisoners in her search for the truth. If you cut her, she'd probably bleed journalistic integrity.
She also used to live right across the hall from you in college.
At one point, you'd have called you two friends. Now, a couple years on, you're not sure if that still applies.
"Oh my God, how have you been?" She says, perfectly comfortable having a conversation out on the busy street. You, meanwhile, shift on your feet. "Man, it's been awhile, hasn't it?"
You're not sure if she's actually asking, but you know the answer anyway.
"Three years and 4 months since we graduated."
Lois' smile widens at that, like your response has tickled her in some way. Her blue eyes dance over you, then out across the rushing street, before focuses back on you.
"Hey, you know I'm actually on my way to some drinks with my co-workers. I'd love to catch up though."
Surprise twinges in you. She does? That makes you feel a little lighter - maybe you and Lois were better friends than you can recall.
You tell her honestly, "That sounds nice."
She lights up. "So you'll come?"
It takes another moment to comprehend that she's invited you along to her drinks. Just now. To catch up. But also with her co-workers? Your brows knit together, lips pursing.
"Right now?" You question. "With your co-workers?"
The pushed back headphone is slipping forward slightly. Lois nods, grinning, and making you feel like it's impossible to say no to. Mentally, you calculate if you go for a bit, you should still have time to pick up some sourdough before you go home.
"Okay." You push your headphones off altogether.
"Okay?" Lois repeats, perking up at your response. "Awesome. We're all meeting at this little bar on 15th, Crowley's. You heard of it?"
She talks the whole walk to Crowley's. You inform that, no, you've never heard of Crowley's because most of the time you've spent at bars has been at The Last Resort.
She comments that you must like it if you frequent it so much - to which you shrug, because maybe that's true.
You're not sure of that, just that— "It's Darren's favourite."
Lois' brows draw together, her lips quirked into a smile. "Darren, huh? Who's that?"
"My ex-boyfriend."
The smile on her face disappears so quickly you can feel the misstep you've taken. You hate when that happens.
Though, you're not quite sure why Lois suddenly looks like she's trodden on a kitten. She's not the one with the break-up.
"Oh," Lois says. "I'm sorry to hear that. Is it fresh?"
"Approximately five weeks." You respond with another shrug.
You hope she won't ask you how you're feeling about it, because you haven't really thought about it. Well, no, that's not true.
You've spent a lot of time thinking about how you should be feeling about it. Despair, anguish, heartbreak. That's what the internet says at least. Maybe because you don't feel any of that, it's a sign it was the right decision.
Or perhaps it's a sign it was the wrong one.
You've resolved to just not really think about it.
Lois slows to a halt and just up ahead, you can see the neon sign at the top of some basement stairs, announcing it as Crowley's to the world. It's a dive bar then.
You glance at Lois. She's looking at you, eyebrows pinched, looking like she might ask you something. You know her thinking face well.
But in the end, she doesn't. She nods and continues on. With one hand on the railing, she takes the stairs to Crowley's carefully and you follow suit.
Crowley's is much nicer than The Last Resort.
You look around as you pass through the doorway, the room widening out to a nice, comfy place. The lighting is low, dimmed and soft. It's not too loud.
Up the front, there's high tables with stools, occupied by the beer drinkers who are fixated on television. You glance to see if you recognise the game. It's the Meteors.
Further back, short, squat tables sit closer to the bar, accompanied by green armchairs. They house what looks to be a fair few couples.
And in the back, where Lois is heading, booths, with maroon velvet coverings, wrap around round tables.
"Alright, from left to right. Ron, Steve, Cat, Jimmy, and Clark," Lois rattles off, gesturing to the middle booth which is, indeed, already housing five people in various amounts of office attire.
Your eyes follow as Lois talks and you feel a jolt as you reach her final co-worker, sitting squished in like he’s trying to make himself take up less space.
It's the handsome stranger.
What had she said his name was? Clark.
You roll it over in your mouth, whispering it quietly to yourself. After a moment, you decide it's aptly fitting for him. It strokes a different familiarity in you that you can't place.
Looking at him now, in much the same attire as when you met him, you don't even need to feel your pulse point to feel your heart jump.
Which… feels concerning. You think?
You just hadn't expected you would see him again.
Though, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t hoped you would.
Some days, you'd peered through the crowd of the subway car, wondering if he'd be there, head a little taller than others.
But you also hadn't been that late since that day you saw him — and so despite your attempts, you hadn't seen him either.
So, maybe, he's lingered in your thoughts. So, what?
There was no harm done if you had entertained the thought of what you might do if you saw him again.
You'd smile first. Maybe wave first. Really bold stuff - for you, at least.
It hadn't been properly thought out - mainly because it quickly became an easy daydream, far from reality. Though, as you and Lois approach the table, you realise rapidly that that reality is coming true.
"Hey guys," Lois begins. "I ran into an old friend. Hope you don't mind the extra company."
The group looks up at Lois' arrival, murmurs of welcome. You try not to feel like a butterfly pinned beneath all their gazes, grappling with making sure you look around with a smile, but not linger too long.
Even so, it feels impossible for you to not watch the expression change on Clark's face when he realises who you are.
His brows draw up in surprise, a smile tugging at his mouth. He sits up a bit straighter. That's good. At least, you think that's good. He remembers you at least.
"Alright, I'm fixing myself a drink," Lois sheds her coat as she speaks, tossing it on the free space beside Ron. "Everyone play nice."
She narrows her eyes sternly at her friends, but there's a smile that tells you she's kidding. She turns to you.
"You want anything? On me."
You flounder at being put on the spot. "Oh. Um. A ginger-ale, please?"
Lois smiles and nods, which untucks some of her hair behind her ear. "Just like college. I'll be back in a minute, okay?"
You nod, murmuring, "Okay," and watch her weave back to the bar like a woman on a mission. Then you're standing by the booth alone.
You turn back to the table, uneasiness fringing your nerves. Hands shifting, you take your pulse to keep yourself steady.
"Would you like to sit?"
It's Clark who's spoken. He's looking up at you, smiling, and he's scooched over on the seat to give you a bit more space. You realise you get another chance to see those dimples up close.
You sit, but don't take off your coat.
"Hi." You say.
"Hi," He says. The heat of his thigh warms your own, nearly touching beneath the table. "What are the chances, huh? I didn't think I'd see you again."
"Probably pretty low," you say, sandwiching your hands between your legs so they can't do anything stupid. "I mean, Metropolis' population is rather large. Though, it was much more likely I'd see you again on the subway."
"Wait, again?"
A blonde woman, Cat, you think, cuts in. She's wearing a nice, tight-fitting dress and glasses you'd never be able to pull off the way she does.
Her manicured finger flits between you and Clark. "You two have met before?"
Clark nods, that same awkward head bob he did when getting off the subway. "Uh, yeah, briefly. On the subway."
"He helped me cut the tag off my shirt." You tell them - and unwittingly, feel the burn in your face creep up.
Are you ill? You don't feel feverish. It worsens when Clark's knee bumps you as he adjusts on the seat. You both share a glance, gazes darting away quickly.
Cat grins at your words, while the table laughs good-naturedly. Jim — Jimmy? — nudges Clark with his elbow.
"That's the most Clark thing I've ever heard of." He says, while you observe a pinkness crawl up Clark's throat. He doesn't seem to do well under the attention, which you have in common. "The everyday superhero."
"That's hardly hero stuff," Clark mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. You'd argue against that—it very much saved your day.
Instead, you say to Cat, "I like your glasses."
"Oh, now you've done it," Steve jokes as Cat perks up, almost bouncing in her seat. She beams at you, radiant and evidently very pleased.
"That is so nice of you to say—" She says, then rolls into a speech about where exactly she got them, how much they were, how they had been apart of a new collection line, aiming to bring back more vintage style pieces. She only stops when she's interrupted by Lois' return.
"One ginger-ale." Lois says, sliding it across the table to you. It's in a high ball glass with a plastic straw, and the ice-cubes clink as it settles before you.
"Thank you." You take a sip.
"Not a drinker?"
It's Clark who's asked, his voice dropped a little lower, the rest of the table conversing between themselves. He's hunched over, elbows resting on the table edge, but his face is angled toward you.
You look at him and blink. You don't understand why he's asked. His lips twitch, almost a smile.
When you don't respond, he doesn't move his hand — just extends one finger — to point at your ginger-ale.
"Oh!" You catch on. "Yes. Or- no, I mean, only sometimes. I wasn't expecting to come out tonight. I'm already worried about saying the wrong thing."
For some reason, that makes Clark laugh, soft and quiet. This sound of it has something singing under your skin, making your face burn.
Does your ginger-ale have liquor in it after all? It would explain why you feel so light-headed all of a sudden.
"I wouldn't worry about that," Clark says, voice all smooth with assurance. "I think you're doing a wonderful job so far."
"You think so?"
"I really do."
His genuineness threatens to make a fool of you. Suddenly, you don't know what to do with your face, because you can feel your smile growing and it feels a bit maniacal.
It doesn't help that he's looking at you so intently, it's hard to maintain eye contact. Gosh, he's got blue eyes. The heat in your face doubles, then triples.
You take another sip of your ginger-ale for something to do - and also desperately hope it will cool you off.
"How long have you worked with Lois?" You hum the question, straw still resting between your lips.
"I've been at the Planet for, say, just over a year?" Clark says. "Give or take. What about yourself—how do you know Lois?"
Thinking back to the first few weeks of college brings back memories, equally fond as they not-missed.
You strongly remember the smell of your dorm carpet. Your roommate, who consumed copious amounts of ramen. The girl across the hall, who had a purple toaster, and didn't mind letting you use it.
"College. She lived across the hall in my dorm and would let me use her toaster."
Clark smiles, stealing a glimpse across the table at his co-worker. "That's nice of her. We're the same, I suppose. Except, she's across the bullpen, not the hall. And she doesn't share her sources, just steals all the coffee."
"So, not the same at all?" You query, brows pulled together.
You're not aiming to be funny but Clark laughs, showing you a flash of teeth, and you find you don't mind at all. "Okay, you got me there." He says warmly.
It strikes you then, the thought that Clark is both very nice and very easy to talk to.
And to look at, if you're being honest with yourself. He has a strong jawline, dark lashes. The dimples he gets when he smiles beg to be kissed.
It's a shame that you've already had your schtick with love—and come out thoroughly unimpressed. With the two interactions you had, you can't help but imagine that Clark Kent is the kind of person who could be very easy to love.
You swallow heavily at the thought.
You don't want to consider if you are that kind of person too - given, you think you know Darren's answer at least.
You remember you should keep asking questions. "Are you a reporter?"
Clark nods, lips pressed together. "Mhm, that I am. You keep up with the news?"
When you have meta-humans running around the globe, it's generally a good idea to. Plus, you enjoy the little Superman scoops from time to time.
“I do my best.” You shrug, your coat collar shifting against your neck. "Will I have read anything of yours?"
A bashfulness crosses Clark's face and he scratches his neck again. "Maybe. I occasionally get interviews with Superman, which you might have read."
The familiarity from earlier snaps into place. His name - printed on the byline of the Daily Planet's front page, that you've read at least a dozen times. He's the guy who gets all the Superman exclusives.
"Oh, I know those!" You exclaim. "Yes, I've read them. You're really good. In the most recent one, I really appreciated the use of the word clandestine. It's a great word. I once did a crossword where that was the main clue and I've liked it since then."
At Jimmy's motion in your peripheral, his head turning to your conversation, do you realise how loud you've accidentally become.
You shrink back a bit, a hot embarrassment spilling in your chest. You hadn't meant to.
Clark, thankfully, appears undeterred. Actually, if anything, he seems quite flattered by your comment on his word choice, his face splitting into a grin.
"Yeah? I, uh, I haven't had that compliment before. Thank you. I agree completely as well, it's a fantastic word."
You glow hotly at his response - then nod, taking another sip of ginger-ale to try swallow down some of your embarrassment.
The conversation flows back to the table when Lois taps your ankle beneath the table, hooking you into an overdue catch up. She does most of the talking and you listen dutifully, slowly emptying your glass.
Time wanes with ease; so much, that it's much later than you had intended to leave when you check your phone some time later.
You blink at it in surprise. Clearly, your idea of a quick catch-up had melted away into a slower conversation.
But, for once, you're pleasantly surprised by the change in routine. You like Lois' friends.
Okay, you hadn't exactly talked to the others all that much - just a few words back and forth across the table. It had been more you watching them toss jokes around about Daily Planet's work-life. They all seem nice enough.
What you mean is, you like Clark.
He's really good at keeping you in the conversation. When the conversation veers to a topic unknown to you, he drops little tidbits of information in your ear.
The name Perry comes out, and Clark whispers how it's their boss; 'The Stakeout' gets mentioned, and he murmurs about how a 2-hour stint accidentally became a 20-hour one; Jimmy jokingly warns Cat against another marg, and Clark tells you, grinning all the while, of the last Christmas staff party.
It's nice. He doesn't leave you wondering — doesn't even wait for you to ask. You haven't really had that before.
You steal a glimpse when you think he's not looking.
Between the tag on the subway and this, you're beginning to think he might be the nicest person you've ever met.
Still, the clock reads closer to 9pm than you'd like.
The bakery you thought you might be able to dip into after this, for tomorrow's breakfast, will be long shut. Frustration singes at the thought.
Tomorrow, however, is a Saturday. There was already an idea to go to the Farmer's market, penned in your notebook, but now you'll have to go.
Saying goodbye to a big group that you only sort of know is awkward. You slurp on your straw to announce it quietly, then shift about for a moment, before you stand.
"I have to go now."
The group turns at your words. Polite goodbyes come from Ron and Cat, waves exchanged in your direction from Jimmy and Steve.
"Oh," Clark says, blinking up at you from behind his glasses. He presses them up his nose. "That's— would you, uh, like some company? I'd be more than happy to walk you."
Something electric zings down your spine. Your face burns again at his offer.
It tempts you. Walking home with Clark does sound a dream, but if you're being honest, you're all talked out for the evening. You can feel the social fatigue setting in, feel the urge to hide beneath your headphones again.
Your walk home will be in silence, fast-paced. You don't think Clark will enjoy several blocks of complete quietness between you.
You shake your head, "No. Thank you."
Maybe you're imagining things, but you can almost convince yourself he looks a bit downtrodden at your response. You bite down the urge to over-explain yourself — it rarely helps.
Turning, you make a point to wave specifically to Lois, a smile on your lips.
You say, "Thank you for inviting me. I had a good time."
"Of course," Lois grins at you over her beer. "I'm glad we could catch up. It was really nice to see you. Though, I have a feeling I might be seeing more of you soon."
Her eyes flit across the table, but if you're supposed to catch on to something, it's lost on you.
You frown, looking around the table again — nothings different, except Clark's ears a little pinker than a second ago.
Maybe she means you'll run into each other more now you know where she frequents. You cast a glance around at Crowley's and try to imagine coming here alone. It's not implausible.
"Okay, then." You nod, the motion a bit awkward, and tuck your hands away in your pockets. "Bye."
Another chorus of farewells from the table - a wave from Clark specifically. You wave without removing your hands from your pocket.
Tracing your steps back up to the streets, you have to blink to adjust to how dark it's become, night trickling into the city. The streetlights have come on and they cast pale puddles of light across the roads. The city hums with life.
Fishing around, you retrieve your headphones and slip them on. The world dims, just a bit. Manageable now.
You huff a breath, readying yourself for the journey home. Tiredness has crept into your skin - but at the same time, you're rejuvenated in another sense. One you couldn't explain it if you tried.
As you cross the street, heading for the subway station, it reminds you Clark. The tag. The careful gentleness of his fingers, inches from your neck.
You wonder if, back at the bar, you should've looked back.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Metropolis sports several markets that spring up, like weeds between concrete, on an early Saturday morning.
It's quite a transformation. Mullen's Square, the one closest to you, is generally void of any sort of gatherings during the week. Some workers wander out to eat their lunch, but the square has less greenery than others nearby.
It's nice, still. You like to wander through it on your way home, if you want to walk a little longer, that is.
The Saturday market is technically called a farmer's market—though how many genuine farmers it houses, you're not sure. By 7am, stalls pop up through the square, cobalt tarpaulins strung up that catch the wind and keep off the sun.
The east side is dedicated to the smaller treats.
There's little coffee carts parked, a green Jitter's one among them. Stores offering trinkets and handmade gifts, decorated with bright signs. The smell of sizzling breakfast drifts through the square.
The west is where the produce is.
Rows and rows and rows of fresh fruit and vegetables, piled high enough to make you nervous you'll send them tumbling with a single knock. It's a sea of colour, bright reds and deep greens. It's also where you're heading first today.
The stone scuffs underfoot as you cross into Mullen's square.
You grip the bag of reusable bags stowed on your shoulder, which is filled with only more reusable bags— an eco-friendly Russian-doll of bags, you might say.
This particular Saturday is overcast, which keeps the morning chill close. It won't linger, you hope, as the clouds appear to be clearing out. It's not a bad bet to assume it'll be bright and sunny by the end of the hour.
You're too busy watching your feet that you nearly miss the bakery stand — your actual first stop, you now remember.
You have to halt, then do an awkward little turn around, to end up in front of it.
The worst part of markets is that every stall holder is the most extroverted, talkative person to grace the land. Small-talk is not your forte — and neither is heckling the prices.
Leo, the owner of aforementioned bakery, has thankfully come to know you as a regular - and your quietness is expected. He greets you with a nod, smelling of freshly baked goods, and begins to bag up a loaf of sourdough without a word spoken.
You like Leo. He rewards your loyalty with a slight discount, which is never unappreciated.
The warmth of the bread presses into your side, packed away safely, you head into the first row of vegetables.
You pass artichokes, celery, and swedes. You have a list of ingredients you need, penned in your notebook, but it's mostly staples. Your eyes hunt for the potatoes to begin with — and instead, catch on a taller figure in the crowd.
It's impossible to miss him, given how he's a head taller than most of the crowd. A nervous anticipation prickles across your spine.
Maybe it's not him. Statistically, it's unlikely you'll have run into him again and so soon. Did you mention your plans for the farmer's market last night aloud?
You squint at him, trying to figure out if it's just wishful thinking.
But, no. It's definitely Clark.
He's wearing a pair of blue-wash jeans and an unbuttoned red flannel, the sleeves rolled up. Beneath it, his t-shirt reads Smallville Athletics. It's a touch on the tight fitting side.
His hair is a little messier this morning and he has his glasses on, slightly down from the bridge of his nose. He's holding something in one hand.
You wander a little closer and your eyes catch on what it is, his fingers closed around a handle. When you see what it’s attached to, a surprised delight radiates in your chest.
He has a wagon, small and red, trailing behind him.
He must tow it behind him to carry his things, because you can spot a variety of food already stashed in it.
He's talking to a vendor with an easy smile, the two chatting politely, before Clark gestures to a pile of oranges, a couple crates over. He nods a goodbye to the vendor and walks the few steps, pulling the wagon with him.
Then, he starts examining the fruit, picking the oranges up one by one.
You take a step — then judder to a halt. Can you just go up and say hi? That sounds almost absurd.
Clark hasn't seen you yet - you could turn and disappear into the east side of the market and he'd be none the wiser. You want to say hi though. You want to talk to him again.
But you're not friends. You've just met him twice, both times by accident.
And that's all it's taken for you think he's the nicest guy in all of Metropolis — and that's left you wondering if you're allowed to think that so soon after Darren.
5 weeks and 6 days since the breakup. But you never thought Darren was the nicest guy in the city—he probably wasn't even the nicest guy on his apartment floor.
You decide after a long moment, staring hard at a pile of tomatoes, that saying hello is the perfectly friendly thing to do.
You walk over before you can change your mind.
"Hi."
Not recognising your voice, Clark turns with a quirk in his brows, already apologetic. "Oh, sorry, is my wagon-?"
His polite apology quickly melts away as he turns enough to see who you are. He blinks, his glasses slip further down his nose, and then the orange in his hand erupts as it's squished beneath his super-strength.
"Hi— oh, son of a biscuit," He goes from happy to politely distressed in a moment.
Orange juice streaks down his forearm and Clark quickly unclenches his hand. He stares at the mashed remains of the orange in his hand with a genuine sorrow, as if trying to will it back to its previous form.
When it doesn't work, he turns back to the vendor from before and gestures with the orange weakly. "I will pay for this."
You've never really had someone juice an orange at your arrival before, so it leaves you stuck for what to say.
You bite your cheek, "Guess it was a bad orange?"
Clark laughs at that, a bit breathy, his focus still on where to put the orange. "It's- no. Or maybe. I love Frank's oranges, I couldn't say a bad word against them."
That makes you smile.
He eventually pulls one of the plastic produce bag rolls off the edge of a crate and deposits the fruit pulp inside - then tosses it into his wagon. He looks up at you, his arm still held out and dripping fruit juice.
He smiles, lashes touching in the corners, "Hi. Again. It's," He takes a deep breath, swallows. "It's good to see you."
You think he genuinely means it too. Which is a trip - your pulse ticks up a few beats per minute.
To distract yourself from that, you dig around in your bag for some wipes to give him.
"Here," you say, after peeling back the protective sticker and extracting one. He takes it with that awkward head bob he does.
Clark says, "Thank you," and he smiles again - and you swear it's exactly when the sun comes out.
Suddenly, it feels too warm to be wearing your knit sweater and you're not entirely sure the weather's to blame. You swallow, trying not to focus too intently on his long fingers as he wipes them off.
"I like your wagon."
For some reason, that makes Clark turn a nice pink that matches the peaches.
He's still wiping at his hands and his shoulders hunch up, "Yeah, well, it's my old one and—" He pauses, glancing over your expression. "Oh. You mean it."
You frown, "Of course."
You look down at the wagon and see that in white, flaking paint the name KENT is painted on the side. There's no perfect lines, which means it's probably been hand-painted.
Up close, you can see his haul. A bunch of carrots, strung together with rubber bands, a carton of 24 eggs - which upon further inspection, you realise is 48, as it's doubled stacked - and a variety of leafy greens. Several limes roll around loosely.
Clark catches your gaze and peers at his own wagon, "Gotta have fresh eggs, you know?"
You don't know because eggs, to you, can be the worst food on the planet. Texture, yolk, almost always served some degree of undercooked on purpose.
Still, you nod, because that's the polite thing to do.
"I'm still so used to getting everything fresh back home," says Clark.
He tucks the used wipe into the same bag as the mushed orange. "One of those things that took awhile to adjust to in Metropolis - til I found the markets."
You look at his shirt and put two and two together. "You used to live on a farm?"
"Born and raised." Clark grins. Then, his brows bunch together. "Well, not actually born, but that's a story for a different time. Smallville's home though."
He gestures to his shirt proudly, then pushes his glasses back up. He looks you over, seeing your relatively empty bags.
"You just arrive? Or no big plans to shop around?"
You become aware of how your knees have locked and try to subtly adjust them. A performer starts setting up an amp close by, the scratchiness beamed out through the speaker.
"Both. I came to get—"
There's a squeal from the performer's guitar and you cringe at the volume, eyes closing momentarily. When the noise stops, you relax, "Sorry. I…"
What were you saying? You can't really focus when there's still the scratchy noises feeding out the amp. You look over your shoulder, spy the offender, and wish desperately for her to stop.
A moment later, the noise runs smooth and the volume turns way down. The soft noises of her acoustic guitar begin. You turn back to Clark.
You remember you were in the middle of a sentence, "Sorry. I'm sorry, what was the question?"
Clark smiles, soft, "Don't be sorry. I was asking if you come to the markets often. You look prepared."
He nods to the bags over your shoulder.
"I come sometimes," You say, relieved that he doesn't mind repeating himself. "I'm mainly here for bread because I was supposed to get some after work yesterday."
"Oh," says Clark, but you can't place what tone it is. "Guess we kept you longer than you intended, huh?"
"I would've gone home earlier if I wanted to." You inform. "If that's what you mean."
It might be, given how something relaxes in his body. He stands a little straighter. When he's not hunching over, like he been on the subway, you realise he's more than a fair bit taller than you.
If he wanted to kiss you, he'd definitely have to lean down, your brain supplies unhelpfully.
You pretend to adjust your sleeve just press your fingers to your wrist. As suspected, your heart doesn't seem to be fairing well in Clark's presence. You're nervous — but after some consideration, you decide it's a good kind of nervous.
You watch him survey the crowds of the slowly busying market. He turns to you.
"How would you like some company?" asks Clark. Then, as if remembering your answer last time he asked, he quickly adds, "No pressure to, if you'd rather just—"
Hell if you're not going to seize this opportunity. You cut him off and hope he won't think you too rude.
"I would love the company."
He blinks - then shows off his dimples with a smile, gaze softened and entirely on you. "Alright then."
Together, you walk and you talk.
Clark tells you about Smallville, the small town in Kansas that he hails from.
The farmboy image makes a lot of sense honestly. It explains his broad shoulders and big arms, not the usual physique of an investigative reporter. You try not to sweat at the mental image of him throwing around hay-bales - and quietly fail miserably.
And then the image sweetens nearly unbearably when you hear him talk about his Ma and his Pa, adoration clear in his voice.
You talk about home too, but more about college days with Lois, when you started living independently. He asks about your job. You somehow end up convincing him Leo's Bakery is the best sourdough in the city — though he's rather easily swayed.
When you pass a stall selling fake crystals, which you point out, Clark makes the mistake of asking how you can tell.
It starts you off on a tangent. You get halfway through an explanation, informing him of the formation of cleavage planes in minerals, when you realise you might be doing the thing.
The talk-so-much-you-miss-the-cue-that-tells-you-to-be-quiet thing.
"and when it's glass, it doesn't have those—" You suddenly want to jam your hand in your mouth, it'd be easier to stop talking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm talking a lot, aren't I?"
You shove your hands in your pockets so you don't pick at your fingertips, a bad habit.
Clark smiles, pulling the wagon that he somehow coaxed you to put your stuff in too. He shows no strain of pulling it.
"You are," He agrees, but he says warmly. Like it might be a good thing. "It's wonderful. Please keep going."
You bite your cheek in surprise — but he means it, so you do.
He lets you talk for as long as you like, and when you eventually lapse into quiet, it's surprisingly comfortable.
You've done an okay job at multi-tasking, talking and shopping, with a few more pieces of produce joining the cooled sourdough loaf. But really, you and Clark seem to be walking just to keep each other company.
You're broken out of your thoughts when Clark clears his throat.
He glances down at you, "Do you think there's some reason we keep running into each other?"
"A reason?"
You search your brain for what he might possibly mean. It is rather unlikely that you've run into each other this much, purely by accident. Even you can admit, it is odd.
But plenty of things are odd to you, that seem perfectly natural to other people.
You suppose you've just been putting this in the same box.
"Like," There must be something in his throat, because Clark clears it again. "Fate. Or something like that."
You might say he sounds almost wistful. Maybe if you were someone else, you might be able to tell what that means.
You ask a different question instead. "Do you believe in fate?"
