INFP-T. Fanfic devourer. Loads of pent-up emotions. Mildly obsessed with fictional worlds and characters. Awkwardly bad at social interaction in general.
Tbh germ theory DOES sound crazy. Like if you told a regency-era nobleman that tiny creatures lived on the surface of everything and THATâS what causes consumption, theyâd be like âah, I see you are a lunatic. Would you reside in my hermitage? Rantings and ravings do so amuse my guestsâ
Yeah, actually, it would probably be pretty easy to explain germ theory to a Medieval person as tiny evil spirits that live on everything, but they can be purified by soap and water, or by alcohol, because that is why God has granted us those things. And because they can float in the air, if you cough or sneeze after they have infested you, that can cause them to infest others. And when you are sick, the angels God has deputized to defend the bodies of His beloved children are at war with the evil spirits, and, sadly, sometimes they lose, but the best way to help your angels win their battle is to rest, drink plenty (this would probably be small beer in this time period, not water, because the water was also infested), stay clean, and for the sake of God do not allow anyone to let your blood, for the angels need that blood in their war against the evil spirits. Bloodletting is good for some types of illnesses but not the kinds caused by the tiny evil spirits.
boiling as a sterilization measure is also easy to explain. water returns to the air when heated and it rises as steam back up to the floodgates of heaven; we know God created the world in seven days, He's not up there making more water every time it rains. it circulates. the returning of water to heaven also purifies the water of unclean and malign influences. you know wormy water from a muddy puddle will kill your kid. you know you wouldn't wade into a bog and have a slurp. water that remains in the low places of earth absorbs all that is unclean from our waste and it may also sponge up new diseases from hell, we're not totally sure about that one, but it seems likely. God set up the heavenly water cycle so that the earth's waters wouldn't totally fill up with gunk.
what does this have to do with boiling your surgical tools? well look, the boiling water releases bubbles of steam which carries the malign influences up to heaven. you boil a knife, you send all the miasmic particles off with the steam to heaven. if you rinse the knife off in a bucket the water isn't hot enough, the particles go into the water and then right back on to the knife. you gotta boil it to get the particles all the way away.
how can a tool or rag or a bed have miasmic particles on it when you can't smell them? humans have a lousy sense of smell. look at your dog on the hunt. are there no rabbits in the woods just because you can't smell them? we know that miasma is carried on the air, and is what makes stench so dangerous, and we know that humans can't smell worth a damn compared to dogs cats horses etc. a dog can smell if a rat died in a corner of the room last week. you can't. do you think licking the spot where the rat died is going to go well for you? luckily, what humans lack in snout we make up for in brains. we have extra brains where our sniffers should have been. God set that up for a reason.
and why does a rinse with wine spirits work? man, look how fast alcohol evaporates. my guess is that because wine contains a lot more vice than water, it evaporates a whole lot faster, in sort of an equal and opposite way that a rock falls faster than a feather. if you want the miasmic particles to get off there FAST, you dunk it in something that's going back to heaven at a gallop.
what's up with honey? it just preserves things against corruption. doesn't clean them off. honey doesn't evaporate at all. probably because bees don't sin. it's not good for ridding a tool of particles-- it's sticky-- but fine for preserving anything you don't want to go to heaven OR hell. this is why you wash the wound with wine spirits or purified water FIRST, to sluice the miasma out, then slap the honey on AFTER. and boil the damn bandage, too. you wouldn't put a rotten door in a sound doorframe and expect it to keep out bandits, would you? cmon.
Mulan AU where she does get caught by the other fresh recruits while she's bathing but Mushu helps her spin it like the lake is cursed by an evil lizard demon and will turn men into women if they stay in it for too long.
From there it's not actually difficult to get the other soldiers onboard with covering up the fact that poor Ping took one for the team and got afflicted by the vagina curse, especially since it would have been all of them if they hadn't gotten the warning ahead of time. So they agree to help him cover it up, because obviously the army's not going to understand.
Shang is... tentatively glad that the men are bonding and getting along, even if they continue to be deeply weird about it.
Mulan: Uh, what boobs? Huh? Where did these come from?
Mushu: *facepalms and thinks quickly* (speaks from the shadows) I AM THE SPIRIT OF THE LAKE! BEWARE MY CURSED WATERS FOR THEY WILL TURN MEN INTO WOMEN!
Ling, Yao, and Chien Po: Oh no! The spirit of the cursed waters!
Summary: Jason Todd doesn't marry for love. That whole 'white-picket-fence' life was never in the cards for him. But he will marry you, so you can have access to his health insurance. He's certainly not using it, and he'd rather not have to deal with looking for a new roommate after you die from the infection you refuse to get treatment for. It's a marriage of convenience. No fuss. No complications... at least, until he starts falling in love with his wife.
Tropes: Roommates >> spouses >> lovers, marriage before romance, grumpy x sunshine coded
Word Count: 6.1K
Content Warnings: Fluff, strangers to roommates to friends, eventual smut, Jason has commitment issues, Jason's tragic backstory mentioned, making the relationship extra complicated in order to keep it "not complicated", explicit language
A/N: I'm both playing Gotham Knights rn and have been reading Wayne Family Adventures at the same time, and I can't decide between the two on the setting for this, so imagine whatever feels right for you.
When you'd complained to your friend in your computer science class about your horrible roommate situation, you had not expected Barbara to text you the next day with a solution. She called him a mutual acquaintance, who has a spare bedroom and wouldn't mind having someone chip in on the rent. She said he cooks, he's clean, he keeps to himself, and he works nights. As someone who'd been playing mediator between your other two roommates, who both seemed to hate each other, the idea of a roommate who would leave you alone and likely not even be there most of the time that you were around, sounded like a dream come true. She texted you the address and warned you not to be intimidated by his appearance.
You wouldn't understand what exactly she meant by that until you were knocking on his front door. The apartment building's location was in a nice enough area. Not exactly 'Posh-Gotham', but not Southside either. In addition, there was a Metro access line just around the corner that could take you straight to the University. The building itself was also fairly nice, at least from what you'd seen so far. Wall sconces lighting the hall, framed paintings on the walls, and carpeted flooring. The place honestly looked more like a hotel than an apartment building.
You're still looking around the hallway when the door swings open and you're suddenly face-to-face with a man big enough to take up the entire doorway. You gulp and all too suddenly realize why Barb gave you a heads up. Impossibly broad shoulders, arms the size of tree trunks, a scar running a few inches into his hairline all the way down to the edge of his mouth, and a section of white hair at the front of his bangs. He cuts an imposing figure, even with his relaxed stance. His eyes wash over you in an assessing gaze.
"You Barb's friend?"
You try not to fidget under the weight of his stare. You're pretty sure you're unsuccessful. "Yeah. I take it you're Jason?"
"That's me." The corner of his mouth lifts in a partial smile. "Come on in." He nudges his head to the side in a gesture of invitation, stepping back from the door to make room for you to pass him. "Kitchen's to the right, living room straight ahead, one bathroom here on the left, and another in between the bedrooms in back."
He gives you a quick tour of the place. It's sparsely furnished, but what little he does have seems to be luxury-made. He's got one of those giant L couches with a simple, blue throw blanket folded across the back. A bookshelf that definitely did not come from IKEA, given the ornate carvings in the corners and along the lip of the shelves. A leather recliner and a huge flatscreen TV are the only other things occupying space in the living room. The spare bedroom also already has a bed and a wooden dresser, but is otherwise unfurnished.
"My only rules are: stay out of my room, and I'll stay out of yours. Clean up after yourself. And let me know if you plan on having anyone over. What you do in your room and who you do it with is your business, but I'm not overly fond of having strangers in my space without knowing about it."
You turn in a slow circle around the bedroom, already picturing where you might put your things. "Barb mentioned you work nights, but didn't really say what exactly you do." Your eyes flicker to where he's casually leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.
He smirks like you've asked something funny. "Private security."
You give him another once-over. Yeah, he's certainly got the build of someone who could be some bigwig's private bodyguard. You shrug and look away when you realize that's all the answer you're going to get out of him. "How soon can I move in?"
"As soon as you want."
By that weekend, you've gotten the hell out of your old apartment, leaving your roommates to duke it out over who left whose dishes in the sink or what-fucking-ever they were going to argue about on that particular day. Jason hands you your key to the apartment and helps you bring in your boxes, even when you try to dissuade him since he's done more than enough by offering you a place to stay. He shrugs like it's no big deal and continues to follow you silently down to the moving truck you'd rented for the day.
After that, the two of you quickly settle into a sort of routine. Jason leaves typically sometime after dinner and returns around sunrise while you're still in bed. In the mornings, you try to be mindful and quiet while he's asleep before you head out to class. By the time you get back, he's usually already whipping something up in the kitchen and hands you your plate when it's done, like it's a given he'd make enough for you both. After he heads out, you get to spend your evenings however you want. No fighting over TV rights or music choice, which, again, is a godsend compared to your previous situation.
It's about three months later when you get a text while in class that he's planning to have a 'guest' over later that night. You shoot him a thumbs-up emoji and, for the first time, come home to realize you need to arrange your own dinner plans. He's home, but is otherwise occupied, based on the rhythmic thumping coming from his bedroom. His guest is also extremely vocal... like pornstar-level. Lots of "Uhn, uhn, oh, yes! Fuck, JJ!"
That gets you to pause mid-step. JJ? Jason does not look like a JJ...
You snicker to yourself and continue heading for your room to put down your stuff and grab your headphones. You drown out the ambiance with even louder music and make something quick for dinner to eat in your room before tackling your homework. It's a few hours later that you reemerge to go clean your plate, and you're surprised to find Jason sitting in the recliner with a book in his lap.
You pause in the doorway. He looks more relaxed, less tension in his shoulders. You glance down the hall toward his closed bedroom door.
"Not here," he answers your unasked question while flipping the page of his book. "They don't tend to stick around."
"Your girlfriend?" you ask, stepping into the living room to head for the kitchen.
He scoffs out a humorless laugh. "I'm not really the commitment type."
You hum casually. No judgement. Everyone has needs, and clearly, he knows what works for him. You wash, dry, and put away your dishes, then fill up a glass of water and head back toward your room. "Have a good night... JJ."
His soft chuckle of amusement sticks with you longer than it should after you've closed your door and crawled into bed to go to sleep.
After that, Jason starts bringing new guests home every few weeks or so. He sticks to the roommate agreement and gives you a heads-up every time, and you either come home with your headphones already on and blaring or stay out later with friends or at the school library. You try your hand at dating, but learn early on that bringing them home is not a good idea. The one and only time you did, the guy nearly pissed himself when Jason came out of his room at the same time the two of you were about to enter yours.
Jason had taken one look at the guy before smirking ferally and drawing himself up to his full height. "Sup?" he gave that chin tilt guys do when they're greeting each other.
Your fling of the night had gulped thickly before turning to you and giving some sorry excuse about leaving his oven on at home before getting the hell out of dodge. Jason only laughed when you glared at him. From that moment on, you elected to not bother bringing anyone home.
Aside from that little hiccup, living with Jason is actually pretty nice. What little time the two of you do spend together, usually while making and eating dinner, you share casual conversation. He'll tell you about the latest book he's reading, and you'll explain your most recent homework assignment. You've learned not to ask too many prying questions about his job, or his friends or family. He's a master at giving vague or deflecting responses.
It all comes to a head, though, when you're up extra late one night, studying for an upcoming exam, and you hear a crash in Jason's room. You jolt with a start, because you definitely saw him leave several hours ago. In a split-second decision, you grabbed your pepper spray from your backpack and your heaviest textbook, before sneaking down the hall.
Your heart pounds in your chest, not only because there's an intruder in your apartment, but also because you're going to break Jason's first rule in the roommate agreement. But you're pretty sure he'd like it even less if you just left some petty thief to take all his stuff, so you take a steadying breath and shove open the door. "Freeze!" you shout, holding your pepper spray at the ready while also clutching your book to your chest.
