𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘’𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐒. 𐙚⋆°🦢.⋆ᥫ᭡ — please give all of these incredible writers the love and support. 🍯 random fandom & character order, 18+ only please.
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine, part ten, part eleven,
• Anytime: Jack steps in when he witnesses a patient become less than savory…
• What’s the rush?: You and Jack barely have time alone anymore, so with the shift being as slow as it is (by some miracle) you decide to take advantage of this very much needed down time…
• Hopeless…: It’s Valentine’s Day at the Pitt! And amongst all the emergencies flooding in, Jack Abbot is faced with the biggest one: asking out his co-worker…
• IOU: When Y/N pushes herself to her limit during an all day shift, Jack Abbot snaps at her with no hesitation. But there will soon be a ton of regret…
• Phases: Love blooms in stages. Here’s every stage of Y/N and Jack’s relationship…
• Any Other Day: Jack and Y/N are newly established and still finding their footing, and with Valentine’s Day here, Jack is hoping for some romance. He’s a cheesy romantic at heart. Only problem? Y/N’s hatred for this day…
• Stay out of my lane: At just 21 years old, Y/N is a fresh faced resident of The Pitt. Her age makes her desperate to prove herself to all, but after getting off on the wrong foot with one Jack Abbot, she must learn to play nice. What happens when that determination turns to feelings though…
• Talk to me: Y/N works at a rehabilitation center because she believes in people. Jack works as a SWAT team physician because he knows people. What happens when a robbery/hostage situation call involves his whole world?
• More Than Enough: When Y/N faces a difficult patient, it’s up to Jack Abbot (and other members of the Pitt) to come through for their favorite resident.. (ftm!reader)
• Momma Abbot: When Y/N shows up in the ER at 1am, she causes a bit of a stir. But it’s a complete misunderstanding..
• Try Me: Y/N has been a part of the night shift for two months now. That’s two months of constantly beating around the bush with one Jack Abbot. When she finally tells him why they shouldn’t date, Jack proves why they should…
• What Are Boyfriends For…: When a bad thunderstorm hits Pittsburg, Y/N asks Jack to spend the weekend with her because it’s walking distance from the hospital. What she didn’t expect though, was for her ‘aunt flow’ to show up too…
• Oh Baby…: Y/N is still writing thank you notes to all that sent a wedding gift to her and Jack. But after a funny little trend reveals life changing news, Y/N heads to the ER to make sure. She just has to keep it from Jack…
• A Taste of His Own Medicine: Jack Abbot has been told all his life that one day, he’d meet someone that drives him as crazy as he drives everyone else. Well.. He’s tempted the universe for too long..
• Little Bird: Jack Abbot is a great boyfriend. He’s also a great fatherly figure. He swears he has this all figured out. But when Lena gets invited to her first ever sleepover, he’ll realize he has way more to learn..
• Oh, to be Young…: After telling Y/N she should ‘enjoy being young and single’, Jack Abbot will come to regret it…
• Daisy: Jack Abbot’s home from a military tour, and his best friend, Robby, has taken it upon himself to show him a good ol’ time. But when Jack calls it a night early, he’ll quickly realize how essential that decision was…
• Years: In Jack Abbot’s past life, he had it all. Y/N, a future in medicine, and a set of long-term goals. But life had other plans…
• Hot Honey: Y/N’s got a few nicknames around the Pitt. ‘Fluff’, ‘Sunny’, ‘Bubbles’. But Jack Abbot’s about to call her something entirely new. ‘Hot’.
• Your Doctor Boyfriend: Growing up, Jack Abbot was always told to ‘rub some dirt on it’ anytime he got hurt. That mindset has followed him into his adult life, but not into his relationship.
• Months: Y/N is slowly getting used to Jack being back in her life. For good this time, as he’s promised. But it’s been months.. And Jack really wants more..
• Waiting Room: At one point or another in their careers, both Robby and Abbot have had to tell a patient’s loved ones to hang in there and let the doctors do their work. But when Y/N is involved in a car crash, they’ll find it doesn’t feel good being on the other side of those words..
• You and Me: Jack Abbot being Y/N’s safe space/comfort person..
• I’ve Got You, Baby: No one at the Pitt knows Dr. Y/N is taken. No one at the Pitt knows Jack Abbot is taken. They’re all about to find out..
• Whoops: It was one stupid kiss. Which led into a dumb one night stand. Which then turned into a silly little coffee date the morning after. Now it’s a full blown relationship. One that her father, Robby, can never find out about..
• Bad Luck: After one misstep, Jack Abbot’s worst fear comes true…
• The Long Ride: Y/N needs a distraction, Jack Abbot is there to comfort..
• Unboxing With Bow: Big, tough, Jack Abbot has a particular way of unwinding. ASMR. And his favorite creator is now in the Pitt..
• My Girl: Y/N will always see the good in people. Jack Abbot will always try and protect her..
• Fancy Seeing You Here: Jack Abbot has just met the perfect lady, but she’s hiding a little fact about her..
• Happy Anniversary: After comforting a patient, Y/N gets sick. Luckily, she’s dating Jack Abbot..
• Hula-Hoop: Y/N’s almost done with her residency, and she swears she’s seen it all. But after an attack leaves her shaken, she’ll need comfort from her boyfriend..
• Oops: Jack Abbot absolutely adores his wife. But sometimes he wonders how the hell she made it this far..
• The Veteran x Veterinarian AU •
🌻🌻🌻
🍁Michael 'Robby' Robinavitch x Fem!Reader🍁
• Always Around: While on shift, Y/N receives some life altering news, and it’s up to her boyfriend to pick up the pieces…
• The Doctor and His Baker: Dr. Robby finds his calm in the ED. His wife.. Finds horror.
🌻🌻🌻
🌷Dana Evans x Fem!Reader🌷
• Damn You: With Dana preoccupied, Y/N takes on patients alone. The result is a very much needed moment between these two women…
🌻🌻🌻
🐶Dennis Whitaker x Fem!Reader🐶
• Whoa: When Y/N takes a tumble at a parade, Dennis sees a whole new side of his work place crush…
🌻🌻🌻
🌧️Mateo Diaz x Fem!Reader🌧️
• Jealous: Y/N and Mateo agreed when they first became serious, it wouldn’t touch the work place. Now, Y/N has to watch starry-eyed Victoria Javadi look at her man. Can she play nice?
🌻🌻🌻
🫧Random Pairs x Fem!Reader🫧
• May the better… Person Win.: Everyone’s talking about the new girl of the Pitt, and after one measly encounter with her, Santos is seeing hearts. The only issue is, so is her superior, Frank Langdon…
Most of the fics on here have smut so 18+, minors do not interact. I had so much fun doing these while I'm trying to get out of the writer's block that has plagued me for a month. Many of these fics are written by my beloved moots 🫶 Please show these incredibly talented writers some love!
My favourite series:
The Crush (stepdad!Jack Abbot x f!reader) | @ptolemaea444
Soft!Brendon Park doesn't want a one night stand (Brendon Park x reader) | @louloops
My favourite one shots:
Are you coming on or what? (Jack Abbot x nightshift!sunshine!reader) | @whatif-ialreadydid
Eat out a girl in need (Brendon Park x reader) | @impactmintsfreshagain
Things a man provides (Jack Abbot x fem!reader) | @annsfics
joie de vivre (Jack Abbot x f!reader, Michael Robinavitch x f!reader) | @grimgasm
My moon, my man (Brendon Park x reader) | @seraphk1ss
It started out with a kiss (Brendon Park x reader) | @ceijoh
Everything Feels Right (Andrew Cody x reader) | @mast3rbait3r
Jealous!Robby wants you to himself (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @louloops
My Man's In Touch With His Emotions! My Man Won't Touch Me With A 20 Foot Pole... (Michael Robinvitch x reader) | @ceriseangels
My Man's Forgotten His Devotion, Where's He Gone? God Only Knows... (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @ceriseangels
Jealousy, Jealousy (Michael Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader) | @metal-armed-muse
Does your husband know? (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @keytomylockhart
Hurt Forever (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @bluetimeombre
Pussy inspection with Pope (Pope Cody x reader) | @groovyangelkisses
My favourite blurbs/drabbles:
Tactical (Jack Abbot x reader) | @grimgasm
Fucking actor!Robby at a party (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @robinavitchslut
Husband!Sammy (Sammy Bryant x reader) | @medusasfics
baby don't you know the walls are thin? (Jack Abbot x f!reader) | @grimgasm
Pope Cody x virgin!reader | @sugartalkingwrites
Mornings with Titus (Titus Danforth x reader) | @in-ky
best friends dad!jack abbot + 'like what you see?' + pervy old man fantasy drabble (Jack Abbot x reader) | @romantic-insomniac
Childhood bsf!Sammy Bryant (Sammy Bryant x reader) | @shoniebalognie
You make Robby get off without you having to do a thing (Pathetic!Robby x reader) | @robbyxabbot
summary: robby falls head over heels for his new neighbor while on his sabbatical, an art history professor that seems to be his polar opposite on everything.
content warnings: fluff / angst, fucking on couches, sex with yearning feelings, slight grumpy x sunshine trope, robby calls reader 'peaches', fem!reader
wc: 8.4k
a/n: this is fully inspired by all of noah wyle's cute bed selfies of him reading novels!! i have a mini drabble / spin-off idea so keep an eye out for that!! very big thanks to lindsay (her ao3) to help me edit a couple scenes!!
Sleep did not evade him after a grueling shift of analog at the Pitt. A good sign, he thinks, of his sabbatical. When morning comes, he wakes to the sun filtering through his windows and a loud beeping noise of a van moving in reverse. He mutters incoherently as he drags himself out of bed, sleep clinging to his every muscle, to pad over to his kitchen.
Muscle memory takes over. Coffee beans. Machine. Grinding. Hot cup of coffee. He pours himself a cup before he finds himself wandering back to his bedroom, towards his drawers. He only freezes when he's staring at black scrubs and remembering he's technically on sabbatical. The pit in his chest yawns wider.
It takes another heavy step to make his way back to his living room, with the intent to deposit his body onto the couch in hopes to attempt a stab at normalcy, but the beeping of a van bleeds through his walls from next door. He grunts and pushes the front door open to lean against the porch columns to see a large moving van in the driveway besides his, teeming with men that's already sweating out of their shirts despite the early hour.
They've all got their hands full, drawers and tables and chairs filing out of the van and into the home next door.
"Where d'ya want this, ma'am?" One man with a handlebar mustache grunts, holding a large painting with a gilded frame that looks so laughably ornate in the midst of mismatched chairs.
You appear at your front door, probably from somewhere inside your home, with a frazzled smile. It's barely seven and you look as though you've lived through half the day already.
"Center of the east wall, please!" You chirp, hovering behind the burly man and you disappear inside. Robby finds himself smiling against the rim of his mug before he forces his attention elsewhere. The copious amounts of paintings and decor makes his walls look so empty.
Time slips away from him and lunch time is fast approaching. Cooking something feels a little bit like getting his life together so he throws a quick stir-fry dish together. He's just about to plate when he hears a quiet knock on his door.
"Can I help you?"
When he opens the door, he didn't expect you to stand on his porch with a bowl of peaches in your hands. The oddness of it all takes him aback.
"Um— maybe. I'm your new neighbor, I live right next door. Sorry again for the ruckus, I didn't think moving in would be so loud!" You offer a smile and Robby finds him smiling despite himself. "Peaches as an apology and a request for a favor all in one?"
He chuckles and leans against his doorframe, taking the bowl out of your hands. When he gives his name, you give yours. "So what's this favor?"
"Ah. One of the movers must've gotten lazy and left one of my cabinets crooked? I tried moving it myself but it's a vintage and those things are heavy," you explain with a little laugh.
Robby nods and sets the bowl aside. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."
Entering your space feels a bit surreal. The layout should be similar to his, considering the whole block of homes here were developed in one season, and yet how you've decorated makes your home look far more different than his.
"Which cabinet—?"
You lead him towards the small room tucked beside the kitchen, something he uses for storage but what you've turned it into resembles a small studio space. An easel is folded in the corner, unused canvases leaning onto the wall beside it. On the opposite end of the room is a large, vintage brown cabinet that's placed diagonally off the wall.
"I know it's silly but the thing nearly tipped over when I tried pushing and the last thing I need is a hole in my wall," you say with a soft sigh, watching Robby push the cabinet with ease until it's flush against the wall. "Thanks, that would've bothered me all day."
"You're welcome. Anything else?" He asks and he finds himself wanting to stick around longer.
You turn slowly where you stand before giving him a smile he doesn't know how to interpret. "I think I might've smelled something cooking in your kitchen. Any chance you got an extra plate to share?"
The next day, he stares at his Bonneville in his garage and digs deep to see if he still has that urge to ride and… ride 'til he stops. He lets out a heavy sigh and steps out. Like clockwork, his head swivels to your porch and something in his chest twists at the sight of you curled up on a chair with a book in hand. Cozy.
"Good morning, Michael."
A short laugh escapes him. "Morning, Peaches."
Your eyes roll halfheartedly before you wave him over with a delicate hand. "You never told me what you do."
"Neither have you." He leans against the porch railing, trying to steal a glimpse of your book.
"I'm an art history professor," you offer first. "Now you."
"I'm… a senior attending at PTMC." He doesn't know why it feels like pulling teeth admitting it out loud, like his life prior to the sabbatical feels like sacrilege mixing it with meeting you.
"Impressive." You whistle lowly before you give him a little grin. "I'm a doctor, too. Not in the way my mom wanted for me but hey, at least she can call me Doctor Peaches. Any reason why you aren't in a hospital, Doctor Robinavitch? I thought you attendings are utter workaholics."
He crosses his arms as he leans against the porch column, a half grin that you're slowly becoming obsessed with. "We are. It's why nearly my entire workstaff had me on this sabbatical…"
"Sweet workstaff." You offer him a cookie which he takes. "Any big plans for your sabbatical?"
"A road trip, but—" he shrugs and looks around. He can't seem to maintain eye contact. "I thought it'd be better to stay home for a bit. And a good thing, too. How else would you have moved that cabinet of yours?"
"You're right. I'd be stuck working with a meathead mover rather than a handsome doctor."
"Oh, you think I'm handsome?"
"Well, I'm not blind, Michael."
"So you can also see I'm a bit too old for you."
"I'm thirty-one, I'm hardly too young for you."
He's got nothing to say to that, just fixes you with an incredulous look before his face lines with a bright laugh.
"You're trouble, Peaches."
The next month, he's become a regular guest in your home, fixing things that should be easily covered by any other professional but you've been deadset on knocking on his door. Leaky faucets, creaking door hinges, and even screwing a lightbulb in the spare bedroom where the roof is just a bit too high to reach even with a stepladder.
The conversations get longer and he stays a little later. Soon, coffee breaks turn into lunches and dinners.
"Michael," you hum as you approach from the kitchen, both hands holding a mug of tea before you join him on your couch. The evening's taken on a softer hue, something gentler that he's scared to disrupt. He cooked for you, you poured wine, and he played footsy with you beneath the table.
And now he's lifting an arm for you to tuck yourself into, your head tucked beneath his chin so he can turn his head to kiss the top of your hair. "Thanks, sweetheart. What're we watching?"
You chuckle and take a sip of your tea. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It's about a couple who broke up and decided to wipe their memories of each other only to fall in love over again."
"Hm."
You lightly swat his chest. "Don't be such a cynic, Michael. It's romantic."
"I didn't say anything," he laughs but he runs a hand up and down your sides, holding you closer. "Just thought it's an interesting plot."
"You hate it."
"I don't hate it, sweetheart. I'll watch the whole thing for you."
And true enough, he does. Michael Robinavitch sits through the entire film without falling asleep, his tea finished and his arms around you. His hand skims your skin beneath your sleep shirt and when you don't shy away, he lets himself get bolder. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel his fingertips coast along the underside of your breast.
"Mikey," you whisper and that stupid little nickname elicits a fond chuckle anyways, his grip tightening as he uses his free hand to guide your chin up for a kiss. "The movie—"
"The credits are rolling…" he murmurs, lips ghosting above yours in silent request. You grant permission by surging upwards, closing the distance before clambering onto his lap. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and feeling his hardness beneath you elicits a moan so loud you'd be embarrassed if it isn't for your insatiable need for his touch. "Fuck, sweetheart—"
A whimper spills from your lips, your knees bracketing his hips. Your greedy hands run down his chest, along that soft tummy that you've steadily grown obsessed with for weeks now. "Michael, I need you."
Something darkens within him, that selfish ache that's spread like a disease, parasitical in nature. You're young, not so young that he'd truly be disgusted of himself, but enough that you two have been drawing looks whenever his hands wound wander a little too low on your hips in public.
"Tell me what you want," he coaxes, a gutteral noise building in his chest when your lips find his, your nails scratching along his scruffy beard. Your resounding reply is another needy moan, your hips grinding along his until his large hands are tugging your shirt up and off before he could kiss down your neck. He revels in your sweet gasps, sugar-spun and delicate while his teeth and tongue graze along your flesh before he's burrowing his face in the valley of your tits.
"Michael—!" You squeal, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck. His low moans send shivers down your spine, teeth grazing along sensitive flesh before his lips latch onto your nipple. A string of expletives spill past your kiss-swollen lips when he bites, rolling the pert nub around before switching to the other.
He paints a myriad of lovebites along your chest, possessive and obsessive in the way he meticulously places it just above the usual cut of your tops; not enough to be lewd but a hint to show that you've got him to take care of you.
"Stop teasing…" Your voice hitches higher when he sucks a harsh bite onto your jugular before he rucks up your skirt to slide his middle and ring finger across your soaked panties. His chuckles are low and mean as he rubs your clit through the fabric. "Mm, fuck…!"
"You sound so sweet for me, baby," he murmurs against your heated skin before he impatiently tugs the fabric aside to plunge his knobby fingers into your dripping cunt. He hisses at the warmth, pulling just far back enough to see the way your pretty features tighten in arousal as he fucks you nice and deep with his index and middle finger. "Your little pussy's just sucking me in, how's my cock gonna fit inside you, hm?"
He's so mean like this, so condescending that you nearly cry out in frustration if it weren't for the fact that you could feel his own thickening erection against your inner thighs; he's just as affected as you are, if not more. If you aren't so preoccupied with his large fingers inside you, you would've noticed the way there's a streak of need underlying every syllable, the way his eyes track your every movement to heighten your arousal. It only adds onto what you know about him, attentive and determined with a dry sense of humor that carries into mocking condescension into bed.
"Mikey, please— need your cock in me," you mewl pathetically, nearly riding his hand before he pulls out right before you could tip over to the edge. An indignant whine escapes you before he sucks his fingers clean, the pink muscle laving along his knuckles to clean up your slick. His eyes are shut, looking utterly blissed out at the taste of you.
"I got you, sweetheart," he shushes you gently with another mocking coo, reaching between you to tug out his cock from his sweatpants. He brings up his hand to your mouth and without hesitating, you spit into his waiting palm before he uses that hand to stroke his thick length. You brace yourself with both hands on his shoulders, lifting your hips up to grind your folds along his swollen tip. "Think you can make it fit, hm?"
You nod eagerly—desperately—and slowly lower yourself onto his cock while your walls adjust to his size. When a quiet whimper threatens to spill, he closes the distance to swallow your breathy moans. It's messy, open-mouthed, and sloppy but it's enough that once you're seated completely, his first thrust within you elicits more pleasure than pain.
"Feels so fuckin' good for me, sweetheart," he praises and there isn't a trace of that condescension left as he picks up the pace, holding your hips steady so he can do all the work for you. Each thrust punches out a string of staccato moans, mingling with his own breathy grunts. It's heady and destructive, flaying away layers from both of you as his eyes meet yours. Your hands find his jawline, cradling his face in reverence as he brings you closer and closer to your climax.
"Nngh… 'm close—" you gasp against his mouth, eyes shut as your lips drag along his cheek as you ride him in tandem to his thrusts.
His grip tightens around your hips as he plants his feet into the bed for leverage, fucking you with a brutal pace that has you hurtling over the edge with a scream of his name. He's quick to follow but he's got enough wherewithal to pull out just in time to paint your lower abdomen in his release.
Your chest is heaving as he sits you back on his thighs, his hand slowly stroking his cock 'til he shudders and lets the afterglow of his orgasm settle in.