That makes Clark looks at you. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, his blue eyes simply roam your face with a tenderness you're unprepared for. "You know, I think I'm beginning to."
You wish you could figure out why that makes you face burn.
Something pings on your phone, making it vibrate in your pocket. With a polite smile, you pull it out and instead of the notification, your attention goes to the time.
Your brows raise in surprise. It's a good thing you haven't any plans, as you found time has, yet again, run away from you.
You're beginning to suspect it must be a Clark thing.
"Sorry, I've just realised—" You hold up your phone halfheartedly. "The time. Um, I didn't mean to take up so much of yours, that is. I should probably get going."
Clark nods in understanding. A muscle twitches in his jaw, tensed, as he watches you extract your things from his wagon.
You straighten up, things gathered loosely in your hands, and expect it to be the same awkward exchange of waves goodbye.
It isn't. Clark's talking before you take the first step, the words coming out a little breathless,
"Before you go— and- this might be too forward- in which case, you know, that's fine. But, I didn't want to, uh, lose the chance. Seize the day, you know?"
Okay, he's lost you. It must read on your face, because Clark sighs. It doesn't feel directed at you.
He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks suddenly pinker than peaches this time. They better resemble the red of his wagon.
Clark looks to the sky, mumbling something under his breath you can't hear, then turns to you, set. "I would love to see you again. If- If you'd like. On purpose this time."
You blink.
Well, you weren't expecting that. He wants to see you? On purpose?
You can't help but note how wonderful it is to have someone be so forward with you.
What follows is a tinge of disappointment—he's not asking you out, not like Darren did. He didn't say date.
You're not so presumptuous to think he would think that way about you - the way you've been thinking of him.
Your disappointment is followed by a scornful scoff at yourself — now that you think about it, it's highly unlikely that someone as kind as Clark is without a girlfriend. You're just a fool for not considering it earlier.
"You want to hang out?" You ask, to be sure.
Something crosses Clark's face. After a beat, he swallows, shrugs and says, "Sure. If that's what you want."
It is what you want—to see him again.
Albeit, maybe not quite how you'd like, but beggars can't be choosers.
"I would like that."
Clark smiles — which turns to a grin when he takes your number, scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper torn from your notebook.
You half hope he knows what it means that you've ruined a fresh page for him - and half hope he doesn't.
When you bid each other goodbye, you watch the handsome not-such-a-stranger anymore disappear in the throngs of people, his red wagon towed behind him.
And into the evening after, tempting and wishful, the concept of fate follows you into sleep.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It takes, what Clark thinks is, an embarrassing amount of time to figure where he's gone wrong.
Here's the thing; Clark's a big boy.
He was raised right. He can take a rejection on the chin — can be polite, respectful. He can still keep people as friends, even when his feelings extend a little further.
Given your polite readjustment of Clark's date invitation into just friends territory, the implication very much is that you are not interested in Clark. Not in the way he's interested in you, at least.
And he can respect that, truly. He is a gentleman after all.
Except, the thing is, you don't exactly act that way.
As the two of you settle into a routine of new friends, learning your place in each others lives, on purpose this time, Clark just… notices.
It's the little things — and it takes time to know what you do with him, and what you do with everyone else.
He notices how you're mostly quiet, but also prone to a sudden inspired chatter that increases with volume and excitement in equal measure. Your hands flex, like there's too much energy in you with nowhere to go but out through your fingertips.
You do that around him, but not around everyone.
He notices your lingering gaze. Feels it on his back when he's turned; on his hands; feels it tracing up the side of his face when you think he isn't looking.
You don't do that with anyone else either.
He notices… a lot about you, to be honest.
Probably more than someone who's trying to veer away from romantic notions and stay firmly in the friend zone you've enacted for the pair of you should.
But — your heart is the biggest giveaway.
This thing, he doesn't mean to notice. It's come to feel like spying, if the person isn't aware he's doing it, tuning in his super senses to something a quiet as a heartbeat.
It's not like prying or eavesdropping really, but Ma and Pa raised him to treat it as such.
Your heart though—it reaches out with a siren's call he's helpless to ignore.
Around just the two of you, it wavers from steady to rising. Not fast enough to be panic, but too fast to be calm. Somewhere that sits in between.
Which means, you're nervous around him. The way you check your pulse, in subtle motions but Clark's the observant kind, means that you know it too.
He can only hope it's not the bad sort of nerves. Though, he figures you'd stop inviting him over if it was. You're on the side of too honest sometimes, which grates some—but only endears him evermore.
The combination of all these little things swirl together, forming a sign, that, well, usually Clark would take as mutual interest. You seem interested.
But you had turned him down.
Clark loses sleep, wondering if it's wrong that he still thinks of his friend in this way.
This—this pining way, that seems to be second nature to him now. Imbued in him. Intertwined with him.
Your eyes, your mouth are constant, vivid thoughts, surely meant to drive him mad. Like the place a tooth used to be, one he can't stop running his tongue over.
Sore, aching, yearning for something missing.
Is it wrong? How could it be, when it felt so right. Is it wrong? he asks himself, stealing every sidelong glance at you, greedy for it. Eager for more.
The thought of your kiss—how it would feel to have your lips on his—crosses his mind daily.
There is where the embarrassing part comes in.
Really, in hindsight, all Clark can think is that he should have figured it out sooner. Well, actually, he had figured it out, but connecting the two pieces hadn't even occurred to him.
To put it lightly, you deal with all manner of things very literally.
Double meanings, sarcastic comments, pointed looks; some of them you catch, most of them you don't. When they come up in conversations, you get this little pinch in your eyebrows.
If it's not Clark who's said them, you'll glance wordlessly up at him, like checking if he's understood it either.
He knows you have no idea how much it captivates him.
All this is to say, he should've been able to put two and two together much sooner.
He wishes he had—if only so it all could've been a little more romantic.
But as it goes, the afternoon it unfolds, he's in his kitchen, donned in a striped and too small apron, with a bit of flour in his hair. You look lovely, as always.
Together, you're baking together. Really, Clark's doing most of the work.
He doesn't actually mind, given it's Ma's carrot cake recipe that he's recreating. And also because he likes it when you let him do things for you. It's taken time to figure what you will and won't let him help with.
You're perched on one of the bar stools, elbows to the counter, watching him work. Doing important things, such as beguiling him with a single look. He's softened by your mere closeness.
It's also not helping that you have to look through your eyelashes whenever you make eye contact with him.
(Clark's already crushed one egg by accident already, as a result.)
At current, he's folding the batter, the mixing bowl cradled in his arms. Your attention is waning, given how when he glances up, he sees you fiddling with the cinnamon shaker. You're peeling the label slightly, just for something to fidget with.
He gestures to it with a nod and a smile. "Toss me the cinnamon, will you?"
And you do, literally.
Expectation tells him you'll slide it across the counter. Instead, he has to rapidly drop the spatula with a splat! into the bowl, to catch the incoming cinnamon. It jolts him, the surprise of it.
He stares at it, clutched in his fingers — which he definitely only caught with his enhanced reflexes — and then up at you, wide-eyed.
You blink at him, not understanding his sudden surprise. "You said to toss it!"
Two and two fuse together. Your very literalness and Clark's lack of specific wording.
Had he called it a date, that time at the markets, how ever many weeks ago now? He was so sure he had - or if he hadn't, it was so obviously implied you couldn't possibly misunderstand.
But then again, he didn't know you then. Not like he knows you now.
To you, Clark goes from his normal ease around you, to wide-eyed and straight backed. It looks a little like he's been zapped with something - a lightning rod of realisation.
Then he slowly squints at you for a long moment, mixing bowl still cradled to his bicep. Moving with immense care, he places it slowly down on the counter before him.
His hands follow, palms wrapping around the edge of the counter. He stares hard at the surface for another long, long moment.
His blue eyes flick up to you, through his glasses, searching for something.
"Do you want to go on a date?" He asks, voice low. "With me?"
Which—okay. Something misfires in your brain. It's come out of nowhere—how did cinnamon and carrot cake lead to this?
A date. With you. And him. Together. Romantically.
Hidden behind your ribs, you feel your treacherous heart begin to race. You feel that stupid burn in your face you always get around Clark flare up.
Why is he asking now? What changed?
You wonder if he's just figured you out. If he can suddenly see some manifestation of your quiet, pathetic longing.
Have you been that obvious? You wonder if it's pity.
Then you swallow the thought away.
Clark wouldn't.
You realise you haven't answered. Despite how you desperately want to, you're not brave enough to meet his gaze. If you do, you'll never get to the words out.
"Yes. I would like that."
Clark sucks in a sharp breath. Your eyes dart up, looking at him through your lashes with a quiet disbelief and he's smiling. Grinning, like what you've just said is the best news of his life.
You should pinch your arm. Perhaps you've fallen asleep at the counter, watching him fold the batter.
"Great," Clark says breathily.
He's looking at you in a way that's, not different per say, but simply less… reserved. There's an ardent fondness in his eyes that wasn't there before.
Or maybe it was. Maybe you're the one who hasn't been paying close enough attention.
"Great." You echo.
Have you two just agreed to something? Your throat clicks with how dry it is. You're still a little unsure how you've ended up here.
A beat passes.
The understanding of what he's asking—as in, had actually just asked you out—wallops into you.
"I didn't realise you—" You say loudly, then bite your tongue. "I- I mean, I thought- or didn't rather, think you, like, would think like that. Not about me."
Clark's lips press together, like he's holding back from an even wilder grin. Like he's finally solved a puzzle he's been tinkering at for months now—and the final product is much, much better than expected.
He picks up his hands, dusts off the flour, and begins to work open the knot on the back of the apron.
"What are the chances you'll believe me if I say I'll felt that way from the start?"
"Low." You reply honestly, watching him as he dumps the apron on the counter beside the mixing bowl. You wonder what he means by the start.
"At the bar?"
Clark does laugh this time, like you've said something delightfully funny.
He walks backward to the door, eyes still on you, til he reaches the coat stand. You watch, puzzled, as he pilfers through the pocket of his coat and produces his wallet.
"Let me prove it," He says, gesturing with his wallet.
He crosses the space, this time rounding the counter to stand beside you. Still sitting, you have to crane your neck to look up at him - but his head is bowed, focused on something in his wallet.
You haven't a clue what he's looking for until —
—there, between his fingers, is a piece of fabric you recognise.
It's… the tag from your shirt.
The one he'd helped snip off for you on the subway, all those months ago.
He'd kept it. In his wallet, carrying it around with him. Knew exactly where to find it, as if he'd retrieved it countless times before.
For an awfully small thing, it represents what feels like an enormous amount of time.
From the start, he said. From the start I've felt this way, it means.
You stare at the tag, bewildered - flummoxed and yet, indescribably like something's melting in your chest, molten hot.
Your hand raises, unbidden, knuckles pressing against your sternum, as though it might help you contain the feeling. It's helpless.
There's no stopping the unbridled, unrestrained happiness which is so real, it feels sharp. Your eyes blur with tears. A choked sounding breath claws its way out of your throat.
You look up at Clark. There aren't words you can find.
To make matters worse, Clark looks afflicted at your reaction — your leg jittering, your hand pressed tight to your chest, your mouth yet to say a word. He has to check, "Are these— these are good tears?"
Your chin trembles, but you're nodding severely. You drag in another ragged breath and consequently make Clark feel like a monster for doing this to you.
"You-" The word quivers a bit around your tears. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I don't mean to cry, it's— it's not bad. It's good. It's really good."
You tuck your face away, breaths still coming too fast. Clark gives you the moment you need, wishing you were at equal heights so it wasn't so easy for you to hide from him. But a few deep, slow breaths later, you unfurl from your hiding place.
Fingers wipe your face, clearing the tears, and then you look at his hands. Your face is dewy from tears, eyelashes clinging together. It's poetry to Clark.
"You kept it," You whisper, eyes fixed on the fabric in his fingers. Your gaze lifts, peering up at him with a tenderness that threatens to unravel Clark entirely.
"I did." He says, matching your quiet tone, immeasurably kind. He's always kind with you.
Your bottom lip takes a tremble and you bite it away, teeth sinking into the flesh.
"I looked for you on the subway. After that day."
You say it like you've been keeping a secret — this hidden want, tucked in your heart and carried around with you.
Clark reckons the two of you aren't that different in this way; it's what he's been doing with this tag, after all. Taking this want around with him, until it chased him into another chance encounter with you.
He rubs his thumb over the swatch. It feels like luck to him.
"That's what you meant about fate," You murmur, realisation staining your tone. You sniffle a little.
Your eyes are back on the tag, but this time, you reach out to feel it too. Clark lets you. In the middle, your fingertips catch.
Funny how an object you so detested comes back to you, loved in another form.
You ask, "Is that why you kept it? Fate?"
There's an eyelash on your cheekbone, freed by your tears. Clark thinks has all the wishes he needs, right here in front of him.
Fingertips to yours, he draws your hand closer to him, into his chest. Lets the line of your body lead the way, bringing your faces closer as he bends to reach you.
The air smells of cinnamon and the sweetness of finally, finally getting what you want.
"It was a working theory," He murmurs — and feels the tremble in your mouth when he kisses you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
HUGE thank you to @strangerstilinski for helping me at every roadblock this thru one <3 and to @citrinesparkles for boatloads of validation to help me push thru :D
otherwise moots / people who asked to be tagged for the first part, i figured you may want to read this one too! as always, no pressure :)
˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs five I one I two I three I four II gif credit - @/olympain
here are some clark kent stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡
ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I HC- hurt/comfort I ~S- implied smut
ꨄ︎ just one I @geminiwritten I A + F + S
you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie
ꨄ︎ drabble I @bruisedboys I F
your cute coworker clark overhears your conversation with lois, and takes it upon himself to get you some of your favourite things.
ꨄ︎ clark’s baby daddy chronicles I @honeybunnyale I A + F + S
Clark ensures he could be part of the baby's life and yours.
ꨄ︎ breeding program I @/honeybunnyale I A + S
Ultraman wasn’t as successful as he expected. Lex Luthor is hoping to breed something new to defeat his nemesis, no matter how long the process may take.
ꨄ︎ freeze I @sempersirens I A + C
after a traumatic train ride, clark does everything in his power to ensure you don't blame yourself
ꨄ︎ oh, the humanity! I @sincerelybubbles I F
you've never been more thrilled than when clark sets you up with an exclusive interview with the superman. little do you know, superman has his own agenda - try to see if you return to work-crush clark's been quietly developing for months. the only problem? he's not nearly as smooth as he thinks he is.
ꨄ︎ seven minutes in heaven I @neellscapsule I F
clark likes to know what other people think of 'superman'. he very much wishes to know your thoughts of him as well.
ꨄ︎ a resounding heart attack I @/neellscapsule I F
there are three romance rules you have to follow: don't date coworkers, don't fall in love with flirty people, and never show how whipped you actually are. clark fails the three of them.
ꨄ︎ bet on it I @fawnindawn I F
a bet in the office leads you to discover that clark, who you've been dating in secret, is really into roleplaying as coworkers.
ꨄ︎ hate him or love him? I @arabellapost I S
You are not a very big fan of Superman like the other people in Metropolis, but who could guess that the man you dislike that much was your lovely boyfriend?
ꨄ︎ that’s my boyfriend I @prozacwhorehouse I F
of reader admiring Clark’s new article and his headshot
ꨄ︎ sunrise and shadows I @maximoffthereal I F
Coming from Gotham you never would have thought you’d find exactly what you were looking for.
ꨄ︎ tell me more pt2 I @illumoria I F
talking to your charming co-worker about your silly little crush on a certain superhero
ꨄ︎ red ink and red capes I @cybersunnie I F
You left Gotham to work at the Daily Planet and have to deal with CLARK KENT and his red pens.
ꨄ︎ i have a boyfriend! I @starsswirl I F
even when the most super man saves you, you can’t help but run to find your boyfriend who you love so much
ꨄ︎ sleepless nights I @pome-seed I F
Some nights, when everything's still, you get a visit from the Man of Steel.
ꨄ︎ the secret I @thatcorporategirlie I A + F + S
You've always struggled with how to tell Clark a painful secret—but it slips out unintentionally when you meet his parents.
ꨄ︎ heartbeat I @satellite-evans I F
you make Clark's heart beat faster
ꨄ︎ casual I @buckysthunderbolts I A + F + S
Your blossoming relationship with Clark Kent has you questioning whether what you have is serious, or something casual.
ꨄ︎ touch tank I @squipa I F + A
you're a teacher, currently trying to fill up your summer vacation with freelance work when you stumble into not one, but two situationships with clark kent, the adorkable reporter from the daily planet, and superman, the hero you can't stop running into. overall? you're having a very interesting break.
ꨄ︎ journalistic integrity I @spideystevie I F
putting yourself in the throes of danger for an interview with superman? what’s the worst that could happen
ꨄ︎ read all about it I @roanofarcc I F
you were almost certain the morning headline would read how you rejected superman, all because you can’t get your co-worker, clark kent, out of your head.
ꨄ︎ a tie I @/roanofarcc I F
you were almost certain superman could beat you in a race, and yet, every time it ended in a tie. you started to suspect he was doing on purpose.
ꨄ︎ drabble I @buckygasm I S
Thinking about Clark buying his pretty gf Superman merch with the 'S' on it
ꨄ︎ crystal girl I @kryptos-aunt I F
Clark’s girl is a crystal girl and it might just end up being the worst thing ever.
ꨄ︎ magic glasses I @/kryptos-aunt I F
Clark’s girlfriend has a few too many questions.
ꨄ︎ guilt of the quiet one I @sillyswriting I A + F + S
Your life was unraveling, little by little. Bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. Nothing made it easier, especially when one of Metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.
ꨄ︎ match made I @tw1sters I HC
Love is an elusive concept to Clark, but one thing he knows is that it cannot be found through an arrangement. You set out to prove him wrong.
ꨄ︎ for the world I @bloatedandalone04 I A
Clark had promised you that he wouldn’t miss your Graduation for the world, but when the day comes and the world needs Superman, he ends up breaking both his promise to you, as well as his own heart.
ꨄ︎ flash and focus pt2 I @kissmxcheek I F
new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?
ꨄ︎ lessons in chemistry I @d1stalker I F
Desperate for your attention, Clark does the unthinkable—he turns to the ultimate girl magnet, Jimmy Olsen, for help.
ꨄ︎ blurb I @nanamisweetgirl
clark thinks he’s built wrong cause his xxl condoms don’t fit
ꨄ︎ i know you I @storiesoferoda I C
late-night doubts creep in when dating a superhero
ꨄ︎ the roommate situation I @kirietown I S
threesome with Clark and ultraman
ꨄ︎ heights I @slushycoookie I F
ꨄ︎ if you’re done with your ex, move on to the next I @supermenz I A + F
Being rejected from Metropolis University? Humbling. Your boyfriend of four years dumping you a year later thanks to his dead parents? Even worse. But when your friend tries to get you out of your dorm after two weeks spent bed-rotting and takes you to a photoshoot audition — "Just to try something new!" — you find yourself with a lot of attention you didn't want and a billionaire playboy on your tail.
ꨄ︎ playback I @musingsofheaven I S
You’ve been friends with Clark since college, long before you ever started filming yourself for strangers online. He’s one of your closest friends, the one you trust the most, and the only person you’d trust to help behind the camera when you wanted your content to look better.
ꨄ︎ leave me alone bitch, i wanna have fun I @buckysfaveplum I F + S
when Clark needs to get his cousin out of trouble he meets you, Kara’s friend who may be just as crazy as her
ꨄ︎ worth a thousand words I @ifyouweremine I F
When Superman shows up to save the day, he makes headlines. Only this time the headlines aren’t exactly what you expect when you see yourself on the front page, labelled Superman’s new mystery woman.
ꨄ︎ can you babysit tonight? I @orobaxis I F
You decide to pull the “Can you babysit?” prank on your very devoted husband Clark — who is so confused, so offended, and maybe just a little bit dramatic about it.
word count (chapter one): 6.7k (more chapters to come)
pairing: golden retriever bf!clark x black cat gf!reader
synopsis (series): Your new next door neighbor and coworker Clark Kent is a ball of fucking sunshine. You are not. He’s noisy, he’s clingy, he tries too hard. You pretend to hate it but eventually, you have to admit it… he’s kind of the best. Although you can't help but wonder if he's keeping secrets from you.
rating (chapter one): M (mature), explicit smut to come in later chapters ♡
content (chapter one): sunshine x grumpy trope, coworkers, next door neighbors, slow burn, fluff, clark is soooo soft and romantic eee
author's note: My first Superman/superhero fic and I’m the fakest DC fan known to womankind. I had a lotta fun writing this and I hope you have fun reading (˶‘ ᵕ ‘˶) The story kind of resolves here so you could technically take this as a fluffy oneshot BUT I have plans to publish at least 3 more (verrrry smutty) chapters! if you like it and want to see more, please send me an ask to let me know and i'll gladly add you to a taglist! ((And please, for the love of all that is holy, comment/reblog/send asks/follow me if you want to see more of my writing!))
✧⋆.˚⟡ ˖ chapter one ˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
The repetitive knocking is coming from the wall. From the only wall you share with your next door neighbor.
It’s not a surprise that this shabby midtown apartment has walls as thin as your patience for its shitty occupants. What surprises you, though, is who you find on the other side of the neighbor’s door when your patience finally wears out.
The infuriating sounds are new. As in, you hadn’t heard a peep from this particular neighbor before today. And now it’s as if they’ve brought a whole damn circus into the building. Loud, annoying punk music that was popular a decade ago, playing from bass-heavy speakers. Off-key singing from a male voice. Incessant barking from a dog. And now?
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Fuck me. You groan in frustration and heave yourself onto your feet. Dodging half-unpacked boxes as you make my way out of your new apartment, into the hallway, and up to the wooden front door of the noisy neighbor. The neighbor you have yet to meet. In fact, you hadn’t realized when you first moved in a week ago that you even had a next door neighbor, things were so quiet. Not so lucky now.
You knock. Behind the door, his damn dog starts barking. No one answers. You try again—and nothing. You’re midway through a tirade of angry rapping when the door finally swings open.
It’s an absolute wall of a man. Your eyes travel up his legs and torso to his face. The first thing you notice is his face. Clean-shaven, chiseled features, thick-framed glasses that somehow look both too clunky for him and yet perfectly suited for his face.
And that he’s smiling at you.
It’s an all-star, earth-shattering smile that nearly knocks the wind out of you, except for the disconcerting fact that the man somehow doesn’t seem surprised at all to see you banging on his door.
“You must be a new neighbor.” His voice is deep, warm, interested.
You cross your arms over your chest. “I’m about to break my lease and move out if you don’t keep it down.”
The man’s dark brows stitch together before realization floods his annoyingly handsome features. “You moved into 3-C,” he remarks. A statement, not a question.
”Yup.” You narrow your eyes at him.
His face contorts. “Golly, I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t realize they finally got someone to rent that unit out. It’s been vacant for months, so I hadn’t thought to keep the noise down.” He turns to face the barking dog behind him, says, “Krypto, no barking. Inside voice.”
The dog, like many dogs, pays him no heed and continues to bark and whine. The man rolls his eyes and steps into the hallway with you, closing the door. Had he said golly?
“Really, I’m so sorry about the noise. Krypto just likes to bark at strangers. And the TV. And out the window, sometimes.”
“The barking’s not really the worst of it,” you tell him. You jerk your chin toward the wall you two apparently share. “It’s the thumping. Repeated. Constant. All day today. It’s driving me crazy.”
His face lights with sheepish realization. “Oh. Yeah. That. That’s just—“
You cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t even want to know what it is.” Probably his headboard or something. Gag. “Just… make it stop. It's scaring my cat.” And pissing me off.
He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, and says simply, “Understood. Yes ma’am. No more noise.”
“Great.” You turn and begin storming back to your own apartment when he gets your attention again.
“For the record,” he calls out. “It was just a tennis ball. Nothing else, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
It works. You turn to face him, giving him your full attention again. Is he… blushing?
“The… tennis ball?” you repeat.
He gestures loosely. “I toss it against the wall for Krypto to chase. He gets antsy if I don’t burn off some energy before bed.”
Ah. The dog. Still doesn’t explain why the thumping was happening twice a second. How fast was this dog?
“Your dog’s name is Crypto? As in, the currency?”
He presses his lips together in what seems like a repressed smile. “Different meaning,” he says simply.
“Okay, well, have you considered, I don’t know, walking your dog, or going to the park, instead of keeping your neighbors up at”—you glance at your watch—“eleven-oh-five-pm?”
He runs a hand through his dark hair. “We do. Go for walks, I mean. And—he’s technically not. My dog, I mean.”
The aforementioned dog peeks his white head around the man’s legs. The man smiles sheepishly.
“It's more of a foster situation,” he explains.
This stranger, his handsome face, his antics, his way of speaking... He intrigues you, but in an attempt not to show it, you frown at him and say curtly, “Whatever the situation is, just… keep it down, okay?”
He holds his hands up placatingly. Large hands. “I hear you loud and clear. No more noise.” He salutes. It’s not in a mocking way, but in a completely, utterly dorky way.
It’s annoying. It’s endearing.
You huff, nod your head. Problem solved. You got what you wanted by telling him off. So why didn’t you want to leave?
“Oh, and another thing…” you add. “The music.”
“Oh.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You heard that, too?”
“Oh yeah. Hard not to. And the singing.”
“Impressed?” he smirks.
“If you mean, impressed by how off-key it was, then yes.”
“Well, it wasn’t meant to be on-key. I was harmonizing.”
“...No, you weren’t.”
“...You’re right, I wasn’t.”
You repress the smile that threatens to come to the surface with a scowl. “You know they make these little knobs or dials that control the volume on your speakers, right? Maybe you should learn to use them.”
He’s unfazed. “I’ll have to check that out. Thanks for the tip.” There’s zero malice in his tone, just lighthearted playfulness.
“Great.” Without another word, you head back to your own apartment.
“Have a good night,” he calls out. You wave him off in response.
Just before you close your door, you barely hear him say under his breath, “I didn’t get her name.”
~~~
The next morning, you leave early. It’s your first day of work. The Daily Planet, associate copy editor. A big step up from your last job. On your way out your front door, you nearly stumble on something. It’s a small box with a lid tied with twine. And a note. You read it first, noticing the small, neat handwriting.
Sorry again about the noise. Figured I owed you a peace offering (and caffeine, for keeping you up). Hope this makes up for it.
– Clark (and Krypto, who says ‘woof’)
So his name is Clark. Inside the box is a bag of single-origin coffee beans from a local roaster. You don’t even like coffee. But the whole thing is so… sweet. You can’t help but smile this time, to yourself.
Sweet gesture from such a shitty neighbor.
~~~
Your first day. Once you meet your new supervisor and get settled at your new desk, you don’t get much more interaction than that. Everyone seems extra busy today—or maybe it’s like this all the time. Someone’s barking out assignments from a conference room, and nearly everyone in the bullpen is furiously typing or frantically scribbling notes. You keep overhearing something about another Superman sighting in the sky last week. The strange, alien hero had emerged into the public eye a few years prior. Whoever he was, it was just one of Metropolis' many enigmas.
