Howdy? I hope you're fine like me (ıdk I'm fine) Who owns this account? That's what this post is about. Before I start writing, I'm sorry for my grammatical mistakes and give me feedback if you find mistakes because English is not my first language and I want to study language and history . Every returpn you give me is a favor.
"Writing" is creating a new world for everyone, especially for shifters.
I'm writing because it's easier for me to see my Dr at my works. Another reason is to writeing, playing an instrument, draw something creates my comfort zone.
I haven't written on Tumblr before. The fanfiction I wrote was on Wattpad. What can I say, I'm a watty girl. But I've never even posted any of my serious writings on Wattpad.
İ have my own ideas for write but I listen to other ideas as well
Who was Katia?
Katia is my reality Shifting oc. My main Dr is Marvel&DC, mainly Black widow era. Natasha's sister, Yelana Belova's twin, White Widow etc, etc..
giving clark kent a friendship bracelet for a silly reason (you were sick at home for a weekend and had nothing better to do; you went on vacation and they were on sale and the colors looked liked him; you thought it would make him laugh) while thinking he wouldn't actually wear it
but because he's clark, the epitome of goodness, he ties it on immediately with words of thanks. he's proud that you'd give him a physical symbol of your friendship. it stays on his wrist, even at the few nice events he attends where he's supposed to wear a suit and tie. the ends eventually fray, but he's adamant that he's not taking the bracelet off
the friendship bracelet just... becomes a part of clark. you laugh about the apprehension you'd felt before gifting it to him, because of course he was going to love it. sometimes you forget about it.
and then there's the viral photo that even you - offline, as much as you can manage - can't ignore. superman, but the image is so zoomed in, it's grainy, and almost unusable. but the point of interest, of gossip, is clear: a braided band, peeking out from underneath the pure blue long sleeves that the superhero wears. speculation has almost confirmed the three colors, and it's a combination that you're so familiar with that it has to be a coincidence
You slip through the cruel hands of the Waynes multiple times only to find yourself back in the tight cage of the manor you live forcefully in. There’s no escape for a cunning fox like you.
A simple hybrid of chaos and cunning will. You didn’t expect to be the prey as such a predator yourself
Why must you be this scared? Why must you have been a captive? Why must you be this way?
The questions spiral in your mind.
Why?
Why bear this cruel truth of how you were their obsession?
Why try to run when they keep you prisoner?
It’s truthfully painful when you catch the youngest eyes first.
Damian.
Damian Wayne, the youngest of the Waynes who wanted you the most. The way your fur struck his eyes.
His green emerald eyes
Smooth like fur.
They’re smooth with their words on how to persuade you.
Your fur is thick enough, but not groomed.
Not wealthy.
Neglected.
Shabby
Disheveled
Something that could even describe your personality.
Your fox-shaped eyes and shabby ears flickering on your head at any sound that dick makes to laugh at an unfunny joke about patrol.
Jason is trying to grab you at any chance and force a little bond between you both.
Tim, doing small experiments on you and seeing how your body can handle just enough needles poking at your skin.
Feeling each prick burning your precious skin.
Your fur is turning tighter,
And tighter,
And tighter.
TIL you realized you’ve grown hands.
Fingers.
Hair.
Toes.
Everything a human has.
What did he do to you?
Trusting as a child.
You trusted them to take care of you.
So why haven’t they done a good job at it?
Why must it be so hard for them to actually not see you as a pet but also as a human now?
Not an experiment.
A person.
You’re your own person.
You make your own choices.
Have your own fashion.
But you’re still locked up like some dumb fox.
You’re slick enough to lie that you want to go to the mall.
But not sly enough not to get shot in the back of your leg when you tried to run off further than you could think.
Synopsis: an extrovert adopting an introvert to be her friend is quite a surprise when the introvert is the unswayed Damian Wayne who is quite stuck to her side as well
Info: reader/you can look like pinkie pie or have some features but just know you are quite hyper active in this story. Damian and reader are little kids, around like 9-10.
Genre: story
Word count: 711
“We’re best friends now!” you exclaimed with enthusiasm to the brooding boy who was engrossed in his book. His piercing green eyes flicked to yours, shiny yet guarded. You’d always been the kind of girl who radiated happiness, smiling at strangers even when danger was near.
It was like your entire being was designed for joy. Still, back in elementary school, people warned against giving you sweets because you’d have sugar crashes that made you feel like a tornado tearing through everything.
"I’m not your friend or your best friend," Damian retorted as he pushed himself up from under the shade of the tree, shielding himself from the relentless summer sun.
It was a fresh June day; you wore a Nyan Cat shirt, shorts, low Converse, and long striped socks in pink, blue, and yellow.
If Damian opened his mouth now, he’d probably comment on your "fashion" choices. But all he wanted was to walk away and return to the manor, perhaps to escape his annoying brothers by going to the park.
Just then, fate had other plans—you ran into him.
Here you both were: you skipping beside him, rambling about anything that came to mind while he tried to ignore you.
“Hey hey! I’m Y/N! What’s your name?" you blurted excitedly.
Silence.
“Yeah, I like your name too! I love parties! And making people happy!" you exclaimed as you suddenly jumped in front of him, striking a T-pose with a big smile.
Damian took a step back, cringing.
"Move," he snapped, clearly fed up with your antics.
"Nope!" you declared, dropping your arms. “Not unless you tell me your name first. Then I’ll leave you alone, silly!”
“Damian Wayne. There. Goodbye," he said annoyed, turning to walk off.
You tilted your head in confusion, recalling your "fashionable" friend mentioning something about a "Wayne." Shrugging it off, you skipped away.
🧁
It had been days, maybe weeks, since Damian first met you. You’d visit him at the park, smile at him, chatter away in his ear. You once told him about your pet baby alligator named Gummy, which immediately caught his interest.
“An alligator for a pet?” he asked skeptically as you hung upside down from a tree branch.
"Yeah!" you snorted with a grin. "Who doesn't have an alligator for a pet?" you said as if it was totally normal.
“Not many people,” Damian responded.
"They’re lame!!” you pouted.
Damian found himself genuinely focused on you, sitting upright and studying your animated expressions.
“Tell me more,” he said with a hint of amusement.
That moment marked the highlight of your summer friendship.
You spoke of your five other best friends, and how you have a very nonchalant sister.
Damian would bring you coloring books and crayons; in return, you’d offer him sweets—but he’d tell you he didn’t care for sweets. "I prefer your company," he’d say, making your heart explode like confetti from a party cannon.
"Damian! That's so sweet!" you squealed, eyes sparkling. You tackled him into a hug, Damian could have dodged but didn't. Somehow, he just stayed.
The warmth of your hug, the smell of cupcakes mixed with vanilla, made him relax.
He smiled softly.
Yes… he liked being your best friend.
You and Damian confirmed your friendship for life, even sealing it with a pinky promise—your serious little faces intertwined your pinkies.
🧁
Meanwhile, Jason leaned over to Dick, watching Damian leave the manor with a coloring book and crayons in hand.
"Damian’s been going to the park more lately," Jason said.
“Well, I think it helps him more with his social skills,” Dick replied calmly, eyes on his brother.
“Don't tell me you think the little hellspawn actually made a friend?"
“He did."
“No way.”
“What are we betting?" Tim asked, coming downstairs.
“We’re not—" Jason started.
But Dick smirked. "We’re betting if Damian has finally made a real friend in the park."
"A hundred bucks if that `friend` isn’t even real,” Tim said with a grin.
"Fifty more if it's a guy,” Jason added.
"Two hundred—and you have to cover my patrols—if it’s a girl," Dick finished with a grin.
Tim and Jason exchanged skeptical looks; they doubted any of that would happen.
“Damian? Talking to a girl who's his ‘friend’? Seriously?" Tim asked.
"Hey, we’re just betting," Dick replied with a smirk.
It took exactly two weeks before Damian introduced you to the family. You burst in, full of energy, holding his hand—fingers intertwined, not just clasped.
Your eyes widened at all the fancy things around the manor. Tim and Jason stared, jaws dropped. Dick smirked, holding out his hand.
(A/N) I know this isn't Scream related, but I randomly had this idea in my head and had to time to write it just for fun.
Pairing: Kara Zor El x Male Supervillain Reader
Notes: This is pretty much a parody from that one scene in BvS
Metropolis: LexCorp
You double check your watch, you had timed this perfectly. You knew that Superman had a cousin with the same powers as hers, and that's when you came up with a plan that would make your older brother finally see you and your worth in your father's company.
That's why you currently have an alien-dog on the helipad of the tower, completely poisoned by kryptonite.
"Alright, my ugly little friend, this is where Supergirl will finally hear your sad little whimpers of anguish." You tell the dog with a unhinged hum that you let out from time to time, casually picking up the dog like it's nothing. "Now it's time for me to have a literal, 'kick the dog' moment."
You glance up, humming...
"Nah, I won't do that." You change your mind with a shake of your head. "Though, I will do this, though."
You hold the dog over the massive ledge below, and drop him.
Then, you step back as if you didn't just commit the most heinous crime against humanity of all time, sitting down with your legs crossed, popping in a jolly rancher, and then pulling your kitchen timer out.
You tap your fingers....
Swoosh!
You see something gliding by at super-fast speed, making your smirk. Then, you watch the undeniable figure and identify of Supergirl fly over the tower, looking directly over you.
"Boy! Do we have problems up here!" You exclaim with an excited tone of voice as you briefly pause to wind up the timer before looking back up at her with an only slightly intimidated look. "The problems of... of evil in the world, hm?" You continue as you then try to stand up while keeping eye contact. "The problems of absolute virtue!"
"I'll take you in without breaking you!" Kara tells you with a seemingly serious voice, only that the 'growling' part is a little too... much. "Which is more than you deserve!"
"The problem of you on top of everything else!" You continue your monologue, your passion only fueled by her angry energy. Kara slowly hovers down towards you, but you don't let that stir you. "You above all! Ah, because that's what-"
"Oh, shit!" Kara abruptly curses as she fails to hover down correctly, like she tripped on.... thin air, causing her to fly forwards and slide across the helipad at an embarrassing speed. "Ow....."
You flinch, whipping your head back to see her now laying on the ground on the other side in such an embarassing way.
"A-A-Are you okay?" You stutteringly ask, not really caring how out of character it sounds for you.
"Yeah, yeah, give me a second...." Kara requests with a wheezing voice. So, you kind of just... stand there as she struggles to get herself up, as if she was interrupted from a nap. "Sorry, keep going. I was really invested by your Riddler speech there."
"Okay..." You quietly respond as you fit your jacket, clearing your throat before getting back into the character. "I was saying that God is subjective depending on our tribe. Because God is tribal, God takes sides." You point towards the air with a bitter smile. "No man in the sky intervened, when me and Lex were little boys, to deliver me from daddy's fists and abominations! I figured out-"
"Oh my gosh! Your dad hit you?" Kara gasps, snapping her hands onto her chest. "That sucks, man. I've never heard of a parent who could be so evil. Guess that's what I get for complaining when my dad would always-"
"Hey!" You cut her off with an offended look. "I'm talking, here!"
"Oh, I'm so sorry...." Kara whispers, looking earnestly guilty that she ruined your moment.
"Anyway, they need to see the fraud you and your family are, with their eyes." You state like it's a passionate fact, pointing at her like she's a curse. "The blood on your-"
"Whoa, whoa! Call me whatever you want, but I'm not a fraud!" Kara interrupts you, incredibly offended. "I once saved an entire village from being flooded with just by frost breath, okay? I'm even better than-"
"Do you ever stop talking?"
"Sorry...." Kara stops again, raising her hands in surrender.
You don't continue right away this time, however, staring Kara down with a daggering, calculating expression. The woman doesn't act too bothered by it. In fact, during the silence, she starts twirling her hair and sheepishly smiling at you, thinking that you're looking at her for a different reason.
"Do you see that light in the sky?" You ask her once you feel like you're good to keep talking now. You walk past her and point towards where she should be staring. "That is where Batman is waiting for you. And the world will finally get to see you fight. There, you will battle him.... to the death."
"You think I'll kill him for you?" Kara questions you with a raised brow.
"Mmmm, yes I do." You state before making a goofy face of a kid who got his hand stuck in the cookie jar. "I think you will fight, fight, fight for that special man in your life."
"Oh, really?" Kara raises a brow, looking surprised by what you're saying. "Well, I mean.... it's true that I think you're really hot, and all, and I don't want to kill the mood, but..... I don't think I can, like, kill a good guy for you."
"What? No." You instantly retort. "No, I'm talking about your cousin."
With that, you whip out all the photos. Kara's eyes widen as she awkwardly stumbles forward. You start dropping the photos one by one, just as the meta-human falls on her ass just because she's probably not sober or something. Then, she slowly picks up one of the photos, showing a captured Clark Kent, covered in red solar lights.
Kara stares down at polaroid, shaking as she grips tighter....
"Oh my gosh! How did you figure all this stuff out!?" Kara looks up at you with a completely different look from what you were expecting. She's impressed and.... excited still? "You figured out his identity and who Batman was?"
"Uh, yeah...." You eventually admit with a slightly more modest expression as her awe and approval of you starts to break down your walls. "I also, um.... let Batman steal some kryptonite I was shipping, so.... when you go fight him, he'll use it on you so he can kill you."
"Oh my gosh, you thought that hard into killing me?" Kara gasps in shock, putting a hand on her heart as if actually touched despite the plan itself. "No one's ever seen me that much before... not even Kal."
"Me neither...." You subconsciously admit as you glance down with a depressed look, before then remembering that you still have the timer. "A-A-Anyway! Can you go try and kill Batman now?"
"You know what? I'll do it for you, but I'll only 'try' okay?" Kara tells you before whipping a pen and pad out of her weather coat that she also brought for some reason. "Here's my secret identity, where I live... and my number." She states before sliding all of that into your breast pocket. Then, gives you a genuinely heart-filled kiss on the cheek. "Call me~"
Then, she flies away. You pull out the paper she gave you, and sees that she literally left exactly what she said she wrote.
You make another hum, more anxious, as you play with it.
black cat x golden retriever !! darkness manipulation yay yay :)) takes place a year before the movie btw
cw: mentions of blood, injuries, violence, swearing, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns, not proof read, also i hope i don’t miss characterize clark AHH
comments and reblogs are always appreciated <333
—
you’ve lived in metropolis all your life, you loved the city with all your heart. your compassion for the dear city led you to use your abilities to protect it. you lived in the southside of the city. where things were more rough, unfortunate, and violent…
you were a “hero” before superman came into the picture, well you weren’t as well known as him. you clung to the shadows, punishing those who wouldn’t learn, who’d hurt the innocent people in your city. your name was rarely whispered, people were afraid if they’d say it too many times you’d appear like beetlejuice.
the phantom.
your name was never on a headline, overtime though you’d found a blog or two. you shut them all down after pulling a few strings, unfortunately you weren’t a huge tech whiz. you were able to loop camera footage, interfere with walkie talkies, and find ways to get into buildings (with or without force, depending on the day.) the basics. the darkness helped conceal your appearance even if a camera picked you up, and you secretly liked the identity of the boogie man. however, after the first year of your vigilante business. suddenly many posts on social media about a shadow in allies, beating people (who you think deserved it) to a pulp, telling them to remember your lesson.
luckily, around that time, superman flew into your city. a true superhero. you remember the breath of relief you let out as the press focused on him, and all the social media posts of you were pushed far back into the corner of the internet. big blue making headlines almost daily and you had to say you were impressed. the man was compassionate, genuine, and did everything he could to help everyone. he barely used an ounce of his strength on a robber, while the robber you chased down visited the hospital before heading to jail. the idiots you dealt with lips trembled when they spoke your name while superman’s idiots were a little more relieved he was there to stop them instead.
you still helped the people in your city, mainly as a civilian. you’d made a name for yourself as the phantom, a dark cloaked figure that only revealed themselves to punish others. you figured you’d help the old lady carry groceries home wearing sneakers, jeans, a white-t. you’d climb a tree without using your powers, to get that damn cat, snowball, down from the tree for the third time that week. your arms scratched while you returned the white feline (you were pretty sure was the devil) to its owner. you helped at your local food bank, chatting with your neighbors. you were just being a good samaritan.
some days though you slept through the entire day, it was obvious your sleep schedule was fucked either way. your eye bags were apparent no matter how hard you tried to hide them. when you were in civilian mode, you told people you worked as a security guard, working only night shifts. Technically, you were guarding the city at night. how’d you afford your apartment? well… the goons weren’t going to need ALL that cash since they were going to jail…
you rarely made appearances during the day time as is, since most of the shady stuff happened at night. however, you made exceptions. superman had been in metropolis for 2 years then. you in your apartment, dozing in and out of darkness. literally. when you slept you became enveloped in it, it had terrified your parents as a child, but you found comfort in it. you fell into the shadows like it was second nature. in between brief moments of being awake you caught the news headlines constantly changing. a live report about superman’s fight against a single magic user. it seemed to be going well but somehow this magic user had been there for over– hold on– you sat up in your seat– OVER AN HOUR?
not a single member of that fuckass justice gang was there either? you watched your laptop screen, noting superman’s movement, he’d slowed down. he had enough energy to still save civilians constantly but not enough time to give another blow to the magician. you got up from from your chair, falling back, your body enveloped in darkness. your fingers reached for your eye mask with white slits in them. you switched out the rest of your clothes for your dark one piece suit and then threw on your cloak. your mask was there incase, you needed to show a semi-kind face to a civilian in need. while your victims received a cloak that belonged to a face of a swirling void.
you let the shadows pull you in many directions, till you found the right place. you never saw where you were going, but it always just felt right to you, so you emerged from the shadows. your boots hit the ground without a sound as you strode out of the alley. there was a park ahead, tall buildings surrounded it. most civilians had cleared the area by now, you stopped in front of an abandoned car. eyes slightly going wide at realizing many elements were decorated across the city. it was summer, but you were freezing all of a sudden, it was colder than your very own shadows. icicles, snow were decorated around the park and there were large holes in the ground. you realized there were boulders wedged into a couple buildings and suddenly smoke filled your nose.
you were brought back to reality, just as it became dark. thunder rumbled as you looked up, the magician floated in the air, looking untouchable. you could barely see the smug look on his face as he held something in between his hands. it looked like he’d conjured a red sun in between his palms, emulating his face. this magician was a master of elements, conjuring suns in his palm, starting fires.
the ground rumbled under your feet as you saw superman emerge, he was in the air again. not aiming for the magician but the building enveloped in smoke. he didn’t make it. the magician created a wall of the same sun he held in his hands, superman let out a shout as he fell down. you blinked, surprised superman was in pain, before quickly bending the shadows. he fell into the shadow that looked like a large manhole before completely disappearing.
he was in your dimension for the moment, you were tempted to keep him there, sort the situation yourself. the building on fire crackled. you sighed, knowing better not to have the man of steel being annoyed by you. first impressions were important afterall, plus civilians' lives were at stake. your turned to your shadow that rose to stand in front of you before spitting out the man. he squinted while stumbling forward, emerging from the inkiness. you caught his arm, having to root your feet to the ground so you wouldn’t fall down with him. you were eye level with the emblem on his chest which was dirtied now.
“what– where was i?” he asked and you looked up at him. he was more breathtaking in person. the clouds lets some light pass through, coating him in sunlight. handsome, blue sky eyes, and his black hair was damp due to sweat, a single curl still stuck to his forehead. his face was dirtied due to dirt, blood and his skin still sizzled with a new open gash on his right cheek. his forearm in your hand was so weighted, god, how did he not sucker punch this magician yet?
“shadow realm,” you answered coolly, you were thankful your heartbeat wasn’t pounding against your chest at the moment. it seemed he was too out of sorts to focus on that anyway, his eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.
“what’s your problem? you’ve let this guy use you as his own personal punching bag,” you said, letting go of his arm slowly. he managed to stand on his own, he swallowed thickly.
his eyes back on the blazing building, “those people…” he choked up and you followed his gaze. “i got them out, don’t worry big guy,” you tapped his chest. using your like disappearing shadow trick to move the civilians.
“thank you,” he looked down at you with soft blue eyes, your heart may have skipped a beat.
“phantom,” he sounded uncertain. you nodded, “so you have heard of me,” you said quietly and nodded.
“yeah, i’ve heard of you and the way you handle–” a bolt of thunder interrupted him and you both whipped your heads up. immediately the man stood in front of you, his tall frame blocking your view (not that you minded honestly).
“are you two gonna chit chat or fight me?” the wizard asked. you tilted your head to the side so you could see the wizard. the magic user was still holding the miniature sun in his hand. you eyed it curiously, remembering the wall he’d created that left a mark on superman.
“the red sun,” you muttered and superman whipped his head back to you.
“what?” he asked quickly.
“i can make it disappear, and then you can beat this asshole right?” you asked, needing the clarification.
“yeah,” he seemed hesitant to agree but he didn’t have much of a choice. you were a hero, it he seemed aware of your… “methods”, but he had a good feeling about you. “you can get rid of it, you’re sure?” he asked, looking at you through a different lens, making sure you were strong enough. you scoffed, “watch me,” you said, sinking into the shadows.
“wait!” he stepped closer to your shadow pool but you were gone, “nevermind…” he said to cement. he stared at the wizard, standing tall, hovering a couple inches off the ground. it happened so quickly, suddenly a shadow emerged around the ball of sun in the old man’s hands. when the shadow disappeared, superman immediately knocked out the wizard and you’d vanished.
…
superman stayed to help out after the battle. he helped civilians to get to the nearest hospital, he helped a kid find their mom, and he did his best to clean up the area. he also kept an eye out for you, his eyes lingering on shadows but he never saw you. after the clean up, he went back home. he’d soaked up plenty of yellow sun earlier, his wounds had healed quickly. it was the first time superman almost lost, the thought troubled him. luckily, you’d crept out of your usual shadows and came to help him. save him really, if he was honest.
clark could only think about you as he finished his nightly ritual. his bed creaked as he laid down on the comforter that felt like a cloud at the moment. he sighed. something didn’t feel right as he fought his eyes from closing. not single sign from you that you were okay… maybe he’d check in with you. that is, if he could even manage to hold an audience with the phantom.
clark couldn’t help himself as he read up on blogs about you. not even a single article from the daily planet or any other news outlet. he was hunched over his desk as usual, pushing up his glasses occasionally. all he got was your hero name, which everyone knew and he thought he finally had found something. someone had commented under the blog, a link. clark looked around, made sure to turn down the volume so only he could hear. he was hoping it wasn’t a link that would crash his computer.
a video loaded up on his screen, his pointer finger tapped against his desk. he waited with baited breath, and huzzah it started. the quality was crap, it was night, a single street lamp gave light in the alley. whoever took the video had half their phone tucked in their pocket, creating a black square at the bottom of footage. it was the recorder and older man wearing a hoodie.
“you got the money?” the man asked with a sly grin. clark frowned, not liking where this was going. then the recorder spoke, and oh boy he didn’t like the situation at all.
“y-yeah,” the teen spoke.
“good,” the older man held his hand out, and clark’s frown deepened. the man was clearly selling a substance to the kid. clark picked up something in the background of the video, like a swoosh sound, yet subtle. the lamp flickered for a split second and the kid handed the money.
the man started to count out the money and then the video goes completely dark.
“what the–” the man says before going quiet. a minute proceeds to go on with the kid breathing rapidly in the darkness before the sound of something hits the floor. then it’s silent for another 5 seconds and the darkness slowly fades away. the video is still blocked halfway but this time the footage is on a street.
“call 911,” you whisper and the kid turns around and you're standing tall. half your hood in view, inside is a swirl of darkness. he lets out a scream and clark swears you rolled your eyes, even though he can’t see your face. you sigh, the darkness disappears from your face, you don’t pull your hood down. however he can see the glimpse of a mask, your face hiding under it. he wishes there were more details to the video, he could see a glimpse of your hair color though.
“c’mon kid, you’re not gonna be in trouble here,” you tell him cooly, “i’ll stay with you till your parents come,” you told him assuredly, he swears he can hear a genuine smile through your voice. it’s smooth like silk and warm, not the blunt way you’d spoken to superman yesterday.
“you just watching that video?” jimmy speaks up and clark jumps in his seat. he quickly closes out the tab and he swivels around in his chair. before clark can say anything, jimmy puts his hands up in self defense with a cup in hand, “i didn’t know you were interested in the phantom, that’s all,” he assured.
“and you are?” clark asked curiously, “what do you know?” he asked. jimmy shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “i know they’re a real life boogieman,” he let out an exasperated, “now getting a photo of her, would be one of my life’s biggest achievements," he said.
“you sound like you want more than a photo,” lois said while passing both of them. jimmy coughs up his drink and shakes his head. he didn’t have time to recover as lois gives clark a pointed look. she stops in front of his desk, “just stick to your superman pieces, clark. the phantom is dangerous,” she lowered her voice. the two men leaned in as she looked around before revealing her big news.
“i heard when she started getting popular after 6 months in the city, a reporter had found her. they attempted to interview her, so she kept disappearing at first. then when the reporter barratted her, she snapped. the reporter ended up stuck on top of the lex corp building,” lois spoke quickly yet quietly.
“totally, one of my,” he struggled to find something, “...friends knew her. she was from a small news outlet. reporter wanted a story, ended up stuck their all night, brutal,” jimmy said and clark was in disbelief. he’d been in metropolis for 2 years, and this was the first he heard of you. especially placing an innocent (annoying) civilian on the city's tallest building was much in his opinion.
“yep,” lois formed a thin line with lips, “so stay out of her way clark,” she warned him.
“unless you wanna help me take a photo,” jimmy joked and lois hit him with a newspaper. “ow,” he whined dramatically and rubbed his arm. “why are you asking by the way?” jimmy asked.
clark stared up at the two and they both had cheshire cat smiles. they were greedy to get the latest scoop. “just heard the name for the first time, so i was curious," he told them with an apologetic smile. it sold them, for now at least.
“too bad,” jimmy said.
once clark was left at peace all he could think of was you, your soft words replaying in his head. he’d now gotten a proper idea of you in action too, you’d sent that dealer to the hospital. he was infuriated by the dealer as well but he’d never had hurt him, not enough to go to the hospital at least. it gave him a lot to think about and he still wanted to cover all his bases. the justice gang was never too far...
Introduction: After a particularly hard day dealing with social media and learning how to navigate being a superhero with no secret identity, Clark decides that you need a little bit of slice of home. The only problem is that you're a city girl through and through.
In other words, Clark rushed to your apartment at two in the morning because "your smile wasn’t real" in the single photo you sent him.
