Hiiii, my name is Lee!! I’m 21 and I write NSFW, Fluff, Angst and anything I am feeling for my favorite characters. My current obsession is Adrian Chase so hopefully I can get more of him out soon.
I started this account as an HP fic blog but I rarely write for the main characters anymore because it feels weird to me now. But my requests are open rn for Adrian Chase and Clark Kent.
Also, fair warning I am dyslexic so some of my works do have misspelled words I never went back and fixed.
✸ Smut ❀ Fluff ✧ Angst — Work In Progress
Last Updated: 5/18/26
[Kinktober 2025] 8/8 Posted!!
DCU
Adrian Chase
Adrian Trying to Get Reader Past His Mom ✸
Which Is Which? ✸
HCs of Bf!Adrian Chase Lacking Boundaries✸ ❀
Lacking Boundaries!Adrian and His Secret Photos ✸
Adrian Showing Off His Beanie Babies ❀
Knife Kink with Adrian Chase ✸
Adrian x reader x Adrian ✸
Cheater ✧ ❀
Love Language ✧ ❀
Wait, What? ✧ ❀ ✸
Clark Kent
Temperature Play with Clark Kent ✸
Outer Banks
JJ Maybank
Anxious ✧ ❀
BET ✸
JB’s Little Sister ✸
Teach Me, Please || Another Lesson? ✸
Rafe’s Girlfriend ✸
Prove It ✸
Oh, It’s You (Series Masterlist)
Rafe Cameron
Fratboy!Rafe ❀
Manipulative ✸ ❀
Harry Potter
Mattheo Riddle
Caught (1 ✸)(2)(3 ✸)(4)(5)(6 ✸)(7) (on pause indefinitely)
Clark Kent has never hand an issue controlling his floating—until now...
When Clark was a kid, half his childhood was spent wrestling with his powers.
If he wasn’t scribbling stories in his notebooks, buried in textbooks, or obsessing over whatever new fixation had his brain in a chokehold, he was busy trying not to burn holes through the wallpaper with his heat vision, or shatter doorknobs with his grip, or—worst of all—float.
The floating was the bane of his folks’ lives. He’d knock out on the couch after school, reruns humming in the background, and Ma and Pa would walk in to find him two feet above the cushions, blanket draped over him like some half-formed ghost.
Ma used to screech him awake, hands on her hips, warning he’d “fall and crack his fool skull open if he kept showin' off like that.”
So Clark learned quick. He got it under control.
No more unplanned levitating. No more slip-ups. He only floated when he wanted to—whether that meant shooting two hundred feet into the sky to take down whatever monster was wrecking Metropolis…or quietly hovering to snag a book off the top shelf in the safety of his apartment.
He had control. Perfect control.
Until he started dating you.
And suddenly, gravity didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.
But you weren't the only one who floated for. In fact, it was for Clark’s biggest idol, who was also his crush.
Which, unfortunately for him, was you.
How could it not be? You were gorgeous. Brilliant. The kind of mind that could unravel the biggest story in Metropolis before anyone else had even found the thread. You asked the right questions, wrote the sharpest copy, and stacked front-page bylines higher than Clark could dream of.
So of course he fell for you. Or, well—floated for you.
He remembered one night especially. Late. Perry had cornered him with another impossible deadline, and Clark, ever the eager reporter, had agreed with a smile even though every bone in his body wanted to curl into a ball and disappear under his desk. He was stirring his coffee like it might magically write the story for him when—
You walked in.
No makeup. No usual pencil skirt and pressed blouse. Just an oversized t-shirt, flannel pants with cartoon teddy bears on them, and the kind of tired smile that knocked the air right out of him.
Clark gaped. You laughed.
You told him you always kept spare clothes in your desk for nights like this, suggested he do the same if Perry kept running him ragged. Simple, casual advice—but it was you of all people. Talking to him. Looking at him. Smiling at him.
Clark could only nod, wide-eyed and wordless, like a puppy trying not to drool as you grabbed your food from the fridge, wished him goodnight, and padded out.
He looked down at his coffee, stirring faster and faster like it could disguise the fact that his heart was about to beat right out of his chest.