You put your headphones on, keep your head down, get to work editing your first headline. You hadn’t been wanting any extra attention brought to you or anything on your first day. Hadn’t even really expected outright friendliness from your new colleagues—this was Metropolis, after all. So the work flow and pace here seemed right up your alley.
Someone came stumbling in late. Balancing a coffee, a scone, a briefcase, a stack of manila folders, his glasses slipping down his nose—
You gape. It’s your goddamn next door neighbor.
It doesn’t take long for him to discover you that day, either. He approaches your desk, eyes glued to his laptop, and says without looking up, “Perry says to send all I have on the LexCorp piece to the new copy editor, which is—” He finally looks up, sees it’s you. Surprise lights his face, then delight. “It’s you!”
You stare at him over the edge of your computer monitor. “Unfortunately.”
He beams, unbothered. “Wow, small world. Neighbors and coworkers.”
“Guess so.” Just my luck.
He places his coffee mug on the table beside your keyboard. If he sees you glaring at it, he ignores it. “I apologize again about the noise yesterday.”
“Noises, plural,” you correct, bringing your gaze back to your computer screen. Pretending to type. Hoping he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t. “Noises,” he affirms. “It’s just been a while since I’ve shared a wall with anyone. You won’t hear a peep from now on, promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“What’s your name?” he asks. You tell him, and he repeats it, smiling as though the name tasted like honey in his mouth. “Well, welcome to The Daily Planet. I’ve been told you have a reputation of being very, uh…”
“Cutthroat?” you guess. “Merciless?” It’s what your previous coworkers called you. You don't take bullshit when it comes to syntax and adhering to AP style.
“I was going to say meticulous, but good to know.”
“That, too.”
“I believe it.” When you simply nod and don’t reply, he adds, “Did you get the box I left?”
“Oh. Yeah, I did. Uh, thanks for that… You really didn’t have to.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
Honestly, to you, it seems like the most. He really shouldn't have gotten you anything. You move your cursor around the screen, pretending to work. He sips his coffee, sets it down again, doesn’t leave. You scowl up at him, and he just smiles.
You bite. “Are you always this… cheery?” And overbearing?
At least he’s not half bad to look at. Wrinkled shirt collar and scone crumbs on the lapel and all.
“No, I’d say I’m usually cheerier,” he says. As your glare intensifies, his softens. “Not all of us can be the mysterious, if-looks-could-kill type,.
“You should be grateful it hasn’t yet.” A small twitch at the corner of your mouth belies the venom in your words. He notices and it makes him smile, too. “Did you want anything else, or are you just here to waste more of my time?”
He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. And then clears his throat, looking at his laptop. “Right, yeah, the article. Want me to forward you the doc? Or do you want physical copies?”
“Forward. If you bring me anything printed, I will shred them out of spite.”
“Got it. Forwarding now.”
~~~
The rest of your first day passes without much incident. A steady onslaught of articles and captions and grammar issues that need editing to keep you happily busy. You meet some other coworkers during your lunch break. You avoid some not-so-obvious staring from Clark Kent as you pass his desk on your way to make yourself another tea at the coffee station. You’re efficient, so you leave work on time, yet still before everyone else.
When you finally get home after hitting the gym, going on a solo sushi date, a walk in the local park, you notice something else had been placed on your door mat. A small paper gift bag, and another note. Not this again. Inside the bag is a tin of loose leaf chamomile and a stainless infuser. The note reads:
Noticed you drink tea instead of coffee at work. I got this as a gift last Christmas but don’t care much for tea… Maybe it’d get better use from you? —C
That evening, while reading the latest book of your favorite series and sipping a cup of chamomile with your cat, Ember, curled on your lap, you think to yourself that maybe this Clark Kent really isn’t that bad.
~~~
After a few weeks, you come to the conclusion that Clark Kent has three habits that particularly irked you.
First, he’s usually late. And some measure of disheveled. Which is really more of his problem than anyone else’s… but it becomes your problem when it means he was late submitting copy. Which means, in turn, you’re late to edit his work. And you hate turning things in late.
Second, though the copy he submits is typically brilliant, he often does not do any of his own editing. As in, run-on sentences, misplaced commas, even sometimes entire sections that are just basically op-eds. As though he had just word-vomited onto the page at the scene of the story and sent it without even doing a single pass himself. You frequently return his work with a myriad of emotionally detached edits and corrections… “Unclear.” “Redundant.” “Rewrite for basic logic.” “Cut. Adds nothing.” Sometimes just a question mark.
To his credit, Clark takes all your edits like a champ. He also doesn’t seem to mind the fact that you’re openly irked by his lack of first pass edits. In fact, he doesn’t seem to mind you in the slightest.
Which brings you to the third point. He tends to stare. At you. A lot. Usually without realizing it. And every time you catch it, you just glare back at him until he looks away, usually with a dimply little smile on his face.
Okay, maybe it isn’t a lot of staring. Maybe it’s only every once and a while. Like when you sit across the conference room from him. Or when you’re grabbing a tea refill at the coffee station.
Maybe you’ve only been aware of it because you’d been staring at him first.
But that’s beside the point.
On one sunny day, you’re eating lunch outside. You sometimes sat with Steve or Jimmy during your lunch breaks, but today, they were too busy bickering about who was going to cover a press conference with MPD this evening. So today, you buy your lunch from the little café attached to the building and sit by yourself outside in the courtyard, where you find a perfect little nook on a bench.
You’re turning the page in your book when a voice breaks your concentration. “I should have known you’d find my spot.”
Clark Kent. He smiles down at you, holding a couple of leftover containers. You squint up at him.
He moves in front of the sun, blocking it with his shadow for you. My hero, you think sarcastically.
“Your spot?” you intone.
He nods, his curls hanging loose on his forehead. “I like to sit in the sun during my breaks. It’s… healing.”
No wonder you never saw him at lunch with the others. Turns out, even Clark Kent liked being alone sometimes.
“People like you shouldn’t need the sun,” you joke, deadpan. “You’re... sunny enough as is.”
You’d meant it to be backhanded, but he says, “Why, thank you.”
“You don’t understand. It’s blinding.”
At that, he holds a finger up and gestures for you to wait. He withdraws a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. Before you can say anything, he places the sunglasses on your face.
“Better?” he asks.
A giggle emerges before you can stop it. You quickly mold your smile into a frown. “I’m not giving these back.”
“Keep ‘em. They look good on you.”
Warmth spreads to your cheeks. “Do you, uh, want to sit?” you offered, deflecting.
He nods, and you scoot over, giving him room on the bench. You go back to your own lunch but get distracted by the smell of maple syrup wafting from his meal.
“Did you bring… pancakes?” you ask him. You look over at his container. Yep, sure enough. Pancakes and eggs, with two links of sausage.
“I made too much for dinner last night.”
“Breakfast for dinner?”
“It’s so good.”
“That’s despicable.”
“It’s the best meal of the day. Why not have it for every meal?” he says around a bite. Then he holds a forkful out to you. “Want to try?”
You want to say no. But you take the bait. The pancake, albeit leftover, is divine. Clark watches your expression as you chew.
“You like it?”
“It’s… not bad.”
“It’s my ma’s recipe.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” With the smallest of smiles, you snatch his fork and steal another bite. He lets you.
“Well, what did you bring for lunch, then?” he asks you.
You gesture halfheartedly to your sad chicken caesar wrap. “I didn’t bring lunch.”
Clark eyes it woefully. “Do you… not cook?”
“No, I do.” You love cooking. “My stove is broken. And my oven.”
He tsks. “Ah. Yeah. Those standard issue appliances. I had to replace mine after I moved in, too.”
“I tried contacting our landlord, but…”
“I could try to fix them for you.”
You stare. Mostly in reverence at the mere offer. “I—no, that’s okay.”
“Let me at least try. I’m pretty handy.”
His eyes look so much like a puppy dog’s that you sigh and give in. “I’ll let you come over tonight to try,” you say, “but only if you submit your copy before three o’clock.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says dutifully.
“And you have to read through it on your own first. If I see another sentence splice, Kent, I swear to god…”
He nods placatingly. “You got it. I’ll come over after work sometime.”
~~~
After spending lunch together, you and Clark exchanged phone numbers. Just to coordinate a time for him to drop by to fix your kitchen appliances that evening. That’s all.
He’d arrived at 6pm. Your cat, Ember, took one look at the stranger in her house, hissed dutifully, and ran to a hiding spot. Clark had just laughed and compared her to you, and you weren’t even offended.
He'd looked around, complimented your place even though you had barely started unpacking all your boxes. You’d showed him your broken stove and oven. He’d taken one look at it, claimed, “I can fix that,” and got to work.
And that’s where he’s been the past half hour. Crouched behind your stove, his hands full of wires, his brows furrowed in concentration. And he’s cursing.
Well, not really cursing. More like muttering half-obscene nonsense under his breath as he attempts to reattach the wires, saying things like “what the hay” and “son of a gun.” And, on rare occasion, a “damn” would slip out.
Having him in your apartment is both disconcerting and soothing. You hadn’t had company over yet since you moved in, and you hardly expected your first guest would be the annoying next door neighbor. But here he is, fixing your appliances—not only for free, but seemingly just out of sheer kindness.
He’d given you full permission to go off and do your own thing while he worked. So you’d curled up on the couch with a book. A book you’ve now long forgotten about, opting instead to watch him struggle in the kitchen. It’s far more entertaining.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” you call out to him.
“Yes. Well, I watched a YouTube video.”
“Oh, great, yeah, that totally makes you qualified to do this.” Your curiosity gets the best of you. You close your book and pad over to your kitchen, peering at him and his work. “I won’t be upset if you give up, you know, Kent.” You certainly had given up on it yourself.
“I can fix it,” he says back, determined. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You resist the urge to push them back up for him.
“You better not electrocute yourself and die. I’ll have too much time on my hands at work without your grammar problems to fix all day.”
“My grammar isn’t that bad,” he waves you off.
“It’ll only get worse if you fry your brain trying to fix my stupid stove.”
“I’m not getting electrocuted. Trust me.”
He says it with such certainty that you halfway believe him. “Okay, but just so you know, I’m, like, five minutes away from ordering pizza delivery for dinner tonight instead of cooking.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
Eventually, he does fix the oven and stove. You don’t see it happen—you’d popped next door to his apartment to grab a toolbox he’d asked you for. You may have spent a few moments longer than necessary studying the inside of his apartment. It was… unexpected. The layout, the décor, the overall tidiness of it. More notably, the lack of a dog.
“Where’d your dog go?” you ask him when you return with the toolbox. Only to find that he no longer needed it. Seeing as he was currently using the stove to make a grilled cheese. “Oh damn.”
“I got it working,” he says in triumph. “I hope you don’t mind me using some of your ingredients.” He places buttered bread on one of your skillets, and it sizzles. So the stove is working.
“How did you…?” It was nowhere near in working order when you’d popped next door. Or maybe you’d been wrong.
He answers your previous question instead. “Oh, Krypto went back with my cousin. I was just fostering, remember?”
“You mean, dog sitting?”
“Wasn’t sure when she’d be getting back.”
Hmm. For someone so chatty all the time, he sure could be cryptic.
But it didn’t matter. All of your qualms and gripes and other misgivings about Clark Kent dissipate, even if momentarily, the moment you sink your teeth into the grilled cheese he made you. It’s melty, crispy, buttery, perfect. You want to tell him it’s the best grilled cheese you’ve ever had, but you’re not about to give him the satisfaction.
“What do you think?” he asks you, smiling to himself as he takes a bite.
“I’m thinking, maybe you’re good at at least one thing.”
He folds his arms across the top of your kitchen table. “I’m good at plenty of things.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
It’s how you two banter now. Easy, familiar. You two still barely know each other, but he knows you well enough now to understand that the small smirk that tugs on your mouth means you’re kidding. And he always smiles back, unabashed, unguarded. Like he actually enjoys your sharp edges. He seems unbothered by your sense of humor, and you like that about him.
“Hey, Kent.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for the sandwich. And for the stove and oven. I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me a thing, sunshine.”
Interesting nickname. Your cat chooses that moment to emerge from her hiding spot. She graces Clark with a single look of pure disdain before jumping onto your lap and curling up contentedly.
He looks at the both of you. “You know, I’m glad we met,” he says matter-of-factly, out of the blue.
You glance up at him across the table. The warmth in his expression catches you off guard. It’s disarming, in a sincere, boyish kind of way.
“I’m not opposed to you either, I guess,” you mutter.
“Wow, high praise.”
“You’ll survive.”
~~~
Things change between the two of you after that day. Not in big ways, but subtly, incrementally.
Like when one day, you catch him leaving his apartment at the exact same time you do, and you poke fun at him for finally leaving on time for work. And so you both head downstairs together, take the bus together, walk in to work together. And the next day, he does it again. And eventually, he starts leaving work around the same time as you, too.
You pretend to be annoyed by it. But then one morning, he’s running a few minutes behind, and you wait for him—even though it means you’ll be late yourself. When he finally emerges from his front door and spots you waiting for him by the elevator, he grins, pushes back his mop of freshly showered hair, and says, “I knew you liked leaving for work together.”
To which you respond, “Hurry up, or you’re going to make me regret waiting.”
He starts leaving you notes at work. Like cheeky comments on docs he submits for you to edit that say things like, “Go easy on me, sunshine,” or, “I know you’re going to tell me to delete this part, but I like it a lot, so can we leave it in pretty please?”
You roll your eyes at them every time, but you secretly look forward to reading them whenever he submits copy.
One day, you catch his eye and notice he’d been staring at you from his desk across the newsroom. He quickly averts his gaze, then sheepishly looks back up. Glances away again.
You confront him during a mutual coffee/tea break. “You better stop staring at me like that,” you say as you stir your mug.
“Me? I wasn’t staring. I don’t stare.”
“You were. And you do.”
“Nah, I wasn’t staring. I just looked a couple of times.”
Even as he talks, he looks right at you. His sparkling eyes are irresistibly charming. Your skin grows hot wherever he glances, as if bathed by warm sunlight.
“Stop it. It’s distracting.”
“So you’re distracted by me?” he jeers. “Which part is the most distracting? Is it how handsome I am, or is it my charm?”
“More like complete lack of subtlety. And humility. And because your tie is uneven.”
“How observant of you,” he smirks.
“You’re insufferable.”
“You know, it’s fine by me if you don’t like me.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t.”
He sips his coffee and raises an eyebrow playfully. He knows your dry humor at his point. “Right, well, I was hoping you at least didn’t hate me.”
You don’t respond. You just tug his tie straight before walking off.
~~~
As the summer turns into fall and you continue to get more and more settled into life in Metropolis, the two of you start texting each other more frequently. It starts out as average neighborly texts…
You: the mailman put something in my box addressed to you again
You: i put it on your doormat
Clark: Thanks! :)
Or...
Clark: Heyyy I know it’s late but do you have like a half cup of milk I could steal?
You: sure
You: why
Clark: I poured cereal but I only had like a few drops of milk :(
You: why are you eating cereal at midnight
Clark: I was craving it
Clark: What’s a guy gotta do to eat cereal for dinner in peace around here? 🤣
You: your obsession with breakfast food never fails to baffle me
Clark: If you knew what was good, you’d never question my meal choices again 🤔
You: i have milk but youll have to be ok with it being oatmilk
Clark: …Okay never mind… I’ll just starve…
You: ????
Clark: You can keep your imposter milk but thanks anyway
You: dont be such a baby
Clark: I’d rather eat cereal with water
You: ok now thats just a crime
You: hold on im coming over with leftover lasagna for u
Clark: 😍
And sometimes, you and Clark would text each other during work, like during conference meetings...
You: Perry looks so pissed off rn
Clark: Haha he does… he just gave Jimmy a death stare just for breathing
You: no bc olsen did do that weird nose whistle thing again
Clark: That nose whistle haunts me…
You: i’m gonna record it next time and use it as my text tone for you
Clark: You’re sick
You: 😈
You: do you see how much perry’s sweating?!
Clark: It’s all the anger and rage. It’s gotta come out somehow.
You: i’m scared he’s gonna throw the clicker across the room like a grenade
You glance up at Clark across the room, and he meets your gaze. He mimics a small explosion with his hands and mouths, “Boom.” And that sets the both of you off in a burst of half-suppressed giggling in the middle of the meeting, that Clark tries to write off as coughing as you hide your smile behind your mug of tea.
~~~
On some days, things aren’t quite so lighthearted. Like on particularly busy days, or when the news is not so good. On days like those, you’re usually hunched over at your desk, headphones on, dark to the world for eight hours until you finally emerge from your own little pocket universe of copy editing, exhausted and drained.
And Clark usually looks particularly beat on those types of days. More beat than any of the other reporters. Sometimes, he shows up extra late, or doesn’t even show up to the office at all. As curious as you are about his whereabouts, you don’t pry.
You begin to learn that Clark, as it turns out, is not always sunshine and rainbows, like you’d thought.
It’s a breezy early fall evening when the two of you leave work together one day. Clark had been acting strangely sullen all day, even short-tempered. You’d seen him snap at the other reporters more than once. The copy he’d submitted was strangely terse, near to perfection in its grammar and syntax, almost too matter-of-fact. And he’d barely spoken to you at all, even on your mutual commute home.
“Alright,” you level with him on the bus. “What’s your problem, Kent?”
“What? Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“You don’t get to be the one acting like this. That’s my job. I take it very seriously.”
He barely cracks a smile but continues to stare gloomily out the bus window at the falling leaves. That’s when you know something serious is up with him.
You aren’t sure what to do, what to say. You’re no good at things like this. You sit in silence beside him for a while. Then you opt for a casual lean, letting your shoulder press against his. Which feels kind of awkward at first, but you’re getting the strange urge to break the touch barrier between you and him.
It works. After a moment of leaning, he sighs, relaxes, leans in closer to you, still staring out the window. His shoulder is big and solid against your own.
He finally speaks: “Do you ever feel like you’re the only one who cares about something that really matters?”
“I—” you stammer, considering. “Maybe?”
“Like…” He ponders his words. The crease between his dark brows becomes more prominent. “Like yesterday, when there were lives at stake at the harbor, but all Perry wanted to push out for today’s news were stories about the fire being staged, or the political motives behind the rescue, and all the think pieces on who was to gain financially from it.” His fists clench in his lap. “It makes me so angry.”
Clark Kent, angry? Your mind reels, about multiple factors to his words. “You’re talking about Superman saving those people from the burning building at the harbor yesterday?”
He nodded curtly, his fists still in tight balls. You frown at them, wondering why he might be so upset about what had happened in the news with the mysterious humanoid alien superhero who often saved the city from various supernatural plights.
“You’re right,” you agree simply. “It was shitty of Perry to even consider publishing that trash.” Taking a leap of faith, you place your hand atop one of his fists. Feel it soften somewhat beneath your palm. It’s the first time you’ve ever felt his hand, and it’s warm, big, slightly calloused.
“You… agree with me?”
You nod. “Usually I don’t, on principle, but this time, yeah." He cracks a small smile at that, which you mirror. "I think The Planet’s way out of line for publishing anything speculative. Half of the shit I edited today was based on mere, unfounded, opinion, not facts. I’ve never returned so many docs with so many edits.”
Slowly, but surely, like watching water begin to boil, Clark’s demeanor begins to change. “They don’t call you ‘The Guillotine’ for nothing, do they?” he remarks, breaking into a small, toothy smile that has your heart skipping.
Then you realize what he’d said. “They call me the what?”
Clark laughs and you nearly laugh too. He and you start going over what everyone’s nicknames for each other are at the paper. And by the end of your commute home, by some means, you and Clark had started to hold hands.
~~~
One Saturday night, you’re slipping on your pajamas when you get a text:
Clark: WYD tonight?! It’s a full moon
You’d just returned from a little night on the town with some new girlfriends you’d made. Some from work, like Lois Lane and Lane Cat Grant, and some new friends you’d met mutually. You hadn’t expected to have as much fun as you had, but you’re pretty tired now. And still tipsy.
Not too tired to be curious about Clark, though. You wonder why the moon phase matters.
You: abt to go to bed
You: are you abt to turn into a werewolf or something
He replies relatively quickly:
Clark: Nah, I mean, at least I don’t think so. Not as far as I’m aware, LOL
Clark: Come up to the roof before you sleep! You won’t regret it 😇
So you do. The fastest way to access the roof from your apartment is by means of the fire escape, a rickety, rusty contraption built on the outside of your balcony. You brave the danger and emerge onto the roof.
Sure enough, the night sky is blanketed in blue light from a full, yellow moon. Basking in the muted light on the edge of the roof is Clark. He looks ethereal, freshly shaven, wearing sweats and a hoodie, his eyes twinkling as he spots you. You think to yourself he’s never looked better.
You join him at the roof’s edge. He smiles as you approach, that cute, awkward, toothy, dimply smile.
“Thanks for joining me, sunshine,” he says.
You nod, folding your arms. He;s been calling you that goofy nickname for a while, now. You don’t hate it. “Mhmm. You’re lucky I even responded.”
“Busy, were you?”
“Earlier I was. You know Cat and Lois from work?” When he nods, you say, “We went out barhopping.”
Clark reared. “You went out with Cat and Lois?”
“Yeah. We’re friends. Don’t act so surprised I have friends, Kent.”
“Yeah, but no offense, but you three are like polar opposites.”
You snort. “If there's three of us, we can't be polar opposites. That's not how magnetic poles work."
"Oh my gosh, and you call me a dork?" he laughs with you, rustling your hair. "Well... was it fun?"
"It was."
"I didn't take you for a going-out type of girl."
"Why? And what's wrong with that?" You mock-glare at him.
He puts his hands up, mock-defensively. "I just mean. You should invite me next time. Sounds like fun."
You can't imagine Clark Kent going out dancing. Or maybe, yes, you could. "Your male energy would ruin my vibe."
He shrugs. "Fair enough. Speaking of your vibe,” he says, reaching behind him to pull out two travel mugs. “Hot cocoas.”
“My vibe is hot cocoa?”
“No, your vibe is probably more, like, a glass of dry red wine with a side of disdain. But all I had was hot cocoa.”
A smile tugs at your lips as you graciously accept. “Thanks, Kent.”
You don’t expect it, but you end up spending hours up there on the roof with Clark that night. Talking about everything under the sun—or, rather, the moon. The books you’re reading, the movies he likes. Your family, his family. Your career, his career. It’s the most open you’ve ever found yourself with him. And it’s the most open he’s ever been with you.
Clark is in the middle of telling you about Kansas corn—a topic that you would have expected to be boring (and did in fact joke about this to him) but is turning out to be rather intriguing—when a flash in the sky catches your eye.
“A shooting star!” you explain, grasping for his hand. You both watch the meteor trail across the sky before it explodes in an array of fiery colors. “Wow.”
Clark stares at you. “That might be the most excited I’ve ever seen you get.”
“I get excited,” you defend yourself.
“Never like that, though.” He grins. “It suits you.”
You both become aware at the same time that he’s still holding your hand. Or maybe it’s that you’re still holding his. In any case, your hand is grasped in his, and you aren’t pulling away. He’s still smiling at you. If it were anyone else, you would have already pulled away. But you're frozen.
“Dance with me, sunshine,” Clark says. It catches you off-guard, which is the only reason why you let him pull you by the hands into the middle of the rooftop area.
Your scowl, though originating more out of alarm and discomfort than out of dislike, does not deter him. He plants one of your hands on his shoulder, places one of his own on your lower back, and begins to rock back and forth.
“This is ridiculous,” you say.
“This is so fun,” he counters.
“It’s so cheesy.”
“So what?” He looks up at the moon. “So is the moon. The Big Cheese and all. Embrace it, sunshine.”
“There’s not even any music.”
You regret saying it instantly when he begins humming a horribly out-of-tune rendition of Harvest Moon. You groan and give him shit for it. He loves it. You love it too.
“I’m no good at this,” you tell him after a while, when the dancing becomes less goofy and more serious, when the giggles dissipate into intimate silence, when he begins to draw your body incrementally closer to his.
“You’re just fine at it,” he says, leading you into a twirl that makes you full-on smile. But the smile fades again as you look into his eyes.
“I don’t mean the dancing,” you say, in almost a whisper. “I mean… I just mean…”
He doesn’t prod you to answer, just squeezes your hand, waits patiently. You sigh and try again.
“You’re just really good, Clark.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a good person, and—and I know I’m not a bad person, I just—you and me, we’re so different. You always see the good in people, and in life, and… it’s just a lot harder for me.”
He peers down at you, his expression unbelievably soft. And he brushes a strand of hair from your face. “I think you’re good, too. And lovely. I don’t think you see yourself the way I see you.”
You can feel yourself tense up. “You have a goodness to you that I don’t have, Clark.”
“Okay, well, what if I don’t want to be good?” he responds with a wry smirk. There’s a hidden meaning, a roguish suggestion in his words that makes your stomach flip in a good way.
You smirk back and gently shove his shoulder. “You couldn’t stop it if you tried.” You sigh. “I just… I don’t know how to do this with someone like you.”
“What do you mean?” he asks softly.
“I just… ruin things. Or I freeze. Or I leave.”
He ponders this. “Those aren’t such bad things.”
“What?!” Those are three pretty bad things.
“I’m pretty patient,” he boasts. “I’ll happily wait for you until you un-freeze. And if you run away, I’m pretty fast, so I’ll just chase you.”
You smile, shaking your head. “This isn’t me joking, Kent.”
Clark steps closer, so close that you can smell his woodsy, soapy scent, can feel the warmth radiating from his chest. “I’m not joking either, sunshine,” he murmurs.
You can’t help but grab his shirt, then, and lean up into him, pressing your lips to his.
Just a peck.
Then you step away, gauging his reaction.
He blinks in surprise, his handsome mouth fallen open, and then something possesses him and he kisses you back, harder. He glides his hands from your shoulders to your back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss. His mouth is warmth and softness and hardness all combined.
You can feel him smile through the kiss, and you pull away, your heart swelling at the sight of his dimples, the crinkles of his eyes. His blue eyes are exceedingly bright in the moonlight. You wonder if your own eyes are as bright as his.
Breathless, he says, “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day you yelled at me about the tennis ball.”
“This is a bad idea,” you say, but your shaky breath and exhilarated smile bely this attempt at indifference.
Clark kisses you again, kisses both corners of your mouth. “Probably. But you’re the one who kissed me first.”
“You’re going to be even more annoying now,” you comment as his lips trail down your cheek to the edge of your jaw.
You can hear the sound of contentment he makes as he smiles into your neck, breathes you in. “Definitely.”
As he kisses that place just under your ear, a single chill runs down your spine, curling your toes in the best way. Clark brings his hands up your back and to either side of your face. He beams at you, his own personal sun, while he caresses your cheeks with both his thumbs. Smoothing away all your sharp edges with his warm hands.
˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧˖ ⟡˚.⋆✧
click for chapter 2 (will be coming out on Saturday, August 9th at 1PM PST!)