"Whoa." His gaze resettles on you as he falls back against the back of the couch, carefully pulling you down to settle beside him with an arm around your shoulders. His free hand reaches to the side table by the couch to grab some tissues, gently wiping you down before offering a wordless apology by kiss to your temple. You toss your legs across his lap, curling into him as close as possible.
"You alright, Peaches?"
Your sigh is quiet but content, nuzzling into his chest with an arm thrown atop his abdomen. "Peachy keen, Michael."
His resounding laugh rumbles beneath you as he tips your chin up with a finger to plant a kiss onto your lips. "That's comforting."
"Take me to bed?"
"Sure, sweetheart—"
"Then stay with me?"
"… Of course."
He brings the covers up where you tuck them beneath your armpit to fight the chill of your bedroom before he hauls you closer to hold his arm around your shoulders. Your skin is warm, your chest still steadily rising and falling as you catch your breath with your head upon his pec.
He presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head as he lays out, humming while you play with the curls of hair that smatters along his chest. He responds with tracing shapes along your shoulders.
"So… a three month sabbatical," you begin curiously, eyes still shut as you bask in the afterglow. "Is that a build up of PTO or the perk of being the chief of attending?"
He stiffens beneath you and you look up, surprised to see the warm expressions you've been used to seeing completely fade. He's looking at the ceiling but his jaw is tense.
"Hey." Your hand gently takes his scruffy jaw. "You don't owe me answers, Michael. You don't have to tell me your darkest backstories… but you do owe yourself to tell someone if it has you feeling like that."
Something dislodges in his chest when you pull yourself up to kiss the edge of his beard, his nose, then his lips. He melts beneath your touch and his strong hands grip your hip, as though he's afraid you'll disappear.
"It's a lot. Not your problem," he mutters against your lips.
You smile as you kiss back. "I know, but I wanna help. That's what happens when you get attached to scruffy old doctors."
Dr. Grumpy: Alive. Stop calling.
Adrenaline Junkie: Had to make sure. It's been a month, can't blame your best friend from worrying.
Dr. Grumpy: Who said you're my best friend?
Adrenaline Junkie: Well it sure as hell isn't Dana.
Dr. Grumpy: Could be. Now leave me alone, I still got two months left.
"Michael, you can't wear a hoodie."
He laughs, mid-zip, as he leans against the doorway of your bedroom where you're sat by your vanity. "And why not? I thought museums didn't have a dress code."
You meet his gaze through the reflection of your mirror, your grin playful. "They don't but I do if you're gonna be my date, Robinavich. So lose the hoodie."
He steps further into your bedroom to stand behind where you're seated, a hand on your shoulder before he leans down. His lips catch your hairline; he knows better than to kiss you before your setting spray.
"Yes, ma'am."
He's grown used to the feeling of your hand around the crook of his elbow. From little walks after dinner around the neighborhood to perusing the grocery aisles for a recipe you've found on Tiktok. Whenever he's with you, you've got your hand on his arm like he'd disappear if you let go.
He likes it.
"You're not even looking at the paintings, Michael."
He barks out a laugh and tugs you in to kiss your hair again. You're right, of course. He's been stealing glances at you the entire time at the museum rather than the paintings you've been so excited to show him. "I've got my eye on something prettier."
"Not the smartest thing to say to an art history professor, Doctor Robinavitch," you say dryly before tugging him to stop in front of one of your favorites. When he gives the confirmation that he's listening, you happily begin to discuss the history and techniques applied.
He listens, dear god does he fucking try to listen, but you look so pretty that he can't help but let his mind wander. You look younger than you actually are but even so, the age gap between you two is enough to make even himself secondguess his choices.
But you're clever and charming, burrowing your way beneath the walls he's been building for decades now. Even now, sharing your expertise displays your intellect and maturity as well as the passion you hold a doctorate in.
"Alright, I'm calling it. Is it time for dinner?" You cut through his thoughts with a light tug to his sleeve. He glances down and nods.
"Sure, but I thought there was another exhibit you wanted to see?" His free hand comes up to cover yours, the one holding onto the crook of his elbow, to pat gently.
Your smile is sardonic but the light in your eyes cuts through any kind of genuine annoyance. "It can wait. My old man's attention is wandering."
His bright laugh would've shocked him if it hadn't been for the fact that you've been eliciting more of it lately. "Old man, huh? Alright, sweetheart, dinner it is."
There's something convenient in being neighbors with the woman that's been making a home in a heart that he didn't realize still beat. It makes the short walk in the mornings after spending the night a lot less shameful.
Could one be too old for the walk of shame?
Regardless, there's nothing shameful about being able to share a bed with you, to wake up to your feather-light kisses before you reluctantly get ready to head to campus for your early morning classes.
("Stay a few minutes longer…"
"Mikey, I have a 9:00 AM—!"
"It's the summer, sweetheart, let the kids have a break."
"Summer sessions for universities are a thing, Michael.")
It's become a routine now, either he wakes in your bed and he watches you get ready or you wake in his and you scrounge around something in his closet you could steal and style into an outfit that's passable for your usual style.
Today, he gets to wake up in his own bed to you stealing one of his old, faded band tees that you tuck into a spare pair of jeans you've left behind in one of his drawers. You spritz on a bit of perfume you've left in the nightstand on your side of the bed (he tries not to let himself dwell on it too much, you having a space in his drawers and having your own side of the bed) before you lower yourself to kiss his forehead.
"Running late, I'll be staying on campus for longer office hours to make it up to my students," you murmur against his temple. Before you can get too far, his arm reaches out to tug you in by your waist for a proper morning kiss.
"What if I bring you lunch?"
"Yeah?" The smile you give him is near blinding, something that steals his breath away.
He chuckles and nods, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Yeah. How about sandwiches from Primanti's?"
"Mm, my favorite. That's perfect, Mikey," you sigh and steal one more kiss. "Alright, I'll see you later."
He watches your retreating figure with a dopey little smile and nearly groans when his phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through his blissful start of the day.
Adrenaline Junkie: How's Buffalo?
Dr. Grumpy: Wouldn't know.
Adrenaline Junkie: You didn't go?
Dr. Grumpy: Something else came up.
Adrenaline Junkie: ???
Read at 8:54 AM.
He exits out of the messaging app as his eyes snag on the date.
It's been nine weeks since he's met you, eight since he's realized he likes you more than being a friendly neighbor.
He sets the phone down and lays onto his back, zoning out. The gossip in the pitt is as virulent as any other disease — he isn't unaware of the rumors circulating him, his so-called seven week itch. How Dr. Robby can't seem to find a woman interesting any longer than seven weeks. It didn't really matter much to him, he's too old to pursue the nuclear family route, what's wrong with a little fun despite his age?
But time goes by quickly when he's with you and the idea of being bored with you is absurd. How can he be when he's constantly seeking you out, eager to see you?
University of Pittsburgh is a sprawling campus of old and new buildings, interlacing pathways that seek to lead to nowhere, but Robby is a man on a mission and he'd rather throw himself off the hospital roof if the sandwiches he bought for both of you get limp and soggy by the time he arrives at your office.
He finds the building soon enough, sunglasses low on his nose when he enters. He garners a few looks but they must've found nothing of importance because the students go back to what they're doing. The elevator brings him up to the third floor and a long hallway greets him.
Your office is situated near the far end on the left side and he knocks on the door before entering. "Hey, Peaches," he greets before he falters. While you're seated behind your desk, you have four students across from you with notebooks and questions scrawled all over it.
Unlike the students he initially passed by on the first floor, these students look up with shit-eating grins before they turn their attention back to you. One of them, a young woman with electric blue hair and copious facial piercings, speaks up first.
"Doctor Peaches?"
The other one, a stout young man with a patchy beard that didn't quite match his face that's yet to drop his baby fat, interjects, "I think it's a cute nickname."
"Look what you've done," you sigh dramatically as you shut your laptop to give your best students a withering glare. They giggle amongst themselves. "Michael, these are my most rambunctious students. Francine," the blue haired girl's grin widens, "Carmen, Richie," the two inconspicious ones in the middle give a wave in perfect unison, "and Neil," the one that defends you gives Robby his best smile. "My sweeties, this is Dr. Robinavitch."
He gives them all an awkward wave before he steps closer to set the takeout bag down. "If I knew you had company, I would've bought more."
"Don't feed them, then they'll never let you go," you snark but you ruffle Neil's head before you circle around your desk to greet him with a kiss. "Thanks for coming, Mikey."
He should've known being with you is too good to be true.
The night had been derailed the moment his traitorous brain had hooked him back to that fateful night, the crushing grief that resettled into his chest when he remembers Adamson's body hooked up to the ECMO machine after days. While he didn't spiral the way he did in Peds in front of Whitaker, his mind shuts down and cruelty becomes an instinctive defensive response.
You didn't see him during the days leading up to his sabbatical, never witnessed how easy it had been for him to tear down his most brightest residents all to put his rage somewhere.
But as he lets you into his home after dinner (at the restaurant you had been raving about), he begs desperately to try and change the subject, to return back to the normalcy you brought to his life. The door slams behind him and something creeps up, like a cold hand slowly wrapping digit by digit around his windpipe.
"Just talk to me, what happened in there?" You beg, your throat raw from the building argument in the drive back.
"Stop- just stop. This isn't something you can fix-"
"I'm not trying to fix you, Michael!"
"Jesus Christ, yes you are!" He laughs humorlessly, large hands rubbing at his lined face. "Do you know how fucking useless I feel when my own goddamned girlfriend thinks I'm something to be fixed?!"
"Listen to yourself, you're too busy thinking I'll bolt the moment you show a modicum of weakness. Do you think that low of me?"
"I don't know what to think of you anymore, sweetheart."
You rear back like you've been slapped. "What does that fucking mean?"
"It's…" He takes another sigh, heavy and exhausted like you're another burden to the load of issues he refuses to show you. "You're young, you don't know—"
"Don't you dare. Don't bring my age into this, Michael," you hiss. "Don't patronize me, I'm not a fucking child. I know when someone doesn't want help but I didn't think it was a crime to want to help you."
"It isn't your job."
"Loving you isn't a job, Michael."
The culmination of the fight didn't really explode in the way he had expected it to. There hadn't been any slammed doors, screaming matches that wakes the neighbors. It had been you, a silent retreat and a short but solemn walk home without a kiss goodbye.
Your anger would've been difficult to swallow but your disappointment feels like a leaden weight on his chest, pinning him to the middle of his living room floor to face the way you've crept into his life. Your scarf is strewn across the back of his couch. He can see a spare set of sneakers by the door, small and clearly yours. If he opens his fridge, your favorite snacks would be nestled beside his.
You've made a home in his heart and he had shut the door in your face.
However, his pride is a prickly thing, demanding that you break this cruel cold war rather than him reaching out first, except he seems to be the only one fighting. A day has passed and you haven't done anything he thinks he deserves. No demands of your items back or any returns of his possessions. No ultimatums or cruel break-up monologues. Just silence.
You still sit outside on your porch reading, never gone out of your way to avoid him. When he lets himself stare a few seconds more, he notices you have two mugs out — as if you're still expecting him to join you. His traitorous heart beats wildly, demands him to close the distance, but he turns back around and lets you read in peace.
A few more days pass and the realization comes in like a tide crashing onto a shoreline. You aren't icing him out, didn't shut him out the way he expects you to. The ball's in his court now, his move, but there isn't an overarching pressure to act quickly. You've always been gentle and patient, coaxing out love from him when he had held it so closely to his chest. You're the type to love in slow motion.
He chews over his probable opening sentences, turns over phrases and greetings in his head until the words no longer sound like english, when he receives a knock on his door. His heart leaps into his throat as he quickly rushes to open it.
—
Worry for Michael Robinavitch sits beneath Jack Abbot's skin like an extra layer. It keeps him warm at night, he thinks, when he's tossing and turning and his mind whips back to his troubled brother in arms and his stupid decisions. Knowing he didn't end up going on his hare-brained plan for a roadtrip (on that deathtrap, no less) did calm his nerves somewhat but the radio silence is still unsettling at best.
So he parks across the road of Robby's place, markedly notices the empty house beside his friend's seems to finally be occupied, and swiftly crosses the street. As he does so, a woman exits her vehicle and nearly drops the armful of groceries she's got blocking her view.
"Hey, careful now—" Jack instinctively steadies the paper bag in her arms before peeking around it to show his face. She's pretty, maybe a little down, but charming as she gives him a half grin. "You got it, stranger?"
"Absolutely. Thanks for the assist." She carefully jostles the groceries before lowering it just enough to angle it slightly towards Jack. "Wanna grab a peach for your chivalry?"
Jack catches the dry tone and plucks a peach from the top before depositing it in the front of his jacket pocket. "Thanks. You need help gettin' anywhere?"
"No, I'm just right here. But thanks!" She points to the house beside Robby's before she disappears behind her front door.
With a fond shake of his head, he turns back to head up Robby's steps to knock on his door. When the man in question opens it with the most hopeful light in his eyes only for it to deflate when he sees him, Jack chortles. "Well, don't look too excited now. Were you waiting for doordash or something?"
Robby scowls and steps away, opens the door wide enough for his friend before he retreats back inside. "What do you want? Is this a welfare check?"
"Do you need a welfare check?" Jack raises a brow, shutting the door behind him. He follows Robby further into the kitchen and pointedly ignores the traces of a woman that's infiltrated his best friend's space.
"I'm alive, aren't I?" He shoots back sardonically, large hands bracing onto the marble countertop of his kitchen island. Jack settles across from him, arms crossed with a weighted look that it even has Robby giving in with a sigh. "I'm fine. Would you believe if I told you it's relationship troubles?"
Now that takes Jack aback; that might've been the last thing he would've expected leave Robby's mouth. "Is this about Noelle?"
"No," Robby shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "Definitely not. It's my neighbor."
"The one next door?"
"That's the one."
When Robby doesn't elaborate, Jack chuckles. Recalls your easy smile and your cute outfit. He still has the peach in his hoodie pocket. "She's pretty."
"She is."
"… she's young."
"She's not that young," Robby blusters, tossing over a beer can. "She's an art history professor."
"Young and educated."
"Get out of my house, Abbot."
An amused laugh follows, shaking his head. "Not until you dish out every dirty detail, brother. Come on, is this all her stuff?"
Robby circles the island to return back to the living room, pops the tab on his beer, with a shake of his head. Jack follows and settles onto the couch beside him, legs propped up onto the coffee table. Beside his feet sits a copy of your favorite novel, tattered and well-worn and wholly loved with the broken spine. Under it is a ring-stain from where you've left your iced coffee a little too long on his overpriced table.
"Yeah," Robby mutters as he leans his head backwards where he gets a whiff of your perfume. His head rolls to the side to see your scarf draped along the back. "Yeah, it's hers."
"Did you two have a fight?"
The question is well-meaning, he knows this. He knows Jack cares, that every question and query comes from a place of concern. And yet—
"We did not have a fight," he blurts out anyways, his walls rebuilding themselves in seconds before he remembers he's with a friend. Jack waits, frustratingly patient. "… okay, we had a fight. It was a pathetic excuse of a fight because she didn't even yell, she just… she took it."
Robby leans forward, sets the beer down beside the stupid ringstain and rests his elbows onto his knees. Jack still doesn't say a word and the silence would've been frustrating if it hadn't been for the fact that he now realizes that it isn't because his feelings are a burden but rather the space to work through his own thoughts.
"Looking back on it, what she was asking wasn't difficult. It shouldn't have been difficult," he mutters as he scrubs a palm across his face. "She just wanted me to talk. Except I clammed up and I did that thing where I yelled—"
"You yelled at her?" Jack interrupts with a slightly scandalized expression. But perhaps he shouldn't be as shocked; Robby's yelled at the kindest souls just for being collateral in his warpath and the sweet professor next door isn't any different. Except—
"I yelled at her and I shut down when she didn't yell back."
Except Robby doesn't feel guilt when he's so far up in his rage and heartache, he feels defensive and those walls are drawn up just as fast as anyone could blink. But this time, he didn't build those walls, just lets himself feel the hurt and the pain that he's caused you, lets Jack see how it's killing him from the inside.
"So what are you gonna do now?"
Robby peeks up at his friend who still lacks any judgment although wholly deserved for being a companion to someone like him. "I don't know."
"I'll tell you what you're going to do, now that you seem to be… receptive to advice that'll actually help you in the long run," Jack grins and the eagerness in his eyes sets something off inside Robby.
"Hold on. How long have you been waiting for this moment?"
"For awhile now. Now listen up, Robinavitch— I need you to take your head out of your ass and go apologize to that woman. Two, make sure you grovel like a motherfucker. She seems like a nice girl and she must've done something right if you're letting her leave her shit around like she owns the place," Jack says, his voice dry and leaves no room for any kind of nonsense.
"Alright, alright," Robby manages to cut in with a quiet laugh. "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."
"Thank me if you'll actually use it, Robby."
Robby might've overdone it with the flowers. Although he couldn't be fully blamed by it, the florist had seemed overeager to put together an 'I'm sorry' bouquet. Maybe cruelly giddy given the sharp smiles that's been sent his way as he hovers by the counter to pay because rather than an assortment of flowers, he's given a dense and large bouquet of 150 deep, red roses that ultimately costed him half a grand.
But there's no time to regret it now as he rings your doorbell, feeling like a complete asshole with his extravagant 'I'm sorry' bouquet.
The door swings open and a startled noise escapes you when the first thing you see is red. "Michael?"
It's only been a few days since the fight but hearing you call his name — especially when he realizes you're the only one that calls him Michael — feels like coming home.
"Hi, Peaches," he greets, a tentative smile on his lips. "These are for you."
You take the bouquet with a smile you don't bother hiding. The sight of it brings a sense of ease for him; at least you like the flowers. "Thank you. Do you want to come in?"
At least you aren't slamming the door in his face.
He follows you inside and shuts the door behind him. Muscle memory has him stepping over the pair of rain boots you leave by the door, recalling the time he had nearly faceplanted because of them. As he looks around, something warm nestles in his chest at the sight of his own items strewn about, very much like yours in his home—
"Is that mine?"
A pretty blush dusts across your cheeks when he points out his navy blue hoodie draped along the armchair of the couch. "Yeah. I wear it when I read," you admit and the intimacy of it nearly floors him. He's grown accustomed to your little habits and routines, knows that after eight pm, you like to settle down with a novel with minimal conversation. The first time around, he had offered to leave but you gave him a pout so deep that he hauled you into his embrace where you could read to him instead.
Knowing that you attempted to continue with his hoodie as a placeholder has him striding towards you with hurried, determined steps.
"Michael—?"
He drops to his knees before you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, desperation bleeding into his gravelly tone as he clutches at the hem of your shirt. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me, I'm so fucking sorry, sweetheart."
"Michael, please—"
He chokes on the shallowed breaths he fights for, desperate and shameless as he clings to you. Pride be damned, he presses his face against you, nuzzling you as if you're his lifeline.
"Please, baby, I can't— I can't lose you. You're so fucking good and I know you deserve better, you do, but I need you. Christ, I need you, I didn't realize it 'til you left and it all felt so goddamn empty— I think I've known it for awhile now but I didn't see what I needed fixing until you gave me those fucking peaches…" he lets out a shaking sob, squeezing you tighter. "Give me another chance, sweetheart, please, I'll do better, I promise. I can be better. For us—"
Your hands drop down to his shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of his head when he hides his face into your stomach. "Baby, breathe for me," you whisper, taken aback by the raw vulnerability that he's letting you see. It's rare for him to be so open, so exposed. And you know that this is a genuine moment he's giving you, a piece of him he's kept to himself.
The term of endearment nearly sets him off and you can tell the sharp prickling sensation at the back of his eyes are prompting him to hide. Despite your gentle hands trying to guide his gaze upwards, it's there taunting him to retreat and give up and keep himself from the scorn he fears from you. Instead he takes a deep breath and wills his heartrate to slow down. His hand encircles your wrist gently, counting your pulse points to match the beat.
"No, I need to say this," he lifts his head from the warmth of your stomach to meet your eyes. His beard rasps against your skin and his eyelids flutter close when your thumb sweeps across the space beneath his lash line. "Before you, I was a goddamn mess."
