pairing – garrett graham x petal!reader
summary – after months of small humiliations, one party becomes the final straw, and garrett learns too late that being sorry after the damage isn’t enough.
warnings – angst, breakup, argument, jealousy, public humiliation, relationship insecurity, crying, swearing, emotional hurt, no happy ending.
notes from me – uhhhhhh, you guys asked for it!! but based on this ask, thank you bby!! i was stuck on ideas for their break up until you sent this through!!
word count – 3.7k
navigation – masterlist |
The door had shut behind her with a hard, cheap little clap, cutting off the full ugly body of it all, the music and the shouting and the sound of someone in the kitchen yelling for Dean like Dean had ever once improved a situation by arriving. But pieces of it kept slipping through anyway.
Bass through the walls. Laughter when the door opened again somewhere behind her. The sticky-sweet smell of beer and perfume and winter-damp wool clinging to her coat like the house had put hands on her and refused to let go.
Her boots hit the pavement too hard. Every step sent a thin jolt up through her knees, but she couldn’t make herself slow down because if she slowed down, Garrett would catch up properly, and if Garrett caught up properly, he would talk. He always wanted to talk after the thing had already happened.
After she had already stood there with her cup going warm in her hand while three girls boxed him into the corner by the kitchen and laughed up at him like he had invented oxygen and jawlines and playoff hockey.
After one of them touched his arm and he didn’t step back. After another one said, “You’re so bad,” in that breathy, delighted voice girls used when bad meant attractive and accessible and maybe mine if I keep smiling right. After he had looked over once, seen her looking, and still stayed.
That was the part her body couldn’t get around. The seeing. The quick flicker of his eyes across the room, the half-second of recognition, the tiny change in his face like he knew, he knew exactly what it looked like, and then the way he’d smiled back down at the blonde in front of him anyway because Garrett Graham had never met attention he didn’t know how to catch one-handed.
“Baby.”
His voice came from behind her, breathless enough that he had jogged the last few steps. Good. Great. Fantastic. He could chase her now. He could find his legs now that the whole party wasn’t watching him be wanted.
She walked faster.
“Baby, come on.” Garrett’s sneakers scraped lightly over the pavement as he caught up beside her, his shadow cutting across the wet shine of the sidewalk under the streetlamp. “Can you just stop for a second?”
“No.”
“Okay, then can you slow down before you eat shit? You’re in heeled boots.”
She let out a laugh so sharp it barely sounded like one. “Oh my god.”
“What?”
“Nothing. That’s just–” She shook her head, eyes burning already, which made her angrier because she hadn’t even got to the yelling properly and her body had started betraying her like some kind of amateur. “That’s so you.”
Garrett moved into her path just enough to make her have to angle around him. Big and warm and breathing a little harder than normal, curls messy from the party heat, the collar of his jacket sitting crooked like one of those girls had maybe caught it when she leaned in to say something stupid into his ear. “What does that mean?”
“It means move.”
“Not until you talk to me.”
She stopped so abruptly he almost walked into her. For one second they stood under the streetlamp outside the row of dorm buildings, campus stretched cold and quiet around them, the party pulsing behind them like another life.
The air bit at her cheeks. Her hands were shaking, so she shoved them into her coat pockets and curled them there until her nails pressed little crescents into her palms.
Garrett’s face softened the second he saw her properly. He always looked sorry once the damage had a visible shape. “Hey,” he said, lower now. “Baby–”
“You’re such a piece of shit.”
His mouth closed. The words came out flat and ugly, too quick to stop, and for half a second even she seemed to hear them from outside herself. Not because they weren’t true in the hot, vicious courtroom currently operating under her ribs, but because they were not the sort of thing she usually said to him first.
She usually worked up to it. Usually gave him three warning shots and a sarcastic little exit route and enough room to pretend they were having an argument instead of watching one person bleed out slowly from the same cut.
Garrett blinked once. “Me?”
She laughed again, and this time the wetness in it made her want to claw her own throat open. “You’re such a fucking piece of shit.”
“Okay.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded, both hands lifting slightly like he was trying to calm a dog that had bitten him before and might do it again. “Okay. Let’s talk about why I’m a piece of shit.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“No, seriously. Let’s talk about it.” His voice had gone careful in that way that made her feel more insane, like he was standing there with a clipboard while she came apart on the pavement. “This is what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this all night.”
“All night?” Her head snapped back like the sentence had shoved her. “Garrett, you were not trying to talk to me all night. You were trying to flirt your way through three girls and then act shocked when I didn’t clap for you.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
She stared at him.
“I wasn’t,” he said again, faster now, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. The old move. The Garrett Graham damage control special. “Jesus, they came up to me. What was I supposed to do, tell them to fuck off?”
“No, apparently that’s reserved for me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to say it.” Her voice climbed, then cracked, and she hated the crack so much she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste metal. “You do this thing where you make me feel like I’m ruining your night by existing.”
Garrett looked genuinely thrown for a second. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. It’s not.” The defensive edge came in then, quick and familiar, the one that always arrived right after his guilt and right before her humiliation got turned into a debate topic. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”
“Holy fuck,” she said, quietly enough that it came out worse.
“What?”
“You’re fucked.”
“How am I fucked?” His hands spread, and there was a flash of frustration under the apology, the part of him that couldn't understand why wanting her and disrespecting her were not mutually exclusive in her body. “Talk to me. I’m right here. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Baby.”
“No.” She pointed back toward the house, eyes hot and too full now, the streetlamp turning everything soft-edged and horrible. “You know what? Actually, go ahead. Say your piece. Say your Garrett Graham bullshit. Please. Tell me what shit you’re gonna come up with this time.”
He watched her for a second, mouth pressed tight, breath coming out white in the cold. A car rolled past at the end of the street, slow enough that its headlights moved over them like a searchlight, catching the shine on her cheeks before she could turn away.
“Nah,” Garrett said finally. “I want to hear you out first.”
Her laugh was immediate and mean. “Of course you do.”
“I’m serious.”
“No, you want me to say it first so you can pick it apart.”
His brows drew together. “I’m not trying to pick anything apart.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m trying to understand what happened in there.”