A/N: Helloooo! Eeee I'm kicking my feet and giggling! I really hope you like this fic!! I will be publishing each chapter on saturdays! So chapter 2 (smuttyyyyy!) will be published next Saturday, August 9th at 1pm PST -- get hypeeeeed!!!!!
Please note that I write fanfiction for free; my only request for repayment is a genuine expression of your thoughts, opinions, likes/dislikes, and predictions about the story. Whether it’s simply a “Wow, I loved it!”, a keyboard smash, a series of convoluted thoughts in the tags, or even a full-out review, please know that any and all feedback is welcome!
Much love ❤︎ from Juniper
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˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs four I one I two I three II gif credit - @/olympain
here are some clark kent stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡
ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I HC- hurt/comfort I ~S- implied smut
ꨄ︎ deadlines & (super) secrets I @spideystevie I F
clark’s repeatedly absent at work and you’re too inquisitive for your own good or three times you were suspicious of clark kent and the one time you got it right
ꨄ︎ one minute left to live I @bodhiscurls I A
the world is ending and superman has done all he can, but there's one thing left for clark kent to do and that's to stay by your side as the earth burns itself whole.
ꨄ︎ you didn’t kiss me goodbye I @/bodhiscurls I A + F
after an arguement with your boyfriend, clark kent does the unthinkable. he doesn't come home, doesn't kiss you goodbye and doesn't return until its midnight and you've fallen asleep on your sofa. good job, clark still has the goodnight kiss to redeem himself.
ꨄ︎ now that we don’t talk I @/bodhiscurls I A
clark kent has to prove himself that he's loyal, that despite his consistent wandering absences and emergency leave, he can be trusted to be chief editor at the daily planet. and that means having to ask the one person in the world who hates him more than anything to play pretend as his date (his wife) at the next gala. to show the world clark kent is loyal, the picture of stability and did not ruin his only serious relationship he's ever had.
ꨄ︎ eight legs too many I @iamgonnagetyouback I F
you panic over a bug and knock on your neighbor’s door for help. good thing your neighbor is clark kent. and he's stupidly hot.
ꨄ︎ foolish hearts I @tw1sters I HC
Loving Clark Kent is easy, but he seems to find letting you go even easier. At least, until Clark is forced to fully reckon with what it means to really lose you.
ꨄ︎ teacher!clark - single!mom hc I @plumisa I F
ꨄ︎ the version of you i’ll never know I @zziggerang I HC
You knew Clark had a past. Everyone does. But sometimes, in the quiet of your shared bed, the ghost of a woman you’ve never met lingers in your thoughts, Lois. You’re not jealous of her now. You’re jealous of the version of Clark she got to love before you. The one unscarred by loss. As your quiet insecurities rise to the surface, Clark holds you through your fears… while quietly wrestling with his own.
ꨄ︎ hanging up without saying ‘i love you’ prank I @/zziggerang I F
You decide to prank Clark by hanging up on him without saying “I love you.” It’s just a harmless TikTok trend, right?
ꨄ︎ reporter gets interviewed I @08luvmailz I F
ꨄ︎ drabble I @marvelimaginesyesplease I F + ~S
ꨄ︎ must be a secret admirer I @francixoxoxo I F
Clark is even worse at hiding your workplace relationship than he was at hiding his massive crush on you. A recounting of three times where Clark nearly gives the two of you away, just because his loverboy self can’t help it.
ꨄ︎ don’t be late I @katsu28 I F + A
if one thing is true about clark kent, it’s that he likes his coffee. he also likes the barista who makes it for him, but you don’t know that. all you know is that you like the really cute guy who comes in at the same time every morning and orders the same thing.
ꨄ︎ just a scratch I @octraiin I F
Your boyfriend shows up at your window late at night injured.
ꨄ︎ outfield I @familyvideostevie I F
You and Clark go to a baseball game.
ꨄ︎ megaphone to my chest pt2 I @alwritey-aphrodite I C
ꨄ︎ melt with you I @moonlight-prose I F + S
clark kent was a man of many talents. being the chef - the man who could whip up enough food to keep you sated and full for till the sun crested over the horizon and peeked through his windows - was one of them. but you were...a mess in the kitchen. so he decides to help.
ꨄ︎ dripping like honey I @/moonlight-prose I S
clark kent absolutely gets drunk eat pussy.
ꨄ︎ ice cream I @sunflowersteves I F + S
It was a particuarly hot day in Metropolis, why not treat yourself to some ice cream?
ꨄ︎ beach day confessions and first kisses I @fleurbly I F
ꨄ︎ clark kent thinks you’re avoiding him…you are I @raven-dor I A + F
ꨄ︎ state of grace I @auroralwriting I F
when another metahuman decides to relocate to metropolis, how is it that clark always gets swept up in situations like these? aka, how does clark kent end up falling head over heels for the invisible woman?
ꨄ︎ mastermind I @/auroralwriting I F
as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup
ꨄ︎ terminally ill!reader I @vaamppiraa I A
ꨄ︎ you light up the skies above me ao3 I @cremedelabrulee I F
You felt like a floosy, making heart eyes at Clark when he wasn't paying attention and sighing over Superman in your private moments. In an effort to feel not as awful, you would say to yourself that Supernova was the one who liked Superman. But you? You liked Clark.
ꨄ︎ cause i’m a punk rocker I @bippiti I F + A + S
you moved to smallville because you had to save your family's farm. it was a place you never wanted to stay at but also couldn't escape. then you met him: quiet, steady, and the one person who saw through your walls. slowly, without warning he became the part of you you didn't even know you were missing
ꨄ︎ the necklace I @404superman I S
You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his ‘superman’ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while he’s fucking you.
ꨄ︎ same old love I @supermanthisho I A + C
Clark’s meeting your parents for the first time and yet you’re the one on the verge of panic. Aka, reader has a strained relationship with her family and doesn’t want Clark to see how she fits into the dynamic.
ꨄ︎ shattered vows pt2 I @k-a-n65 I A
When Lex Luthor traps Superman in a kryptonite-laced prison, he exploits a hidden connection—an ordinary woman who once helped him to his feet. She becomes the perfect bait. But when she falls, everything Clark Kent thought he could endure shatters.
ꨄ︎ fangirl!reader I @dollfacefantasy I F
ꨄ︎ they call it puppy love pt2 I @vitoriadior I F
you used to have a dog with Lex. Now Lex uses "joint custody" of the dog as an excuse to stay in your life. When you start dating Clark, Lex holds the dog hostage. Luckily for you, Superman is always there for you.
ꨄ︎ out of harms way I @maikorian I A + F
there's no such thing as a 'normal' day in metropolis. monster attacks happen at least once a week and barely anyone is phased anymore. everyone's golden rule is that if something bad has already happened earlier in the day, then you would be safe for the rest of the day. unfortunately, this rule fails you when you decide to bring your daughter to the park and get caught up in a monster attack. its a good thing your husband just so happens to be superman and has a sharp ear.
ꨄ︎ superdaddy I @goldsainz I F
your five year old daughter does not understand why clark owns a superman suit in his closet.
ꨄ︎ kissing booth I @mcumorningstar I F
In an attempt to get closer to his crush, Clark offers to help with the school carnival… until he is assigned the kissing booth.
ꨄ︎ what happens in vegas, doesn’t stay in vegas…? I @14thgalerie I F + A
ꨄ︎ blind boxes and xray visions I @/14thgalerie I F
ꨄ︎ lovestruck and looking out the window pt2 I @tangledinlove I A + F
you see your friend clark without his glasses for the first time. he looks… oddly familiar
ꨄ︎ smallville nights I @springtyme I C
After the explosion, Clark brings you and your daughter back to his parent's farm to catch your breath. The house is quiet now, but inside, fear and guilt still echo louder than any blast.
ꨄ︎ the truth in blue I @happy74827 I F
Through a temporary life-threatening situation, you realize the quiet, awkward man you've honestly fallen for has been catching you in more ways than one
ꨄ︎ understandably so I @eulogiez I A + F
clark kent is overwhelmed by his affection for you, and your relentless lack of will to see it. a gift mishap in the planet office gives you the false pretense that clark’s just not that into you, leading to a dramatic turn of events between you two.
ꨄ︎ bimbo!reader I @missmookie I F + ~S
ꨄ︎ heartbeat I @athenalvss I A + F
Your greatest wish with Clark was to start a family, but life wasn't on your side. 
ꨄ︎ save the cat, get the girl I @oldesigns I F
when your cat went missing, there was a man willing to search for your fur baby to the ends of the earth to make you happy.
ꨄ︎ little white lie I @munsster I F
You think of the perfect excuse to get the attention of Metropolis’ finest firefighter.
ꨄ︎ camgirl!reader I @nympheagain I S
In which Clark Kent has a dirty secret. And it just so happens to be you.
ꨄ︎ different kind of kiss I @luveline I S
You realise nobody’s ever gone down on Clark before and aim to change that.
ꨄ︎ two places at once I @cherrysinner I F
clark has to figure out a way to be at two places at once when half of metropolis is having an emergency on the night he's going to tell you his biggest secret. and also that he's superman.
ꨄ︎ just a taste I @certifiedskywalker I F
Clark has developed a habit of bringing you one of your favorite drinks when you’re working late at night at The Daily Planet. It’s a sweet gesture, but, considering that you’re falling in love with him, it’s also a torturous. Luckily, fate intervenes through the whims of a horny barista.
ꨄ︎ what he comes home to I @mattsmadness I F
When Clark Kent invites his coworkers over for supper, all he wants is for them to love his sweet, small-town wife; he just hopes they overlook the Superman decor she forgot to take down.
ꨄ︎ love, all night long I @barnesonfilm I S
clark makes pulling an all-nighter at the office worth it
Hey guys, these are just some Clark Kent/Superman fics I really enjoyed and wanted to share with all of you, if you love the character as much as I do, hopefully you’ll find something here to add to your reading list!!! xxx
mastermind by @auroralwriting
guilt of the quiet one by @sillyswriting
the less i know the better by @writingmeraki
everyone adores you (at least i do) by @rosesaints
you are in love by @auroralwriting
till i lose it by @fawnindawn
love, meteors, and clark kent's accidental flight by @stevebabey
immune by @ggclarissa
foolish hearts by @tw1sters
mysteries of our disguise revolve by @supershithits
you didn't kiss me goodbye. by @bodhiscurls
super-headaches at the daily planet by @luveline
chewing gum by @indouloureux
to whom it may concern by @cursedheartsclub
'til our fingers decompose, keep my hand in yours by @alwritey-aphrodite
the other man by @honeypiehotchner
the one with the ring by @ifyouweremine
kryptonite kisses by @a-romantics-guide-to-life
it's so hard being a pretty gal by @vitoriadior
free fall by @starksweasley
i like when you're jealous by @toxicflowergirl
not the usual by @amorwrld
told you so by @hearts4hughes
kiss me by @sunshine-lux
Please show these amazing writers some love! These are just the ones I’ve read recently, but I’m sure there are plenty more well-written fics out there, so don’t be shy, send them my way! xxx
series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?
warnings/tags: use of yn, fluff right now.. serious tension
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part 1 - 2k words
part 2 - 5k words
part 3 - 3k words
part 4 - 2k words
part 5 - 3k words
part 6 - coming soon!
part 7 - coming soon!
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a/n: it's finally here! pls pls comment any suggestions you have for where the story should go and dms are open if you'd like the proofread or see the next part early 👀 thank u lovelies for letting me b creative (and take my sweet time writing lol)
synopsis : Your life was unraveling, little by little. Bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. Nothing made it easier, especially when one of Metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.
cw : smut, angst, slight enemies to lovers, slight morally grey reader, depressed and suicidal thoughts, implied voyeurism from superhearing, unprotected p in v, mentions of torture, mentions of human trafficking.
luthor and chubby reader. (david!clark kent)
words : 22.7k
ㅤㅤ ㅤ masterlist ⋆ ao3
Boredom.
That’s what you felt every time you set foot in LuthorCorp. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, it paid well, but it left you utterly uninspired. The work was mind-numbingly dull. You were in charge of your brother’s legal team, yet he never let you be an actual lawyer.
Lex trusted you just enough to manage his public image, filing lawsuits against anyone who dared tarnish the pristine version of himself he insisted on maintaining. The number of cease-and-desist letters you sent to the Daily Planet was absurd. Especially to two particular reporters : Lois Lane and Clark Kent.
But beyond that? You were on the outside looking in. Lex kept you out of the real business. He didn’t let you in. Not really. He didn’t trust you, not with everything.
You had never set foot in his big office, the one with the sweeping view of the city. You had no idea what went on up there. Whatever it was, it was a secret he shared with his latest girlfriend, but not with his own sister.
Shaking your head, you stepped forward in the line at the coffee shop on the main floor. Nothing much had happened at LuthorCorp lately. Nothing thrilling, nothing exciting. Just the same routine, day after day.
Eve breezed past behind you, shouting your name in that high-pitched voice of hers and waving like it was a reunion after years apart. You rolled your eyes slightly and gave a lazy wave in return. You liked Eve, she was sweet. A little dim, maybe, but a breath of fresh air compared to your brother’s cynical, brooding behavior.
Once you were seated in your office, you opened your inbox and were immediately greeted by a flood of emails, dozens of them. Most were about the latest failed experiment at Lex’s military base. There was a list of names : people who’d been fired, others who had quit, and new hires who still needed their NDA signed.
Just more messes for you to clean up. More people to bribe. More lies to hold together with duct tape and NDAs.
It was all starting to feel like too much. But the paycheck? More than generous. Your brother might not trust you, but he made damn sure you’d never want for anything, at least not financially.
By the time lunch rolled around, your head was already pounding.
You had a rare hour alone. The entire legal team was on their lunch break, including your assistant. You didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it this way.
You’d gone down early to grab your food, so you had the luxury of eating at your desk, half-working as you chewed through both your lunch and another batch of legal threats. The further you were from your colleagues, the better.
You were halfway through drafting yet another cease-and-desist when your phone rang.
You let it ring a few seconds before remembering : no one was going to answer it for you today. Sighing, you wiped your hands on a napkin and picked up the receiver.
“LuthorCorp, Head of Legal,” you said mechanically, not bothering to check the number calling.
“Miss Luthor.” A deep voice resonated on the other end of the line.
You groaned. You were not in the mood for this.
“Mr. Kent,” you sighed, drawing it out with deliberate irritation. His amused chuckle came through loud and clear. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
He chuckled again. “Still charming as ever.”
Slumping back into your chair, you hit the speaker button and let the handset drop onto your polished mahogany desk with a soft clunk. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhaled slowly. You were really not in the mood for the Daily Planet circus today.
Still, if you had to deal with one of them, you supposed it was lucky it was Clark Kent and not Lois Lane. At least he had the decency not to shout.
“Make it quick,” you snapped, irritation curling in your voice. “I’m on my lunch break.”
“Believe me,” Clark said smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your overpriced salad unless I had a reason.”
You rolled your eyes. “If this is about that cease-and-desist from last week, I'll let you call back to get in touch with LuthorCorp lawyers, as I don't deal with those.”
“Not this time,” he replied. “It’s about the recent firings at the LuthorCorp research division, the ones connected to Project Tonite.”
Your fingers froze just above your keyboard. How did he know about this? This happened in the last two days.
“Never heard of it,” you said coolly.
Clark gave a small, skeptical laugh. “Come on, Miss Luthor. Three scientists let go in twenty-four hours, all under suspiciously vague NDA conditions? One of them told me, off the record, that they weren’t even allowed to collect their personal items. That usually happens when someone’s trying to bury something.”
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk. “And let me guess, you want to dig it up?”
“That’s kind of my job.” You could hear the smirk.
“I know you’re good at your job, Mr. Kent,” you said coolly, already clicking through the internal database. “But let me assure you, I’m very good at mine.”
Your tone didn’t waver as you scanned the list of recently terminated staff, searching for any names connected to the classified project.
“Also,” you added, eyes narrowing as you located the relevant files, “thank you for informing me that some of our former employees have been violating the contracts they signed. That’s… helpful.”
You found the three names instantly. With practiced efficiency, you forwarded their files to your best in-house counsel, including a brief note : One of them talked to the press. Find out who, and get the paperwork ready.
The goal was simple. Identify the leak. Then sue them into silence.
There was a pause on the line. Clark’s voice came back, just a little more pointed this time. “So that’s it? One of them speaks out, and your first move is to sue them into the ground?”
You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you stared at the phone like it had personally insulted you.
“My first move,” you said evenly, “is to protect my company’s legal interests. What they signed was very clear, Mr. Kent. Confidentiality. Non-disclosure. No public commentary. If they broke that, they don’t just get a slap on the wrist, they get consequences.”
“You don’t even know which of them talked.” Clark deadpanned on the other side of the phone. He must of known it was a stupid thing to say.
Scoffing, you grabbed a bit of your meal, answering with a mouthful. "We'll find out."
You heard him sigh, and you knew that sound, he was about to launch into another one of his noble little speeches. You cut him off before he had the chance.
“Listen, Mr. Kent,” you said flatly. “Whatever they told you is irrelevant, and illegal. You want to use it? Go ahead. But you and I both know how this ends. Same circus, different headline. Every time the Planet comes sniffing around our business, it’s the same tired routine.”
You leaned forward, voice like ice.
“Let’s just skip to the part where your editors get a not so polite letter from my office. Save us both the effort, and your lawyers the headache.”
Clark didn’t back down. Of course not.
“I have reason to believe LuthorCorp is moving forward with something dangerous. If you're hiding—”
“If,” you snapped, cutting him off again, “LuthorCorp is hiding something dangerous, then it’s buried for a reason.”
You paused, letting the weight of your words settle.
“And unless you’ve got something more substantial than your hero complex and secondhand paranoia, I suggest you stop fishing before you fall into waters you can’t swim in.”
There was a long silence. You didn't fill it. Let him sit in it.
You were just about to hang up when Clark spoke again, quiet, but deliberate. "I know about the Superman Project."
Your fingers froze above the keyboard. How could he know? There was no possible way he actually did.
You weren’t even supposed to know.
You had been tired of your brother keeping things from you. Of being left in the dark while he handed off his most secretive, most dangerous operations to a hidden legal team that answered only to him. Meanwhile, you were left dealing with the fallout. The lawsuits, the corporate scandals, the media fires. Always cleaning up after his messes, never trusted with the truth.
So, you had started digging.
It hadn’t been easy. Lex had buried the trail deep, tucked behind fake departments, encrypted files, and names scrubbed from every system. But you were a Luthor. And when a Luthor wants the truth, they find it, no matter how deep it was buried.
What you uncovered was worse than you imagined.
Project Superman was, in a way, connected to Project Tonite. The latter was part of Lex’s broader plan to enter politics by offering authorities a method to control, and, if necessary, eliminate, metahumans. Lex was obsessively working to recreate Kryptonite, aiming to engineer it into a universal weakness for anyone with meta-genes. Though deeply unethical, the project could be easily justified under the guise of public safety, a means to protect civilians and prevent the fear of becoming targets in a world increasingly influenced by alien forces.
It was your job to handle Project Tonite. Unethical, certainly, but not lethal.
Project Superman, as you later discovered, was something far darker. It was Lex’s attempt to create his own metahumans, an army of loyal enforcers to protect him and his interests. He was experimenting on people in a hidden lab in Boravia. Officially, they were “volunteers.” In truth, they were either brainwashed soldiers, convinced they were dying for their country, or desperate civilians lured by promises of money.
This was harder to bury. No amount of spin could justify it. No one would stand for such atrocities, not even you. You'd seen how they handled those who tried to speak out. Death would have been a mercy.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, slightly knowing the phone was tapped. “Now, if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my lunch, Mr. Kent.”
You hung up, your hand lingering on the phone just a moment too long. You weren’t ready, not for the fallout that would come once your brother realized you knew about his most secret, most dangerous project.
Hanging up was the only way to delay that reckoning.
For the rest of the day, you were on edge every time someone knocked on your door. Each phone call made you flinch slightly, every email felt like it could be a threat in disguise. But nothing came. It was as if Clark Kent hadn’t told anyone he called your office, like he had made sure to reach you when you were alone.
Normally, when reporters tried to contact you and couldn’t get through, they’d go after someone else on the legal team. That would always end the same way : Lex finding out. And then he’d storm into your office, acting as if you had invited the scrutiny, as if your actions had put the corporation at risk.
Yet, as you locked the door of your flat, you finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Kent's call. You turned down the alarm, slid every bolt into place, and only then started peeling off your shoes and vest. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized just how tightly wound you’d been all day.
You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. You still couldn’t understand how the hell a Daily Planet reporter knew about Project Superman. It made no sense. Everyone who had been terminated from the project had also been… terminated from life itself. Either dead, or locked away in whatever deranged side project your brother had been developing on that goddamn beach of his.
You didn’t know which fate was worse. And you weren’t interested in finding out.
Slumping onto the couch, you stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. Why hadn’t it been front-page news the moment Clark Kent found out? Why the quiet call? Why the restraint? You sat up. Maybe he didn’t know much. Maybe the call was a bluff, an attempt to catch you off guard, to shake you just enough that you’d slip. That had to be it.
Scoffing, you shook your head at your own stupidity. He’d played you. And you’d almost walked right into it like a debutante at her first scandal.
You were about to get up when your phone buzzed.
Unknown number
"Hello," you answered, hesitant.
“Miss Luthor,” came Clark Kent’s voice, calm, low, unmistakably his.
You let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back onto the couch. It was late. The day had already been a disaster, and this felt like the final insult.
“How the fuck did you get this number?” you snapped, not bothering to be polite.
A soft laugh came through the speaker, calm, maddening. It only fuelled your irritation. It was almost like he didn’t realize the weight his words carried, or worse, he did and simply didn’t care.
You knew your personal phone was clean. You checked it weekly. Lex had tapped your work line, of course, listened to every conversation, tracked every call. You let him believe you didn’t know. Occasionally, you even used it to call friends just to maintain the illusion.
“You told me yourself,” Clark said, voice smooth and infuriatingly gentle. “I’m very good at my job.”
You frowned, confused by his tone, the softness, the restraint. He sounded patient. Not like a man cornering someone with a bombshell. Not like someone planning to go public.
Why wasn’t he pressing harder? What the hell did he want?
“Tell Jimmy he’s going to have real problems if Lex finds out about him and Eve,” you said, dropping it like a bomb. It was the only explanation that made sense, how else would Clark have your personal number?
“He didn’t—” Clark started, then cut himself off. He refused to take the bait. Refused to treat you like an idiot. “I’m not calling about Jimmy. Not even about what I called you about earlier.”
You scoffed, your patience nearly gone. He was playing you again, acting calm, composed, pretending like he wasn’t pushing some carefully constructed agenda. You weren’t a fool. You knew manipulation when you heard it. He spoke like someone who thought his sincerity was a weapon.
“What do you want then?” you snapped.
There was a pause. And then, in that same calm voice, he asked : “I just want to know why you defend him.”
You stilled.
"Of the records." He added at your silence.
Of course. There it was. Another angle. Another motive. You recognized this game, draw out the sympathy, lower the defences, build just enough rapport for the truth to slip out. He wanted you to pity yourself. To question your loyalty. To crack.
But you wouldn’t. Not for him. Not for anyone. Not anymore.
Lex had played this game too many times, for far too long. It left scars, sure, deep ones, but it also taught you how to bury your feelings, how to do the job without letting guilt cloud your judgment. It made you sharp. Unshakable.
You wouldn’t let Clark Kent be the one to undo all of that.
“Listen, Clark,” you said, spitting his name like it tasted wrong. “I don’t know what you want, or what you think you’re going to get by being all honeyed and soft-spoken, but it’s not going to work. People have tried before you. People smarter, more ruthless, more desperate. And they failed all the same.”
Your voice hardened.
“I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anything from you. Not your questions. Not your insight. Not even your damn voice.”
Silence stretched on the line. Heavy. Intentional.
“I can help you,” his voice came through, calm, measured, infuriatingly composed. “I have nothing to gain if your brother finds out I called you. This is a safe line. I made sure of it. But a lot of person have something to gain if you leave that company.”
“Leave the company? And then what?” you shot back, the words sharp and fast, your anger rising. “Vanish into thin air so Lex never finds me again? You think I can just disappear?”
You didn’t give him a chance to respond.
“I don’t need your help. I don’t even know what the hell you think you’re helping me with. Do I look like some poor damsel waiting for a knight in shining armour? Because let me tell you something—” You stood abruptly, pacing the living room now, one hand in your hair, the other clenched at your side.
“There is no one, nothing, that can take my brother down. Everyone who’s tried? You know exactly what happened to them.”
You stopped pacing and stared at the wall, breath heavy, heart pounding in your ears.
“So if you really want to help me, like you say you do, then here’s what you’re going to do : you’re not going to call this number again. You’re not going to contact my office talking about project neither of us should known about. And for the sakes of both our lives, you’re going to forget Project Superman ever existed.”
Silence. You didn’t care what he said next. You were already reaching for the button to end the call.
“Don’t call this number again,” you said coldly, and hung up.
The line went dead, but the tension didn’t leave with it. You pressed the heel of your palm against your eyes, breathing hard, trying not to cry. From the anger. From the pressure. From the horrifying things you’d seen while snooping around Project Superman.
You were a coward. You knew it.
Maybe that’s why you resented Clark Kent so much. He’d had the nerve to reach out, to ask the hard questions, even knowing the risks. You hadn’t even been able to speak about the things your brother had done. The things Lex Luthor had done in the dark, to others, and sometimes even to himself.
You knew the consequences. You’d seen them firsthand. And you didn’t want to be next.
Even if speaking out could help hundreds. Maybe thousands.
You sat down slowly, hands shaking in your lap.
You were a coward. And for now… you were okay with that.
Weeks passed in total silence from both the Daily Planet and Clark Kent.
No headlines about LuthorCorp. No reason to threaten them with lawsuits. Just silence.
And honestly, it made your job easier. A lot of your day-to-day involved clashing with reporters, especially them. So when they left LuthorCorp alone, your workload lightened, and your days felt strangely manageable. Almost peaceful.
You were on the roof, smoking a cigarette, your lunch long forgotten beside you. From here, you had one of the best views in the city, skyline stretching wide, sunlight brushing against the tops of the tallest towers, but it meant nothing. You hadn’t felt anything in a long time.
Just boredom. That’s all that was left.
Bored of covering up messes. Bored of threatening people into silence. Bored of your brother constantly looking down on you. Bored of your life.
“You know those things kill you?” The deep voice snapped you out of your thoughts.
You jumped, startled, spinning around to see who had disturbed your rare moment of quiet. And froze.
Superman. Standing just a few meters away.
You frowned, instinctively scanning the sky, expecting to find some incoming threat, maybe a drone, a villain, a building seconds from collapse, but there was nothing. Just blue sky and distant clouds. Calm.
You turned back to him, confusion painting your face. He let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused.
“Can I help you with something?” you asked, dumbly. It should have been the other way around, you knew that, but you were too off-balance to care.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied politely. His voice was warm, even amused. He stepped a little closer, his boots landing gently on the gravel. “I was just flying by and saw you sitting here all alone. Looking kind of sad. Thought I’d check in.”