CW: NO USE OF Y/N OR ANY NAMES, Your features AREN'T described, Reader has space powers, somewhat established relationship with Clark, Fluff, Mild Angst.
ONESHOT but if you're interested in reading more of this AU check out
You sent Clark a selfie at 2 a.m. Lips glossed to liquid shine, lashes curled into soft daggers of seduction, hair spilling across silk pillows like midnight waves. The photos shimmered with practiced perfection. Chin tilted, collarbones kissed by dim shine, a gaze balanced between regal amusement and something inviting. Chewing on your perfectly painted nails as you awaited a response, anxiety began to build in the bellows of your stomach. It wasn’t a calculated move like you'd done with guys in the past, no. This was just a subtle update, because that was what coworkers did, update each other…
Clark, bleary-eyed, blinked at his phone in the low light of his bedroom. His reply was instinctive. A sleepy shot of tousled curls, cheek pressed to a pillow, tie discarded on the nightstand like a surrendered weapon. But even half-awake, his eyes caught it. The subtle tightness around your smile, the way your gaze skirted the lens. Something in him twisted, unshakable and protective as the pull of gravity itself.
He lingered on the photo a second too long, heartbeat stumbling into resolve. Without hesitating, he rose from tangled sheets, the cool kiss of the floor against bare feet shocking him fully awake. In a breath, the city blurred around him. Mirroring reflections and whispered midnight breezes. Seconds later, he stood outside the towering silhouette of your highrise. He knew almost immediately which floor you were on, windows glowing soft rose and deep magentas against Metropolis’s horizon. Your signature colors.
Inside, the elevator hummed a polished lullaby of old money and curated luxury. He impatiently bit the inside of his cheek, foot tapping on marble. And then he was at your door. An expanse of polished white inlaid with mother-of-pearl swirls that caught the hallway light like moonlit waves. You opened it faster than he expected, surprise flashing across your perfectly painted features. "What are you doing here!?" You demanded, voice sharp with shock, the brittle margin of someone caught unguarded. One moment you were staring at his photo, the next he was here. Was he in your mind!?
"I came to check on you." He said simply, words soft yet immovable as bedrock. For a moment, you faltered, defiance crumbling, eyes wide, then narrowing in deflection. "At two in the damn morning?" You shot back, voice feathered with disbelief and something more vulnerable lurking underneath.
Clark stepped in without invitation, gaze sweeping over the space. A ridiculously vast living room spilling with ornate furniture upholstered in dusky pink velvets and sharp, modern blacks. Soft spotlights traced marble statues and crystal vases. Shadows gathered like Hades' presence in high corners of Persephone's home.
"Yes.” He answered, quiet certainty in every syllable. "Because you sent me a picture, and your smile wasn’t real."
You scoffed, too quickly, too rehearsed. "I take hundreds of selfies, Clark. It’s a part of my job." But the words dissolved before they could finish. Caught by the weight of his gaze, unflinching, kind, unbearably sincere.
"Even the brightest star burns out sometimes.” He murmured, stepping closer until the city glow behind him haloed your silhouette in a soft pink.
You sucked in a shaky breath, fighting the urge to drop your eyes. "Had a rough PR day. Happens. I can handle it."
"I know you can.” He said, voice deepening into something that wrapped around you, warm and steady. "Doesn’t mean you have to do it alone."
For a beat, you stood frozen as an angel painted in archaic portraits, wings clipped, heart hammering. Then you turned sharply, striding to the coffee table where your phone lay blinking with a thousand curated notifications. Fingers tight, you snatched it up, thumb hovering over the feed that had once felt like home and now felt like a stage. Without asking, Clark stepped closer and gently took the phone from your grasp. He pressed the button, screen going black. "Just for tonight.” He murmured, words low, almost an apology. "Let the world keep spinning without you."
"That’s not how it works, Clark.” You whispered, voice catching on the edge of confession. "If I stop, they all keep talking. And I… I hate being silent."
"Then let them talk.” He countered softly, reaching past you to the sleek kitchen island. His hands moved with unexpected grace, finding a porcelain teapot painted in swirling roses. Filling it from the filtered tap before setting it to boil. "They’ll talk whether you’re happy or not. But you-" His gaze pinned you, gentle yet unyielding, "-deserve to breathe."
You opened your mouth to argue, words trembling at the precipice, then closed it. Silence pooled between you, delicate as spun sugar. Minutes stretched before steam curled from the pot, the floral scent of chamomile spilling into marble and velour. Clark poured the liquid carefully into two delicate cups, their edges traced in pale gold.
"Here.” The very definition of a man murmured, pressing warm porcelain into your hands. You curled your fingers around it, nails clinking gently against the glass. The heat seeped into your skin, thawing something tight around your chest.
You sat, perched on the low blush velvet chaise, him on the cool marble floor, back resting against the ottoman. The city glowed beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, lights reflected in glass like constellations caught in a crystal sphere. You exhaled, slow, makeup smudging faintly where your knuckles brushed under your eyes. "Normally I’d post something funny. A picture. A caption." Your voice was softer than you meant it. "But tonight it just… felt different." Clark listened, really listened, the way old trees might listen to the wind. His silence wasn’t empty; it was space you could finally fill with truth.
"It always felt safe, you know? The likes, the noise. It was mine." Your words splintered under the weight of truth you’d never dared say aloud.
"I know that sounds ridiculous but it makes me feel less alone… And it sucks to say that, to be so known but still be so lonely. Because that shouldn't be me.” You whispered, voice raw. You were Metropolis’s glowing star, the one who always had a smile on her face, the one that always forced everyone to shine with her and not behind her. It was hard to say that you hated being without it, the stage presence, the press tours, the interviews after a fight…
"This is still you.” He replied, voice so gentle it was almost breaking. "Maybe it’s the part I’ve been wanting to see most."
You drew a trembling breath, lids falling half-closed. Then, as if gravity itself pulled you, you leaned forward, resting your head against his shoulder. Warmth met warmth. Your perfume mingled with chamomile steam and the faint scent of rain still clinging to his hair. Clark lifted a hand, brushing tangled curls behind your ear, then, in a moment unguarded and impossibly soft, pressed a kiss to your forehead.
Woah what!? your mind screamed, shock flaring electric across your skin. But your body didn’t flinch. Instead, your breath caught, then released, long, shaky, like stepping into freedom after too long in a gilded cage.
"Maybe you need a break from all of this," Clark murmured, thumb tracing an absent path along the edge of your temple.
"I love this!?" You protested, voice breaking around the admission. "The cameras, the rush, the stage- it’s not fake for me. It’s- it’s who I am!"
"I never said you didn’t.” He answered gently, words threaded with something raw and honest. "Just… I’m heading back to Smallville for the weekend. Do you want to come with me?"
The question slipped free before he could catch it, heart thundering. Too forward? Too much? But it was too late. You froze, cup balanced between palm and trembling fingers. Home. He wanted to bring you home. The thought ricocheted through your mind. Was this a soft gesture? Or was this more? You searched his face and found only open sincerity, blue eyes unguarded and terrifying in their tenderness.
"I…" you began, words sticking like honey. Your pulse rattled in your throat. "Yeah. I’d like that."
A breath he didn’t know he’d held eased from his chest, shoulders loosening. "Okay," he murmured, relief folding his voice into quiet warmth.
"Okay.” you echoed, softer still, as if testing how the word felt on your tongue. Outside, the city still roared and sparkled, but inside the pink-lit hush of your highrise, calmness outweighed it all.
♡
The Kansas sun rose like molten spilling across endless fields of green, glinting off dew-beaded corn stalks and turning dust motes into drifting specks of amber. The truck Clark drove rattled gently along country roads, the ancient suspension creaking with every dip and rut. Beside him, you sat perched on cracked leather seats worn soft by decades of sun and seasons, overdressed in a perfect pink sundress that shimmered like spilled champagne against a rustic picnic table.
You kept shifting, crossing and uncrossing your legs, tugging at the hem as if you could will your nerves to calm down. The humidity curled the edges of your hair, softening the precise perfection of your morning routine into something almost real.
“Does the air always smell like... grass and cow?” You asked, voice pitched between complaint and curiosity. Clark chuckled, the sound low and fond. “That’s the smell of home,” He said, eyes on the road. “And you look real nice.”
“It’s a shame it’s too hot for it.” You countered, but a flush rose to your cheeks anyway, betraying that part of you that liked hearing it.
You turned onto the Kent driveway, gravel popping under worn tires. The house stood as it had for generations, paint fading gracefully, windows catching morning light like old gems. The porch swing swayed faintly in the breeze. The sight made Clark’s chest loosen with memory and quiet pride. You stepped out, stilettos instantly sinking into the soft earth. “Are you kidding me?” You hissed, balancing awkwardly. Clark offered his hand. You hesitated, then took it, your manicured nails cool against his callused palm.
The day unfolded like a patchwork quilt, each hour stitched with mismatched colors. Your laughter was loud as spilled pearls when the cow’s tail flicked mud onto your shin. Your shriek when a rooster flapped too close, feathers catching in a sunbeam. Your grimace of horror at finding fresh eggs still warm in the nest. “There’s poo on it!” You insisted, voice shrill, almost affronted by nature’s refusal to follow your rules. Clark laughed until his ribs ached, each sound loosening the years of restraint knotted into his chest. Yet, between your complaints, there were quieter moments. When you checked on him mid task, your fingers finding the worn wood of the barn door, tracing initials carved decades ago. When you paused to sort out the buttons of a faded scarecrow, its straw hat askew like an old man asleep in the sun.
And then there was Martha.
You tried to prepare yourself, shoulders squaring, smile polished bright enough to blind. But Martha Kent saw past sparkle and posture in a single glance. “Oh, sweetheart, you must be hot in that dress,” Martha said, voice warm as fresh bread. Her accent heavy with southern hospitality. “Come help me snap beans in the shade.”
You sat together on the porch, the quilt beneath you soft from countless washings. You fumbled, breaking more beans than you saved, but Martha only chuckled, her patience boundless. Stories flowed. Of Clark as a boy, of harvest seasons, of love that held firm through droughts and storms.
“He doesn’t bring many people here,” Martha said, hands moving with steady grace. “Means he sees something real special in you.” Your breath caught. For once, words failed you, leaving only a quiet, naked hope beating in your chest.
Later, when the sky deepened to violet and stars pricked the horizon, Clark led you past the barn, where the grass whispered against your ankles. You lay on a patchwork quilt, the same one his mother had made when he was small and the same one she had draped over you earlier. Your fingers grazed the fabric as you looked up, tracing the lines and stories of his life that were woven into it.
You tilted your head back, lashes brushing your cheekbones. The cosmos stretched infinite above, a familiar tapestry to you, but somehow, here, softer, closer. As ridiculous as it may be, being two individuals who can fly up to the heavens, stargazing.
“What is this place to you?” You asked, voice hushed by the immensity of the sky. You felt as though you had to ask. The Clark you observed here seemed calmer, happier.
“Where I learned to be Clark,” He answered, eyes reflecting starlight. “Not Superman. Just… me. Where my parents taught me that being good mattered more than being strong.” You listened, heartbeat slowing to match the calm that settled over the fields. The world felt smaller than usual, quieter, like you could hear the earth itself breathing beneath you.
“Okay.” You declared. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll try not to scream at the chickens.” His laugh rumbled low, and he turned to look at you, eyes soft as the Kansas dusk. “I’d like that.”
You lay there longer than you meant to, your hair spreading across the quilt like spilled ink, his hand resting near enough to feel the warmth of your skin but not quite touching. Fireflies blinked above the grass, tiny lanterns dancing in and out of shadow.
“You know,” You murmured, “I thought I’d hate this. The dirt, the quiet. But... it’s kind of beautiful.”
“It is,” he agreed. “Especially with you here.” The words slipped out before he could catch them. Your breath hitched, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you reached out, fingers brushing his wrist, the contact feather-light but electric.
“I never thought someone like me could belong somewhere like this,” You confessed, voice softer than moonlight on water.
“And I never thought someone like me could have someone like you here.” He replied, the honesty in his voice cracking something open in both of you.
In the quiet that followed, the wind shifted, bringing the scent of cut hay and summer rain. Crickets sang in the dark, the sound ancient and constant. And in that patch of Kansas earth, under stars older than memory, two hearts edged closer to something neither could name, but both recognized by feel alone.
When you rose to head back, your dress was creased, a smear of grass on the hem. For once, you didn’t brush it away. And Clark, watching you walk beside him through the firefly-lit field, thought you had never looked more perfect. In the house, Martha watched from the porch, a knowing smile ghosting her lips. And the wind, carrying whispers of grain and night-blooming flowers, seemed to sigh around you, as if even the land itself hoped this moment might last a little longer.
♡
Morning unfurled over Smallville like a warm breath, sunlight catching on the dew still jeweled along fence posts and flowerbeds. The town’s weekly farmers market stirred awake under striped awnings and hand-painted signs, the scent of fresh bread and lavender soap drifting through the warm breeze.
You walked a half step ahead of Clark, sandals tapping on the sun-warmed pavement, your baby blue dress fluttering at your thighs like a flag of soft rebellion against the rustic quiet. Around you, stalls bloomed with color: baskets of peaches blushing gold and rose, mason jars of honey so thick they caught light like amber, wildflowers spilling from tin pails in tangled bouquets of daisies and thistle.
You paused, for just a moment at each table. Fingers ghosting over a jar of blackberry jam, a hand-carved wooden comb, a floral teacup chipped at the rim but painted with such delicate care it seemed to hum with its own small story. And always, Clark watched. Not staring, not intruding, but quietly noting the slight softening of your gaze when you lingered too long, the subtle hitch in breath when you brushed a velvet petal or caught the buttery scent of fresh croissants.
“Pastries for brunch.” You announced, chin tilting up, voice high but threaded through with an unspoken desire to share something of your world with him. “And fresh flowers. Hydrangeas if they have them.” You felt familiar here, amongst commodities that weren't manufactured but individually made. Shopping always brought a sense of happiness to you, and you felt that knowing rise of your dopamine begin.
Clark’s answering smile was softer than dawn on cornfields. “Hydrangeas. Got it." He murmured, and with an ease born of practice, took the paper-wrapped bundle of blooms from your arms, balancing it against the growing weight of bags already draped across his broad shoulders.
You fussed, of course. Complaining gently, that your hand was getting tired, that the sun was too bright for proper lighting, that the pastries were going to look too rustic next to your curated brunch spread. But the complaints were softer than usual, frayed at the edges with something like contentment.
You posted: a shot of sugar-dusted pastries nestled in a paper box, the swirl of cream glistening under sunbeams; a video of flower petals trembling in the breeze; a close-up selfie framed by the delicate blush of peonies and the deeper plum of ranunculus. Captions polished to playful perfection, hashtags neatly lined up like soldiers. But there was one photo you didn’t share. Taken quickly, almost shyly, when Clark turned to you, his smile open and utterly unguarded. A moment of such quiet tenderness it caught your chest between beats. You kept that one, saved to a folder no algorithm would ever touch. Just his eyes crinkling at the corners, the easy curve of his mouth, sunlight catching in his dark curls.
It wasn’t the grandeur you usually curated, but it felt truer than any magazine spread. A secret constellation mapped only for you.
You stopped by a potter’s stall, where mugs glazed in shades of moss and river-stone gleamed under the day sun. You picked one up, thumb brushing the uneven rim. “This is ugly." You said, but your voice lacked conviction, and you turned it over in your hands more gently than you meant to. Pink. But a muddy pink. The mug and handle in the shape of a heart.
Clark’s brow rose, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Ugly?”
“It’s charmingly ugly.” You corrected quickly. “Like... perfectly imperfect.”
“Sounds familiar.” He teased, words so soft they brushed you like the whisper of linen.
Your gaze darted to his, caught off-guard by the warmth there. “Shut up.” You murmured, but your lips curved anyway.
You bought it, of course. And three more mugs, and a lopsided bowl painted with lavender sprigs. More than you’d ever need, but each transaction came with a conversation, a compliment, a laugh shared with the vendor that left them smiling even after you moved on. Coins exchanged for pottery, but what you really bought was brightness, a little blessing left behind at each stall.
Clark, trailing beside you, carried every fragile treasure without complaint, his hands large yet impossibly careful. The sight tugged at something in you: that a man who could stop meteors could cradle chipped ceramics like they were shells.
You bought honey too, drawn in by the warm glow in glass jars and the older woman selling them, whose voice wove stories of bees and clover fields. And when you pulled out a sleek card, Clark gently laid his hand over yours, offering a crumpled bill instead. “Let me.” He whispered, and you understood, letting the moment pass unspoken.
In between stalls, you kept up the performance, pouting at your phone, narrating in playful scorn how the humidity ruined your hair, how the sun made you squint. But more often, the camera lowered to your side as your gaze wandered across ivy-draped awnings, dusty chalkboards advertising lemon tarts, the weathered lines on a potter’s hands.
At one stall, a little girl offered a bracelet of woven grass and daisies, petals already beginning to brown at the edges. You hesitated only a breath before lowering yourself to the child’s eye level, the sundress spilling around you like liquid blush. “For me?” You asked, voice gentler than you used for any camera.
The girl nodded, wide-eyed. You smiled, a smile without angle or calculation, and slipped the bracelet over your wrist, daisies brushing your pulse. Clark watched, chest tightening at the sight. At that moment, you weren’t Miss Universe or a celebrity. You were just you: warm, flawed, and radiantly alive.
As midday settled, you found a bench under an arch of climbing roses, petals drifting like soft confetti. You insisted on arranging freshly bought sweets for photos, the box turned just so, flower stems fanned behind them. But your laughter was freer, the tilt of your chin less deliberate. Clark bit into a pastry, powdered sugar dusting the corner of his lip. “You’ve got—” you started, leaning forward, thumb brushing it away without thinking. Your mind froze, skin tingling where you touched, eyes meeting in a moment that hovered, delicate as a held breath.
You broke it, both laughing too loud, the sound spilling into warm air. And yet, the spark lingered, warm and secret.
By the end of the day, your hands were full: flowers, honey, pastries, imperfect mugs wrapped in paper. And Clark carried them all, weightless in his arms, but each object meaningful because you had chosen it.
“Not bad for a dusty little town, huh?” he teased gently.
“Shut up.” you retorted, rolling your eyes, but softer than before. Your gaze swept over the market. Painted stalls, sunburned faces, laughter spilling like water, and something inside you softened further. “It’s… sweet.” you admitted, voice almost shy.
You lifted your phone for a final photo, the golden haze of afternoon catching on Clark’s profile. This one you didn’t post, just saved silently into the growing folder of him and you. A keepsake of sunlight, freckled smiles, and the first day you let yourself see past what the world demanded of you.
And as you walked back to the truck, flowers bobbing gently with each step, the market behind you hummed on, unaware it had become, for you, something quietly extraordinary.
♡
AN: If you'd like to read more check out MISS UNIVERSE though please note that it's not written quite the same because this story is actually a snippet taken from a 36k worded novel I wrote for me and my friends haha. Anyways let me know what you guys think! I'll see you all in the next one!
Tags: fluff, dating, superhero x civilian, flirting, secret identity, cuddles, purring, being protective
Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions
A/N: I finally caught up with everything and god, I love this silly guy so much. He needs a nap and lots of therapy after the end of season 5, please let him get therapy.
There are big differences between his flirty remarks when he's on camera and when he's with you
Always has something clever to say when you try to flirt back with him, he knows you can't help but fall for his charms
Dates mostly happen during the night since he's busy with superhero work and other activities during the day
If he needs to he will ask one of his fellow heroes to cover for him so the two of you can have your date
Loves talking about the supervillains he's defeated with the help of his friends
Speaking of his friends, they're the only ones who he can talk about dating you so he annoys them with it
If it wouldn't put you in danger he would tell the whole world you were dating
Does indeed purr when you scratch behind his ears, under his chin or invite him over to cuddle in general
Sleeps over at your place as often as he can
Hates that he can't take you on a normal date like couples usually do but on the other hand who else can take you on top of the Eiffel Tower at night, overseeing the lights and streets of Paris
Always asks you if you've seen him inaction against the newest Akumatized villain, he wants the praise
Chat Noir uses his belt to pull you over to him so he can kiss you
If he misses a night or two you can be sure that it's because he was busy, not because he's bored with you or anything like that, he could never be
Kisses your hand every time he has to leave you, telling you that he will be back as soon as he can
"Okay children. Now, does anyone know why we only see in black and white?" Your teacher asked in kindergarten. The class full of shushed 'no's or children shaking their heads.
"It's because we don't see color until we meet our soulmate. At first its just a splash, here and there. As we fall in love, we begin to see more and more color. Then, when were in love, and loved so dearly in return, we see full color." She explained. Some of the kids curled their faces into sneers of disgust, some of their eyes were wide with the possibility of having a true love story. You however, rolled your eyes, unbelieving.
"Can we go back to writing now?" You asked, bored of the conversation.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
You were running late, later than late. Of course, the subway just had to come early for once, making you wait so long you ran back out of the station, hailing a cab.
"Fifth and Concord please." You asked the cab driver, him nodding and pulling away towards the Daily Planet. Perry was gonna tan your hide. You didn't even have time to pick up your morning coffee, much less anything to eat. You slumped in the uncomfortable vinyl seat, sighing.
After tipping the cab and hurriedly rushing to the elevator, you were slowed down by some fool with the same delayed start as you.
"Thank you," the tall curly haired man said in a voice too small to be his own. You hummed in response, looking down at your phone. When you hit your floor, you darted out, the stranger on your tail. You entered the glassy bullpen, Perry waiting impatiently while chewing on a cigar.
"Y/N, I've been waiting for you, there's been a new development in the boravian and Jarhanpurian conflict, i need you to get on it for today's paper. No later than noon, got it?" He asked in a low voice, you immediately nodding. "Oh and Y/N? Clark Kent, show him around."
"Perry, you need this article by noon, I can't-" you began nervously, your coat not even on the hook, coffee mug dry at your desk.
"You can, or you can have a write up for being late." Perry warned. "And Clark?" He asked.
"Oh! Er- yes, Mr. White?" He asked sheepishly, all 6'4" of mid-western politeness squirming beneath Perry's sharp tone.
"Try to be on time tomorrow?" He asked with a sigh.
"Oh, yes sir, will do!" He said, his dorkiness almost endearing.
"C'mon Clyde, I don't have all day." You huff.
"Well, sorry, actually it's -" Clark tried. You cut him off, sighing.
You did not have time for this.
"Look, I have to write a first page article by noon, and I'm losing time. So please, don't interrupt." You sigh again, Clark nodding.
"So here's the bullpen, full of senior reporters, we all have our beats. Mine happens to be international affairs. Here's your desk, this is Jimmy Olsen. He does photography for the paper. This is the wonderful Miss Lois Lane, you'll be working with both of us pretty heavy. And that, is Cat Grant, she writes the gossip column, we write the actual news." You introduced, Cat rolling her eyes.
"Here's the coffee machine, bathroom is down the hall, and that corner office is Perry's. Lunch is at 12:30, and I think that just about covers it. Any questions, Clyde?" You ask, a bit breathless as you flit around the office.
"Uh, no that covers it, but my name is Clark. Clark Kent." The curly headed man said in that unassuming tone.
"Oh I'm sorry. Clark, my name is Y/N, I never formally introduced myself." You laughed softly, outstretching a hand. His calloused, large palm met yours in a firm grip. You gasped quietly, feeling a slight hint of electricity. "It's nice to meet you, Clark." You smiled sweetly. Your eyes trailed up to meet his finally, and you could've sworn you seen something.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Later, after the article about the Boravian Military conflict was finished and on Perry's desk, you finally felt like you could breathe. You leaned back in your chair with a sigh, your eyes trailing over to Clark hanging something up. It was a picture of back home. Clark along with his parents on a rural farm, the sky a strange color…
You looked up a color chart on google. Obviously the whole soulmates thing was fake, right? No one actually saw color…right? There it was, taunting you beneath your cursor. Blue. It was just a flash, but the color began to taunt you. You sighed, looking down. Your palms pressed into your eyes. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe - no, it was impossible!
"Jimmy?" You asked, pen tapping your chin.
"Yeah, Y/N? What's up?" The photographer asked.
"Do you believe in the whole soulmates make you see color thing?" You asked, wanting your friend to weigh in.
"It's a romantic thought, I mean I've seen a few flits of color here and there…" He shrugged. "Not totally sure though." He said noncommittally. You hummed in thought.
"What about you Lois, what are your thoughts?" You ask your best friend.
Her aqua eyes trailed from Jimmy to yours. "Well…I've never seen color, but its a good thought. Could be a huge conspiracy too though." She jokes, sipping her too strong coffee.
Then finally, you turn to Clark, the taunting image of the farm boy and his parents glaring at you. "Clark, what are your thoughts?" You ask sweetly, looking up at the behemoth of a man that he was, shrouded beneath an ill-fitting suit. He turned in curiosity, eyes the same taunting sky blue. You gasped slightly, trying to hide the way you could see his eye color. His eyes widened slightly as they met yours. Through his he saw a flash of honey brown, your eyes taunting him.
"Who- me?" He asked dumbly, making you laugh. God, he could listen to your laugh forever.
"Yeah, Clark, you. What do you think about the color when you see your soulmate for the first time?" You ask.
"Well, geez, Y/N, never really thought about it," He said with a shrug. "I like to believe in it, it's romantic to think about. The thought that you know because your world becomes complete really is a nice thought." He said earnestly. You smiled as he said it, until Steve's laugh whipped through the bullpen like a jagged knife.
"Well, Carl, seems like your up in the clouds! Someone's a hopeless romantic." He barked out a laugh. No one else laughed through the bullpen.
"His name is Clark, Steve. And I don't remember asking you anything, don't you have a meteors loss to report about?" You quipped, him huffing and stomping away.
"Carl, Clark, whatever…" He had mumbled angrily while stomping away.
"Don't mind him, Clark, Steve's a moron." You rolled my eyes. He shook his head, smiling coolly.
"It's alright, Y/N, my name gets forgotten or mistaken pretty frequently. Clark isn't a common name anymore." He shrugs.
"Doesn't mean it ain't worth remembering." You reassure, honey brown eyes staring back at his sky blue ones. You smiled at him fondly. He smiled gently, looking down, adjusting his glasses.
"Well, that's awfully kind of you, Y/N." He said tenderly, laughing earnestly.
"Well, that's lunch!" Jimmy interrupted the moment, making you wanna yell at him for ruining it.