You are wholly unprepared for the sight that greets you. There's a vigilante inside Jason's bedroom. Not just any vigilante, either. It's Redhood. He's sitting in Jason's desk chair, with an open case in front of him that looks to be a first-aid kit or something. He barely glances your way. "Hate to break it to you, Sweetheat, but that spray won't reach through the helmet, and I'm not sure what you're planning to do with the book other than bore me to death."
You gape, a little dumfounded. You're not sure what to do at this point... "You're not supposed to be in here." That's really the best you've got.
The cadence of his chuckle sounds familiar, even though it's being filtered through a voice modulator. "Neither are you."
You narrow your eyes at him. "My boyfriend's going to be pissed when he finds out you touched all his stuff." You're not sure why you say it like that. Maybe because boyfriend sounds slightly more intimidating than roommate.
"Boyfriend?" he echoes before releasing a hearty laugh. "Oh, baby, I didn't know you cared so much." He reaches up and pulls off the helmet, revealing his face to you.
"Jason?!" You're gaping once again. The last of your tension oozes out of you like a melting candle. "Dude, what the fuck! You gave me a heart attack!"
He drops the helmet onto his desk and turns back to the first aid kit. "Thought you'd be asleep by now, and I just needed a quick patch-up before heading back out."
"You're hurt?" You perk up and step deeper into the room.
He shrugs like it's not a big deal. "It's just a scratch." He pulls off his leather jacket, revealing a shallow gash on the back of his forearm.
"Can I help?" You're already setting your book and pepper spray down on the edge of his desk and pulling his arm closer for inspection. You reach into the first aid kit for a sterilizing wipe, rip open the packet, and then press it to the wound. Once it's been cleaned, you cover it in antiseptic gel and a clean bandage.
Jason stays quiet the whole time, observing you closely and wondering when the game of twenty questions will start. It doesn't. You already know how good he is at dodging questions, and you now know exactly what he's been hiding. Sure, there's probably more secrets and things you don't know, but you figure if there's something he wants to tell you, he'll do it in his own time.
"What exactly was your plan with all of that?" He finally breaks his silence after you've finished patching him up by pointing at your book.
"Spray you in the face, then whack you over the head with the book."
His lips spread into a wide smirk as he shakes his head. "Babe, we're gonna hafta work on your self-defense skills."
The corner of your mouth twitches as you fight off your grin. "Not tonight. I'm going to bed, and you apparently need to get back to your private security job." You toss the trash from the first aid kit into the mini trash can on the ground next to his desk, then take your stuff and head back to your room.
"Good night," he calls to you when you're passing through his doorway.
You pause and turn back to look at him. "Be careful out there."
"You worried about me?"
You stare back him him for a moment too long. "I just don't want to go back to my old living situation." That's not the whole truth. You know it, and he knows it, too, based on the look in his eyes. You turn away and return to your room before he can say anything else.
The following evening, the two of you have a more in-depth conversation regarding his vigilanteism. He explains that he used to be one of the former Robins, before he was taken by the Joker, where he was then brutally beaten and eventually murdered. It's where he got the scar on his face and several others that he alluded to, but didn't show you.
"Now, when you say... dead... Do you mean, like your heart stopped for a few seconds before they revived you? Or..." You ask slowly, trying to rein in your horror at his story.
"Nope. Dead-dead. Like buried in the ground, funeral and everything, kind of dead." He says it so casually, almost like he's talking about someone else.
"Then, how...?" You stare back, overwhelmed and at a loss for words.
"There's this group, the League of Assassins. Their leadership has a... complicated relationship with Batman. They have access to this stuff called the Lazarus Pit. It has mystical healing abilities and is even powerful enough to raise the dead. Case and point." He gestures to himself. "They took my body, hoping to use my revival as leverage against Batman. But I didn't come back right. I was angry, vengeful, and broken enough that they could use it against me and turn me into another one of their puppets. I did some stuff I'm not proud of while I was running with the League. Eventually pieced myself back together enough to break out. Came back to Gotham and did some more stuff I'm not proud of... Now, I'm working to atone for the things I've done wrong while keeping this dumpster fire of a city as safe as possible."
"Holy shit..." You breathe, still processing his words. "Do all the other vigilantes know all this stuff about you?"
"The ones in Gotham do. We're what you might consider a 'tight-knit bunch'."
You hum thoughtfully. "Then does that mean they all know about me, too?"
"No." He shakes his head, then pauses, considering. "Well, one does. Batgirl."
You arch a brow. "You told Batgirl about your roommate?"
He chuckles lightly. "Nah, she's the one that told me about you."
Your head tilts in confusion until you connect the pieces. "Barbara is Batgirl?"
"Bingo."
"God, I knew she was coasting through that computer science class! She made everything look so easy!" Jason smirks as you come to several realizations about your friend. "Wait. Is it okay for you to tell me about her?"
"I already fessed up to Barb this morning about you catching me in the act. She confirmed my suspicions that you're trustworthy enough to know at least some of our secrets."
You give him a bemused look. "You were suspicious that I was trustworthy?"
"I'm always suspicious. It's what keeps me alive. Well, the second time around, at least." He shrugs.
"How can you so casually joke about your own death?"
"Little bit of dissociative amnesia and a lot of fucking therapy."
"Okay, then..."
The two of you talk a little more before he has to get ready for patrol. A part of him is a little relieved that you now know. It makes sneaking in and out a lot easier when he no longer has to sneak at all. Going forward, when he comes back a little banged up and you're still awake, you'll step in to patch him up, without him having to say anything about it. He finds that it's kind of nice, being taken care of. If he's unfortunate enough to get any serious injuries, he'll still go to the Belfry Tower or the Cave, but anything small or easy, and he'll come home to you.
Weeks turn into months, and then before you know it, you're graduating from GCU and you're suddenly starting your first "Big Girl Job" as a university graduate. You've managed to secure an entry-level position at Stagg Industries. It's a long shot from your dream job, but hopefully a solid enough stepping stone for you to find your footing before moving on with your career. Jason had told you he had enough connections to get you into Wayne Enterprises, but you'd insisted on wanting to stand on your own two feet.
Your tasks were menial. A lot of grunt work, or the shitty things no one else wanted to do, but it was a full-time job, with benefits and a paycheck slightly above minimum wage. The benefits weren't all that great, and neither was the paycheck, if you were being honest with yourself, but it was yours. You found your groove, worked hard, and hoped you might eventually catch the eye of your management team in order to get promoted to a better section within the company.
That hope very quickly dried up and died. Nepotism was clearly running rampant within the company. The only ones that seemed to move up were the people who already had connections. It didn't seem to matter how competent you were; it was never enough to prove your worth when dollar signs and family names were all that mattered.
You were already sick of working at Stagg by the time you managed to get yourself actually sick. It seemed to be just a simple flu. You're pretty sure you caught it that night some of your coworkers convinced you to go out to a seedy bar with them. It was one of those nights Jason had a guest over, so you'd agreed to hang out even though you weren't really feeling it. The bar was a total dive. Looked like the last time it had been cleaned was over 10 years ago. You'd only ordered one drink, but apparently that had been enough to pick up the virus.
You were bedridden for three days, then stayed home an additional week after that, while more mucus came out of your nose and lungs than you thought was physically possible to store within one human being. You disgusted yourself with the sheer number of tissue boxes you were going through.
Jason was a better caretaker than you expected. You'd told him early on to stay away, since you didn't want to get him sick, too, but he completely ignored your request. He made you soup, which he'd leave on your nightstand while you were asleep, along with cold and flu medication. He'd also routinely empty your trash can for you after you'd filled it to the brim with used-up tissues. He made sure to only come in while you were passed out from the medication, so you wouldn't yell at him to stay out, but he took good care of you.
After your week away from work, you felt mostly well enough to go back, but you had a very persistent, lingering cough after the whole ordeal. You figured it would go away eventually on its own, and continued to trudge along like everything was normal.
"You know... you've been coughing for like two months now." Jason brings it up one night that you're both home. He's sitting back on his recliner, book forgotten in his lap as he stares at you from across the room.
You're tucked into the corner of the couch, fiddling with a Rubik's Cube in your hands. You've been getting into puzzles a lot recently to give your brain the mental stimulation it's severely lacking at your job right now. "I'm sure it'll ease up any day now." You shrug noncommitally and keep fiddling with the cube.
"It hasn't so far. Don't you think you should get it checked out?" The implication in his voice is heavy.
"I've started taking herbal tea. I think that'll really help clear out the last of the mucus."
He scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Okay, can you be real with me for a minute and just tell me why you refuse to see a doctor?"
You finally stop messing with the cube and look at him like the answer should be obvious. "Um, because I can't afford to?"
"What?" That's not the answer he was expecting. He thought maybe you had a bad case of white-coat-syndrome or something. Not this. He nearly kicks himself for not even considering it.
You shift uncomfortably under the weight of his stare and start messing with the Rubik's Cube again. "Yeah, the health insurance offered by the company is really bad. It's like a $5,000 deductible before the insurance will start covering my expenses. So, everything until that point I need to cover out of pocket. I'm not sure how much a doctor visit will be, let alone the cost for the diagnosis and the medication."
"What the fuck? Is that even legal?"
You shrug again. "No clue. I'm sure I could pay more money for better coverage, but again... can't really afford to. It's just how this shit works, right?"
"No, it fucking isn't. At least it shouldn't be. Why do you still work there if the benefits are ass and you fucking hate it?"
"Nowhere else is hiring."
"I can get you into WayneTech!"
You sigh quietly, wanting this conversation to be over. "Jay, we talked about this..."
"No. I tried to bring it up, and you shot me down before I could finish."
"Because you're already doing more than enough for me by letting me live here!"
He runs a hand through his hair, tugging on the longer strands. "It's just an interview! I can get you in the door, but the rest will be up to you to impress them with your knowledge and skills. It's not a fucking handout. It's an invitation."
You go quiet once more. "...I'll think about it."
He grunts and settles back into his chair. "Yeah, well, think fast, because you should have seen a doctor like a month ago."
"Still not going to the doctor." You shake your head.
"Fucking Christ! If your insurance is so fucking bad, then just use mine!" He throws his hands up in the air out of frustration.
You furrow your brow in utter confusion. "What, do you have like special vigilante insurance or something?"
"No, I have real fucking insurance, that I can't really even fucking use, but Bruce sets all of his kids up with the best Wayne Enterprises can offer."
"Wait, wait. The fuck? You're Bruce Wayne's kid?"
"Ah, shit." He presses a palm to his face. "I forgot you didn't already know that. I'm adopted, but yeah..."
You try to laugh hysterically, but all you can manage is a coughing fit. "Okay, that part aside... I still feel like the doctor's office won't exactly accept little old me walking in there with an insurance card for Jason Todd written on it, unless this is some magical perk you 1-Percenters get to have that us peons don't."
He rolls his eyes. "No, obviously you'd have to like marry me to get on my health insurance, but if it'll get you to the doctor sooner, why the fuck not?"
"WHAT?!?" His words shock you so bad, you spiral into an even worse coughing fit.
"Fucking hell..." He mutters while jumping up from his recliner and rushing to get you a glass of water from the kitchen. "If you keel over in front of me right now, that'll really piss me off." He takes the Rubik's Cube from you and shoves the glass into your hands.
You take a few small sips of water until your throat calms down enough that you stop coughing. "Did you seriously just propose marriage in order to get me to the doctor?" You ask, voice raw from your coughing fit, but deeply incredulous.
"Hey, with Bruce's lawyers, we could probably have the papers drawn, signed, and filed within a few days. I sure as hell can't show up to the hospital every time I get hurt without people asking questions, so someone may as well be getting some use out of the insurance my trust is paying for."
Your eyes narrow into tiny slits as you stare up at him. "But then we'd be married..." You say it slower to leave a bigger impact. It seems to have no effect.