“Just flying by…” you echoed, mocking him with a dry tone, taking another drag of your cigarette. “What, you checking rooftops now?”
“Only the ones with interesting people on them,” he said with a faint smile.
You weren’t sure what bothered you more, the fact that Superman was here, talking to you, or the fact that some small, treacherous part of you actually appreciated it.
Running into metahumans in Metropolis was nothing new. Practically routine. You were used to it, numb to it. And honestly, you didn’t care about them. Not really. Especially not this one.
Not the one your brother had developed a borderline obsessive fixation with.
The thought made you laugh under your breath. If Lex could see you now, sitting on a rooftop, casually chatting with his so-called nemesis, he'd probably have a stroke. Or throw someone off a building. You were fairly certain Superman didn’t even care about Lex, at least not in the same way Lex cared about him.
You figured ignoring him would be enough to make him leave. But no, of course not.
Instead, the man in spandex sat down right next to you, just a couple of meters away. Calm. Relaxed. As if this was all perfectly normal. Then he blew. A gust of air, deliberate, sharp, and your cigarette sailed out of your fingers, flicked clean into the sky.
“Okay, now,” you snapped, sitting up straighter. “Those things are expensive.”
He gave you a mild look, clearly unbothered. “They also kill you slowly.”
“Maybe I wanna die?” you shot back.
“Problem in paradise?” He smiled, almost teasing.
You scoffed. Anyone with half a brain knew LuthorCorp was anything but a paradise. Lighting another cigarette, you let the silence hang between you. Truth was, you didn’t know what to say to him, not to him. What was there to say?
“Don’t make me do it again,” he teased, eyes locked on your cigarette like it had personally offended him.
“If you do,” you said flatly, taking a long drag, “I’ll jump off the building.”
He laughed, genuinely. Since when did Superman have dimples?
“Dramatic,” he said, still chuckling. “Besides, you know I’d catch you.”
And just because he knew he could, he blew again. Your cigarette vanished into the sky.
You sighed, stood up without a word, and, before your mind could stop your body, you walked to the edge of the roof. And stepped off.
“What the— NO!” came the shout behind you, his voice laced with panic as you tumbled from the tallest building in Metropolis.
Wind tore past your face. The ground rushed up to meet you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt something. You giggled, wild and breathless, as the city blurred around you. It was chaos. It was stupid. It was reckless.
But for one glorious second… it was freedom.
You were caught mid-fall, arms of steel wrapping around you, pulling you hard against a solid chest. The impact wasn’t rough, but it jolted you all the same. Warmth surrounded you instantly. The wind disappeared.
Your arms, on instinct more than intent, wrapped around Superman’s neck as he steadied you both, slowing until the momentum was gone and you were simply floating. Suspended above the city like a feather caught in still air. His grip didn’t falter. Not for a second.
At first, you were just looking into his eyes, breath heaving from the adrenaline, heart pounding in your chest, while he remained perfectly calm, just as he had been before. Of course, you’d known he would catch you. He’d said it himself. But there was something exhilarating about catching Superman off guard.
And then, for the first time in months, you laughed. A real laugh, raw, unfiltered, shaking your whole body as it spilled out of you, rocking you gently against him in midair. It caught both you and the metahuman by surprise. The laughter felt genuine, liberating, like something had cracked open inside you.
For a few long seconds, he just held you there, floating above Metropolis, watching as you laughed like a madwoman in his arms. His expression was soft, confused, maybe even concerned but never judging.
“You really did it,” he muttered, voice low. “You actually jumped.”
“I told you I would,” you replied, breathless.
A beat of silence passed between you. His heartbeat was steady. Yours was not.
“You think this is a game?” he asked, not angry, but something quieter. Something that stung more.
You looked away, eyes scanning over Metropolis before looking down. The world looked so tiny from up here, it was almost addicting. “I think I just wanted to feel something.”
His arms tightened just a little. Protective. Anchoring. Without a word, he flew you back to the rooftop of LuthorCorp, setting you down gently, right in the middle of it, very far from the edge. The choice made you laugh, just a little. It was almost sweet.
“I’m not jumping again, don’t worry,” you said quietly, stepping out of his warm embrace.
You walked back to the spot where you’d been before, beside your barely touched lunch, your pack of cigarettes, and your phone, and sat down again, staring out over the city. You could feel his eyes on your back. The way he’d looked at you, genuinely concerned, not out of duty but something almost human, left a strange warmth in your chest.
How pathetic did your life have to be, for the only person who seemed to care, even for just a moment, to be Superman?
Nobody would’ve truly cared if he hadn’t caught you. Not really. You wouldn’t have cared, either. Just one last rush of adrenaline before the long, quiet sleep. It might’ve even made a decent headline : Lex Luthor’s sister falls to her death, dramatic, poetic even, if anyone had been paying attention. They wouldn't even say your own name.
Lex probably wouldn’t have mourned, not really. Maybe for the cameras, because it would be expected of him. Clark Kent would’ve gotten his front page. LuthorCorp would’ve named a new Head of Legal. The world would’ve kept turning. And you, you would’ve finally had peace.
It all came tumbling down at once. That invisible wall you'd spent years building, the one between feeling and function, cracked. Funny how the mind could carry so much until it just couldn’t. Until, in one fragile second, everything became too much.
You had no one important in your life. No real friends. No boyfriend. No one waiting for you to come home.
You never made time for it, and honestly, you didn’t want to. Letting someone in meant dragging them into Lex’s orbit, into his world of control and consequences. And you knew, sooner or later, when everything finally came crashing down, you’d be caught in the blast.
No one deserved to go through that for you.
Without even realising it, tears had started slipping down your face. Quiet and relentless. You’d carried so much for so long, buried it deep, locked it away ever since the day you said yes to Lex’s job offer. Maybe the real mystery was that you hadn’t broken sooner.
And just your luck… it had to happen in front of fucking Superman.
Still, in a strange way, maybe that made it easier. He wasn’t someone who would haunt your life later. He wasn’t someone you’d have to explain yourself to. Just a stranger, powerful, distant, untouchable. Someone you could fall apart in front of for a moment, and never see again. And in that moment, as you sat there, broken and small on the rooftop of your brother’s empire, you could pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t truly, utterly alone.
In a world this massive, this overwhelming, it was easy to forget that people like you didn’t get to be the heroes. By name, by blood, by inaction… you were one of the bad ones.
It felt almost comical, crying over how your brother had ruined your life, all while sitting on the rooftop of his building. As if you weren’t part of it. As if you hadn’t played your role.
You could have said no. Could’ve turned down his offer. Could’ve taken the harder road, fought your way to the top, maybe even become one of the best lawyers in this goddamn city. But you hadn’t. The promise of money, luxury, and an “easy” career had won. And the rest of you, the better part, had lost.
Even now, three years later, you weren’t sure if you would’ve made a name for yourself. Maybe you’d still be stuck in that old, crumbling apartment. But maybe, just maybe, you’d still have your friends. Maybe you’d have someone, a boyfriend, a partner, a life outside of this cold marble empire. Certainly you'd be happier.
“You should have let me fall…” you said, barely above a whisper.
But he heard it. Of course he did.
He was beside you in seconds, sitting just like before, only this time, a little closer. His warmth was a quiet comfort as the wind picked up, brushing through your hair, while dark clouds slowly crept into the Metropolis skyline.
“You know I can’t do that,” he said gently.
You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.
“No one would know. And trust me, no one would care enough to ask questions,” you said, your voice low, bitter. Before he could answer, a thought surfaced, sharp and sudden, and you added, “Well… maybe The Daily. Maybe your little buddy Clark Kent would’ve called just to have the perfect front page.”
It was his turn to scoff, the sound laced with something close to anger. You glanced at him through blurry eyes and saw the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.
“Don’t say things like that,” he replied, frustration barely held back in his voice.
Ever the saviour, you thought. Of course Superman wouldn’t be the kind of man to let you spiral, but it felt like if you didn’t speak now, your brain might just implode. Like some switch had flipped inside you, and there was no turning it off.
“No, but really. You should’ve let me fall,” you said again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Might’ve even made a few people happy.”
You stared out at the skyline as your voice hardened. “Laura would finally get her promotion. She’s hated me ever since I took her spot three years ago.”
You sniffed, eyes stinging, glancing over at him.
“Lex… he’d be relieved. Wouldn’t have to keep watching me out of the corner of his eye, worrying that maybe I’ll grow a conscience and talk to the press. I know he’d still come after me if I did, but I like to think it’d be harder with me than with a regular employee. You know?”
Leaning a little closer to the edge, your eyes settled on the ground far below. You heard Superman shift beside you, subtle, but ready, as if he thought you might jump again.
The thought made you laugh, quiet and bitter. Of all the places to have a complete mental breakdown, it had to be on the roof of LuthorCorp, with the strongest metahuman alive standing beside you like some guardian angel you never asked for.
“I’d finally be at peace,” you murmured. “No more complaints. No more threats. No more bribes. No more guilt. Just a coward lying cold in her grave.”
You whispered the last part, almost to yourself. More tears slipped down your face, blending seamlessly with the rain now falling in heavy sheets, as if the sky had decided to cry with you.
"You're more than just this job," Superman said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your arm as he pulled you back from the edge.
You let out a genuine, tear-filled laugh, harsh and wet in the rain. Always the optimist. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.
You weren’t more than this job. This job was you now. It had devoured every part of the person you used to be, every ideal, every boundary, every line you swore you’d never cross. Now you were a void version of yourself, filled with legal jargon and lies, a polished shield for monsters in suits.
It had rotted you from the inside out. Turned you into everything you grew up hating : a corrupted executive, pocketing blood money and defending the indefensible for the sake of a paycheck and an office.
This wasn't who you had wanted to be. And why? Because you had never known how to stand up for yourself in front of Lex.
"I'm really not..." you murmured, rubbing at your eyes. "But... thanks for saying it, I guess."
You rose to your feet, water dripping from your clothes. The Metropolis rain was rare, but when it came, it never held back. At least now you had a decent excuse to go home early. The office had been slow all day, nothing you couldn’t handle from your laptop if needed.
As you gathered your thing, your half-eaten lunch, your phone, the crumpled, now soaked, cigarette pack, you stole one last glance at him.
He looked almost human like this.
Soaked from the rain, seated quietly with his cape clinging to him, his expression caught somewhere between concern and sympathy. The image the media had built around him didn’t do him justice, not enough. Not the way his hair curled when wet, not the way his blue eyes held entire conversations shining with so many emotions, not the dimples still ghosting along his cheeks even when he wasn’t smiling. And certainly not the softness of his lips.
You blinked the thought away, scoffing silently at yourself. Of course, the only man you found attractive was also the most unreachable one. Classic.
"Thank you," you said at last, your voice softer now, more sincere. "For not letting me fall."
"Always," he replied simply, his voice steady as he watched you disappear behind the rooftop door.
You took the stairs down slowly, each step heavier than the last. You felt like hell, worse than you had in a long time. As if your own mind had finally decided to punish you for every cry for help you’d ignored. For every night you spent awake, staring at the ceiling with a racing heart and hollow chest. For every morning you dragged yourself out of bed, feeling like your skin didn't fit right.
For every moment you scratched your arms raw just to feel something through the guilt and pressure. For every hour spent dissociating in your office, staring at legal documents you didn’t care about, defending things you didn’t believe in.
Now it was all crashing down, and it couldn’t have picked a worse time.
But maybe, deep down, you believed you deserved every second of it.
The sound of your office door slamming open yanked your head up from your folded arms. In truth, you didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Lex.
He stormed inside like he owned the place, which, of course, he did, trailed by your assistant, who wore a familiar apologetic look. Without a word, the young man gave you a regretful glance before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.
Lex dropped onto the large leather sofa across the room with an air of theatrical exhaustion. He didn’t even bother to take off his coat.
You had to admit, it was a beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered one of the best views in the city. Your mahogany desk alone was worth more than most people’s rent for a year. The latest computer sat, the expansive bookshelf filled with legal volumes you rarely touched anymore. A pair of sleek leather sofas flanked a marble coffee table no one ever used.
You never had clients in here. Never held meetings. Most of your team knew better than to knock unless absolutely necessary. That reputation, distant, cold, unapproachable, had followed you ever since. Maybe you hadn't done much to stop it.
"We have a problem," Lex said, his eyes closed as he leaned back into the couch.
Your heart skipped a beat.
Still, it was somewhat reassuring that he came alone, without the usual pair of silent goons who tailed him like shadows. If he didn’t bring muscle, chances were you weren’t the problem.
"Do we?" you asked, keeping your voice even, doing your best to hide the anxiety curling in your stomach. Lex had always been too good at reading you.
"I think yes, we do," he replied, tone laced with mockery, almost daring you to guess. Daring you to slip. To reveal something he didn’t already know.
Opening one eye, he glanced your way, clearly waiting to see if you'd take the bait. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he only smirked.
"The Planet has been snooping around too much lately," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Reporters asking questions they shouldn’t be asking. Digging in places they shouldn’t even know exist."
You rolled your eyes, already unimpressed. You weren’t sure why this warranted Lex barging into your office like the ceiling was about to collapse. Your legal team was probably already handling whatever nonsense the Daily Planet was stirring up. And if it was more serious, if they were digging into the same shadows Clark Kent had called you about a month ago, you were certain Lex’s personal legal hounds were already biting at their heels.
“Sounds like a regular Tuesday,” you muttered, rubbing the space between your eyes as a headache began to bloom.
“Kent hasn’t published anything, but he’s been sniffing around again. More than usual. And this time, it’s not just the public projects he’s asking about. Classified-level stuff.” He said, watching for your reaction.
You gave a small shrug, feigning indifference. “Then maybe it’s time to sue them again. That usually quiets the barking.”
Lex smiled thinly. “Not this time. He’s being careful. No paper trail. No sources willing to go on record. Yet somehow… he knows things. Enough to be dangerous.”
Frowning, you sighed. You had to play this carefully. You hadn’t spoken to Clark Kent since those calls, and you hadn’t told anyone about Project Superman. But if Lex wanted to pin the blame on you, he would. He always found a way.
“How do you even know it’s him, if he’s being this careful, Lex?” you asked cautiously, choosing your words with care. You didn’t want to provoke him, but you hated how he danced around the point like he was waiting for you to slip.
He sat up straighter, his cold gaze locking onto yours. “I have my ways,” he said with that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Little ears here and there.”
You leaned back slightly, your throat suddenly dry. “And did those little ears tell you I was involved? Because it sure sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”
He stood, slowly making his way around your desk until he was behind you. You stiffened as his hand came down on your shoulders, firm, not painful, but unmistakably controlling.
“Of course not,” he said with a mockingly sweet tone. “What kind of brother would accuse his own sister?”
You didn’t move. Not when his thumb absently dragged over the curve of your shoulder, not when the silence stretched long enough to chill the air between you. You knew better than to flinch. That’s what he wanted, fear dressed up as respect.
He leaned in slightly, just enough for you to feel the brush of his breath near your ear.
“I just worry, you know?” he said softly. “This kind of scrutiny… it makes people act irrationally. Makes them do things they shouldn’t. Say things they regret. He even got in the head of some of my most trusted employees once…”
He paused, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the smile in his voice. Too calm. Too rehearsed.
“And he did call your number a few weeks ago.” Another pause. Dread filled you, fear gripping you strongly. “I’d hate to think he had put ideas in your head.”
His hand slipped away like a shadow, but the pressure lingered in your skin.
He moved with the slow, calculated confidence of someone who never had to hurry. Circling the desk, he didn’t sit, Lex never sat when he could loom, but rested a hand casually on the edge, watching you like a scientist studying a specimen under glass.
His voice lightened, almost amused. “You know, I’ve always trusted you.” A pause. A tilt of the head. “But I pulled the call recording anyway. Just to be sure.”
He gave a small shrug, smooth, almost dismissive, though the smile that followed was razor-thin. “I knew you wouldn’t say anything. You’re smarter than that.” Another beat. “You know what would happen if you weren’t.”
He left your office on that note, not even waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him, and only then did you exhale the shaky breath you'd been holding since he walked in.
He knew.
He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but he knew. Whether you’d stumbled onto the truth before Kent or started digging after that call, it didn’t matter. Lex didn’t care about the details. All he cared about was ensuring your silence.
And his message had been clear : Talk and you end up like them. Family or not.
Your phone buzzed. It was a message, from your brother.
Opening it, your breath caught in your throat. A strangled sound escaped you.
Lying strapped to a medical table, bruised and bloodied, was Thomas. Your ex-boyfriend from law school. The only man you’d ever introduced to Lex. Someone you hadn’t seen, or even spoken to, in years.
And now he was a rat lab. All because of you.
All because Clark Kent couldn't stop.
That how you ended up on the roof again, standing just at the edge of the building. Your eyes fixed on the floor below. Dark clouds were coming toward Metropolis, still far but advancing quickly. A storm was coming.
It was late, all your colleagues at gone home already. You had waited in your office, trying to play it cool, not wanting to be suspicious. You were certain Lex had bribed someone of your team, most likely your assistant, into telling him your every move. Every call. Every mails.
Looking down, you wondered. What would it be like to fall again? Would it feel exhilarating, like the first time? Maybe even more, knowing no one was here to catch you this time. It was mesmerising how small the world looked from up here.
Ironic, really. From this height, you'd once felt powerful. In the early months of the job, standing on this rooftop made you feel untouchable, like you were finally someone. But that illusion had long since crumbled. This place had taken everything from you.
“You’re not gonna jump again, are you?”
The voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
Startled, you turned too fast. Reflexes dulled by the cold and the weight of sleepless nights, your foot slid on the slick rooftop, gravel scattering under your heel.
And then, you were falling. The edge vanished behind you as gravity seized your body. Wind roared in your ears. Your scream tore free as Metropolis' concrete rushed up to meet you. Truth be told, it was just as exhilarating as the first time, but a thousands time scarier.
The wind howled in your ears. Your mind blanked, panic flooding every nerve. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be saved, not really. But as the ground rushed toward you, instinct took over. You didn’t want to die like this. Not yet.
And then, closing your eyes, you waited for the impact.
But not the one you expected. Strong arms wrapped around you mid-air, a blur of red and blue cutting through the grey skyline. Your fall halted with a jarring stop as your body slammed into Superman’s chest, breath knocked from your lungs.
His grip was tight, almost desperate.
Your arms instantly wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeboat in open water. You were breathing heavily, gasping in sharp, uneven bursts, but you felt the rapid rise and fall of his own chest against yours.
You had scared Superman.
You. You had done what even aliens from other worlds hadn’t managed to : make him panic. To be fair, it was his own damn fault.
Silence settled between you, save for the harsh rhythm of your breaths. You looked up, eyes locking. His gaze roamed across your face, scanning for injuries, intent, urgent, while yours traced his features in quiet awe. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the weight of thinking you were seconds from death, but right now, he was the only real thing in your world.
His eyes dropped to your lips, just as yours lingered on his. Time seemed to pause, holding its breath with the two of you suspended in midair. You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. But in that fragile, trembling second, none of it mattered.
And then, a crack of thunder rolled across the distant sky. The moment shattered.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Superman said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he gently ascended, bringing you both back to the rooftop.
He spoke to you like someone coaxing a frightened stray animal : patient, careful, almost painfully kind. It was sweet. Unexpectedly so.
As your feet touched the gravel of the rooftop, back in the centre, far from the edge, you let out a breathless laugh. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid you'd vanish the moment he let go.
But it was you who stepped back first, untangling yourself from his hold. You bent slightly at the waist, hands on your knees as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and strange with adrenaline, dizzy in your chest.
Then, just as suddenly, the laughter crumbled.
Tears spilled from your eyes without warning. Heavy, wracking sobs tore from your throat, years of pressure snapping loose like cracked glass. Three years of holding it in. Of surviving instead of living. Of becoming someone you didn’t even recognize.
And now it was all pouring out. Right here, in front of Superman. Again.
You sank down onto the gravel, knees giving out beneath the weight of everything. You didn’t even try to stop it, the tears, the ragged sobs, the chaos clawing through your mind. You just let it all go. And strangely, it felt good.
Not pretty. Not peaceful. But real.
For once, you weren’t pretending. Weren’t holding anything back or biting your tongue. You were breaking, fully, openly, and somehow, that honesty felt like a release. What made it bearable, what made it safe, was the quiet presence that lingered nearby. Superman didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, or fill the silence.
He just stayed. Not looming, not judging. Just there. And in that small, powerful kindness, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protected.
So safe, you talked.
“Next time you see Clark Kent,” you muttered through the last of your tears, “tell him that if I suddenly disappear because of his little investigation… he better make a damn good front page out of it.”
You tried to make it sound like a joke. You even forced a smile. But the fear didn’t budge, it had rooted itself too deeply now, curled in your gut like a sickness.
Superman didn’t smile. His brow furrowed, gaze sharp with concern. “What do you mean?”
You snorted, shaking your head. It was laughable, really, how tangled everything had become. And maybe it was reckless, telling Superman anything at all, but what could it hurt? Deep down, you hoped maybe he could talk to Clark, get him to back off before Lex did something irreversible.
“He’s getting too close,” you said finally. “Too close to something Lex doesn’t want exposed. Something I shouldn’t even know about. And if he keeps going, Lex is going to blame it on me.”
Superman didn’t speak right away. You saw the shift in his expression, quiet, calculating. Not judgment, but focus. And you realized then : he was listening. Really listening.
“I can help you.” His voice was deep, sure, but there was something gentler beneath it. Genuine.
You let out a soft, tired laugh, wiping your face with the back of your hand. There was no point in hiding the tears anymore. “You sound just like him,” you said, voice still shaky. “No wonder you two are friends.”
That earned the smallest smile from him, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was there.
You didn’t know what made you keep talking. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, or maybe it was just the comfort of being heard without being judged.
“He said the same thing… Clark. When he called. Said he wanted to help me. But people like you, like him, you don’t realize how dangerous it is to be helped in my situation. Lex isn't scared of anyone, not even you.”
You met his eyes then, and something flickered in his, something beyond concern.
“He’s getting close to something Lex would kill to protect because it could destroy him. And if I get caught in the middle of that?” You shrugged. “Let’s just say Lex doesn’t always send warnings twice. Not even to his sister.”
The metahuman approached you gently, crouching so he could meet your gaze without towering over you. A flash of lightning split the sky, casting a pale light across half his face, making him look almost unearthly. Like he didn’t belong to this world at all. Like maybe he never had.
“I can really help you,” he said softly. “I can take you somewhere he’d never find you. I can take you to—” He stopped himself mid-sentence. Whatever he’d almost said, it hung in the air between you like something too fragile to speak aloud.
His hands rested on your knees, not forceful, not firm, just grounding. As if reminding you that, despite everything, you were still here. Still alive. Then he looked at you again.
You weren’t prepared for it. That kind of kindness. It was the sort of look no one had given you in years, not pitying, not clinical. Just real.
He sighed, steadying himself. And when he spoke again, it was with purpose.
“Listen,” he said, voice low but sure. “If you’re willing to speak out against your brother, I can promise you, there’s a place he’ll never find you. Not even Lex Luthor can reach everywhere. You’ll have time, space. Peace. With Clark’s help, we can protect you. You can be safe from him. For good.”
You frowned, confusion clouding your already stormy thoughts.
“Lex can reach everywhere,” you murmured, voice thin and cracking under the weight of truth. “He knows people, high places, deep pockets. There’s nowhere in this city, in this whole damn state, he wouldn’t find me.”
Another tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t bother wiping it away.
Superman’s hand tensed where it rested against your knee, as though he were physically restraining himself from doing more, comforting you, pulling you away from all this. From him.
It was a tempting proposition, you had to give him that.
The promise of safety. Of silence. Of finally breathing without the constant weight of eyes watching, judging, threatening. If he could really assure that, if he could promise you a world where Lex Luthor wasn’t a shadow at your back… You might just give in.
You had nothing left anyway. Nothing but your life. And right now, that felt like the most worthless thing of all.
But then, before you could argue back, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Just the faintest glint of something lighter behind the concern.
“I never said anything about Metropolis,” he said softly, with a quiet kind of defiance.
What the hell were you doing here?
In a car. Headed to god knows where. And sitting next to the man who, in a way, had put you in this mess to begin with. Superman had convinced you to trust Clark Kent, insisting the reporters could protect you better than anyone else. That he—Superman—would always be nearby, watching from the shadows, ready to step in if Lex ever found out.
You didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, so full of concern and quiet determination.
Maybe it was something else.
So here you were. For the past seven hours, you’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Clark Kent’s car, heading out of Metropolis. The road ahead was dark and endless, and the farther you got, the lighter you felt.
For now, it was a peaceful ride. The heater hummed softly, the music playing low and unobtrusive. Clark didn’t talk much, which you appreciated. He seemed to understand you weren’t quite ready for conversation.
He’d shown up at your door at exactly 7 p.m., just like Superman had promised. Same concerned look. Same gentle voice. That same quiet steadiness that made you say yes before you could second guess yourself.
Now, after hours on the road, you were beginning to realize just how similar the two men were. Too similar. It was strange, every time you looked at Clark for more than a few seconds, something pulled at the edges of your mind. Nothing overtly wrong. He was handsome, annoyingly so, you’d admitted that around hour two of the car ride. But there was something… off. Familiar.
Yet completely out of place. You shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing the strange phone he’d given you earlier, sleek and impossibly light, clearly not something off the shelf. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific, Clark had said, untraceable. The device had only two contacts programmed in : Clark Kent and Superman.
Two names, side by side. Almost like two sides of the same coin.
Clark Kent. Superman.
By hour eight, the safety of being far from Metropolis and the lull of the moonlight hanging high above had made you a little petty. Restless. Bold, maybe. Or maybe just fed up.
After all, you were stuck in a car with the reason you'd had to flee your entire life. If Clark had just dropped it, had actually listened to you when you warned him weeks ago, none of this would have been necessary. You would still leave your miserable life, but at least, you'd be home.
But no, he had to snoop in.
"You know what?" you said suddenly, eyes narrowing as you looked at him sideways.
He glanced at you, quick and cautious, like someone easing into a trap. One brow arched in confusion, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No?”
You turned your body a little more toward him, expression sharp. “This whole mess? It’s your fault.”
You didn’t even raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It landed like a punch anyway. Clark blinked. The smile dropped. You could see it hit him, and part of you hated how guilty he looked, because it meant he already knew you were right.
“So I’ve been told,” he replied softly. “Just know I never meant for any of this to come back on you. This was never supposed to boomerang in your direction.”
You scoffed, dry and sharp. “Oh, yeah? Then who was it supposed to boomerang on, Kent? Please, enlighten me.”
The sarcasm dripped off every word, venomous and tired.
Gone was the woman who broke down sobbing on a rooftop under thunderclouds. That version of you had receded into the shadows, tucked away where no one could see her. In her place now was the version the world expected. The one who wore tailored suits and litigation like armour. The Head of Legal. Ice-blooded, sharp-tongued, impossible to shake.