"Geez, Olsen, you ever think about anything other than food?" Lois laughed.
"Girls. Girls and food." He teased back.
"Well, what are we feeling today?" You asked the others. Lois wanted burgers, Jimmy wanted burritos, which left you and Clark to decide. "Hmm, I'm kinda in the mood for pizza, what about you Clark?" You ask.
"Pizza doesn't sound too bad, but im not picky." He assured.
"Two outrules one!" You proclaimed in victory. The other two groaned but caved.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
Later, the four of you were eating happily, getting ready for the last four hours at the Daily Planet. Lois made a lame excuse for the two of you to step out, going on a coffee run to a cafe up the street in the last 20 minutes of lunch.
"So…what's up with you and Kent?" Lois asked.
"Nothing, why?" You asked, a flush rising in your cheeks. How could you possibly tell your best friend that ever since the bumbling reporter practically fell into the office with you, you could suddenly see blue? You weren't even sure you could let the words fall out from between your lips, let alone to Lois Lane.
"Just seem awfully sweet on him to me. Didn't treat the last guy this nice." She hummed.
"Well, Scott wasn't exactly a man who's easy to be nice to." You defended. Scott, the man who occupied Clark's desk previously was downright rude. The first day he had smacked your ass, and implied you and Lois only got good stories because you were sleeping with Perry. All of which he said in excruciating detail. Perry had fired him pretty quickly, and he was blackballed from the news world so harshly the rumor was he couldn't even get a job in Gotham.
"That's fair. But still," she lamented after you both ordered coffee for the four of you. "You don't give just any guy the time of day. So, why Clark?" She persisted.
"Must I be subjected to Lois Lane's journalistic impulses?" You asked with a groan.
"Today? Of course." She insisted.
"Well," You began with a sigh. "You know how I've maintained the theory that color is made up and no one actually sees color, right? I mean, how many guys did I go out with because I thought it was baloney?" You ask. "That was until today, when he stumbled in and guess what." You huff.
"Apparently blue is a very real color, which your eyes are a glaring reminder of." You sigh.
Lois remained quiet for a moment. "My eyes are blue?” She asked.
“Lois-“ you sighed, her not taking the bigger picture more serious.
“Okay, well, has he acted weird?” She asked, looking at you as she grabbed two of the coffees.
"When he looked at me earlier he looked startled when our eyes met." You let out softly. I wonder what he saw… you thought fleetingly.
"Then he must've seen your eye color. What else is the explanation?" She mused. She always could practically read your mind.
“Get out of my brain.” You groaned, earning a laugh from the aqua eyed reporter.
"I don't know what to do Lois, I really don't. I've never subscribed to the idea of soulmates, and now? This man can just waltz in and now I see blue?" You sigh, looking down. She was about to respond, before the elevator dinged. She shot you a sympathetic look, before you both started out of the elevator. You grabbed Clark's cup, the blue paper of it mocking you.
"Here's your coffee, Clark." You smiled sweetly up at him. Okay, beneath that ill-fitted suit and coke bottle glasses…he wasn't bad on the eyes. He looked at you with a fond look, smiling warmly.
"Thanks, Y/N." He said softly, his fingertips brushing yours. Oh you are so whipped.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
It started slow. Even so, you both engaged in this silent dance. It was small at first, like Clark remembering your exact coffee order, down to the smallest details. First, he'd come in, practically tripping over himself. Then, smiling at you as he set it on your desk, sitting at his to your right. He was like a golden retriever, patiently waiting for you to take a drink.
"How do you remember it, Clark? You haven't gotten it wrong once." You observed with a laugh behind your cup.
"Hmm, I don't know, I've got the memory of an elephant I guess." He said with a dorky grin, tapping his temple. What he didn't mention though, was how he committed everything about you to memory. Everything, no matter how insignificant it may be.
"Really? Well, in either case, it's awfully nice of you Clarkie." You smiled, the nickname rolling out easily, not missing the way he flushed slightly. You knew Clark had begun seeing color, seeing your eye color first. Just as you had seen blue first to match his eyes, he began seeing brown. First paycheck after meeting him, you had went to the mall, buying a wardrobe of creams and browns. While it might seem plain, you had done it expressly to catch Clark's eyes. So today, you dawned a cream blouse with brown trousers, black heels on your feet.
"You look pretty today." Clark had mentioned softly as you got up from your desk for lunch. You felt your stomach flip; full of butterflies.
"You think so, Smallville?" You asked softly, looking down at an outfit in which you couldn't see the colors of yet. An outfit you had expressly worn because you knew he could.
"Yeah, it brings out your eyes." He said without thinking, looking at you with a puppy love kinda look.
"Is that so?" You asked with a gentle smile,the confirmation he could see your eye color damning.
It registered to him what he said, making him begin to stammer.
"Clark." You cut him off, laughing softly. "That tie your wearing really brings out your eyes." You said, looking into his sky blue gaze behind his clunky glasses.
His expression split into a grin, looking at you tenderly, full of adoration. "Wanna go for lunch?" He had asked, standing up and grabbing his coat. You beamed, taking him up on the offer.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
And so it began…
You and Clark had began seeing each other. You started out casual. Well, about as casual as soulmates can be. It originally started with the coffee, then to occasionally going out to lunch. Then, it turned to elevator rides filled with tension. You'd be close to a kiss, but then the bell rang and you were snapped back to reality.
"Hey, Clark?" You had said with a hopeful tone in your voice.
"Yeah?" He asked, that same awestruck look in his aqua gaze.
"Would you maybe wanna come to mine for dinner tonight?" You had asked, smiling softly.
He had grinned, nodding. "I'd love to."
So later, here you were cooking in your kitchen of your small, blue apartment on Sullivan and Concord, the paint a start reminder of Clark’s cornflower blue eyes. Dinner was almost finished, makeup freshly touched up. You trusted your mother with what she said your colors were, forever sticking to them like a religion. So here you were in a mauve lipstick, and brown eyeshadow with Smokey eyeliner. You couldn't even see the colors, yet felt like this whole ritual felt like it was for Clark.
Then, the text.
Clark: hey, something came up
Clark: rain check?
You sighed, alternating on one hip. What could possibly be anymore important than a first date with your soulmate? You shook your head, tucking your hair out of your face. How do I even respond?
Y/N: of course!
Y/N: and I'll hold you to that rain check!
Clark liked a message!
You chose the easygoing route as you stepped out of heels. You chose to be unbothered as you wiped off your lipstick and stepped out of your clothes to get under the warm shower. Then, you chose to be detached as you got out, stepping into soft pajamas and blow dried your hair. You packed up dinner that had went cold, eating your chicken parm in front of the TV while watching Sex & The City. You had even packed up a portion for lunch for Clark.
So, with the first date dinner packed up in the fridge, and the other side of your bed conviently lacking a certain senior reporter, you went to bed.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
You had tried again, another chance date at your apartment. You were trying out a new recipe, a lemon artichoke caper pasta with grilled chicken. You made a gorgeous sauce, tangy with just the right amount of citrus. You were still alone, still waiting for your soulmate. As you stirred the sauce, your phone pinged.
Then, the dreaded text that you swore you were just anxious about. The one you tried convincing yourself wouldn't actually come. But alas, it did.
Clark: I'm sorry, honey.
Clark: I can't make it tonight :(
Clark: I swear I will next time
Read 7:15pm
You sighed in frustration, setting down the phone. Clark was…sweet. If only your bumbling, clumsy, soulmate wasn't late or didn't show up half the time. You felt bad about leaving him on read. But hey, he could wait a bit as payment for standing you up a second time. So, you finished your dinner for two as a dinner for one. You packed up Clark's portion, clipping closed the Rubbermaid lid before letting it cool. Then once it was all put away and your apartment was warm, even without your soulmate, you went to bed. But still, it seemed to gnaw at you. Was Clark cheating? You weren't even really together, I mean not explicitly. You weren't exactly sure what label to pen to your soulmate. Maybe something really did come up. Even the thought of it was lame. So while Superman flew around Metropolis, neutralizing whatever threat it was tonight, you mourned your second failed date. Before you knew it, you were crying, not even totally sure why. You couldn't even help it as you picked up the phone.
Ring…ring…ring…
The internal weight settled on you like a cinder block to your ankles in the deep end of a pool as the phone rang.
"Hey, this is Clark! Leave your name and number and I'll call back in a jiffy!" The reporters voice rang out on the other line, far too cheery for the current dilemma of you crying into your duvet.
"Hey Clarkie, its Y/N… I was just calling with the hope you'd come by tonight when your not tied up…but I think I must be running into some bad luck so…yeah, keys under the mat if you uh, if you come by. In case you don't though, goodnight!" You had said into the phone, a slight sniffle or suppressed hiccup in your voicemail to your not-boyfriend-soulmate-coworker-thing. Then, you turned off the light and went to bed.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
The next morning you packed Clark's dinner from last night out of the fridge, toting it with you onto the subway on your way to the Daily Planet. Once there, the familiar faces of Lois, Jimmy, Perry, even Kat and Steve greeted you in the bullpen. But all you cared about was one reporter who was conspicuously…absent. It was normal for Clark to come in late. But that paired with no morning text? Not even a missed call from a man who notoriously preferred calling? You told yourself you were overreacting, that Clark probably missed the subway while stopping for the coffee for you he never got wrong. Then came lunch. Still, no Clark.
Y/N: hey Clarkie, you okay?
Sent 12:33pm
Y/N: Clark? Where are you?
Sent 12:40pm
Y/N: Clark, I'm really worried baby, please call me when you get this. I'm not even mad please you just have me scared.
Sent 1:13pm
You carried on the day like normal, watching the TV in the bullpen detail about a tank of a man beneath an iron suit. He called himself The Hammer of Boravia, and was after Metropolis' hometown hero, Superman. The thought of The Man Of Steel twisted your gut. Not for him taking a pummeling from The so-called Hammer of Boravia, but rather that your soulmate always interviewed The Man Of Steel. Yet here you were, at the Daily Planet with a soulmate missing in action.
So, you did what any good field reporter would do. You went outside, right into the thick of it without your soulmate to hold you back and keep you out of harm’s way. That was, until you found yourself on the pavement outside of the Daily Planet, looking at the battle taking place in the sky between Superman and The Hammer of Boravia.
"The United States will continue to feel the wrath of The Hammer of Boravia! My actions today can only be blamed on the Kyptonian's choices!" He announced in a thunderous voice. You watched as he flung the Last Son of Krypton through the air, even Superman struggling to keep up with the villain who seemed to know Superman's every move. You couldn't help but take note of everything, this was going to be front page news by tomorrow morning. That was, until a car managed to be hurled your way. You had screamed, bracing yourself for the inevitable with a two-ton car being chucked at you. Until it never came, instead feeling the wind sweep through your hair. You opened your eyes cautiously, looking up to see Superman flying you to the top of the Daily Planet. Your eyes made contact, the same sky blue pools you seemed to mourn over a glass of wine staring back at you. The strong arms held you, a warm hand on your lower back that felt so familiar.
"You're safe, your gonna be okay. Now, go inside where it's safe." He had said in a commanding tone. You knew that voice, and while it was different it felt like home. It felt like the morning coffee order that was never messed up, the lunch break dates, the elevator tension. As you gaped up at him you realized all around you, you seen color. Full, complete color. The yellow and red of his suit popping against the blue you were used to. His face read that he didn't want to leave, but knew he needed to return to the fray.
"Knock him dead, Superman." You said breathlessly before he whizzed back into the sky, clashing dangerously with The Hammer of Boravia. You walked back into the building, still reeling from your interaction with The Man of Steel. Then, it washed over you like a bucket of ice water. It was a faint memory, but one that still managed to stick.
"Now, do we know what the conditions are to seeing the full color spectrum for the first time?" The teacher had asked, children shaking their heads yet watching with rapt attention.
"The first time we see the full spectrum has two conditions. One, you both have to completely love each other. Two, you have to be with your soulmate the first time you see color. From then on, your vision will never be black and white again." She explained, the children letting out a chorus of 'ooh's and 'ah's.
"Oh my god," you said softly as the memory washed over you like an ocean's wave against jagged rocks. It was unforgiving and relentless. It also left only one explanation. Clark Kent, the nervous, bumbling, clumsy senior reporter was also your soulmate. But, Clark Kent was also Superman, the Last Son of Krypton, Kal-El.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───
You texted Clark, about as naturally as someone can for finding out their soulmate not only is their coworker, but apparently the Last Son of Krypton too.
Y/N: please be safe.
Sent 6:02pm
It was a tall order for the superhero, courting danger coming with the territory and all. Regardless, you sat on your couch with a glass of wine in your hand, realizing with your newfound full spectrum vision that you luckily did pick furniture that matched for your apartment. That was until you heard a soft knock at the door. Not the front door, but rather the glass patio door. To your 7th floor apartment. You looked over to find Superman, looking a bit worse for wear.
You immediately went to the sliding door, letting in your soulmate who's been subsequently plaguing your thoughts for the past two days.
"I don't know what to call you. Superman? Kal-El? The Last Son of Krypton? Man of Steel? Clark?" You said, half-joking, drinking more wine.
"Either way, I might just have to stick to soulmate on account of the too many alias." You let out with a soft laugh.
"Clark is fine." He said, sitting heavily into your loveseat. You traded your wine for hot cocoas, bringing him a mug.
"Are you hurt?" You asked, your voice taking a softer edge to it, looking at the man you cared for so deeply. You brushed stray curls out of his face, fingers lingering on his dirty forehead.
"Not too badly." He answered softly, leaning into your touch softly.
You smiled sympathetically, sliding into his lap. You let out a soft sigh, laying your head on his shoulder. "I'm not hurting you am I?" You asked softly, him shaking his head.
"No, honey," he began softly. "You could never hurt me." He said tenderly, arms encircling you. He buried his face into your hair. You both enjoyed each others embrace, a lingering moment of shared silence settling comfortably between you.
"So when were you gonna tell me you're Superman?" You broke the silence. Clark's chest rose with a soft laugh.
“You’re taking this surprisingly well for just finding out.” He mused softly, avoiding the question.
“Clark, really. When were you gonna tell me?” You asked softly.
"Let's not ruin this, hm, honey?" He asked, in that special voice he only used with you.
"Clark-" you began, a sigh escaping him, effectively cutting you off.
"Honey, I wanted to tell you… so many times…this," He said, gesturing to the suit. "Is the reason I've been flaking. You don't know how much I kicked myself about this. How many times I wanted to let Metropolis burn just so I could be here with you. But they need me, just like you need me…" He said sadly, burrowing his face in your shoulder. "But I'm sorry I can't always be here when your counting on me…"
You kissed your teeth slightly in sympathy, wrapping Clark in your arms. "I know, Clarkie. You could have told me a little sooner, but I don't expect you to come and drop everything to hang out if Metropolis is at risk of being torn apart." You explained. You looked at him tenderly, your hand finding itself on his cheek. He looked up into your brown eyes, smiling ever so slightly at you.
"Of everyone in the universe and beyond it, I'm glad you were who turned out to be my soulmate." He had let out, voice earnest and every word falling on your ears like a prayer.
"I'm glad you're my soulmate too, Clarkie." You said softly, with a soft laugh as you kissed his temple adoringly.
He scrunched his face slightly at the kiss, turning his face up to look at you. His ocean eyes that you had fallen in love with looking into your honey brown ones. He carefully carded hair out of your face, the Last Son of Krypton's fingers tracing your cheek tenderly. His fingers trailed along your profile, caressing your jaw.
"I love you, Y/N…I probably should've said that a while ago." He said softly, thumb stroking along your pliant cheek. You were inches away from a first kiss between the two of you, looking into your soulmates eyes. The same eyes that let you see color for the first time, that exposed you to a myriad of shades of blues. The same eyes that triggered you seeing the full color spectrum. The same eyes that belonged to your bumbling, clumsy desk neighbor at work who was entirely too nice. They also happened to be the eyes of The Last Son of Krypton. Regardless, no matter if they were Clark Kent's eyes or Kal-El's, all you cared about what that they belonged to the man you were so desperately in love with.
"I love you too, Clark…I probably should've said that a while ago." You said, teasing softly as your hand rested on his chest. You swore beneath your palm you could feel his heart skip a beat as you looked into his aqua eyes. His face turned into a grin, eyes seeming to light up. You felt his other hand firm on your waist, palms so large they damn near spanned to your spine. You felt his touch grow almost possessive. You didn't feel like a prey animal in the jaws of death. Rather, you felt like you were a precious stone that only a sacred few could gaze upon in his grasp. Your other hand found its way into his dark, curly tresses, your touch tender. It nearly erred on the side of posessive as you brought him closer. Your warm breaths mingled together, soft plush lips parted in a mutual desire to meet at long last.
"Kiss me?" You asked quietly, your voice a whisper against Clark's lips. He smiled softly, gaze adoring you as he brought your face closer to his.
"Of course, anything for you, sweetheart." He murmured, your lips finally sealing into a kiss. It was electric, making you feel like live wires had replaced your veins. You pulled Clark closer. Now that you had a slice of hometown grown Kryptonian, you felt addicted. Clark Kent? The total boy next door type who wore ill-fitting suits and just so happened to stop buildings from falling in his free time, also happened to be a great kisser? How on earth were you so lucky? You two had kissed slow, yet full of love and tenderness. Some say a picture is worth 1,000 words. Well, you were under the impression they had never kissed Clark Kent.
When you both came up for air, both of your lips puffy and swollen, you had giggled. That's right, giggled. Clark had managed to make you feel like a teenager, sneaking kisses in your bedroom back home. But now you were a grown woman, a known force to be reckoned with at the Daily Planet for your tenacity. Yet still, Clark had managed to awaken that sixteen year old in you all over again. The kind who snuck around with the boy next door without a care in the world.
"You're a really good kisser, Clarkie." You had said breathlessly. You were a vision, sultry eyes and puffy lips looking at Clark like he hung the moon itself. Well hell, with all the new information you have digested today, you wouldn't be shocked if he actually did. The Kryptonian had grinned softly, thumb still caressing your cheek tenderly while your own fingers carded through his curls. Clark was so whipped.
"Not so bad yourself, honey." He had smiled, pulling you closer. You and Clark were in love, no doubt about it. Most girls mind when they find out the guy they've been seeing is leading a double life. But, when that other life is missing a second family and instead is hiding a cape and a red 'S' on the chest, you couldn't bring yourself to mind. As you laid your head on Clark's shoulder, you began to think about all of it. At the end of the day, you got Clark, and Superman, so you have had some seriously good karma coming your way for pulling that one off.
As always thank you to my very lovely beta reader, @mochiimilktea , and as always go support her!!! Also, the top right photo in the collage is what your vision looks like at first for visualization purposes!
✧.* fluff ⋆ | ˚꩜｡ series | ⚠︎ angst | ✪ g's star reads | 🔞 smut below the cut
@rynwrites4fun
✧.* only you ✪
After seeing Superman in action earlier that day, you’re still reeling, heart racing, thoughts spinning. You unload all your unhinged thoughts about Superman to your best friend, Clark Kent—how hot Superman is, the things you’d do if given the chance. You don’t hold back. What you don’t realize? You’re saying it all to the man himself. And what he doesn’t know? Your real feelings aren’t for Superman at all—they’re for Clark.
@pellucid-constellations
⚠︎ Can't Lose You
Clark always made you promise to run at the sight of danger. You listen to him—usually.
@anon-188
✧.* off the record
married life with clark kent means soft words, warm baths, and problems that mysteriously take care of themselves.
@marvelwitchergilmore
✧.* First of Many
After you reveal to Clark that you know his secret, things start to change.
@luveline
✧.* I know, I know, I know
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.
@skyefiles
⚠︎ mr. jealousy
you and clark are—barely—keeping your relationship quiet at the daily planet… until a new intern decides to test clark’s patience.
@bodhiscurls
⚠︎ you didn't kiss me goodbye
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.
@imagines-all-day-everyday
⚠︎ my man on willpower
you're used to your co-worker doing everything and anything for you. until one day he decides to take advice from jimmy olsen and discovers willpower you didn't know he had.
@fawnindawn
✧.* he's all mine.
as a reporter of the daily planet, you haven’t been shy of your dislike for superman. clark is desperate to prove to you how superman, and by extension, him, is not as bad as you think.
@orobaxis
✧.* Superman spotted wearing…a ring?
Superman gets into another scandal when someone posted a picture of him online wearing what looked like a wedding ring. His PR team (Batman) does damage control.
@cursedheartsclub
🔞 to whom it may concern
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.
@kissmyglxck
🔞 I'm Gonna Kill Jimmy
In which, jimmys potty mouth about his first time overstimulating his recent fling intrigues Clark & gets you in trouble.
@dearwalker
🔞 Just one more
When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.
@fromsil
🔞 BUT HE DOESN'T LIKE ME, DOES HE?
there was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain : clark kent didn’t like you. not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. but you could feel it. his body language and attitude gave everything away. your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?
@heavenlybodies333
🔞 No Sex until Friday -C.K
It starts with a bet. A stupid one.
@kryptoclark
🔞 have you ever tried this one?
standing ovulation, or whatever they say. (or, in other words, you want clark to fuck a baby into you)
@miedei
🔞 bringing you back to earth
a stressful day has you running to clark, and he knows just how to set you straight.
@sceletaflores
🔞 MAKES PAINTINGS WITH HIS TONGUE
you and clark have a conversation about superman…
@louisaskywalkerani
🔞 THE INTERVIEW NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW ABOUT | @louisaskywalkerani
(yes, that one. the countertop one.)
🔞 NOT TONIGHT, SWEETHEART | @louisaskywalkerani
In a moment charged with desire and restraint, Clark Kent shows that real control isn’t about power, it’s about patience, care, and knowing when to say no.
@anon-188
🔞 dnd (do not disturb)
clark’s too pussy drunk to care that there’s an alien invasion in the city.
@runa-falls
🔞 night routine
you have a hard time falling asleep so clark becomes your night pill.
@maiamore
🔞 CUFF IT
You tell Clark that it's impossible for him to lift you up just on his biceps — he proves you wrong.
summary: Wayne Enterprises Metropolis' branch has some numbers that aren't adding up. Your older brother Bruce wanted to send one of his accountants to clean it up, but you insisted you could handle it. Enter Clark Kent, a reporter who is investigating the very same thing you are.
word count: 26.7k+
pairing: clark kent x wayne!fem!reader
notes: this has been sitting in my drafts since AUGUST. and here it finally is :) i hope y'all enjoy this long awaited fic
warnings/tags: reader is bruce wayne's younger sister, implied battinson, no use of y/n, mystery, money laundering, some dc universe/comic references, soft!clark, flustered!clark, clark really is just a cutey in this, light violence, mentions of blood, bamf!reader, very very very slight sugar mama energy, fluff, slow burn - would it be me if it wasn't slow burn? that's how you'll know if i'm replaced by an alien because i LIVE AND BREATH SLOW BURN
The city looks different from Gotham. Cleaner at first glance, brighter, though you can already sense the rot humming beneath the surface. Metropolis wears its optimism like a polished glass tower, but you know enough about shadows to recognize them even when they’re hidden in broad daylight.
Your heels click steadily against the marble floor of the Wayne Enterprises Metropolis branch office, the sound deliberate, carrying authority. You’re not here to play the silent shadow to Bruce’s brooding. This is your assignment—your investigation. One of the research subsidiaries has numbers that don’t add up, contracts routed through shell companies, money flowing somewhere it shouldn’t. Bruce wanted to send Lucius or one of his accountants. You told him no. You’ll handle it.
The young receptionist looks up from behind a glossy desk, nerves flickering across his face when he catches the Wayne crest pin on your lapel. He stumbles over his words, offering you coffee, water, anything at all. You smile—warm, practiced, and sharper than he realizes. A Wayne doesn’t need to be cold to be intimidating. Sometimes kindness disarms people far more effectively.
By the time you leave the office with a slim folder tucked under your arm, you have what you came for: proof that something is feeding into LexCorp’s pocket. Not just a bad contract, but a deliberate arrangement. And if Lex Luthor has his hands in Wayne Enterprises, it isn’t something you can ignore.
Outside, the wind whips against you, carrying the noise of Metropolis—car horns, chatter, a faint hum of construction. You’re adjusting the strap of your bag when a voice stops you.
“Excuse me, miss—Wayne, isn’t it?”
You turn. A tall man with dark hair, glasses sliding down his nose, is holding up a press badge that reads Daily Planet. The way he approaches is careful, almost shy, but there’s something steady in his eyes, a quiet gravity. “Yes,” you answer smoothly, weighing him in a glance. Not the slick predator type you’re used to back home. He radiates an earnestness that feels almost… provincial. “And you are?”
“Clark Kent. Reporter.” His voice is soft, polite. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help noticing—you’ve been looking into LexCorp’s connections here, haven’t you?”
You arch an eyebrow. That’s not the kind of thing a reporter should know unless he’s already digging into the same trail. “I don’t recall making a press statement.”
He shifts, flustered but holding his ground. “You didn’t. It’s just… some of the pieces line up. Missing funds, off-shore accounts, shell corporations. I’ve been following the same story for the Planet.”
Interesting. You cross your arms, not defensive, but curious. “So you’re investigating, too.”
He nods, lips pressing together as though he’s unsure how much to say. The hesitation only makes you study him closer. He doesn’t read like the aggressive reporter type. There’s a gentleness, almost awkward, as if he’s more comfortable listening than demanding answers. Strange for a man in his profession. “Well, Mr. Kent,” you say finally, tilting your head, “I don’t usually share my work with strangers. But it seems we’re walking the same road. Perhaps we’ll run into each other again.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth, subtle but genuine. “I’d like that.”
You move past him, deliberately letting your heels strike the pavement with the rhythm of someone who knows exactly where she’s going. But you can feel his gaze lingering, not predatory, not calculating—curious. Watchful. Almost as though he sees something more than what you’re presenting to the world.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You have a job to do. You don’t need a polite, soft-spoken reporter complicating it. Still, when you slide into the backseat of the waiting car and glance out the window, you catch sight of him again—Clark Kent, disappearing into the crowd, shoulders set like a man carrying more than anyone realizes.
---
The next morning, you’re already halfway through a cup of burnt Metropolis coffee when the elevator doors slide open on the top floor of the Daily Planet. It hadn’t been on your original schedule, but the numbers in that slim folder wouldn’t leave you alone last night, so you’d decided to see who else was pulling on the same threads.
The newsroom buzzes with the chaotic symphony of phones ringing, reporters shouting across desks, and the endless clatter of keyboards. Gotham’s newsrooms always carried an edge of cynicism; this place feels almost idealistic by comparison. Almost.