“I’ve been telling you what happened.” Her voice broke properly this time, anger ripping through the words before she could sand them down. “For months. For fucking months, Garrett.”
His expression shifted. “No, you’ve been getting upset and then shutting down.”
“Because you make me feel stupid when I talk.”
“I don’t mean to.”
“But you do.” She stepped closer without meaning to, the space between them shrinking until she had to tilt her face up to keep looking at him. “You do, and then you stand there like because you didn’t mean to, I’m supposed to take that home and sleep next to it.”
Garrett swallowed. His hands dropped to his sides. “Okay. Then tell me properly now.”
Something in her face twisted. “Properly?”
“I get you’re frustrated–”
“Frustrated?” The word came out almost silent. Then she laughed, one hand flying up like she could physically bat it away from her. “Oh my god.”
“I’m trying to talk to you.”
“No, you’re trying to make me calm enough that you don’t have to feel like the bad guy.”
“That’s not–”
“You’re not respectful in the slightest,” she said, and the tears started then for real, hot and fast and humiliating, slipping down before she could do anything useful with her face. “Have some fucking respect for your fucking girlfriend!”
Garrett went still.
She made a frustrated sound, almost a groan, pressing the heel of her hand to one eye for half a second before dropping it again because crying into her own palm on a sidewalk was not the kind of tragic she respected. “What the fuck.”
Then she turned and started walking again.
“Hey, stop.” Garrett caught up in two strides, and his hand came to her waist. Warm fingers through her coat, a gentle pull meant to turn her back to him, and her whole body rejected it before her mind caught up.
She shoved him away with both hands. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Garrett’s face changed so quickly it almost made something in her collapse. His hands lifted, empty. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t.”
“I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”
“I feel like shit,” he said, voice rougher now. “Please talk to me.”
The words should have softened her. Maybe some version of her, one who hadn’t spent the last month measuring how long it took him to remember she was standing beside him in rooms full of girls who wanted him, would have stepped into that roughness and let it mean enough.
But tonight her chest was too packed with old little injuries, all of them awake at once, crowding under her ribs until she could barely breathe around them.
“You weren’t feeling bad fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “Surrounded by girls. You weren’t feeling bad yesterday when we got stopped every three seconds and I stood there like an idiot while people talked through me to get to you. You weren’t feeling bad when you dropped my hand in that coffee shop, or when you missed the first half of my showcase because practice ran over and apparently I was supposed to be grateful you made it before bows.” Her breath hitched. She hated that one. Hated that it came out. “There was no consideration for me. There wasn’t. Or you wouldn’t have acted the way you fucking acted.”
“Whoa. Hey.” Garrett stepped closer, then seemed to remember and stopped himself. The restraint looked painful on him. “First of all, I always consider you. Always. I can’t help that people want to talk to me–”
She started laughing before he finished. Her body had found one last emergency exit before sobbing, and it was laughing in Garrett Graham’s face under a dorm streetlight with mascara starting to move at the corners of her eyes. “Holy fuck.”
His mouth tightened. “What?”
“How bad did you really feel if this is your version of a fucking apology?”
“I’m trying to explain.”
“You’re explaining why it’s not your fault.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” She wiped under one eye with the side of her finger, furious when it came away damp and black-smudged. “You stand there in the corner with three puck bunnies flirting with you like, what? You’re rubbing that shit in my face?”
“No. No, no, no.” His face opened with alarm, real now, not defensive for one precious second. “Baby, that’s not– no. I wasn’t flirting with them. It’s not like that.”
“If you felt bad, you wouldn’t have continued to do it,” she said. “But you did. And you have. Over and over. So, cool. You want them, go get them. They’d be more than happy.”
“I don’t want them.” Garrett’s voice cracked around the denial, and the sound did something terrible to her stomach. “That’s not what this is. I get it, okay? I fucked up. I get that. But I’m human.”
The air went very thin for a second. She stared at him, tears cooling on her cheeks, the whole night narrowing down to his face and those two words sitting there between them like an insult wearing a reasonable coat.
“No,” she said.
Garrett’s brows pulled in. “What?”
“No. I don’t buy that shit.” She shook her head, slow at first, then harder, because if she stopped moving she might actually feel how much of her was splitting open. “I’m human too, Garrett. I’m human, and I’m not letting three different guys get me drinks and hang off me all night because I know how that would make you feel. I know. I don’t need a fucking thesis. I don’t need a seminar on empathy. I just think about you before I do things.”
He flinched.
Good, some ugly little part of her thought, and then immediately felt sick from the taste of it.
“You do not have the same respect for me that I have for you,” she said, quieter, which made it worse. “So I don’t want to hear that I’m human shit. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t feel sorry for you.”
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” Garrett stepped one half-step closer, stopped again, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His eyes were bright now, not with tears exactly, but with panic pushing hard against the back of them. “Baby, I don’t. I just want you to hear me out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did that to you.”
She shook her head, and the movement sent more tears down. She could feel them hitting the cold air and tightening on her skin. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not fucking sorry.”
“I am.”
“You feel no guilt about any of this.”
“Yes, I do.” His voice rose, desperate now, and for the first time all night Garrett looked younger than himself. A boy in the street with his jacket open against the cold, trying to hold water in his hands after the glass had already shattered. “I do. You can go ask any of the boys. Go ask Logan or Dean or Tuck. I swear.”
Her face crumpled before she could stop it, but the laugh still came out. Small, disbelieving, wrecked. “Oh, the same boys that keep telling me I’m the love of your life? Huh? Those ones?”
Garrett’s mouth parted.
“Those boys?”
“You are,” he said, and then stopped like he’d stepped too close to a ledge he hadn’t realised was there. His throat worked. “I–”
The cold moved between them. The party door opened in the distance, letting out a bright slash of noise and some girl’s laughter, then shut again. She watched Garrett stand there with the sentence stuck in his mouth, and there should have been some triumph in it, maybe. Some relief. The love of your life. The thing girls were supposed to want to hear. The thing that should have fixed something.