Not quite you. Not quite not you either.
Clark didn’t answer right away. He kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, the soft hum of tires filling the silence. But his jaw clenched. Just enough for you to notice.
“In a perfect world? Your brother,” he admitted, after a few seconds of silence. His sigh was heavy, resigned, even.
You bit your tongue before another petty remark could slip out. It wouldn’t change anything. And truth be told, he was helping. Whether it was because Superman told him to, or because Clark Kent genuinely wanted to, it didn’t matter. He was here. And that was more than most people had ever done for you.
So instead, you chose to shift the conversation.
“Where are we even going, anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting out the window into the thick darkness. Every road sign you passed only confused you more, you couldn’t piece together the route.
“Somewhere safe,” he answered, maddeningly vague.
You snorted, unable to help yourself. “You sound like you’re gonna murder me in the middle of nowhere, Kent.”
It was his turn to laugh, a warm, low sound that curled in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.
“I don’t think I’d live very long after that,” he said, a playful edge to his voice. “Not with your new little friend watching over you.”
There was a glint in his eye as he glanced sideways at you, and something in his tone made the hairs on your neck rise, not from fear, but from a flicker of recognition. Familiar. Almost too familiar.
“You’d get a thank-you letter from Lex, though,” you joked lightly. “And that means a lot in a city he practically owns.”
Clark’s smile vanished almost instantly. The mention of your brother had yanked him right back to reality, reminding him of why you were really here, why you’d spent the last eight hours tucked into the passenger seat of his car, fleeing the only life you’d ever known.
Silence settled between you again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The quiet hum of the tires against the road and the soft rhythm of the engine created a strange kind of peace. The car was warm, the music still playing low, something old and soothing.
Your body, pushed to the edge for days, finally began to surrender. The tension in your shoulders loosened. Your eyelids grew heavier with each blink. It had been a brutal week. You’d run on power naps and caffeine and sheer will.
And now, somehow, this car felt like the safest place in the world.
So you let your guard down. Just for a moment. Just to rest your eyes. As Clark kept driving into the night, your breathing slowed, and sleep took you before you even realized it had come.
You jolted awake as the driver’s door slammed shut. Disoriented, your heart kicked up in your chest as you blinked rapidly, trying to get your bearings. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you'd slept in, stiff and sore from hours pressed against the window.
Squinting into the sunlight, you groaned. The sun was already high in the sky, blinding and unapologetic. Glancing down at your phone, you read 9:57 a.m.
Shit. You’d slept far longer than you'd meant to.
Pushing open your door, you stepped outside, wincing as you stretched your limbs, popping joints and shaking off the lingering fog of sleep.
“Morning,” came a voice behind you.
You turned, blinking again, and saw Clark Kent standing next to the car, casually filling up the gas tank like he hadn’t just driven fourteen hours straight. His shirt was barely wrinkled, hair still mostly in place, and he looked fresh.
Not even remotely tired.
"Are we close yet?" you asked, squinting as you looked around, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Some tiny, nowhere town in the Midwest, Indiana or Illinois, maybe. Either way, very far from Metropolis.
"About another eight hours or so," Clark replied casually, like that was completely normal.
You frowned at him, studying his face. No dark circles, no signs of fatigue, not even a yawn. Maybe he’d pulled over during the night to sleep and you’d just slept through it? But you doubted it. You were a light sleeper, and the car stopping would’ve definitely woken you.
“What?” he asked with a small laugh, noticing your suspicious expression.
“What?” you echoed mockingly. “You’re seriously gonna drive like what… twenty-two hours straight? Without a single ounce of sleep? Are you on drugs or something?”
He snorted. “No drugs, no.” You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Clark just grinned, annoyingly unreadable. “Just built different, I guess.”
"Built different? That’s it?" you muttered, still not buying it. "Well, I hope you don’t drive us into a freaking tree because you’re built different," you grumbled under your breath, already turning away as you headed toward the small convenience store by the gas pumps.
Coffee. That would fix your mood. Hopefully.
The little bell above the door chimed as you stepped into the nearly empty shop. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, completely absorbed in her phone. She didn’t glance up, not that you cared. You weren’t in the mood for small talk.
Wandering the narrow aisles, you grabbed a few snacks for the road and the least bored-looking book they had on a spinning rack. The coffee machine was either out of order or didn’t exist, so you settled for a canned iced latte from the fridge. As an afterthought, and maybe out of guilt, you grabbed a second one. If Clark didn’t like it, you’d just drink both.
At the counter, the girl scanned your things at a snail’s pace, barely lifting her gaze. You told her to add the gas pump Clark had just been at. But before you could pull out your credit card, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around your wrist.
"You don’t wanna do that," Clark said calmly, stepping up beside you. He slipped a folded wad of cash from his coat pocket and handed it to the girl.
Suddenly, the cashier perked up, her phone forgotten as she blinked up at Clark like he’d just dropped from the sky. You couldn’t blame her. He was handsome. And kind. In that steady, patient, maddeningly unbothered way.
Back in the car, your sour mood returned like a headache that wouldn’t quite leave.
“I could pay, you know?” you muttered as you buckled your seatbelt with a little more force than necessary. “I probably have more money than you.”
A smirk tugged at Clark’s lips as he started the engine. “Oh yeah, my bad,” he said casually, letting the words stretch a beat too long. Then he added, with a touch of mock innocence, “You know, you could just call your brother, tell him exactly where we are. How does that sound?”
His tone was light, but the edge in it was unmistakable. Your eyes narrowed. It was his turn to be snarky, and unfortunately, he was good at it.
You disappearing after Lex’s threat told him everything he needed to know. You hadn’t needed to say a word, Lex never needed much. And you both knew he’d stop at nothing to find you. Pulling your bank records wouldn't been hard either. Not when he practically owned the bank.
You didn’t answer. You were too proud for that. Instead, you turned your face toward the window, watching the endless stretch of land roll by. Without a word, you reached into the plastic bag at your feet and handed him one of the iced lattes you’d grabbed at the gas station.
He took it instantly, barely a pause. The can disappeared from your fingers like he’d been waiting for it. You heard him chuckle, soft and breathy, almost like he hadn’t meant to. A whisper of amusement. It lingered for a second longer than it should have.
You didn’t look at him. You just let the silence stretch between you again, quiet, but not empty.
The rest of the drive passed quietly, a kind of exhausted peace settling over the car. Around midday, you’d stopped for lunch at a small roadside diner in Kansas City, one of those unremarkable places with red vinyl booths and chipped coffee mugs. That’s when he finally had told you where you were going.
Kansas. Specifically, Smallville. Even more specifically, his childhood home.
It had been awkward, to say the least. The words had hung between you like something delicate and misplaced. You were going to stay with Clark Kent’s parents. You were going to sleep under the same roof where he’d grown up, eat meals at the same table he had as a kid.
Had you been together, it might’ve felt like something monumental, a next step kind of moment. A milestone for the scrapbook. But you weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure what you were.
A witness? A burden? Another helpless case? Still, he hadn’t hesitated. And maybe that was the strangest part.
He explained that he had taken ten days off, claiming a family emergency. You couldn’t help but notice how conveniently timed it was, for both of you to disappear at once. Lex would connect the dots easily. He always did.
But Clark had reassured you: his parents’ place wasn’t on any record. It hadn’t been for years. He’d made sure of that.
It struck you as odd. He wasn’t a criminal, why go to such lengths to keep them hidden?
He’d just laughed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Exactly for situations like this,” he had said. “Working at the Daily Planet means going after people with real power, no conscience, and a long reach. You don’t poke the devil without having somewhere safe to run.”
A safe haven. And right now, it was the only one you had.
Finally arriving at the Kent farm, you felt unmistakably out of place.
You were a city girl, through and through. Your tailored coat and designer boots stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of open fields and grazing cattle. The air smelled fresh, too fresh. You were used to exhaust fumes, coffee shops, and wet pavement. Not dew-covered grass and distant hay. There wasn’t a neighbor in sight, just endless land stretching toward the horizon. It was peaceful. Isolated. A perfect hidden haven.
You’d braced yourself for a lie, certain Clark would come up with some excuse to explain your presence, an old friend needing a break, a colleague tagging along for fresh air. But when he introduced you to his parents, he told them the truth. Every word of it.
He told them how he’d gone poking around places he shouldn’t have, how that had put you in danger, not him. How you'd been left to deal with the fallout while he got to keep writing. “That’s why I had to help her,” he said. Simple. Honest. Sincere.
It caught you off guard, how human he was. How kind. The past three years of your life had been about leverage, power plays, cold threats and airtight lawsuits. You were always the hammer, and others were always the nails. You had buried people’s reputations without losing sleep. But Clark Kent wasn’t like that.
He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Not a confession, not information, not even details about the secret project that had started this whole mess. He had simply brought you here, because it was the right thing to do.
And it didn’t take long, just one meal at the dinner table, to see exactly where he got it from. The Kents were among the kindest people you’d ever met. Genuine warmth radiated from them, compassion, patience, trust. They welcomed you without question, offered you food, a room, and the kind of quiet grace you hadn’t known you were missing.
They didn’t want anything from you. And somehow, that unraveled something deep in your chest more than any threat ever could.
“Well, it’s not much, but…” Clark trailed off, glancing around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah.”
He looked awkward now, scratching the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The guest room wasn’t anything fancy: just a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. The wallpaper was fading at the edges, and the floor creaked when you stepped on it. But there was warmth here. And peace.
“It’s perfect,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Clark.”
His shoulders relaxed a little at your words, and the tension he’d been holding in his jaw softened. That awkward smile returned to his face, shy, boyish, almost bashful.
“I’ll, uh… let you settle in,” he said, backing toward the door like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. If you need anything... I’m just across the hall.”
“Goodnight, Clark,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He paused at the door, turning slightly with that familiar, gentle smirk. “Goodnight, Miss Luthor.”
Even after only a few hours in this house, you understood now where Clark Kent’s kindness and unwavering sense of morality came from. Was this what a real, loving family felt like?
Later, lying on the guest bed after your shower, tears returned, slow and quiet. How had it come to this? How had your family shattered so completely that you were now hiding from your own brother? When had Lex become someone so ruthless, so untouchable, so far above the law?
The sheets smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, a scent so unfamiliar it only made you feel more out of place. You turned to your side, staring at the wall as if it held answers. But there were none. Just silence, and the soft creaking of the old house settling into the night.
The quiet here was different than in Metropolis. There, silence came with the hum of neon lights and distant sirens, noise that reminded you you were still alive, still in motion. But this, this quiet made your thoughts louder, crueler. Every regret screamed a little louder in your head.
You should have said something years ago. You should have fought harder, sooner. You should have said no. Maybe then your life wouldn't be reduced to running, hiding in someone else’s safe haven.
You clutched the blanket a little tighter. Somewhere in this quiet house, Clark was probably still awake. Maybe writing, maybe just thinking. Maybe wondering if you were okay. You weren’t.
You closed your eyes and let the tears come again. Softer this time, slower. You didn’t sob. There was no energy left for that. Just salt and silence and the quiet ache of someone who had spent too long holding everything in.
Just across the hall, the man’s heart quietly broke. Clark sat on the edge of his childhood bed, hands clasped between his knees, eyes trained on the wooden floor like it might somehow offer a solution. But all he could hear was you, silently weeping.
Guilt was eating him alive.
He hadn’t listened to you. He’d kept digging, kept pushing, even looped in Mr. Terrific for help, convinced he was doing the right thing. But all it had done was draw unwanted attention. And not onto him. It had landed on you.
All because he had made that call.
The image of you standing on the edge of that rooftop haunted him. Something in him had cracked wide open when he saw you there, your posture brittle, your eyes hollow, like the life had been drained out of you. He couldn’t shake the thought : This is my fault.
With a heavy sigh, Clark laid back on his bed and closed his eyes, willing the ache in his chest to dull. But it didn’t.
Whatever it took, no matter the cost, he would make this right. He would tear down Lex Luthor’s empire.
And he would set you free.
It took a couple of days to finally settle into the rhythm of life at the Kent farm.
You tried to help out wherever you could. Mornings began early, walking through the fields alongside Jonathan, tending to the cows. At first, you felt completely out of place, the cliché city girl, useless with her hands and awkward in the dirt. But Jonathan never laughed. He didn’t mock or criticise. Instead, he stayed patient, calmly guiding you when you made mistakes, his voice always steady and kind.
After lunch, you'd join Martha by the chicken coop to collect eggs for dinner. She often filled the quiet with stories about Clark’s childhood or the latest gossip from the town market. You weren’t allowed to go into town, everyone had agreed it was best to avoid attention, but you found yourself eagerly listening to her tales, learning the names of townsfolk you’d never meet and becoming surprisingly invested in their dramas.
The Kents had told you more than once that you didn’t need to do any of this. They insisted rest was what you deserved, especially after everything Clark had told them. They thought you needed peace. And maybe they were right. But you couldn’t sit still for long. The silence gave space for darker thoughts to creep in. Helping around the farm was the only thing that seemed to keep your mind quiet.
Clark helped around the farm too. When he wasn’t out in the fields with his pa or fixing something around the barn, he was on the phone with someone from the Daily Planet or typing furiously on his laptop. So much for a “family emergency,” you’d joked once, raising an eyebrow at him.
He had laughed, genuinely, that quiet, warm laugh that made his dimples show, and replied, “News doesn’t wait.”
You were pretty sure that wasn’t the actual saying, but you let it slide. The way he said it, you almost believed it was.
It was about an hour before dinner. Clark’s parents chatted softly in the kitchen while Martha moved around preparing the meal. You sat on the couch, trying to focus on the book in your hands, but it was nearly impossible with Clark just a few meters away, perched at the dining table, typing away on his laptop.
The look of concentration on his face was one of the most captivating things you’d ever seen. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, lips bitten in focus, fingers dancing over the keys, and when he paused to jot down notes in his little notebook, you caught yourself staring at those unexpectedly graceful hands. Since when did he have such pretty hands?
Shaking your head, you tried to force your attention back to the pages in front of you, but the steady clicking of the keyboard pulled you back. Your eyes locked on his slender fingers as they moved. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, imagining how those fingers might feel against your skin : curling around your hands, pressing softly to your throat, tracing paths between your legs.
Your heart quickened, breath catching as your thoughts spiralled. You shouldn’t be thinking like this, he was the reason you were tangled in this mess to begin with. But you didn’t hate him anymore. Maybe you never truly had.
In fact, you had envied him. His courage, his fearlessness. He did what you’d never managed to do, not scared of the consequences, while you’d hidden away like a coward. You hated yourself for it, more than you could admit. So much of that self-loathing had been projected onto Clark Kent.
“You alright?” His voice pulled you back from your daydream, soft but curious.
You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d squeezed your thighs together, searching for some kind of relief. Suddenly, the room felt unbearably warm, despite the crisp late October air outside. You could feel heat flushing your cheeks and neck.
“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Why?” You tried to sound casual, hiding the flutter in your voice.
“Well, I could hear your—” He cut himself off, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes. “You just looked lost in thought.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry…” you apologised quickly, frowning at yourself. Why were you even apologising?
He brushed off your awkwardness with a gentle laugh before returning to his work. For the next hour, those restless, lustful thoughts kept sneaking into your mind, while Clark shot you sweet, knowing smirks from time to time, almost like he was aware.
Dinner was good, as always. It felt refreshing to share a meal with others, to sit around a warm family table instead of being alone in your cold Metropolis penthouse. This felt almost too good, and a part of you dreaded the day it would end.
So, when Jonathan suggested a poker night, you said yes without hesitation. Of course you did. You knew moments like this might never come again, and you wanted to savour every second. If that made you selfish, then so be it.
The game stretched well into the early morning before everyone finally agreed it was time to call it a night. Every one looked exhausted, but your mind refused to settle. You’d always considered yourself smart, but watching Clark quietly calculate his moves—counting cards, playing his tricks flawlessly, winning again and again without making a fuss like it was second nature—something stirred inside you.
That feeling spread, crawling from your brain down to somewhere much more intimate, a subtle, tingling heat that had been simmering for the past hour. You tried to focus, to play properly, but you kept losing. And the way his fingers toyed with the coins, the deliberate way he revealed his cards on the table, it was almost unbearable.
Now lying in your bed, your mind refused to quiet. Those thoughts crept in faster than you could push them away, relentless and insistent. You imagined his hands on your skin, his lips tracing yours, his deep voice murmuring close to your ear.
A warmth gathered between your thighs. At first, you tried to ignore it, close your eyes, tell yourself to sleep. But the images persisted, vivid and demanding. You saw him, naked and moving above you, the bed creaking with every thrust, his hand pressed firmly over your mouth to stifle your moans so you wouldn’t wake his parents.
You opened your eyes, breathing quick and shallow. You were burning up, both frustrated and aching.
It had been so long since you’d touched yourself, even longer since you’d shared a bed with someone. Without overthinking it, knowing it might ruin the moment, your hand slid inside your panties. You were drenched, soaked with desire.
Your other hand moved to your breast, first tracing over your shirt, but when that wasn’t enough, you shed it quickly. Pinching and teasing your nipples, your fingers began their slow dance on your clit. Eyes closed again, you imagined those hands, bigger, warmer, gentler, how soft they’d feel, how small you’d seem beneath their touch, as they traced every inch of you.
You let out a shaky breath, your body arching slightly against the bedsheet as your fingers circled over your clit in lazy, experimental strokes. Every movement sent a thrill through you, a contrast to the heavy silence of the house. The distant sound of the wind outside barely registered over the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Your mind refused to stop painting him there, Clark. His mouth against your neck, trailing slowly down your body with a patience that felt unbearable. You imagined him watching you now, those deep, perceptive eyes noticing every twitch, every sigh. Would he kneel beside the bed, take over without a word, his calloused fingers replacing yours, teasing you until you begged?
The need to moan his name burned at the edge of your throat, threatening to slip out with every gasp. But you bit down hard on your lower lip, your teeth sinking into soft flesh until you tasted copper. A sting of pain. A grounding sensation.
He was just across the hall. You glanced at the door when that thought crossed your mind.
That thought alone was enough to make your pulse race harder. One sound, one sigh too loud, and he'd heard you. The farmhouse was old. The wood creaked with the slightest shift. The walls were thin, not made to keep secrets.
You squeezed your eyes shut again, hand still moving against your slick heat, slower now, more purposeful. You imagined how his hand might replace yours, rough from typing all day, sure in its touch. Not teasing. Not hesitant. Like he knew what you needed before you even asked.
The ache grew sharper. Your thighs tightened as your hand moved faster, chasing that release you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly. Your breath came out in short gasps now, quiet, but desperate. One hand pressed against your mouth out of instinct, muffling a soft moan as pleasure spread out in waves, warm and all-consuming.
When it finally released you, your body softened with a quiver, sweat cooling on your skin. Your thighs twitched. Your lip throbbed where you’d bitten it.
Lying there in the dark, you blinked up at the ceiling, heart still stuttering in your chest. It took some moment for your breathing to go back to normal, but you couldn't help thinking this wasn't enough. It had felt amazing, but your body craved more. Almost like Clark had put you in a trance, with his easy charm and dimpled smile.
Shaking your head, you got up when it all became too much. Slipping your shirt back on in haste, you quietly padded toward the door. Maybe some cold water would cool your flushed skin, maybe those herbal pills you always kept on hand would finally lull your mind to sleep.
Carefully, you cracked the door open, only to freeze when the door across the hall opened at the exact same time. Clark.
He looked, disheveled. Not just sleep-rumpled, but wrecked.
His hair was a wild mess, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his cheeks tinged pink, and his glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, as though he’d thrown them on in a hurry. His eyes widened when he saw you, surprised.
Caught. Which was odd. He always seemed to hear you coming.
The hallway was silent, save for the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the unmistakable sound of his heavy, uneven breathing. His shirt clung to his chest like he’d just worked up a sweat. Or hadn’t bothered to redress completely. Your gaze dropped for the briefest second, just a flicker, and then back to his face.
“Are you okay?” you whispered, careful not to wake his parents.
Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, clearly caught off guard. Not like him at all.“Uh, yeah. Just need to hum… use the bathroom.” His voice was low, almost hoarse.
You nodded, mirroring his awkwardness. The silence stretched a beat too long before your eyes drifted up to meet his, and not before you noticed the quick flick of his gaze. From your face, down to the outline of your breasts under your tank top then back up, almost too fast to catch.
Almost.
“Are you okay?” he asked next, his voice gentler now. Too soft. Too intimate.
“Yeah. Just… thirsty.” You meant water, but the way your eyes lingered on the way his shirt stretched around his arms told a different story. You were definitely thirsty. But for what, exactly, well, that answer was becoming harder to ignore.
“Okay,” he said after a pause, clearing his throat like he was trying to reset the tension.
“Okay,” you echoed, the word falling flat between you.
And then, without another glance, you both turned and hurried in opposite directions, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hall like the aftershock of something neither of you were ready to name.
Hastily making your way back to your room, you caught the soft glow of the bathroom light still spilling into the hallway. The door was closed. Still.
You didn’t linger. You didn’t want to know what he was doing in there.
The conversation, or whatever that awkward exchange had been, was still playing on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with fresh waves of secondhand embarrassment. The silence, the stolen glances, the heat.
You shut your bedroom door behind you with a quiet click, leaning back against it for a second. No way. He couldn't have been doing what you thought he had been doing…
Right?
And yet, the look on his face. His breathing. His flushed cheeks. The way his hand had been gripping the doorframe like he needed it to stay upright.
Fuck. You were getting bothered again.
You huffed out a breath, forcing yourself to focus, to move. Rummaging through your bag, you searched for the herbal pills that usually helped you sleep. Something, anything, to quiet your mind and body.
But instead of the soft bottle, your fingers brushed against something small and metallic. Frowning, you pulled it out. A sharp breath escaped your lips.
An old USB drive. That USB drive.
The one where you had dumped every scrap of evidence you found about Project Superman. All of it. The hidden files, the encrypted memos, the off-the-record lab reports. The pictures. Proof of what your brother had done. What he was doing. You had told yourself it was just leverage. A safety net. Something to keep in your back pocket if Lex ever turned on you.
But you had never planned to use it. Not really. You had been too scared. Too loyal. Too broken. Your fingers curled tight around the metal. It dug into your palm, grounding you in the now.
From beyond your door, you heard his shut, soft and final. Clark.
Superman had told you Clark could help, and you had trusted the metahuman. It had felt scary at that time, diving into the unknown.
But now? Now it was time to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop letting fear write your story.
It was time to trust Clark Kent.
For real.
“Here,” you said, slamming the USB drive onto the dining table, the same table that had become Clark’s makeshift desk over the past few days. “That’s everything you need to take Lex down.”
You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.
Spinning on your heel, you headed for the door, where Jonathan was already waiting outside by the old truck. You were grateful he hadn’t come in to fetch you. Grateful you could escape before the weight of what you’d just done caught up to you.
The storm was coming. Jonathan had said so the night before at dinner, heavy wind, maybe even hail. There was work to do. Crops to secure. Cattle to shelter. It was the kind of hard, honest labor that demanded your full attention. The perfect distraction from the bomb you’d just dropped.
Clark had offered to help, of course, but his father had waved him off with a quiet look and a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got it,” he’d said. “Besides, I think she wants to help.”
And you had.. Especially now.
Your hands still felt shaky from what you’d done, but the physical work steadied you. You had given Clark everything he needed. If he used it, if it worked, Lex could finally be exposed. Stripped of his power. Stopped.
But if Lex caught wind of it before justice came? If he vanished into the shadows with all his money, influence, and contingency plans? You’d be left to face the consequences alone. There’d be no more running. No more hiding.
Nothing in those documents mentioned your name. You weren’t cited, not even once. And that was good, because with a decent lawyer, you could walk away from this without consequences. It wasn’t the justice system you feared. It was your brother’s power.
And the unknown future.
What would you do, once Lex was behind bars? His downfall meant the end of your job. With a scandal of this scale, no reputable firm would want your name anywhere near their letterhead. That thought had twisted your stomach with dread before you’d handed Clark the USB. But still, you’d done it.
It was the right thing to do. You’d worry about the fallout later. When Lex was finally out of your life.
“Clark told us you was some kinda lawyer.” Jonathan said, getting you out of your mind. His tone easy but with something thoughtful behind it. Like an idea was forming.
You let out a soft snort, raising your eyebrows. “Technically, yeah. Got the diploma to prove it. Just haven’t done a whole lot of actual lawyering.” You tried to joke, but it came out a little too close to the truth. A little too heavy.
“I hate to ask, but…” He trailed off, the pain in his eyes surprising you.
It never failed to catch you off guard, how kind the Kents were. Genuinely human in a way that felt untouched by the kind of darkness you’d grown used to. As if tragedy had knocked but never found a way in.
“You can ask me anything, Mr. Kent. Really,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with something close to gratitude. If it mattered to him, then it mattered to you.
"You see, there’s this young man we hire every spring and summer to help out around the farm," Jonathan began, his eyes drifting toward the horizon instead of meeting yours. "There’s just too much work for the two of us sometimes, you know?"
You nodded gently, letting him continue at his own pace.
"He’s Mexican. Not many folks around here wanna do farm work anymore, not like the old days. But he’s a good kid, real good. Kind with the animals, never complains, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Works hard. Honest."
Jonathan’s voice tightened slightly, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.
"He’s got a heart of gold, that one. But…" he hesitated again, rubbing a weathered hand across the back of his neck. "His papers aren’t exactly in order. And now, well, someone’s been sniffing around town asking questions."
He finally looked at you, something quietly desperate in his eyes. "I know it’s not your job, and you’ve already got so much on your plate. But I thought… maybe you could help him. Just take a look. Talk to him. Tell us what we should do."
For some reason, the way he spoke, with such genuine care for this young man, and the quiet embarrassment in asking for help, brought tears to your eyes. It hit you then : no one had ever cared for you like this. Not selflessly. Not without expecting something in return. Not the way the Kents cared about people.
"Of course I’ll help," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as a single tear slipped down your cheek.
You hadn’t expected it, but Jonathan gently pulled you into a warm, fatherly hug. It had been so long since someone held you like that, like you were precious, like you mattered. Like someone truly cared.
You’d only known him for about a week, but somehow, he already treated you like family. Like someone worth trusting.
If he had known you before all of this, back when you were still hiding behind sharp suits and sharper lies, you were certain he would’ve seen you as something else entirely. Cold. Ruthless. Maybe even a monster.
But now, melting into his embrace, you let yourself feel. Really feel. A few tears slipped free, but you didn’t hide them. Not this time. Because in that moment, you weren’t being judged. You weren’t being pitied.
You were just appreciated.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of hard but honest work. The cows were restless, as if they could sense the approaching storm. The mothers stuck close to their calves, letting out low, warning moos every time you got too near. Milking them had been a challenge, they weren’t having it, but you weren’t about to leave them full and aching until tomorrow. They didn’t deserve that kind of discomfort.