“Miss Wayne.”
You turn, expecting some overeager intern. Instead, it’s Clark Kent—jacket a little too big, tie slightly crooked, but with that same unshakable steadiness in his eyes. He looks surprised to see you, though not displeased.
“Mr. Kent,” you answer, tilting your head. “I thought reporters usually chased their leads, not waited for them to walk through the door.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—somewhere between a smile and an admission. “Sometimes they do both.”
You follow him to his desk, stacked with folders, printouts, and a battered notebook filled with looping handwriting. He pushes his glasses up nervously as you glance over the mess. “You’re investigating Wayne Enterprises’ connection to LexCorp,” you say evenly, “yet you don’t look like a man who hates dead ends.”
“I don’t,” he admits softly, “but I don’t like coincidences either. Lex Luthor doesn’t do anything without a reason.”
You watch him for a moment, this mild-mannered man who speaks with the certainty of someone who sees deeper than he lets on. He doesn’t posture, doesn’t flash credentials, doesn’t try to impress you—he simply lays out his truth like it’s as solid as bedrock. It’s disarming. “Do you always trust strangers with your work?” you ask finally.
His gaze lifts to yours, and the weight in it makes you blink. Not heavy, not menacing—just… unflinchingly honest. “Not usually. But I think you’re not here by accident either.” You laugh lightly, a spark of admiration threading through the sound. He’s not wrong.
Before you can reply, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. “Kent! I want something I can print before noon!” Then he notices you. “And who the hell are you?”
“Wayne,” you say crisply, extending your hand. “Bruce Wayne’s sister.”
The newsroom goes still for a heartbeat. Perry blinks, takes your hand, mutters something about Gotham’s shadow bleeding into Metropolis, and storms off. Clark gives a faint, apologetic shrug.
“I see your editor runs a tight ship.”
“You could say that,” Clark murmurs, lips curving just slightly.
You leave a card on his desk. “If you come across something you think I should see, call me. If you’re right about Lex, I don’t intend to sit idle.”
He studies the card as though it holds more weight than paper should. “And if you find something first?”
You pause at the edge of the bullpen, letting the hum of the newsroom wash around you. “Then you’ll be the second to know.” When you step into the elevator, you glance back once. Clark is still at his desk, glasses low on his nose, but his eyes are fixed on you. Not curious this time—watchful. Protective, even.
---
Metropolis at night doesn’t breathe the same way Gotham does. Gotham thrives in its darkness; Metropolis tries to push it back with neon, glass, and relentless electricity. Still, even here, the shadows creep in around the edges, and you’ve always been good at slipping into them.
The Wayne Enterprises folder is open across your hotel desk, scattered with photocopies of contracts and red-ink annotations you’ve been scratching down for hours. Every line you trace circles back to the same name: LexCorp. It’s obvious, but too clean. Almost as if someone wanted you to find it.
You sigh, shove the papers into a leather satchel, and decide a walk might clear your head. The streets hum quieter at this hour, though Metropolis never truly sleeps. You’ve made it three blocks before you hear it—footsteps, just slightly out of rhythm with yours.
You stop at a streetlight, pretending to check your phone, and glance at the glass storefront reflection. Two men, trying too hard to look casual. Too close.
Amateurs, you think, though that doesn’t make them less dangerous.
When the first one closes the gap, you’re already turning, shoulder slamming into his chest. He staggers back, surprised by the force, and you use that heartbeat to pivot, heel cracking down on the second man’s instep. He yelps. You don’t hesitate—your elbow finds his ribs.
The first man recovers faster than you like. He grabs for your arm, but you twist out, the satchel slung tight against your side, and drive your knee up toward his stomach. He curses, doubles over, and that’s when you hear it—an unmistakable rush of air, like a gust of wind slashing the night.
In the space of a blink, both men are gone. One dangles from a lamppost, unconscious, the other groans faintly from where he’s been pinned high against a brick wall with steel piping bent around him like makeshift cuffs.
And standing between you and the wreckage is him. Superman.
You’ve seen him on television, of course. Who hasn’t? The cape, the crest, the impossible presence that seems more myth than man. But seeing him in the flesh, a living wall of calm power, feels different. There’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there before, a quiet certainty that the world is, for one rare moment, safe.
“Are you hurt?” His voice is rich, steady, and absurdly gentle for a man who just bent steel like wire.
You straighten, brushing dust from your coat, your pride intact. “No. I was handling it.”
His mouth curves slightly, not mocking, not indulgent—just faint amusement. “I could see that. But two against one isn’t fair odds, even for a Wayne.”
Your eyes narrow. “So you do know who I am.”
“Metropolis isn’t Gotham,” he says simply, as though that explains everything. And maybe it does. Here, people notice names.
You study him—impossibly broad shoulders, the way his cape stirs in a wind you can’t feel, the almost otherworldly calm radiating off him. Everyone talks about his power, but standing here, you realize it isn’t his strength that’s disarming. It’s the way he looks at you, like he genuinely cares what your answer will be. “Thank you,” you say finally, because you were raised with enough grace not to ignore it. “But don’t expect me to call for backup every time I walk down the street.”
That faint smile again. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
With that, he’s gone—vanished upward into the stars with another rush of air. You stand there for a long moment, heart hammering not from fear but from the sheer velocity of his presence.
When you finally make it back to the hotel, you catch yourself in the mirror, hair disheveled, adrenaline still buzzing through your veins. And you think about Clark Kent—the reporter with the too-big jacket and earnest eyes.
For just a second, the two images overlap.
You shake it off, annoyed at yourself. Clark Kent is a mild-mannered journalist. Superman is… Superman. There’s no sense in imagining a bridge between them.
And yet, you can’t help it—the idea lodges somewhere deep, stubborn as a seed.
---
You stare at the folder spread across your hotel desk, contracts lit by the yellow glow of the bedside lamp. The hum of the city outside is faint through the thick glass, but it’s there, a reminder that Metropolis never truly sleeps. Neither do you, apparently.
Your phone vibrates against the wood. The name glowing on the screen makes your shoulders sink and soften all at once. “Alfred,” you say when you answer, your voice quieter than you meant.
“You sound tired,” he replies, that familiar dry lilt wrapping around you like a worn blanket. “I would remind you that even Wayne's must occasionally close their eyes, but I suspect you’d ignore me as you always have.”
A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “You’re not wrong.”
There’s a pause, then the subtle shuffle of papers on his end. “Master Bruce mentioned you’d taken it upon yourself to look into matters in Metropolis.”
“Of course he did,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose. “And let me guess—he doesn’t approve?”
Alfred exhales, and it’s the closest thing he ever gives to a sigh. “He worries. About the company. About you.”
“I can handle myself,” you say firmly, perhaps too quickly. Your eyes flick to the faint scuff on your coat where one of the men grabbed you earlier. “I did handle myself.”
Alfred’s silence tells you he hears more in your words than you wanted to give away. “Then I trust you,” he says finally. “But perhaps tell me what precisely you’ve uncovered before you vanish into another mess, hmm?”
You tap your hand against your thigh, pacing the room as you explain: the paper trail, the shell companies, the money that all flows back to Lex Luthor. And then, lower, almost reluctant, “someone tried to stop me tonight. Two men. They weren’t expecting me to fight back.”
“Two men?” Alfred repeats, and there’s an edge beneath his calm now.
“They’re handled,” you reassure. Your throat tightens, memory flickering with the sudden rush of air, the cape, the impossible strength. “Superman intervened.”
There’s another pause. “And what did you think of him?” Alfred asks carefully.
You sink onto the edge of the bed, the weight of the question heavier than you’d like to admit. “He’s… not what I expected. Everyone talks about the power, the spectacle. But he’s—” You hesitate, searching for the right word. “—gentle. Too gentle for what this city will throw at him, maybe. But steady. It’s strange, Alfred. He felt… safe.”
There’s the faintest hum on the line, Alfred’s version of a thoughtful noise. “Strange,” he says softly, “that you’d trust a stranger in a cape more easily than your own brother.”
“Don’t start,” you warn. But there’s no heat in it.
The line clicks faintly, and then another voice cuts in—quieter, lower, brooding even through the distortion of the speaker. “You should come home.”
You close your eyes. “Hello to you too, Bruce.”
“You’re exposed,” he says, no preamble. “Metropolis isn’t Gotham. Their games are different, but the rules are the same—you make enemies when you start digging. If Luthor’s involved, he won’t stop at intimidation.”
“I know,” you answer steadily. “That’s why I’m here. This isn’t just corporate sabotage—it’s deliberate. Someone wanted me to see the trail. I need to find out why.”
“You’ll get yourself killed.” The words are sharper than he means them to be, you know that. It’s his way of saying I can’t lose you.
“I’m not reckless,” you counter. “Not like you. And I’m not alone.”
There’s a beat of silence. You wonder if he hears what you mean, if he catches the flicker in your voice when you say it. Finally, he mutters, “don’t trust him too easily. That’s all I’ll say.”
Before you can reply, the line goes dead. You lower the phone slowly, staring at the city lights through the window. Bruce will stew in his cave, Alfred will sigh in the manor, and you—well, you’ll keep walking the line you’ve chosen.
Still, you can’t stop your mind from replaying Superman’s face, the steadiness in his eyes, and the way Clark Kent’s gaze in the newsroom had felt exactly the same.
You shake the thought away, burying it under contracts and red ink. Tomorrow, there will be more questions to chase. Tomorrow, you’ll see Clark Kent again. And tomorrow, you’ll decide if you’re ready to test just how many secrets Metropolis is keeping.
---
The Daily Planet lobby smells of ink and old coffee—comforting in a way, a heartbeat beneath the city’s glittering glass. You walk in with your satchel over one shoulder, folder tucked tight against your ribs. There’s a steeliness in your step, sharpened by last night’s attempted ambush and the memory of a cape cutting through the air.
When the elevator doors open onto the newsroom, the chaos greets you like an old acquaintance—reporters shouting across desks, the hum of a dozen phone calls happening at once. And right there, in the middle of it all, Clark Kent, hunched slightly at his desk with his glasses slipping low as he types with the deliberation of a man weighing every word. “Back again?” he says when he notices you, voice warm, carrying just enough surprise to make you smirk.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” you reply. “Wayne Enterprises’ money isn’t going to untangle itself, and you’ve got half the city wired into your phone lines. Seems efficient.”
He chuckles softly, rising with an awkward grace that still manages to take up all the space around him. “Efficient isn’t usually how people describe this place.”
He offers coffee—he doesn’t ask, just picks up a second mug from the counter and places it in front of you. The steam curls upward, rich and bitter. You lift it carefully, studying him over the rim. “Careful, Kent. People will start to think you’re charming.”
A faint flush creeps across his cheeks, though his eyes hold yours, steady. “And what would you think?”
You pause, savoring the taste of the coffee and the way he asked that as though he truly wanted the answer. “I’d think you’re harder to read than you look.”
The two of you sit side by side at his cluttered desk, spreading papers between you—his notes, your contracts, diagrams of shell companies. Your handwriting scrawls sharp in red ink beside his looping cursive. Piece by piece, the picture forms: LexCorp subsidiaries tied to construction bids, energy grids, political donations. It’s intricate, deliberate.
“Someone wanted this to be seen,” Clark says finally, leaning forward, his voice low so it doesn’t carry over the newsroom.
Your head tilts slightly. “Exactly what I told Bruce.”
“You don’t strike me as someone who waits for permission,” he says.
“Good instincts,” you murmur, lips curving.
A comfortable silence stretches—papers between you, the hum of the newsroom around you, but his presence grounding the moment. You shouldn’t feel at ease here, with someone you barely know, but you do.
The silence is broken by Perry White storming past, barking about deadlines. Clark straightens quickly, fumbling with his notes. You press a hand lightly to the paper stack, steadying it before it scatters.
He looks at you then, glasses sliding just enough for his eyes to be clear, earnest and startlingly familiar. You freeze, breath caught for a fraction of a second. There’s something in that gaze—something that tugs at the edge of memory.
You cover it with a smooth smile, withdrawing your hand. “You’d better get back to work, Kent. Wouldn’t want your editor to bite your head off.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he admits, sheepish, though the corners of his mouth curve like he’s glad you noticed.
You gather your things, sliding the satchel back over your shoulder. “Send me anything you find. And Clark—” you pause just long enough to make sure his attention is yours— “don’t keep me waiting.”
When you leave the newsroom, you don’t glance back. But if you had, you’d see Clark standing at his desk, watching the elevator doors close with the same quiet intensity Superman carried when he asked if you were hurt.
And though you bury yourself in contracts and calculations for the rest of the afternoon, a truth nags at the edge of your mind. You are circling something dangerous—not just Lex Luthor’s schemes, but Clark Kent himself.
Because somehow, against every ounce of your better judgment, you are beginning to trust him.
---
Metropolis hums differently at night than it does in the day. The skyscrapers glow like beacons, the sidewalks pulse with energy, and the cafés on the corner spill golden light out onto the street. Gotham’s nightlife was smoke and shadows; here it’s neon and glass.
You push open the door of a small café tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, the kind of place that tries to be inconspicuous and fails because it’s too charming. Clark had suggested it—quiet, off Perry White’s radar, a place where you could talk without the Planet’s chaos humming around you.
He’s already there when you arrive, seated at a small table near the window. Jacket folded neatly over the chair, tie still slightly crooked, glasses catching the soft lamplight. When he looks up, that unshakable steadiness in his eyes makes your steps falter for just a second. “Miss Wayne,” he says warmly, standing to pull out your chair. His manners are almost old-fashioned, but not in a rehearsed way—like it simply never occurred to him to be anything but considerate.
“Clark,” you return, settling into the chair. “I’m starting to think you have a habit of finding me before I find you.”
He chuckles, sitting across from you. “Reporters tend to chase things. Sometimes people, too.”
A waitress appears, drops menus, takes your drink orders. When she’s gone, Clark leans forward, lowering his voice. “I looked into those contracts again. There’s a pattern. The shell companies trace back to energy infrastructure—power grids. If Luthor’s behind this, he isn’t just funneling money. He’s building leverage.”
You sip your coffee slowly, meeting his gaze over the rim. “You think he’s trying to control the city’s power?”
“I think he’s already started.” His jaw tightens for the briefest moment, and you catch it—the flicker of something deeper, almost personal. But he covers it quickly, adjusting his glasses. “It’s not just about money with Luthor. It never is.”
You study him. He talks about Lex not like a reporter chasing a billionaire but like someone who’s been watching him for far longer than an article would require. “Tell me something, Clark,” you say, leaning back. “Why are you chasing this story so hard? Luthor’s a titan here. He can bury journalists for breakfast. What makes you keep poking?”
His eyes meet yours, unwavering. “Because if people like him aren’t held accountable, then no one is safe. Not in Metropolis, not anywhere.”
The simplicity of the answer hits harder than any grand speech could. You’re used to Gotham’s cynicism, where everyone has an angle. Clark’s sincerity feels like standing in sunlight after too long underground.
You force a smirk to cover the warmth blooming in your chest. “Careful, Kent. That sounded almost heroic.”
This time his smile is small but genuine, reaching his eyes. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
The waitress brings your food—two sandwiches, fries to share. You dig in, letting the conversation drift. He asks about Gotham; you paint it honestly—gritty, relentless, a city that eats its own but occasionally spits out someone strong enough to fight back. He listens, really listens, not just waiting for his turn to speak. When he talks about Smallville—cornfields, Friday night football, a life so simple it feels like fiction—you find yourself laughing at the mental image of him awkwardly towering over high school classmates.
There’s a pause between bites, a lull in conversation. You catch him watching you again, not in the way men in boardrooms do, calculating or hungry. Clark looks at you like he’s cataloguing details—your laugh, the way you tap your fingers against your cup, the slight arch of your brow when you’re skeptical. It’s a gaze that makes you feel seen rather than inspected.
You clear your throat, breaking the moment before it settles too deep. “If we’re working together on this, Kent, I should warn you—I don’t play well with others.”
His smile deepens, soft and unshaken. “I think you do better than you think.”
For a second, you forget the contracts, forget the danger, forget the cape that swept down from the sky the night before. There’s just the quiet clink of dishes, the glow of lamplight, and a man who feels far steadier than anyone you’ve met in either Gotham or Metropolis.
You lean back, finishing the last sip of coffee. “Don’t get used to dinners like this. I’m not here to make friends.”
He nods, though the warmth in his eyes betrays him. “Understood.”
But as you both step out into the city night, side by side, you catch yourself thinking that maybe—just maybe—you don’t mind making one exception.
---
The Wayne Enterprises Metropolis tower gleams against the skyline, its steel-and-glass façade polished to an almost smug shine. To the average passerby, it’s just another symbol of wealth and stability. But to you, it’s a puzzle box. And tonight, you intend to pry it open.
The lobby is quiet at this hour. A single security guard sits behind the marble desk, his eyes glued to a muted television. You stride across the floor, ID clipped to your jacket, heels clicking just enough to sound official but not confrontational. The guard barely glances up before waving you through.
Elevators whisk you up thirty floors to the research subsidiary’s wing—biotech, officially. But the numbers you pulled last week didn’t match. This wasn’t about cell cultures or prosthetic trials. Someone had been rerouting funds, slipping them into shell corporations with clinical precision.
Your keycard slides into the lock. The office opens with a soft chime, fluorescent lights flickering awake. It smells faintly of disinfectant and stale paper. You move quickly, scanning desks, rifling through files. Paperwork tells a story far more clearly than corporate press releases.
And there it is. A folder marked innocuously as energy grant allocations. Inside: transfers to companies with forgettable names—Silverbrook Holdings, Astra Limited, Convergent Systems. On paper, they’re nothing. But you’ve seen enough Gotham shell companies to recognize the sleight of hand.
You snap photos with your phone, flipping page after page. The numbers don’t just disappear; they converge. And when they do, the name at the center gleams like a rot beneath the glass: LexCorp Energy Division.
You exhale sharply, leaning back in the chair. It’s deliberate. Someone inside Wayne Enterprises is feeding Luthor. And worse, they want you to know it. The trail is too neat, too clean. A noise pulls you from your thoughts—the faintest creak in the hallway outside. You freeze. The office is supposed to be empty at this hour.
Closing the folder, you slip it back into the cabinet, phone clutched in your hand. You step quietly to the door, ears straining. Footsteps. Slow, measured, coming closer.
You move into the shadow between the filing cabinets, waiting. The door opens. A man steps inside—tall, sharp suit, eyes sweeping the room with the cool precision of someone who doesn’t believe in coincidence. He doesn’t see you at first. His attention is fixed on the cabinet you just closed.
You recognize him from corporate briefings—Wayne Enterprises’ Metropolis liaison, a man meant to be overseeing this very branch. Which means either he’s oblivious to the rerouted funds, or he’s the one holding the knife.
You could confront him. Call his name, demand an explanation, make it a matter of authority. But your instincts whisper otherwise. Gotham taught you well—sometimes it’s better to watch before you strike. You remain in the shadows, silent, as he pulls the same folder, flicks through it with a faint smirk, then tucks it under his arm. And when he leaves, you let out the breath you’d been holding.
You step back into the light, pulse hammering. If he’s taking that folder, he knows someone else has been sniffing. Which means you’ve just painted a target on yourself.
Your phone buzzes. A message; unknown number.
Stop digging. Or you’ll regret it.
The words glare back at you, simple and ugly. You stare at them for a long moment before tucking the phone away, jaw set. Whoever sent it underestimated the one thing Bruce never could beat out of you: stubbornness.
---
The newsroom is louder than usual when you step off the elevator the next morning—phones ringing nonstop, the click of keyboards faster, voices pitched higher. You scan the floor, folder tucked under your arm, and spot Clark at his desk. He looks up as though he felt you coming before you spoke. His glasses catch the light, but his eyes are steady, calm, maybe even relieved. “You’re here early,” he says, standing halfway as you cross to him. His tone is mild, but there’s something beneath it—a weight, an edge. Concern.
“So are you,” you answer, sliding the folder onto his desk. “I thought journalists slept until noon.”
The corner of his mouth tugs. “Depends on the story.” You don’t sit right away. Instead, you watch him. He’s too composed for someone who’s been running himself ragged on a story with this many teeth. No late-night exhaustion, no bleary haze. If anything, he looks sharper than yesterday. And yet when he asks, “rough night?” it’s soft, careful, like he’s stepping onto thin ice.
You freeze a fraction too long. “Define rough.”
Clark leans forward, lowering his voice so it doesn’t carry. “Define however you want. Just… you don’t look like someone who got eight hours of sleep.”
You huff a quiet laugh, dropping into the chair across from him. “I wasn’t attacked, if that’s what you’re fishing for.” Not exactly. “But you were right about the pattern. I went back to Wayne Enterprises last night. Their Metropolis liaison, Richard Halvorsen? He’s involved. I watched him pull the very file I’d been digging through.”
Clark’s brow furrows, the shift almost imperceptible but not lost on you. “Did he see you?”
“No. But I got this before he took it.” You push the copied documents across the desk. “Funds routed through shell companies, infrastructure bids that don’t exist, all ending up with LexCorp’s Energy Division. It’s a straight line if you know how to look.”
He flips through the pages, jaw tightening. “Halvorsen’s just the beginning. Someone’s cleaning this money before it reaches Lex. That’s why it’s so hard to trace.”
You study him, the way his hand lingers just a little too long on the paper, knuckles pale from pressure. “You talk about Luthor like you’ve been chasing him for years.”
Clark doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t answer either. His silence speaks louder than words.
You tilt your head. “You’ve got personal skin in this, Kent. Don’t bother denying it.”
His eyes meet yours, steady as stone. “Does that bother you?”
The question hangs there, heavier than it should be. You want to say yes—that a journalist with an angle is dangerous. But what comes out is, “not if it means you’ll fight harder to get it right.”
The space between you goes quiet, but not empty. His gaze holds yours a heartbeat too long before he finally exhales, setting the papers down with deliberate care. “Then we keep going,” he says, voice quiet but certain.
A shadow falls across the desk—Perry White, barking orders as usual. “Kent! Lane’s tearing up half the mayor’s office, and I need you two—” His eyes flick to you. “Wayne? What the hell are you still doing here?”
“Just making sure your boy doesn’t bury himself in a bad story,” you reply smoothly.
Perry snorts, unimpressed. “Good luck with that.” He storms off.
You and Clark exchange a look, laughter caught at the corners of your mouths. For the briefest moment, the weight of shell companies and billionaires and late-night ambushes lifts, replaced by something light, almost easy.
But when the laughter fades, the intensity in his gaze remains. You can feel it—unspoken, steady, protective.
And for the first time in a long while, you realize you’re not just chasing a trail. You’re walking it alongside someone who might actually see you, even in the shadows.
---
By late afternoon, the sun slants through the Daily Planet’s windows, gilding the newsroom in warm light. Reporters are still shouting across desks, but the chaos feels muted when you and Clark are tucked away in a small conference room, papers spread like a map across the table. Clark pushes a sandwich across to you—quiet, unassuming. “You haven’t eaten.”
You glance at it, then at him. “What are you, my secretary?”
His smile is faint, almost shy, but it doesn’t fade. “Call it professional courtesy.”
You roll your eyes but unwrap it anyway, taking a bite to shut him up. The truth is, he’s right. You lose track of hours when you’re chasing something like this.
Clark’s notebook sits open between you, looping handwriting spelling out names: Richard Halvorsen at the top, then a branching web of shell companies, subsidiaries, false addresses. You add your own notes in sharp red ink, arrows and exclamation marks where the money jumps too neatly to be coincidence.
“See this?” you say, pointing to one of the entries. “Astra Limited. It doesn’t exist. At least, not in any real capacity. No staff, no offices, no payroll.”
Clark leans closer, the smell of coffee clinging faintly to him. “Then why route millions through it?”
“Because someone needed a buffer.” You tap the paper. “Halvorsen’s the one signing off the contracts. But whoever’s really pulling the strings doesn’t want his name tied directly to LexCorp. So they use Astra.”
Clark’s brow furrows, concentration etched across his face. You watch him work—how his focus sharpens, how his quiet intensity cuts through the noise. He isn’t just playing reporter; he’s tracking patterns with the precision of someone who understands how dangerous these games are.
For a while, you’re silent except for the scratch of pens and the shuffle of papers. It feels almost… companionable. You don’t let people in easily—Gotham taught you better—but Clark’s presence doesn’t feel invasive. It feels steady, grounding.
At some point, you lean back, stretching your shoulders. Clark glances up, eyes flicking from your face to the clock on the wall.
“You don’t have to keep running yourself ragged,” he says softly. “This isn’t all on you.”
A laugh escapes you, low and humorless. “That’s where you’re wrong. I carry the Wayne name. If my company’s feeding Luthor, that’s on me whether I signed the papers or not.”
His gaze doesn’t waver, calm and unshaken. “It’s not on you. It’s on the people abusing the name.”
The way he says it makes you pause. Like he knows something about carrying a legacy he didn’t ask for.
You tilt your head. “You talk like someone who knows what that feels like.”
For the first time, he looks away. “Maybe I do.”
The silence stretches, not awkward but heavy with things unsaid. You study him—the set of his jaw, the flicker of something almost vulnerable in his eyes. And for a dangerous heartbeat, you want to press. To see what secrets he’s keeping.
Instead, you smirk, breaking the weight of it. “You’re a mystery, Kent. Mild-mannered reporter one second, philosopher the next.”
He chuckles, soft and genuine. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
The conference room door bangs open. Jimmy Olsen pokes his head in, eyes flicking between the two of you with undisguised curiosity. “Uh, Perry’s looking for you, Clark. Something about the mayor’s office meltdown.”
Clark gathers his notes quickly. You slide your papers back into your satchel, rising smoothly.
“Guess we’re not done here,” you say, slipping past Jimmy.
Clark falls into step beside you, his voice low enough only you hear. “We’ll keep pulling the threads. Whoever’s behind this—Halvorsen, Luthor, whoever else—they’ll slip up.”
You glance at him, lips curving faintly. “Then let’s be there when they do.”
For just a second, the chaos of the Planet fades—the phones, the shouting, Jimmy watching curiously from behind. There’s only Clark beside you, solid as stone, and the quiet certainty that you’ve found a partner worth trusting.
---
The address on the contract looks legitimate on paper: Astra Limited, Suite 405, Weston Financial District. On a spreadsheet, it’s just another line item. In reality, it’s the kind of lead you know will either dissolve into nothing or crack everything wide open.