It didn’t. It only made the hurt widen, because what was she supposed to do with that? Let the love of his life get humiliated in coffee shops? Let the love of his life stand beside him at parties while he forgot how to be careful? Let the love of his life go home every night with a stomach full of little explanations she had to feed herself so she wouldn’t seem needy?
She shrugged, and the movement felt loose and awful on her body. “So be it.”
Garrett stared at her.
“So be it, Garrett.” Her voice dropped into something almost calm, except the tears wouldn’t stop, so the calm looked deranged even to her. “Be the love of my life.”
His face changed. The panic went quiet for one second, like she had hit somewhere deeper than anger could reach. “I’m trying.”
She looked at him, really looked, at the red at the tips of his ears from the cold, the crease between his brows, the mouth she had kissed against lockers and in his bed and outside this dorm with her hands in his hoodie.
He was trying. That was maybe the worst part. He had been trying in the way Garrett knew how. Apologising after. Ordering the coffee right. Kissing the top of her head. Pulling her back in with warmth every time she got close to the edge. But he kept letting the edge exist.
“I’m done,” she said.
Garrett shook his head immediately. “No.”
She turned away from him, because if she kept looking at his face she was going to start bargaining against herself. “I am.”
“No, hey.” He followed her. “You’re not even letting me talk.”
“I let you talk for months.”
“You’re not letting me talk now.”
“No, I’m done.” She spun back so fast her coat swung open, cold hitting her through the thin party top underneath. “I’m done. I’m good. I’m not doing this stupid back and forth with you where I tell you something hurt me and then you explain your intentions like I’m dating your intentions. I’m not. I’m dating you. And you acted the way you acted, and you won’t change that shit, so we’re done.”
“Baby–”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.”
“It is.” She nodded too many times, tears still spilling, breath starting to shake now in a way she could not control. “It’s fine. I get it now.”
“No, you don’t.” Garrett’s voice went rough, almost angry with fear. “You’re hurt and you’re pissed off and you’re deciding something huge because of one night.”
“One night?” she whispered.
He realised it the second it left his mouth. She saw it. The tiny collapse around his eyes. “No,” he said quickly. “I know it’s not one night. I know that. I didn’t mean–”
“You never do.”
Garrett flinched again, and this time it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything except more damage in a street already full of it.
“I’m trying to fix this,” he said. “Let me fix it.”
“There’s nothing to fix.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t.”
“It is.” He took a step closer, and then stopped himself again, because she had told him not to touch her and he was finally, finally listening when it no longer had anywhere useful to land. “It’s bullshit. You don’t get to just– baby, come on. You don’t get to decide this alone.”
For a second she almost smiled, because it was so perfectly him. So wildly, painfully Garrett. Still arguing with the scoreboard after the game had ended. Still believing there had to be a third period if he wanted one badly enough.
“I just did,” she said.
His face went blank. The dorm entrance buzzed faintly behind her, ugly fluorescent light spilling over the steps. Her fingers had gone numb in her pockets, and her face felt swollen from crying, and somewhere inside the building there were people doing laundry or microwaving noodles or living tiny, ordinary lives not currently ending under a streetlamp.
She wanted that so badly it almost made her dizzy. A room. A door. A place to put her body down without Garrett looking at her like she was taking his apart.
“Go back to your puck bunnies, Garrett,” she said, and the bitterness came out exhausted now, all the teeth worn down. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done.”
She turned before he could answer. He said her name once, not baby this time, and that almost did it. That almost made her stop. Her actual name in Garrett’s voice, cracked at the edge, chasing her up the first step like a hand she had told him not to use.
She kept walking.
The key card shook when she pulled it from her pocket. She missed the scanner once, plastic tapping uselessly against the panel, and behind her Garrett made a small sound like he was physically stopping himself from coming closer. She swiped again. The lock clicked.
“Please,” he said.
She opened the door. Warm stale dorm air hit her face, carrying the smell of old carpet, microwave popcorn, and somebody’s overworked vanilla plug-in. She stepped inside and turned just enough to see him through the wired glass before the door shut between them.
Garrett stood on the sidewalk with both hands in his hair now, elbows out, jacket open, mouth parted around words he had nowhere to put. For one awful second he looked completely lost. Alone under the streetlamp, staring at the door like he could still make it open if he found the right thing to say.
Then the door closed. The sound was small. Pathetic, almost. A dull latch catching in an institutional frame.
She made it halfway up the stairs before her legs stopped working properly. One hand caught the railing, cold metal biting into her palm, and the first sob tore out of her so hard she bent over it, forehead nearly touching the sleeve of her coat.
A brutal little failure of breath, her ribs pulling too tight around nothing, her mouth open while the stairwell blurred in ugly blocks of cream paint and grey steps and the dark smudge of mascara on her fingers.
She pressed both hands over her face, trying to hold herself together with pressure, but there was too much of it. Garrett’s face. The girls’ laughter. His hand letting go in the coffee shop. His voice saying I’m human like she hadn’t spent months being human quietly beside him. Be the love of my life. I’m trying.
The words kept moving around inside her, useless and sharp, knocking against every place she had already bruised trying to love him without asking to be chosen out loud.
Downstairs, through the thick dorm door and the stairwell concrete and the blood in her ears, she thought she heard him say her name again. Or maybe she wanted to. Either way, she climbed the rest of the stairs alone.
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I’m genuinely confused, this girl on TikTok said Supergirl was disappointing because the movie ‘revolved around her gender,’ but I don’t remember it doing that at all. Outside of her literally being called a girl (which she is), it never felt like her gender was the main focus
well yes!! you're very right, but honestly, even if it DID revolve around the experience of being a woman in the world, what's wrong with that? us women STILL don't have enough representation in movies and tv shows, so her saying that she's disappointed that the movie was "female centered" especially as a girl herself is just fucking stupid
Everyone is hating and criticising the cover of ‘the middle’ sang by Kelty Greye in Supergirl, I haven’t personally watched the film YET but from the limited spoilers I’ve seen, yes it could be from Ruthye’s perspective. It matches. But also, think about it, maybe just maybe, all these men that are criticing the film aren’t the target audience. We’ve seen this before, with other female superheroes (birds of prey, captain marvel, ect) and even the Barbie movie!!! Where men will watch these films and not relate and then give horrid reviews that it wasn’t about them, even when it wasn’t for them. Personally, from what I’ve seen, the song choice isn’t bad. It’s not a scene to feel tense in, like when Mr Terrific put Lois Lane in a bubble while fighting around her with lighthearted music playing—it’s a similar feel. This time, it’s a moment of realisation that ‘yes, everything is going to be alright’ and it’s sang in a flowy voice, like an out of body experience when the world is crashing around you but you still feel safe. You are confident in your abilities and everything will be alright.