"Like legally? Yes, we would. But not a real marriage. Oh! Like one of those marriage of convenience things!" He snaps his fingers when the words come to him.
"Oh god, you're reading one of those period dramas right now, aren't you?" You rub a hand down your face.
"Hey, they wouldn't have a word for it if it wasn't a real thing." He points out, like this adds any sort of validity to his outrageous idea.
You can't believe you're even entertaining this. "Okay, so hypothetically speaking, if I were to agree to this insanity... we get married, I get on your insurance, go to the doctor, get better... then what?"
"Then we stay married. We can't split immediately after without someone looking into the arrangement as insurance fraud."
"That's because this is insurance fraud, Jason."
"Not if we stay married." He grins like he's got all the answers.
"Jesus... Okay, then what happens when, down the line, you meet someone else and fall in love?"
He laughs like you've just told a hilarious joke. "It's cute that you think I'm even capable of such feelings."
You roll your eyes at him. "I'm being serious."
"Alright, alright. Hypothetically speaking, if you later on meet someone and 'fall in love', then we divorce and go our separate ways. Easy-peasy. It doesn't have to be complicated."
"This is fucking crazy." You give him a hard stare, but he only grins wider.
"Crazy brilliant."
The next morning, Jason is still awake after his night on patrol and is making breakfast in the kitchen when you're getting ready for work.
"I told Bruce the plan. He's willing to have the papers made and filed, but he and Alfred want to meet you first."
You stare at him like he's criminally insane. "I never actually agreed to any of this. We were speaking hypothetically, Jason!"
"Yeah, well, I'm realistically invested in keeping you healthy. You're pretty decent as far as roommates go. I'd hate to hafta find another one."
You cross your arms and stick out a hip. "What, so now I don't even get a say in our fake marriage?"
"Marriage of convenience. And you've already proven you don't take matters concerning your health seriously, so as a good future husband, I'm electing to make those decisions for you." He sets your plate down on the dining table and waits for you to take your seat before he brings you a glass of orange juice and sits with his own plate of food.
"You also told Bruce the terms of this marriage of convenience? And he was okay with it?"
Jason shrugs casually. "Meh, he's fine with a little light insurance fraud if it's done for the right reasons. It's Alfred who you're really going to have to convince."
"Who's Alfred?"
He grins. "The butler."
Two nights later, and you're scrambling in the kitchen of the apartment to get dinner finished. You'd told Jason that if you were going to be meeting his billionaire family, you wanted to do it on your home turf. Now that the moment was here, you were questioning your decision. You'd mad-dash cleaned the entire apartment: wiping the counters, mopping the floors, scrubbing the tile in the bathroom.
The whole place had become a lot more homey after you moved in. You'd added some artwork to the walls, candles on side tables, hanging plants, that sort of thing, but now you were worried they might think the place looked too cluttered. Don't rich people nowadays usually take a more minimalistic approach?
Dinner has been left to simmer on the stove when there's a knock on the front door.
"I'll get it," Jason tells you when the sound makes you freeze in panic. "Hey, come on in."
You peek out from the kitchen doorway to watch the two men enter the apartment. Bruce is easily recognizable; you've seen him plenty of times on the news. You still can't really believe that you're seeing him in person now. It's surreal. He catches your stare from down the hall and smiles in greeting. "You must be the roommate."
You gulp and force yourself to step out into the hall and introduce yourself. "Thank you for coming. Please take off your coats and make yourselves comfortable. Dinner's almost ready."
"It smells divine." Bruce gives you a charming smile that makes your face hot. "Thank you for having us." He holds out a bottle of wine.
You take it graciously, only to almost drop it when you look down and recognize the label. You saw it once, inside a glass display case at an art and wine festival you went to with friends back in college. It's an $8,000 bottle of wine... You're gonna fucking pass out. You clutch the bottle to your chest, laugh nervously, and excuse yourself back into the kitchen.
"The place looks great, Jason. Can't believe it's taken marriage talks to get you to invite us over."
Jason grunts some response you don't hear before walking with Bruce deeper into the apartment.
"I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of bringing along some cookies for dessert."
You look up to find Alfred standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a pink pastry box. "Oh, of course not. Jason's already told me all about your world-famous cookies." You indicate to a spot on the counter where he can place the box.
"Might I be of any assistance with your dinner preparations?"
"Thank you for offering, but I think I've got it handled. You're a guest tonight, Alfred."
He steps back and gives you a fond smile. "I take it the sunflower hand towels and cat paw oven mitts are your additions to the household?" He inquires while gesturing toward the items in question.
You laugh in embarrassment. "Yes. Jason kind of had that monochrome bachelor aesthetic going on in here until I showed up and ruined it."
"I like them. They add warmth to your home. I may have to invest in my own pair of pawprint oven mitts."
You giggle again and hope he's not just really good at masking his sarcasm. "I'll have to keep that in mind when Christmas comes around."
Dinner starts off pretty well. Bruce and Alfred alternate asking you different questions about yourself. What you studied in school, what you're doing now, what your future goals are. They're very good at making it seem like casual conversation, but you get the distinct feeling that you're under interrogation. You at least expected this much. You can't imagine the lengths someone like Bruce Wayne must have to go through to keep his family members safe from scammers and con artists. You answer everything truthfully, and admitting that Barbara was the one to introduce you to Jason seems to earn you some brownie points, which makes you wonder if these two know about Jason and Barb's late-night extracurriculars. There's a niggling at the back of your mind, like when you're really close to figuring out the trick to one of your puzzle games, but it's not quite there yet.
At one point, you get a little piece of food stuck in the mucus buildup of your throat and have to excuse yourself to have a coughing fit in the bathroom. While you're away, Jason feels himself getting put in the hot seat.
"So... she seems cute," Bruce grins casually at his son.
Jason's hand tightens around his fork as he glares. "Keep your hands to yourself, Old Man."
Bruce only laughs heartily. "Not for me. For you."
Jason shifts in his seat, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you're still in the bathroom. "It's not like that."
"Ah, yes. I do believe young master Jason called it a marriage of convenience, Sir."
"Yeah," Bruce scoffs like he doesn't believe a word of it. "Normally, something like that means both parties have something to gain. Once she's married to you, what do you get out of it?"
Jason stares back at his mentor and father figure. They've certainly had their ups and downs over the years, but Jason trusts that Bruce is just trying to look out for him in this moment. "I just want her to live a long and healthy life. She deserves to have someone taking care of her, even if she says she doesn't want it."
Bruce hums and mulls over his words.
You return from the bathroom at that point and smile shyly while returning to your seat. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"
"We were just beginning to discuss the logistics of your marital arrangement," Bruce supplies helpfully.
"Oh, perfect. I want a prenup," you announce, and the table goes dead quiet.
All three men stop eating and turn to look at you inquisitively. "I... wasn't aware you had any assets you wanted to protect," Bruce starts up again.
"Not for me. For Jason." You point over at him. "I want to make this clear from the get-go that I don't want any of his money."
Jason sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "See? This is exactly what I was talking about. She's a detriment to her own health."
"What the hell does that mean?" you ask with a dangerous lilt to your tone.
"It means we're not getting a fucking prenup."
"What, so you actually want me to go running off with half your stuff?"
He releases a dry chuckle. "Oh, baby, I'd like to see you try."
Alfred leans in his chair to whisper toward Bruce. "Sir, I do believe we are bearing witness to young master Jason's first marital spat."
"We should have brought some popcorn."
The two of you continue to argue for several minutes, impressing both Bruce and Alfred with your ability to hold your ground against Jason, even though every argument you provide only makes him more frustrated. Even more impressive is how long Jason continues to maintain his composure, even when everything you say irritates him even further. He's completely blown up at his siblings or his enemies for offenses far less than this. They can see how easily you're able to slip under his skin, but it's almost like he doesn't even mind that you're there. That maybe, he even enjoys it.
The two share a knowing look before Bruce breaks up your arguing with a decisive, "Ahem." You both stop and look his way. "I'll have my lawyers whip up a contract that should satisfy all parties. You'll still need to take it down to City Hall to have it notarized, but if we work quick enough, you both can be officially married by the end of the week."
"Jesus, you know how to get shit done," you gape at him.
"I prefer the term efficient," Bruce laughs.
"Welcome to the Bat Family, young Miss," Alfred smiles warmly.
Your head tilts curiously. "The Bat Family?"
All three men tense up once more, the older two pinning Jason with a look. "I thought you said you told her," Bruce frowns.
"I told her about me! Not about you!"
That's when it clicks. Jason running around as Robin at the same time he'd been adopted by Bruce, the Barbara connection, Bat Family??? "Oh my God, you're fucking Batman!"
Bruce and Alfred make their escape while you're laying into Jason for not better preparing you to play hostess to fucking Batman himself. You end the night by taking the box of Alfred's cookies into your room and refusing to share any of them with him despite his numerous apologies through your locked bedroom door.
This story has absolutely spiraled into a whole thing and got way longer than I was expecting. I'm splitting it into multiple parts for everyone's sanity
Note: The following story explores intense emotions â expect a lot of angst. And yes, there will be a second part.
Clark Kent x female reader
Synopsis:Â When Clark admits his thoughts have strayedâright as rain hammers the windowsâyou choose dignity over denial. Between a siren-lit goodbye and a folded note on the table, Metropolis keeps needing its hero while you learn how to stop needing yours.
Warnings: Emotional infidelity themes, heartbreak, crying, panic, moving out, sirens/explosion (off-screen), mention of Lois Lane, identity stress; no graphic content.
WC: 4,700 words aprox.
ââââ ââŚââŚâ ââââ
The rain clawed at the window as if it wanted to come inside and escape the cold that already lived within you. You were curled up on the couch, making your body as small as possible, as if you could disappear into the fold of a cushion. Outside, the world blurred behind a veil of water and glass; a steady wind, strong in persistence but weak against the pane, moaned through the frames. Your eyes were two open woundsâred and swollen, a devastated landscape. Your cheeks shone, crossed by a salty river that no longer found relief in sobs. The tears had run dry, leaving behind only a heavy silence and a dull ache in your chest.
Ashamed? Maybe. The word echoed in the emptiness of your mind. Ashamed that your pain took on such a silent, paralyzing form? That you didnât have the strength for anger, for the screams you thought you deserved?
You could hardly believe it, yet somewhere in a dim corner of your mind, a voice whispered that you couldnât judge how one faces a wound like this. Was there ever a manual for when the ground beneath your feet turns to quicksand?
In front of you, motionless like a condemned statue, stood Clark. Your boyfriend. Or at least, thatâs what he had been until half an hour agoâuntil words had carved an abyss between the two of you. Clark Kent. Your whole life. Those almost three seasons together that felt like forever. A stable, comfortable relationship that had taken âthe next stepâ⌠moving in together, sharing an alarm clock, toothpaste, dreams. Was that the mistake? Had you let your guard down? Had you become so predictable that boredom slipped in through the cracks without you noticing?
Did I drown him? Smother him with too much normalcy? Did my laughterâthe one he used to call his favorite soundâbecome so ordinary that it started to bother him? The poisonous doubt slithered inside you. Or did he simply start falling for someone else? That simple. That brutally simpleâand heartbreakingly painful.
Your treacherous mind dragged you back just thirty minutes earlier. The phone call. His voiceâwarm, youâd thought thenâsaying, âIâll be there in ten minutes. We need to talk.â âTalk.â An innocent word that you now knew was the prelude to collapse. You, naive, had rushed to prepare something special. His favorite dinner: the famous âbreakfast for dinner.â Scrambled eggs, toast, crispy bacon. A small domestic gesture of love that now felt pathetically out of place.
He arrived, and instead of going to the table, he stood in front of you, his gaze solemn. He took your hand with a kind of funeral solemnity and led you to the living room. He sat down, and you did too, as he bowed his head. In that moment, before he even opened his mouth, your stomach turned into a knot of ice. You knew. Something was wrongâterribly wrong.