You try to interject but he shakes his head. "No, listen. I was a fuckin' wreck and there isn't any changing that. It's— I'm glad you didn't meet me then, sweetheart, you would've never knocked on my door for help. I didn't deserve you then, and I sure as shit don't deserve you now. But I swear to fuckin' God, I'm gonna spend the rest of my fuckin' life trying to earn you back. because you're you and you make me… Look, the bad shit doesn't disappear, it's never gonna disappear, but it doesn't feel as heavy as it was. And that's," he swallows, staring up at you as if you hung the moon. "That's because of you."
Your hand travels up his cheekbone, cradling the side of his head before you're bending over to lay a kiss on his forehead. "It's because you're finally letting me in, Michael, you don't have to carry it all on your own."
For a moment, he stares up at you in bewilderment. He shakes his head and averts his eyes, pressing his forehead against your naval. "You're letting me off too easy, sweetheart." His voice is gruff, broken in his disbelief that you'd forgive him so easily. You aren't sure of what he's looking for, what more he could want. So you break the thick clouds that's hanging over the both of you with a gentle smile.
"Oh no, you're not out of the woods yet, Robinavitch," you chuckle lowly, a gentle hand tipping his chin back up. "I just don't want you to think that you're unforgivable. Because you aren't, not when you feel guilt far more than you could ever admit out loud."
"I do, it's— some days it feels like I'm drowning," he admits and with his face still angled up towards yours, his eyes close not to avoid your reaction but to rest. To set down the walls he's been trying desperately to rebuild the moment he had lost his temper a few days ago because he doesn't need them anymore.
You gently scratch at his beard, centering him into the moment. "I've been throwing you a lifeline, Michael, I'm just happy you're taking it. Just… don't let me go."
"Never," he vows. A newfound sense of determination fortifies his spine as he gazes up at you. He's still on his knees but in supplication rather than desperation.
"I'm yours, sweetheart. For as long as you'll have me."
The roar of a familiar Bonneville steals the attention of Ahmad and a couple of nurses near the ambulance bay. Larry and Antoine let out an impressed whistle before they're being called back in by Lena to finish up handoffs but Dana raises a brow, puts her cigarette out, and watches Robby climb off his motorcycle—
With a helmet on.
"You're about a month and a half late from your sabbatical, Robinavitch. Didja get lost on your way back from Alberta?" Dana quips and the bright smile she receives in greeting nearly floors her. She hasn't seen that smile since Adamson.
"Never went." Robby throws over his shoulder before he shoulders his way into the locker room. When the door swings shut behind him, Dana's left staring in utter befuddlement.
The rest of the shift brings its usual chaos and little by little, the staff that had initially tiptied around Robby are now staring in blatant bewilderment. Robby's levelheaded, efficient and not as likely to snap at a resident that has a misstep. When he pulls Dr. Al-Hashimi into a spare exam room, Princess hovers to try and catch traces of their conversation.
"… behavior was unprofessional. I did not handle it well and I deeply apologize for my conduct."
"Clearly," Baran replies coolly and a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle follows from Robby. But the other attending places a warm hand on his shoulder. "But it looks like the sabbatical did you good."
"It did. I truly am sorry," he adds with a touch of sincerity that shines through.
Dr. Al-Hashimi gives him a soft smile. "You've been less… volatile. I see that. Maybe keep those temper tantrums for the higher-ups, yes?"
A surprised laugh escapes Robby. "You got it."
The door slides open and Princess quickly makes herself busy, giving both doctors a smile before relaying what she heard to Perlah in rapid-fire Tagalog. The two attendings share a knowing look before separating off to continue checking in on their residents.
In North Five, a young woman sits, relaying her pain around her head after a minor collision of her e-bike against her dorm building.
"I just lost control," she explains to Santos who's carefully examining the laceration on her chin. Her bright blue hair is tied back. "The brakes didn't work and I think there was a rock I didn't see— oh! Dr. Robby? This is your hospital?"
Santos looks over her shoulder to see her attending by the door, his large hands rubbing in the sanitizer. He frowns slightly before realization kicks in. "You two know each other?" Santos asks.
He snaps his fingers as he recalls the student that had been the first to tease you about the nickname he'd given you. "Natalie— right?" At her nod, he offers her a little grin of his own. "We met a few weeks ago, she's an art major. Did you tell your professor you're not coming to class, kid?"
"I did, I shot her an email when I was in the waiting room," Natalie confirms. Such dad behavior, she thinks to herself.
Santos' head moves back and forth in absolute confusion but decides it isn't her place to figure out the connection between the two; she'll just ask Princess or Perlah later.
"Good," Robby nods and starts to retreat, gives a nod of acknowledgment towards his resident. "Dr. Santos will take good care of you. I'll be at Central if you need anything."
The cacophany of the emergency room floods in when Robby opens the door to leave. When the door shuts and envelops them in silence, Santos turns to Natalie. "How do you know him?"
"He's dating my professor."
"I'm sorry, what—?"
News travel fast in the pitt and soon, Ahmad's got a new betting pool drawn up before noon:
Doctor
Doctor (at PTMC)
Nurse
Nurse (at PTMC)
Teacher
Lawyer
In between patients, Santos makes her way over to the security station and hands over a twenty while ensuring her poker face is on. "Put me down for art history professor."
Ahmad gives her a suspicious look. "You know something."
"I have a hunch."
The security guard takes the twenty without breaking contact, scrawls her name down on a bright post-it before slapping it onto the board.
By late afternoon, a woman walks through the ambulance bay. Gravity seems to shift, the space of the emergency department rearranging to center her. Heads turn as she walks by, gazes linger.
"How can I help you, hon?" Dana asks, peering above her glasses while balancing a clipboard against her hip. "Do you have family in here?"
You shake your head and when you smile, it's infectious. Jesus, Dana thinks, you're like sunshine incarnate. "No, I'm here for Michael— sorry, Dr. Robinavitch?"
Surprise paints itself onto the charge nurse's features, brows flying up as a wicked grin curls onto her lips. "Oh, yeah? He's with a patient right now, but I'm sure he'll be right out. You wanna wait in the break room?"
You shake your head with a sheepish laugh. "I'm on a lunch break but I have his wallet, could you give it to him when you get the chance—?"
"Sweetheart, what're you doin' here? Is everything alright?"
Robby's imposing figure cuts through the staff of the emergency department, instinct having everyone part like the red sea as he makes his way towards you. The intense weight of concern and worry in his gaze nearly floors you so you're quick to reassure him with a smile, a hand on his chest. "I'm fine, you worrywart. You left your wallet on my dresser," you chuckle as you retrieve his tri-fold from your purse.
In the background, the entire department almost goes still — or rather, as still as the pitt could be — as they watch the entire scene unfold. Even Joy's mouth is agape, staring at the grumpy old attending nearly buckle under your sweet attention.
"Thanks, Peaches," he chuckles and pockets the wallet before his hand finds your waist. It sates the need to be closer to you but he has enough sense to keep himself from kissing you in front of his colleagues and subordinates. "I'll see you at home?"
"Mhm, I'll see you tonight, Michael. Don't forget your helmet, alright?"
"You got it," he promises, then gives in to drop a fleeting kiss to your hair. When you exit, Ahmad snaps to attention and rushes out with the most important question of the day.
"What's your occupation?"
You pause and look over your shoulder, an incredulous chuckle spilling from your lips. "Art history professor. Why?"
He only groans in response, waving away your questions as he trudges back inside. Before you walk off, you hear a woman cheer in utter triumph.
"Oh, fuck yeah—!"
"Language, Santos."
thank you for reading! likes / reblogs / comments / asks are highly welcomed and heavily appreciated! ♡
mar's navigation💋
about me | 25 | fashion | marketing | personal blog
started this blog as part of a christmas present for my clark obsessed best friend, who always said she'd like me to write more. two birds one stone!
for my sister.
i couldn’t quite wrap the universe,
so i wrote you a world to wander instead.
the works
📖sweet mr kent • clark found every excuse to be near you; fixing, helping, pretending it was harmless. but every smile, every soft thank you dragged him toward a line your youth made unforgivable. you were temptation itself, and even the good men fall.
💋figure it out • clark shows his love for your friendship in many ways. fetching your lunch, carrying your things for you, always being there when you need him- but who could have imagined it would include kissing you on the lips? every casual peck makes your head spin, your heart stammer; until one night, one lingering kiss finally answers all your questions… and then some.
💟best friend's cousin • you’ve known kara since she crashed through your sorority house five years ago, spilling the truth about her superhuman dna; a secret you've guarded with ease. but then you meet clark kent- her sweet, shy, older cousin who knows your favourite cake from memory & folds your laundry- and suddenly, everything you believed about kryptonians shatters.
🏋️♂️bulking season • 18+ mdni. jimmy has only one resolution this year; get swole. when he sets his sights on your genetically blessed boyfriend, he knows exactly who to turn to... or, the one where clark accidentally becomes jimmy's personal trainer, and you get to reap the rewards.
☕️chipped ceramic • ever the lovergirl, you've never been able to resist clark kent, your sweet & dorky coffee shop regular. everyone tells you to either make a move or let go. but when the world fades away, it’s your best friend kal-el you turn to; your confidant, your rock. your heart’s secret is safe with superman… or so you believe.
🔥angel on fire • falling for your gorgeous, 6'4, fire chief slash superhero roommate is bad enough- falling for the guy everyone else wants is its own kind of torture. you try to move on, but it's useless; clark kent has fought enough fires to know when one's about to ignite.
💍i loved her first • your father did everything for you. because of it, the men in your life had called you spoilt, unreasonable, a girl with unrealistic expectations. after years of heartbreak and disappointment, you start to believe them- until clark kent proves that love can be gentle, steadfast, and safe enough to let yourself fully trust it.
🚜thirteen more days • when clark brings you home to smallville as his fake girlfriend, it’s supposed to be harmless- just two weeks of pretending for his parents’ sake. but between home-cooked dinners, lingering looks, and things he’s been telling them all year, you start to wonder if the only one pretending… is you.
💄lucky number seven • the daily planet's most eligible bachelors column was a drunken experiment between two of your now fired interns; with clark kent boasting number seven. you thought he had no idea. now he’s here, on your floor of the planet; smiling that soft kansas smile, wondering how official it really was.
🎆new year's resolution • you promised yourself; new year, new you. no more friends-with-benefits junk, no more splitting pastries and staying the night and pretending it’s nothing. this was the year you’d finally cut clark kent off for good- until you pull away a little too well and clark realises you were never temporary to him, even if he was to you.
🌾welcome home • after years lost to saving the world, clark returns to smallville expecting familiar calm- not you. the girl he once babysat is now breathtaking, grown, stopping him cold. he aches for the years he missed, the versions of you he never met, and the new feelings he doesn't dare name.
🧁sugar talk • clark kent is shy, bashful, and impossibly sweet; and despite barely being friends, he splurges on extravagant gifts for you daily. so naturally, you repay him by getting his initials on the set of acrylics he paid for, sending his entire world into freefall.
🧣the ghost of you • clark called it mercy. wiping your memory of what you went through, wiping your memory of him- because letting you go was easier than being the reason you fell apart.
🌤️the wise words of ma & pa • clark’s always lived by ma and pa kent’s words; don’t rush love, just tend to it where it grows. when the girl next door starts smiling his way, that advice becomes his saving grace.
🍋the promise of us • clark was yours in every way that time wouldn’t allow; and you, his. a love that was simple, certain, and impossibly timed- patient and aching, waiting for the world to make room.
👓the one thing clark can't do • it’s no secret; superman can do anything. save worlds, stop disasters, even play the role of a clumsy reporter. but after the day he saved you, there’s one thing he can’t do: forget you.
🌪️clark kent's mean body double • it's movie night and for some reason, you've picked a film that has clark's fists clenched and his blood boiling. the film? twisters. the reason for his agony? his polar opposite doppelganger, scott miller.
🪡the devil wears... a cape? • it’s simple: you fix his suit, he stays alive. but somewhere between late-night chats and your constant teasing, clark realises he’s falling for the one person he’s certain he can’t have. kaiju? narcissistic billionaires? he can handle those. keeping up with you? absolutely impossible.
🧬that should be me • superman smiled at you this morning, and whose problem was that going to be? your sweet, polite, pg-13 rated best friend clark kent's, who is so in love with you he might throw up if you so much as mention how hot his alter ego is again.
🦾the echo, the weapon • you look at him and see a broken copy of the man you love; he looks at you and sees salvation. he is the echo, the weapon, the mistake- yet ultraman can't help but love you with a heart that was never his to begin with.
💌the way i loved you • it's wasn't exactly a secret that clark kent was in love with his best friend. and he probably would have told you months ago- if it wasn't for one small, ridiculously cruel complication; your boyfriend, scott miller.
❤️🩹is it casual now? • after a weird day at the office, the rules you set- good sex, zero feelings, no complications- feel impossible to follow. you never wanted anything serious, but clark’s intensity, the weight in his gaze and refusal to comply are slowly crumbling the walls you fought to build.
🍹take me home • you know you shouldn't feel this way. and yet clark kent- steady, older, infuriatingly attuned to every inch of you- turns every "kid" and "good girl" into fire against your skin; leaving you dizzy, flustered, and desperately wanting more.
🐍jealousy, jealousy • superman doesn’t get jealous- but clark kent does. he lets it linger, lets it fester, lets it shape months of almosts and maybes- until a harmless lie turns into shared routines, soft touches, and feelings neither of you were meant to fall into.
🌪️liquor lips, bubblegum bitch • scott miller has had his fill of fleeting nights; now, he buries himself in work, head down, not to be disturbed. that's when you come in; blowing sugar-sweet globes, relentless questions spilling from tinted lips. he knows he shouldn't, can't- but you draw him into your bubble, too bright to resist, fragile enough to pop.
🍬babydoll • scott miller is all sharp edges and short tempers, a man built from long days and clenched teeth. and yet he ends up with you- warm, bright, goodness personified- and suddenly he’s saying things like babydoll, his disciplined hands forgotten, greedy for every inch of the only softness he ever lets himself have.
requests
🥀hands full • "i keep thinking of clark kent x bsf!reader where clark is so touchy and sweet with her but she tries not to read into it too much because he’s always been like that. maybe a little angsty even…."
blurbs
how he loves • all the ways clark kent loves you, and all the ways you let him.
ㅤㅤ ㅤ⭑ about.
your life was unraveling, little by little. bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. nothing made it easier, especially when one of metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have. (wc: 22.680)
ㅤㅤ ㅤ.ᐟ warnings.
smut. angst. slight enemies to lovers. slight morally grey reader. depressed and suicidal thoughts. implied voyeurism from super-hearing. unprotected sex. mentions of torture. mentions of human trafficking. chubby reader.
ㅤㅤ ㅤᯓ masterlist.
Boredom.
That’s what you felt every time you set foot in LuthorCorp. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, it paid well, but it left you utterly uninspired. The work was mind-numbingly dull. You were in charge of your brother’s legal team, yet he never let you be an actual lawyer.
Lex trusted you just enough to manage his public image, filing lawsuits against anyone who dared tarnish the pristine version of himself he insisted on maintaining. The number of cease-and-desist letters you sent to the Daily Planet was absurd. Especially to two particular reporters : Lois Lane and Clark Kent.
But beyond that? You were on the outside looking in. Lex kept you out of the real business. He didn’t let you in. Not really. He didn’t trust you, not with everything.
You had never set foot in his big office, the one with the sweeping view of the city. You had no idea what went on up there. Whatever it was, it was a secret he shared with his latest girlfriend, but not with his own sister.
Shaking your head, you stepped forward in the line at the coffee shop on the main floor. Nothing much had happened at LuthorCorp lately. Nothing thrilling, nothing exciting. Just the same routine, day after day.
Eve breezed past behind you, shouting your name in that high-pitched voice of hers and waving like it was a reunion after years apart. You rolled your eyes slightly and gave a lazy wave in return. You liked Eve, she was sweet. A little dim, maybe, but a breath of fresh air compared to your brother’s cynical, brooding behavior.
Once you were seated in your office, you opened your inbox and were immediately greeted by a flood of emails, dozens of them. Most were about the latest failed experiment at Lex’s military base. There was a list of names : people who’d been fired, others who had quit, and new hires who still needed their NDA signed.
Just more messes for you to clean up. More people to bribe. More lies to hold together with duct tape and NDAs.
It was all starting to feel like too much. But the paycheck? More than generous. Your brother might not trust you, but he made damn sure you’d never want for anything, at least not financially.
By the time lunch rolled around, your head was already pounding.
You had a rare hour alone. The entire legal team was on their lunch break, including your assistant. You didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it this way.
You’d gone down early to grab your food, so you had the luxury of eating at your desk, half-working as you chewed through both your lunch and another batch of legal threats. The further you were from your colleagues, the better.
You were halfway through drafting yet another cease-and-desist when your phone rang.
You let it ring a few seconds before remembering : no one was going to answer it for you today. Sighing, you wiped your hands on a napkin and picked up the receiver.
“LuthorCorp, Head of Legal,” you said mechanically, not bothering to check the number calling.
“Miss Luthor.” A deep voice resonated on the other end of the line.
You groaned. You were not in the mood for this.
“Mr. Kent,” you sighed, drawing it out with deliberate irritation. His amused chuckle came through loud and clear. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
He chuckled again. “Still charming as ever.”
Slumping back into your chair, you hit the speaker button and let the handset drop onto your polished mahogany desk with a soft clunk. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhaled slowly. You were really not in the mood for the Daily Planet circus today.
Still, if you had to deal with one of them, you supposed it was lucky it was Clark Kent and not Lois Lane. At least he had the decency not to shout.
“Make it quick,” you snapped, irritation curling in your voice. “I’m on my lunch break.”
“Believe me,” Clark said smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your overpriced salad unless I had a reason.”
You rolled your eyes. “If this is about that cease-and-desist from last week, I'll let you call back to get in touch with LuthorCorp lawyers, as I don't deal with those.”
“Not this time,” he replied. “It’s about the recent firings at the LuthorCorp research division, the ones connected to Project Tonite.”
Your fingers froze just above your keyboard. How did he know about this? This happened in the last two days.
“Never heard of it,” you said coolly.
Clark gave a small, skeptical laugh. “Come on, Miss Luthor. Three scientists let go in twenty-four hours, all under suspiciously vague NDA conditions? One of them told me, off the record, that they weren’t even allowed to collect their personal items. That usually happens when someone’s trying to bury something.”
You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk. “And let me guess, you want to dig it up?”
“That’s kind of my job.” You could hear the smirk.
“I know you’re good at your job, Mr. Kent,” you said coolly, already clicking through the internal database. “But let me assure you, I’m very good at mine.”
Your tone didn’t waver as you scanned the list of recently terminated staff, searching for any names connected to the classified project.
“Also,” you added, eyes narrowing as you located the relevant files, “thank you for informing me that some of our former employees have been violating the contracts they signed. That’s… helpful.”
You found the three names instantly. With practiced efficiency, you forwarded their files to your best in-house counsel, including a brief note : One of them talked to the press. Find out who, and get the paperwork ready.
The goal was simple. Identify the leak. Then sue them into silence.
There was a pause on the line. Clark’s voice came back, just a little more pointed this time. “So that’s it? One of them speaks out, and your first move is to sue them into the ground?”
You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you stared at the phone like it had personally insulted you.
“My first move,” you said evenly, “is to protect my company’s legal interests. What they signed was very clear, Mr. Kent. Confidentiality. Non-disclosure. No public commentary. If they broke that, they don’t just get a slap on the wrist, they get consequences.”
“You don’t even know which of them talked.” Clark deadpanned on the other side of the phone. He must of known it was a stupid thing to say.
Scoffing, you grabbed a bit of your meal, answering with a mouthful. "We'll find out."
You heard him sigh, and you knew that sound, he was about to launch into another one of his noble little speeches. You cut him off before he had the chance.
“Listen, Mr. Kent,” you said flatly. “Whatever they told you is irrelevant, and illegal. You want to use it? Go ahead. But you and I both know how this ends. Same circus, different headline. Every time the Planet comes sniffing around our business, it’s the same tired routine.”
You leaned forward, voice like ice.
“Let’s just skip to the part where your editors get a not so polite letter from my office. Save us both the effort, and your lawyers the headache.”
Clark didn’t back down. Of course not.
“I have reason to believe LuthorCorp is moving forward with something dangerous. If you're hiding—”
“If,” you snapped, cutting him off again, “LuthorCorp is hiding something dangerous, then it’s buried for a reason.”