I just love how Supergirl isn't really about the revenge or the dog or anything that goes on at all. Its about two grieving girls trying to keep going in diffrent ways and teaching each other how to survive with the weight of it all while also inspiring each other to be better people. Its about not letting your past overtake your future. Its about prioritizing yourself instead of being fuled by your trauma. Its about being good no matter what.
Just watched supergirl and oh my god i am so obssed with the fact that we have a female main character and shes sloppy and snippy and rude and an alcoholic and messy and flawed. And yet shes still able to be kind and good and be an inspiration to people. All while not having a romance and while not trying to appeal to anyone. This is what everything should be.
gonna say something about the supergirl movie, light spoilers under the cut :
tw : discussion and references to human trafficking, sexual exploitation, sexual assault
people saying that krem wasn't "villainous" enough is really telling of where we've gotten to as a society. a sex trafficker, rapist, pedo, murderer and abuser isn't vile enough for you? you want a thanos? whose worst crime was erasing half of the universe so we wouldn't run out of resources that we ourselves so recklessly used up? im sorry, but if krem isn't "villainous" enough for you, then that says a lot about who you are as a person and where you draw the line. personally, i was so fucking shocked at the reveal of the fact that the brigands abduct and rape young girls to continue their all-male race. grow tf up, i adore that supergirl brought this issue in particular to light with the world we're living in right now. superman was amazing with its "billionaire trying to exterminate the innocent foreigner from his country" plotline (with tr*mp's precidency and how utterly horrific the whole concept of ICE is) and references to the israel-palestine conflict and genocide. & supergirl is amazing with the focus on sex trafficking and exploitation of little girls in particular with the recent upheaval of reveals of just how many pedophiles and rapists are actively in positions of power today (tr*mp again). if these very real, extremely horrific problems aren't "evil enough" for you, you are the problem.
summary: clark takes a picture of you and it leads you to spiral. the last thing you want is for him to see you crashing out, but he’s determined to be by your side no matter what.
word count: 5.7k
warnings/tags: emotional angst, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, established relationship, dual pov, reader has low self-esteem and does therapy, reader is shorter than clark, overthinking, introspection, miscommunication at times, some kissing, clark trying to be a supportive boyfriend, petnames, brief mentions of parenthood (in the future lol), implied smut (not explicit).
a/n: no couple is perfect. that’s what i kept reminding myself as i wrote this. it takes courage to be in love (fleebag reference), and to be truly seen is one of the most vulnerable acts a person can experience. if you realized all my female characters share one single trait (being insecure), no you didn’t <3 anyway, i hope you like it! likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!
For a man who could behold the whole world at once if he wanted to, he stands by the belief that he’d rather look at you.
Clark Kent is the kind of boyfriend who makes time pass like sand slipping through your fingers. He remembers all those special milestones that are important to you, like the clothes you wore for your first date. He's the kind of guy who just lets you talk, who’ll happily listen to you go on and on about whatever you're currently obsessed with, without ever complaining.
It’s been six months of back-and-forth unconditional love, the longest you’ve ever been with someone.
It had been hard at first, because letting yourself trust him was one thing, but trusting yourself in this was something entirely different. Still, you were committed, not only to healing, but also to becoming the best version of yourself. For your own sake, and for the sake of whatever it was you were building with him as well.
But things have taken an interesting turn lately. The discomfort with your appearance and everything it symbolized had always been there; at times subdued, thought at other times highly present in every move you made.
For quite a long time, your mind had worked in the following way:
Me not pretty.
Me ugly.
Boyfriend… boyfriend?
Boyfriend think me pretty.
Then me pretty and not ugly.
Which… alright, is wrong. Totally wrong. Caveman logic, as your therapist would probably say. The thing is that back then you were younger; therefore, you romanticized love, and you thought that having someone love you would be the necessary proof to start believing you were lovable after all.
You spent many, many years thinking you were doomed for eternal loneliness, and at some point you stopped searching for the one in every room you set foot in. It was becoming dreadful, the search doing nothing but wear you down each time you came home alone.
It was only after you accepted being alone that love finally came knocking on your door.
Literally. It’s not a metaphor, although it sounds like one. You’d just gotten a new job at the Daily Planet and moved to Metropolis. The first (not to say the only) neighbor to greet you that day was Clark. As fate would have it, you found out he also worked there, and… well, the rest is history, right?
It took him a full year to make a move. He took his precious time getting to know you in every possible way. You were convinced nothing would ever happen between the two of you, that he took pity on you because you didn’t know anyone in the city, and that you and him were purely, strictly friends.
That was until one night after dinner, where the two of you sat on your couch to watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It’d been your pick, one of your favourite pieces of media. Like he always did, he let you choose, beaming at your excitement even when he didn’t know the film.
Forty-five minutes in, he pulled the oldest trick in the book: he yawned, loudly and exaggeratedly, stretching his arms dramatically over his head. You glanced at him, instantly yawning too as your body betrayed you.
Right after that, he draped one arm over your shoulders, and your whole body went rigid. He noticed this and began pulling back, already apologizing while tripping over his own words.
“I’m so sorry. I mean, I just thought—”
“Hey,” you cut him off, stopping him mid-sentence. A tiny smile spread across your face, and you held his arm right where it was. “It’s alright.”
At that, Clark stared at you for what felt like a century, and you couldn’t help but believe there was something more he wanted to tell you, simmering behind his blue eyes.
Instead, he remained silent, sinking deeper into the couch, and you did the same, rewinding the last few minutes of the movie.