You had talked to him. You had talked to him. Offered tips. Given advice. Dear Lord, this was the best night of his life—
Until the clatter of metal on tile made him jump out of his skin. His spoon had fallen. Louder than he expected.
Which was odd, because he knew he was tall, but not tall enough that things sounded like a bomb going off when they dropped. He hadn't grown again, right? Cause that would make fitting into his car very inconvenient—
That's when he discovered the fact that he was hovering three feet above the ground.
Clark crashed back down instantly, cheeks blazing, darting his eyes to the door, the windows, every corner of the empty lounge.
There was no way that just happened to him.
And it got worse and worse.
It was like his body couldn't help but float up to cloud nine every time he thought about you. Like you were some unattainable angel that his body unconsisly decided he was going to try to reach, no matter how high, or the situation.
He’d be at his desk, pretending to focus on copy while you leaned over Perry’s shoulder to argue about a headline, and suddenly his knees were pressed uncomfortably against the bottom of his desk.
Just an inch, maybe two—but enough for him to clamp both hands on his chair arms and pray no one noticed.
Or that time you brushed past him on your way to the elevator—nothing special, just the barest touch of your sleeve against his—and by the time you disappeared around the corner, Clark realized both of his shoes weren’t quite on the ground.
He practically slammed his heels down, heart racing, swearing to himself he’d start carrying weights in his pockets.
Even at home, he wasn’t safe. He’d think about the way you said his name—soft, casual, like it meant nothing—and next thing he knew, he’d be making eggs six inches above the kitchen floor.
And then… you started dating.
Clark remembered asking you out with all the calm of a man trying not to shake apart at the seams. You’d said yes—yes—with the faintest blush touching your cheeks, a blush he’d never seen before, one that sent his heart straight into orbit. When you turned, waving casually over your shoulder like you hadn’t just changed the course of his entire life, Clark barely managed to keep it together long enough to round the corner.
Then he bolted for the nearest supply closet.
Not for anything scandalous—his Ma and Pa would’ve knocked the sense back into him if that thought had even crossed his mind. No, Clark needed space. Space to float.
He shot up into the cramped air, spinning in the tiny room, fist-pumping, grinning so wide his face hurt, letting himself cheer like a fool where no one could hear him. For once, he didn’t fight the floating. He let it happen.
And when he finally touched down, smoothing his tie and combing a hand through his hair, he walked out like nothing at all had happened.
But after you said yes, everything got harder.
Clark had spent years perfecting the art of hiding Superman—but now? Now, every smile from you sent him halfway to the ceiling. His floating got worse. Way worse.
There was the time you kissed him goodbye outside the Planet and he barely managed to keep his feet on the pavement. He gripped a lamppost like it was a lifeline, praying you wouldn’t notice his heels hovering half an inch above the sidewalk.
Or the dinner at your apartment, when you leaned across the table to wipe a smudge of sauce from his chin. Clark’s chair screeched back an inch—except it wasn’t from him pushing.
His whole body had started to drift upward, legs lifting under the tablecloth until he had to stomp his feet down so hard the silverware rattled. He laughed it off, muttering something about “uneven floors.”
And then there was the worst close call of all: the movie night. You’d fallen asleep against his shoulder, warm and soft and utterly perfect, and Clark had been so overwhelmed he hadn’t realized he was floating both of you a good foot off the couch cushions.
He only caught it when the popcorn bowl slid onto the floor with a crash. He dropped them both so fast the couch springs nearly exploded, and you stirred, mumbling, “Clark, you okay?”
He’d lied through his teeth—“Yeah, yeah, just dropped the bowl”—while his heart hammered like he’d just outrun a tornado.
But he knew. He knew he couldn’t keep Superman away from you forever.
When he finally told you, it went just the way he’d imagined: the shock, the questions, the proof, the tears and fears tangled in with relief and awe—and finally, your acceptance.
Clark had never been happier.
From that day on, he stopped fighting it. He let himself float, drifting weightless around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
In the mornings, he’d hover an inch off the ground while you tugged him closer by the tie, tightening the knot with a soft smile. He felt like something out of a fairy tale.
And at night, he let himself fall apart.
The kitchen smelled faintly of coffee grounds and toasted bread, but Clark only tasted you. His mouth was hot and insistent, slanting over yours again and again. His hands framed your waist, fingertips digging into the curve of your back.