You paused, letting the weight of your words settle.
“And unless you’ve got something more substantial than your hero complex and secondhand paranoia, I suggest you stop fishing before you fall into waters you can’t swim in.”
There was a long silence. You didn't fill it. Let him sit in it.
You were just about to hang up when Clark spoke again, quiet, but deliberate. "I know about the Superman Project."
Your fingers froze above the keyboard. How could he know? There was no possible way he actually did.
You weren’t even supposed to know.
You had been tired of your brother keeping things from you. Of being left in the dark while he handed off his most secretive, most dangerous operations to a hidden legal team that answered only to him. Meanwhile, you were left dealing with the fallout. The lawsuits, the corporate scandals, the media fires. Always cleaning up after his messes, never trusted with the truth.
So, you had started digging.
It hadn’t been easy. Lex had buried the trail deep, tucked behind fake departments, encrypted files, and names scrubbed from every system. But you were a Luthor. And when a Luthor wants the truth, they find it, no matter how deep it was buried.
What you uncovered was worse than you imagined.
Project Superman was, in a way, connected to Project Tonite. The latter was part of Lex’s broader plan to enter politics by offering authorities a method to control, and, if necessary, eliminate, metahumans. Lex was obsessively working to recreate Kryptonite, aiming to engineer it into a universal weakness for anyone with meta-genes. Though deeply unethical, the project could be easily justified under the guise of public safety, a means to protect civilians and prevent the fear of becoming targets in a world increasingly influenced by alien forces.
It was your job to handle Project Tonite. Unethical, certainly, but not lethal.
Project Superman, as you later discovered, was something far darker. It was Lex’s attempt to create his own metahumans, an army of loyal enforcers to protect him and his interests. He was experimenting on people in a hidden lab in Boravia. Officially, they were “volunteers.” In truth, they were either brainwashed soldiers, convinced they were dying for their country, or desperate civilians lured by promises of money.
This was harder to bury. No amount of spin could justify it. No one would stand for such atrocities, not even you. You'd seen how they handled those who tried to speak out. Death would have been a mercy.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, slightly knowing the phone was tapped. “Now, if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my lunch, Mr. Kent.”
You hung up, your hand lingering on the phone just a moment too long. You weren’t ready, not for the fallout that would come once your brother realized you knew about his most secret, most dangerous project.
Hanging up was the only way to delay that reckoning.
For the rest of the day, you were on edge every time someone knocked on your door. Each phone call made you flinch slightly, every email felt like it could be a threat in disguise. But nothing came. It was as if Clark Kent hadn’t told anyone he called your office, like he had made sure to reach you when you were alone.
Normally, when reporters tried to contact you and couldn’t get through, they’d go after someone else on the legal team. That would always end the same way : Lex finding out. And then he’d storm into your office, acting as if you had invited the scrutiny, as if your actions had put the corporation at risk.
Yet, as you locked the door of your flat, you finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Kent's call. You turned down the alarm, slid every bolt into place, and only then started peeling off your shoes and vest. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized just how tightly wound you’d been all day.
You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. You still couldn’t understand how the hell a Daily Planet reporter knew about Project Superman. It made no sense. Everyone who had been terminated from the project had also been… terminated from life itself. Either dead, or locked away in whatever deranged side project your brother had been developing on that goddamn beach of his.
You didn’t know which fate was worse. And you weren’t interested in finding out.
Slumping onto the couch, you stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. Why hadn’t it been front-page news the moment Clark Kent found out? Why the quiet call? Why the restraint? You sat up. Maybe he didn’t know much. Maybe the call was a bluff, an attempt to catch you off guard, to shake you just enough that you’d slip. That had to be it.
Scoffing, you shook your head at your own stupidity. He’d played you. And you’d almost walked right into it like a debutante at her first scandal.
You were about to get up when your phone buzzed.
Unknown number
"Hello," you answered, hesitant.
“Miss Luthor,” came Clark Kent’s voice, calm, low, unmistakably his.
You let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back onto the couch. It was late. The day had already been a disaster, and this felt like the final insult.
“How the fuck did you get this number?” you snapped, not bothering to be polite.
A soft laugh came through the speaker, calm, maddening. It only fuelled your irritation. It was almost like he didn’t realize the weight his words carried, or worse, he did and simply didn’t care.
You knew your personal phone was clean. You checked it weekly. Lex had tapped your work line, of course, listened to every conversation, tracked every call. You let him believe you didn’t know. Occasionally, you even used it to call friends just to maintain the illusion.
“You told me yourself,” Clark said, voice smooth and infuriatingly gentle. “I’m very good at my job.”
You frowned, confused by his tone, the softness, the restraint. He sounded patient. Not like a man cornering someone with a bombshell. Not like someone planning to go public.
Why wasn’t he pressing harder? What the hell did he want?
“Tell Jimmy he’s going to have real problems if Lex finds out about him and Eve,” you said, dropping it like a bomb. It was the only explanation that made sense, how else would Clark have your personal number?
“He didn’t—” Clark started, then cut himself off. He refused to take the bait. Refused to treat you like an idiot. “I’m not calling about Jimmy. Not even about what I called you about earlier.”
You scoffed, your patience nearly gone. He was playing you again, acting calm, composed, pretending like he wasn’t pushing some carefully constructed agenda. You weren’t a fool. You knew manipulation when you heard it. He spoke like someone who thought his sincerity was a weapon.
“What do you want then?” you snapped.
There was a pause. And then, in that same calm voice, he asked : “I just want to know why you defend him.”
You stilled.
"Of the records." He added at your silence.
Of course. There it was. Another angle. Another motive. You recognized this game, draw out the sympathy, lower the defences, build just enough rapport for the truth to slip out. He wanted you to pity yourself. To question your loyalty. To crack.
But you wouldn’t. Not for him. Not for anyone. Not anymore.
Lex had played this game too many times, for far too long. It left scars, sure, deep ones, but it also taught you how to bury your feelings, how to do the job without letting guilt cloud your judgment. It made you sharp. Unshakable.
You wouldn’t let Clark Kent be the one to undo all of that.
“Listen, Clark,” you said, spitting his name like it tasted wrong. “I don’t know what you want, or what you think you’re going to get by being all honeyed and soft-spoken, but it’s not going to work. People have tried before you. People smarter, more ruthless, more desperate. And they failed all the same.”
Your voice hardened.
“I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anything from you. Not your questions. Not your insight. Not even your damn voice.”
Silence stretched on the line. Heavy. Intentional.
“I can help you,” his voice came through, calm, measured, infuriatingly composed. “I have nothing to gain if your brother finds out I called you. This is a safe line. I made sure of it. But a lot of person have something to gain if you leave that company.”
“Leave the company? And then what?” you shot back, the words sharp and fast, your anger rising. “Vanish into thin air so Lex never finds me again? You think I can just disappear?”
You didn’t give him a chance to respond.
“I don’t need your help. I don’t even know what the hell you think you’re helping me with. Do I look like some poor damsel waiting for a knight in shining armour? Because let me tell you something—” You stood abruptly, pacing the living room now, one hand in your hair, the other clenched at your side.
“There is no one, nothing, that can take my brother down. Everyone who’s tried? You know exactly what happened to them.”
You stopped pacing and stared at the wall, breath heavy, heart pounding in your ears.
“So if you really want to help me, like you say you do, then here’s what you’re going to do : you’re not going to call this number again. You’re not going to contact my office talking about project neither of us should known about. And for the sakes of both our lives, you’re going to forget Project Superman ever existed.”
Silence. You didn’t care what he said next. You were already reaching for the button to end the call.
“Don’t call this number again,” you said coldly, and hung up.
The line went dead, but the tension didn’t leave with it. You pressed the heel of your palm against your eyes, breathing hard, trying not to cry. From the anger. From the pressure. From the horrifying things you’d seen while snooping around Project Superman.
You were a coward. You knew it.
Maybe that’s why you resented Clark Kent so much. He’d had the nerve to reach out, to ask the hard questions, even knowing the risks. You hadn’t even been able to speak about the things your brother had done. The things Lex Luthor had done in the dark, to others, and sometimes even to himself.
You knew the consequences. You’d seen them firsthand. And you didn’t want to be next.
Even if speaking out could help hundreds. Maybe thousands.
You sat down slowly, hands shaking in your lap.
You were a coward. And for now… you were okay with that.
Weeks passed in total silence from both the Daily Planet and Clark Kent.
No headlines about LuthorCorp. No reason to threaten them with lawsuits. Just silence.
And honestly, it made your job easier. A lot of your day-to-day involved clashing with reporters, especially them. So when they left LuthorCorp alone, your workload lightened, and your days felt strangely manageable. Almost peaceful.
You were on the roof, smoking a cigarette, your lunch long forgotten beside you. From here, you had one of the best views in the city, skyline stretching wide, sunlight brushing against the tops of the tallest towers, but it meant nothing. You hadn’t felt anything in a long time.
Just boredom. That’s all that was left.
Bored of covering up messes. Bored of threatening people into silence. Bored of your brother constantly looking down on you. Bored of your life.
“You know those things kill you?” The deep voice snapped you out of your thoughts.
You jumped, startled, spinning around to see who had disturbed your rare moment of quiet. And froze.
Superman. Standing just a few meters away.
You frowned, instinctively scanning the sky, expecting to find some incoming threat, maybe a drone, a villain, a building seconds from collapse, but there was nothing. Just blue sky and distant clouds. Calm.
You turned back to him, confusion painting your face. He let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused.
“Can I help you with something?” you asked, dumbly. It should have been the other way around, you knew that, but you were too off-balance to care.
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied politely. His voice was warm, even amused. He stepped a little closer, his boots landing gently on the gravel. “I was just flying by and saw you sitting here all alone. Looking kind of sad. Thought I’d check in.”
“Just flying by…” you echoed, mocking him with a dry tone, taking another drag of your cigarette. “What, you checking rooftops now?”
“Only the ones with interesting people on them,” he said with a faint smile.
You weren’t sure what bothered you more, the fact that Superman was here, talking to you, or the fact that some small, treacherous part of you actually appreciated it.
Running into metahumans in Metropolis was nothing new. Practically routine. You were used to it, numb to it. And honestly, you didn’t care about them. Not really. Especially not this one.
Not the one your brother had developed a borderline obsessive fixation with.
The thought made you laugh under your breath. If Lex could see you now, sitting on a rooftop, casually chatting with his so-called nemesis, he'd probably have a stroke. Or throw someone off a building. You were fairly certain Superman didn’t even care about Lex, at least not in the same way Lex cared about him.
You figured ignoring him would be enough to make him leave. But no, of course not.
Instead, the man in spandex sat down right next to you, just a couple of meters away. Calm. Relaxed. As if this was all perfectly normal. Then he blew. A gust of air, deliberate, sharp, and your cigarette sailed out of your fingers, flicked clean into the sky.
“Okay, now,” you snapped, sitting up straighter. “Those things are expensive.”
He gave you a mild look, clearly unbothered. “They also kill you slowly.”
“Maybe I wanna die?” you shot back.
“Problem in paradise?” He smiled, almost teasing.
You scoffed. Anyone with half a brain knew LuthorCorp was anything but a paradise. Lighting another cigarette, you let the silence hang between you. Truth was, you didn’t know what to say to him, not to him. What was there to say?
“Don’t make me do it again,” he teased, eyes locked on your cigarette like it had personally offended him.
“If you do,” you said flatly, taking a long drag, “I’ll jump off the building.”
He laughed, genuinely. Since when did Superman have dimples?
“Dramatic,” he said, still chuckling. “Besides, you know I’d catch you.”
And just because he knew he could, he blew again. Your cigarette vanished into the sky.
You sighed, stood up without a word, and, before your mind could stop your body, you walked to the edge of the roof. And stepped off.
“What the— NO!” came the shout behind you, his voice laced with panic as you tumbled from the tallest building in Metropolis.
Wind tore past your face. The ground rushed up to meet you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt something. You giggled, wild and breathless, as the city blurred around you. It was chaos. It was stupid. It was reckless.
But for one glorious second… it was freedom.
You were caught mid-fall, arms of steel wrapping around you, pulling you hard against a solid chest. The impact wasn’t rough, but it jolted you all the same. Warmth surrounded you instantly. The wind disappeared.
Your arms, on instinct more than intent, wrapped around Superman’s neck as he steadied you both, slowing until the momentum was gone and you were simply floating. Suspended above the city like a feather caught in still air. His grip didn’t falter. Not for a second.
At first, you were just looking into his eyes, breath heaving from the adrenaline, heart pounding in your chest, while he remained perfectly calm, just as he had been before. Of course, you’d known he would catch you. He’d said it himself. But there was something exhilarating about catching Superman off guard.
And then, for the first time in months, you laughed. A real laugh, raw, unfiltered, shaking your whole body as it spilled out of you, rocking you gently against him in midair. It caught both you and the metahuman by surprise. The laughter felt genuine, liberating, like something had cracked open inside you.
For a few long seconds, he just held you there, floating above Metropolis, watching as you laughed like a madwoman in his arms. His expression was soft, confused, maybe even concerned but never judging.
“You really did it,” he muttered, voice low. “You actually jumped.”
“I told you I would,” you replied, breathless.
A beat of silence passed between you. His heartbeat was steady. Yours was not.
“You think this is a game?” he asked, not angry, but something quieter. Something that stung more.
You looked away, eyes scanning over Metropolis before looking down. The world looked so tiny from up here, it was almost addicting. “I think I just wanted to feel something.”
His arms tightened just a little. Protective. Anchoring. Without a word, he flew you back to the rooftop of LuthorCorp, setting you down gently, right in the middle of it, very far from the edge. The choice made you laugh, just a little. It was almost sweet.
“I’m not jumping again, don’t worry,” you said quietly, stepping out of his warm embrace.
You walked back to the spot where you’d been before, beside your barely touched lunch, your pack of cigarettes, and your phone, and sat down again, staring out over the city. You could feel his eyes on your back. The way he’d looked at you, genuinely concerned, not out of duty but something almost human, left a strange warmth in your chest.
How pathetic did your life have to be, for the only person who seemed to care, even for just a moment, to be Superman?
Nobody would’ve truly cared if he hadn’t caught you. Not really. You wouldn’t have cared, either. Just one last rush of adrenaline before the long, quiet sleep. It might’ve even made a decent headline : Lex Luthor’s sister falls to her death, dramatic, poetic even, if anyone had been paying attention. They wouldn't even say your own name.
Lex probably wouldn’t have mourned, not really. Maybe for the cameras, because it would be expected of him. Clark Kent would’ve gotten his front page. LuthorCorp would’ve named a new Head of Legal. The world would’ve kept turning. And you, you would’ve finally had peace.
It all came tumbling down at once. That invisible wall you'd spent years building, the one between feeling and function, cracked. Funny how the mind could carry so much until it just couldn’t. Until, in one fragile second, everything became too much.
You had no one important in your life. No real friends. No boyfriend. No one waiting for you to come home.
You never made time for it, and honestly, you didn’t want to. Letting someone in meant dragging them into Lex’s orbit, into his world of control and consequences. And you knew, sooner or later, when everything finally came crashing down, you’d be caught in the blast.
No one deserved to go through that for you.
Without even realising it, tears had started slipping down your face. Quiet and relentless. You’d carried so much for so long, buried it deep, locked it away ever since the day you said yes to Lex’s job offer. Maybe the real mystery was that you hadn’t broken sooner.
And just your luck… it had to happen in front of fucking Superman.
Still, in a strange way, maybe that made it easier. He wasn’t someone who would haunt your life later. He wasn’t someone you’d have to explain yourself to. Just a stranger, powerful, distant, untouchable. Someone you could fall apart in front of for a moment, and never see again. And in that moment, as you sat there, broken and small on the rooftop of your brother’s empire, you could pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t truly, utterly alone.
In a world this massive, this overwhelming, it was easy to forget that people like you didn’t get to be the heroes. By name, by blood, by inaction… you were one of the bad ones.
It felt almost comical, crying over how your brother had ruined your life, all while sitting on the rooftop of his building. As if you weren’t part of it. As if you hadn’t played your role.
You could have said no. Could’ve turned down his offer. Could’ve taken the harder road, fought your way to the top, maybe even become one of the best lawyers in this goddamn city. But you hadn’t. The promise of money, luxury, and an “easy” career had won. And the rest of you, the better part, had lost.
Even now, three years later, you weren’t sure if you would’ve made a name for yourself. Maybe you’d still be stuck in that old, crumbling apartment. But maybe, just maybe, you’d still have your friends. Maybe you’d have someone, a boyfriend, a partner, a life outside of this cold marble empire. Certainly you'd be happier.
“You should have let me fall…” you said, barely above a whisper.
But he heard it. Of course he did.
He was beside you in seconds, sitting just like before, only this time, a little closer. His warmth was a quiet comfort as the wind picked up, brushing through your hair, while dark clouds slowly crept into the Metropolis skyline.
“You know I can’t do that,” he said gently.
You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.
“No one would know. And trust me, no one would care enough to ask questions,” you said, your voice low, bitter. Before he could answer, a thought surfaced, sharp and sudden, and you added, “Well… maybe The Daily. Maybe your little buddy Clark Kent would’ve called just to have the perfect front page.”
It was his turn to scoff, the sound laced with something close to anger. You glanced at him through blurry eyes and saw the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.
“Don’t say things like that,” he replied, frustration barely held back in his voice.
Ever the saviour, you thought. Of course Superman wouldn’t be the kind of man to let you spiral, but it felt like if you didn’t speak now, your brain might just implode. Like some switch had flipped inside you, and there was no turning it off.
“No, but really. You should’ve let me fall,” you said again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Might’ve even made a few people happy.”
You stared out at the skyline as your voice hardened. “Laura would finally get her promotion. She’s hated me ever since I took her spot three years ago.”
You sniffed, eyes stinging, glancing over at him.
“Lex… he’d be relieved. Wouldn’t have to keep watching me out of the corner of his eye, worrying that maybe I’ll grow a conscience and talk to the press. I know he’d still come after me if I did, but I like to think it’d be harder with me than with a regular employee. You know?”
Leaning a little closer to the edge, your eyes settled on the ground far below. You heard Superman shift beside you, subtle, but ready, as if he thought you might jump again.
The thought made you laugh, quiet and bitter. Of all the places to have a complete mental breakdown, it had to be on the roof of LuthorCorp, with the strongest metahuman alive standing beside you like some guardian angel you never asked for.
“I’d finally be at peace,” you murmured. “No more complaints. No more threats. No more bribes. No more guilt. Just a coward lying cold in her grave.”
You whispered the last part, almost to yourself. More tears slipped down your face, blending seamlessly with the rain now falling in heavy sheets, as if the sky had decided to cry with you.
"You're more than just this job," Superman said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your arm as he pulled you back from the edge.
You let out a genuine, tear-filled laugh, harsh and wet in the rain. Always the optimist. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.
You weren’t more than this job. This job was you now. It had devoured every part of the person you used to be, every ideal, every boundary, every line you swore you’d never cross. Now you were a void version of yourself, filled with legal jargon and lies, a polished shield for monsters in suits.
It had rotted you from the inside out. Turned you into everything you grew up hating : a corrupted executive, pocketing blood money and defending the indefensible for the sake of a paycheck and an office.
This wasn't who you had wanted to be. And why? Because you had never known how to stand up for yourself in front of Lex.
"I'm really not..." you murmured, rubbing at your eyes. "But... thanks for saying it, I guess."
You rose to your feet, water dripping from your clothes. The Metropolis rain was rare, but when it came, it never held back. At least now you had a decent excuse to go home early. The office had been slow all day, nothing you couldn’t handle from your laptop if needed.
As you gathered your thing, your half-eaten lunch, your phone, the crumpled, now soaked, cigarette pack, you stole one last glance at him.
He looked almost human like this.
Soaked from the rain, seated quietly with his cape clinging to him, his expression caught somewhere between concern and sympathy. The image the media had built around him didn’t do him justice, not enough. Not the way his hair curled when wet, not the way his blue eyes held entire conversations shining with so many emotions, not the dimples still ghosting along his cheeks even when he wasn’t smiling. And certainly not the softness of his lips.
You blinked the thought away, scoffing silently at yourself. Of course, the only man you found attractive was also the most unreachable one. Classic.
"Thank you," you said at last, your voice softer now, more sincere. "For not letting me fall."