Clark insists on coming along. He frames it as professional interest—two sets of eyes are better than one—but the way he hovers just a step closer than necessary, the way he keeps glancing at the street around you, tells another story. He’s not just reporting. He’s making sure you’re safe.
“Suite 405,” you murmur as the elevator dings and you step into the stale, fluorescent-lit hallway. The carpet is worn, the directory outdated. Offices here are the kind that don’t get visitors.
Clark follows you down the hall, notebook in hand, though you notice he hasn’t written a word. His shoulders are taut beneath his ill-fitted jacket, posture too alert for a man out chasing a corporate paper trail.
You stop in front of the door marked 405. The brass plate is scratched, the lock scuffed from years of use—or maybe forced entries. You try the handle. It turns easily. The office beyond is bare. No desks, no chairs, no computers humming in the background. Just four walls, a thin layer of dust, and the faint smell of old paint.
“Empty,” Clark says softly, stepping inside. His voice echoes faintly off the walls.
You pace the room slowly, fingers trailing the plaster, scanning for any sign of life. “Shell company. They never meant for anyone to walk through this door.”
Clark crouches near the window, eyes scanning the sill. “Except someone’s been here recently.” He brushes a finger across the dust—leaving a clear streak where someone else had leaned not long ago.
You join him, gaze narrowing. “Cleanup crew. They pull files, wipe hard drives, then leave the shell behind.”
“Which means,” Clark says, standing again, “whoever was here knew someone would come looking.”
The words hang in the air. You both glance at the lock again—no forced entry, no signs of resistance. Too easy. Deliberate. You exhale sharply. “Halvorsen wanted me to find this. Or at least, wanted someone to.”
A smirk flickers across your lips. “Scares me? No. Annoys me? Absolutely. I don’t like being played.” For a moment, the smirk softens into something quieter when you notice the way he’s watching you—concern threaded through the calm. You cover it quickly, stepping back toward the door. “Nothing more to see here. Let’s get out before the dust gives us tetanus.”
Clark chuckles faintly, following you out. But as the door clicks shut behind you, he glances back once more, expression shifting into something far heavier than humor.
Back on the street, you slip your sunglasses into place, tucking the satchel tighter under your arm. Clark matches your stride, his long frame keeping an easy pace beside you. “You realize,” you murmur, “that walking into empty offices isn’t exactly Pulitzer material.”
“Maybe not,” he admits, smile small, “but it’s part of the story. And so is whoever’s leaving breadcrumbs for you to follow.”
You glance at him sidelong. “For me? Not you?”
His gaze lingers on yours a second longer than necessary. “They know your name carries weight. Mine doesn’t. Not yet.”
You want to argue, but you don’t. Instead, you find yourself strangely comforted by the way he said it—like he has no doubt your path is the one that matters, and his role is to walk it beside you.
---
The hotel room feels too quiet when you close the door behind you. After the empty office on Weston and the way Clark walked you back—steady, deliberate, as though making sure you’d reach the hotel unscathed—the silence is almost jarring.
You drop the satchel onto the desk, shrug out of your jacket, and sink into the chair. The glow of Metropolis lights filters through the curtains, a softer brightness than Gotham’s endless neon haze. For a while, you just sit, fingers idly tracing the edge of the phone on the desk, debating.
Finally, you dial. Alfred picks up on the second ring. “You’ve called sooner than I expected,” he says dryly. “I was just preparing myself for another day of silence.”
You lean back in the chair, the corner of your mouth quirking. “You sound disappointed.”
“Merely surprised,” Alfred replies. “I assumed you were too busy gallivanting about Metropolis to bother with old men like me.”
You laugh softly, but it fades quickly. “It’s not gallivanting. The trail is deeper than we thought. Halvorsen isn’t just sloppy—he’s deliberate. There’s an entire web of companies feeding into LexCorp. Someone wanted me to find it.”
Alfred hums low, the kind of sound that usually means he’s filing information away for Bruce. “And you’re quite certain you should be following this web on your own?”
You hesitate, glancing toward the jacket you’d just draped over the chair. There’s a faint smell of coffee clinging to it—Clark’s choice of café, his quiet voice echoing in your memory. You shift in your seat. “I’m not alone,” you say carefully.
There’s a pause, then the faint rustle of movement on Alfred’s end. “Ah,” he says finally, with all the weight of someone who’s seen a hundred things you haven’t said out loud. “And this not-alone… would his name happen to be Kent?”
You blink. “How—”
“Master Bruce has people who read the Daily Planet, you know. The name was mentioned. A journalist. You didn’t think you’d be subtle, did you?”
Your mouth tightens. “Clark’s been useful. He knows how to dig. He knows Luthor. He’s—” You stop yourself. Too much truth pressing at the edges of your throat. “He’s good at this.”
There’s another pause, longer this time. Then a new voice cuts in, lower, gruffer, immediately recognizable. “Good, or good at distracting you?”
You close your eyes. “Bruce.”
“You knew I’d hear,” he says. “If Halvorsen’s compromised, you don’t know how deep this goes. You can’t trust anyone outside the family.”
“I can trust him,” you snap before you can stop yourself.
The silence on the line sharpens. Then Bruce says, cool and certain, “you barely know him.”
You lean forward, fingers digging into the arm of the chair. “I know enough. He doesn’t play games. He doesn’t posture. He—” You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together hard.
Alfred’s voice slides gently back in, smoothing over the sharp edges. “We only worry, miss. Especially when Luthor’s name is involved. He plays for keeps, and so do his people.”
You take a slow breath. “I know the risk. But I’m not backing down. And I’m not cutting Clark out, either.”
For a moment, you think Bruce will argue, but all you hear is the faint click of him leaving the call. Alfred sighs softly on the other end. “He doesn’t like it,” Alfred says quietly.
“He never likes anything,” you mutter, though your chest tightens anyway.
There’s a rustle, then Alfred’s voice gentler than before. “Just… promise me you’ll be careful. With Luthor. With Kent. With all of it.”
You close your eyes, exhaling slowly. “I promise.”
When the call ends, you sit for a long time in the dim light, staring at the city beyond the window. You should feel steadier, anchored by the familiar rhythm of Alfred’s concern and Bruce’s suspicion. Instead, you feel the opposite—off-balance, unsettled. Because the truth is, when you said I can trust him, you weren’t just convincing them. You were trying to convince yourself.
---
The following day, the newsroom is its usual storm of ringing phones and shouted copy edits, but you’re quieter than usual when you step in. The weight of last night’s call lingers like a stone in your chest—Bruce’s suspicion, Alfred’s concern, your own too-quick defense of Clark.
Clark notices immediately. Of course he does. “Morning,” he says gently, voice low enough that it doesn’t get swallowed by the newsroom’s chaos. He sets a fresh coffee on the edge of your borrowed desk before you can even sit down. “Thought you might need it.”
You take the cup, fingers brushing his for the briefest second. Warmth flares there, unwanted but undeniable. “Thanks,” you murmur, keeping your tone even.
He studies you as you open your satchel, spreading papers across the desk with more force than necessary. “Something wrong?”
“No.” The word comes sharper than intended. You force a breath, softening it. “Just tired.”
Clark doesn’t press. He never does. Instead, he slides into the chair across from you, notebook already open, pen resting lightly between his fingers. He’s patient, giving you room, but his gaze is steady—like he’ll wait all day for the truth if he has to.
You busy yourself with the files, flipping to the copies you made of Halvorsen’s contracts. “I went through the numbers again. Astra Limited isn’t the only shell. There’s Silverbrook Holdings too—registered in Coast City, but it doesn’t exist. Same pattern. Money routed, laundered, cleaned, then deposited into LexCorp’s Energy Division.”
Clark leans in, scanning the figures, his brow furrowing. “Halvorsen’s the start. But someone else is moving the money after him.”
You nod. “Whoever it is, they’re good. They’re using people with enough influence to make it all look legitimate. I wouldn’t be surprised if this stretches across multiple cities.”
His pen stills on the page, then he looks at you again. “And you’re carrying it like it’s your responsibility alone.”
The words make your chest tighten. You set the paper down, meeting his gaze. “It is my responsibility. Wayne Enterprises is mine as much as Bruce’s. If someone’s using our name to feed Luthor, it’s on me to stop it.”
Clark doesn’t argue. Instead, he says quietly, “then let me help.”
It’s simple, unadorned. No speeches, no conditions. Just steady sincerity.
You search his face, half-expecting to find calculation, some hidden angle. But there’s nothing except that unflinching honesty. It disarms you more than the cape ever could. “You don’t even know what you’re signing up for,” you say finally.
His mouth curves, small but certain. “I think I do.”
The silence stretches, weighted but not uncomfortable. You sip the coffee he brought you, letting the warmth settle in your hands. For a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe you don’t have to carry this alone.
But then your phone buzzes on the desk. A new message, unmarked number. Just like last time.
Walk away, Wayne. Last warning.
Clark notices the way your hand stills on the phone. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t push. But his eyes sharpen, just slightly, behind the glasses.
And you realize—with an odd, unexpected sense of relief—that whoever’s sending threats may not understand one thing: you’re not walking away.
Not now. Not with Clark beside you.
---
Morning sunlight gleams off the hood of the car waiting at the curb outside the Daily Planet. The engine hums low, sleek lines catching the eye of every passerby. A Wayne Enterprises-issued Aston Martin, deep navy with polished chrome trim.
You lean against it casually, sunglasses perched on your nose, satchel resting by your side. If you’re going to chase leads across state lines, you might as well do it in comfort.
Clark arrives right on time—though from the look on his face, he hadn’t expected this. He stops short on the sidewalk, blinking between you and the car like he’s stumbled into the wrong movie. “You drive this?” he asks, voice caught somewhere between bewildered and impressed.
You smirk. “Would you rather we take the bus?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, fluster tugging at his features. Finally, he settles on, “I usually just… take the train.”
“Of course you do,” you tease, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Get in, Kent. Coast City’s not going to drive to us.”
Clark circles to the passenger side, moving with that careful, slightly too-large grace of his. When he sinks into the leather seat, he shifts uncomfortably, as if the car itself might protest having him in it. “This probably costs more than my apartment,” he mutters under his breath.
You glance at him, amused. “Relax. It’s just a car.”
He looks at you then, glasses sliding just low enough that you catch the barest glimmer of something familiar in his eyes. “It’s not just a car. At least, not to people like me.”
That makes you pause, just for a heartbeat. You grip the wheel, then gun the engine. The car leaps forward, smooth as silk onto the highway.
For the first few miles, silence fills the space between you—comfortable, almost. Clark watches the cityscape give way to open stretches of road, the sunlight catching in his hair. You catch him sneaking glances at you, as though trying to reconcile the Gotham confidence with the woman who just asked if he wanted the bus.
Finally, he says, “you and Bruce… you come from this world of wealth and power. But you don’t act like it.”
“Maybe that’s because I’ve seen what it does to people,” you answer easily. “Money’s a tool. Power’s a liability. You don’t survive Gotham if you believe otherwise.”
Clark considers that, quiet for a long time. “In Smallville, if someone’s truck broke down, the whole town would come help push it. No one thought twice about it. We didn’t have much, but… we had each other.”
You glance at him sidelong, lips twitching. “You really are a farm boy.”
A flush creeps across his cheeks, but he smiles anyway. “Guilty.”
The miles roll by, city fading to countryside, countryside to the glittering coast. The contrast between you is stark—leather seats, designer sunglasses, precision-engineered horsepower versus his rumpled tie, notebook balanced on his knee, quiet earnestness. And yet, it doesn’t feel like distance. It feels like balance.
Somewhere near the state line, Clark breaks the silence again. “Do you ever wish you’d had that? The small-town kind of life?”
You keep your eyes on the road, lips curving into a faint smile. “Sometimes. But then I remember—I wouldn’t be me if I had. And honestly? I like who I am.”
His gaze lingers on you, steady and unflinching. “I do too.”
For once, you don’t have a retort. You just drive, the hum of the car filling the silence, his words hanging between you like something unspoken but undeniable.
---
The drive stretches long, but by the time the car crests the last ridge and the skyline of Coast City comes into view, the sun has already begun to dip. The city sprawls smaller than Metropolis but brighter than Gotham—its streets cleaner, its edges softer. To most people, it looks like opportunity. To you, it looks like a mask.
Silverbrook Holdings sits at the far edge of the financial district in a pale stone building that could belong to a dozen other companies. From the street, it looks respectable: glass windows, discreet signage, the kind of place no one thinks twice about.
Clark steps out of the car, squinting up at it with his hands in his pockets. “Doesn’t exactly scream criminal empire.”
You shut the door with a firm click. “It’s not meant to. That’s the point.”
Inside, the building lobby is clinical—white walls, polished floors, fluorescent lights humming faintly overhead. A receptionist desk sits in the middle, unmanned. The silence is sharp, too neat.
Clark glances at you, his expression shifting just enough to betray unease. “Not even a secretary?”
“Not even a potted plant,” you mutter, scanning the room.
The elevator works, but the directory by the door lists only two tenants: Silverbrook Holdings and a generic-sounding “West Coast Trade Consultants.” You press the button for Silverbrook’s floor, the car humming softly as it rises.
When the doors slide open, you both step into another empty hallway. Offices line either side, blinds drawn tight, doors locked. At the end of the corridor, the nameplate reads Silverbrook Holdings – Suite 700.
You pull a lockpick kit from your satchel—sleek, efficient, something Bruce always pretended not to know you owned. Clark raises his brows. “What?” you say, kneeling at the lock. “Did you think growing up with Bruce Wayne meant I don’t know how to open doors?”
His lips twitch, amusement barely contained. “I’m just… impressed.”
The lock clicks and you push the door open. Like Astra Limited, the office is empty—but not in the same way. Desks sit abandoned, chairs tucked neatly in place, filing cabinets bolted against the walls. There are papers here, scattered across one desk, though the dust is thick enough to suggest no one’s touched them in months.
Clark moves toward the window, scanning outside. “No lights on in the building across. No signs of recent visitors.”
You sift through the papers. Receipts, delivery slips, blank forms. All signed with the same name: Morgan Edge.
You freeze, holding one up. “Edge,” you mutter. “Halvorsen routes the money here, Edge disguises it as development bids. Then it gets passed along.”
Clark steps closer, reading over your shoulder. His voice is quiet, steady. “Whoever’s pulling the strings, they’re not hiding anymore. They’re daring us to follow.”
You set the paper down, looking at him. “You don’t sound surprised.”
He meets your gaze without flinching. “I’m not.”
Something in the way he says it makes your chest tighten. He knows more than he’s saying—you can feel it in the steady calm of his voice, the way he keeps himself perfectly measured. You want to push. To demand answers. But instead, you tuck the papers into your satchel and straighten. “Then we keep following. Until we know where it really ends.”
Clark nods, and for a second, the weight of the world seems to settle in his shoulders. But when he looks at you again, there’s that familiar warmth in his eyes—quiet, steady, unshaken.
And in that moment, standing in an empty office hundreds of miles from Gotham, you realize the trail isn’t the only thing you’re chasing.
By the time you and Clark leave the Silverbrook office, the sun has dropped low, casting the city in golden haze and deepening shadows. The air smells of salt and exhaust, Coast City’s streets alive with evening crowds heading to dinner, bars, and late shifts.
Your stomach growls—loud enough that Clark tilts his head, smiling faintly. “Don’t say it,” you warn, locking the car.
“I wasn’t going to,” he replies, though his tone is soft, teasing. “But there’s a place around the corner—family-owned diner. Not much to look at, but the food’s good.”
You arch a brow. “Of course you’d know the diner.”
He shrugs, sheepish. “Reporters travel. And I like to eat.”
Against your better judgment, you follow him. The diner is exactly what you expect: cracked leather booths, buzzing neon sign, the faint smell of grease clinging to the air. But it’s warm, full of noise and chatter, and somehow comforting.
You slide into a booth. Clark sits opposite, folding his long frame into the narrow space with practiced ease. He orders black coffee and a burger; you order something small, though you’re hungrier than you admit.
For a while, you talk about the case—Edge, Halvorsen, how cleanly the money jumped through hands. But the conversation drifts as the food comes, slipping into quieter territory. “You know,” you say around a fry, “this isn’t what I expected Metropolis’s golden boy reporter to be doing. Chasing shell companies and dirty money trails. Don’t you have city council scandals to write about?”
Clark smirks, sipping his coffee. “Those are easier. Luthor’s harder. And people need harder.”
You study him across the booth. “You talk like someone who’s been fighting him longer than you let on.”
He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t answer either. Instead, he sets his coffee down and says, “what about you? Gotham’s not exactly a city that forgives idealists. Why keep fighting?”
You lean back, shrugging lightly. “Because if I don’t, who will? Bruce carries his war one way, I carry mine another. Gotham eats people alive, Clark. The only way to survive it is to push back.”
His gaze lingers on you—quiet, steady, almost admiring. “You sound like someone who doesn’t know how to quit.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a Wayne if I did,” you reply, smirking.
There’s a beat of silence. Then he says softly, “I like that about you.”
The words settle in your chest like an unexpected warmth. You look down at your plate, smirk fading into something quieter. For a moment, the investigation, the threats, the empty offices—all of it fades under the glow of neon and the steady way Clark looks at you, like he’s cataloguing every detail without judgment.
When the bill comes, you reach for it. Clark beats you to it. “Reporter’s salary, Kent,” you remind him dryly. “This booth costs more than your paycheck.”
His smile is sheepish, but unyielding. “Then consider it a small rebellion. Let me have this one.”
You let him, watching as he tucks his wallet back into his jacket. He looks proud of himself in the simplest way, like buying dinner in a diner is some kind of victory. And to your surprise, it makes you smile. As you step out into the night, the city lights reflecting in the dark ocean nearby, you catch yourself thinking—not for the first time—that maybe you trust him more than you should.
---
The highway stretches long and dark as you steer the car back toward Metropolis, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow over the leather interior. The road hums beneath the tires, steady and hypnotic. Clark sits in the passenger seat, jacket draped across his lap, tie loosened at his collar. He’s relaxed in a way you haven’t seen before, one arm resting on the window ledge, the other idly flipping a pen between his fingers. Every so often, he sneaks a glance at you, like he’s checking to see if you’re still real in this moment of quiet. “You drive like someone who doesn’t believe in speed limits,” he says finally, his voice low but laced with humor.
You smirk, eyes still on the road. “Speed limits are suggestions. Besides, this car was built for it.”
Clark chuckles, shaking his head. “You and your cars…”
“What about them?” you ask, glancing at him sidelong.
“You talk about them like they’re extensions of you,” he says. “Like they’re armor.”
The words catch you off guard more than you want to admit. He isn’t wrong. Cars have always been both luxury and shield—a way to control your environment, to feel untouchable even when everything else felt like a fight. You cover the pause with a dry, “better than talking about them like they’re trophies.”
Clark smiles faintly. “I wasn’t criticizing. Just… noticing.” You grip the wheel a little tighter. He notices too much, sees too much. And yet you don’t feel defensive the way you usually do. Not with him. A few miles pass in silence, the hum of the road the only sound. Then, softly, Clark says, “you don’t have to carry all of this by yourself.”
You glance at him again. He’s not looking at you, but out the windshield, eyes fixed on the horizon. His voice is steady, but there’s a gentleness in it that disarms you. “I’ve been getting threats,” you admit before you can stop yourself.
That makes him look at you, sharply. “Threats?”
“Text messages. Anonymous.” You force your voice steady. “They want me to walk away.”
“And you won’t.” It isn’t a question.
You shake your head. “No.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He just says quietly, “then I’ll be there.”
The words hang between you, simple but absolute. You grip the wheel harder, pulse quickening in ways that have nothing to do with the car’s speed. For a long time, neither of you speaks. The city lights finally appear on the horizon, a glowing crown against the dark. And though you know what waits—Halvorsen, Edge, Luthor, threats in the shadows—you let yourself sink into the quiet certainty of Clark’s words. Then I’ll be there.
---
The Daily Planet hums louder than usual when you and Clark return, the newsroom alive with reporters buzzing over fresh leads. You drop your satchel onto the desk, sliding the Silverbrook papers across the surface, while Clark flips through his notes. “Morgan Edge,” you say flatly. The name tastes sour. “Halvorsen routes the funds, Edge launders them. He’s the bridge to Lex.”
Clark nods, adjusting his glasses. “And he doesn’t hide well. Edge likes attention. He likes being seen.”
Before you can answer, Perry White barrels past, barking orders. “Kent! Where’s that city hall piece? Lane’s running circles around you—again!” He slaps a stack of papers onto a nearby desk, muttering something about journalists who move at the speed of glaciers.
As he storms off, Lois sweeps in from the other side of the bullpen, heels sharp against the floor. She doesn’t slow as she calls out, “Edge is hosting a gala tomorrow night at the Metropolitan Grand. Whole city elite’ll be there. Half the council, Luthor, probably even the mayor. I’ll be covering it.” She disappears into Perry’s office before you can get a word in, leaving the words hanging in the air.
You turn to Clark. “A gala?”
He sighs, shoulders sinking just slightly. “That’s Edge. When he wants to remind people he’s untouchable, he throws a party. Charities, business expansions, new investments—always a cover for something else.”
You smirk faintly. “Then it’s our invitation to get closer.”
Clark shifts, uncomfortable. “You make it sound simple.”
“Not simple,” you correct, gathering the Silverbrook papers into your satchel. “Necessary. People talk at galas. Especially people who think no one’s listening.”
His eyes meet yours—steady, reluctant, but with that familiar undercurrent of he’ll follow you anywhere, no matter the risk. “You do realize Edge will recognize you,” Clark says carefully.
You tilt your head. “Good. Let him. He already knows I’m digging. Might as well look him in the eye while I do it.”
For a long moment, Clark studies you across the desk. Finally, his mouth curves, faint and rueful. “You don’t play small, do you?”
“Never,” you say, slipping on your jacket.
And as you walk past him, you hear the quietest chuckle, warm and steady, like he’s resigned to whatever storm you’re dragging him into next.
---
The idea comes up the next morning in the Planet conference room, papers and coffee cups scattered between you. You’re running through the guest list for Edge’s gala when the thought strikes you like lightning. “Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes at Clark across the table. “Do you even own a nice suit?”
He blinks at you. “Of course I do.”
You arch a brow. “Define nice.”
There’s the faintest flush creeping up his neck. “...It’s clean.”
Your laugh bursts out before you can stop it. “Oh my god. Clark Kent, the man planning to sneak into one of the most exclusive galas in Metropolis, thinks ‘clean’ is the requirement for a tux.”
His ears turn pink. “It’s not a tux—I mean, I have a suit. It’s… fine.”
You lean across the table, smirk tugging at your lips. “Fine doesn’t cut it. You’re walking into a ballroom full of sharks, billionaires, and politicians. You’ll stick out like an intern at a shareholders’ meeting.”
“I don’t need to impress anyone,” he mutters.
“Wrong,” you counter smoothly. “You need to blend in. There’s a difference.”
Clark fumbles for a rebuttal, but you’re already sliding the last of the papers into your satchel. “Come on, farm boy. We’re going shopping.”
The tailor’s boutique smells faintly of cedar and pressed wool, a world of dark-paneled walls and gleaming mirrors. You move through the racks with ease, pulling suits in navy, charcoal, and black with practiced fingers. Clark follows like a man led to the gallows. “This really isn’t necessary,” he tries again as you shove a hanger into his hands.
“Try it,” you say firmly, pushing him toward the fitting room.
The curtain swishes shut, and for a moment, silence. “This is… tight.”
“Tailored,” you correct through the curtain, grinning. “It’s supposed to fit you.”
A pause. Then, more flustered, “I think this costs more than my car.”
You lean against the wall, arms crossed. “Consider it equal.”
The curtain rustles. “Equal?”
“You bought dinner in Coast City,” you remind him lightly.
“That was twenty bucks,” he says, voice strangled.
“And this is balance,” you insist. “Stop arguing.”
There’s a sigh. Then the curtain pulls back—and for a heartbeat, you forget to breathe. The suit frames him perfectly: charcoal wool, sharp lines, shoulders squared. The tie is crooked—of course—but the effect is devastating nonetheless. Clark shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, tugging at the cuffs. “Well?” he asks, eyes flicking nervously to yours.
You swallow, recovering quickly. “You clean up… better than fine.”
His flush deepens, but the corner of his mouth curves. “I still don’t think it’s equal.”
You step closer, fingers brushing against his collar as you fix the knot of his tie. “It is if I say it is.”
The air shifts—suddenly charged, closer than it should be. His eyes hold yours, steady but uncertain, like he’s caught between stepping back and leaning forward. For a dangerous moment, the investigation, the gala, the entire city disappears. There’s just the quiet sound of your breath and the heat of his presence. You clear your throat, stepping back. “Good. You’ll pass.”
Clark exhales, almost like he’d forgotten how. He glances at the mirror, then back at you, and that small, quiet smile lingers. And for the first time, you realize that while the gala may be full of sharks, the real danger might be standing right in front of you.
---
The Metropolitan Grand Hotel gleams like a jewel against the city skyline, its chandeliers blazing through wide glass windows, music drifting out onto the steps. Cars line the curb—sleek, expensive, the kind that only make sense to people who measure wealth in billions. You step out of yours first, heels clicking on polished stone. The dress you’d chosen hugs your frame with understated elegance—charcoal silk with clean lines, its sheen catching the light. It matches Clark’s suit exactly, the two of you paired so seamlessly it looks intentional. Which, of course, it is.
When Clark rounds the car, smoothing his jacket self-consciously, his eyes flick to you—and for once, words fail him. His usual steady calm wavers, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to remember how to speak. “You…” he clears his throat, tugging at his tie. “You look…”
You smile faintly, saving him from himself. “So do you. It almost looks like we planned this.”
The flush creeping up his neck gives him away, but he offers his arm anyway, old-fashioned, earnest. You slip your hand against it, and together you ascend the steps into the lion’s den. Inside, the ballroom is a storm of glittering gowns, sharp tuxedos, and too-bright smiles. Champagne flutes clink, laughter echoes beneath the string quartet’s music, and deals are being made with every handshake.
“Morgan Edge loves these events,” Clark murmurs beside you, scanning the crowd. “He feeds off the attention.”
“Good,” you reply smoothly, eyes sweeping over the guests. “Makes him easier to find.”
It doesn’t take long. Edge stands near the center of the room, broad-shouldered in a dark suit, his grin wide and wolfish as he charms a knot of councilmen. His hand gestures are broad, his voice carrying just enough to remind everyone he’s the loudest in the room. You and Clark linger at the edge of the crowd, sipping champagne you don’t intend to finish. Your eyes narrow as you watch Edge lean in, laughing too loudly at some councilman’s joke. “He knows we’re here,” you murmur.