âIâm⌠I think⌠Iâve been thinking about someone else when I should only be thinking about you.â
The words fell on your chest like slabs of stone. He sat hunched over, eyes fixed on his hands, a glimmer of tears he didnât dare release. And your heartâthat organ that had lived for him and because of himâsimply stopped. For one eternal second, the world had no air.
âHow long?â The question came out dry, rough. There was no trace of the sweet tenderness that usually colored your voice when you spoke to him. It was the tone of a stranger negotiating her own sentence.
He shook his head, a vague, painful gesture. âItâs not something thatââ
âFeelings donât form overnight, Clark,â you cut in, your voice a steady whisper as your eyes dropped to the carpet, unable to meet his. You needed the concrete detail, the number that marked the beginning of the end. The date of the shipwreck.
Silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of an unspoken confession. Finally, in a faint voice, he said it. âA month and a half.â
Boom.
Your heart, frozen until then, kicked violently back to life, hammering against your ribs like a terrified bird. And then the tears came. Not in convulsions, but in a silent, unstoppable flood, as if an inner dam had broken. From that precise moment, silence took hold of you. No more questions were needed. The instant he said âa month and a half,â your mind, cruelly lucid, made the instant connection.
Lois Lane.
Her name detonated in your brain with the force of an absolute truth. His coworker. Youâd met her a couple of times during casual outings from the paper. She was lovely, yesâconfidently beautiful, effortlessly kind, with a spark of sharp intelligence in her eyes. She had a different glow, a magnetism that drew attention without trying. And in your mental chaos, you pieced it all together: that month and a half coincided with the time heâd been assigned to that new investigative team. The project that kept him late at the office, that made him come home distracted, still thinking about workâthe one he shared with her.
She showed him more of herself. More of what he liked. More, perhaps, than what you, in your safe and steady love, could offer anymore. And there, in the silence broken only by the patter of rain, you sat and watched the man you loved say goodbye, while the image of another woman rose, clear and undeniable, amid the shattered pieces of your heart.
You swallowed your tears with an effort that burned your throat. The salty taste mixed with the bitterness nesting in your chest. With a heaviness that seemed to anchor you to the floor, you stood from the couch. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if every muscle rebelled against the order to flee.
âDonât go.â
Clarkâs voice broke behind you, followed by the hurried sound of his steps rising into the charged silence. You turned, forcing your eyes to meet his. You looked at himâand it was like seeing a lost child in a storm. It was clear⌠he didnât know how to do this. He didnât have a script for breaking a heart, for destroying a shared world. Maybe for a man like himâused to protecting, to savingâthis was more devastating than any disaster heâd ever faced.
âWhy didnât you tell me when it started? When you first felt it?â The question slipped out, rough and low. It wasnât a scream of anger, but the lament of betrayed trust. âWhy did you let it grow?â
âI didnât know,â he said, shaking his head, searching the air for an explanation that didnât exist. âI swear, I⌠I didnât even realize it until I caught myself ignoring your calls just toââ
âTo be with her,â you finished, and the words sliced through you like a knife, sharpening the pain with raw truth. âI donât want explanations, Clark,â you said, nodding slowly, because deep down, a part of you already knew. Youâd seen his distance for a monthâhis quick exits for work, his faraway stares. And you, foolish and in love, had covered it up with the blanket of responsibility. You thought it was just work. You crossed your arms over your chest as if you could hold yourself together, and sighed, exhausted. âBeing here isnât right anymore.â
âIâll go,â he insisted, his voice trembling with anguish. âBut please, forgive me. I didnât want this to happen. I tried to ignore it, I fought itâŚâ His voice broke, strangled by emotion.
âBut I must have done something wrong, because in the end, you forgot about me,â you murmured. He shook his head violently, but it no longer mattered.
âThis is your apartment, Clark, remember?â you said with a terrifying calm. âIâm the one who moved in. The one who brought her plants, her books, her dreams into these walls. Iâm the one who should leave.â As you spoke, you wiped away another rebellious tear with the back of your handâa gesture of infinite fragility.
âI donât know what to do, I swear,â he confessed, and for the first time, his gaze locked with yoursâdesperate, lost. âIf I kept lying, if I carried this alone, it wouldâve killed me inside. I didnât want to hurt you⌠I tried to fight it, I swear I didnât want to destroy this.â
âBut you did, Clark,â you said, meeting his eyes with a steady gaze. There was no rage left in youâonly mourning for what was gone. âWhat we built, everything⌠it ended in a second.â
And then, you stepped closer. How could you not? How could you resist approaching the love of your life one last time? The man whose arms had been your refuge on every cold nightâand whom you knew would never hold you again with that same meaning. The man who shattered himself in a thousand pieces to fulfill his duty, to save lives, and yet, somehow, always found a space for you. The man who had shown you his tears and deepest secrets, just as you had shown him yours. It had been a love so vast, so full⌠and yet, it hadnât been enough. And there you were, saying goodbye to the man who had taught you how to love.
With a hand that barely trembled, you brushed his cheek. He closed his eyes, unable to hold your gaze, and a sob escaped his chest. Then he pulled you into his arms with desperate strength, and maybe that embrace was what broke you the most. His warmthâthat warmth you loved, that meant homeânow reminded you that it would no longer belong to you. You held him back, both of you crying: he, for the guilt of having failed you; you, for a pain that, though not your fault, you felt as if it were. Where had you gone wrong? What roof had you failed to give him? What light in you had gone out that he had gone looking for it in someone else?
You pulled away gently, with a determination that surprised even you. You wiped your cheeks with your palms and, in an act of pure and torn love, you smiled. A sad smile, resignedâthe most painful kind.
âItâs okay, Clark,â you nodded, your voice a broken whisper, a thread of unraveling silk. âEverything will be fine.â The kindest and cruelest lie. âEverything happens for a reason,â you added, but he didnât let go of your waist, clinging to the shreds of what you had been.
âMaybe I was just a rehearsal,â you continued, your voice cracking on the last word, though the smile never left your lips. It was a smile of acceptance, of sacrifice for the otherâs sake. âSo that she could have a better version of you, one more prepared. NoâŚâ You swallowed hard, searching for strength where none remained. âDonât waste it. Fate works like thatâsometimes so simple and so complicated. Maybe youâre the love of my life⌠but Iâm not yours.â
And in that precise instant, as if the universe had a macabre sense of timing, the distant yet violent roar of an explosion rattled the windows. Within seconds, the heavy silence of the room was replaced by the sirens of ambulances and police cars slicing through the night. A column of dark smoke began to rise in the distance, painting the sky with a new emergency.
A bitter irony overtook you. Even in the most cataclysmic moment of your personal life, the world still demanded its hero.
âGo, Clark,â you said, gently wiping the tears that still streaked his cheeks with your thumbs. It was a maternal gesture, a farewell. âThe citizens arenât to blame for the problems in Supermanâs other life.â
He nodded, a grimace of pain and duty warring on his face. He turnedâand in a second, literally in the blink of an eyeâthe man of wool and cotton was gone, replaced by the blue and red armor beneath his civilian clothes, ready to emerge. But as he stepped toward the doorway, transformed, he froze.
He didnât move. His eyes, now heavy with the weight of two identities, fixed on you. Perhaps it wasnât just Clark saying goodbye, but Superman tooâsaying farewell to the only person who truly saw him, without the suit. And that hurt infinitely more than any other goodbye. Because in that moment, you werenât looking at a god disguised as a reporter; you were looking at your Clarkâor what was left of him.
âIâm sorry,â he said again, and the word sounded hollow, too small to fill the abyss opening between you. He moved closer and wrapped you in his arms, and you stayed there, curled against his chest, memorizing the rhythm of a heart that would soon beat for someone else. When he pulled back, his eyes dropped to your lips. An old impulseâa reflex born of hundreds of farewells and reunionsâdrew him toward you. He was about to kiss you.
But you stopped him.
Softly, you placed your hand on his cheek, guiding his face away. No. Those kisses, those intimate gestures, no longer belonged to you. They were hers nowâto a future that no longer included your smile. Instead, he bowed his head and pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead. His nose brushed your skin in a final, desperate attempt to inhale your essence one last time.
âDonât leave tonight, please,â he pleaded, his voice a rasp of anguish against your hair. âItâs too late.â
âYes,â you lied, knowing that every extra second in that place that was no longer your home would be torture. âI wonât leave.â
He nodded, swallowing his pain. With one last look that pierced through your soul, he walked toward the window. He threw it open, and the night breezeânow laced with smoke and tragedyâflooded the room. One second, and all that remained was a red streak vanishing into the emergency-stained night.
You stood still, watching until that flash of color disappeared completely into the distance, until you were certain his attention, his heart, and his duty were already miles awayâfocused on saving a world that, for you, had already ended.
And then, your legs gave out.
As if the string holding you upright had been suddenly cut, you collapsed to the floor. The façade of strength shattered, and a convulsive, guttural cry tore out from the deepest part of your being. You pressed a hand against your chestâover the heart that you could almost feel breaking into a thousand piecesâwhile the other clutched at the carpet.
âThis isnât real, this canât be happening,â you repeated between gasps, refusing to accept the truth you had already embraced in words minutes before. âPlease, let it not be true.â But you already knew. You knew it in every object in the house, in every memory stuck to the walls. It was true.
Minutesâor maybe an eternityâpassed as you cried on the floor, until a faint instinct for survival forced you to breathe deeply and wipe your face with fury. You made yourself stand.
With mechanical movements, like an automaton, you began packing everything. Your clothes, your toothbrush, that book youâd been reading on the nightstand. And then your eyes fell on the photos. Too many. In frames of silver and wood, capturing frozen momentsâby Clark, by you, by both. There you were, laughing at the fair, with the sea behind you, embracing on a snowy day. Each one was a knife. You sighedâa sound pulled from deep withinâand from all of them, you took only the smallest, the one that fit in the palm of your hand. You couldnât take more than the essentials: your clothes and one tiny fragment of a happiness already gone.
With your bags packed and by the door, the taxi on its way, you grabbed a piece of paper. Not a blank sheet, but the back of an old receiptâthe first thing you found. With a trembling hand but a piercing clarity, you wrote:
âI couldnât wait for you, Clark. Seeing you again would make me refuse to leave, and Iâm not the kind of woman who begs. Iâm the kind who respects feelingsâeven when they break her heart. Iâm grateful for your honesty, even if it hurts more than any lie. Everything feels so strange and complicated because⌠I really do love you, Clark. And it hurts so much to know that this wonât last much longer.
I donât want to stay here, going mad, wondering how you stopped loving me. Where did I fail? If I stay, that question will devour me alive, and Iâd rather run away with what little dignity I have left. Iâm so sorry to leave like this, but thereâs nothing else to say except⌠be happy. I hope you find a partner and a confidante like you were to me. And I know Lois will do a wonderful job. But I canât stay knowing that someone else already lives in your thoughts. I just canât.
But I love you, Clark. More than you could ever imagine. And I hope youâll be happy. Thank you for taking care of me, even when your mind and your heartbeat no longer belonged to me. Goodbye forever, my love.â
You folded the letter with infinite care, as if burying something fragile. You left it in the center of the living room table, resting on the very spot where youâd so often placed his coffee mug in the mornings.
You looked around the apartment one last time. The place where you had waited through so many nights, counting the minutes until Clarkâor Supermanâwalked through that door. Where you had laughed until your stomach hurt, where you had celebrated his birthday with a homemade cake full of sugar and affection. And despite everythingâdespite the hollow space spreading in your chestâyou smiled. A sad, bittersweet smile, but a genuine one, for the bright memories that, at least for you, had been real.
And you left.
Maybe he never thought about it.