"Always," he replied simply, his voice steady as he watched you disappear behind the rooftop door.
You took the stairs down slowly, each step heavier than the last. You felt like hell, worse than you had in a long time. As if your own mind had finally decided to punish you for every cry for help you’d ignored. For every night you spent awake, staring at the ceiling with a racing heart and hollow chest. For every morning you dragged yourself out of bed, feeling like your skin didn't fit right.
For every moment you scratched your arms raw just to feel something through the guilt and pressure. For every hour spent dissociating in your office, staring at legal documents you didn’t care about, defending things you didn’t believe in.
Now it was all crashing down, and it couldn’t have picked a worse time.
But maybe, deep down, you believed you deserved every second of it.
The sound of your office door slamming open yanked your head up from your folded arms. In truth, you didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Lex.
He stormed inside like he owned the place, which, of course, he did, trailed by your assistant, who wore a familiar apologetic look. Without a word, the young man gave you a regretful glance before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.
Lex dropped onto the large leather sofa across the room with an air of theatrical exhaustion. He didn’t even bother to take off his coat.
You had to admit, it was a beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered one of the best views in the city. Your mahogany desk alone was worth more than most people’s rent for a year. The latest computer sat, the expansive bookshelf filled with legal volumes you rarely touched anymore. A pair of sleek leather sofas flanked a marble coffee table no one ever used.
You never had clients in here. Never held meetings. Most of your team knew better than to knock unless absolutely necessary. That reputation, distant, cold, unapproachable, had followed you ever since. Maybe you hadn't done much to stop it.
"We have a problem," Lex said, his eyes closed as he leaned back into the couch.
Your heart skipped a beat.
Still, it was somewhat reassuring that he came alone, without the usual pair of silent goons who tailed him like shadows. If he didn’t bring muscle, chances were you weren’t the problem.
"Do we?" you asked, keeping your voice even, doing your best to hide the anxiety curling in your stomach. Lex had always been too good at reading you.
"I think yes, we do," he replied, tone laced with mockery, almost daring you to guess. Daring you to slip. To reveal something he didn’t already know.
Opening one eye, he glanced your way, clearly waiting to see if you'd take the bait. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he only smirked.
"The Planet has been snooping around too much lately," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Reporters asking questions they shouldn’t be asking. Digging in places they shouldn’t even know exist."
You rolled your eyes, already unimpressed. You weren’t sure why this warranted Lex barging into your office like the ceiling was about to collapse. Your legal team was probably already handling whatever nonsense the Daily Planet was stirring up. And if it was more serious, if they were digging into the same shadows Clark Kent had called you about a month ago, you were certain Lex’s personal legal hounds were already biting at their heels.
“Sounds like a regular Tuesday,” you muttered, rubbing the space between your eyes as a headache began to bloom.
“Kent hasn’t published anything, but he’s been sniffing around again. More than usual. And this time, it’s not just the public projects he’s asking about. Classified-level stuff.” He said, watching for your reaction.
You gave a small shrug, feigning indifference. “Then maybe it’s time to sue them again. That usually quiets the barking.”
Lex smiled thinly. “Not this time. He’s being careful. No paper trail. No sources willing to go on record. Yet somehow… he knows things. Enough to be dangerous.”
Frowning, you sighed. You had to play this carefully. You hadn’t spoken to Clark Kent since those calls, and you hadn’t told anyone about Project Superman. But if Lex wanted to pin the blame on you, he would. He always found a way.
“How do you even know it’s him, if he’s being this careful, Lex?” you asked cautiously, choosing your words with care. You didn’t want to provoke him, but you hated how he danced around the point like he was waiting for you to slip.
He sat up straighter, his cold gaze locking onto yours. “I have my ways,” he said with that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Little ears here and there.”
You leaned back slightly, your throat suddenly dry. “And did those little ears tell you I was involved? Because it sure sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”
He stood, slowly making his way around your desk until he was behind you. You stiffened as his hand came down on your shoulders, firm, not painful, but unmistakably controlling.
“Of course not,” he said with a mockingly sweet tone. “What kind of brother would accuse his own sister?”
You didn’t move. Not when his thumb absently dragged over the curve of your shoulder, not when the silence stretched long enough to chill the air between you. You knew better than to flinch. That’s what he wanted, fear dressed up as respect.
He leaned in slightly, just enough for you to feel the brush of his breath near your ear.
“I just worry, you know?” he said softly. “This kind of scrutiny… it makes people act irrationally. Makes them do things they shouldn’t. Say things they regret. He even got in the head of some of my most trusted employees once…”
He paused, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the smile in his voice. Too calm. Too rehearsed.
“And he did call your number a few weeks ago.” Another pause. Dread filled you, fear gripping you strongly. “I’d hate to think he had put ideas in your head.”
His hand slipped away like a shadow, but the pressure lingered in your skin.
He moved with the slow, calculated confidence of someone who never had to hurry. Circling the desk, he didn’t sit, Lex never sat when he could loom, but rested a hand casually on the edge, watching you like a scientist studying a specimen under glass.
His voice lightened, almost amused. “You know, I’ve always trusted you.” A pause. A tilt of the head. “But I pulled the call recording anyway. Just to be sure.”
He gave a small shrug, smooth, almost dismissive, though the smile that followed was razor-thin. “I knew you wouldn’t say anything. You’re smarter than that.” Another beat. “You know what would happen if you weren’t.”
He left your office on that note, not even waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him, and only then did you exhale the shaky breath you'd been holding since he walked in.
He knew.
He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but he knew. Whether you’d stumbled onto the truth before Kent or started digging after that call, it didn’t matter. Lex didn’t care about the details. All he cared about was ensuring your silence.
And his message had been clear : Talk and you end up like them. Family or not.
Your phone buzzed. It was a message, from your brother.
Opening it, your breath caught in your throat. A strangled sound escaped you.
Lying strapped to a medical table, bruised and bloodied, was Thomas. Your ex-boyfriend from law school. The only man you’d ever introduced to Lex. Someone you hadn’t seen, or even spoken to, in years.
And now he was a rat lab. All because of you.
All because Clark Kent couldn't stop.
That how you ended up on the roof again, standing just at the edge of the building. Your eyes fixed on the floor below. Dark clouds were coming toward Metropolis, still far but advancing quickly. A storm was coming.
It was late, all your colleagues at gone home already. You had waited in your office, trying to play it cool, not wanting to be suspicious. You were certain Lex had bribed someone of your team, most likely your assistant, into telling him your every move. Every call. Every mails.
Looking down, you wondered. What would it be like to fall again? Would it feel exhilarating, like the first time? Maybe even more, knowing no one was here to catch you this time. It was mesmerising how small the world looked from up here.
Ironic, really. From this height, you'd once felt powerful. In the early months of the job, standing on this rooftop made you feel untouchable, like you were finally someone. But that illusion had long since crumbled. This place had taken everything from you.
“You’re not gonna jump again, are you?”
The voice cracked through the silence like a whip.
Startled, you turned too fast. Reflexes dulled by the cold and the weight of sleepless nights, your foot slid on the slick rooftop, gravel scattering under your heel.
And then, you were falling. The edge vanished behind you as gravity seized your body. Wind roared in your ears. Your scream tore free as Metropolis' concrete rushed up to meet you. Truth be told, it was just as exhilarating as the first time, but a thousands time scarier.
The wind howled in your ears. Your mind blanked, panic flooding every nerve. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be saved, not really. But as the ground rushed toward you, instinct took over. You didn’t want to die like this. Not yet.
And then, closing your eyes, you waited for the impact.
But not the one you expected. Strong arms wrapped around you mid-air, a blur of red and blue cutting through the grey skyline. Your fall halted with a jarring stop as your body slammed into Superman’s chest, breath knocked from your lungs.
His grip was tight, almost desperate.
Your arms instantly wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeboat in open water. You were breathing heavily, gasping in sharp, uneven bursts, but you felt the rapid rise and fall of his own chest against yours.
You had scared Superman.
You. You had done what even aliens from other worlds hadn’t managed to : make him panic. To be fair, it was his own damn fault.
Silence settled between you, save for the harsh rhythm of your breaths. You looked up, eyes locking. His gaze roamed across your face, scanning for injuries, intent, urgent, while yours traced his features in quiet awe. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the weight of thinking you were seconds from death, but right now, he was the only real thing in your world.
His eyes dropped to your lips, just as yours lingered on his. Time seemed to pause, holding its breath with the two of you suspended in midair. You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. But in that fragile, trembling second, none of it mattered.
And then, a crack of thunder rolled across the distant sky. The moment shattered.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Superman said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he gently ascended, bringing you both back to the rooftop.
He spoke to you like someone coaxing a frightened stray animal : patient, careful, almost painfully kind. It was sweet. Unexpectedly so.
As your feet touched the gravel of the rooftop, back in the centre, far from the edge, you let out a breathless laugh. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid you'd vanish the moment he let go.
But it was you who stepped back first, untangling yourself from his hold. You bent slightly at the waist, hands on your knees as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and strange with adrenaline, dizzy in your chest.
Then, just as suddenly, the laughter crumbled.
Tears spilled from your eyes without warning. Heavy, wracking sobs tore from your throat, years of pressure snapping loose like cracked glass. Three years of holding it in. Of surviving instead of living. Of becoming someone you didn’t even recognize.
And now it was all pouring out. Right here, in front of Superman. Again.
You sank down onto the gravel, knees giving out beneath the weight of everything. You didn’t even try to stop it, the tears, the ragged sobs, the chaos clawing through your mind. You just let it all go. And strangely, it felt good.
Not pretty. Not peaceful. But real.
For once, you weren’t pretending. Weren’t holding anything back or biting your tongue. You were breaking, fully, openly, and somehow, that honesty felt like a release. What made it bearable, what made it safe, was the quiet presence that lingered nearby. Superman didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, or fill the silence.
He just stayed. Not looming, not judging. Just there. And in that small, powerful kindness, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protected.
So safe, you talked.
“Next time you see Clark Kent,” you muttered through the last of your tears, “tell him that if I suddenly disappear because of his little investigation… he better make a damn good front page out of it.”
You tried to make it sound like a joke. You even forced a smile. But the fear didn’t budge, it had rooted itself too deeply now, curled in your gut like a sickness.
Superman didn’t smile. His brow furrowed, gaze sharp with concern. “What do you mean?”
You snorted, shaking your head. It was laughable, really, how tangled everything had become. And maybe it was reckless, telling Superman anything at all, but what could it hurt? Deep down, you hoped maybe he could talk to Clark, get him to back off before Lex did something irreversible.
“He’s getting too close,” you said finally. “Too close to something Lex doesn’t want exposed. Something I shouldn’t even know about. And if he keeps going, Lex is going to blame it on me.”
Superman didn’t speak right away. You saw the shift in his expression, quiet, calculating. Not judgment, but focus. And you realized then : he was listening. Really listening.
“I can help you.” His voice was deep, sure, but there was something gentler beneath it. Genuine.
You let out a soft, tired laugh, wiping your face with the back of your hand. There was no point in hiding the tears anymore. “You sound just like him,” you said, voice still shaky. “No wonder you two are friends.”
That earned the smallest smile from him, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was there.
You didn’t know what made you keep talking. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, or maybe it was just the comfort of being heard without being judged.
“He said the same thing… Clark. When he called. Said he wanted to help me. But people like you, like him, you don’t realize how dangerous it is to be helped in my situation. Lex isn't scared of anyone, not even you.”
You met his eyes then, and something flickered in his, something beyond concern.
“He’s getting close to something Lex would kill to protect because it could destroy him. And if I get caught in the middle of that?” You shrugged. “Let’s just say Lex doesn’t always send warnings twice. Not even to his sister.”
The metahuman approached you gently, crouching so he could meet your gaze without towering over you. A flash of lightning split the sky, casting a pale light across half his face, making him look almost unearthly. Like he didn’t belong to this world at all. Like maybe he never had.
“I can really help you,” he said softly. “I can take you somewhere he’d never find you. I can take you to—” He stopped himself mid-sentence. Whatever he’d almost said, it hung in the air between you like something too fragile to speak aloud.
His hands rested on your knees, not forceful, not firm, just grounding. As if reminding you that, despite everything, you were still here. Still alive. Then he looked at you again.
You weren’t prepared for it. That kind of kindness. It was the sort of look no one had given you in years, not pitying, not clinical. Just real.
He sighed, steadying himself. And when he spoke again, it was with purpose.
“Listen,” he said, voice low but sure. “If you’re willing to speak out against your brother, I can promise you, there’s a place he’ll never find you. Not even Lex Luthor can reach everywhere. You’ll have time, space. Peace. With Clark’s help, we can protect you. You can be safe from him. For good.”
You frowned, confusion clouding your already stormy thoughts.
“Lex can reach everywhere,” you murmured, voice thin and cracking under the weight of truth. “He knows people, high places, deep pockets. There’s nowhere in this city, in this whole damn state, he wouldn’t find me.”
Another tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t bother wiping it away.
Superman’s hand tensed where it rested against your knee, as though he were physically restraining himself from doing more, comforting you, pulling you away from all this. From him.
It was a tempting proposition, you had to give him that.
The promise of safety. Of silence. Of finally breathing without the constant weight of eyes watching, judging, threatening. If he could really assure that, if he could promise you a world where Lex Luthor wasn’t a shadow at your back… You might just give in.
You had nothing left anyway. Nothing but your life. And right now, that felt like the most worthless thing of all.
But then, before you could argue back, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Just the faintest glint of something lighter behind the concern.
“I never said anything about Metropolis,” he said softly, with a quiet kind of defiance.
What the hell were you doing here?
In a car. Headed to god knows where. And sitting next to the man who, in a way, had put you in this mess to begin with. Superman had convinced you to trust Clark Kent, insisting the reporters could protect you better than anyone else. That he—Superman—would always be nearby, watching from the shadows, ready to step in if Lex ever found out.
You didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, so full of concern and quiet determination.
Maybe it was something else.
So here you were. For the past seven hours, you’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Clark Kent’s car, heading out of Metropolis. The road ahead was dark and endless, and the farther you got, the lighter you felt.
For now, it was a peaceful ride. The heater hummed softly, the music playing low and unobtrusive. Clark didn’t talk much, which you appreciated. He seemed to understand you weren’t quite ready for conversation.
He’d shown up at your door at exactly 7 p.m., just like Superman had promised. Same concerned look. Same gentle voice. That same quiet steadiness that made you say yes before you could second guess yourself.
Now, after hours on the road, you were beginning to realize just how similar the two men were. Too similar. It was strange, every time you looked at Clark for more than a few seconds, something pulled at the edges of your mind. Nothing overtly wrong. He was handsome, annoyingly so, you’d admitted that around hour two of the car ride. But there was something… off. Familiar.
Yet completely out of place. You shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing the strange phone he’d given you earlier, sleek and impossibly light, clearly not something off the shelf. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific, Clark had said, untraceable. The device had only two contacts programmed in : Clark Kent and Superman.
Two names, side by side. Almost like two sides of the same coin.
Clark Kent. Superman.
By hour eight, the safety of being far from Metropolis and the lull of the moonlight hanging high above had made you a little petty. Restless. Bold, maybe. Or maybe just fed up.
After all, you were stuck in a car with the reason you'd had to flee your entire life. If Clark had just dropped it, had actually listened to you when you warned him weeks ago, none of this would have been necessary. You would still leave your miserable life, but at least, you'd be home.
But no, he had to snoop in.
"You know what?" you said suddenly, eyes narrowing as you looked at him sideways.
He glanced at you, quick and cautious, like someone easing into a trap. One brow arched in confusion, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No?”
You turned your body a little more toward him, expression sharp. “This whole mess? It’s your fault.”
You didn’t even raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It landed like a punch anyway. Clark blinked. The smile dropped. You could see it hit him, and part of you hated how guilty he looked, because it meant he already knew you were right.
“So I’ve been told,” he replied softly. “Just know I never meant for any of this to come back on you. This was never supposed to boomerang in your direction.”
You scoffed, dry and sharp. “Oh, yeah? Then who was it supposed to boomerang on, Kent? Please, enlighten me.”
The sarcasm dripped off every word, venomous and tired.
Gone was the woman who broke down sobbing on a rooftop under thunderclouds. That version of you had receded into the shadows, tucked away where no one could see her. In her place now was the version the world expected. The one who wore tailored suits and litigation like armour. The Head of Legal. Ice-blooded, sharp-tongued, impossible to shake.
Not quite you. Not quite not you either.
Clark didn’t answer right away. He kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, the soft hum of tires filling the silence. But his jaw clenched. Just enough for you to notice.
“In a perfect world? Your brother,” he admitted, after a few seconds of silence. His sigh was heavy, resigned, even.
You bit your tongue before another petty remark could slip out. It wouldn’t change anything. And truth be told, he was helping. Whether it was because Superman told him to, or because Clark Kent genuinely wanted to, it didn’t matter. He was here. And that was more than most people had ever done for you.
So instead, you chose to shift the conversation.
“Where are we even going, anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting out the window into the thick darkness. Every road sign you passed only confused you more, you couldn’t piece together the route.
“Somewhere safe,” he answered, maddeningly vague.
You snorted, unable to help yourself. “You sound like you’re gonna murder me in the middle of nowhere, Kent.”
It was his turn to laugh, a warm, low sound that curled in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.
“I don’t think I’d live very long after that,” he said, a playful edge to his voice. “Not with your new little friend watching over you.”
There was a glint in his eye as he glanced sideways at you, and something in his tone made the hairs on your neck rise, not from fear, but from a flicker of recognition. Familiar. Almost too familiar.
“You’d get a thank-you letter from Lex, though,” you joked lightly. “And that means a lot in a city he practically owns.”
Clark’s smile vanished almost instantly. The mention of your brother had yanked him right back to reality, reminding him of why you were really here, why you’d spent the last eight hours tucked into the passenger seat of his car, fleeing the only life you’d ever known.
Silence settled between you again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The quiet hum of the tires against the road and the soft rhythm of the engine created a strange kind of peace. The car was warm, the music still playing low, something old and soothing.
Your body, pushed to the edge for days, finally began to surrender. The tension in your shoulders loosened. Your eyelids grew heavier with each blink. It had been a brutal week. You’d run on power naps and caffeine and sheer will.
And now, somehow, this car felt like the safest place in the world.
So you let your guard down. Just for a moment. Just to rest your eyes. As Clark kept driving into the night, your breathing slowed, and sleep took you before you even realized it had come.
You jolted awake as the driver’s door slammed shut. Disoriented, your heart kicked up in your chest as you blinked rapidly, trying to get your bearings. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you'd slept in, stiff and sore from hours pressed against the window.
Squinting into the sunlight, you groaned. The sun was already high in the sky, blinding and unapologetic. Glancing down at your phone, you read 9:57 a.m.
Shit. You’d slept far longer than you'd meant to.
Pushing open your door, you stepped outside, wincing as you stretched your limbs, popping joints and shaking off the lingering fog of sleep.
“Morning,” came a voice behind you.
You turned, blinking again, and saw Clark Kent standing next to the car, casually filling up the gas tank like he hadn’t just driven fourteen hours straight. His shirt was barely wrinkled, hair still mostly in place, and he looked fresh.
Not even remotely tired.
"Are we close yet?" you asked, squinting as you looked around, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Some tiny, nowhere town in the Midwest, Indiana or Illinois, maybe. Either way, very far from Metropolis.
"About another eight hours or so," Clark replied casually, like that was completely normal.
You frowned at him, studying his face. No dark circles, no signs of fatigue, not even a yawn. Maybe he’d pulled over during the night to sleep and you’d just slept through it? But you doubted it. You were a light sleeper, and the car stopping would’ve definitely woken you.
“What?” he asked with a small laugh, noticing your suspicious expression.
“What?” you echoed mockingly. “You’re seriously gonna drive like what… twenty-two hours straight? Without a single ounce of sleep? Are you on drugs or something?”
He snorted. “No drugs, no.” You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Clark just grinned, annoyingly unreadable. “Just built different, I guess.”
"Built different? That’s it?" you muttered, still not buying it. "Well, I hope you don’t drive us into a freaking tree because you’re built different," you grumbled under your breath, already turning away as you headed toward the small convenience store by the gas pumps.
Coffee. That would fix your mood. Hopefully.