By the time the sun began to set, dark clouds had already taken over the sky. The wind howled across the fields, fierce and fast. Walking back toward the house felt like trying to walk through a hurricane, it tugged at your clothes, your hair, nearly lifting you off your feet.
You laughed despite yourself, catching sight of Martha running after the last few chickens, ushering them into the coop and locking it up tight for the night.
But the moment you stepped into the house, the laughter drained from your face.
There he was, Clark Kent, zipping up a bag.
He looked up, almost like he’d sensed your presence. His brows furrowed when he caught the look on your face.
“What you gave me…” he began, carefully, as if trying not to startle you. Or say the wrong thing. “I can’t do this alone. It’s too much. We only get one shot at this, and I can’t afford to screw it up. Not if it means you’ll get hurt.”
“You’re leaving?” you asked quietly, eyes flicking from the bag back to his face. He nodded. Your gaze shifted to the storm now raging outside. “But… the storm.”
“It’ll hit in a few hours. I’ll be out of Kansas by then,” he said gently, even though the thunder was already rumbling in the distance. His voice was soft, reassuring, but you could see the tension in his jaw. “Don’t worry about me.”
You could tell he wasn’t lying, but he was definitely hiding something. Biting your lip, you nodded gently, unsure of what to say. The week you’d spent here had been one of the best of your life. And it wasn’t just because of the gentle kindness of his parents, it was because of him.
What you’d once assumed was a cocky reporter, willing to do anything for a front-page story, turned out to be the sweetest, kindest man you’d ever met. He was a bit goofy, hopelessly nerdy about certain topics, but never once did he mock anyone. Never once did he act like he knew better, or like he was above the people around him. He believed, truly believed, that there was still good in the world.
Even in you.
And somehow, through his gentle patience and quiet presence, he made you feel at home. He never pushed. Never demanded answers about your brother, even though you’d told Superman you would share what you knew.
Clark had just waited. With warmth. With humour. With dimpled smiles. With a softness that felt like sunlight after too many years in the cold. He had been patient. Kind. Funny. And so incredibly sweet.
And you were only realising it now, just as it was ending.
Clark leaving Smallville meant your brother was going to be exposed. It meant that soon, you’d either be safe to return to Metropolis and try to start over… or you’d have to disappear forever, vanish before Lex could find you.
Either way, Clark didn’t belong in either version of that future. He wouldn’t be part of your life.
And that broke your heart. This wasn’t just him leaving town. This was goodbye.
A forever kind of goodbye.
The weight of that truth hit you hard, and tears slid silently down your cheeks before you could stop them. It felt unfair, the way you were reacting. Selfish, even.
Because he was doing the right thing. The brave thing. The thing you had once been too afraid to do. And you? You were no one to him. Just a stranger he’d offered a hand to while you were drowning. That’s what you had told yourself, what you had clung to in the quiet moments to keep from hoping too much.
But now you realized, it was more than that. He made you feel warm. He made you feel safe. Like maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair. Like maybe you deserved more than just survival. And now he was walking out the door, carrying all of that with him.
"Hey," Clark said, just above a whisper, stepping toward you with that familiar gentleness that made your chest ache. "When I come back, all of this will be over. We're going to do things right. He won’t get away. I promise."
God. The gentle soul he was.
He thought the tears were from fear, fear of what was coming, fear of retaliation, of the unknown. And sure, part of you was scared. But the real reason your heart was breaking was something else entirely. It made no sense.
You’d truly known him for a week. Seven days.
It was rushed. Unreasonable. Too much, too fast. And yet, in that short time, he had looked at you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just Lex Luthor’s sister or some tainted shadow of a woman walking through her own life. He made you laugh. He made you feel seen.
Not like your parents ever had. Not like Lex ever could. Not even the men you’d let close before, who saw only your face or your name, but never you.
Here, in this small safe heaven, you had been yourself. Your real self.
You had laughed. Joked. Talked until midnight with people who didn’t want anything from you. You had gossiped in the kitchen and helped mend fences. You had been happy. In just a small, fleeting week.
And now he was leaving. And your heart didn’t know how to hold itself together.
Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping around him as best you could, given how much taller he was. His arms instinctively closed around you, strong and warm, pulling you into the safety of his chest.
Behind you, the back door creaked open, followed by a small gasp of surprise, then the quiet click of it shutting again. Silence settled in the room, thick and still. You and Clark stood alone in the living room, though you could feel the eyes watching from outside. His parents. They were giving you this moment.
A soft, genuine smile tugged at your lips. They truly loved their son.
His body felt strangely familiar. Like you’d stood here before, wrapped in this exact embrace. A strange, aching déjà vu pulled at your chest. A memory you couldn't place. A feeling you couldn't explain. As if, somehow, you had been here already.
Breaking the hug, you noticed the rosy tint on his ears, his cheeks flushed to match. You could feel the heat on your own face, knowing you weren’t any better.
“Thank you, Clark,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Truly.”
Then, with the last bit of courage you had left, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
You owed him more than words could say. And with time, you hoped you’d find a way to give it back, to him, and to his parents.
With Clark gone, the days felt a little grimmer.
You still helped around the farm, but those long afternoons spent quietly sharing space with him were over. You didn’t want to intrude on Martha and Jonathan’s intimate moments either, they’d earned their peace. So, you found yourself alone again. But somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. You were starting to appreciate yourself again and even the silence. The thoughts that once plagued you were mostly quiet now.
It helped that Jonathan brought Luis around not long after Clark left. He hadn’t been lying, Luis was just a kid, and a very sweet one at that. He came with all his paperwork, every document and paychecks he’d received. You went through them all, piece by piece.
Helping him felt good. It felt right. Like this was what you were always meant to do. This was why you went to law school. Not to make the rich richer, but to help people. To do good. To give back.
Word spread quickly that the Kents were housing a lawyer willing to help. Soon, people were showing up daily, asking for guidance, hoping not to lose their homes, or their jobs, or custody of their children. And when Luis returned one day, clutching his official American papers, the news travelled like wildfire.
After that, your days on the farm were done. You no longer had time to milk cows or fix fences. But Jonathan and Martha never said a word. They were just happy you were helping people, like family did.
Whatever slow moments you had, you spent them scrolling the Daily Planet website, waiting. Hoping to see a big article with Clark’s name under it. But it never happened.
Not after a few days.
Not after a week.
Not after a month.
There was so much on that USB key, and you knew it was a one-shot deal, they couldn’t afford to mess this up. Still, you had hoped the fallout would be quick. You loved the farm, but you longed to be back in the city. Now that you understood how powerful you could be when you did your job right, there were so many people in Metropolis you wanted to help.
Clark texted every few days. He told you things were going well, that they were making progress at the Daily Planet. He asked how you were doing, and he said he was proud of what you were accomplishing, his Ma told him all about it. Every little texts of his filled you with warmth.
Sitting down on the couch, you let yourself enjoy a rare moment of peace before your next appointment arrived. Appointment, that word still made you smile. Back at LuthorCorp, you’d never taken appointments. Everything had been done through layers of emails, assistants, and pressure. Nothing like this.
Cradling your tea, you watched the winter sunlight settle across the fields, December leaving its quiet trace on the farm. The wind outside shook the windows lightly, and the kettle still hissed faintly in the kitchen.
You were lost in the calm until Martha’s voice called your name from down the hall. Looking up, you saw her leaning slightly around the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Would you mind grabbing Clark’s radio from his room? The one in the kitchen finally gave up.”
“Of course,” you said with a soft smile, rising to your feet.
You had never actually stepped into Clark’s room before. You’d only caught glimpses through a half-open door when he was still home. It felt personal. Like you were trespassing on something private. But you pushed the feeling aside and walked in carefully, quietly.
His room smelled faintly of cedar and something else, something familiar. The walls were lined with old posters, framed articles, photographs of the Kents, and a few hard-earned trophies from another life.
Then you spotted the radio near the window.
Just as you stepped toward it, something red caught your eye, half-hidden behind the bookshelf, draped carelessly like someone had shoved it there in a hurry. You squinted, drawn to it by instinct. Your fingers reached out, brushing over the fabric. It was soft, unnaturally smooth almost and familiar.
You tugged gently, freeing the red cloth from where it had been wedged. And then you saw it, fully.
Superman's cape.
You gasped, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your lips as your hand tightened around the fabric. Of course. It all made sense now.
Why his body had felt familiar. Why he was never tired, no matter how long the days stretched. Why Superman had said Clark could help. Why Clark looked at you with such real concern, as if he knew your pain firsthand.
Your thoughts spiralled, the weight of the truth crashing down on you like a wave.
Then, another gasp, loud and sharp, cut through your haze. Followed by Martha’s voice, shouting your name.
Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the kitchen, but froze in the living room. The television was on, the screen glowing bright. Martha and Jonathan were standing still, their eyes wide, glistening with tears they hadn’t yet let fall.
Your gaze followed theirs to the screen.
Lex Luthor Arrested After Daily Planet Accuses Him of Human Trafficking and Other Crimes
That was the headline. Everything stopped. They did it.
You were free.
Home. Finally.
It felt strange to be back.
Clark hadn’t been able to return to Kansas, but he had booked you a flight to Metropolis, along with a taxi waiting at the airport. You knew why. It was all over the news. Superman had been needed.
Lex hadn’t gone down quietly. His arrest had made headlines around the world, but it was the footage of Superman, restraining him, shielding civilians from his outbursts, that had dominated every screen. There was no way Clark could just vanish back to the quiet of Smallville right now.
Your penthouse hadn’t changed. It was still cold. Still too quiet. Still not home.
You’d taken a long shower, trying to wash away the dust of the farm, the small guilt of having turned your back on your own blood. Your old phone, finally charged again, buzzed relentlessly with texts, missed calls, emails, hundreds of them. From old colleagues, contacts, reporters. People wanting answers, or wanting to know if you were okay. Or worse, if you were complicit.
You wandered through the apartment slowly, your eyes catching every tiny detail. It had been searched. Meticulously so, almost invisible. But you knew. You felt it. Drawers slightly off, a coat pocket turned the wrong way, your files just a touch out of alignment. Lex must have sent someone after you disappeared.
You were so focused, checking every corner, scanning every surface for hidden mics or cameras, that you didn’t notice the figure landing silently on your balcony.
The metahuman stood there quietly at first, watching you. Admiring you. He felt a pang of guilt. You clearly had no idea he was there yet, no idea he’d come. You were barely dressed, just an oversized shirt draped over your body, brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs bare. It looked like you had been ready to call it a night. He couldn't blame you, it was late, and he had meant to arrive earlier. But the world had other plans, and so had Lex.
Still, there you were, moving with a quiet intensity, checking corners and closets. Clearly worried. Clearly unsettled. You weren’t just back in Metropolis, you were back in enemy territory. You were searching for anything Lex might have left behind.
Understanding immediately, he activated his X-ray vision, scanning the walls, shelves, electronics. Nothing. No bugs, no hidden cameras. You were safe. Satisfied, he let out a soft breath.
You jumped when you heard the knock on the glass door behind you. But the moment your eyes found him, standing tall in the red and blue, your tension melted into a smile.
Superman. Clark.
And now that you knew, they were one and the same, it was impossible not to see it. How had you missed it? The same dark hair, the same kind, thoughtful eyes. The same dimpled smile that made your stomach flutter.
You were sure of only one thing in that moment, you were safe now.
Rushing to the door, you threw it open without hesitation, and then threw yourself into his arms. He caught you instantly, as if it was second nature. As if he had been waiting for that exact moment, arms open just for you.
It felt strange to feel this way again, relieved, happy, safe. Relaxed.
You had almost forgotten what that felt like. Your days had long been filled with fatigue, stress, and a dull kind of numbness that clung to your skin like a second layer. Even back in Smallville, where the quiet and the kindness had started to peel it away, it had still lingered, dormant, but ever-present.
But right now, here in Superman’s arms? It was gone. There was only warmth. Strength. And the overwhelming calm that came from knowing, finally, that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.
“You did it,” you whispered, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Constant. Comforting.
“I didn’t do anything,” he replied softly, humble as ever. “It was all you… and Clark.”
That made you laugh, a soft, breathy sound muffled against him. Looking up, you tilted your head back, stretching to meet his gaze as he leaned down slightly.
His eyes.
God, those eyes.
An endless ocean of blue, warm, gentle, filled with hope and that quiet, unwavering kindness. The same eyes you’d seen every day in Smallville. The same eyes that watched you over a cup of coffee. That had crinkled with laughter when you made some dumb joke.
You could see it so clearly now.
Deciding to play along with his little charade, you smiled, something soft and knowing curling at the corners of your lips.
“Yeah, I haven’t seen Clark yet,” you said sweetly, feigning innocence as your gaze stayed locked with his. “You think he’ll be around soon?”
“He might be busy dealing with the fallout from the article,” Superman said, his voice steady but his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he was trying to find an exit that didn’t exist. “But I’m sure he’ll text you soon.”
“Hmm, yeah,” you murmured, finally stepping out of the embrace, letting your hands slide slowly away from him. The warmth lingered, but your tone had taken a teasing edge. “You two seem real close, aye?”
His eyes flicked to yours, briefly amused, mostly flustered.
You folded your arms across your chest, tilting your head with one brow arched. “I mean, the way you talk about him… how you said he could help me, that he could be trusted. It’s almost like you’re two sides of the same coin.”
He let out a breath of a laugh, nervous, uncertain. “We get along well.”
You hummed at his answer, the corner of your mouth curving into a teasing smirk. “And physically, you’re very similar,” you added, your tone playfully innocent. “Same height, same build, same hair, same eyes… same cute, dimpled smile. Someone might even say you’re the same person.”
Superman opened his mouth, but no words came out. You caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by something that looked an awful lot like resignation.
“And it’s strange,” you went on, stepping forward just slightly, “that Clark Kent is the only reporter who’s ever interviewed you. Yet… there are no pictures of the two of you together? It’s almost like no one’s ever seen you in the same place at the same time.”
His jaw twitched, barely. But you caught it.
A beat passed, tense, heavy with unspoken truths. His cape fluttered gently in the breeze drifting in from the balcony, but he didn’t move. He just watched you with those painfully familiar eyes.
“Coincidence,” he said finally, though not even he sounded convinced.
“Mmhmm.” You arched your eyebrow higher, letting the silence speak louder than your words. He shifted, just slightly, and ran a hand behind his neck, Clark’s tell. The exact nervous habit you’d seen a couple of times before.
“Yeah, must be,” you added, nonchalant, turning back toward the open window.
Behind you, you heard a soft sigh, the kind that sounded suspiciously like relief. It brought a slow, wicked smile to your lips. He didn't think you were that clueless, did he?
“Oh, and it’s also just a coincidence that Clark Kent happened to have Superman’s cape tucked away in his old bedroom?” you said over your shoulder, turning around just in time to catch the relief drain from his face.
He closed his eyes, the smallest groan escaping him, then shook his head with a tight, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
He opened his eyes again, no glasses now, no disguise, and for the first time, he let you really see him. Not as Superman. Not as Clark Kent. Just him.
“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said softly, almost embarrassed.
You shrugged, your smile still lingering. “You left it in plain sight.”
“It was behind a bookshelf.” He deadpanned.
"Blame your mom," you replied quickly, raising your hand in defence. "She's the one that send me in your room."
That earned a quiet laugh from him, but there was a nervous energy underneath it. You could see the vulnerability now, the way he stood slightly straighter, like bracing for impact.
“I just knew there was something so familiar about the two of you,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to fish for more answers. “I just couldn’t figure out what.”
“It’s the glasses,” he admitted with a sigh. “They’re designed to distort facial recognition, subtle enough to confuse the brain, make it hard to fully picture my face. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific.”
“They look cute,” you admitted with a teasing smile. “Almost as cute as the guy wearing them.”
You were shooting your shot. If not now, then when? Your heart thundered in your chest, terrified he might just turn and leaven, vanish off your balcony and out of your life.
His eyes snapped to yours, darker now, swimming with an emotion you didn’t dare name. “Your heart…” he whispered, taking in a deep breath like he was trying to calm his own.
Dread crashed over you. He could hear it. He could hear your heart. He had heard you. Oh no.
Oh fuck.
You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth as your eyes went wide with embarrassment. The realisation dawned on his face, and with it, a slow, smug grin that turned him from sweet and sincere to infuriating.
“Oh yeah,” he said, sniffing lightly, voice dropping into something teasing and low. “I heard that, too.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks and down your neck. You opened your mouth, trying to come up with an explanation, but nothing came. What could you say? That his intelligence had turned you on so badly you ended up touching yourself? Yeah, no. That definitely wouldn’t do.
Trying to save face, and maybe flip the power dynamic, you raised your chin and replied, voice just as smug, “Well, I seem to remember you looked pretty bothered yourself.”
That shut him up.
The grin faded, laughter dying in his throat. His eyes locked on yours, a different kind of tension suddenly filling the space between you. The playful air cracked into something heavier, charged, as if the truth had landed and neither of you knew what to do with it.
The atmosphere shifted instantly, thickening with unspoken desire.
“It was hard not to be when you sounded so sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even deeper, his dark eyes locked on yours. You caught the quick gulp, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, threatening to burst.
He must have heard it too.
Moving closer with careful intention, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted, his soft hands cupped your cheek. Then, without warning, his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding.
The sudden contrast of emotions hit you like a whip.
Your breath hitched as his lips pressed firmly against yours, the heat of the kiss melting away all your worries, that had clung to you for so long. His hand moved gently from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if you belonged there, like this was where you were meant to be.
For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, his warmth, his steady heartbeat beneath your palm, the taste of him lingering on your lips. You felt the tension in your body unravel, replaced by a fierce, aching need.
Taking hold of his suit, you gently tugged him toward the inside of your flat, walking backward without breaking the kiss. You could only hope nothing got knocked over, though honestly, you wouldn't have cared. You’d burn the whole damn place down if it meant keeping his lips on yours for even a moment longer.
Once inside, the warmth of his body, combined with the cozy heat of the apartment, sent shivers cascading down your spine. You melted deeper into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his suit. His lips were everything you had imagined, soft, warm, deliberate. Not rushed or demanding, just present. As if he had all the time in the world for you.
A quiet moan slipped past your lips at the realization, and he took that as his invitation. His tongue brushed gently against yours, slow and exploratory, dancing in a rhythm that left your knees weak.
Without breaking the kiss, he slid his arms beneath your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively, your hands finding their way into his hair.
Of course, you were just about to make some self-deprecating comment about your weight, some old habit, a leftover from past lovers who made you feel too much. And then you remembered who he was.
This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t like them.
This was Superman, a man who could lift buildings, outrun sound, and fly through storms. Your soft stomach, your thick thighs, your so-called imperfections, none of it could possibly scare him.
The thought hit you all at once, and something in you gave in.
You deepened the kiss with renewed intensity, your fingers threading deeper into his hair. Your thighs instinctively tried to clench for some friction, to ease the growing ache between your legs, but you were only met with the hard wall of his body. Solid. Unyielding.
You whimpered softly in frustration, which only made him smile against your lips. That damn dimple again. One of his hands slid up your spine, the other under your thigh, holding you so effortlessly close it made your heart stutter.
Looking up quickly, he returned his gaze to you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. Before you could ask anything, or make some kind of comment, you felt your stomach drop softly. The floor was no longer under your feet. You were floating. Held securely in his arms, Clark flew the both of you gently upstairs, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Easier than taking the stairs, apparently.
Looking down, you felt the same flutter of excitement you’d had the first time you fell off the roof, minus the adrenaline spike. Flying felt like freedom. Like being weightless, untouchable. If you were him, you’d never stop. You’d stay up there forever.
He landed gently just in front of your bedroom door. You expected him to set you down, maybe let you walk in on your own, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes glazed over for a second, scanning the room with silent intensity. You realized he was checking everything.
When his gaze finally settled back on yours, it had softened again. “No cameras. No bugs. Nothing,” he said, his voice low, reassuring.
Then his lips were back on yours, and he pushed the door open with his foot like he belonged there, like this was already his home, too.
The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it. All you could focus on was the way his hands gripped you, firm, but gentle. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he was still holding back.
You didn’t want him to.
Still holding you in his arms, he leaned down, your back finding the soft comfort of your mattress as he settled above you. His weight didn’t crush, it grounded. A reminder that this wasn’t a dream. That he was here. With you. Wanting you.
His lips found your neck, slow, deliberate, teasing, sending warm shivers down your spine. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. His breath caught at the contact, lips trailing lower, skimming across your collarbone with featherlight grace.
His hands, warm and sure, slipped beneath your shirt. They explored the curve of your thighs, his touch loving and careful, before gliding higher. He bypassed the most sensitive place between your legs with a restraint that made your breath hitch, instead resting his palms on your stomach. He kneaded the soft flesh there gently, almost like a cat finding comfort, as if he wanted to memorise every inch of you.
All the while, his lips stayed at your throat, moving down, then returning to the beat of your pulse like it was calling to him. Drawn to it. To you.
Craving more, you shifted your weight and flipped the two of you over. You knew he let you. With his strength, he could’ve taken control in an instant, pinned you down with barely a thought, but he didn’t. He let you lead, and the heat that flooded your core at that realization was overwhelming. You were already soaked, and he’d barely touched you.
You leaned down to kiss his neck, what little you could reach, your lips grazing over warm skin and the edge of his jaw. His breath caught, just slightly, and you grinned against him. Fingers fumbling, you tugged at the edge of his suit, trying to find a seam, a signal that it could come off. Was he even wearing anything underneath? The material felt barely there, sleek, smooth, almost too easy to remove.
Before your mind could spiral any further, his soft chuckle pulled you back. With a gentle but firm push, he shifted you off him and stood. Your breath hitched as he made quick work of the suit, fluid, practiced movements, and you couldn’t look away.
You clenched your thighs instinctively, trying to ease the pulsing need between your legs, but it only made the ache worse. Watching him undress, knowing what was coming, had your entire body lit up with anticipation.
He was, indeed, completely naked beneath the suit. His cock stood fully hard, pressed against the firm plane of his stomach, practically begging for attention. You licked your lips, unable to tear your gaze away. It was beautiful, clearly above average in size, with thick veins tracing along its shaft. A bead of precum had already gathered at the flushed, angry-red tip, taunting you. Carefully trimmed hair sat nicely on top on it all.
Clark noticed the look in your eyes, but he didn’t take it for granted. As he stepped toward the bed, clearly intending to sit down beside you, your hands on his hips stopped him. You lowered yourself onto your haunches, settling near the edge of the bed.
Your breathing had already quickened, your heart pounding unnaturally fast. Still, your eyes remained fixed on his arousal, mesmerised. Then soft fingers tipped your chin upward, gently guiding your gaze to meet his.
Kind blue eyes stared back into yours.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine care. He wanted you to know this wasn’t expected, he wouldn’t cross any lines.
“I want to…” you whispered, leaning closer. You pressed a soft kiss to his tip. “You’ve been so good to me.” Another kiss. “So patient… so helpful.” A gentle lick followed. “I just want to say thank you.” Another slow, deliberate lick.
The sound he let out in response might have been the most perfect thing you'd ever heard.
His breath hitched, chest rising sharply as your tongue teased him again, a little more boldly this time. The tension in his thighs was unmistakable, muscles flexing under your hands where they still rested on his hips. Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, just like he had before.
Your lips wrapped gently around the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. A soft hum escaped your throat at the heat and weight of him. He groaned, low, rough, and utterly unguarded, and your whole body reacted to the sound, warmth pooling deep in your core.
You answered him by taking him deeper, slowly, savouring every inch as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. He was thick, and the way he filled you was dizzying. You used your hands to steady yourself, one gripping his thigh, the other gently stroking what you couldn’t take yet.
Clark’s hand remained at the back of your head, not guiding, not insisting, just there, his fingers threading tenderly through your hair. It wasn’t just a touch, it was a silent kind of worship. His palm was warm, soft as it caressed your scalp, and the sensation sent a fresh rush of heat surging through you. You could feel it, wetness gathering again in your panties, your body aching with want.
You found a steady rhythm, working him with your mouth and hand in perfect coordination, slow, deliberate, controlled. Your tongue swirled around the head each time you rose up, then slid back down with delicious pressure, your hand stroking what your lips couldn’t reach. His hips twitched slightly, and you could feel the restraint in him, the way he was holding himself back.
As your confidence grew, so did your need. The hand that had rested against his hip slid downward, past your stomach, over your waistband, slipping beneath the hem of your panties. The moment your fingers brushed your clit, a quiet moan vibrated from your throat and against him, making his body shudder in response.
You were soaked. Every nerve ending felt electrified, your clit pulsing and swollen with need. You circled it gently, teasing yourself as you sucked him a little deeper. The contrast, his weight in your mouth, your fingers pressing into your own heat, felt like heaven. Your thighs clenched instinctively, chasing the pleasure building inside you.
Clark groaned above you, his voice hoarse, laced with disbelief and pleasure. His moans and grunts grew louder, more desperate, as you gradually took him deeper, your throat adjusting to him with every pass. Looking up at him through tear-filled lashes, you caught the moment his gaze dropped to yours. His cock twitched violently in your mouth, and his head flew back with a broken, helpless whine.
The sound made you moan around him, low and needy, sending another ripple of sensation through his body. He had to love the sight. And honestly, so did you.
He was a mess. Sweat clung to his chest, dampening the dark hair there, his neck flushed, cheeks glowing, ears pink with heat. He looked utterly wrecked, just like he had that night at the farm.
The memory made your thighs clench, need spiraling higher. The wetness between your fingers had grown slicker, hotter. You couldn’t stop now, not with the way your body was pulsing for release.
You rubbed faster, chasing it, matching the rhythm of your mouth around him, both of you slipping closer and closer to the edge. His hands gripped your shoulders suddenly, stopping your movement.
“You’re gonna make me—” But the rest of the words were swallowed by a guttural moan as his hips involuntarily bucked forward. His control was fracturing, and you loved it.
“Come here,” he groaned as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The sudden absence made you whimper, but the sound was quickly silenced by his lips crashing onto yours.
You instinctively tried to turn away, after all, you’d just had him in your mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. His kiss was fierce, messy, his tongue forcing its way between your lips like he needed to taste himself on you.
Pushing you back onto the bed, he climbed over you, his body radiating heat. Without hesitation, with a sharp tug, your shirt was torn apart, ripped down the middle like it was nothing. Your panties followed, shredded in his hands, leaving you gasping beneath him.
You gasped, staring down at the wreckage of your clothes, your chest heaving, before his mouth found your skin again. Hot and wet, his lips closed around one nipple while his hand claimed the other, squeezing and teasing in perfect rhythm.
A moan escaped you, hips grinding up instinctively, desperate for friction. Sensing your need, Clark shifted and pressed one of his thick thighs between your legs. The pressure was immediate and perfect. You cried out, rubbing yourself against the strong muscle, your slickness already coating his skin. He groaned against your chest, the sound sending shivers through you.
Clark groaned into your chest, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and raw. "Doing so good."