It was only a matter of time before your body naturally leaned into his, causing his knee to graze yours. Clark ran his knuckles up and down your arm as you made an effort to comprehend what it was that Kate Winslet was saying in a particular scene, but you couldn’t concentrate on any of that.
Suddenly, all you could sense was him. His scent, the weight of his arm against your skin, the uneven rhythm of his breathing every time you moved. You hadn’t even noticed he’d stopped watching the movie until you felt his gaze on you, and you turned your head slightly, realizing there was barely any space left between you.
Clearing his throat, he looked down before peering back into your eyes. He seemed nervous, his cheeks were flushed, and the pitch of his voice had descended an octave. “May I—Can I kiss you?”
Nodding so fast it nearly took your neck out of place, you swallowed a gasp the moment his lips enveloped yours. That night was your first kiss, and every kiss that came after that carried the same passion and impetus that characterized him.
Half a year later, you’re still working at the Daily Planet, and your boyfriend is, thank God, still Clark, aka Superman. But Lois and Jimmy still don’t know it.
He keeps saying he’s looking for the right way to tell them, especially Lois, who’s been growing highly suspicious of him and all the interviews he lands with Metropolis’s beloved hero.
Whenever the subject comes up, one of you changes it quickly. Nevertheless, she’s one of the smartest people you’ve met, which is why you’re not sure how much time Clark has left before she starts drawing her own conclusions.
At present, you and Clark are on your lunch break, having fled to the nearest coffee shop to buy some fuel for the whole group. Your drink comes out first, so you sip while waiting for the rest of the order.
Beside you, Clark clicks his tongue. “Stay right where you are,” he says, fiddling with his phone inside the pocket of his coat. Once he pulls it out, he takes a few steps backwards, angling it in your direction.
You narrow your eyes at him. “You know I don’t like pictures.”
“But you look so pretty like this!” he objects, momentarily putting his phone down. “Please.“
You’re now aware of all the other customers in the café, and you tug at the collar of your cardigan. “I suck at posing.”
“A smile will do.” His forehead furrows thoughtfully, and later he adds, “Or just pretend I’m not even here. Whatever works for you. I don’t exist. I’m just a voice from beyond.”
He always finds a way to make you laugh, even when you don’t want to. You decide to look toward the baristas who are preparing the coffees, playing the part of a girl who doesn’t know she’s being photographed. Spontaneously, you cast him a glance, raising your coffee and smiling at him.
Clark sits down to scroll through the photos. As you notice how his face lights up, you find yourself eager to see them. “Wait, let me see,” you say, sliding into the seat next to him.
He ended up taking several pictures, and he swipes through them, pausing after each one to compliment you. “See? You look beautiful in this one. That little crinkle by your nose?” He zooms in, his eyes shifting to yours. “I’m totally using this one as my lockscreen.”
You’re gripping your coffee with such strength you even spill some of it.
The noise in your head, the one that’s similar to the grainy static on a broken TV screen, doesn’t allow you to hear whatever else he must be saying, and it only grows louder the more you glare at the photos.
You watch as his mouth moves, how he chuckles and keeps talking, but you can’t register a single word that falls from his lips. Under the table, he grips your knee, giving it a light squeeze that makes you blink at him like you’ve just come out of a deep sleep.
“Do you want me to send them to you?” he asks, and in that exact moment, your name is called again. You bolt up, rushing to the counter to grab the cardboard tray of coffees without answering him.
Back in the elevator of the Daily Planet, you’re starting to suspect you might be getting sick. Your skin prickles, and you have to pass the tray to Clark to scratch your arm.
The question you’ve been meaning to ask him bursts out of you before you can stop it: “Would you please delete those pictures from the coffee shop?”
He takes your hand between his, pulling it away from you. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Will you get rid of them?” you shoot back, your arms now remaining at your sides.
“I will if that’s what you want.”
“Great. Thank you.” You press a chaste kiss to his cheek just as the elevator doors open. Together, you walk toward your desks, and you hand Jimmy and Lois their coffees.
After thanking you, Clark takes his own and sets it down for a moment. In silence, he watches you sink into your chair and flick your monitor back on. He glances over his shoulder before asking, “Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?”
“What? No,” you reply, peering up at him and pursing your lips. “You didn’t do anything. Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re sure?” His brows pinch, and he fidgets with the nearest thing within reach, a pen of yours, twirling it between his fingers. “Because if so—”
Were you alone, you would’ve hugged him without hesitation. “I just didn’t like the pictures.”
“You looked great in them,” he nearly whispers, intending to keep his composure in front of others. You’ve both grown accustomed to not being touchy at the office. “I’d use other adjectives to describe you as well, but… we’re at work.”
You nod, trying to sound persuasive. “I’m fine. You can go on with your day now.”
Suffice it to say he doesn’t look convinced. Not in the slightest. He studies you before plucking one of your neon-orange sticky notes, scribbling something down, and sticking it beside your keyboard. Having done that, he returns to his desk without another word.
You scrutinize the note. A wobbly heart sits at the top, and beneath it, so small you have to squint and lean forward to make it out, two simple words: Love you.
Shaking your head, you gnaw on your bottom lip. You should be getting back to work as soon as possible, because you’ve already wasted so much time, and you have so many things to do, but your brain refuses to obey because you can’t stop thinking.
This is the fight-or-flight mode you know very well. You become hyper-aware of how you’re sitting, or whether your back slouches when you’re too focused on a piece you’re reading. You straighten up, squaring your shoulders, then realize that it probably makes you look weird, and your neck also feels stiff, so you go back to your initial position.
There’s a glimpse of your reflection in the darkened corner of your screen that looks back at you with an unsettling expression. Your hair looks terrible. Perhaps you should dye it a different color, or cut it, or just shave the whole thing and spare yourself this sorrow.
Even though you try with all your might to focus on the article in front of you, those images are still burned into your mind. Why is your mouth shaped like that? And what about your eyes? Clark swears they’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, but this can’t be what he says he’s so in love with. That would be impossible.
Sometimes you wonder if Kryptonians see differently than humans, or if his vision has just been compromised from all the times he’s been punched through buildings.