The little bell above the door chimed as you stepped into the nearly empty shop. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, completely absorbed in her phone. She didn’t glance up, not that you cared. You weren’t in the mood for small talk.
Wandering the narrow aisles, you grabbed a few snacks for the road and the least bored-looking book they had on a spinning rack. The coffee machine was either out of order or didn’t exist, so you settled for a canned iced latte from the fridge. As an afterthought, and maybe out of guilt, you grabbed a second one. If Clark didn’t like it, you’d just drink both.
At the counter, the girl scanned your things at a snail’s pace, barely lifting her gaze. You told her to add the gas pump Clark had just been at. But before you could pull out your credit card, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around your wrist.
"You don’t wanna do that," Clark said calmly, stepping up beside you. He slipped a folded wad of cash from his coat pocket and handed it to the girl.
Suddenly, the cashier perked up, her phone forgotten as she blinked up at Clark like he’d just dropped from the sky. You couldn’t blame her. He was handsome. And kind. In that steady, patient, maddeningly unbothered way.
Back in the car, your sour mood returned like a headache that wouldn’t quite leave.
“I could pay, you know?” you muttered as you buckled your seatbelt with a little more force than necessary. “I probably have more money than you.”
A smirk tugged at Clark’s lips as he started the engine. “Oh yeah, my bad,” he said casually, letting the words stretch a beat too long. Then he added, with a touch of mock innocence, “You know, you could just call your brother, tell him exactly where we are. How does that sound?”
His tone was light, but the edge in it was unmistakable. Your eyes narrowed. It was his turn to be snarky, and unfortunately, he was good at it.
You disappearing after Lex’s threat told him everything he needed to know. You hadn’t needed to say a word, Lex never needed much. And you both knew he’d stop at nothing to find you. Pulling your bank records wouldn't been hard either. Not when he practically owned the bank.
You didn’t answer. You were too proud for that. Instead, you turned your face toward the window, watching the endless stretch of land roll by. Without a word, you reached into the plastic bag at your feet and handed him one of the iced lattes you’d grabbed at the gas station.
He took it instantly, barely a pause. The can disappeared from your fingers like he’d been waiting for it. You heard him chuckle, soft and breathy, almost like he hadn’t meant to. A whisper of amusement. It lingered for a second longer than it should have.
You didn’t look at him. You just let the silence stretch between you again, quiet, but not empty.
The rest of the drive passed quietly, a kind of exhausted peace settling over the car. Around midday, you’d stopped for lunch at a small roadside diner in Kansas City, one of those unremarkable places with red vinyl booths and chipped coffee mugs. That’s when he finally had told you where you were going.
Kansas. Specifically, Smallville. Even more specifically, his childhood home.
It had been awkward, to say the least. The words had hung between you like something delicate and misplaced. You were going to stay with Clark Kent’s parents. You were going to sleep under the same roof where he’d grown up, eat meals at the same table he had as a kid.
Had you been together, it might’ve felt like something monumental, a next step kind of moment. A milestone for the scrapbook. But you weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure what you were.
A witness? A burden? Another helpless case? Still, he hadn’t hesitated. And maybe that was the strangest part.
He explained that he had taken ten days off, claiming a family emergency. You couldn’t help but notice how conveniently timed it was, for both of you to disappear at once. Lex would connect the dots easily. He always did.
But Clark had reassured you: his parents’ place wasn’t on any record. It hadn’t been for years. He’d made sure of that.
It struck you as odd. He wasn’t a criminal, why go to such lengths to keep them hidden?
He’d just laughed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Exactly for situations like this,” he had said. “Working at the Daily Planet means going after people with real power, no conscience, and a long reach. You don’t poke the devil without having somewhere safe to run.”
A safe haven. And right now, it was the only one you had.
Finally arriving at the Kent farm, you felt unmistakably out of place.
You were a city girl, through and through. Your tailored coat and designer boots stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of open fields and grazing cattle. The air smelled fresh, too fresh. You were used to exhaust fumes, coffee shops, and wet pavement. Not dew-covered grass and distant hay. There wasn’t a neighbor in sight, just endless land stretching toward the horizon. It was peaceful. Isolated. A perfect hidden haven.
You’d braced yourself for a lie, certain Clark would come up with some excuse to explain your presence, an old friend needing a break, a colleague tagging along for fresh air. But when he introduced you to his parents, he told them the truth. Every word of it.
He told them how he’d gone poking around places he shouldn’t have, how that had put you in danger, not him. How you'd been left to deal with the fallout while he got to keep writing. “That’s why I had to help her,” he said. Simple. Honest. Sincere.
It caught you off guard, how human he was. How kind. The past three years of your life had been about leverage, power plays, cold threats and airtight lawsuits. You were always the hammer, and others were always the nails. You had buried people’s reputations without losing sleep. But Clark Kent wasn’t like that.
He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Not a confession, not information, not even details about the secret project that had started this whole mess. He had simply brought you here, because it was the right thing to do.
And it didn’t take long, just one meal at the dinner table, to see exactly where he got it from. The Kents were among the kindest people you’d ever met. Genuine warmth radiated from them, compassion, patience, trust. They welcomed you without question, offered you food, a room, and the kind of quiet grace you hadn’t known you were missing.
They didn’t want anything from you. And somehow, that unraveled something deep in your chest more than any threat ever could.
“Well, it’s not much, but…” Clark trailed off, glancing around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah.”
He looked awkward now, scratching the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The guest room wasn’t anything fancy: just a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. The wallpaper was fading at the edges, and the floor creaked when you stepped on it. But there was warmth here. And peace.
“It’s perfect,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Clark.”
His shoulders relaxed a little at your words, and the tension he’d been holding in his jaw softened. That awkward smile returned to his face, shy, boyish, almost bashful.
“I’ll, uh… let you settle in,” he said, backing toward the door like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. If you need anything... I’m just across the hall.”
“Goodnight, Clark,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He paused at the door, turning slightly with that familiar, gentle smirk. “Goodnight, Miss Luthor.”
Even after only a few hours in this house, you understood now where Clark Kent’s kindness and unwavering sense of morality came from. Was this what a real, loving family felt like?
Later, lying on the guest bed after your shower, tears returned, slow and quiet. How had it come to this? How had your family shattered so completely that you were now hiding from your own brother? When had Lex become someone so ruthless, so untouchable, so far above the law?
The sheets smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, a scent so unfamiliar it only made you feel more out of place. You turned to your side, staring at the wall as if it held answers. But there were none. Just silence, and the soft creaking of the old house settling into the night.
The quiet here was different than in Metropolis. There, silence came with the hum of neon lights and distant sirens, noise that reminded you you were still alive, still in motion. But this, this quiet made your thoughts louder, crueler. Every regret screamed a little louder in your head.
You should have said something years ago. You should have fought harder, sooner. You should have said no. Maybe then your life wouldn't be reduced to running, hiding in someone else’s safe haven.
You clutched the blanket a little tighter. Somewhere in this quiet house, Clark was probably still awake. Maybe writing, maybe just thinking. Maybe wondering if you were okay. You weren’t.
You closed your eyes and let the tears come again. Softer this time, slower. You didn’t sob. There was no energy left for that. Just salt and silence and the quiet ache of someone who had spent too long holding everything in.
Just across the hall, the man’s heart quietly broke. Clark sat on the edge of his childhood bed, hands clasped between his knees, eyes trained on the wooden floor like it might somehow offer a solution. But all he could hear was you, silently weeping.
Guilt was eating him alive.
He hadn’t listened to you. He’d kept digging, kept pushing, even looped in Mr. Terrific for help, convinced he was doing the right thing. But all it had done was draw unwanted attention. And not onto him. It had landed on you.
All because he had made that call.
The image of you standing on the edge of that rooftop haunted him. Something in him had cracked wide open when he saw you there, your posture brittle, your eyes hollow, like the life had been drained out of you. He couldn’t shake the thought : This is my fault.
With a heavy sigh, Clark laid back on his bed and closed his eyes, willing the ache in his chest to dull. But it didn’t.
Whatever it took, no matter the cost, he would make this right. He would tear down Lex Luthor’s empire.
And he would set you free.
It took a couple of days to finally settle into the rhythm of life at the Kent farm.
You tried to help out wherever you could. Mornings began early, walking through the fields alongside Jonathan, tending to the cows. At first, you felt completely out of place, the cliché city girl, useless with her hands and awkward in the dirt. But Jonathan never laughed. He didn’t mock or criticise. Instead, he stayed patient, calmly guiding you when you made mistakes, his voice always steady and kind.
After lunch, you'd join Martha by the chicken coop to collect eggs for dinner. She often filled the quiet with stories about Clark’s childhood or the latest gossip from the town market. You weren’t allowed to go into town, everyone had agreed it was best to avoid attention, but you found yourself eagerly listening to her tales, learning the names of townsfolk you’d never meet and becoming surprisingly invested in their dramas.
The Kents had told you more than once that you didn’t need to do any of this. They insisted rest was what you deserved, especially after everything Clark had told them. They thought you needed peace. And maybe they were right. But you couldn’t sit still for long. The silence gave space for darker thoughts to creep in. Helping around the farm was the only thing that seemed to keep your mind quiet.
Clark helped around the farm too. When he wasn’t out in the fields with his pa or fixing something around the barn, he was on the phone with someone from the Daily Planet or typing furiously on his laptop. So much for a “family emergency,” you’d joked once, raising an eyebrow at him.
He had laughed, genuinely, that quiet, warm laugh that made his dimples show, and replied, “News doesn’t wait.”
You were pretty sure that wasn’t the actual saying, but you let it slide. The way he said it, you almost believed it was.
It was about an hour before dinner. Clark’s parents chatted softly in the kitchen while Martha moved around preparing the meal. You sat on the couch, trying to focus on the book in your hands, but it was nearly impossible with Clark just a few meters away, perched at the dining table, typing away on his laptop.
The look of concentration on his face was one of the most captivating things you’d ever seen. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, lips bitten in focus, fingers dancing over the keys, and when he paused to jot down notes in his little notebook, you caught yourself staring at those unexpectedly graceful hands. Since when did he have such pretty hands?
Shaking your head, you tried to force your attention back to the pages in front of you, but the steady clicking of the keyboard pulled you back. Your eyes locked on his slender fingers as they moved. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, imagining how those fingers might feel against your skin : curling around your hands, pressing softly to your throat, tracing paths between your legs.
Your heart quickened, breath catching as your thoughts spiralled. You shouldn’t be thinking like this, he was the reason you were tangled in this mess to begin with. But you didn’t hate him anymore. Maybe you never truly had.
In fact, you had envied him. His courage, his fearlessness. He did what you’d never managed to do, not scared of the consequences, while you’d hidden away like a coward. You hated yourself for it, more than you could admit. So much of that self-loathing had been projected onto Clark Kent.
“You alright?” His voice pulled you back from your daydream, soft but curious.
You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d squeezed your thighs together, searching for some kind of relief. Suddenly, the room felt unbearably warm, despite the crisp late October air outside. You could feel heat flushing your cheeks and neck.
“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Why?” You tried to sound casual, hiding the flutter in your voice.
“Well, I could hear your—” He cut himself off, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes. “You just looked lost in thought.”
“Oh, yeah, sorry…” you apologised quickly, frowning at yourself. Why were you even apologising?
He brushed off your awkwardness with a gentle laugh before returning to his work. For the next hour, those restless, lustful thoughts kept sneaking into your mind, while Clark shot you sweet, knowing smirks from time to time, almost like he was aware.
Dinner was good, as always. It felt refreshing to share a meal with others, to sit around a warm family table instead of being alone in your cold Metropolis penthouse. This felt almost too good, and a part of you dreaded the day it would end.
So, when Jonathan suggested a poker night, you said yes without hesitation. Of course you did. You knew moments like this might never come again, and you wanted to savour every second. If that made you selfish, then so be it.
The game stretched well into the early morning before everyone finally agreed it was time to call it a night. Every one looked exhausted, but your mind refused to settle. You’d always considered yourself smart, but watching Clark quietly calculate his moves—counting cards, playing his tricks flawlessly, winning again and again without making a fuss like it was second nature—something stirred inside you.
That feeling spread, crawling from your brain down to somewhere much more intimate, a subtle, tingling heat that had been simmering for the past hour. You tried to focus, to play properly, but you kept losing. And the way his fingers toyed with the coins, the deliberate way he revealed his cards on the table, it was almost unbearable.
Now lying in your bed, your mind refused to quiet. Those thoughts crept in faster than you could push them away, relentless and insistent. You imagined his hands on your skin, his lips tracing yours, his deep voice murmuring close to your ear.
A warmth gathered between your thighs. At first, you tried to ignore it, close your eyes, tell yourself to sleep. But the images persisted, vivid and demanding. You saw him, naked and moving above you, the bed creaking with every thrust, his hand pressed firmly over your mouth to stifle your moans so you wouldn’t wake his parents.
You opened your eyes, breathing quick and shallow. You were burning up, both frustrated and aching.
It had been so long since you’d touched yourself, even longer since you’d shared a bed with someone. Without overthinking it, knowing it might ruin the moment, your hand slid inside your panties. You were drenched, soaked with desire.
Your other hand moved to your breast, first tracing over your shirt, but when that wasn’t enough, you shed it quickly. Pinching and teasing your nipples, your fingers began their slow dance on your clit. Eyes closed again, you imagined those hands, bigger, warmer, gentler, how soft they’d feel, how small you’d seem beneath their touch, as they traced every inch of you.
You let out a shaky breath, your body arching slightly against the bedsheet as your fingers circled over your clit in lazy, experimental strokes. Every movement sent a thrill through you, a contrast to the heavy silence of the house. The distant sound of the wind outside barely registered over the pounding of your own heartbeat.
Your mind refused to stop painting him there, Clark. His mouth against your neck, trailing slowly down your body with a patience that felt unbearable. You imagined him watching you now, those deep, perceptive eyes noticing every twitch, every sigh. Would he kneel beside the bed, take over without a word, his calloused fingers replacing yours, teasing you until you begged?
The need to moan his name burned at the edge of your throat, threatening to slip out with every gasp. But you bit down hard on your lower lip, your teeth sinking into soft flesh until you tasted copper. A sting of pain. A grounding sensation.
He was just across the hall. You glanced at the door when that thought crossed your mind.
That thought alone was enough to make your pulse race harder. One sound, one sigh too loud, and he'd heard you. The farmhouse was old. The wood creaked with the slightest shift. The walls were thin, not made to keep secrets.
You squeezed your eyes shut again, hand still moving against your slick heat, slower now, more purposeful. You imagined how his hand might replace yours, rough from typing all day, sure in its touch. Not teasing. Not hesitant. Like he knew what you needed before you even asked.
The ache grew sharper. Your thighs tightened as your hand moved faster, chasing that release you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly. Your breath came out in short gasps now, quiet, but desperate. One hand pressed against your mouth out of instinct, muffling a soft moan as pleasure spread out in waves, warm and all-consuming.
When it finally released you, your body softened with a quiver, sweat cooling on your skin. Your thighs twitched. Your lip throbbed where you’d bitten it.
Lying there in the dark, you blinked up at the ceiling, heart still stuttering in your chest. It took some moment for your breathing to go back to normal, but you couldn't help thinking this wasn't enough. It had felt amazing, but your body craved more. Almost like Clark had put you in a trance, with his easy charm and dimpled smile.
Shaking your head, you got up when it all became too much. Slipping your shirt back on in haste, you quietly padded toward the door. Maybe some cold water would cool your flushed skin, maybe those herbal pills you always kept on hand would finally lull your mind to sleep.
Carefully, you cracked the door open, only to freeze when the door across the hall opened at the exact same time. Clark.
He looked, disheveled. Not just sleep-rumpled, but wrecked.
His hair was a wild mess, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his cheeks tinged pink, and his glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, as though he’d thrown them on in a hurry. His eyes widened when he saw you, surprised.
Caught. Which was odd. He always seemed to hear you coming.
The hallway was silent, save for the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the unmistakable sound of his heavy, uneven breathing. His shirt clung to his chest like he’d just worked up a sweat. Or hadn’t bothered to redress completely. Your gaze dropped for the briefest second, just a flicker, and then back to his face.
“Are you okay?” you whispered, careful not to wake his parents.
Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, clearly caught off guard. Not like him at all.“Uh, yeah. Just need to hum… use the bathroom.” His voice was low, almost hoarse.
You nodded, mirroring his awkwardness. The silence stretched a beat too long before your eyes drifted up to meet his, and not before you noticed the quick flick of his gaze. From your face, down to the outline of your breasts under your tank top then back up, almost too fast to catch.
Almost.
“Are you okay?” he asked next, his voice gentler now. Too soft. Too intimate.
“Yeah. Just… thirsty.” You meant water, but the way your eyes lingered on the way his shirt stretched around his arms told a different story. You were definitely thirsty. But for what, exactly, well, that answer was becoming harder to ignore.
“Okay,” he said after a pause, clearing his throat like he was trying to reset the tension.
“Okay,” you echoed, the word falling flat between you.
And then, without another glance, you both turned and hurried in opposite directions, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hall like the aftershock of something neither of you were ready to name.
Hastily making your way back to your room, you caught the soft glow of the bathroom light still spilling into the hallway. The door was closed. Still.
You didn’t linger. You didn’t want to know what he was doing in there.
The conversation, or whatever that awkward exchange had been, was still playing on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with fresh waves of secondhand embarrassment. The silence, the stolen glances, the heat.
You shut your bedroom door behind you with a quiet click, leaning back against it for a second. No way. He couldn't have been doing what you thought he had been doing…
Right?
And yet, the look on his face. His breathing. His flushed cheeks. The way his hand had been gripping the doorframe like he needed it to stay upright.
Fuck. You were getting bothered again.
You huffed out a breath, forcing yourself to focus, to move. Rummaging through your bag, you searched for the herbal pills that usually helped you sleep. Something, anything, to quiet your mind and body.
But instead of the soft bottle, your fingers brushed against something small and metallic. Frowning, you pulled it out. A sharp breath escaped your lips.
An old USB drive. That USB drive.
The one where you had dumped every scrap of evidence you found about Project Superman. All of it. The hidden files, the encrypted memos, the off-the-record lab reports. The pictures. Proof of what your brother had done. What he was doing. You had told yourself it was just leverage. A safety net. Something to keep in your back pocket if Lex ever turned on you.
But you had never planned to use it. Not really. You had been too scared. Too loyal. Too broken. Your fingers curled tight around the metal. It dug into your palm, grounding you in the now.
From beyond your door, you heard his shut, soft and final. Clark.
Superman had told you Clark could help, and you had trusted the metahuman. It had felt scary at that time, diving into the unknown.
But now? Now it was time to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop letting fear write your story.
It was time to trust Clark Kent.
For real.
“Here,” you said, slamming the USB drive onto the dining table, the same table that had become Clark’s makeshift desk over the past few days. “That’s everything you need to take Lex down.”
You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.
Spinning on your heel, you headed for the door, where Jonathan was already waiting outside by the old truck. You were grateful he hadn’t come in to fetch you. Grateful you could escape before the weight of what you’d just done caught up to you.
The storm was coming. Jonathan had said so the night before at dinner, heavy wind, maybe even hail. There was work to do. Crops to secure. Cattle to shelter. It was the kind of hard, honest labor that demanded your full attention. The perfect distraction from the bomb you’d just dropped.
Clark had offered to help, of course, but his father had waved him off with a quiet look and a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got it,” he’d said. “Besides, I think she wants to help.”
And you had.. Especially now.
Your hands still felt shaky from what you’d done, but the physical work steadied you. You had given Clark everything he needed. If he used it, if it worked, Lex could finally be exposed. Stripped of his power. Stopped.
But if Lex caught wind of it before justice came? If he vanished into the shadows with all his money, influence, and contingency plans? You’d be left to face the consequences alone. There’d be no more running. No more hiding.
Nothing in those documents mentioned your name. You weren’t cited, not even once. And that was good, because with a decent lawyer, you could walk away from this without consequences. It wasn’t the justice system you feared. It was your brother’s power.
And the unknown future.
What would you do, once Lex was behind bars? His downfall meant the end of your job. With a scandal of this scale, no reputable firm would want your name anywhere near their letterhead. That thought had twisted your stomach with dread before you’d handed Clark the USB. But still, you’d done it.