You gasped, but he swallowed the sound greedily.
“Can’t—can’t stop,” he mumbled into your mouth, breathless, already rutting his hips against you through the thin barrier of clothes. His voice broke into a shaky whine when your fingers tugged at the buttons of his shirt. “Gosh, please—”
Fabric tore somewhere between frantic hands and the solid press of his chest against yours. Your shirt was gone first, discarded onto the floor, his lips following the new stretch of bare skin like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss or worship.
When his slacks hit his thighs, there was no hesitation. Clark hauled you up into his arms. Your legs locked around his waist instinctively, heels digging into the hard muscle of his back.
He pushed inside you in one long, overwhelming stroke, and the sound he made nearly undid you—high, broken, a moan that cracked into a desperate whimper as he bottomed out.
“H—heavens,” he gasped, clinging to you like he might fall apart if he let go. “You’re so—so tight, baby, oh my Gosh—” His hips jerked, shallow at first, and then harder, faster, until every thrust had you bouncing in his arms.
You clutched at his shoulders, nails biting deep, your cries mixing with his. His head dropped to your neck, his teeth grazing, his breath hot and uneven.
“Feels so good—I can’t—don’t wanna stop,” he babbled against your skin, each word punched out with another snap of his hips. His moans spilled freely now, unrestrained, a needy counterpoint to the slick sound of your bodies colliding.
And then—
The counter wasn’t there anymore. The solid press against your back vanished, and Clark heard something metal clatter uselessly to the floor below. His stomach lurched as he realized you weren’t grounded anymore—you were rising with him.
His eyes flew open, wide and startled, his thrusts stuttering to a halt for the barest second. Oh Gosh—oh Gosh, I’m—
But then his gaze locked on you. Your arms wound tight around his neck, your eyes blown wide, lips parted, the sweetest little sound breaking out of you when his cock shifted inside you in this strange, weightless pull.
And that was it. He was gone.
“Baby,” he gasped, clutching you tighter, rocking his hips forward again without meaning to. The sensation ripped a broken moan from his chest, high and needy. “Oh, baby, I can’t—oh my Gosh, I can’t stop.”
You shrieked his name, fingers clawing at his shoulders, but he barely heard you over the sound of his own whimper. His cock dragged through you deeper now, gravity no longer slowing the thrusts, every stroke hitting a spot that had his knees threatening to give out, even though he wasn't on the ground.
He buried his face in your throat, sucking hot kisses into your skin, whining every time your gummy walls clenched around him. “Please—don’t tell me to stop—please, I need it—need you—golly, you’re so tight—ohhh Gosh—”
He shifted his grip under your thighs, spreading you wider, bouncing you helplessly on his cock while his hips pumped up into you.
Clark thought he might die from it—the weightlessness, the heat of you, the way you looked at him like he was the only thing holding you together. His chest ached, his cock throbbed, his vision blurred at the edges.
“I’m yours,” he babbled, forehead pressed to yours, his thrusts sharp and frantic now. “All yours—always yours—fuck, don’t let me go, baby—don’t let me—”
And then you clenched around him. Hard. A shudder ripped through your body, and your cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched, walls squeezing him like fire. Clark’s eyes went wide, his breath catching, the sensation driving him completely over the edge. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop—every muscle in his body tensed, and his hips slammed into yours with abandon.
“Baby, you’re—yes! Yes!—” he groaned, his voice breaking, his hands clutching at your thighs to keep you pressed to him. Your orgasm wrapped around him like a vice, and he felt it—every pulse, every squeeze, every shiver—pulling him over the edge.
Clark’s own climax hit like a tidal wave. He shuddered violently, buried deep inside you, and filled you to the brim, groaning your name as his release rocked through him. The world spun, but slowly, gently, he began to float back down.
When your feet finally touched the cool kitchen tile, Clark collapsed on top of you, trembling, forehead pressed to yours, lips seeking yours in frantic, messy kisses. He was still panting, still flushed, still impossibly needy.
“I—I’m so sorry,” he whispered between kisses. “That… that shouldn’t have—won’t happen again, I swear. I—”
You pressed your lips to his, cutting him off with a soft, teasing smile. “It’s… not so bad. Pretty impressive trick, actually.”