A while later, you stand up and flee to the bathroom. As you’re walking across the bullpen, you think the way you walk could also use some improvement. You close the bathroom door behind you and just stare at the mirror, smiling at yourself. Great—your teeth are bothering you now too.
This is what he sees. What everybody sees, actually.
You lean closer, not recognizing your own reflection under the light, until your humid breath fogs the glass. It happens most days; you’re not a confident person under any circumstances, but today all your senses seem to be heightened, along with your discomfort.
Who is this person who faintly resembles you? And why does a stranger feel so familiar all of a sudden?
That feeling never leaves you, the sense that no matter what you do, you'll never measure up to the person you want to be.
The years pass, birthdays arrive and disappear. With every new candle you blow out, that voice stays, refusing to be silenced, even when you wish for nothing else.
Turning the tap on, you splash cold water on your face, willing yourself back into the version of you who has to survive during the next few hours.
You hate candid pictures. ‘Fake’ candid pictures as well. Maybe you just hated pictures in general.
Once the workday finally comes to an end, you feel like you could cry from pure happiness.
You pack your things up in silence, and Clark, looking just as exhausted as you, doesn’t say much either as you both leave the office and head to the subway. Only then does he reach for your hand, his fingers wrapping around yours where they grip the pole, your knuckles going pale from the strain.
Instead of answering, you mimic him, and then you push his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a fingertip before tipping your chin up to brush your lips against his.
It’s enough to distract him, at least until you’re standing in front of your apartment door, keys already in hand.
“I can stay at mine tonight, if you want,” he says, scratching his nose. “Not that I don’t want to be with you, because I do… but if you want space, I get it.”
You unlock the door and step inside, holding it open for him. “Come on in.”
Your keys clink as you drop them into the dish by the entrance. Clark folds his glasses and sets them beside the rest of your things, sighing as he rubs the back of his neck.
Making your way to the kitchen, you open the fridge, jutting out your hip. “God, I’m starving. We still have leftovers from the other night, or we could also order—”
He cuts you off by turning you in his hands and kissing you. His arms loop around your waist, pulling you flush against him until your heartbeat matches his, and that’s when you realize your feet aren’t even touching the floor.
It would be a crime not to melt into his touch. You kiss him back, and a whimper catches in your throat as he parts his lips and you trail after him, cupping the back of his head, fingers threading through his dark locks.
As you pull back, you look into his heavy-lidded eyes, and it makes you laugh. “Okay, I get it: you’re strong. Now you can put me down.”
He obliges, but not without peppering you with more short-lived kisses. “I missed you.”
You offer him a half-smile, toying with the rumpled collar of his shirt. “I’ve been sitting across from you all day.”
The kisses stop coming, and he traces his fingers over the inside of your wrist. “You know what I mean.”
His gaze is intense. It always is, although now it seems as if he’s trying to read your mind, and you find yourself feeling grateful that’s not one of his powers. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”
The moment you’re locked inside the bathroom, you stand under the water for a long time before doing anything else.
You reach for the shampoo, and your fingers tangle in your hair as you attempt to scrub it clean. Is there a way to rinse the dissatisfaction off of yourself? You wash your body, your skin, as many times as possible, and at some point, you lose count.
Your chest rises and falls with the tears that come quietly at first. They mix with the water until you can’t even tell them apart, your forehead pressed against the cold tile.
A pained sound escapes you, and you hug yourself, muffling your sobs with the palm of your hand, which is useless, because your boyfriend has fucking superhearing and must be hearing every pathetic noise you make from the living room.
Perfect. Just… perfect.
Clark is what most people would call an empath.
He doesn’t love the term, though. Mostly because he’s noticed it’s picked up some negative connotations online.
Normally, he says he doesn’t have time to scroll through what people post about him on social media, but every now and then… something slips through. Like the comment thread complaining about him taking time to save a squirrel, which, for the record, happened only once.
Okay. Maybe more than once, but he doesn’t think it should be paired with the hashtag #supershit.
If he had to put it into his own terms, he’d say that for as long as he can remember, since the very moment he first became aware of the world, he’s wanted others to be safe and happy.
His Ma used to have long talks with him about it. She’d tell him that caring that deeply wasn’t something everyone could do, and that it made him special. But she’d also remind him to be wise with that kind of gift, since feeling everything so strongly could just as easily wear a person down.
Over the years, he learned the limits of it. No matter how much he wanted to help, there would always be things beyond his reach. He could stop monstrous creatures, hold back crumbling buildings, push back anything as long as it had a name, a shape, or a way to fight back.
Yet this is completely different. You are different. There’s no clear enemy to defeat because it’s invisible to the eye, and the knowledge that he can’t fix whatever’s hurting you only heightens that awful sensation of helplessness he’s already plagued by.
He lays a hand on the bathroom door, hearing the tremor in your breathing each time you inhale and exhale. If he closes his eyes, he can almost picture you on the other side, probably folded in on yourself beneath the hot spray.
And he’s right there, listening, his powers now a curse because they're of no use at all.
Your hair is still wet, dripping all over Clark’s old T-shirt, the one you’ve claimed as your property ever since he left it behind early in your relationship. The cotton feels soft against your skin, and it smells like the laundry soap you love.
He’s at the stove, sleeves rolled up not to get them all dirty. As he scrapes scrambled eggs from the pan onto two different plates, you catch him humming a tune under his breath.
Your attention wanders to the counter, finding a stack of deliciously looking pancakes sitting beside crispy bacon. The sight alone makes your stomach growl loud enough for him to glance over his shoulder.
“Welcome back. You got out just in time,” he says, nodding toward the plates. “Tonight, we’re having breakfast for dinner, your favorite. Thank me later.”
You drift toward him, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I’d been in there for so long.”
“No worries. I took care of it.” He leans down to give you a kiss, drying his hands with a towel and carrying everything over to the table. “We could use this as an excuse to celebrate our six months being together.”
“But that’s not until next week.”
“Well… consider this a pre-celebration then.”
Your mouth twitches as you grab two glasses and the water from the fridge. “You did all this—”
“Because I wanted to,” he concludes simply, even sliding off your chair for you to sit. You’re frozen in place, and he tilts his head to the side. “Play along. It won’t kill you.”