It was the right thing to do. You’d worry about the fallout later. When Lex was finally out of your life.
“Clark told us you was some kinda lawyer.” Jonathan said, getting you out of your mind. His tone easy but with something thoughtful behind it. Like an idea was forming.
You let out a soft snort, raising your eyebrows. “Technically, yeah. Got the diploma to prove it. Just haven’t done a whole lot of actual lawyering.” You tried to joke, but it came out a little too close to the truth. A little too heavy.
“I hate to ask, but…” He trailed off, the pain in his eyes surprising you.
It never failed to catch you off guard, how kind the Kents were. Genuinely human in a way that felt untouched by the kind of darkness you’d grown used to. As if tragedy had knocked but never found a way in.
“You can ask me anything, Mr. Kent. Really,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with something close to gratitude. If it mattered to him, then it mattered to you.
"You see, there’s this young man we hire every spring and summer to help out around the farm," Jonathan began, his eyes drifting toward the horizon instead of meeting yours. "There’s just too much work for the two of us sometimes, you know?"
You nodded gently, letting him continue at his own pace.
"He’s Mexican. Not many folks around here wanna do farm work anymore, not like the old days. But he’s a good kid, real good. Kind with the animals, never complains, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Works hard. Honest."
Jonathan’s voice tightened slightly, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.
"He’s got a heart of gold, that one. But…" he hesitated again, rubbing a weathered hand across the back of his neck. "His papers aren’t exactly in order. And now, well, someone’s been sniffing around town asking questions."
He finally looked at you, something quietly desperate in his eyes. "I know it’s not your job, and you’ve already got so much on your plate. But I thought… maybe you could help him. Just take a look. Talk to him. Tell us what we should do."
For some reason, the way he spoke, with such genuine care for this young man, and the quiet embarrassment in asking for help, brought tears to your eyes. It hit you then : no one had ever cared for you like this. Not selflessly. Not without expecting something in return. Not the way the Kents cared about people.
"Of course I’ll help," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as a single tear slipped down your cheek.
You hadn’t expected it, but Jonathan gently pulled you into a warm, fatherly hug. It had been so long since someone held you like that, like you were precious, like you mattered. Like someone truly cared.
You’d only known him for about a week, but somehow, he already treated you like family. Like someone worth trusting.
If he had known you before all of this, back when you were still hiding behind sharp suits and sharper lies, you were certain he would’ve seen you as something else entirely. Cold. Ruthless. Maybe even a monster.
But now, melting into his embrace, you let yourself feel. Really feel. A few tears slipped free, but you didn’t hide them. Not this time. Because in that moment, you weren’t being judged. You weren’t being pitied.
You were just appreciated.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of hard but honest work. The cows were restless, as if they could sense the approaching storm. The mothers stuck close to their calves, letting out low, warning moos every time you got too near. Milking them had been a challenge, they weren’t having it, but you weren’t about to leave them full and aching until tomorrow. They didn’t deserve that kind of discomfort.
By the time the sun began to set, dark clouds had already taken over the sky. The wind howled across the fields, fierce and fast. Walking back toward the house felt like trying to walk through a hurricane, it tugged at your clothes, your hair, nearly lifting you off your feet.
You laughed despite yourself, catching sight of Martha running after the last few chickens, ushering them into the coop and locking it up tight for the night.
But the moment you stepped into the house, the laughter drained from your face.
There he was, Clark Kent, zipping up a bag.
He looked up, almost like he’d sensed your presence. His brows furrowed when he caught the look on your face.
“What you gave me…” he began, carefully, as if trying not to startle you. Or say the wrong thing. “I can’t do this alone. It’s too much. We only get one shot at this, and I can’t afford to screw it up. Not if it means you’ll get hurt.”
“You’re leaving?” you asked quietly, eyes flicking from the bag back to his face. He nodded. Your gaze shifted to the storm now raging outside. “But… the storm.”
“It’ll hit in a few hours. I’ll be out of Kansas by then,” he said gently, even though the thunder was already rumbling in the distance. His voice was soft, reassuring, but you could see the tension in his jaw. “Don’t worry about me.”
You could tell he wasn’t lying, but he was definitely hiding something. Biting your lip, you nodded gently, unsure of what to say. The week you’d spent here had been one of the best of your life. And it wasn’t just because of the gentle kindness of his parents, it was because of him.
What you’d once assumed was a cocky reporter, willing to do anything for a front-page story, turned out to be the sweetest, kindest man you’d ever met. He was a bit goofy, hopelessly nerdy about certain topics, but never once did he mock anyone. Never once did he act like he knew better, or like he was above the people around him. He believed, truly believed, that there was still good in the world.
Even in you.
And somehow, through his gentle patience and quiet presence, he made you feel at home. He never pushed. Never demanded answers about your brother, even though you’d told Superman you would share what you knew.
Clark had just waited. With warmth. With humour. With dimpled smiles. With a softness that felt like sunlight after too many years in the cold. He had been patient. Kind. Funny. And so incredibly sweet.
And you were only realising it now, just as it was ending.
Clark leaving Smallville meant your brother was going to be exposed. It meant that soon, you’d either be safe to return to Metropolis and try to start over… or you’d have to disappear forever, vanish before Lex could find you.
Either way, Clark didn’t belong in either version of that future. He wouldn’t be part of your life.
And that broke your heart. This wasn’t just him leaving town. This was goodbye.
A forever kind of goodbye.
The weight of that truth hit you hard, and tears slid silently down your cheeks before you could stop them. It felt unfair, the way you were reacting. Selfish, even.
Because he was doing the right thing. The brave thing. The thing you had once been too afraid to do. And you? You were no one to him. Just a stranger he’d offered a hand to while you were drowning. That’s what you had told yourself, what you had clung to in the quiet moments to keep from hoping too much.
But now you realized, it was more than that. He made you feel warm. He made you feel safe. Like maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair. Like maybe you deserved more than just survival. And now he was walking out the door, carrying all of that with him.
"Hey," Clark said, just above a whisper, stepping toward you with that familiar gentleness that made your chest ache. "When I come back, all of this will be over. We're going to do things right. He won’t get away. I promise."
God. The gentle soul he was.
He thought the tears were from fear, fear of what was coming, fear of retaliation, of the unknown. And sure, part of you was scared. But the real reason your heart was breaking was something else entirely. It made no sense.
You’d truly known him for a week. Seven days.
It was rushed. Unreasonable. Too much, too fast. And yet, in that short time, he had looked at you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just Lex Luthor’s sister or some tainted shadow of a woman walking through her own life. He made you laugh. He made you feel seen.
Not like your parents ever had. Not like Lex ever could. Not even the men you’d let close before, who saw only your face or your name, but never you.
Here, in this small safe heaven, you had been yourself. Your real self.
You had laughed. Joked. Talked until midnight with people who didn’t want anything from you. You had gossiped in the kitchen and helped mend fences. You had been happy. In just a small, fleeting week.
And now he was leaving. And your heart didn’t know how to hold itself together.
Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping around him as best you could, given how much taller he was. His arms instinctively closed around you, strong and warm, pulling you into the safety of his chest.
Behind you, the back door creaked open, followed by a small gasp of surprise, then the quiet click of it shutting again. Silence settled in the room, thick and still. You and Clark stood alone in the living room, though you could feel the eyes watching from outside. His parents. They were giving you this moment.
A soft, genuine smile tugged at your lips. They truly loved their son.
His body felt strangely familiar. Like you’d stood here before, wrapped in this exact embrace. A strange, aching déjà vu pulled at your chest. A memory you couldn't place. A feeling you couldn't explain. As if, somehow, you had been here already.
Breaking the hug, you noticed the rosy tint on his ears, his cheeks flushed to match. You could feel the heat on your own face, knowing you weren’t any better.
“Thank you, Clark,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Truly.”
Then, with the last bit of courage you had left, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
You owed him more than words could say. And with time, you hoped you’d find a way to give it back, to him, and to his parents.
With Clark gone, the days felt a little grimmer.
You still helped around the farm, but those long afternoons spent quietly sharing space with him were over. You didn’t want to intrude on Martha and Jonathan’s intimate moments either, they’d earned their peace. So, you found yourself alone again. But somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. You were starting to appreciate yourself again and even the silence. The thoughts that once plagued you were mostly quiet now.
It helped that Jonathan brought Luis around not long after Clark left. He hadn’t been lying, Luis was just a kid, and a very sweet one at that. He came with all his paperwork, every document and paychecks he’d received. You went through them all, piece by piece.
Helping him felt good. It felt right. Like this was what you were always meant to do. This was why you went to law school. Not to make the rich richer, but to help people. To do good. To give back.
Word spread quickly that the Kents were housing a lawyer willing to help. Soon, people were showing up daily, asking for guidance, hoping not to lose their homes, or their jobs, or custody of their children. And when Luis returned one day, clutching his official American papers, the news travelled like wildfire.
After that, your days on the farm were done. You no longer had time to milk cows or fix fences. But Jonathan and Martha never said a word. They were just happy you were helping people, like family did.
Whatever slow moments you had, you spent them scrolling the Daily Planet website, waiting. Hoping to see a big article with Clark’s name under it. But it never happened.
Not after a few days.
Not after a week.
Not after a month.
There was so much on that USB key, and you knew it was a one-shot deal, they couldn’t afford to mess this up. Still, you had hoped the fallout would be quick. You loved the farm, but you longed to be back in the city. Now that you understood how powerful you could be when you did your job right, there were so many people in Metropolis you wanted to help.
Clark texted every few days. He told you things were going well, that they were making progress at the Daily Planet. He asked how you were doing, and he said he was proud of what you were accomplishing, his Ma told him all about it. Every little texts of his filled you with warmth.
Sitting down on the couch, you let yourself enjoy a rare moment of peace before your next appointment arrived. Appointment, that word still made you smile. Back at LuthorCorp, you’d never taken appointments. Everything had been done through layers of emails, assistants, and pressure. Nothing like this.
Cradling your tea, you watched the winter sunlight settle across the fields, December leaving its quiet trace on the farm. The wind outside shook the windows lightly, and the kettle still hissed faintly in the kitchen.
You were lost in the calm until Martha’s voice called your name from down the hall. Looking up, you saw her leaning slightly around the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Would you mind grabbing Clark’s radio from his room? The one in the kitchen finally gave up.”
“Of course,” you said with a soft smile, rising to your feet.
You had never actually stepped into Clark’s room before. You’d only caught glimpses through a half-open door when he was still home. It felt personal. Like you were trespassing on something private. But you pushed the feeling aside and walked in carefully, quietly.
His room smelled faintly of cedar and something else, something familiar. The walls were lined with old posters, framed articles, photographs of the Kents, and a few hard-earned trophies from another life.
Then you spotted the radio near the window.
Just as you stepped toward it, something red caught your eye, half-hidden behind the bookshelf, draped carelessly like someone had shoved it there in a hurry. You squinted, drawn to it by instinct. Your fingers reached out, brushing over the fabric. It was soft, unnaturally smooth almost and familiar.
You tugged gently, freeing the red cloth from where it had been wedged. And then you saw it, fully.
Superman's cape.
You gasped, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your lips as your hand tightened around the fabric. Of course. It all made sense now.
Why his body had felt familiar. Why he was never tired, no matter how long the days stretched. Why Superman had said Clark could help. Why Clark looked at you with such real concern, as if he knew your pain firsthand.
Your thoughts spiralled, the weight of the truth crashing down on you like a wave.
Then, another gasp, loud and sharp, cut through your haze. Followed by Martha’s voice, shouting your name.
Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the kitchen, but froze in the living room. The television was on, the screen glowing bright. Martha and Jonathan were standing still, their eyes wide, glistening with tears they hadn’t yet let fall.
Your gaze followed theirs to the screen.
Lex Luthor Arrested After Daily Planet Accuses Him of Human Trafficking and Other Crimes
That was the headline. Everything stopped. They did it.
You were free.
Home. Finally.
It felt strange to be back.
Clark hadn’t been able to return to Kansas, but he had booked you a flight to Metropolis, along with a taxi waiting at the airport. You knew why. It was all over the news. Superman had been needed.
Lex hadn’t gone down quietly. His arrest had made headlines around the world, but it was the footage of Superman, restraining him, shielding civilians from his outbursts, that had dominated every screen. There was no way Clark could just vanish back to the quiet of Smallville right now.
Your penthouse hadn’t changed. It was still cold. Still too quiet. Still not home.
You’d taken a long shower, trying to wash away the dust of the farm, the small guilt of having turned your back on your own blood. Your old phone, finally charged again, buzzed relentlessly with texts, missed calls, emails, hundreds of them. From old colleagues, contacts, reporters. People wanting answers, or wanting to know if you were okay. Or worse, if you were complicit.
You wandered through the apartment slowly, your eyes catching every tiny detail. It had been searched. Meticulously so, almost invisible. But you knew. You felt it. Drawers slightly off, a coat pocket turned the wrong way, your files just a touch out of alignment. Lex must have sent someone after you disappeared.
You were so focused, checking every corner, scanning every surface for hidden mics or cameras, that you didn’t notice the figure landing silently on your balcony.
The metahuman stood there quietly at first, watching you. Admiring you. He felt a pang of guilt. You clearly had no idea he was there yet, no idea he’d come. You were barely dressed, just an oversized shirt draped over your body, brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs bare. It looked like you had been ready to call it a night. He couldn't blame you, it was late, and he had meant to arrive earlier. But the world had other plans, and so had Lex.
Still, there you were, moving with a quiet intensity, checking corners and closets. Clearly worried. Clearly unsettled. You weren’t just back in Metropolis, you were back in enemy territory. You were searching for anything Lex might have left behind.
Understanding immediately, he activated his X-ray vision, scanning the walls, shelves, electronics. Nothing. No bugs, no hidden cameras. You were safe. Satisfied, he let out a soft breath.
You jumped when you heard the knock on the glass door behind you. But the moment your eyes found him, standing tall in the red and blue, your tension melted into a smile.
Superman. Clark.
And now that you knew, they were one and the same, it was impossible not to see it. How had you missed it? The same dark hair, the same kind, thoughtful eyes. The same dimpled smile that made your stomach flutter.
You were sure of only one thing in that moment, you were safe now.
Rushing to the door, you threw it open without hesitation, and then threw yourself into his arms. He caught you instantly, as if it was second nature. As if he had been waiting for that exact moment, arms open just for you.
It felt strange to feel this way again, relieved, happy, safe. Relaxed.
You had almost forgotten what that felt like. Your days had long been filled with fatigue, stress, and a dull kind of numbness that clung to your skin like a second layer. Even back in Smallville, where the quiet and the kindness had started to peel it away, it had still lingered, dormant, but ever-present.
But right now, here in Superman’s arms? It was gone. There was only warmth. Strength. And the overwhelming calm that came from knowing, finally, that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.
“You did it,” you whispered, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Constant. Comforting.
“I didn’t do anything,” he replied softly, humble as ever. “It was all you… and Clark.”
That made you laugh, a soft, breathy sound muffled against him. Looking up, you tilted your head back, stretching to meet his gaze as he leaned down slightly.
His eyes.
God, those eyes.
An endless ocean of blue, warm, gentle, filled with hope and that quiet, unwavering kindness. The same eyes you’d seen every day in Smallville. The same eyes that watched you over a cup of coffee. That had crinkled with laughter when you made some dumb joke.
You could see it so clearly now.
Deciding to play along with his little charade, you smiled, something soft and knowing curling at the corners of your lips.
“Yeah, I haven’t seen Clark yet,” you said sweetly, feigning innocence as your gaze stayed locked with his. “You think he’ll be around soon?”
“He might be busy dealing with the fallout from the article,” Superman said, his voice steady but his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he was trying to find an exit that didn’t exist. “But I’m sure he’ll text you soon.”
“Hmm, yeah,” you murmured, finally stepping out of the embrace, letting your hands slide slowly away from him. The warmth lingered, but your tone had taken a teasing edge. “You two seem real close, aye?”
His eyes flicked to yours, briefly amused, mostly flustered.
You folded your arms across your chest, tilting your head with one brow arched. “I mean, the way you talk about him… how you said he could help me, that he could be trusted. It’s almost like you’re two sides of the same coin.”
He let out a breath of a laugh, nervous, uncertain. “We get along well.”
You hummed at his answer, the corner of your mouth curving into a teasing smirk. “And physically, you’re very similar,” you added, your tone playfully innocent. “Same height, same build, same hair, same eyes… same cute, dimpled smile. Someone might even say you’re the same person.”
Superman opened his mouth, but no words came out. You caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by something that looked an awful lot like resignation.
“And it’s strange,” you went on, stepping forward just slightly, “that Clark Kent is the only reporter who’s ever interviewed you. Yet… there are no pictures of the two of you together? It’s almost like no one’s ever seen you in the same place at the same time.”
His jaw twitched, barely. But you caught it.
A beat passed, tense, heavy with unspoken truths. His cape fluttered gently in the breeze drifting in from the balcony, but he didn’t move. He just watched you with those painfully familiar eyes.
“Coincidence,” he said finally, though not even he sounded convinced.
“Mmhmm.” You arched your eyebrow higher, letting the silence speak louder than your words. He shifted, just slightly, and ran a hand behind his neck, Clark’s tell. The exact nervous habit you’d seen a couple of times before.
“Yeah, must be,” you added, nonchalant, turning back toward the open window.
Behind you, you heard a soft sigh, the kind that sounded suspiciously like relief. It brought a slow, wicked smile to your lips. He didn't think you were that clueless, did he?
“Oh, and it’s also just a coincidence that Clark Kent happened to have Superman’s cape tucked away in his old bedroom?” you said over your shoulder, turning around just in time to catch the relief drain from his face.
He closed his eyes, the smallest groan escaping him, then shook his head with a tight, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
He opened his eyes again, no glasses now, no disguise, and for the first time, he let you really see him. Not as Superman. Not as Clark Kent. Just him.
“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said softly, almost embarrassed.
You shrugged, your smile still lingering. “You left it in plain sight.”
“It was behind a bookshelf.” He deadpanned.
"Blame your mom," you replied quickly, raising your hand in defence. "She's the one that send me in your room."
That earned a quiet laugh from him, but there was a nervous energy underneath it. You could see the vulnerability now, the way he stood slightly straighter, like bracing for impact.
“I just knew there was something so familiar about the two of you,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to fish for more answers. “I just couldn’t figure out what.”
“It’s the glasses,” he admitted with a sigh. “They’re designed to distort facial recognition, subtle enough to confuse the brain, make it hard to fully picture my face. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific.”
“They look cute,” you admitted with a teasing smile. “Almost as cute as the guy wearing them.”
You were shooting your shot. If not now, then when? Your heart thundered in your chest, terrified he might just turn and leaven, vanish off your balcony and out of your life.
His eyes snapped to yours, darker now, swimming with an emotion you didn’t dare name. “Your heart…” he whispered, taking in a deep breath like he was trying to calm his own.
Dread crashed over you. He could hear it. He could hear your heart. He had heard you. Oh no.
Oh fuck.
You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth as your eyes went wide with embarrassment. The realisation dawned on his face, and with it, a slow, smug grin that turned him from sweet and sincere to infuriating.
“Oh yeah,” he said, sniffing lightly, voice dropping into something teasing and low. “I heard that, too.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks and down your neck. You opened your mouth, trying to come up with an explanation, but nothing came. What could you say? That his intelligence had turned you on so badly you ended up touching yourself? Yeah, no. That definitely wouldn’t do.
Trying to save face, and maybe flip the power dynamic, you raised your chin and replied, voice just as smug, “Well, I seem to remember you looked pretty bothered yourself.”
That shut him up.
The grin faded, laughter dying in his throat. His eyes locked on yours, a different kind of tension suddenly filling the space between you. The playful air cracked into something heavier, charged, as if the truth had landed and neither of you knew what to do with it.
The atmosphere shifted instantly, thickening with unspoken desire.
“It was hard not to be when you sounded so sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even deeper, his dark eyes locked on yours. You caught the quick gulp, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, threatening to burst.
He must have heard it too.
Moving closer with careful intention, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted, his soft hands cupped your cheek. Then, without warning, his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding.
The sudden contrast of emotions hit you like a whip.
Your breath hitched as his lips pressed firmly against yours, the heat of the kiss melting away all your worries, that had clung to you for so long. His hand moved gently from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if you belonged there, like this was where you were meant to be.