Maybe he just wanted to be honest, because his mother, Martha, had taught him never to lie to someone who truly loved him. Someone like you. The one who smiled at him without restraint, who waited for him at home, and ran into his arms with total devotion. So many happy moments that he himself, with his own hands, had shattered. He never meant to. He simply didnât know how to handle the hurricane of confusion in his chest.
When the fire ended and everyone was safe, he returned to his apartment. The door closed behind him with a dull click. And thenâsilence.
The silence was the first thing that hit him. Not the absence of sound, but the silence of your absence. A physical silence, one that hung heavy in the air. Clark closed the apartment door behind him, and the familiar creak of the wood sounded hollow, like in an abandoned house.
His eyes, still adjusting to the dimness after the glare of the flames, scanned the living room instinctively, searching for you. For the silhouette that was always on the couch, or peeking out from the kitchen with a relieved smile. Nothing.
âSweetheart?â The word slipped from his lips before his mind could stop itâa whisper loaded with hope that was already a mirage.
Only the hum of the refrigerator answered him.
His super-hearing, automatic and desperate, sharpened. He filtered through the buildingâs soundsâthe TV of the neighbor downstairs, the pipes groaning... but not the rhythm of your heart. Not your steady breathing. Not the soft brush of your skin against the fabric of the couch.
A sudden chill, completely foreign to his physiology, ran through him. Sheâs gone.
He moved toward the center of the room, and then he saw it: a folded piece of paper on the table, a small white rectangle screaming in the darkness. He approached it with a slowness that wasnât like him. His fingersâcapable of bending steelâtrembled slightly as he picked up the note.
He read it. Not once, but twice, three times. Every word was a nail in a coffin he had built with his own hands without realizing it. âThank you for taking care of me, even when your mind and your heartbeat no longer belonged to me. Goodbye forever, my love.â
Goodbye forever.
The final phrase echoed in his head like a muffled explosion. Forever. It wasnât a âsee you later,â nor an âI need space.â It was a clean, final cut. And then, reality unfolded in his mind with terrifying clarity.
You wouldnât be there when he came back from his missions. He wouldnât find coffee waiting in the morning. He wouldnât hear your footsteps in the hallway. Your laughter would no longer fill these rooms. Your perfume was already fading, and soon, only the memory of it would remain.
His mind, faster than light, began projecting the futureâdays, weeks, years. And in none of those scenarios were you there. Not in this apartment. Not in his life.
And then he understood the most devastating truth: it wasnât just that you wouldnât return to this place. It was that youâwith that fierce resolve that sometimes hid behind your tendernessâwere capable of disappearing. He knew your story, your ability to rebuild yourself far away from anything that hurt you. You werenât the kind to stay in the same city, frequenting the same cafĂŠs, hoping for a chance encounter. You erased your tracks.
He wouldnât run into you by accident on the street. You wouldnât bump into each other at the grocery store. He wouldnât hear about you from mutual friends. Nothing. You would become a ghost who had decided to stop haunting him.
The thought of that total absenceâthat absolute void where a vital person once livedâhit him with a force stronger than any villain he had ever faced. A dense, cold panic took hold of him. His heart, which beat with the power of a sun, seemed to contract in pain within his chest. He gasped, short of breath in his own home.
He looked around, and for the first time, the apartment didnât feel like a refuge. It felt like a tomb. Every object, every photo on the wall that he himself had hung, every pillow you had chosen, was no longer a reminder of what he had, but of what he had lostâirrevocably.
He had been so focused on the anguish of his confession, on the storm of his confused feelings for Lois, that he had never... never considered the desolate landscape that would remain afterward. He hadnât thought about the silence. He hadnât thought about the half-empty bed. He hadnât thought about the real possibility that youâhis rock, his homeâmight simply vanish.
Now, that future loomed over himâcold, silent, eternal. And the question, the doubt that had led him to this, turned into a slab of ice in his stomach.
Was it worth it? Was this black hole he had opened in his life worth itâfor a doubt, for a shadow of a feeling that now, in the vastness of your absence, felt insignificant?
The hero who could bear the weight of the world on his shoulders suddenly felt crushed by the weight of a few words written on a piece of paper. And for the first time, he knew what it meant to feel completely, irreversibly alone.
ââââ ââŚââŚâ ââââ
This work is mine. Copying or translating this fic is strictly prohibited. Any issue must be notified directly to me. Thank you.
Call Me King â Part I/II
Someone mentioned wanting more non-civilian reader fics, and I said say less. Iâve been dying to explore the idea of a Kryptonian reader, someone who doesnât crave the power or responsibility that Superman embraces, but still carries the same potential. What does it mean to have all that strength and not want to be a hero?
As always, feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are welcome and appreciated!
c.kent/kryptonian!reader
It had been an accident.
A full-blown, not-thinking-in-the-moment accident. A âIâm on my period and about to ruin anyone who ruins my dayâ kind of accident.
Really, it was the Kaijuâs fault.Â
It shouldnât have risen up from the Pacific and nearly crushed the Seattle port. It shouldnât have ruined your morning coffee and the relaxing walk to the office. And it definitely shouldnât have made you late for a meeting you didnât even want to attend.
But there it was. Caught on at least half a dozen angles from phones, helicopters, and traffic cams.
âYou think sheâs Kryptonian?â one of your coworkers asked, squinting at the looping footage on the conference room TV.
The chyron across the bottom of the screen blared:
BREAKING: Vigilante Superman? The One Who Calls Herself King.
âI mean, the whole laser-eye thing kind of gives it away. Thatâs, what, three of them now?â another chimed in without looking up from his notes. âAt least she isnât calling herself Super something. Gotta respect the branding.â
âCalling herself King though? Isnât that a little much?â
The screen replayed the figure in that black leather bodysuit, heeled boots digging into the spined hide of the beast sheâd dropped. Cameras caught eyes still glowing faintly from the heat vision that had done most of the work.Â
You could almost feel yourself dying of secondhand embarrassment.
That bodysuit was never being worn again. Ever.
Maybe paired when that cute jacket you wanted to wear with itâ
You dragged a hand down your face, shutting those thoughts off.
No one asked for this. No one asked to wake up one morning with the sun buzzing in their veins and bones that could break concrete. Not after being sick for so long, not after finally understanding why. No one asked to be lumped into the same category as Superman, Supergirl, or whichever cape had the better PR team this week.
Youâd done what anyone else wouldâve doneâokay, maybe not with the eye beamsâbut still. The dock workers wouldâve been crushed without anyone stepping in. But in your mind, that wasnât heroism. That was survival. That was âI didnât want to watch people get pulped before I even finished my latte.â
And then, because the universe apparently hated you and killing your home planet wasnât enough, the TV anchors had latched on to the worst possible soundbite.
âI am no savior,â that familiar voice only to you crackled through the speakers, âbut you can call me King.â
A name you hadnât thought about, hadnât workshopped, hadnât even wanted. They had asked, and youâd panicked. Out of all the things you could have said, that slipped out.
How utterly embarrassing.
It had always been a joke in high school. Back when you were the perpetually sick girl who somehow still managed to claw her way to valedictorian. The girl who sometimes mysteriously perked up after removing the strange green-stoned ring that had been with her since forever.
Friends had called you âKingâ half-mocking, half-affectionateâfor being student body president, for surviving every hospital trip, for pushing through. Back then, it had been harmless fun.Â
Now it was plastered across national news.
So, so screwed.
Your hand trailed absently to the small gold huggie hoops that never left your ears. The only thing between you and discovery. To everyone else they were a dainty accessory, understated and unremarkable. In reality? Kryptonian tech.
Activated, they bent light and shifted the subtle contours of your face. Enough to blur details, to make the woman on-screen not quite the woman sitting in the conference room. Enough to keep you safe. Enough to keep the lines between your life and whatever the hell this was from completely collapsing.
You silently thanked every last god in sightâand the parents you barely rememberedâfor the foresight to leave you these tools. Without them, you wouldnât be fielding side-eye from coworkers wondering if this mysterious âKingâ might be Kryptonian. Youâd be outed. Exposed. Hunted.
Instead, you could sit there with your hand pressed against your temple, feigning a headache while the room buzzed about Seattleâs newest âsuper.â
Never again. You were never taking that ring off again. The one that dulled your power, muted the sunlight, kept you small and ordinary.Â
Youâd really thought you could stay invisible. That being careful meant being safe. That maybe, just maybe, you could have a normal job, a normal apartment, a normal life. But a giant sea-monster on your way to work had ended that fantasy in twelve minutes flat.
~ ⌠~ ⌠~
âWho calls themselves King? Is she Lex Luthor?â Lois grumbled, aggressively chewing on her pen. Her desk was a disaster of sticky notes and printouts, all of them clipped or taped to the article sheâd been building for a week. âNo symbol, no alliances, no public appearance, no way of contacting her. She just shows up, wrecks the giant sea monster, and disappears.â
âShe is no Superman, thatâs for sure,â Jimmy muttered from his desk. He flicked through footage on his monitor, images of black leather, dented metal and glowing eyes behind black tints. âI thought west coast news was kidding when they called her a vigilante Superman. But it checks out. In the last several weeks situations have been sighted in at least four different states. Saving a woman from an assault in Portland, torching a drug shipment in San Diego, stopping a train derailment in Oregon, breaking into ship storage containers up in Vancouver.â
âVigilante,â she echoed, scribbling the word onto her notes. âNot hero.â
âShe doesnât even seem to want the attention,â Jimmy added, leaning back.Â
Lois glanced at the looping footage again, eyes narrowing. âNo âSâ⌠but sheâs Kryptonian. Has to be. Nothing else moves like that.â
From his spot, Clark Kent looked up from his screen at the sound of the name. He kept his face neutral, but his jaw ticked once. The faintest glint of concern flickered behind his glasses as the clip played again.
The news footage slowed: a flash of red lit the frame before the craneâs container slipped free, hurtling toward the pavement. And then she was there. Hands gripping the iron doors and tearing them away as if they were cardboard.
Clarkâs breath caught, just slightly. She was without a doubt Kryptonian. He didnât need data or science to confirm itâit was a hum in his blood, a resonance in his bones. A familiar thrum, like recognizing a chord youâve always known how to play.
And yet⌠different.
A feeling stirred in him, not just concern, though he wished that was all it was. Concern, he could box up. Concern was professional. This wasnât that. Fascination, maybe. Curiosity. A pull.
Superman had no business being fascinated with a woman who seemed hellbent on doing everything her way. Not with the aftermath heâd already reviewed: cracked docks, twisted steel, half a dozen injury reports, and the lingering scorch marks only heat vision could leave. Not with the recklessness on display.
But he couldnât help it.
There was another one of them.
Someone else had survived the fall of Krypton besides him and Kara
But before the thought could bury itself any deeper, an office door slammed open.
âAlright, listen up!â Perry Whiteâs voice was across the bullpen. A dozen heads snapped up from screens and papers. Clark figured it was going to be something about this âKingâ and getting photos, interviews, anything the Planet could publish before anyone else.
But he was pleasantly surprised.
âWeâve got a new face today. Freelancer outta some tech company, donât ask me which, it was three acronyms too long and I donât give a damn. Sheâs here to help straighten out our IT mess, so if youâve been cussing at your monitors, blame yourselves, then thank her.â
Chairs scraped, murmurs rose, and then a woman stepped forward. A polite smile. Definitely professional. Just another contractor in sensible shoes and a blazer that was trying too hard not to wrinkle, but had to have been tailored with the way it fit. She gave a small wave, eyes darting around the bullpen. For a fraction of a second, he felt his stomach pitched.
His body reacted before his mind did, like a string pulled taut somewhere deep in his chest. Something in the air around her hit him, familiar in a way he couldnât explainâheat in the blood, pressure in the lungs.Â
Gosh, she was pretty.
The thought made his face flush as it settled in and quickly looked away.