Clark glances down at you, brow furrowing. “You’re sure?”
“Look at his shoulders,” you whisper. “He’s performing. Too much. He’s showing off because he wants us to see him do it.”
Clark studies Edge a moment longer, then nods slightly. “You’re right.”
Your lips twitch. “Of course I am.” You mingle, keeping your distance, trading polite smiles with Metropolis elite. Clark moves with you, just slightly behind, quiet but steady. He doesn’t need to speak—his presence is enough to make you feel anchored even as you tread among sharks.
At one point, Perry White brushes past, eyebrows climbing as he takes in Clark at your side. “Kent,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Didn’t know you owned a tie that straight.”
Clark stammers something half-coherent, cheeks pink, and Perry just shakes his head, moving on. You bite back a laugh, murmuring, “you really don’t blend in as badly as you think.”
His eyes flick to you, soft and steady. “That’s because of you.”
For a second, you forget to breathe. You cover it by sipping champagne, pretending not to notice the warmth in your chest. Edge finally moves toward the balcony, peeling away from his councilmen. You and Clark exchange a glance. Without words, you follow. The night air outside is cooler, the hum of the city a low thrum beneath the gala’s music. Edge stands at the railing, staring out as though he’s been waiting. “Well,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “if it isn’t Gotham’s other Wayne. And a reporter.” He turns, grin sharp. “Quite the pair.”
You don’t flinch. “Silverbrook Holdings,” you say evenly. “It all runs through you.”
Edge’s grin widens, as though you’ve just told him a joke. “Careful, Miss Wayne. Accusations like that don’t play well at parties.”
Clark steps closer, quiet but firm. “You’ve made it obvious. Too obvious.”
Edge’s eyes flick between you, sharp and calculating. Then he chuckles. “Maybe I wanted to. Maybe I wanted you to follow the trail. Funny thing about curiosity…” His smile turns wolfish. “It tends to get people killed.” The threat hangs in the cool night air, sharp and deliberate.
Clark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. You hold Edge’s gaze, your expression cool, controlled. You don’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. And when Edge finally brushes past you back into the ballroom, his laughter low and mocking, you and Clark are left standing on the balcony, the tension between you sharp as glass. “He’s daring us,” you murmur.
Clark’s voice is steady, low. “Then we’ll call his bluff.”
Your eyes meet his in the moonlight. And for the first time tonight, the danger feels less heavy, less suffocating—because Clark is there, steady and unflinching. The gala winds down, champagne flutes emptied, laughter thinning as the night stretches long. You and Clark keep your eyes open, drifting through the crowd like smoke.
Then you spot him—one of Edge’s men, not Edge himself but someone who lingered too close to him on the balcony. Short conversation, hushed but sharp, then a quick exit through the side doors. You glance at Clark. “Follow him.” He nods once, steady. The streets outside are quieter, the city humming under a velvet sky. You trail the man through backstreets, keeping just far enough behind that he doesn’t turn. Clark walks at your shoulder, his frame blending into shadows more easily than you expect.
The man slips into an alley between two shuttered shops. You follow—and that’s when you hear it. The shuffle of feet, the scrape of metal, too many breaths for one man. You stop short. “We’re not alone.” Shapes emerge from the dark—four men, broad and heavy, eyes glittering under the streetlamps. They fan out slowly, cutting off the exit. Clark stiffens at your side, but before he can move, you put a hand against his chest. “Get behind me.”
“What?” He sounds almost scandalized.
“Do it,” you snap, slipping a heel off your foot. The other follows, and with a quick twist, the steel spike embedded in the sole slides free. A flick of your wrist sends it spinning through the air—embedding itself in the shoulder of the closest thug. He howls, stumbling back.
Clark blinks, wide-eyed. “Your shoes—?”
“Gotham fashion,” you mutter, already pulling another gadget from your satchel—a compact baton that telescopes with a flick. You drop into a fighting stance. “Still standing there, Kent?”
The goons charge. You meet them head-on, baton cracking across one jaw, then slamming into another’s ribs. A booted foot swings at your midsection—you pivot, slashing with the knife-heel you’d kept in your hand. It bites fabric, then skin.
Behind you, Clark finally moves. One thug lunges with a pipe—Clark catches his arm mid-swing. For a moment, it looks almost comical: Clark, wide-eyed, holding the man frozen like he doesn’t know his own strength. Then—wham—he drives a single punch into the thug’s chest. The man flies backward, crumpling into a heap against the wall. Clark winces. “Sorry!”
The absurdity almost makes you laugh—but you’re busy jamming your baton into the last thug’s gut, twisting it sharply. He groans, drops, and you stand barefoot amid the wreckage, chest heaving, baton dripping with sweat and blood. Clark looks around at the groaning men, his tie crooked, his knuckles reddened from one punch. “You… you’re barefoot.”
You glance down at the ruined heels embedded in the thugs, then back at him. “Occupational hazard.” For a long moment, you just stand there together in the alley, the night humming around you. Four men groaning on the ground. Your chest rising and falling. Clark watching you like he doesn’t quite know whether to be impressed or terrified. Finally, you smirk, tucking the baton back into your satchel. “Guess you can throw a punch after all, Kent.”
His lips twitch into the faintest smile. “Guess so.” And though your feet are bare against the cold pavement, with Clark steady beside you, you’ve never felt more firmly planted.
The valet stand glows beneath golden lights when you and Clark emerge from the alley, both of you rumpled but steady. You’re barefoot, clutching your satchel like a lifeline, soot streaked along your arm where one of the thugs grabbed you. Clark, impossibly, still looks almost put together—except for the tie hanging askew.
The valet spots you from across the driveway and rushes to open your car door. He flashes a polished smile—right until the ignition turns over and the world erupts. The explosion tears through the night, a roar of fire and twisted steel. Heat blasts across your face, glass shatters like gunfire, and the once-pristine Aston Martin blossoms into a fireball, pieces of metal raining down onto the pavement. Guests at the gala scream, scattering back inside, alarms shrieking in the distance.
Clark’s arm is instantly across your shoulders, pulling you into his chest, shielding you from the spray of debris. For a heartbeat, you’re frozen there—your ear pressed against the steady hammer of his heart, your breath caught against the wall of his chest. When the flames settle into a crackling wreck, you push back, jaw clenched. “Of course,” you mutter, brushing ash off your dress. “Of course they’d torch my car.”
Clark doesn’t move his arm right away, still standing close, his eyes fixed on the wreck. “We should get you out of here,” he says quietly, voice edged with something tighter than usual.
You shake him off gently, though part of you doesn’t want to. “No car. Taxis won’t stop near an active fireball. Your place?”
He hesitates, then nods once. “It’s close enough to walk.”
You both set off down the block, the noise of sirens swelling behind you. The night air is cool against your bare feet, every step jarring against rough pavement. You keep your chin high, refusing to let discomfort slow you, but Clark notices anyway. After a few minutes, he stops. “What are you—”
Before you can finish, he bends, unlaces his shoes, and slips them off. He’s still in his socks when he sets them down in front of you. “Here.”
You stare at him. “Clark…”
“They’ll fit badly,” he admits, ears going pink. “But pavement’s worse.”
You glance at the shoes, polished leather, easily at least two sizes too big. “You’re serious?”
He shrugs, faintly sheepish but unyielding. “You’ll walk easier. Please.”
You sigh, slipping your feet into them. They flop comically with every step, making you look more like a child playing dress-up than the sister of Gotham’s most infamous billionaire. But the relief from broken glass and asphalt is undeniable. Clark falls into step beside you, long strides careful to match yours. “Don’t get used to this,” you say dryly, glancing down at the clownish effect.
His mouth curves faintly. “I won’t.” A pause. “But I’d do it again.”
Your chest tightens unexpectedly, and you cover it with a smirk. “You’re absurd, Kent. But you know what actually sounds good right now?”
“What?”
“A Big Belly Burger.”
Clark blinks at you, as if he didn’t expect that. Then he laughs—full, warm, unguarded. “In those shoes? In that dress?”
You gesture at his socks. “In those?” The two of you veer off the main street, following the neon glow of the fast-food chain. The line inside stops dead when you walk in—two soot-streaked figures, you barefoot-in-shoes four sizes too big, Clark in his tuxedo shirt and rumpled tie. You ignore the stares, stepping up to the counter with all the authority of a Wayne and ordering two burgers, fries, and a shake.
When you slide into the booth across from Clark, the vinyl squeaking under your gown, he’s already laughing softly again. “This… this isn’t exactly how I thought the night would end.”
You take a long sip of the milkshake, deliberately ignoring the way people are still gawking. “Welcome to my world.”
Clark takes a sip of his chocolate shake, still grinning faintly at the absurdity of the two of you sitting there in gala clothes streaked with soot. “You really don’t care what people think, do you?”
You shrug, dipping a fry into your vanilla shake. “Why should I? Let them stare. Half of them have probably never seen a Wayne eat fast food before.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see it either.”
The corner of your mouth curves. “Don’t get used to it.”
For a moment, you eat in companionable silence. Then, almost absently, you say, “I once brought a stray cat into the manor. Alfred nearly had a heart attack.”
Clark looks up, eyes warm with curiosity. “A cat?”
“Scrawny little thing,” you say, smiling faintly at the memory. “Gray fur, torn ear, the meanest hiss you’ve ever heard. I was maybe ten? I snuck him in through the kitchen and tried to hide him in my room. Alfred caught me when the cat clawed its way into the study and knocked over one of Bruce’s model airplanes.”
Clark laughs quietly, picturing it. “What happened?”
“I got scolded, obviously. But then Alfred sat down with this ridiculous look on his face because the cat wouldn’t stop staring at him. Next thing I know, he’s feeding it scraps of roast chicken under the table.” You lean back, grinning. “We found out later the little monster had a sweet tooth. Wouldn’t touch regular milk, but strawberry milkshakes? He’d lap them up until his whiskers were pink.”
Clark laughs outright now, low and warm. “You’re kidding.”
“I am absolutely not. Bruce hated it—claimed the cat would ‘compromise security.’ But Alfred kept sneaking it strawberry shakes until it wandered off one day and never came back.”
Clark shakes his head, still smiling. “I think I like the idea of Alfred, legendary butler, smuggling milkshakes to a stray cat.”
“You would like him,” you say softly.
His smile gentles, fading into something quieter. He stirs his shake idly with the straw. “I had a dog. Shelby. Big, golden, sweet as anything. I used to sit out on the porch with her after chores and tell her everything I couldn’t tell my parents. She’d just sit there, tail thumping, like she understood every word.”
You watch him, the way his eyes soften at the memory, the way his voice drops just slightly, rich with fondness. “What happened to her?” you ask.
“She lived a long time,” he says quietly. “Saw me through high school. One winter, she just… slowed down. Fell asleep by the fire and didn’t wake up.”
There’s a lump in your throat you didn’t expect. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “She was happy. That’s all I could ask for.”
The two of you sit there in the glow of neon, soot still streaking your clothes, shoes mismatched under the table, sharing stories about long-gone pets like it’s the most natural thing in the world. For a brief, fragile moment, the weight of Wayne Enterprises, Lex Luthor, and Morgan Edge feels distant—something for tomorrow.
Tonight, there’s just Clark, the warmth in his eyes, and the lingering sweetness of milkshakes on your tongue. By the time you reach Clark’s building, the city has gone quiet, the chaos of the gala and the explosion reduced to sirens fading into the distance. His apartment sits on the top floor of an older building—no grand lobby, no valet, just a narrow staircase and the hum of a neighbor’s television spilling through thin walls. He unlocks the door with a sheepish look, holding it open for you. “It’s not… much.”
You step inside, and it’s exactly what you expected. Small, tidy, lived-in. A bookshelf lined with dog-eared paperbacks. A couch that’s seen better days. A desk stacked with notes and clippings. The faint smell of coffee and laundry soap lingers in the air. “It’s very… you,” you say softly, turning in the space.
Clark smiles faintly, setting his jacket over the back of a chair. “That’s one way to put it.”
When you glance at your reflection in the window, soot smudges stare back at you, streaking your gown and arms. “I need a shower before I set this place on fire,” you mutter.
Clark clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s only one. But—you can go first. I’ll find you something to wear.”
You arch a brow. “Something of yours?”
His ears pinken, but he nods. “Shirt. Sweatpants. They’ll be… big.”
“Better than walking around in an ash pile,” you concede.
He disappears into his bedroom, returning with folded clothes—gray sweatpants, a soft plaid shirt, and a T-shirt that looks like it’s been washed a hundred times. He holds them out with both hands, like an offering. “Thanks,” you say, brushing his fingers as you take them.
The bathroom is small, steam curling quickly once you turn on the water. You peel off the ruined gown, streaked with smoke and dust, and step under the spray. The heat burns away the grit, loosening muscles you didn’t realize were tight. For the first time since the explosion, you breathe. When you emerge, hair damp, wrapped in Clark’s shirt and sweats, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror: bare feet lost in fabric, the plaid hanging loose across your shoulders. Somehow, it feels more like armor than the dress ever did.
Clark glances up from the couch when you step out. His mouth opens—then closes. His eyes flick away quickly, but not before you catch the flush blooming across his cheeks. “Shower’s free,” you say lightly, settling onto the edge of his couch. He nods, almost too quickly, and disappears down the hall.
You sit back, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, listening to the water run. The apartment feels quiet, warm, safe. And for the first time in a long time, you wonder what it would be like if this were normal—if nights ended not with fire and threats, but with milkshakes and borrowed clothes in a space that feels like home.
The sound of running water drifts faintly from the bathroom down the short hallway. You curl deeper into Clark’s couch, damp hair clinging to your shoulders, his shirt soft against your skin. For the first time all day, your body feels clean, though exhaustion still hums beneath your skin.
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. Alfred. You hesitate, then swipe to answer. “You’ve been busy,” he says before you can speak, his tone clipped, but edged with that familiar warmth. “Care to explain why one of the Aston Martins just disappeared from my tracking feed? Its transponder went dark an hour ago.”
You close your eyes briefly. “About that.”
“Oh, don’t tell me.” His sigh is heavy enough to carry across the line. “The car, Miss, please don’t say the car.”
“It exploded,” you admit flatly.
A pause. Then, dry as bone, “of course it did. I suppose I should be grateful you weren’t still inside it.”
“I wasn’t. Relax.”
“You know very well that relaxation is beyond my skill set where you’re concerned.” His voice softens, the bite easing. “And what happens when Master Bruce discovers this in the morning?”
Your head tips back against the couch cushion. “He’ll brood. He’ll growl. He’ll say I should’ve walked away. Same old song, Alfred.”
“This time the song has teeth,” Alfred replies sharply. “Your brother’s already out there tonight. When he comes home and learns his sister’s car has been reduced to ash in Metropolis of all places, I daresay the manor’s walls will quake from his temper.”
A faint smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. “He’s not my keeper.”
“No, but he is your brother. And he does care, even when he refuses to admit it.” Alfred pauses. “You’d best prepare yourself for the storm that’s coming.”
Your gaze drifts toward the bathroom door, where water still runs steady. Clark’s voice hums faintly in the background, low and indistinct, as if he’s humming to himself. Something about it—gentle, grounded—settles your nerves. “I’ll handle Bruce,” you say finally. “Like I always do.”
Alfred exhales slowly, as if resigning himself. “Very well. But promise me this: don’t mistake allies for shields. Especially ones you’ve only just begun to know.”
You bite your tongue, unwilling to give him the reassurance he wants. “Goodnight, Alfred.”
“Goodnight, Miss. Try not to reduce any more property to rubble before sunrise.” The line clicks dead. You set the phone down, running a hand over your face. The apartment smells faintly of steam and soap, a world away from Gotham’s endless tension. You tell yourself Alfred’s right, that Bruce’s fury will be swift and inevitable. But right now, you don’t want to think about Gotham. Right now, all you can think about is Clark Kent, and how close his voice is behind that bathroom door.
The bathroom door clicks open, and a wave of steam rolls into the apartment. Clark steps out barefoot, hair damp, dressed down in a plain T-shirt and sweatpants. The sight of him like this—no tie, no blazer, no armor of mild-mannered reporter—hits harder than you expect. He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Sorry it took so long. Hot water’s… temperamental.”
You smirk faintly from the couch. “After tonight, you’ve earned it.”
His gaze flicks over you briefly—the sight of you in his shirt, sleeves hanging loose past your wrists, your bare feet tucked under you on the couch. His throat works as he swallows, and he looks away quickly, moving to sit in the chair opposite. For a while, silence settles between you, broken only by the faint hum of traffic outside. Clark runs a hand through his damp hair, the movement so unselfconscious it feels like something you weren’t meant to see. “You okay?” he asks finally, voice low.
You shrug, though the weight of Alfred’s words still presses at the back of your mind. “Better than the car.”
That earns a soft chuckle from him, though his eyes stay serious. “It’s not nothing. Someone wanted you gone tonight.”
“They’re going to have to try harder,” you reply evenly.
His mouth curves, not quite a smile but close. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
You study him for a long moment, the way the lamplight warms his features, the steady calm that never seems to waver. You wonder—not for the first time—what it would take to break through that composure, what secrets lie under the surface. Instead, you lean back, tugging at the hem of his shirt. “You know, your wardrobe isn’t half bad. Comfy.”
He raises a brow, faintly amused. “Not quite gala attire, though.”
“Please,” you scoff. “If anyone saw us at Big Belly Burger, they know we’re trendsetters.” That draws a real laugh from him—quiet, warm, the kind that lingers in your chest long after it fades. The apartment goes still again, but this time it’s not uncomfortable. The storm outside—Lex, Edge, the explosion—feels distant here, held at bay by four thin walls and the steady presence of Clark. You don’t say it, but part of you already knows: Alfred was right. Bruce will rage when he finds out. But sitting here, wrapped in borrowed clothes and the quiet strength of the man across from you, you don’t care. For tonight, this is enough.
---
Morning sunlight seeps weakly through Clark’s curtains, catching on the cluttered desk and the dog-eared books. The apartment smells faintly of coffee—brewed hours earlier, if the pot’s warmth is anything to go by.
You’re half-asleep, face buried in Clark’s pillow. Last night you’d muttered something about “not sleeping on the couch” and somehow ended up here, stretched diagonally across the bed. Clark had taken the edge, back stiff and deliberate, as though he was afraid to move a muscle. The sharp buzz of your phone breaks the silence. You groan into the pillow, flopping an arm blindly toward the nightstand. Clark beats you to it, scooping up the phone with sleep-heavy fingers. “Hello?” His voice is low, rough with morning.
A pause. Then a voice sharp enough to slice through glass, “who is this?”
Clark blinks, suddenly more awake. “Uh… Clark Kent.”
The pause lengthens. “Clark Kent,” the voice repeats, heavy with suspicion. “And where is my sister?”
You groan again, rolling onto your back and prying one eye open. “Give me that,” you mutter, snatching the phone from Clark’s hand. “Good morning, Bruce,” you rasp, still thick with sleep.
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” he snaps. “Alfred informed me your car was destroyed last night, that you ignored direct threats, and now—now some strange man answers your phone in the morning?”
Clark sits frozen at the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, hands folded like a schoolboy caught in church. You rub your temple. “First of all, he’s not strange. Second of all, I’m fine. Third of all, stop spying through Alfred.”
“I don’t need to spy,” Bruce growls. “You’re in over your head.”
“Bruce—”
“You’re stubborn. You think you can handle this alone. But if someone put a bomb in your car, it means they’ve marked you. And whoever this Clark Kent is, he won’t keep you safe.”
Your eyes flick toward Clark. He looks everywhere but at you, jaw tight, glasses askew from where he must’ve grabbed them half-asleep. The irony almost makes you laugh. “Bruce, I can handle myself. And I don’t need you swooping in to drag me back to Gotham like a disobedient child.”
“You need backup,” he says flatly.
“I have backup,” you shoot back, glancing pointedly at Clark.
There’s silence on the other end, weighted and disbelieving. Then Bruce exhales sharply. “We’ll talk later.”
The line clicks dead before you can reply. You drop the phone onto the blanket, dragging your hands over your face as you fall backwards back onto the pillow. “He’s going to kill me.”
Clark clears his throat gently. “So that was… your brother.”
“Mm,” you grumble into the pillow. “In all his brooding glory.”
Clark hesitates, then says softly, “He doesn’t like me.”
That earns a laugh from you, muffled but real. “He doesn’t like anyone. Don’t take it personally.”
Clark smiles faintly, though you catch the flicker of something deeper behind it. Then, quietly, he says, “still. I’ll prove him wrong.”
You pause, lifting your head to look at him. His hair’s still damp from last night, sticking up in uneven tufts, and yet his eyes are steady, unshaken.
The apartment is hushed after Bruce’s call, sunlight spilling through the blinds in uneven stripes. For a while, neither of you speaks. You lie back against Clark’s pillow, eyes half-closed, listening to the shuffle of him moving around the kitchen. The smell of coffee soon fills the air, rich and grounding. When you drag yourself out of bed, Clark’s already at the small counter, pouring two mugs. He looks up when you pad in barefoot, sleeves of his plaid shirt still hanging long over your hands. “You don’t have to—” you start.
He smiles faintly. “It’s coffee. I can handle it.”
You slide onto the stool at his counter, wrapping your hands around the warm mug he sets in front of you. The place is cramped, but there’s something about the way sunlight cuts across the small table, the way Clark moves quietly in his own space, that makes it feel… steady. “You’re domestic,” you say finally, sipping.
He raises a brow. “That a compliment?”
You smirk over the rim of the mug. “Depends who you ask.”
His mouth curves into that shy half-smile again, but his eyes don’t leave yours. For a few minutes, you both just sit there, sipping coffee in silence. The world outside feels far away, muted. No Luthor, no Edge, no Gotham waiting to demand explanations. Just two people in a sunlit kitchen, pretending for a heartbeat that this is normal. Then Clark says softly, “your brother’s worried. That much was obvious.”
You grimace. “He’s always worried. He turns it into anger so he doesn’t have to admit it out loud.”
Clark nods slowly, his fingers tapping the side of his mug. “Maybe. But he’s not wrong about one thing.”
You tilt your head, wary. “Which is?”
“You are in danger.” His tone is gentle, but it lands heavy. “Last night proved that. Whoever’s behind this—they’re not bluffing.”
You set the mug down a little too hard. “So what? I should run back to Gotham with my tail between my legs? Let Bruce lock me in the manor and scowl at me across the dining room table?”
Clark’s brow furrows. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what are you saying?”
He hesitates, eyes steady on yours. “That you don’t have to face it alone.”
The words hang between you, heavier than anything Bruce said last night. You want to argue, to push back the way you always do when someone tries to share your burdens. But the way Clark looks at you—earnest, unflinching—makes it harder. You break eye contact first, muttering, “you’re infuriating, Kent.”
His smile is small, but it lingers. “So I’ve heard.” The moment passes, but not completely. You finish your coffee in silence, rinsing your mug in his sink, deliberately ignoring the way he watches you like he’s memorizing every detail. By the time you grab your satchel, Gotham feels closer again, shadows pressing at the edges. The investigation waits—Halvorsen, Edge, Mercy, Luthor. Bruce’s storm looms on the horizon. But for now, as Clark locks the apartment door and falls into step beside you, you let yourself breathe in the quiet certainty of his presence.
By the time the two of you step out of Clark’s apartment, the city is already humming with morning traffic. People hurry to work, taxis weave between lanes, vendors open their carts. You tug Clark’s shirt a little closer around yourself, the hem nearly brushing your thighs. The sweatpants drag along the pavement with every barefooted step into his oversized sneakers. Clark glances at you, lips twitching like he’s holding back a laugh.
“Don’t,” you warn, narrowing your eyes.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he says, though his voice is warm with amusement.
You smirk. “You were thinking it, though. Just remember, Kent—I can weaponize heels. Imagine what I could do with your sneakers.” That earns you a quiet laugh, soft enough that it almost gets lost in the morning bustle.
The hotel lobby feels like stepping back into another world. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, staff in pristine uniforms glancing curiously at the sight of you and Clark walking in together. Your satchel bounces against your hip as you stride toward the elevator, ignoring the stares.
In the mirrored walls of the lift, you finally get a good look at yourself: damp hair, Clark’s plaid shirt hanging loose, his shoes at least two sizes too large. He looks at you in the reflection too, but quickly drops his gaze to the floor, cheeks faintly pink. “You don’t blend in,” he murmurs.
“Neither do you,” you shoot back, watching his tie-less, clean-shirted figure stand out against the sea of businessmen.
The corner of his mouth curves. “Fair point.”
Your suite is exactly as you left it: neat, impersonal, expensive in the way only hotels can be. You toss your satchel onto the desk and dig through the closet for fresh clothes. Clark lingers by the door, his frame too large for the space, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. “I’ll wait outside—”
You glance over your shoulder, arching a brow. “You’re fine. Unless you’re scandalized by the idea of a woman changing clothes.”
His ears turn red immediately. “I’ll—uh—I’ll just… look away.”
You laugh under your breath, pulling a dress from the closet and ducking into the bathroom anyway. A few minutes later, you emerge in clean clothes—your own this time—heels clicking against the floor. The transformation is stark: no soot, no borrowed flannel, just sharp lines and effortless poise. Clark looks up, startled. His eyes linger just a second too long before he clears his throat. “Better,” he says softly.
You smirk. “Don’t get too comfortable. I can ruin a dress just as easily as your shoes.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. But as you slip past him to grab your satchel again, you catch the faintest shift in his gaze—like he hasn’t quite decided if seeing you in his clothes or your own unsettles him more. And you don’t let yourself admit which of those two options you prefer.
By mid-afternoon, the Daily Planet’s conference room looks like a war room. Papers are spread across the long table—contracts, receipts, copies of copies—scrawled through with Clark’s careful notes and your sharper red ink. Lois pokes her head in once, curious, but Perry bellows something about deadlines and she disappears again, leaving you and Clark to your own quiet storm. Clark flips through a ledger, brow furrowed, glasses slipping low on his nose. “Here—look. After Edge, the money shifts again. To Hobbs Imports. Registered under an address in the Narrows.”
You take the page from him, scanning the columns. Hobbs Imports. A shipping company that’s supposed to deal in construction materials. Except the numbers are bloated, padded with transactions that don’t line up. “The Narrows?” you echo.
Clark nods. “Bad neighborhood. Drugs, gangs, extortion rackets. The cops barely touch it. If Hobbs is operating there, it’s a front.”