For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, his warmth, his steady heartbeat beneath your palm, the taste of him lingering on your lips. You felt the tension in your body unravel, replaced by a fierce, aching need.
Taking hold of his suit, you gently tugged him toward the inside of your flat, walking backward without breaking the kiss. You could only hope nothing got knocked over, though honestly, you wouldn't have cared. You’d burn the whole damn place down if it meant keeping his lips on yours for even a moment longer.
Once inside, the warmth of his body, combined with the cozy heat of the apartment, sent shivers cascading down your spine. You melted deeper into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his suit. His lips were everything you had imagined, soft, warm, deliberate. Not rushed or demanding, just present. As if he had all the time in the world for you.
A quiet moan slipped past your lips at the realization, and he took that as his invitation. His tongue brushed gently against yours, slow and exploratory, dancing in a rhythm that left your knees weak.
Without breaking the kiss, he slid his arms beneath your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively, your hands finding their way into his hair.
Of course, you were just about to make some self-deprecating comment about your weight, some old habit, a leftover from past lovers who made you feel too much. And then you remembered who he was.
This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t like them.
This was Superman, a man who could lift buildings, outrun sound, and fly through storms. Your soft stomach, your thick thighs, your so-called imperfections, none of it could possibly scare him.
The thought hit you all at once, and something in you gave in.
You deepened the kiss with renewed intensity, your fingers threading deeper into his hair. Your thighs instinctively tried to clench for some friction, to ease the growing ache between your legs, but you were only met with the hard wall of his body. Solid. Unyielding.
You whimpered softly in frustration, which only made him smile against your lips. That damn dimple again. One of his hands slid up your spine, the other under your thigh, holding you so effortlessly close it made your heart stutter.
Looking up quickly, he returned his gaze to you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. Before you could ask anything, or make some kind of comment, you felt your stomach drop softly. The floor was no longer under your feet. You were floating. Held securely in his arms, Clark flew the both of you gently upstairs, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Easier than taking the stairs, apparently.
Looking down, you felt the same flutter of excitement you’d had the first time you fell off the roof, minus the adrenaline spike. Flying felt like freedom. Like being weightless, untouchable. If you were him, you’d never stop. You’d stay up there forever.
He landed gently just in front of your bedroom door. You expected him to set you down, maybe let you walk in on your own, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes glazed over for a second, scanning the room with silent intensity. You realized he was checking everything.
When his gaze finally settled back on yours, it had softened again. “No cameras. No bugs. Nothing,” he said, his voice low, reassuring.
Then his lips were back on yours, and he pushed the door open with his foot like he belonged there, like this was already his home, too.
The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it. All you could focus on was the way his hands gripped you, firm, but gentle. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he was still holding back.
You didn’t want him to.
Still holding you in his arms, he leaned down, your back finding the soft comfort of your mattress as he settled above you. His weight didn’t crush, it grounded. A reminder that this wasn’t a dream. That he was here. With you. Wanting you.
His lips found your neck, slow, deliberate, teasing, sending warm shivers down your spine. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. His breath caught at the contact, lips trailing lower, skimming across your collarbone with featherlight grace.
His hands, warm and sure, slipped beneath your shirt. They explored the curve of your thighs, his touch loving and careful, before gliding higher. He bypassed the most sensitive place between your legs with a restraint that made your breath hitch, instead resting his palms on your stomach. He kneaded the soft flesh there gently, almost like a cat finding comfort, as if he wanted to memorise every inch of you.
All the while, his lips stayed at your throat, moving down, then returning to the beat of your pulse like it was calling to him. Drawn to it. To you.
Craving more, you shifted your weight and flipped the two of you over. You knew he let you. With his strength, he could’ve taken control in an instant, pinned you down with barely a thought, but he didn’t. He let you lead, and the heat that flooded your core at that realization was overwhelming. You were already soaked, and he’d barely touched you.
You leaned down to kiss his neck, what little you could reach, your lips grazing over warm skin and the edge of his jaw. His breath caught, just slightly, and you grinned against him. Fingers fumbling, you tugged at the edge of his suit, trying to find a seam, a signal that it could come off. Was he even wearing anything underneath? The material felt barely there, sleek, smooth, almost too easy to remove.
Before your mind could spiral any further, his soft chuckle pulled you back. With a gentle but firm push, he shifted you off him and stood. Your breath hitched as he made quick work of the suit, fluid, practiced movements, and you couldn’t look away.
You clenched your thighs instinctively, trying to ease the pulsing need between your legs, but it only made the ache worse. Watching him undress, knowing what was coming, had your entire body lit up with anticipation.
He was, indeed, completely naked beneath the suit. His cock stood fully hard, pressed against the firm plane of his stomach, practically begging for attention. You licked your lips, unable to tear your gaze away. It was beautiful, clearly above average in size, with thick veins tracing along its shaft. A bead of precum had already gathered at the flushed, angry-red tip, taunting you. Carefully trimmed hair sat nicely on top on it all.
Clark noticed the look in your eyes, but he didn’t take it for granted. As he stepped toward the bed, clearly intending to sit down beside you, your hands on his hips stopped him. You lowered yourself onto your haunches, settling near the edge of the bed.
Your breathing had already quickened, your heart pounding unnaturally fast. Still, your eyes remained fixed on his arousal, mesmerised. Then soft fingers tipped your chin upward, gently guiding your gaze to meet his.
Kind blue eyes stared back into yours.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine care. He wanted you to know this wasn’t expected, he wouldn’t cross any lines.
“I want to…” you whispered, leaning closer. You pressed a soft kiss to his tip. “You’ve been so good to me.” Another kiss. “So patient… so helpful.” A gentle lick followed. “I just want to say thank you.” Another slow, deliberate lick.
The sound he let out in response might have been the most perfect thing you'd ever heard.
His breath hitched, chest rising sharply as your tongue teased him again, a little more boldly this time. The tension in his thighs was unmistakable, muscles flexing under your hands where they still rested on his hips. Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, just like he had before.
Your lips wrapped gently around the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. A soft hum escaped your throat at the heat and weight of him. He groaned, low, rough, and utterly unguarded, and your whole body reacted to the sound, warmth pooling deep in your core.
You answered him by taking him deeper, slowly, savouring every inch as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. He was thick, and the way he filled you was dizzying. You used your hands to steady yourself, one gripping his thigh, the other gently stroking what you couldn’t take yet.
Clark’s hand remained at the back of your head, not guiding, not insisting, just there, his fingers threading tenderly through your hair. It wasn’t just a touch, it was a silent kind of worship. His palm was warm, soft as it caressed your scalp, and the sensation sent a fresh rush of heat surging through you. You could feel it, wetness gathering again in your panties, your body aching with want.
You found a steady rhythm, working him with your mouth and hand in perfect coordination, slow, deliberate, controlled. Your tongue swirled around the head each time you rose up, then slid back down with delicious pressure, your hand stroking what your lips couldn’t reach. His hips twitched slightly, and you could feel the restraint in him, the way he was holding himself back.
As your confidence grew, so did your need. The hand that had rested against his hip slid downward, past your stomach, over your waistband, slipping beneath the hem of your panties. The moment your fingers brushed your clit, a quiet moan vibrated from your throat and against him, making his body shudder in response.
You were soaked. Every nerve ending felt electrified, your clit pulsing and swollen with need. You circled it gently, teasing yourself as you sucked him a little deeper. The contrast, his weight in your mouth, your fingers pressing into your own heat, felt like heaven. Your thighs clenched instinctively, chasing the pleasure building inside you.
Clark groaned above you, his voice hoarse, laced with disbelief and pleasure. His moans and grunts grew louder, more desperate, as you gradually took him deeper, your throat adjusting to him with every pass. Looking up at him through tear-filled lashes, you caught the moment his gaze dropped to yours. His cock twitched violently in your mouth, and his head flew back with a broken, helpless whine.
The sound made you moan around him, low and needy, sending another ripple of sensation through his body. He had to love the sight. And honestly, so did you.
He was a mess. Sweat clung to his chest, dampening the dark hair there, his neck flushed, cheeks glowing, ears pink with heat. He looked utterly wrecked, just like he had that night at the farm.
The memory made your thighs clench, need spiraling higher. The wetness between your fingers had grown slicker, hotter. You couldn’t stop now, not with the way your body was pulsing for release.
You rubbed faster, chasing it, matching the rhythm of your mouth around him, both of you slipping closer and closer to the edge. His hands gripped your shoulders suddenly, stopping your movement.
“You’re gonna make me—” But the rest of the words were swallowed by a guttural moan as his hips involuntarily bucked forward. His control was fracturing, and you loved it.
“Come here,” he groaned as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The sudden absence made you whimper, but the sound was quickly silenced by his lips crashing onto yours.
You instinctively tried to turn away, after all, you’d just had him in your mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. His kiss was fierce, messy, his tongue forcing its way between your lips like he needed to taste himself on you.
Pushing you back onto the bed, he climbed over you, his body radiating heat. Without hesitation, with a sharp tug, your shirt was torn apart, ripped down the middle like it was nothing. Your panties followed, shredded in his hands, leaving you gasping beneath him.
You gasped, staring down at the wreckage of your clothes, your chest heaving, before his mouth found your skin again. Hot and wet, his lips closed around one nipple while his hand claimed the other, squeezing and teasing in perfect rhythm.
A moan escaped you, hips grinding up instinctively, desperate for friction. Sensing your need, Clark shifted and pressed one of his thick thighs between your legs. The pressure was immediate and perfect. You cried out, rubbing yourself against the strong muscle, your slickness already coating his skin. He groaned against your chest, the sound sending shivers through you.
Clark groaned into your chest, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and raw. "Doing so good."
Then he was back on your lips, kissing you fiercely. The kiss was messy, teeth occasionally knocking together, but it felt like the most electric moment you’d ever lived. His warmth pressed against you, solid and unyielding, as he shifted some of his weight onto you, pinning you gently but firmly against the mattress. Locked against him, breath mingling, your bodies pressed tight in an intoxicating, perfect embrace.
With a particularly hard thrust of your hips against his, you begged, “Please, Clark.”
His mouth brushed against yours as he laughed softly, a light, breathy sound that cut off the moment your warm hand closed around his cock. You tried to guide him toward your entrance, but your movements were rushed and a bit awkward, causing him to press against your sensitive clit. The sharp sensation made you bite down hard on Clark’s shoulder.
“Okay, okay…” he said calmly, as if your teeth sinking into his skin barely registered. Gently shooing your hand away, he replaced it with his own larger one.
His fingers nudged at your entrance with care, waiting patiently. Waiting for you to look up, to meet his gaze, to show him you truly wanted this, wanted him.
Your eyes met his, wide and shining with need. The vulnerability there made his gaze soften even more, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire that made your heart skip.
“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and gentle, as if asking permission without pressure. This filled you with warmth.
You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”
With that, he pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to every new sensation. You gasped softly, fingers clutching at the sheets as the fullness spread inside you, warm and deep.
When he was fully inside, he paused, resting his forehead against yours again. “You feel—,” he whined, his voice thick with emotion, out of breath. "Perfect. So warm."
You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Please move.” You moaned in his ears.
He began to move, slow, steady, a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. Each thrust was deliberate, filled with both passion and care. Your bodies moved together as if they were made for this moment, for each other.
His movements grew more confident, a little rougher but still measured, as if he was memorising every reaction, every shiver that ran through your body. You clung to him, nails digging lightly into his back, needing to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure built inside you. He never stopped kissing you, in between moans and grunts.
Clark’s breath was ragged now, lips brushing the curve of your jaw with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice thick with need.
You pressed your forehead against his, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop. Please.”
He responded by picking up the pace, hips rolling with a deeper, more urgent rhythm. Your body answered instantly, every nerve ending on fire, every touch setting off sparks. The heat between you built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until your breath hitched and your chest trembled. Clark’s hand slid down your side, slipping between you to find your clit, circling it with gentle, insistent pressure.
The combination, his body moving inside you, his fingers teasing you, was almost unbearable. You cried out, clutching him tighter, your body arching up to meet his.
“Clark…” you gasped, voice thick with need.
You could feel his cock twitching inside you with every clench of your cunt. You were both so close to the edge, the sensation overwhelming. You could count on one hand the number of times a guy had made you come through penetration alone, and Clark was dangerously close to that milestone. And this was the first time he was fucking you.
His fingers never stopped moving on your clit, perfectly synchronised with his heavy thrusts. What finally pushed you over the edge was the sound of his deep voice grunting in your ear as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. He was whispering your name, telling you how good you felt, how warm you were, how perfect.
Then he said something that was almost too much to bear.
“I’ve been wanting you since I saw you, so pretty, at the farm,” he whined, struggling to hold back his release. “A soft city girl like you, all pretty on my family’s farm… I couldn’t help thinking this was the—” He stopped himself with a filthy moan. “The prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”
That broke something inside you. Knowing he had been dreaming about you just as much as you had about him made everything shatter. Scratching down his back, your own body arching, you let it all go.
Your body trembled as the waves of release crashed over you, every nerve ending alight with fire. Clark didn’t pull away; instead, he held you tighter, his own breath hitching as he followed you over the edge.
A desperate moan left Clark's lips. His hips stuttered, movements faltering as he tensed inside you, the warmth of his release flooding deep. You felt the mix of him and yourself, a messy, intimate testament to the moment you’d just shared.
Before he could crush you beneath his weight, he quickly rolled onto his back, pulling you flush against him. Your body pressed warmly against his, his softening length still nestled inside you. The shift made you instinctively clench around him, and he responded with a low, warning groan.
“Sorry…” you murmured, laughing softly.
Looking up, you smiled gently, and he was already watching you.
It felt strange.
Just a few months ago, you’d hated this man. Not really him, but everything he stood for. The Daily Planet. The goodness. The righteousness. The morality.
He had barged into your life, unwanted and uninvited, turning everything upside down. But he hadn’t left. He stayed. Helped when everyone else had walked away the moment they got what they wanted. Not him.
Now, as you laid your head back against his chest, you didn’t know where any of this was headed. But for once, you were ready to take a leap of faith into the unknown.
elevator confessional (♡✧) ─ getting stuck in the elevator with the one doctor on the emergency floor you were hoping to avoid at all costs was not on your bucket list for your shift. neither was having to face the feelings you both had buried for each other. (3.6k)
the abbot effect (♡) ─ your boyfriend has a way about him that draws women in like bees to honey. it’s never bothered you before, but after a bad shift and an ill-timed bet, you are quickly reaching the limit of what you can handle. (5.4k)
higher standards (♡✧) ─ everyone has an ex that they’d rather forget about. yours is just more persistent than most. however, when he takes the initiative to show up at your place of work, demanding a second chance, it’s time for you to shut it down once and for all—and to show that you have standards now. (5.4k)
✎ ... DENNIS WHITAKER !!
⤷ one-shots ⊹
green-eyed monster (♡✧) ─ you try not to jump to conclusions regarding dennis's friendship with one of his co-workers, but as more details regarding their relationship come to light, you can't help entertaining the green-eyed monster inside of you. (5.5k)
quick bio: im peony. i love old men and writing shameless smut. im living the life!
please be mindful that my work is for adult eyes only! and for humans only, do not feed an ai my writing, please!
I do not have any other accounts except this tumblr and my AO3 so if you see "me" on any other sites (like tiktok, etc), that isn't me!
this post will be periodically updated (last update: 06/24/26)
current number of fics (that can be found below the cut!): 31
current poll: how does andrew "pope" cody like his ice?
check out my monthly newsletter: may 2026
* - fics with this demarcation are dark fics and should be avoided if you're squeamish! (you can filter them out by blocking the tag #opulentpeony dddne)
❀ completed ❀
jack abbot, andrew "pope" cody, titus danforth x fem!reader:
• capture the bride*
andrew "pope" cody x fem!reader x jack abbot:
• there's something wrong with jack abbot* + there's something wrong with andrew cody* + there's something wrong with you (coming soon!)
alright, i'll be the one to say it. ao3 and tumblr becoming "mainstream" did so much damage to the community and the writers. i have seen loads of videos and posts about:
1. people hating on writers and fics. writing is something we do for free and for fun. if you stumble upon a fanfic that isn't necessarily your cup of tea or you just don't like, scroll. dont read it. literally leave their page. you don't know if this could be the author's first work that they're so excited about, you dont know if the language they're writing in isn't their first language, you dont know that the writer could be a literal teen and loads of other reasons. fanfictions don't HAVE to be perfect. you write what you want to write because we do it for fun and enjoyment and we want to share that to the world. seriously, what is the wrong with that?..
2. x reader consumers getting WAY too entitled. the number of tiktoks i've seen that say "i run a strict program when it comes to reading fanfics." girl you aint running shit. this is FAN FICTION you're reading. F A N F I C T I O N. there is no denying that most fanfiction writes are beyond talented but just because you read one fanfic that exceeds your expectations doesn't give you the right to talk down on others that don't. people have their own personal writing style, their way of doing things and you talking shit on that isn't right.
at the end of the day, we are all humans, reading and writing is what we do and what we're meant to do. and for you to talk shit about a person WRITING is so insane. we are humans. not some robots that you can tell what to do so you can consume it.
i've seen so so many authors take down their fanfics and losing all motivation to write because of a hate comment. DONT LIKE DONT READ‼️
and to every author reading this, this community values your work and your contribution. we love u and, please, never let anyone's negative words have an effect on you.
I noticed that some of the links in part 1 stopped working so here's part 2 (sorry if you were tagged already in part 1). I'll keep adding to this list here. Most of these fics have smut so 18+ minors do not interact!
My favourite series:
His Best Girl (mostly Michael Robinavitch x reader but also has Langdon, Park, and Abbot) | @thykingdoncome
When Did You Get So Hot? (Pope Cody x reader) | @sleepingbeautiiies
andrew and gf being horny (and in love) (Pope Cody x reader) | @pittrabbit
Assistance (Titus Danforth x personal assistant!f!reader) | @yournamesnob
My favourite one shots:
Take Care & Listen (Brendon Park x reader) | @rr-after-dark
My kind of Shark (Brendon Park x reader) | @atlaslapis
Baby Shark (Brendon Park x reader) | @atlaslapis
Six Weeks Minimum (Brendon Park x fem!reader) | @jadeittic
My Kink Is Karma P.1 (Brendon Park x AFAB!female!reader) | @novemberaster
Bedside Examination (Michael Robinavitch x reader) | @whichwayisthebeach-seabass
stepdad!robby's strip club adventure (Michael Robinavitch x f!reader) | @robinavitchslut
The Ache of Obsession (voyeur!stalker!Pope Cody x fem!reader) | @pearlessance
Shark Attack (Dr. Jack Abbot x Fem!R4!Reader) | @abbotsmyhabit
Little Lovebug (single dad!Andrew Cody x reader) | @baransdollie
Hell On You (Pope Cody x bunny!reader) | @mariasont
You Shaved Your Bush (Jack Abbot x reader) | @keytomylockhart
Glad to see you back (Jack Abbot x reader) | @atlaslapis
House Rules (Michael Robinavitch x resident!reader) | @dirtyb1rdy
Love At First Coffee? (Brendon Park x f!reader) | @metal-armed-muse
My favourite blurbs/drabbles:
he gets hard seeing you in high heels (Pope Cody x reader) | @cuti3-81
Forever (Pope Cody x fem!reader) | @kisscoabbot
Semi-public sex with perv!mean!tennis coach!robby (perv!mean!tennis coach!Robby x female!reader) | @robinavitchgf
in case of emergency (Robby x attending!reader) | @miniswritinblog
Jack's Human Utah (Jack Abbot x reader) | @mrsmckay
hot tub with dbf!jack (dbf!pervy!jack x reader) | @bloodnguts17
A Very Happy Birthday (Jack Abbot x reader) | @thatfanficstuff
Sweetest Little Belly (Michael Robinavitch x Fem!Reader) | @rhettsunshine
stepdad!robby loves his mini me (stepdad!robby x f!reader) | @robinavitchslut
Needy husband!Pope (Pope Cody x reader) | @velvet-lane
Toxic Foreplay (Titus Danforth x f!reader) | @in-ky
Making prejac Sammy fuck a fleshlight (Sammy Bryant x reader) | @valleyanimalz
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
janainaart
germansingergirl
areudirty
jacobvanloon
yousharknotpass
2087
turnnoffyourmind
ellievsbear