He barely heard the rest of what Perry was saying. Something about front-page headlines, something about âKingâ and how the world wanted answers. The bullpen hummed around him, keys clacking, phones ringing, printers grinding, but all of it dulled under the sound of his pulse.
The cursor blinked on a blank document. He told himself to focus. Heâd been here before. Met plenty of people, plenty of strangers with strong presences, but this was⌠different. It was like the air around her carried a hum only he could hear.
He tried not to look up again. Really, he did.
It wasnât until a hand landed on his shoulder that Clark jumped, startled enough to jostle his glasses. Jimmy snickered.
âEasy, big guy,â Jimmy said, leaning on the back of his chair. âYou think sheâs single?â
Of course that would be Jimmyâs first question.
Clark coughed, adjusting his tie like it would somehow settle the red creeping up his neck. âIâI donât know. Maybe you should, uh⌠ask her.â
Lois didnât even look up from her notes. âProbably isnât if you ask her,â she muttered, dry as ever. âAlthough if sheâs got any sense, sheâll pretend she didnât hear you.â
Jimmy grinned. âYou saying I donât have a shot?â
âIâm saying youâve got better odds with Perryâs stapler,â Lois replied, flipping a page.
Clark smiled faintly, grateful for the distraction, though his thoughts refused to obey him. He glanced toward the glass hallway just in time to see her following Perry to some corner office.
That strange, low hum in his chest hadnât faded. If anything, it was stronger now.
~ ⌠~ ⌠~
Two pens. Youâd broken two pens by the time noon hit.
Ink stains dotted your fingers, the third pen cap already showing stress marks from how tightly you were gripping it. This was what you got for leaving the ring back in Seattle. At leastâthatâs where you thought it was. It couldâve rolled under your bed or fallen behind the dresser; you werenât sure.
Youâd half-considered flying back after work to check, but that came with its own list of problems. Namely, explaining to your roommate how you managed to get from Metropolis to Seattle in under an hour without an airport, ticket, or rational excuse.
It wasnât worth the risk.
âŚProbably.
But then again, maybe it was worth it, because the longer you stayed in this city, the more unbearable it became. The newsroom TVs were all tuned to the same feed. Metropolisâs golden boy mid-battle, cape snapping behind him as he wrestled something that looked distinctly not of this world.
Superman. Of course.
How the hell did you forget this was his territory when you accepted the placement?
You hadnât really had a choice. The assignment had come down from corporate, six weeks helping the Planet overhaul their IT system. You told yourself it was perfect. No one would look twice at the girl buried in cables and system diagnostics.
Except, apparently, your own blood.
Ever since youâd landed here, it hadnât shut up. The humming beneath your skin, deep in your bones, a thrumming urge that spiked every time the man in red and blue appeared on the screen.
Fight.
Fight.
Fight.
The instinct wasnât fear, it was recognition. That same alien thrum that made your stomach twist and your knuckles crack when the sun hit your desk just right.
You pressed your palms flat against the keyboard, forcing yourself to breathe. You werenât going to join in. You werenât going to get dragged into another cityâs problems. Let Superman handle his own monsters. Youâd done enough damage for one lifetime.
And if the pulse of sunlight beneath your skin didnât agree⌠well, it would just have to shut up.
What you werenât prepared for was the parade of people who kept stopping by your desk. It wasnât hard to tell who was genuinely welcoming you versus who was fishing for gossip or attention. Some flirted; others gave polite hellos before drifting off. You managed to smile through most of it, until they stopped by.
âHi, welcome to the Planet,â the woman said, tone bright but quick, as though she had a dozen deadlines breathing down her neck. âIâm Lois Lane, and this is Clark Kent. Iâm hoping Jimmy hasnât made his way over yet and given you a bad impression of our side of the office.â
You blinked, startled enough that your first instinct was to look anywhere but her face, mostly because standing next to her was the very large, very quiet man who suddenly made your lungs forget how to function.
Clark Kent.
He looked⌠nervous, fidgety almost, shifting his weight like he wasnât sure if he was taking up too much space. Youâd barely processed the sound of his voice when he started to speak.
âWelcome to the Planet, Missââ
âYou have concrete dust on your collar, Mr. Kent,â you murmured before you could stop yourself. Your eyes had flicked up from his neck and caught on the faint gray smear along his crisp shirt collar. Dust that had no business being there unless heâd been close to the fight downtown.
For half a heartbeat, his expression faltered. A muscle in his jaw ticked, then softened as his mouth opened like he might explain.
You swallowed, your gaze caught on his face now, on the eyes hidden behind the lenses. Blue. Too blue. The kind of blue that could shatter you if it ever met full sunlight.
The last time youâd seen eyes like that had been beforeâbefore everything. Before Seattle. Before the name. Before Earth.
You recovered as quickly as you could, introducing yourself with a polite, neutral smile and the same line youâd already given half the office that morning. âIf you have any problems, let me know. Please have everything saved and backed up by six p.m. tonight. Thereâll be a full system reboot that might wipe local files for maintenance recovery.â
Then you turned back to your screen like nothing had happened, pretending your pulse wasnât thundering in your ears. You couldnât understand why you were reacting like this.
Six weeks. You could survive six weeks of being normal.
You repeated that to yourself like a mantra. Six weeks of quiet. Six weeks of pretending you were just another face in the office. There were no train hijackings to ruin your weekend getaway, no friends getting tangled in cartel busts, no monsters crawling from the sea demanding your attention. Just work, and overhearing gossip, and the rhythmic hum of servers spinning beneath your fingertips.
You almost believed it.
The first two weeks went smoothly, mundane, even. The kind of life you used to daydream about. The kind of life where âsuperpowersâ only meant saving a document before it crashed.
Expect the second morning.
Youâd just settled into your chair, mid-programming of last night's reboot, when a soft knock sounded against your office door.
âCome in,â you called, expecting someone with another login issue or a printer jam.
Instead, the door eased open to reveal him.
He filled the doorway without trying to, broad shoulders framed by a slightly rumpled suit jacket, tie a little crooked, glasses catching the light just enough to obscure his eyes. There was something disarmingly gentle about him. Like the world demanded too much noise, and he refused to add to it.
And yet, every nerve in your body sparked to life.
The hum beneath your skin flared like a struck chord. You could feel the energy shift in the air, that subtle gravity between two similar frequencies. It was unnerving.Â
He made you nervous, and that alone was infuriating.
âGood morning, Mr. Kent,â you said, tilting your head, keeping your tone as even as possible. âHow can I help you?â
He hesitated, caught between steps, his hand rubbing at the back of his neck in that boyish, self-conscious way that screamed Midwestern politeness. âIâuhâwanted to make sure you got a proper welcome,â he said quickly, his voice gentle but unsure. âI didnât know what you liked, so Iâuhâasked the coffee shop for their seasonal special.â
He crossed the room with careful steps, placing the cup on your desk like it was fragile crystal. Steam curled up from the lid, carrying cinnamon and espresso, faintly sweet and spiced. âWelcome to the planetâ written on it.
âAlso,â he added after a pause, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, shy smile, âplease, just Clark.â
You blinked at the cup, then up at him. âThank you⌠Clark.â
The name felt strange on your tongue. Too familiar. Too human.
He smiled again, almost bashful, and for a moment, something in your chest gave. You didnât know if it was recognition or fear, but it felt ancient, instinctive, like the atmosphere just changed. You wondered if he felt it too, that faint tightening in the air, that almost imperceptible pulse between you.
He lingered for a second longer, fidgeting with the strap of his messenger bag before saying, âI hope the teamâs treating you alright. The Planet can be⌠a bit of a circus.â
âEveryoneâs been kind,â you said, hands folded in your lap to keep from fidgeting. You could feel the faint tremor under your skinâthe pulse of light in your veins that always came when you were too close to⌠one of them. Or the sun. It made you miss home. âItâs⌠quieter than I expected.â
He chuckled softly, gaze dropping to the edge of your desk. âGive it a few hours. It never stays quiet around here.â
There was something about the way he said it, like he knew too well the truth of that statement.
You nodded, the silence stretching just enough to make you shift in your chair. âWell, I appreciate the coffee. Really.â
He smiled again, and it was devastating in its simplicity. Genuine. âAnytime.â
And then, before you could breathe properly, he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, and you were left staring after him.Â
Oh my god. You were being so stupid. Like a dog in fucking heat. One attractive man, and suddenly your heart decided to practice gymnastics. You were curling a strand of hair around your fingers like it was a lifeline, catching yourself doing it, and wanting to slam your head against the desk.
You were ovulating. That had to be it. Some awful mix of alien hormones and the side effect of spending too long under Metropolis sunlight. Because there was no other logical reason your body was reacting this way. To a coworker, no less.
No, scratch that. Not just a coworker. Someone you hardly knew.
Which made it infinitely worse.
You could feel it even when he was gone: that faint hum in your blood that came alive twice now, the pull like magnetism between two halves of the same charge. Youâd told yourself it was coincidence, nothing more. Instincts whispered otherwise, and that made it dangerous.
So you did the only rational thing you could think of.
You excused yourself in the most polite, calm way you could. Walked to the stairwell, up to the rooftop, and thenâ
Jumped.
The cold wind tore past your face, stealing your breath in a way that shouldâve scared you. If you were human, maybe it would have. Maybe your heart wouldâve climbed up your throat and your stomach wouldâve dropped straight through the soles of your feet. Maybe youâd have screamed.
But you werenât.
Instead, the air rushed around you like an old friend. It welcomed you, curved against your skin, caught you. Your stomach still flipped, but not from fearâjust that strange, weightless thrill that lived in your bones.
You angled your body, let gravity have you for one heartbeat longer, then pushed against the pull, shooting upward like a bullet through the clouds.
The burn of the atmosphere stung pleasantly against your skin, wind tangling your hair as you climbed higher and higher. Metropolis became small below you, and for a brief moment, it felt quiet again. You hovered there in the clouds, pulling in lungfuls of air, trying to bury the knot in your chest under the thin peace of the atmosphere.
You had to stay away from him.
Clark Kent was dangerous for a human.
~ ⌠~ ⌠~
If this was what obsession felt like, then sue him now.
Clark couldnât help himself. The pull in his blood wouldnât stop every time he got close to you. It wasnât visible. It wasnât even logical. But it was there. Something beneath the surface, like gravity, drawing him toward you with quiet, stubborn insistence.
Heâd tried to ignore it. For weeks, he told himself it was just curiosity. Just the polite interest of a colleague. But the way his stomach knotted when you brushed past him, the way he caught himself smiling at the sound of your laugh from across the bullpen, none of that was âpolite.â
And it was getting worse.
He wondered if your hands were as soft as they looked when you typed, the faint click of your nails on the keyboard oddly soothing to his superhuman hearing. He wondered if you realized how often you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were focused, or how you bit the inside of your cheek when you were deep in thought.
He almost smacked his head against the desk just to stop the thought. God, Clark, pull yourself together.
This was ridiculous. He shouldnât be thinking about any of that, about you. But it was like something inside him had switched on, and no matter how he tried to bury it, it hummed right back.
Three weeks. Three weeks of slow, torturous spiral that hadnât gone unnoticed by Lois or Jimmy.
Lois had stopped pretending not to notice the way his voice tripped when you were nearby. Jimmy had started teasing him outright, nudging him every time you passed by.
And every darn time, Clark couldnât help but look up. Even when he didnât mean to. Even when he was supposed to be writing. His eyes just followed you automatically. His hearing had even started doing it, tuning itself unconsciously to the sound of your voice, the rhythm of your footsteps and heartbeat, the soft exhale you made when something frustrated you.
âDo you have anything to save? Iâm going to reboot your computer.â
That voice pulled him straight out of his thoughts.
He blinked and looked up right into your eyes. You were standing, one hand on the edge of his desk, brow slightly raised, waiting for an answer. And god, his heart skipped. He was grateful for once that his hearing wasnât external right now; if you could hear the rhythm of it, heâd die of embarrassment on the spot.