Clark froze for a heartbeat, then let out a sheepish laugh, brushing hair out of his eyes. “Really? You think so?” he murmured, his cock still hard but easing as he nuzzled your neck.
“Mm-hmm,” you purred, tracing your fingers along the line of his jaw. “I think I could get used to it.”
His smile was sheepish. He would never admit it aloud, but floating or not, being with you like this?
He could get used to it faster than anything else in the world.
Lowkey rambled on this one... but he's such a lover boy it hurts. How could I NOT do a drabble about that?!
I'm pretty sure someone asked me for such a sad story, but I can't find their request. If you're reading this, here it is. I ended up crying, so I don't know if I should thank you, haha. A part two?
Clark Kent x female reader
Sinopsis: She was created to destroy Superman, but meeting Clark Kent changes everything. What begins as a mission inside the Daily Planet slowly turns into something dangerously human—something she was never meant to feel.
Warnings: Emotional abuse, physical abuse, manipulation, conditioning, human experimentation, violence, blood, trauma, torture mentions, toxic power dynamics, captivity, identity issues, heavy angst
WC: 14,000 words approx.
They say broken souls are born broken.
That there is no way to fix them, no matter how hard you try.
That villains are villains forever, that they can never change, that the evil inside them is like a stain nothing can wash away.
They also say that those born in hell are consumed by the same fire, that there is no escape, that pain is the only thing they know and the only thing they will ever have until the very end.
And you heard those words so many times that eventually, you believed them. You carried them carved into your bones, into the way you learned to stay quiet, into the way you lowered your gaze whenever someone spoke to you. Because for you, kind words never existed. There were only orders, blows, experiments, and the cold silence of the laboratories where you spent almost your entire life.
You should have known your life would be like this. From the very beginning. From before you opened your eyes for the first time. You should have known your destiny was to be called nothing more than a project, a thing, a number. Labeled as a machine created to obey, to do what it was told, to bow its head and never ask questions.
But the saddest part, the part that hurts the most, is that your first cry had been more human than any other baby's. Your first breath was just as fragile, just as small. Your wounds were as visible as anyone else's. The blood running across your skin was red, just like everybody else's. But the only difference, the only damned difference, was that you had not been born from a family. You had been born from studies, from numbers, from a project no one asked if you wanted.
No one asked for your permission to bring you into the world.
No one asked if you wanted to feel pain.
They just used you.
They injected things into you ever since you were so small that you cannot even remember a single day without needles. They pierced your skin over and over again, until the memories from when you were tiny disappeared completely.
The pain was so overwhelming that your mind chose to forget. Only the scars remained. Those pale marks on your skin that follow you everywhere. And the number on your shoulder. As if you were an animal. As if you were something that could be branded and locked inside a cage. “L008L.” That was what they called you. That was how they knew you. A code. A label.
Maybe you once had a family. Maybe someone loved you before you were ripped away from their arms. But you do not know. You cannot know. Because you had no father or mother. You only had an owner. Someone who created you, designed you, decided that you would exist only to serve him.
Your oldest memory, the only one that survived all that pain, was when you arrived at the laboratories. You were nine years old. Luthor was not in charge yet. But years later, he arrived. He was the one who, once you grew older, made you his. One day, he placed a hand on your shoulder and told you, “You are my project.” And he named you that way. As if you were a brand-new car or a weapon he had just purchased.
The other scientists used to say they had never managed to get anything useful out of you, that they had wasted years without using you properly, that you were a failure. But Lex Luthor looked at you differently. He gave you something that, in your ignorance, you called affection. Because you did not even know what that word meant. No one had ever taught you. No one had ever shown you what it felt like to truly be loved.
So when Luthor’s hand brushed through your hair after they broke your nose during a fight, after you collapsed onto the floor with blood dripping down your face, you felt it as if it were praise. Like a caress. Like something good.
“You passed the test,” he would say in that serious voice of his while wiping the blood from your lip with a white handkerchief. “You are strong. You are the best. But you are still lacking.”