You eat mostly in silence, the scrape of forks and the occasional clink of a glass breaking it from time to time. Everything tastes so good you could cry… again. This is exactly what your body had been craving.
“Did you know that some animals mate for life?” The question tumbles out of you without giving it too much thought. “They pick one partner and never leave. I believe that’s cute. Nature’s strange, though.”
Clark hums around a mouthful of eggs. “Penguins, right?”
“Yes, but not just them. Beavers, bald eagles, and even barn owls do it too.” You put your fork down, staring right into your plate. “Barn owls use the same nest site each year. And when the males are courting, they spend extra time hunting to bring gifts back to their mate.”
“That’s interesting. Would you say I’m courting you in that case?”
“If we were barn owls, absolutely.”
He laughs a little. “Where’d you learn all that?”
“A TikTok video,” you answer, sipping your water. “I’ll make sure to send it to you.”
Once the plates are empty and your stomachs full, you stand automatically to gather them, but Clark steals them from your hands.
“I’ve got it.”
“Clark—”
“Honey, I’m serious.”
You linger anyway, watching him move around your kitchen as if it already belonged to him as well. He stands by the sink, rinsing every single thing he’s used to cook. The urge to close the small distance between you becomes nearly unbearable, so you step forward and slide your arms around his waist from behind.
Closing your eyes, you nuzzle your cheek into his shoulder blades and breathe him in deeply. He’s so incredibly warm it almost makes you dozy.
Your hands come to rest just beneath his ribs, and he laughs, his stomach tensing under your touch. “Someone’s clingy today.”
“That’s your fault for being such a good boyfriend,” you mumble. “Thank you for doing all this, but you didn’t let me do anything.”
“I wanted to do something nice for you,” he explains, the sound of running water mingling with his voice. “You don't always have to do things for me, or for anyone else. It's okay to take some time off and just do nothing.”
There's a pull at your heart, a familiar ache in the space behind your ribs, when he speaks to you in such a tender tone that has your eyes welling up. Salty tears slide down your face and dampen the fabric of his shirt as you draw your lower lip between your teeth.
It gets to a point in a relationship, no matter how long or how little time you've been together, that the other person knows you so completely it feels a little terrifying, and you think about this as you practically feel Clark's worry radiating off him.
The pan he was rinsing is now long forgotten, and he sets it gently back into the sink. His hands cover yours where they’re clasped at his stomach, thumbs caressing your knuckles.
“Baby, what’s going on?”
How can you put it into words without dying of second-hand embarrassment? You press your face further into his back, shaking your head in jerky motions.
“I really want to help you, but I can’t do it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
You back away, rubbing at your eyes, a dull headache settling at the base of your skull. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” you mutter, looking down. “Usually when this happens, I’m alone. But now you’re here, and I don’t want to overwhelm you with something that’s stupid.”
Gently, he takes your chin between his fingers and tilts your head back up. “First of all, it’s not stupid. You’re clearly hurting. And what you said about overwhelming me? That’s not true. I’m the one who’s asking you to open up.”
“You shouldn’t be dealing with my stuff.”
“Why not?” His smile fades, his brows snapping together. “We’re a couple. That’s the way couples work.”
“Clark, you’re Superman! What you’ve got on your plate is much more important than me feeling insecure.”
“You don’t think I have time for my girlfriend?”
“Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”
You watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose, his eyes drifting shut.
“And now you’re pissed off because of me.”
“What? No! I’m not—” He stops dead in his tracks. “I’m just thinking of the best way to approach this without making you feel cornered.”
“I don’t feel cornered.”
“Then why won’t you talk to me?”
“Because it’s ridiculous, Clark!” Your voice rises, an exasperated laugh breaking through. “I’ve thought this way my whole life. It’s like I never grew up, at least not mentally. I feel ugly all the damn time, and when I saw those pictures you took, I realized that is what you see when you look at me.”
It’s not as if you’re telling him anything remotely new. He knows the facts, but you’ve just never been certain he understands how much they’ve been weighing on you in the silence.
He leans against the sink, arms folded across his chest. “I don’t get it—”
“I don’t expect you to.” Your fingers find a loose thread at the hem of your shirt, twisting it into a small knot until it's so tight it bites at your skin, and then you let go of it. “Maybe you were right. We shouldn’t be spending the night together. I’m not thinking straight.”
His face tightens, caught between stepping toward you and staying right where he is. Here goes another first for him: seeing you in the middle of a crash out.
“It’s just… not a good day,” you breathe, fighting the lump in your throat.
He takes a step forward, looming closer, voice laden with despair. “Do you want me to go?”
“It’ll be for the better—”
A look of perplexity appears on his features. “Stop thinking about what I need, or what anyone else needs. What do you want?”
Your lower lip trembles, body quivering inches away from him. Once more, the answer’s trapped somewhere you can’t reach, so you shake your head.
He asks again, “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
The agitated and frenzied hammering of your heart breaks under the weight of a sob, and you taste salt as you inhale. “No,” you whisper. “Please, don’t.”
He’s moving before the words have even left your mouth, and he folds you into his arms, lips pressed tightly to your temple. Shushing you, he cradles your head. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s alright.”
When he lifts you, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist, and you don’t object as he carries you to the living room, sitting down on the couch with you curled in his lap. Your face burrows into the warm crook of his neck while his hands rub patterns into your back, even as your body shudders against his.
You find it all soothing to some extent, but your thoughts keep circling back to the same question: will you ever know what real peace feels like? Clark’s hands in your hair distract you a little, and you attempt to focus on the careful way his fingers are working to ease you.
That’s when you understand there’s no returning from this. After showing him the rawest part of yourself, after stripping away your skin and letting him see what’s underneath, in no world could you and Clark could ever be just friends again.
By the time your breathing evens out, long minutes have gone by. Your cheek rests on his shoulder, and he remains still, as he’s afraid to break the moment.
You pull back just enough to meet his gaze, but you can only manage to drop your forehead onto his.