âIâuh, no,â he stammered, adjusting his glasses in a useless attempt to look composed. âI havenât been able to work since the error popped up.â
You nodded, and without a second thought, leaned forward to reach the back of his monitors, fingers finding the cords like youâd done it a thousand times.
Clark froze.
Your arm brushed against his shoulder, light but enough to short-circuit every coherent thought in his head. You smelled⌠warm. Not like perfume, but sunlight. Clean and faintly sweetâlike heat and ozone after a summer storm with a hint of vanilla. It wasnât overpowering, but it was distinct, the kind of scent that pressed itself into his memory.
Almost like the sky.
He swallowed, pulse thudding in his throat. Focus. You were just doing your job. It wasnât personal. You were not the problemâhe was.
Why canât I just sit still? he thought miserably. Sheâs going to think Iâm a lunatic.
You straightened a moment later, brushing an invisible wrinkle from your sleeve. âThere. That should do it. Give it a few minutes before logging back in.â
âRight. Uhâthank you,â he managed, his voice a little too soft. He was trying to shake it off, trying to breathe normally again when Jimmyâs voice spoke up.
âHey, you guys see this? King made another appearance last night, in the city no less,â Jimmy said, spinning his monitor so Lois could see. âKnocked out some burglar trying to break into an apartment over on Fifth. Local cops found the guy unconscious in the yard. Sheâs got a hell of a right hook.â
Clarkâs head snapped up, but not fast enough to miss the way you froze.
It was subtle, barely a pause, a flicker of stillness, but his eyes caught it instantly. You turned your head just enough to glance toward Jimmyâs screen, something tightening in your expression.
âAny pictures?â you asked, voice careful.
Jimmy shook his head. âNah, nothing new. Just a police statement, but the description matches hers.âÂ
You arched a brow. âSo youâre making an assumption without proper proof?â
âCâmon, thatâs half the fun of journalismâeducated guessing.â
âYouâre confusing journalism with gossip, Olsen.â Lois snorted without looking up from her notes.
âI prefer the term investigative curiosity,â he shot back. Then his gaze slid back to you, a hint of curiosity. âYou sound kinda invested though. Why? You a fan of hers or something?â
You gave a little shrug. âIâm from Seattle,â you said evenly. âHard not to be interested in the woman kicking up dirt back home. Canât imagine why sheâd be here when Metropolis already has its own.â
Lois hummed, pen scratching across paper. âMaybe sheâs tired of the rain.â
âOr maybe sheâs got a grudge against Superman. Thatâd sell.â Jimmy chuckled.Â
Your lips quirked, but there was no real humor behind it. âYeah,â you murmured, eyes flicking away. âMaybe. Itâd be a fight of the century." Then, you disappeared toward your office before anyone could press further.
There was a long moment where his brain just⌠stalled. Then, as if by reflex, it started cataloguing.
Seattle. West Coast. Rain. Coffee. Heâd read once that people from there didnât mind gray skies; that they even liked the sound of it against glass. He wondered if you did. He wondered what you looked like when you werenât in office lighting. Whether the sun caught in your hair differently, whether your laugh sounded the same outside this building.
Stop.
He dragged a hand down his face. He was a grown man, not a teenager. But ever since youâd arrived, it was like something in him had short-circuited. The air in the newsroom felt different when you were around. He didnât want to say it, but it felt like home.
Heâd tried to rationalize it as curiosity, professional interest, anything but what it was. It didnât help. Every instinct in his body wanted to turn toward you, listen for you, know you. And that wasnât normal. Not for him. Not for Superman.
âEarth to Clark,â Lois said sharply.
He blinked, realizing sheâd been talking to him for a solid ten seconds while he stared blankly at his monitor.
âSorry,â he said quickly. âWhatâwhat were you saying?â
She set down her pen with a sigh. âI said, if youâre going to keep mooning over the new girl like a golden retriever who lost his tennis ball, do us all a favor and ask her out already.â
Clarkâs head snapped up, glasses slipping slightly down his nose. âLois, Iâm notâ I donâtââ
She arched a brow. âYou donât what, Kent? Notice her? Because youâve been typing the same password for fifteen minutes and staring into space like she personally stole your soul.â
Jimmy snorted from his desk. âShe kinda did, dude.â
âJimmy,â Lois warned, but her grin didn't fade. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing. âSeriously, Smallville. Youâve been weird ever since she showed up. You blush every time she talks to you. Just ask her to coffee. Youâre unbearable when youâre lovesick.â
Clark sputtered. âIâm notâLois, Iâm fine. Sheâs just⌠interesting.â
âRight,â she said dryly. âAnd I only read Cat Fancy for the articles.â
âYou want me to set it up for you, CK? Iâm great with intros.â Jimmy added, leaning over.
Clark groaned, pressing his palms to his face. âPlease donât.â
âAsk her out,â Lois muttered without looking up. âBefore I do it for you.â
~ ⌠~ ⌠~
There was no logical explanation for this. None.
How the hell had you let Lois Lane talk you into going out?
You didnât even remember saying yes. One minute sheâd leaned against your doorway, chatting casually about how everyone from IT deserved to âsee the sun once in a while,â and the next you were agreeing to dinner. And drinks. With the Planetâs resident power duo.
This entire week had been weird anyway.
Ever since that break-in, nothing had felt quite right. You hadnât even meant to intervene. The guy had tried to force his way into Mrs. Donahueâs apartment, and something in you had snapped. Sheâd made you cookies, for crying out loud. Sheâd asked about your day. You werenât about to let some lowlife undo that.
He should be grateful all he walked away with was a broken jaw.
Still, it had set a pattern in motion you didnât like. The normal youâd built for yourself was cracking. And worse, a certain individual had decided to make it part of his daily routine to visit.
At first, it had been every few daysâjust a wave, a smile, a polite âmorning.â But then Clark had started showing up with coffee. Always the same order, always a note written on the lid in his neat, looping handwriting. Little things that made your stomach do that annoying flutter it hadnât done since high school.
Donât forget lunch today.
Good luck with the system update.
Try to take five minutes to breathe.
Sweet. Stupidly sweet. The kind of gestures that could break through walls you hadnât realized youâd built.
By Thursday morning, youâd stopped pretending not to notice the rhythm of his footsteps. You could pick out his heartbeat from across the whole building. Impossibly strong, and painfully human in its sincerity.
So when he knocked on your door that Friday morning, you didnât even bother to look up.
âGood morning, Clark,â you said, your pen still moving across the page of notes in your lap.
There was a pauseâjust one beatâand you heard it, that telltale stutter of his heart before it found its rhythm again.
You nearly snorted, biting back the smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. God, he really was hopeless.
âMorning,â he said, a hint of a laugh in his tone. You could picture it perfectlyâthe small smile, the way his shoulders relaxed when he laughed, the way his voice warmed just slightly when he said your name.
Clark Kent was, without question, the biggest dork youâd ever met.
And avoiding him? That had failed miserably.
Youâd tried being distant. Tried keeping your interactions professional. Tried to remind yourself that every moment you spent with him made you vulnerable. But there was something about himâsomething so simple and unthreatening and goodâthat slipped under every defense youâd ever built.
It was almost enough to make you forget what you were.
Almost.
You glanced up finally, catching him mid-fidget with the lid of your coffee cup, that sheepish grin threatening to undo you entirely.
âThanks for the coffee,â you said, softer than you meant to.
âAnytime,â he replied, and the way he said itâlike he actually meant any timeâmade your heart skip before you forced it back into rhythm. He hesitated, eyes darting from the floor to your face. âDo youâuhâlike flowers?â
You blinked, caught off guard. âI donât know many girls who donât. Why? You gonna ask a girl out?â
The way he started to stutter, tripping over half-formed words as his ears turned pink, made you giggle. Actual, out-loud giggling, the kind of sound you didnât even recognize coming out of yourself anymore.
You covered your mouth, laughing softly. âIâm teasing, Clark. Yes, I like flowers. Iâm not that picky about them. My mom taught me flower language in high school, so itâs kind of hard not to.â
That earned you a small, shy smile from him, his shoulders relaxing as if youâd just handed him permission to breathe again. âFlower language?â he asked, clearly intrigued.
âYeah,â you said, leaning back in your chair, letting the memory settle like something warm and bittersweet. âShe used to say every bloom had a voice. Some meant love, some meant sorrow, and others meant forgiveness. She thought it was important to understand the ways people tried to speak without words.â
His gaze softened, and something in his expression shifted like he understood that sentiment more deeply than he wanted to admit.
For some reason, you nearly told him the rest.
The words sat right there on the edge of your tongue. The story of the couple whoâd adopted you, the home youâd stumbled into by accident. How youâd been the youngest of four, loved beyond measure by a woman whoâd once believed she couldnât have any more children.
How your mom had called you her blessing from God, even when youâd arrived out of nowhereâbarefoot, bruised, speaking in a language no one recognized, looking up at her with wide, terrified eyes under a sky that felt too small for what you were.
You wanted to tell him all of that.
And you almost did.
But then the rational part of your brain caught upâthe part that remembered who you were and what youâd buried to stay hiddenâand you swallowed the words before they escaped.
âI guess I just got used to flowers meaning something,â you said instead, smiling faintly. âEven if itâs small.â
Clarkâs answering smile was soft, a little hesitant but impossibly genuine. âThat sounds like a good thing to get used to.â
You shrugged lightly, trying to keep it casual. âMaybe.â
For a heartbeat, the air between you felt different, almost fragile. His heartbeat thrummed steady and sure beneath it, the sound of it brushing faintly against your senses.
You looked down at the coffee he'd placed before the moment could stretch too far. âSo what about you? You like flowers, Clark?â
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. âI, uh, donât know much about them. My mom grows a whole garden back home, though. Peonies, lilacs⌠sunflowers.â
âOf course she grows sunflowers,â you said under your breath, smiling despite yourself. Midwest things.
âWhat was that?â
âNothing,â you said quickly, hiding your grin behind the coffee cup.
He tilted his head, pretending not to notice. âWell⌠maybe you could teach me that flower language sometime.â
You almost laughed againâalmost. But something about the way he said it made your pulse stumble instead.
Maybe it was the way his voice softened, or how his gaze lingered for just a second too long, or maybe it was that underlying hum between you that you could no longer pretend didnât exist. Was this what catching feelings was like?Â
âMaybe,â you said, and it came out quieter than you meant.Â
It had all caught up to youâcatching feelings. For Clark Kent. You really liked him, and you knew if you started dating him, you might just be doomed. Eventually, heâd have to find out the truth. That he wasnât with some normal woman from Seattle. That he was with something⌠outerworldly.
Or maybe you could keep it a secret forever. Keep the kryptonite ring close. Hide the strength, the heat behind your eyes. Pretend.
But something in your gut told you it would come out. Especially if Clark kept being this. Gentle. Kind. Unflinchingly sincere. You couldnât lie to that.
By the time you got home that evening, you let out a long sigh and stared at your reflection in the mirror.
You lookedânormal. Human. Mostly. You brushed your hair down, fixed your lipstick, and reminded yourself that this was just a drink. Loisâs words. âNo nightclub,â sheâd promised.
You could handle a bar.
You wanted to believe that.
~ ⌠~ ⌠~
The building was cozy.Â
Low lights, warm tones, the kind of place that smelled like old wood and lemon wedges. You spotted Clark almost immediately near the far booth, awkwardly checking his phone and looking painfully out of place among the chatter. He stood when he saw you, a small, nervous smile tugging at his mouth.
âYou look nice,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck. âI meanâuh, you always look nice, butââ
You laughed softly, shaking your head as you slid into the booth across from him. âRelax, Clark. Itâs just drinks.â
He smiled sheepishly and sat back down, still fidgeting with his glass of water. âRight. Just drinks.â
A buzz from both your phones interrupted the awkward silence. You glanced down, and your eyebrows pulled together as you read the message from Lois:
âCanât make it! Deadline from hell. You two have fun without me!â
What the hell?