And you would look at him with swollen eyes from crying so much, even though by then you could barely cry anymore. And you felt proud. Proud that he approved of you. Proud that he had not thrown you aside like garbage.
During those tests, they would pit you against two gifted subjects at the same time. They had families, real names, people waiting for them outside. You only had the cold laboratory floor and Luthor’s gaze watching from the other side of the glass.
The tears disappeared when you turned sixteen. You could no longer cry. Something inside you had broken completely, or perhaps it had simply dried out. You were only a project. They had told you that so many times that it no longer hurt. Or at least, that was what you wanted to believe.
They had carved it so deeply into you that nobody even had to deny you anything anymore, because you accepted it yourself. You never intended to resist what Luthor did to you. The thought of saying “no” never even crossed your mind. You were never taught that you could say that word.
At first, you were just another project. One among many. A strange little girl in a white room. But when Superman appeared in the world, when that flying man started saving people and being loved by everyone, then you stopped being “just another project.”
You became the one.
The one who needed to improve. The one with the power to manipulate things with her hands, to release energy like green rays of sunlight, to read minds. Necessary things. Useful things. Things meant to defeat Superman.
Luthor wanted you strong. Even when your hands burned from moving objects with your mind. Even when your head felt like it would explode from hearing other people’s thoughts. Even when it felt like your skull was splitting in half. He would only glance at the clock and write numbers into a notebook.
“Again,” he would say. “Do it again.”
And you obeyed.
You always obeyed.
One time, when you failed, when you could not raise the energy barrier quickly enough and they hit you so hard you collapsed onto the floor gasping for air, Luthor approached you with fury in his eyes. Not the fury of concern.
The fury of disappointment.
He grabbed your arm and yanked you upright before snarling through clenched teeth:
“If you are not stronger than Superman, then you are nothing. NOTHING. Do you understand me? You are worthless if he is stronger than you.”
He did not ask if you were okay. He did not take you to get treated. He simply let go of you and walked away, leaving you there on the floor, coughing up blood and feeling like you were dying from the inside out.
Luthor shaped you as if you were a sword. He sharpened you with pain. Hardened you with blows. And you let him do it because you knew no other way to live.
Maybe the flaw in Luthor’s plan was not assigning you to fight Superman directly. Maybe the real mistake was assigning you to go after Clark Kent. That clumsy journalist with thick glasses and wrinkled suits who always seemed to stick his nose where it did not belong. The one who looked so ordinary, so normal, so weak.
But Luthor knew something many others did not.
And one night, inside his office, with the lights turned off and only the city glow behind him, he called you in and said:
“Clark Kent is the idiot who knows everything about Superman. Everything. If we have him, we have that alien. You capture him, bring him to me, and put him on his knees in front of me.”
You nodded, just like always. You did not ask why. You did not ask how.
You only said:
“Alright.”
And he smiled. That cold smile he gave you whenever he was pleased with you. And for one second, just one second, you felt something close to happiness. Because he had looked at you. Because he had spoken to you. Because he had chosen you for that mission.
Of course he would send you. You had turned twenty-six a few days ago. An age where other women think about marriage, children, careers they enjoy. An age where people celebrate with cake and candles.
You had none of that.
Only a new number added to your file and another order.
Infiltrate the Daily Planet, that enormous newspaper where Clark Kent worked. Pull strings, forge documents, create an entire fake identity. For a man with the kind of money that swarmed around Luthor like ants, it was effortless. One check here, one phone call there, and suddenly you had a false name, a false story, a false life.
That was all.
You never intended to know Clark Kent. Your objective was something else. Your objective was to kill him once he told you where Superman was hiding. That was what you were supposed to do. What you had been ordered to do.
But that was the thing.
No.
You never truly had the intention.
Because to have intention, to want to do something, you first have to desire it. And you desired nothing. You only complied. You only obeyed. You only did what you were told, like a machine, like a trained dog, like a weapon someone loads and fires without asking.
You had an order. That was all.
The order of your owner.
That man who waited for you every single day with questions, demands, and that cold stare asking for results.
“What did you find out?”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Did you get information out of him?”
“Do you already know where the alien is hiding?”
And you had to answer. You always had to answer. You always needed to have something to say, something to show, something to prove that you were not wasting time, that you were not a failure, that you were worth something.