You lean back in your chair, fingers drumming against the edge of the paper. “So that’s where the trail goes next.”
Clark glances up, meeting your eyes. “You’re not suggesting—”
“I’ll check it out tonight,” you cut in smoothly, sliding the papers into your satchel.
His head snaps up. “Alone?”
You arch a brow. “Yes.”
For once, Clark actually stammers. “That’s—no, that’s—absolutely not safe. You can’t just—” He stops himself, words tangled, frustration clear in the flush rising up his neck.
“Clark,” you say evenly, “it’s safer if you stay out of this one. You’re a reporter. Not a fighter.”
His jaw works, eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses. “That didn’t stop me last night.”
“You threw one punch,” you remind him, smirking faintly. “And apologized to the man after.”
His ears go pink, but he doesn’t back down. “I still helped.”
“You did,” you admit. “But Hobbs isn’t a gala. It’s not champagne and marble floors. It’s alleys and knives. I don’t need to worry about you on top of everyone else trying to kill me.”
The words hang heavy in the air. Clark’s fingers curl against the papers in front of him, knuckles whitening as though he’s holding something back. For a second, you wonder if he’ll push harder, if he’ll demand to come anyway. But finally, he exhales, steady but reluctant. “Fine. But if you’re not back by morning—”
You tilt your head. “You’ll what? Call Bruce?”
His mouth curves, small and humorless. “I’ll find you myself.”
The certainty in his voice makes you pause, even as you sling your satchel over your shoulder. His eyes meet yours, unflinching, and for a heartbeat the room feels smaller, closer, charged with something unsaid. You break it with a smirk. “Try not to lose sleep, Kent.” And with that, you leave him at the table, his notebook still open, his jaw tight, his gaze following you until the door swings shut.
---
Night drapes the Narrows in a blanket of shadow and neon rot. Hobbs Imports squats at the edge of a crumbling dockyard, its sign half-lit, its windows black. Shipping crates stack like monoliths around the building, graffiti scrawled across their sides, the smell of salt and rust hanging in the damp air.
You move like smoke, hood up, shadows swallowing you whole. The fabric of your jacket conceals slim compartments—grapnel line coiled at your hip, collapsible baton tucked against your thigh, a small EMP charge nestled in a pocket. Not Bruce’s level of arsenal, but Alfred had made sure you weren’t walking into fights with nothing but sharp words and sharper heels. The chain-link fence around Hobbs Imports is rusted, padlock brittle. A thin device from your pocket hums once, and the lock pops open. You slip inside, every footstep deliberate, quiet, measured.
Inside the warehouse, the air is colder. Empty crates line the walls, but the center floor isn’t empty. Stacks of ledgers sit atop a folding table, papers scattered, the faint smell of ink sharp even in the dark. You tug your hood lower and cross to the desk. The papers tell the story clearly—funds rerouted from Silverbrook through Hobbs, then washed again through “West Point Traders.” Another shell. Another mask. Another layer feeding upward into LexCorp’s Energy Division.
You snap quick photos with the slim camera hidden in your cuff, tucking the device away before slipping the top ledger into your satchel. A sound pricks your ears—footsteps. Not heavy enough for a patrol. Not hurried enough to be panicked. Steady, careful. You freeze in the shadow of a crate, baton sliding soundlessly into your hand. The footsteps pause, then shift, moving closer. And then a whisper. “You really weren’t going to let me stay behind, were you?” Your jaw tightens. Clark. He emerges from the dark, tie long gone, jacket discarded, the outline of his glasses faint in the warehouse gloom. He looks… out of place here, but not uncertain. His eyes find yours under the hood, steady even as his voice drops to a murmur. “This isn’t safe.”
You step out of the shadows, scowl sharp. “I told you—this isn’t your fight.”
“I know,” he says, quietly but firmly. “But you’re here anyway. And if something happens…” He hesitates, words catching before he steadies them. “If something happens, I need to be here.”
For a heartbeat, you can’t look at him. Anger flares—at his stubbornness, at his recklessness—but underneath it, something you don’t want to name hums in your chest. “You’re impossible,” you mutter.
A faint smile curves his mouth. “So you've said.”
Before you can retort, the sound of heavy boots echoes from the far end of the warehouse. Flashlights slice through the dark, voices barking orders. The ledgers on the desk weren’t abandoned—they were bait. You slip back against the crates, Clark close beside you. Four men stalk into the warehouse, weapons glinting faintly under the beams of light. They fan out, boots clanging against the metal floor. Clark leans down, whispering, “what’s the plan?”
You draw your baton with a soft click, hood still shadowing your face. “You stay behind me.”
He opens his mouth—then shuts it, sighing through his nose. “Fine. But I’m not apologizing if I hit someone this time.” Despite yourself, a smirk tugs at your lips.
The first thug’s flashlight cuts across your hood, and the shout comes instantly, “there! By the crates!”
You move before the beam steadies. The collapsible baton snaps out with a metallic crack as you swing low, knocking the man’s legs from under him. He crashes into a stack of pallets, light skittering across the floor. Another one charges, pipe raised. You flick your wrist, and a small disk—an EMP charge the size of a coin—snaps from your palm and clings to the metal. It sparks once, discharging, and the pipe sears hot. The thug yelps, dropping it with a curse.
Clark, beside you, stiffens when the man lunges barehanded. With a soft, almost apologetic grunt, Clark steps in and delivers a single, straight punch. Wham. The guy goes airborne, crashing into a crate hard enough to rattle its bolts. Clark blinks at his own hand, then mutters under his breath, “...golly.”
“Golly?” you hiss, ducking under a swing from the third man.
“It slipped out!” he says defensively, catching another thug’s arm and tossing him—just a little too far—into the side wall. The impact echoes like a thunderclap.
You slam your baton into your attacker’s ribs, then sweep his legs. He groans, sprawling across the cold concrete. Two men still stand. They hesitate now, watching Clark adjust his glasses calmly, as though he hasn’t just sent two of their friends flying. You flick another gadget from your belt—a smoke capsule. It bursts at your feet, curling white haze through the warehouse. Shadows leap and twist. The two thugs panic, swinging blindly. You move through the fog like a blade, baton snapping against jaw and shoulder until they crumble.
When the haze clears, six men are groaning on the floor. The warehouse is littered with broken flashlights and dented crates. You stand barefoot on the concrete, chest heaving, baton dripping sweat. Clark straightens his glasses, cheeks pink. “I, uh… might’ve hit them harder than I meant to.”
You plant your hands on your hips, smirking despite the adrenaline still humming in your veins. “I noticed.”
He glances at the wreckage, then back at you, voice low. “You okay?”
You nod, tugging your hood back. “Better than they are.”
Clark exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well… that wasn’t subtle.”
“No,” you admit, sliding the baton back into your belt. “But it was effective.”
His mouth twitches into the faintest smile, though his eyes stay serious. “You know this means they’ll escalate.”
“They already blew up my car,” you remind him dryly. “Not sure there’s much left to escalate to.”
Clark’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he steps closer, lowering his voice until it’s only for you. “Then we make sure you stay ahead of them.”
You wipe the sweat from your brow, the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins, and stride back to the desk where the ledgers sit. Clark follows, silent, though his presence looms steady and close at your back. You flip through the pages with brisk, practiced hands. The trail runs clear—Halvorsen to Edge, Edge to Hobbs, Hobbs Imports into yet another pipeline. But this time, the signature at the bottom of half the transactions stops you cold. “Bruno Mannheim,” you murmur.
Clark leans closer, brow furrowing behind his glasses. “Intergang.”
You glance up sharply. “You know them.”
“Everyone in Metropolis knows them,” he replies, voice low but even. “Mannheim’s been a ghost for years, but his people… they run the Narrows. Weapons, drugs, extortion. They have their hands in every dark corner of the city.”
You tap the page, lips pressed tight. “Which means the men we fought tonight weren’t just hired thugs. They were Mannheim’s.”
Clark exhales slowly, the weight of it heavy in the dim air. “That puts this on a whole different level.”
The name feels heavy in your chest, a chain tightening. Edge is dangerous. Luthor is worse. But Mannheim is chaos in human form—unpredictable, vicious, with an army behind him. “Halvorsen to Edge. Edge to Hobbs. Hobbs to Mannheim,” you mutter, stringing it together. “And from there, straight to LexCorp’s Energy Division. Every step dirtier than the last.”
Clark studies you, steady, thoughtful. “You’re not walking away from this, are you?”
You meet his eyes. “Would you?”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze drops back to the ledger, tracing the name with quiet intensity. “Mannheim doesn’t show up unless he wants to be seen,” Clark says softly. “If his name is here, it’s because he doesn’t care who finds it. That means he’s planning something bigger.”
You close the ledger with a sharp snap, tucking it into your satchel. “Then we find out what. Before he makes his move.”
Clark’s eyes linger on you for a long moment, something unspoken flickering behind them. Then he nods, quiet and firm. “Together.” The word lands heavier than you expect. You let it settle in the silence of the warehouse, the thugs groaning faintly on the floor. And though you won’t say it out loud, the thought curls tight in your chest: Bruno Mannheim may have an army, but you’ve got something he’ll never see coming. Clark Kent.
---
The Daily Planet newsroom is alive when you arrive: the phones are already ringing, Lois is barking at someone over a deadline, and Perry White is storming across the bullpen with a cup of coffee like it personally wronged him. You weave through the chaos, satchel heavy on your shoulder, and slide into the small conference room where Clark is waiting. He’s already there, of course—tie straight, glasses perched carefully, notebook open with neat lines of writing. He looks up when you enter, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “Morning,” he says gently.
“Barely,” you mutter, tossing the ledger you pulled from Hobbs onto the table. “I hope you had more coffee than I did.”
His lips twitch, amused, but he gestures at the steaming paper cup waiting at your seat. “Figured you might need it.”
You raise a brow, but take it anyway, sipping gratefully before flipping open the ledger. “So. Mannheim.”
Clark leans forward, elbows resting on the table. “Half the city’s been whispering about him for months. Drugs, weapons, rackets—you name it. But if he’s tied to Edge and funneling to Lex, then this isn’t just crime. It’s infrastructure. Mannheim’s making himself the pipeline.”
You tap your pen against the page, mind sharp. “Which means if we cut him off, the whole system stumbles.”
Clark nods slowly, his brow furrowed. “But Mannheim won’t go quietly. He’ll fight to keep his grip. And if last night was any indication, he already sees you as a threat.”
You smirk faintly. “Good. That means I’m doing something right.”
His gaze lingers on you, steady and unblinking, and for a moment the weight in his eyes makes your chest tighten. “Or it means you need to be careful.”
“Careful doesn’t get results,” you say evenly.
He exhales, quiet but firm. “Neither does reckless.”
The tension hums between you, sharp but not hostile. You break it by flipping another page, tracing the columns of signatures. “He’s sloppy here,” you murmur. “Too many names, too many shells. If I follow this—”
“We,” Clark corrects softly. You glance up. “We follow it,” he says again, voice steady. Something in his tone—quiet, unyielding—makes you pause. For once, you don’t argue.
The door swings open suddenly. Lois pokes her head in, sharp-eyed and curious. “You two playing detectives again? Perry’s gonna blow a vein if you keep hogging the conference room.”
“We’re working,” Clark says smoothly, his mild tone hiding the iron in his spine.
Lois’s gaze flicks between you, narrowing slightly. “Uh-huh. Just don’t forget who the real investigative team around here is.” She points to herself, then disappears back into the noise.
Clark chuckles softly under his breath. You shake your head, hiding a smile behind your coffee. By the time the morning rush slows, you’ve sketched out the next link in the chain: Mannheim’s logistics. A shell trucking company tied to Hobbs, operating out of the docks. It’s dirty, dangerous, and screaming for a closer look. Clark looks at the map you’ve drawn, then back at you. “You’re already planning to go there tonight, aren’t you?”
You shrug, nonchalant. “Maybe.”
He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are.” And though he doesn’t say it outright, you know: he’ll be there too.
---
The air at the docks is thick with salt, oil, and rust. The water slaps against pylons in uneven rhythms, chains creak in the wind, and shadows spill long across the cracked pavement. Hobbs Imports’ trucks are lined up in rows, their engines cold, but faint lights flicker inside the warehouse. You adjust your hood, scanning the perimeter. “Too quiet.”
Clark stands beside you, his tie long gone again, glasses fogged slightly from the damp. “That’s supposed to be good, isn’t it?”
You smirk faintly. “Not when you’re walking into Mannheim’s backyard.”
You slip inside first, Clark close on your heels. The warehouse is cavernous, rows of shipping containers stacked to the rafters. At first glance, it looks like any other smuggling operation—but then you spot them. Weapons. Not rifles, not pistols. Sleek, angular guns with glowing coils, crates stamped with foreign markings. Energy weapons. “Lasers,” Clark murmurs, eyes wide.
“Not the kind you buy off the street,” you reply tightly, crouching to pry open a crate. Inside, rows of compact handheld blasters gleam under the faint light. Military-grade. Black-market tech. Far beyond what local gangs should be carrying.
Clark swallows, adjusting his glasses. “Intergang’s upgrading.”
Before you can answer, the warehouse lights blaze on all at once. A dozen thugs step out from between the crates, weapons raised. Their leader smirks from the catwalk above. “Cute of you to show up. Mannheim said you’d sniff your way here sooner or later.”
You grit your teeth, baton snapping out in your hand. “Figures.”
The first volley of energy blasts shrieks through the air, slamming into steel. Sparks rain down, the walls rattling with heat. You dive behind a crate, Clark stumbling after you, the air crackling with sizzling beams. “We’re pinned,” he hisses.
“No kidding,” you snap, tossing a smoke capsule. The fog billows, masking the next wave of fire—but before you can move, the floor beneath you shifts. A hiss, a groan of metal—and then the section of warehouse you’re on shudders downward. Panels snap shut above, walls rising around you, forming a box. “Trap,” you breathe, springing up just as the last panel seals overhead. The thugs’ laughter echoes faintly from outside the steel walls.
The room is small, barely larger than an elevator. The air feels wrong already, heavy and thin, and vents rattle faintly overhead. You press a hand against the wall—it’s reinforced. Clark runs a hand over the seams, eyes narrowing. “They’re drawing the air out.”
Your chest tightens at the realization. Not spikes, not fire. Suffocation. You whip out a device from your belt, a compact charge, and slap it against the wall. It sparks once, fizzles out, and dies. Reinforced, too thick. “They planned this,” you mutter, pacing the perimeter. “No weapons, no gadgets. Just… wait for us to choke.” Clark’s face is grim, his breath steady despite the thinning air. He looks at you, and for a heartbeat his expression softens—like he’s on the edge of a choice he doesn’t want to make. You glare, refusing the creeping panic. “Don’t look at me like that. We’re not done yet.” But even as you say it, the vents hiss louder, the air sharper in your lungs, and the walls feel like they’re closing in.
The hiss of air being siphoned out of the trap grows sharper, each breath thinner than the last. You press your palm against the wall, trying to find a seam, some weakness you could exploit. Your mind races—grapnel too short, charges too weak, EMP fried on contact. You’re a Wayne. There’s always a solution. But for the first time, the calculations spiral into dead ends. “Think,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the small enclosure. “There has to be—”
“Stop.” Clark’s voice cuts through the panic. He’s calm—too calm. His eyes fix on you with something heavier than resolve. “There isn’t another way.”
You whip around, glare sharp even through the haze. “Don’t you dare—”
But he doesn’t let you finish. His arms are around you in a sudden, startling sweep, and before you can protest, the ground disappears. The air rushes in your ears, steel walls giving way to open sky. The trap shrinks behind you, swallowed by the warehouse roof as you soar upward—weightless, breathless, the city sprawling in lights beneath your feet. You clutch instinctively at his shoulders, the wind whipping your hood back.
And then—just as suddenly—he descends. His boots hit pavement outside the warehouse with barely a sound, the impact absorbed like it’s nothing. He lowers you carefully, steadying you until your feet touch solid ground again. Your pulse thrums in your throat, lungs dragging in sweet, clean air. You stumble back a step, staring at him.
But it’s not Clark standing there. It’s Superman. The glasses are gone. The tie, the shirt—gone. In their place: a suit of deep blue, the red crest blazing against his chest, cape catching the wind like fire. The same man, but impossibly more. You blink at him, breathless. “How—how the hell did you—” You gesture wildly at the air, the cape, all of him. “You picked me up, you flew us out, and you changed clothes in the middle of it? How is that even—”
He winces, sheepish, the corners of his mouth tugging in a nervous half-smile. “It’s… complicated.”
You stare at him, heart hammering, every line of his frame radiating something you can’t quite put into words. You want to demand answers, to yell, to shake him. Instead, you hear yourself whisper, almost dazed, “Clark?”
And the way he looks at you—gentle, unshaken, utterly himself beneath all that impossible power—tells you everything before he even nods. The realization still hangs heavy in your chest—Clark Kent, the quiet, steady reporter at your side, is Superman. But there’s no time to untangle it. Because when your eyes snap back to the warehouse, you see the shadows moving. The trap was only the opening act.
Figures pour out from between the stacked containers—Mannheim’s men, a dozen or more, and every one of them armed. Not handguns, not knives, but sleek rifles glowing at the seams with humming energy coils. Upgraded tech, smuggled in through Hobbs. They spread across the dock, forming a semicircle around you and Clark. The leader steps forward—tall, scarred, a grin like a predator. “Well, well,” he drawls. “The Wayne brat. And a… friend. Mannheim figured you wouldn’t take the hint. Guess we’ll send the message louder.” He raises his hand. The rifles charge, light building in their cores.
Clark’s body tenses beside you. For the first time since the reveal, you see him as both parts at once—the farmboy with too-big shoes and the impossible figure standing in the cape. He shifts forward, just slightly, instinctively putting himself between you and the weapons. Your own hand darts into your belt pouch. Smoke pellets. Flashbangs. Grapnel line. Alfred would kill you for blowing through so many in a week, but Bruce would approve. “Don’t just stand there,” you mutter, flicking a pellet to the ground. Smoke blooms across the dock, curling thick in the damp air.
The thugs fire anyway—beams shrieking through the fog, scorching holes through metal. You dive low, baton snapping out, and strike the closest man across the wrist. His weapon clatters away. Another swings his rifle like a club—you duck under it and drive your knee into his gut, sending him sprawling. Behind you, a whump echoes—Clark catching a blast square in the chest and barely flinching. The thug gawks, frozen, right before Clark gently, almost too gently, taps him across the jaw and drops him cold. “Golly,” he mutters again, shaking his head.
“Stop saying that!” you hiss, slamming your baton into another man’s knee.
The dock becomes chaos—energy beams slicing through the smoke, crates exploding into splinters, men shouting in panic as their weapons misfire. You move with precision, every strike calculated, every gadget deployed at just the right moment. And Clark—no, Superman—moves differently. Not flashy, not reckless, but efficient. A blur of motion here, a blurred fist there, weapons twisted in half, men disarmed with the ease of swatting flies. He doesn’t look like he’s fighting so much as containing the fight, careful not to break the men in half when he could.
By the time the smoke clears, the dock is a ruin. Thugs groan on the concrete, weapons sparking uselessly. The leader is pinned to a container wall by Clark’s hand, feet kicking a few inches off the ground. Clark’s voice is calm, even. “Tell Mannheim this doesn’t scare her off.” He pauses, eyes narrowing. “And tell him I’m watching.” The man sputters, terror washing over his earlier bravado. Clark lowers him gently—deliberately—and he collapses, scrambling away before limping into the shadows.
The dock is silent again. You stand there, chest heaving, baton still in hand. Smoke drifts in thin curls around you. Clark turns to you, cape brushing against the wind, eyes steady and—God help you—still gentle. You lower your baton slowly. “I don’t know what to say.”
He hesitates, looking almost… nervous. “Then don’t. Not yet.”
For a long moment, you just stare at each other, the wreckage of Mannheim’s men around you. Your world has shifted on its axis, and yet somehow, Clark still feels like the anchor at the center of it. And you’re not sure if that steadies you—or terrifies you more. You sling your baton back onto your belt and exhale hard, pulling the last ledger from your satchel. The adrenaline in your veins hasn’t burned off yet, but your mind pushes forward—there’s still a trail to follow.
Clark kneels by one of the smashed crates, lifting the charred remains of a weapon. “These aren’t homemade. Mannheim didn’t build this kind of tech.”
You flip through the ledger pages, scanning the faded ink under the glow of Clark’s eyes—he seems to emit a kind of light just by being near. The transactions string out like barbed wire, looping through shell after shell, until finally one name stands out: Graves Incorporated. “Mercy Graves,” you say aloud, tapping the signature at the bottom of a shipping manifest. “Lex Luthor’s right hand.”
Clark looks up sharply. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. This isn’t Mannheim’s endgame. He’s the middleman, just like Edge. The money and weapons flow through him, but they’re funneled upward.” You close the ledger with a snap. “And that funnel leads straight to LexCorp.”
Clark’s jaw tightens. “Luthor likes to keep his hands clean. If Mercy’s name is here, he’s making sure the paper trail points everywhere but him.”
“Which means we’re close,” you say, eyes narrowing. “Too close.”
Clark rises, cape brushing the ground, the weight of him filling the space in a way Clark Kent never could. Yet his voice is the same—gentle, steady. “Close enough that Luthor will notice. And he won’t take it lightly.”
You shove the ledger into your satchel, the wordless understanding sinking between you. Mannheim’s men had weapons far beyond street-grade. Someone supplied them. Someone paid for them. And only one man in Metropolis has the ego, the money, and the reach to orchestrate something this vast: Lex Luthor. Clark steps closer, his shadow folding over yours. “We should leave before Mannheim sends reinforcements.”
You meet his gaze, forcing steel into your voice. “We’ll follow the trail in the morning. Graves first. Then Lex.” He hesitates, eyes softening like he wants to argue. But instead, he just nods. And as you both walk away from the smoking ruin of the docks, satchel heavy on your shoulder, one truth settles deep in your bones: you’ve just crossed the line between investigating Luthor and declaring war.
The walk from the docks is quiet, both of you wrapped in the aftermath of what just happened. The night air smells of smoke and brine, heavy with the hum of the city. You keep glancing sideways at him—at Superman, cape trailing behind him, shoulders broad against the skyline. And yet, every time you catch his profile, you see Clark. The glasses may be gone, the tie and shirt traded for something impossible, but the man is the same.
Finally, you stop walking. He slows, turning back to you, the cape brushing lightly in the wind. There’s tension in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands flex at his sides like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “Are you mad?” he asks softly.
The words hang there, simple but heavy. You almost laugh—after everything tonight, that’s what he’s worried about? You take a step closer, tugging your hood down so he can see your face. “I should be. God, I should be furious. I should be cursing you out, calling you an idiot for keeping this from me.” His throat works as he swallows, eyes never leaving yours. “But…” you continue, voice softening. “That would make me a hypocrite. Wouldn’t it? You’ve been hiding who you are. I’ve been doing the same. You’re not the only one with masks.”
For a heartbeat, neither of you speak. The city hums around you, a thousand lives unfolding in windows and streets, but the world feels narrowed down to just the two of you. Clark exhales slowly, some of the tension slipping from his shoulders. “I didn’t want you to think I was… lying. Not really. I just… I wanted you to know me as me. Not as him.” He gestures vaguely to the crest on his chest, almost sheepish. “I wanted to earn that on my own.”
You study him, searching his face, and find nothing but raw sincerity there. No games, no angles. Just Clark, the man who buys you coffee and apologizes when he throws a punch too hard. “You did,” you say finally. “You already did.” His eyes flicker, like he hadn’t expected that answer. Then he smiles—small, warm, almost shy, the way he always does. It’s Clark’s smile, not Superman’s. And standing there in the glow of the city lights, you realize the lines between the two aren’t as sharp as you thought. He isn’t two people. He’s one. And you trust him.
---
The two of you end up back in the Planet’s conference room, the table once again covered in papers, ledgers, and your sharp red notes. Morning bleeds into afternoon as you and Clark map the threads one more time, following each dollar, each signature, until the picture is undeniable. Halvorsen. Edge. Mannheim. Mercy. And finally, Lex. You lean back in your chair, stretching your sore shoulders. “It all starts with Halvorsen. He’s the keystone. Fire him, and the bridge collapses.”
Clark nods, jotting it down in his neat, looping hand. “Wayne Enterprises cuts him loose. That sends the message that the money trail isn’t buried anymore.” He taps his pen against the page. “I’ll write the article. Public, clear, every name along the chain spelled out. Edge, Mannheim, Halvorsen. People need to see the scope.”
You smirk faintly. “You’re going to expose Lex Luthor in print? Brave.”
His eyes meet yours, steady. “Truth has teeth. That’s the only weapon I’ve got.”
“And it’s a good one,” you admit, pulling your phone out. “I’ll call the board, get Halvorsen’s dismissal pushed through. By the time your article runs, he’ll already be out on his ass.”
There’s a long pause as you both stare at the mess of papers—the wreckage of a conspiracy stretching from Gotham to Metropolis. Then Clark says softly, “and Mercy?”
You exhale, grim. “That’s trickier. She’s Luthor’s blade. She doesn’t flinch. If Mannheim’s thugs had energy rifles, she put them in their hands.”
Clark frowns. “We can’t handle her the way we handled Mannheim’s men.”
“No,” you agree, lips tightening. “But the authorities can. Once your article lands, the feds will have no choice but to open an investigation. And when they do…” You let the words trail off, imagining the image: Mercy Graves standing in a pristine corporate lobby, FBI swarming around her, cool gaze finally cracking.
Clark leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “You’ll be there.”
“Of course,” you say evenly. “Wayne money funded those subsidiaries. If the feds are raiding her, I’ll be standing right there when they put the cuffs on.”
He studies you for a long moment, something unspoken passing through his eyes. Finally, his mouth curves into the faintest smile. “Then I’ll be standing there too.” For a while, the room is quiet. You sip cold coffee, he scratches another note into his notebook. The plan is sharp in its simplicity: sever Halvorsen, expose the network, let the government drag Mercy into the light. But beneath it all hums a darker truth—that Luthor himself will still be sitting behind his desk, untouchable, watching.
---
The Wayne Enterprises tower in Metropolis gleams under the midday sun, its glass walls polished, its lobby bustling with employees who glance nervously toward the boardroom on the mezzanine floor. You stand at the window above it all, phone pressed to your ear, watching as Richard Halvorsen—sweating, red-faced—argues with security. His tie is loosened, his hands flailing in protest, but the two guards are unmoved. They flank him like statues as they march him toward the revolving doors. “Tell me I’m not mistaken,” Alfred’s dry voice murmurs in your ear, a grounding constant against the noise of the lobby.