“I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand what you feel, because when I look at you, all I can think is that you’re what I’ve always dreamt of,” he says, his eyes lit with something that mirrors your own, a feeling shared by the two of you. “You’re… breathtaking, and funny, and you have the kindest soul, the kindest heart. Everything about you is kind.”
His thumb wipes the damp trace of a tear from your chin. “Ever since I met you, you’ve done nothing but stand by me, through hell and back. You didn’t even flinch when the world found out why I was sent here. You saw me for who I was, and you understood my need to help. You never doubted my intentions. So why on earth would I not be by your side on the bad days, when we’ve already shared so many of the good ones?”
“I just don’t want to drain you.”
He takes a deep breath, drawing back. “We’re getting rid of that thought.”
“I wish it were easier.”
“I know, but I’ll help you, in any way I can.”
“That’s very Superman of you.”
“Well, you know how he is. A chronic empath.”
The emphasis he puts on empath earns a weak laugh from you. You gape at him, captivated by the tiny smile plastered on his face.
“You know, the other day, I was at the grocery store,” you say suddenly, remembering that chaotic afternoon, “and there was a mom with her kid in the frozen aisle. The little girl had her eyes. They were green, and big, and pretty, and I thought, she’s going to grow up loving that. Loving having her mother’s eyes.”
Clark’s brows knit, seemingly unable to understand why you’re even mentioning all this.
“And then I realized I’m scared of having kids. Because what if they inherit something from me that they don’t like? What if they look in the mirror and find the same things I can’t stand in myself? And what if they start hating themselves for it, and then hate me for giving it to them?”
Your throat tightens, huffing out something between a laugh and a sigh. “I don’t even have kids and I’m already scared of them not liking me.”
“They would never hate you for something like that. You’re so caught up in how you view yourself, you can’t see what you really look like.”
“But the mirror—”
“I’ll cover every mirror in this apartment,” he interrupts, the determination in his tone catching you off guard. “And mine. And the Daily Planet’s. Just say the word and I’ll do it.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am being serious. Very serious.”
“You’re something else, Kent.”
“Now that you’ve mentioned it, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“About what?”
“Nothing.”
“Clark.”
He leans in, stealing a quick kiss from you. “Where were we?”
You press your hands to his chest, easing him back onto the couch. “Come on. Spit it out.”
“I was just thinking of how lucky I’d feel to have a kid with your face, alright?”
You freeze, wide-eyed. “You—you can’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’ve been dating for six months. You don’t say that to someone you’ve been dating for six months.”
“But I’m like a barn owl.”
“Excuse me?”
“You told me earlier that barn owls mate for life. That’s me. If you ever leave, that’s it. No more dating. Picture me, all alone and pathetic. You wouldn’t want that in your conscience.”
You laugh again, this time with more feeling. He studies your face, his gaze tracing every line and curve.
“Would you mind if I take a picture of you?” he asks, shoving his hand into his pocket.
“Clark, I’m not really in the mood—”
Instead of pulling out his phone, his hand comes up empty. “We’re doing it the old-fashioned way, back when people didn’t have cameras or phones.”
He lifts his hands, thumbs and forefingers forming a little rectangle, squinting one eye like he’s adjusting a lens. “I’ll use my memory. That way, I’ll never forget how beautiful you look when you laugh.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Hey, I’m busy over here. Overworked and underpaid, so please, just pose for me.” You roll your eyes, but you do as he says, and it doesn’t feel forced at all. Each time he mimes snapping a picture, he says, “Click! That’s perfect. By any chance, are you a model?”
You kiss him until your lungs ache for air. Cupping his cheek, your nose bumps into his, and you’re both grinning. “You’re a dork,” you murmur into the quiet of the night.
As you pop the first button of his shirt, his breath falters. “I’ve been told worse.”
“But I love you,” you say, taking his mouth in another bruising kiss.
“I love you mo—Oh?” His fingers curl into your waist when your lips trail down his neck, leaving a trail of wet kisses. “So… it’s happening?”
You snort against his jaw. “If you want to, I’m pretty much up for it.” Taking his hand, you guide it under your shirt, until he’s touching your bare skin.
“I’d have to be all bruised not to want it.”
“You mean sex?” You giggle when he turns a darker shade of red. “It’s not illegal to say the word.”
“We could also leave it implicit.”
“Why won’t you say you want to fu—”
“Alright, that’s enough,” he cuts in, and he pinches the hem of your shirt, tugging lightly at the fabric. “This is mine, isn’t it?”
“It was. Past tense.”
“You look lovely in it. Truly. But you’d look even better without it.”
Therapy is great. It’s worth it, and you’d never doubt the skill of a trained psychologist. But there’s its own kind of healing in spending the night tangled in your boyfriend’s arms, your head rising and falling with his chest as sleep pulls you under.
okay, how the hell does someone write something so AMAZING?? the characterization was so on point i could actually hear him in my year and the barn owl scene was SO CUTE!!! you're amazing
i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.
i hope every writer who reads this makes the best of it
this blog is 16+. i will not be writing smut, as i am not comfortable with that. regardless, this is a sixteen and over space because discussions here and the topics which my writing may cover can be sensitive (not explicit, obviously, but implications and jokes still apply). warnings will be placed in the tags and before each piece of work, it is your responsibility to monitor what you consume. that said, take care of yourself and please get off these social media spaces if you're younger than fifteen.
dni list ! trump-supporters, homophobes, racists, misogynists, transphobes, and others of the same variety.
writing rules ! as i said before, i will not write smut, so don't comment or come to my inbox about it. also, i will not be taking direct requests. that is, you are free to drop in an idea or whatever you wish to see, because very often other people can come up with something i would never be able to think up but i will decide if i want to write it or not, not every idea will be taken into consideration, but this is not personal at all. it is because this is only my hobby, not my job. i have a whole life outside this app and taking requests would make me put unnecessary pressure on myself. all that said, i welcome any and all discourse and interaction as long as everyone is kind and considerate!
gen rules ! be kind, make sure to interact a little (or a lot!) i can't promise i'll reply to everyone every time (look at me talking like i have more than one follower lmao) because i only drop in here occasionally. but this is a fun space, an open space, and i hope to have a good time here. go crazy but not too crazy.