Then he was back on your lips, kissing you fiercely. The kiss was messy, teeth occasionally knocking together, but it felt like the most electric moment you’d ever lived. His warmth pressed against you, solid and unyielding, as he shifted some of his weight onto you, pinning you gently but firmly against the mattress. Locked against him, breath mingling, your bodies pressed tight in an intoxicating, perfect embrace.
With a particularly hard thrust of your hips against his, you begged, “Please, Clark.”
His mouth brushed against yours as he laughed softly, a light, breathy sound that cut off the moment your warm hand closed around his cock. You tried to guide him toward your entrance, but your movements were rushed and a bit awkward, causing him to press against your sensitive clit. The sharp sensation made you bite down hard on Clark’s shoulder.
“Okay, okay…” he said calmly, as if your teeth sinking into his skin barely registered. Gently shooing your hand away, he replaced it with his own larger one.
His fingers nudged at your entrance with care, waiting patiently. Waiting for you to look up, to meet his gaze, to show him you truly wanted this, wanted him.
Your eyes met his, wide and shining with need. The vulnerability there made his gaze soften even more, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire that made your heart skip.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and gentle, as if asking permission without pressure. This filled you with warmth.
You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”
With that, he pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to every new sensation. You gasped softly, fingers clutching at the sheets as the fullness spread inside you, warm and deep.
When he was fully inside, he paused, resting his forehead against yours again. “You feel—,” he whined, his voice thick with emotion, out of breath. "Perfect. So warm."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Please move.” You moaned in his ears.
He began to move, slow, steady, a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. Each thrust was deliberate, filled with both passion and care. Your bodies moved together as if they were made for this moment, for each other.
His movements grew more confident, a little rougher but still measured, as if he was memorising every reaction, every shiver that ran through your body. You clung to him, nails digging lightly into his back, needing to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure built inside you. He never stopped kissing you, in between moans and grunts.
Clark’s breath was ragged now, lips brushing the curve of your jaw with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice thick with need.
You pressed your forehead against his, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop. Please.”
He responded by picking up the pace, hips rolling with a deeper, more urgent rhythm. Your body answered instantly, every nerve ending on fire, every touch setting off sparks. The heat between you built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until your breath hitched and your chest trembled. Clark’s hand slid down your side, slipping between you to find your clit, circling it with gentle, insistent pressure.
The combination, his body moving inside you, his fingers teasing you, was almost unbearable. You cried out, clutching him tighter, your body arching up to meet his.
“Clark…” you gasped, voice thick with need.
You could feel his cock twitching inside you with every clench of your cunt. You were both so close to the edge, the sensation overwhelming. You could count on one hand the number of times a guy had made you come through penetration alone, and Clark was dangerously close to that milestone. And this was the first time he was fucking you.
His fingers never stopped moving on your clit, perfectly synchronised with his heavy thrusts. What finally pushed you over the edge was the sound of his deep voice grunting in your ear as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. He was whispering your name, telling you how good you felt, how warm you were, how perfect.
Then he said something that was almost too much to bear.
“I’ve been wanting you since I saw you, so pretty, at the farm,” he whined, struggling to hold back his release. “A soft city girl like you, all pretty on my family’s farm… I couldn’t help thinking this was the—” He stopped himself with a filthy moan. “The prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”
That broke something inside you. Knowing he had been dreaming about you just as much as you had about him made everything shatter. Scratching down his back, your own body arching, you let it all go.
Your body trembled as the waves of release crashed over you, every nerve ending alight with fire. Clark didn’t pull away; instead, he held you tighter, his own breath hitching as he followed you over the edge.
A desperate moan left Clark's lips. His hips stuttered, movements faltering as he tensed inside you, the warmth of his release flooding deep. You felt the mix of him and yourself, a messy, intimate testament to the moment you’d just shared.
Before he could crush you beneath his weight, he quickly rolled onto his back, pulling you flush against him. Your body pressed warmly against his, his softening length still nestled inside you. The shift made you instinctively clench around him, and he responded with a low, warning groan.
“Sorry…” you murmured, laughing softly.
Looking up, you smiled gently, and he was already watching you.
It felt strange.
Just a few months ago, you’d hated this man. Not really him, but everything he stood for. The Daily Planet. The goodness. The righteousness. The morality.
He had barged into your life, unwanted and uninvited, turning everything upside down. But he hadn’t left. He stayed. Helped when everyone else had walked away the moment they got what they wanted. Not him.
Now, as you laid your head back against his chest, you didn’t know where any of this was headed. But for once, you were ready to take a leap of faith into the unknown.
welcome to my directory of all the clark kent stories I love! all writing credit belongs to each individual writer, and if you resonate with any story, make sure to show that author some love by commenting, reblogging, or both! reader discretion is advised, so be sure to check the warnings. this list will be updated regularly.
updated: 7/28/2025
ʚɞ krypto, take me home - @buckysfaveplum
when Clark can't make it to the fortress, Krypto brings him to you
ʚɞ eyes like pretty lights - @fawnindawn
surprising clark with a visit at the daily planet, it sparks memories of the past and how some things never change, especially clark's eyes that still shine like pretty lights only for you. seeing your best friend again in metropolis, it might be harder to leave... especially when he doesn't want you to.
ʚɞ makes paintings with his tongue! - @sceletaflores
you and clark have a conversation about superman...
ʚɞ just hold me - @plaidcowboy
a badly injured clark comes to you after a losing fight against the kaiju. not only does he need to be patched up, but his ego needs a little fixing to. and luckily for you, your praise does just the trick.
ʚɞ no strings attached...unless? - @kryptoclark
what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?
ʚɞ nsfw clark kent headcanons - @lacelottie
ʚɞ whipped clark headcanons - @squipa
ʚɞ fortress - @charmedntruer
tasked to take clark to the safest possible place he can recover from the pocket universe, you come to a few new revelations of your own upon seeing where clark was raised in the countryside.
ʚɞ kiss me - @sunshine-lux
it's obvious to everyone at the daily planet that y/n and clark have an unspoken thing going on. one late night at the office might just be what they need to stop dancing around it.
ʚɞ messy makeout sess - @vemathie
thinking deeply and heavily about clark being all desperate and messy when you're just making out...
ʚɞ super-headaches at the daily planet - @luveline
Something about Clark makes your head hurt. (And something about Superman is strangely familiar.)
ʚɞ my hero pt 2- @jungkooklover777
an office romance sounds good in theory but what happens when it goes according to theory?
ʚɞ unfold your love - @junleb
jimmy olsen and the mystery of two idiots who are definitely not in love
ʚɞ everyone adores you (at least i do) - @rosesaints
you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet...enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows.
ʚɞ night's so blue - @junleb
it's rare for two reporters to be assigned to the same movie. how convenient that you already have a good relationship with clark. or, this is too good to be true. it isn't a set-up, right?
ʚɞ till i lose it - @fawnindawn
Clark finds himself feeling jealous for the first time when you get assigned on a case with Jimmy Olsen, and start spending more time with the photojournalist instead of him.
ʚɞ groupie - @buckysfaveplum
he’s your punkrocker. your star. but sometimes you wonder if you’re just a groupie, if he sees you the same
ʚɞ in the silence - @cursedheartsclub
In the quiet spaces between friendship and something more, you fall for Clark Kent the way snow falls—softly, steadily, all at once.
ʚɞ you can see it with the lights out - @junleb
clark is home, no matter the city or season
ʚɞ you are in love - @auroralwriting
clark kent had always been a good friend to you at the daily planet—but as the two of you fall head over heels for each other, you can’t help but notice the striking similarities between him and superman
ʚɞ phases to love - @hearts4hughes
ʚɞ going nowhere - @frivolousimagination
clark misses out on your relationship because of his superman duties. it puts a rift between you.
ʚɞ love, meteors, and clark kent's accidental flight - @stevebabey
Working at the Daily Planet, you - like everyone with eyes - are particularly enamoured with Clark Kent. A meteor and a spilled secret later, he shows you just how enamoured with you he is.
ʚɞ to whom it may concern - @cursedheartsclub
You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.
ʚɞ the kiss heard 'round metropolis pt 2 - @daisybvck
You and Clark have always had a special relationship, you two adore each other but haven’t had the guts to admit your feelings, what happens when one day when Superman saves you and you share a kiss.
ʚɞ kiss me like nobody else does - @jayblades
you and clark are paired during a night out in the field with the rest of your team at the daily planet and you find yourselves in a bit of a tight spot; not the best place to be stuck with your brick wall of a journalist colleague, but you digress.
ʚɞ better late than never - @kryptoclark
you decide to spend your summer between jobs back in your hometown, smallville. it comes to a surprise to both you and your childhood best friend, clark kent, that you're both visiting at the same time. there's nothing quite like the summertime air to help old memories resurface – and maybe stir some old feelings back to life.
ʚɞ crash landings - @barnesonfilm
you didn't imagine meeting your boyfriend's parents for the first time would start with you crash landing on their lawn in the middle of the night
ʚɞ starboy - @buckysfaveplum
recovering from kryptonite poisoning back home in Kansas leaves your relationship with Clark a bit confused. you’ve always been his rock- his best friend. but now, back on the farm, maybe there was always something more
ʚɞ brief encounter - @pinkmirth
clark is, at heart, a nerdy little guy and i believe that his silliness should be shared with the world
ʚɞ commercial break kisses - @iuvboa
ʚɞ i know, i know, i know - @luveline
You confess your affections to an unsuspecting Superman, but your best friend Clark can’t know about your crush, okay? You’d die of embarrassment. (Or, Clark falls in love while Superman does most of the wooing.)
ʚɞ cause i'm a punk rocker - @bippiti
you moved to smallville because you had to save your family's farm. it was a place you never wanted to stay but also one you couldn't escape. then you met him: quiet, steady, and the one person who saw through your walls. slowly, without warning he became the part of you you didn't even know you were missing
pov: just finished reading the most gut wrenching part 1 angst fic that’s marked with happy ending only to find out the writer hasn’t updated in 8 months
CW: Angst, a really bad prank idea by the one and only marauders, deep author self insert disguised as an x reader lol, reader is mentally and physically...unwell. Marijuana use, ooc Lily n gang
AN: My first writing post in *checks timeline* 3 years? yeah I was bored during work and thought of this. there will be a part 2!! lmk what you think!
For a while you can hold your tongue. The words going through your head dying in the filter from your brain to your tongue. The whispers around you either go unheard on purpose or your head is just so full with other things. Insults hurled in your direction are brushed off, not to say they didn’t hurt. It is mostly late at night, at the top of the astronomy tower with weed in your system that they cut the deepest. During the day you can hold your boyfriends’ hands and let it all bounce off your back. They can hold you when it gets too rough, when the whispers break through your barricades. Many sleepless nights they have spent assuring you that you are enough for all of them, and you don’t need to act any more like somebody to earn their love, it is given because you are you. The only thing it really succeeded in is making you feel was guilty for making them lose sleep on a weeknight. However, you could only stay for so long before they walked you back to your tower, Minnie would take 100 points from Ravenclaw if she caught you in the Gryffindor tower after hours, James said. Not that they have snuck you up recently to quell these worries, it feels like months since you have seen the inside of their (somehow comfier) dorm.
Today, the wall you have built has crumbled by lunchtime. The boys were nowhere to be seen at breakfast, despite you staying 5 minutes past at the great hall doors to see if they would come running down. Usually this wasn't unusual for Padfoot, ever the oversleeper, and even sometimes for Moony. But with a quick mental check you confirmed it wasn’t near a full moon, and made a note to try and ask in potions. The only class you have with the boys, except moony because the wanker takes advanced potions. Your leg shook the entire way through astronomy (where you double checked it wasn’t near a full moon) and hands shook the entire way across the castle to potions. Unfortunately, you were paired with a housemate for this assignment because it was worth a substantial part of your end of year scores. Through the whole class you never felt their eyes on you once. You could feel their stare across the castle, but the entire 90 minute class from 3 feet away you didn’t feel them once. Multiple times you looked at them and willed them to look at you for even a second but they never looked up. When the class ended, you packed your bag as quickly as possible to catch up with them but they were already halfway out the dungeon by the time you looked up. Now you were suspicious they were avoiding you. The whispers crawled back into your brain from earlier after breakfast when you were waiting for them desperately.
“..and I saw them with her in the courtyard,” some hufflepuff murmured to her friends that you couldn’t quite make out behind the pillar, “Yeah her. Looked…intimate” and she flourished it off with giggles that weakened your defensive walls. At lunch, they were there for about 5 minutes before running off before you could even walk up and greet them. After they walked out, Lily, Marlene, and Mary walked into the hall. Prong’s mouth split into a brilliant, heartbreaking smile when he saw Lily as he walked out. He stopped in his tracks and talked to her as the other two kept walking, and she stopped and talked back. Her bright hair glowing in the sunlight let in by the large stained glass windows. His eyes bounced all over her, from the strand of hair that sat slightly up on her shoulder, the light in her eyes, the way her hands stayed folded and her stance firm and confident. Something stirred in your gut as you watched the whole scene and his eyes didn’t meet yours once. His eyes never ricochetted over you like that, he never smiled like that when you walked into a room. Your heart started to twist and prick at your sinuses. Your defensive walls imploded, a sharp pain forming behind your eyes. Waiting until James finally left you decided to ditch the rest of your classes and replenish your personal stock. Your feet carried you to madame pomfrey’s paradise, the smell of antiseptic invading your senses. Calm footsteps coming from the mother figure’s office approached you paired with a knowing sigh.
“Are you here to re-stock? You are using more than usual” she said with a hint of disappointment, “If you up your use anymore I'm going to have to force you to fill out a chart.”
“I’m not here for that, I have some left,” You let out a small smile, tapping the breast pocket of your robe. “Do you have any draught of peace?” Pomfrey paused, studying you before considering her next words carefully,
“Do you need the unction too?” A beat of silence passed before a chuckle escaped your lips.
“Not yet, but I will keep you updated.” She nodded and disappeared into the storeroom, quickly coming back out with 2 bottles.
“You know better than to take both, but I still have to tell you to be careful and take breaks between sips. If you start to get dizzy come straight to me.”
“Yes mom-”
“Stop calling me that” she interrupted your (very old) bit.
“Yes ma’am” you said jokingly, straightening up and putting your hand to your forehead like a military sergeant. Immediately wincing in pain at the pain shooting up your spine, she started towards you to see what happened but you stopped her and took the bottles out of her hand. “I have more of those too and yes I will take it as soon as I get back.” She simply smiled and waved you off.
“Go back to class”
You were never one to do what people told you, you thought as you made your way back to Ravenclaw tower. Thankfully the riddle was simple, as the draught was already making your brain a little fuzzy. Perhaps you forgot how strong this potion was, you hadn’t had to take it in months. Usually your coping methods allowed you to use minimal help with your emotional control and perception but things felt like they were getting out of control. In the fuzz, you decided to try and get the information out of the one boy that hasn’t been obviously avoiding you. The trek down to the kitchens was less so with the cloud over your mind. This draught was nice, it gave the effect of smoking without the coughing and hassle of finding a place to do it. The elves looked at you funny as you asked if they had any chocolate scones or biscuits but you really don’t care what you had to do in trade for them. Cleaning the ovens on the weekend doesn’t seem too bad.
With the help of the potion, you force hope into your heart as you approach the fat lady. Sucking in a breath you muttered the passcode Sirius had given you at the beginning of the relationship. When the frame swings open you half scoff at the un-changing passcode and at the fact the passcode was even the right one. You hate that part of your brain that gets so distrusting of them so quickly. The sight beyond the frame made you want the throw the tray at their heads trickshot style.
Lily, Marlene, and Mary are sitting in the boy’s laps, one in each. Hands all over each other, books stacked up on the table, quills untouched. So Remus wasn’t feeling bad, reasoning #1 is bad. Nothing about this has to do with you, judging by the deer in headlights look each of them have. So it is not them planning a date for you, reasoning #2 gone. And they are not studying or crying so this closeness is not justified. Reasoning #3 gone. The cloud over your brain starts to thunder. An orchestra of lip popping and fire crackling sounded out as they tried to find any words for their position. At least Remus and Sirius had the decency to push the girl’s off their laps and look like kicked puppies.
“You aren’t supposed to be here” Lily said dumbly, still sitting on James’s lap and looking at me owlishly.
“And you aren’t supposed to be on my boyfriends lap” you snapped, watching James flinch at the bite in the tone.
“Let’s not get there love” James tried, standing up and making Lily fall off of him with a yelp. It took a lot of strength to not smirk at that.
“I have ‘been there’ since you and Sirius ran from me after potions. Now is a very different thing.” Your hands stayed clenched around the handles of the tray, as you took a deep steady breath (on the outside, on the inside you were losing it very fast). Quickly you put the tray down on the nearest surface to you before you started hurling the innocent pastries.
“It’s really not what it looks like.” Marlene starts, standing up and starting to close the distance between you two.
“If you come any closer to me I am going to hex you through that fucking window” You pointed at the window to the left of the fireplace, the only one free of books and random artefacts. The words felt thrown from your mouth, like you didn’t control them. You knew it was what you were thinking, but usually you would never let that escape. A gasp came from somebody in the room, you couldn’t tell who the source was. The only thing you could hear was the voice in the back of your head saying you were in fact never enough for them. The only thing you could see was James’s smile as he talked to Lily in the great hall today. Quickly you regained your composure and borderline ran out of the room. Voices echoed through the common room and into the hall after you but you didn’t process them. Blood rushed through your ears and your legs just started carrying you towards an unknown destination. 2 years of promises rang through your ears, both from your 3 loves and their friends. Who have been witness to some of the darker nights. Who have no doubtly heard the rest of my worries secondhand from the boys. Who still did this. You knew that if you had stayed more would have been said, things you couldn’t take back. As much as you want to go back and throw things, and hex them, and yell at them you can’t find the energy to. It won’t be productive nor get anywhere positive. Your legs stop working at the top of the astronomy tower stairs, the items in your breast pocket start sounding like the best idea you have had all day. Sitting against the wall, you position yourself to have a full view of the courtyard as the bells for the last class ring. The yard fills with waves of students going back to their rooms or their study spots before dinner. Among the masses you spot familiar mops of hair, frantically dodging and shoving students out of their way.
You faintly remember an argument you had last year after they had used the map to find you after a meltdown. You had spent a week mad at them, they had invaded your privacy and your specific request for some time to cool down. You had even threatened to break up with them over it in a heated argument. Explaining to them how your brain works, and how to possibly help next time, it slowly got better. They spent a month spoiling you after you had said you forgave them.
Thank Rowena you didn’t step forward towards the railing, you think as you see Remus angle his head upward and look up towards the tower. You took a lighter and a joint out of your robe pocket, flicking it and lighting the heavenly objects. The pain from before stays embedded in your spine, the stone floor and the stress not helping. Now to see if they remember where they found you the last time, an unintentional test but one all the same.
You wish you took up Pomfrey's offer.
Thank you for reading! this is barely proofread so I expect many grammatical errors.
❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞
[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.]
summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)
pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)
wc. 24.1k.
tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?
cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.
a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO.
halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”
to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!
act i. dear god, please save the little man.
“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”
Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.
(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)
Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”
As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.”
Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”
You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all.
“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.
“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips.
Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly.
How repulsive.
In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.
And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest. “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”
Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”
With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.
Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting.
What a bunch of insufferable fools.
Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number.
“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”
Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.”
“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.”
Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.”
Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”
Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock. “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”
“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life. “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”
“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.
James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.
So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.”
“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”
His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”
“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.”
Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”
Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”
Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”
“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”
“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.
“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”
“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?
“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup.
“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.”
He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”
Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)
The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?
You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy.
Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.
“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.”
Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”
Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”
“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.
“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”
“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”
You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”
Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.
You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few.
With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”
“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.
“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.
“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.
You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”
“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”
“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”
The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls.
“Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”
(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.)
act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.
THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.
And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change.
“Alohomora.”
With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire.
There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster.
“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.
To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.”
The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother.
There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.
“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?”
You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.”
Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?”
“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.”
Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?”
“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks.
“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”
“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.”
You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”
“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think.
For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance.
All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends.
“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?”
You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.
He furrows his brow. “What?”
You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.
“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.”
You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.”
He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work.
You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf.
“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes.
You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance. “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.”
A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.)
You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.
You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless.
Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand.
After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight.
A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins.
Children.
Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?”
“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position.
“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions.
“No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children.
Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?”
You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.
Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.
“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls.
Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer.
“Now!” you bellow gutturally.
A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”
In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the emptiness of your unbroken charade.
(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.)
“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”
“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”
You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.
After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.
A firebird caws in the distance.
And, scene.
act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?
“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots. The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)
After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”
The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you.
“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”
(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)
“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)
“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”
“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.”
You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?”
Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks.
“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”
“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.
You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”
Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter.
“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably.
You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”
“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.”
To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.
“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)
Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?”
“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!”
Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?”
Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.”
In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?”
James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it.
“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow.
“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear.
You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.”
James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought.
Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion.
James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”
Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!
With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”
That, after all, is how you learned.
The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails.
As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must.
What’s wrong?
The question echoes in your head.
Ha!
You scream inwardly, if they only knew!
While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor.
The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes.
“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.”
“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!”
A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.”
In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side.
When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second.
You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?”
You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”
“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”
“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?”
“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.”
“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you.
“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt.
After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.”
“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?”
“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.”
The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders.
“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms.
“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”
“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly.
Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.”
You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.”
And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background.
“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!”
Turns out, you are not fine.
The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen.
—
You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.
“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly.
“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.”
“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly.
“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”
“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin.
“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you.
“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.”
“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius.
“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half.
You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.”
Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”
“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”
“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”
“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds.
Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!”
“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights.
“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!”
When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick.
“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.”
“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.
Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.”
You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close.
—
You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair.
If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.
Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.”
You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors.
“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.”
(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.)
“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”
“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”
Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.”
Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase.
“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.
As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.”
That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.
How arrogant.
How very Gryffindor of him.
You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway.
If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.
—
It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling.
For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you.
You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior.
“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.
Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)
“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”
Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”
“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?”
Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”
“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”
“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly.
“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”
At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.
On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others.
“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern, as well.”
You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)
You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades.
At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”
How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.
And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.”
In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself.
“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.
The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you.
(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?)
Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House.
“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?”
Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.”
You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.”
His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more:
“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!”
You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets.
A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.
After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary.
“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?”
Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?”
“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?”
James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.”
“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.
They’ve made it all too easy for you.
“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”
Sirius staggers.
“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”
Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.”
James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.
“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.”
You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”
They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses.
The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders.
The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes.
Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?
When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words.
‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’
‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’
You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them.
Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell?
When does duty end? And when does life begin?
Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive.
“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.”
You want to go to sleep already.
Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport.
Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.”
You miss your cat.
(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.)
You want to die.
—
Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.
Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus.
“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.
The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument.
Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under.
“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”
Your blood runs cold.
Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!”
Dimwitted fool.
You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”
“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”
“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.”
“It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”
“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”
(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)
“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms.
“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur.
“Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger.
“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask.
“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”
The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters.
Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included.
The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy.
“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva.
“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose.
It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.
“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.)
Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena.
Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.
You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire.
But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.
“Daphne!”
The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands.
You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes.
“Daphne, get away from there!”
You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain.
But there is nothing.
Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom.
Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes.
You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.”
“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.”
“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat.
He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”
Has kindness ever felt so real before?
act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me.
“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.”
You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile.
No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side.
“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”
The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”
“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”
A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)
“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’
Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?”
“I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”
Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.”
“Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.
“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”
“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you.
“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”
You believe her.
You believe her with all your heart.
But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms.
The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor.
You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever.
“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books.
Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to.
But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic?
You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons.
For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else.
The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.
“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”
“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”
You blink.
You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?
“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!”
“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.”
The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw.
On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated.
The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”
“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.”
And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.
“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”
When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”
The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold.
“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”
You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time.
“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”
(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)
Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another.
Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies.
You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.
As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you.
“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.”
Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?”
You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare.
Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.”
Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.”
“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”
“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye.
“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”
You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.
How confusing.
All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.
“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones.
(Hogwarts is the best!)
The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival.
“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”
You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)
On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy.
As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?
(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)
But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in.
You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.
But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”)
Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane.
Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.
Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor.
You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S.
Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?”
You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his.
He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing.
“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl.
“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.”
“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”
“Lily says thank you, by the way.”
“Oh? For what?”
“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”
You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.
But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie.
When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.)
In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her.
“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?”
Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.”
“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”
“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching.
“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”
“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.”
“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”
You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”
“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”
“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”
The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . . I don’t understand.”
Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.
Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”
“You will.”
You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”
The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground.
A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home.
That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak.
“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.”
You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!”
“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.
“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.”
As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room.
When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle.
‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’
“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents.
For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”
(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.)
“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.
Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”
“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.
“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?”
“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.
Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.”
She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same.
You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.
You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”
Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans.
And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain.
“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.
Oh, how easy they make it for you.
You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”
Marlene lunges.
(You are so tired of it all.)
Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”)
While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time.
But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely?
There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all.
A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders.
You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to.
“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!”
“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.”
“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!”
“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!”
“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!”
“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!”
Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”
The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?”
You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.”
She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”
“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life.
You hate her.
You hate her with all your heart.
But even monsters need a heart to breathe.
A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor.
The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne.
(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.)
“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks.
Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard.
“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.”
You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death.
“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.”
Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!”
“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation.
“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”
You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.”
Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?”
Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word.
You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name.
“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.”
For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills.
And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix.
(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.)
If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours.
For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one.
Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed.
A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams.
There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even.
But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm.
You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him.
Bile rises to your throat.
Tears fall from your eyes.
(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)
And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.)
“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter.
“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.”
“I promise. . . you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.”
You pass out in her arms.
When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes.
You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream.
You are tired.
How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give?
You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this?
The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now.
Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you?
Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself.
Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.
You toss the newspaper into the fire.
Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back.
For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.
Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit.
Maybe. . .
If you move a few inches forward. . .
If you just fly.
You’d be free.
“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.”
I don’t care.
Go away.
I want to die.
If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?
You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest.
Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with.
You let your weight shift over the window.
Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly.
“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”
You sigh.
Maybe tomorrow, then.
“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?”
You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”
His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.”
An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.
Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”
He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.”
You stay silent.
He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”
“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice.
Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.”
You nibble on your bruised lip.
Could you really?
Maybe just this once.
You’re only human, magic as you are.
You take one step forward.
Then another.
Another.
Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion.
Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days.
To do what is right.
To endure.
Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then.
But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve.
You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation.
Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—
Your mother.
Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands.
You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her.
“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!”
“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands.
One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.
“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.
Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!”
“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”
“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.”
“She’s not!” you scream.
“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.
The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you.
“We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”
Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”
“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”
Tom snarls, “Good.”
Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.”
She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.”
“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”
“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake.
“Mum, wake up, please!”
You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.
“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”
“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.
You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”
For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s.
“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!”
There’s a faint smile on her face.
“I’m. . . sorry.”
Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.
The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor.
But your eyes are on one person and one person only.
Tom Riddle.
“Avada Kedavra!”
He will know your pain.
Not today, not tomorrow.
But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.
a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA
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