“You’re not,” you reply smoothly, eyes tracking Halvorsen as he stumbles over his own briefcase. “Our esteemed liaison is being escorted out as we speak.”
Below, Halvorsen twists mid-stride, pointing upward as though he knows you’re watching. His voice doesn’t carry through the glass, but the venom in his expression is clear. You don’t flinch. Alfred exhales softly on the other end. “Your father always said—money leaves a trail, but arrogance leaves footprints. I suppose Halvorsen couldn’t resist stomping around in both.”
You smirk faintly, lips curling at the edges. “Arrogance got him caught. Arrogance just cost him his career.”
Outside, Halvorsen is shoved through the glass doors into the street. A few onlookers gather, whispering, but he only straightens his suit jacket and storms off into the crowd like a man unwilling to admit his fall. “Master Bruce is still pacing,” Alfred continues, voice softer now. “He’s half-convinced you’ll be next in the papers if you keep dancing with men like Mannheim.”
“Bruce always thinks I’ll fall,” you murmur, gaze lingering on the revolving doors as they settle back into place. “But I don’t. Not yet.”
“Not ever, if I can help it,” Alfred replies. “Just promise me one thing, Miss. If you insist on shouldering this crusade—don’t carry it alone.”
Your mind flickers—Clark in the cape, the ledger in his hands, his steady voice promising, together. You clear your throat softly. “I’ll try, Alfred,” you say.
“You’ll do more than try,” he corrects, but his tone is gentler. “Now, go on. Let the papers have their story.” The line clicks dead. You tuck the phone into your satchel, exhaling slowly as the last trace of Halvorsen vanishes into the city. The keystone is gone. The bridge is collapsing. And Lex Luthor—wherever he is—knows it. And for the first time, you feel the weight of the storm shifting in your direction.
---
The Daily Planet is quieter in the evening. The newsroom hum is reduced to a handful of clacking keyboards and the occasional ring of a phone. The harsh fluorescent lights seem softer, shadows long across desks littered with papers and empty coffee cups. Clark is still at his, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened at his throat, glasses slipping low on his nose as he types steadily. His expression is focused, brow furrowed in concentration, but there’s something unassuming about it—like he doesn’t realize how he looks framed in the warm lamplight of his desk.
You lean against the edge of the doorway for a moment, watching him, before stepping forward. “You ever stop working, Kent?”
His head jerks up, startled, eyes widening slightly when he sees you. Then his mouth curves into that soft, shy smile that always sneaks past your defenses. “Guess not,” he says lightly. “At least not until Perry kicks me out.”
You drop into the chair across from him, crossing your legs, eyes on him. “Good thing I’m here to do it first.”
He blinks. “You are?”
You smirk. “Tomorrow night, I’m taking you out. A real dinner this time. Not greasy burgers at midnight.”
Color creeps up his neck almost instantly, the pen in his hand stuttering against the notebook. “Oh. Uh—dinner. With you.” He clears his throat. “That… sounds nice.”
“Relax,” you tease, leaning forward. “You don’t have to sound so shocked. I do eat food other than fries, you know.”
His laugh is soft, awkward, but genuine. “No, I—it’s not that. I just… wasn’t expecting…” He trails off, words tangling hopelessly.
You reach across the desk, fingers brushing against his loosened tie. His breath hitches as you straighten it with deliberate precision, tugging the knot snug against his collar. Your voice drops, low and even. “It’ll be somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting a tie on properly.”
He swallows hard, eyes fixed on you like he’s afraid to blink. “Right. A tie. Got it.”
You let the fabric slip from your fingers, satisfied, then lean back in your chair. “I’ll pick you up here after work tomorrow. Don’t make me drag you out of the building.”
His smile turns sheepish, almost boyish. “I wouldn’t dare.”
For a moment, the silence stretches between you, charged but not uncomfortable. The newsroom feels smaller, the world outside distant. Just him, you, and the faint hum of a lamp over his desk. Then you push to your feet, grabbing your satchel. “Don’t stay up too late, Kent. You’ll want to look sharp.”
His gaze follows you to the doorway, lingering, warm. “I’ll try.”
You flash him a faint smile over your shoulder. “Good.” And when you leave the Planet that night, you’re already looking forward to tomorrow.
---
The newsroom is its usual madhouse—phones ringing, Perry White bellowing at some poor intern, Lois tossing papers onto desks with the precision of a grenade. In the middle of it all sits Clark, staring at his reflection in the darkened screen of his monitor as if it might offer him answers. He tugs at his tie, loosens it, retightens it, loosens it again. Then he frowns, adjusts his glasses, and sighs audibly.
Jimmy, sliding into the seat across from him with a camera bag slung over his shoulder, notices immediately. “Okay, what’s up with you, big guy? You look like you’re about to testify in front of Congress.”
Clark shakes his head quickly, lowering his voice. “It’s nothing. Just… dinner.”
Jimmy perks up, grin spreading wide. “Dinner? Like, dinner-dinner? With a girl?”
Clark gives him a look over his glasses. “Yes, Jimmy. With a woman.”
“Whoa.” Jimmy leans back, hands raised. “Didn’t know Boy Scout Kent was capable of asking someone out.”
“I didn’t,” Clark mutters, flustered. “She asked me.”
Jimmy’s grin nearly splits his face. “Even better. Okay, you came to the right guy. Jimmy Olsen knows dates. Trust me.”
Clark looks instantly doubtful. “Do I?”
Jimmy waves him off. “First rule—you gotta show confidence. Women can smell nerves like sharks smell blood.”
Clark frowns. “I’m not… nervous.” Jimmy just stares at him until Clark sighs and admits, “okay. Maybe a little.”
“Right. So,” Jimmy says, ticking points off on his fingers, “lose the glasses.”
Clark stiffens. “What? No, I can’t—”
“Trust me. Women love eye contact. Full, unfiltered, soul-to-soul.” Jimmy leans across the desk and dramatically removes Clark’s glasses, holding them aloft like he’s discovered buried treasure. “Boom. Instant smolder.”
Clark takes his glasses back immediately. “That’s terrible advice, Jimmy.”
“Fine, fine,” Jimmy says, undeterred. “Next rule—don’t talk about work. Journalists are boring. You start rambling about ledgers or corruption scandals, her eyes glaze over. You gotta go personal. Deep personal. Like childhood trauma. Or embarrassing nicknames.”
Clark stares at him, horrified. “That’s… that’s not first-date conversation.”
Jimmy shrugs. “Worked for me last week.”
“You don’t even have a girlfriend.”
Jimmy grins sheepishly. “Not currently, but that’s just because I’m keeping my options open.”
Clark sighs heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Jimmy, I don’t think any of this is helping.”
Jimmy smirks. “Hey, at least wear cologne. Like… a lot of cologne. Enough that she knows you walked in the room before you even sit down.”
Clark pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re going to get me killed.”
Jimmy leans back, utterly unbothered. “Or you’re going to get kissed. Either way, you’re welcome.”
From her desk, Lois glances over, one eyebrow raised. “For the love of God, Kansas, don’t listen to him.”
Clark exhales, relieved. “Thank you.”
Lois points her pen like a dagger. “Just be yourself. That’s the only advice that isn’t complete garbage.”
Jimmy looks wounded. “My advice is great.”
“Your advice is why you’ve been ghosted three times this month,” Lois snaps. Clark can’t help it—he laughs, the sound easing some of the nerves twisting in his chest. He adjusts his tie one more time, ignoring Jimmy’s theatrical sigh. Tonight, he’ll find out whether “being himself” is enough.
The sun has barely dipped behind the skyline when you pull up outside the Daily Planet in a sleek black Maserati Quattroporte. The car hums low and sharp, polished to a mirror shine, its presence turning heads even before you step out. A far cry from the Aston Martin that burned to ash, but still distinctly Wayne. Inside the lobby, the security guard nearly trips over his words greeting you, but you don’t break stride. Heels click against the marble floor, your dress a clean silhouette of confidence, satchel slung effortlessly over one shoulder.
The newsroom upstairs is still buzzing—phones ringing, Lois arguing with Perry, Jimmy trying—and failing—to juggle two cameras at once. But all the noise dulls when you spot Clark. He’s standing by his desk, tie neat, suit pressed, hair combed carefully into place. He looks almost painfully self-conscious, adjusting his cuffs as though he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. When he sees you, his breath catches—just slightly—and he pushes his glasses up his nose with a nervous hand. “You clean up well, Kent,” you say, leaning casually against his desk.
He flushes immediately, tugging at his tie. “You… look… uh—” He clears his throat. “Incredible.”
You smirk, stepping closer. “That’s more like it.”
Jimmy pops up from behind his chair, grinning wide. “Hot date, Kent?”
Clark fumbles, “It’s not—well, I mean—it’s just—”
You cut him off smoothly, looping a finger under Clark’s perfectly straightened tie and tugging it just enough to make him stumble closer. “Dinner. Somewhere nice. Somewhere worth putting this to good use.”
Clark’s ears burn red. “Right. Dinner.”
Lois glances up from her desk, eyes sharp, amused. “Try not to faint, Kansas.”
Clark shoots her a mortified glance, but you just grin, tugging him toward the elevator. “Ignore her. Come on. We’ve got reservations.”
As the two of you walk through the lobby and out onto the street, Clark slows when he sees the Maserati waiting at the curb. His jaw slackens just slightly. “This is yours?”
You nod. “For now. The Aston’s gone, remember?”
He runs a hand along the glossy paint, looking both impressed and bewildered. “I… usually just take the bus.”
You arch a brow, sliding into the driver’s seat. “I know. But tonight, you’re riding with me. Get in, Kent.” Clark hesitates only a second before obeying, moving awkwardly in the tailored suit, ducking into the car with all the grace of someone who doesn’t think they belong in leather seats that expensive. You watch him settle in, flustered, hands folded neatly in his lap like he’s afraid to touch anything. It makes you smirk, heat curling low in your chest. “Relax,” you murmur, starting the engine. “It’s just dinner.” But both of you know it’s more than that.
The Maserati slips into Metropolis traffic with a low growl, the city lights glittering across the windshield. You ease the car into the avenue’s flow with the kind of confidence that comes from practice, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting easily on the gearshift. Beside you, Clark sits rigid in his seat, shoulders squared, hands clasped in his lap. His tie is perfect, his suit immaculate—but the expression on his face is priceless. Wide-eyed, caught somewhere between awe and sheer discomfort. You glance over, smirking. “Relax, Clark. You’ve been in one of my cars before.”
His head tilts, eyes still on the blur of neon streaking past the windows. “That was different.”
“Different how?”
Clark hesitates, shifting uncomfortably. “The Aston felt like… well, like it was yours. You were comfortable in it. Like it fit you.” He gestures vaguely at the Maserati’s gleaming console. “This one feels… newer. Like it doesn’t quite belong to you yet.”
You raise a brow, amused. “You’re saying my car has to match my personality?”
He gives you a sheepish half-smile. “Something like that.”
“Interesting,” you muse, downshifting smoothly at a light. “What does that make you, then? Bus passes and worn-out shoes?”
Clark laughs under his breath, warm and quiet. “Something like that, yeah.”
You let the silence linger for a moment, the car humming beneath you, before you say, “for the record, you handled the Aston better than most.”
That makes him glance at you sharply. “I didn’t even drive it.”
“You didn’t need to,” you say with a shrug. “Some people panic just being a passenger. You didn’t. You belonged in it.” His ears flush pink, and he turns to look out the window, clearly unsure what to do with that. The faintest smile tugs at his mouth despite himself. The city rolls past—neon signs, sharp glass towers, the occasional honk of impatient traffic—but the cabin of the car feels like its own pocket of stillness. You catch Clark stealing another glance at you, his eyes lingering a little longer this time before he quickly looks away. “You’re nervous,” you tease softly.
“I’m not nervous,” he insists, though the way he tugs at his cuff immediately betrays him.
Your smirk widens. “Good. Because where we’re going? You’ll want to look like you belong.”
That earns you a puzzled look. “And where’s that?” You don’t answer, just let the car glide into the city’s wealthier district, where the restaurants glitter like jewels above the streets. Clark shifts again in his seat, tugging his tie like it’s suddenly too tight. You smile to yourself, eyes fixed on the road. If he thought the Aston was intimidating, he has no idea what’s waiting for him tonight.
The Maserati purrs to a stop in front of La Terrasse, one of Metropolis’s most exclusive restaurants. Its glass façade gleams in the evening light, chandeliers glittering inside, the sort of place where the air itself seems to whisper wealth and power. Valets in sharp uniforms step forward instantly, one opening your door with a polite bow while another moves to Clark’s side.
You step out with effortless grace, heels striking marble, the kind of entrance you’ve perfected since childhood. Clark, however, unfolds himself from the car with far less elegance, tugging self-consciously at his jacket while trying not to look like a farm boy dropped in the middle of high society. “Good evening, Ms. Wayne,” the maître d’ says at once, recognizing you. “Your table is ready.”
Clark’s head jerks slightly toward you. “They… they just know you?” he whispers, startled.
You smirk faintly, sliding your arm through his. “Perks of the family name.”
Inside, the restaurant glows with golden light. Waiters glide between tables carrying silver-domed trays, champagne flutes sparkle on white linen, and the low murmur of conversation hums like an orchestra. It’s a world Clark clearly doesn’t set foot in often. His shoulders tighten as a server whisks his coat away, leaving him standing in his perfectly pressed suit. You catch the stiffness in his posture, the way his eyes flick across the room like he’s searching for an escape. “Breathe, Clark,” you murmur, steering him toward your table. “You look like you’re about to get grilled by Perry.”
“That’s not far off,” he mutters, tugging at his cufflink.
You lean in slightly as you sit, voice pitched low just for him. “Relax. You belong here. Trust me.”
His eyes meet yours across the table, uncertain but softening. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this.”
“Good,” you reply, taking your menu. “Means I won’t have to worry about your ego.” That earns you a quiet laugh, genuine and warm. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.
When the waiter arrives, you order without hesitation—something rich, something indulgent, paired with wine that makes the waiter’s eyes widen in appreciation. Clark stammers slightly over his choice, nearly ordering meatloaf before you nudge him toward the steak. “You’re trying to bankrupt me,” he jokes weakly once the waiter leaves.
“Please,” you scoff. “This is pocket change.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “You and I live on different planets.”
“Maybe,” you say, sipping your water. “But tonight we’re at the same table.” The words hang between you, heavier than they should. Clark looks at you for a long moment, something in his gaze shifting—like he’s seeing past the name, past the armor, down to the person sitting across from him. And for the first time, you let him. The first course arrives—perfectly plated, an art piece more than a meal. The waiter sets it down with quiet precision, and you thank him smoothly before turning your attention back to Clark. He sits straight in his chair, fork in hand, staring at his plate like he’s not entirely sure he belongs in front of it. “Relax,” you murmur with a smirk, lifting your glass. “It’s just food. You won’t break it.”
His cheeks flush pink as he cuts into the dish with careful precision. “I’m used to diners and home cooking. This is… something else.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
He looks up at you, his expression softening. “It’s not. Just different. I grew up on meatloaf and mashed potatoes. My ma used to can vegetables every summer—shelves of them, stacked floor to ceiling in the cellar. My pa would roast corn in the back field and swear it tasted better than anything from the store.” There’s a warmth in his voice when he talks about it, like each memory is a thread pulling him back to Kansas, to a place that shaped him.
You sip your wine, studying him over the rim of the glass. “Sounds… comforting.”
He smiles faintly, shy. “It was. Not glamorous, but real.”
You set your glass down. “Not everything has to be glamorous.” His gaze lingers on you a beat longer than necessary, and you feel the weight of it before he looks away, adjusting his glasses like he’s embarrassed for being caught.
By the time the main course arrives, the air between you feels easier, less like a tightrope and more like a current pulling you both forward. Clark asks about Gotham—about the differences between the two cities—and you answer honestly, though you skip the darker details. You counter by asking about the Planet, about what drew him into journalism in the first place.
“I wanted to give people a voice,” he admits, twirling his fork absentmindedly. “When I was a kid, I couldn’t always stop bad things from happening. But if you tell the truth—if you shine a light on it—sometimes that’s enough to change things.” There’s no bravado in his tone, just quiet conviction. It hits you harder than you expect, how much of himself he’s willing to lay bare without realizing it.
You lean in slightly, chin resting on your hand. “That’s very noble of you. But also dangerous.”
He shrugs, smiling faintly. “I don’t mind dangerous.”
That makes you laugh softly, the sound surprising even yourself. “Careful. I might hold you to that.” His smile widens just a fraction, boyish and earnest. Dessert comes and goes—something decadent you ordered without asking him, and something he sheepishly admits is the best thing he’s ever tasted. When the plates are finally cleared and the check discreetly handled before Clark can even think to protest, you rise from your chair, smoothing your dress. “Come on, Clark. I’ll drive you home before you combust from too much sugar.”
He stands quickly, ever the gentleman, pulling your chair in before following you out. And as you walk through the golden glow of the restaurant’s chandeliers toward the waiting Maserati outside, you realize that for all the chaos surrounding Mannheim and Luthor, tonight has been something rare. Normal. Almost like the world could pause, just for the two of you.
The Maserati rolls to a stop in front of Clark’s apartment building, the engine purring low before you cut it off. The city is alive around you—neon signs blinking, sirens in the distance, the low thrum of Metropolis never really sleeping. Clark shifts in the passenger seat, hands folded neatly, nervous energy clinging to him even now. Before you can reach for the handle, he’s already out of the car, circling quickly to your side. He pulls your door open with a tentative smile, offering his hand. “Gentlemanly,” you tease, sliding out.
“Just manners,” he says softly, ears a little pink. You’re about to reply when the sound of shouting cuts down the block. A car alarm blares, followed by the unmistakable crash of glass. You both turn—three men sprinting out of a corner store, bags slung over their shoulders, weapons flashing in the streetlights. Clark exhales quietly, shoulders straightening. He shrugs off his suit jacket, stepping close enough to drape it around your shoulders. His voice is gentle, firm. “Wait here.”
Before you can answer, he’s gone—a blur that the human eye shouldn’t be able to track. The jacket still carries his warmth, heavy and grounding against you as you lean against the car and watch. It doesn’t take long. A gust of air, a flicker of blue and red across the street, and in moments the men are disarmed and pinned against a squad car that wasn’t even there a heartbeat ago. By the time the bewildered police arrive, Superman is already striding back toward you, cape catching in the breeze. He lands lightly on the pavement, face unreadable for a moment as he stops a few steps away.
You tilt your head, smirking faintly despite your racing pulse. “Put the glasses back on.”
He blinks, thrown. “What?”
“The glasses,” you repeat, tugging the jacket closer around you. “Put them back on.”
Confusion flickers in his eyes, but he reaches into his pocket and slides them into place. “Why?”
You step forward, closing the distance until you’re right in front of him, your voice low. “Because I want to kiss Clark Kent. Not Superman.”
His hands hover at his sides, trembling slightly like he’s fighting the urge to touch you. You don’t give him the chance to decide—you lean in first, closing the gap, lips brushing his in a kiss that’s softer and deeper than you imagined. He stills for only a heartbeat before his hands finally move—hovering near your waist, then slowly rising to cup your face with reverence, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as though you’re something fragile, priceless. His kiss deepens cautiously, warm and steady, grounding you even as the world tilts.
When you part, the city noise floods back in. His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath shaky behind the glasses you insisted he wear. “Golly,” he whispers.
You laugh against his mouth, shaking your head. “You’re impossible, Clark.”
“Guess I am,” he murmurs, but his smile is brighter than the neon glow above you both. Finally, you step back just enough to breathe. His hands hover awkwardly at your sides, like he doesn’t want to let go but isn’t sure he’s allowed.
You smooth the lapel of his suit jacket where it rests on your shoulders and murmur, “according to my sources, Mercy Graves is going to be arrested tomorrow. Early morning raid.”
Clark blinks, surprise flickering behind his lenses. “That soon?”
“Mm.” You tilt your head, watching him. “You’ll want to be there. After all, it’s your article that kicked the door open.”
Something flickers across his face then—something between humility and pride. “I just… wrote the truth.”
You smile faintly. “Sometimes that’s enough to start a war.”
For a moment, the weight of what’s coming presses between you—the inevitable clash with Luthor, the storm that Mercy’s arrest will unleash. But instead of flinching, Clark steadies, eyes softening as they meet yours. “I’ll be there,” he says simply.
You believe him without question. You step closer again, your hand brushing against his tie. “Good. Because I’d hate to have to stand next to the feds alone. Terrible photo opportunity.” That earns you a laugh—quiet, genuine, the kind that tugs at something warm in your chest.
Before he can say more, you lean in again, kissing him once more—not hurried, not desperate, but deliberate. His breath catches against yours, and though his hands hover uncertainly at first, they eventually find your waist, light and careful, like he’s still afraid of holding too tightly. When you part, his forehead rests against yours, glasses cool against your skin. “Goodnight,” he whispers.
“Goodnight,” you murmur, tugging his tie lightly before slipping back toward the driver’s side of the Maserati. You watch him linger at the curb as you pull away, suit jacket still around your shoulders, his figure shrinking in the rearview mirror but never once stepping back inside until your taillights disappear into the Metropolis night.
---
Morning in Metropolis comes too fast. The Maserati idles at the curb near LexCorp’s Energy Division headquarters, its polished façade now swarming with federal vehicles. Black SUVs block the entrances, agents in jackets spill into the glass lobby, and the usual parade of perfectly coiffed executives scatter like startled pigeons.
You step out, heels striking against the pavement, Clark’s suit jacket draped over your shoulders. The tailored lines don’t quite match your dress, but they add a kind of edge, a piece of him carried with you into the storm. Cameras flash immediately, reporters jostling for position, their voices rising above the chaos.
Clark is already there, notebook in hand, glasses catching the morning light. He looks different than he did last night—more composed, every inch the journalist, pen moving quickly as he notes every detail. Yet his eyes soften when they find you, his smile brief but steady.
“Wayne,” one of the agents calls as you approach. “Appreciate your cooperation. Your testimony’s on file, and the board’s documents helped fast-track this warrant.”
You nod coolly. “Halvorsen handed us the thread. All we had to do was pull.”
Inside, the lobby is a battlefield of a different kind—sleek glass and chrome disrupted by agents rifling through files, seizing hard drives, barking orders. And in the middle of it all, standing like a blade unsheathed, is Mercy Graves. Her suit is flawless, hair sharp, expression unreadable as two agents flank her. She doesn’t resist, doesn’t even blink, as they produce cuffs. Her gaze flicks upward, scanning the crowd until it lands on you. And for a brief, breathless moment, you feel the weight of her stare—calm, calculating, promising this isn’t over.
Clark steps closer, voice low at your side. “She’s not afraid.”
“She doesn’t have to be,” you murmur. “She thinks Luthor will dig her out.” Mercy tilts her chin, lips curving into the faintest smirk, even as the cuffs click into place. Then the agents lead her away, cameras flashing in a frenzy, the hum of shouted questions filling the air.
You stand shoulder to shoulder with Clark as it unfolds, his pen moving quickly, his presence solid beside you. When the lobby finally clears, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the faint scent of ozone from the electronics being carted off, you glance at him. “You did this,” you say quietly.
He blinks, startled. “We did.”
You shake your head. “It was your article that turned whispers into evidence. Your words lit the match.”
Clark looks down at his notebook, flustered. “I just told the truth.”
“And that,” you reply, tugging his jacket tighter around your shoulders, “is more dangerous than any weapon Mannheim could get his hands on.” The silence that follows hums with something unspoken. He shifts slightly closer, the warmth of him brushing against you even in the chaos. And before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in, pressing a brief, certain kiss against his lips. Cameras flash in the distance, but you don’t care. When you pull back, his eyes are wide behind the glasses, his hand hovering uncertainly before rising to cup your cheek. You smirk. “Told you I wanted Clark Kent. Not Superman.”
His smile is small but steady, his voice almost a whisper. “Then that’s who you’ll always have.”
---
Late morning sunlight filters through the tall windows of your hotel suite, casting gold over the marble floor and the faint mess of files spread across the desk. You’ve kicked off your heels, Clark’s suit jacket still draped over your shoulders as you sit with your laptop open, replaying Mercy’s arrest through endless angles from the morning news cycle. Your phone buzzes sharply across the table. Alfred. You answer, leaning back in your chair. “Alfred. You’re calling early.”
His voice comes steady, polite as ever, though you know the weight behind it. “I thought perhaps I’d catch you before you entangled yourself in another… eventful morning.” A pause, then, “imagine my surprise when the news was filled with Miss Graves being escorted in handcuffs, with you standing beside Mr. Kent like a pair of proud prosecutors.”
You exhale, rubbing your temple. “It was bound to happen sooner or later. Better we controlled the narrative.”
“You do realize your brother is pacing the manor like an agitated tiger?” Alfred says, calm but clipped. “I’m told he’s read Mr. Kent’s article three times, and each time muttered your name as though invoking it might summon you for an explanation.”
You smirk faintly. “Then it worked. The article landed exactly where it needed to.”
“Indeed,” Alfred murmurs. “Though Master Bruce has expressed… curiosity.” His tone sharpens just slightly. “About Mr. Kent.”
Your lips curve. “Of course he has.”
“You mentioned him before, in passing. A reporter. A colleague. Your… ally.” Alfred’s hesitation is almost imperceptible, but you catch it. “And now his name is attached to federal raids and headlines of corporate scandal. You must realize what conclusion Bruce will draw.”
You lean forward, voice low. “That I finally found someone who’s not afraid to put his neck on the line.”
Alfred is silent for a beat, then sighs. “I suspect Bruce will want to verify that for himself.”
“Let him,” you say, smirking. “Clark can handle it.”
“Mm. That may be so. But allow me to offer you one small warning.” Alfred’s voice softens again, threaded with something fatherly. “Secrets have a way of bleeding into the open. Be certain you’re prepared when they do.”
You glance toward the jacket draped over your shoulders—Clark’s jacket, still faintly smelling of him, steady and warm.
Your lips curve faintly. “I’ll be ready.”
“Of that,” Alfred says, and you can hear his smile, “I have no doubt.”
The call ends, leaving you alone with the morning sun and the faint echo of Alfred’s warning. And you realize—when Bruce finally comes storming into Metropolis, Clark Kent will be at the center of it.