âThatâs⌠weird,â you muttered, looking up. âShe was the one who planned this.â
Clark let out a soft, resigned sigh, leaning back in the booth with a groan. âOf course she did.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
He rubbed the back of his neck again, clearly embarrassed. âLois. Sheâs been⌠trying to get me to ask you out for a week. I think she finally just gave up and forced it.â
You stared at him, âwaitâso this was a setup?â
âApparently,â he admitted, his ears already turning pink. âAnd Iâm really sorry if that makes you uncomfortable. I didnât know until right now.â
You studied him for a long moment. He looked genuinely mortified. You could practically see the guilt written in his posture, shoulders drawn tight, lips pressed together like he was holding back another apology.
You exhaled slowly and leaned back in your seat. âWell,â you said finally, âitâs not the worst trap Iâve been caught in.â
He blinked, and then the corner of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. âThatâs⌠good? I think?â
âRelax, Clark. Itâs fine. Weâre already here, might as well make the most of it.â
He nodded, that shy, devastating smile returning. âYeah. Youâre right.â
The server came by with drinks, and for a moment, everything felt strangely easy. Simple. You traded small talk. Music, family, Metropolis weather. Clark relaxed a little more with every passing minute, shoulders unwinding, laughs sneaking out between sentences.
And somewhere between a refill and a shared basket of fries, you caught him looking at you againâreally looking. His eyes soft, like he was trying to memorize you in the dim light.
He hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, voice quieter now. âI should probably admit something before Lois does.â
You arched a brow. âOh?â
He smiled, nervous again but honest. âShe wasnât wrong. I⌠did want to ask you out. I just didnât know how.â
You froze, blinking once. âYouâwhat?â
It didnât surprise you considering how his heartbeat got around you. But the forwardness was something you didnât expect from him.
His cheeks turned pink again, but his gaze didnât waver. âYouâre easy to talk to. Kind. Smart. It feels like I've known you a lifetime, even though we've never met before. You make people feel calm, even when theyâre having a terrible day. I guess I just didnât want to mess that up by being⌠me.â
The sincerity in his voice hit something deep in your chest.
âClarkâŚâ you started, but the words wouldnât quite come.Â
He smiled faintly, glancing down at his drink. âAnyway. Thatâs⌠what I wanted to say. Lois just gave me the push I didnât have.â
You sat there for a long, quiet second, heart tripping over itself. He wasnât supposed to make this harder. He wasnât supposed to make you want this.
Fuck.
And yet, sitting there with him, hearing that confession, feeling that low hum in your bones growing stronger, you couldnât help it.
You smiled. âWell,â you said softly, âIâm glad she did.â
~ ⌠~ ⌠~
He felt⌠giggly.
That was the only word for it. It bubbled in his chest like heâd swallowed sunshine, something light and ridiculous and completely beyond his control.
Clark Kent â Superman â giggling like a fool internally because you smiled at him.
He couldnât remember the last time someone had made him feel that simple, that unguarded. Maybe it was Smallville. Maybe it was before the world learned his name. But sitting across from you, all the noise faded, the constant hum of the city, the heartbeat of every person in the building. There was just you.
In the end, heâd have to thank Lois. Even if sheâd tricked him into it, even if heâd fallen straight into the trap, he couldnât really be mad. He just couldnât believe he hadnât seen it coming.
He ran a thumb along the condensation on his glass, heart racing in that infuriating way that reminded him he wasnât as composed as he liked to think. âThen,â he started, then stopped, then tried again, âmay I ask you outââ
A beat.
He grimaced, immediately flustered. âTo dinner, obviously. Notânot right now, I just meantââ
You laughed. That soft, real laugh that had started to undo him from day one. It spilled into the air between you like the first breath after a storm, and he swore he could feel the warmth of it in his bones.
âClark,â you said, smiling, head tilting just slightly. âYouâre asking me on a date while weâre already on one.â
That earned a quiet laugh from him, one that sounded almost like a sigh of relief. âI guess I am, huh?â
âYou are,â you teased gently, nudging his foot beneath the table with yours. âYou are cute and funny and I donât know the last time Iâve been this attracted to someone.â
That caught him off guard completely. His face flushed, eyes wide and helpless in the most endearing way. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then gave up entirely and ducked his head, chuckling nervously.
âThank you,â he finally managed, voice a little rough. âI⌠I donât really know what to say to that.â
âYou donât have to,â you said softly. âJust accept my attempt at flirting.â
By the time you two were ready to leave, it was late. He felt like his chest had been rewired. Every nerve was alight, each one tuned to you.
The walk from the bar should have been easy. Simple, even. But nothing about this night was simple.
The city was soft around the edges, lit by amber streetlights and the faint hum of neon. A low wind moved through the streets, stirring the scent of rain that hadnât yet fallen. You walked beside him, arms crossed loosely, head tilted just slightly toward the sky like you were measuring its feeling. He wanted to ask what you were thinking. He didnât. He was too afraid youâd hear everything he wasnât saying.
âYou donât have to do this, you know,â you said as you rounded the corner.
He smiled, glancing at you. âI know,â he said simply. âBut I want to.â
Heâd meant it. He always did. But somehow the truth of it felt heavier tonight, as if the words carried something larger behind them.
For a few blocks, the silence between you was comfortable. You talked about the Planet, about Jimmyâs bad photography habits, about Loisâs habit of bulldozing everyone into dinner plans and then conveniently disappearing. You laughedâlightly, easilyâand it hit him somewhere low in his stomach every time.
When you finally reached your street, he looked up at the sign and stopped walking. âFifth Street?â he asked.
âYeah,â you said, already stepping toward the next building.
Something in him tightened. âThis is where that burglary was, isnât it?â
You hesitated, barely long enough for anyone else to notice. But Clark noticed everything. Every pause. Every breath. Every tiny truth you let slip out.
You shrugged, âIt was handled. No need to worry.â
He followed you to the building entrance, frowning softly. âI justâ that guyâs still in custody, but sometimes people have friends. Iâd feel better knowing youâre careful.â
You stopped, hand on the railing, turning to look at him fully. The streetlight above you cast a halo across your hair, soft and golden. You smiled, and it hit him like sunlight through glass. Maybe he didnât need the sun anymore if you were going to orbit around him.
âThatâs sweet,â you said. âBut you donât need to worry. I can take care of myself.â
Clarkâs throat went dry. You said it with such certainty. Not pride, but truth. A quiet assurance that he couldnât explain. And the strangest part was, he believed you. More than that, he felt it.
Still, the thought of you alone on this street stirred something deeper. Instinct, maybe. That need to protectâthe one he could never quite turn off.
âI know you can,â he said quietly. âDoesnât mean I stop caring.â
Your smile softened, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. You stepped closerâjust enough that he could see the faint reflection of the streetlights in your eyes.
âClark Kent,â you said, voice purely amused, âyou are dangerously charming.â
He laughed under his breath, because he didnât know what else to do. And then you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
It was innocent. Gentle. The barest press of warmth against his skin.
But the moment it happened, something changed.
It wasnât just the contact, it was the feeling that followed, like the air around him had charged, the static of a thousand thunderstorms threading through his blood. It hit him fast and deep, an electric hum racing from where your lips had touched him straight through to his chest.
For half a second, he thought heâd imagined it. Until he realized his heart wasnât beating normally. It was resonating. Matching something unseen, something that pulsed faintly between you.
He froze. His mind scrambled to make sense of itâscience, biology, anything. But there was no explanation, no precedent, no reason that your touch should make the sun itself feel closer.
âClark?â you asked softly, brows knitting. âYou okay?â
He looked at you. Really looked. The worry in your expression, the gentle steadiness in your voice. And underneath it, that same hum heâd been feeling for weeks, now amplified tenfold.
He didnât think. Couldnât.
The words slipped out. âCan Iâcan I kiss you?â
Your lips parted, surprise flickering across your face. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The world seemed to pull tighter around the two of you, the soft city sounds fading until there was only breath and the echo of two heartbeats trying to find the same rhythm.
And god help him, heâd never felt more human in his life.
~ ⌠~ ⌠~
Something choked in your throat at the requestâCan I kiss you?âlike your brain short-circuited trying to decide if it was real. The word and the want got caught somewhere in your chest.
But your body moved before your mind could catch up.
Your hands lifted, settling on either side of his face, his skin warm beneath your palms, stubble rough under your fingertips, and god, the look in his eyes. Soft and wide and searching, like he was scared youâd vanish if he blinked too fast.
You surged forward, crashing your mouth against his. His glasses pressed clumsy into your skin. Almost inconvenient, but it didnât matter.Â
Clark's hands flew to your hips, holding himself in the curve of you as if to anchor the moment. You felt him gasp, just barely, before he kissed you back like it was the only thing in the world he knew how to do. Lips moving in a dance with yours.
Your tongue gently brushed against his bottom lip, a soft, tentative invitation. He parted his lips, allowing you to slide in, meeting yours in a dance of exploration and desire. The world around you faded away, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, the taste of him, and the heat of his body pressed close.
You deepened the kiss, your hands moving from his face to tangle in his hair. His hands roamed your back, tracing the curves of your body, sending shivers down your spine. The kiss became more urgent, more passionate, as if you were both trying to lose yourselves in each other.
The taste of him was intoxicating, faintly like the drink heâd sipped earlier, but underneath that, something warm and him. You could feel his heartbeat pressed against your chest, pulsing in rhythm with your own, like your bodies had reached some silent agreement.
You broke the kiss slowly, reluctantly, just far enough to look into his face. His eyes met yours, dark and wide, pupils blown. His lips were red, kiss-bruised, slightly parted like he hadnât yet remembered how to breathe.
And god, he looked undone. Like someone whoâd just survived a storm and wasnât entirely sure he wanted to come out of it.
You smiled, slow and a little breathless. âSo,â you whispered, your lips brushing lightly against his, ânot a bad first unexpected date.â
He huffed a soft laugh, the sound shaky with disbelief. âUnexpected,â he echoed, voice rough. âThatâs one word for it.â
Neither of you said anything for a long time. The air felt easy, like youâd both agreed without words not to ruin it by speaking too soon.
Then he cleared his throat, his smile turning shy again, the familiar Clark Kent nervousness creeping back in. âSo⌠would I be pushing my luck if I asked whether thereâs going to be a second date?â
You blinked, caught off guard by how earnest he sounded. He wasnât joking. He genuinely wanted to know.
For a moment, you just looked at him, your heart still thrumming from the kiss, from the way he said date like it actually meant everything. Then a small grin tugged at your lips.
âYouâve made a good first impression, Kent,â you said, tilting your head playfully. âI think I could be persuaded.â
His smile bloomed, something disbelieving, the kind that reached his eyes and made your stomach flip all over again. âPersuaded, huh?â
âMm-hmm,â you murmured, stepping back toward the door. âWeâll see if you keep it up.â
He laughed under his breath, hands sliding back into his coat pockets. âChallenge accepted.â
You lingered there for a second longer than you should have, just looking at him, memorizing the curve of his smile, the soft edge of light around him. Then you finally slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind you.
On the other side, you pressed your back against the wood and let out a long breath, your lips still tingling, your pulse still unsteady.
Outside, you heard him exhale tooâan almost-whispered, good nightâbefore the sound of his footsteps faded into the hum of the city.
And for the first time in a long time, you couldnât decide which scared you more: the fact that you wanted to see him againâŚ
or the fear that, when you did, he might start to recognize the same impossible light burning inside you.
when i take my phone case off i feel concern and fear knowing that some people just rawdog their phone like that like its so slippery girl you are carrying around a little fish
I love that the modern-day tumblr post equivalent of chain emails only requires me to reblog a relatively pleasant image instead of forward an email to a bunch of my friends and family members to quell my raging anxiety.
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