That pressure crushed your shoulders as though you carried a massive stone all day long.
And at the same time, you had to pretend you were a normal employee at the Daily Planet. You had to smile, greet people, learn names, remember birthdays, laugh at jokes that were not funny to you. You had to act like you were a real person, like you had a life, like you had gone to school, like you had friends.
Pretending exhausted you more than any fight ever had.
Pretending hollowed you out in a way you did not know how to explain.
And all of it together—the pressure from Luthor and the pressure of pretending—squeezed you tighter than ever before. You felt trapped. Suffocated. As if your chest were collapsing inward and you could no longer breathe.
Maybe that was why you never saw it coming. Maybe that was why Clark Kent took advantage of that gap. That small space between the pressure of work and the pressure of Luthor, that moment when you were so exhausted you could no longer keep your defenses up. And he slipped straight into your soul.
No blows. No orders. No violence.
Just by being himself.
That clumsy man who wore suits too big for him, who tripped over chairs, who blushed whenever someone spoke too loudly to him. That man who stopped being just “the target” and became “the one teaching you.” Because at first, when you arrived at the Daily Planet with your false identity and your invented name, Perry White, the boss, looked at you over his glasses and said:
“She’s new. Clark, help her settle in. Make sure she learns how everything works around here.”
And Clark smiled at you. A shy smile, with his cheeks slightly flushed, and said:
“Of course, Perry. Don’t worry.”
It was simple at first.
You hated him.
Of course you hated him. And not because you wanted to hate him. Not because he had done anything wrong to you. You hated him because that was what you were supposed to do. It was the order. It was the plan. You had to keep your distance, keep the hatred, keep your mind cold.
But when you realized that hating him was not working, it was because of something so small, so simple, that you were almost ashamed to admit it. It happened a month after you started working there. An entire month of watching him arrive every morning with his coffee thermos, of hearing him murmur to himself while he wrote, of seeing how he laughed at the jokes from the other employees.
A month of trying to read his mind and finding yourself met with a wall. A month of failing your mission because you could not get close enough, because something about him made you lower your guard without meaning to.
That morning, the coffee burned your hand.
You had been distracted. You filled your cup too much, and the hot liquid splashed over your fingers. It was a small pain. Nothing compared to what you had felt before. A simple sting in your body. One among the thousands you had already endured.
But Clark’s eyes widened as if you had screamed, and quickly, very quickly, he took the cup from your hands. Carefully. Without roughness. As if he were afraid of hurting you even more.
You looked at him. You had been hurt before. Many times. For much less. You had been hit for spilling things, for breaking things, for simply existing. But he only looked at you with concern, those clear eyes behind his glasses, while he held the steaming cup away from you.
“I can do it, Clark,” you said.
And your voice sounded different. Softer. More human. The voice you had been using there, in that place full of normal people, had stuck to you without you realizing it. You no longer sounded like a weapon. You sounded like a person.
Clark did not give the cup back to you. Instead, he took your hand very gently and looked at the burn. A red mark on your skin. Nothing serious. But he frowned as if it were something terrible.
“I know,” he told you, without letting go of your hand. “I know you can do it. But I’m supposed to take care of you. You’re assigned to me. Besides...” He paused and looked at you with those eyes that seemed to understand things you had never told him. “You’ve been working very hard. Really hard. Let me do it. I don’t mind.”
He said it and looked at you with a smile. His cheeks were red. You looked away.
You looked at your hand, the one he had carefully released, and felt something strange inside your chest. You had never looked away from anyone. Never. Not even when Luthor yelled at you. Not even when they hit you. You always stared straight ahead, like an animal that could not show fear.
But with Clark, you couldn’t.
You could not hold his gaze when he smiled at you like that. And the worst part, the strangest thing of all, was that you had never been able to read his mind. It was as if a simple human had a strong mind. And Clark did. But not a hard kind of strength, like a wall. It was a soft strength, like a deep current you could not cross.
And that confused you.
It scared you.
Because if you could not read him, you could not control him. And if you could not control him, you could not hate him. And if you could not hate him, what did you have left?
It was the strange things he did.
Strange to you, of course. Because you had never been treated that way. Never. Not once in your entire life. You had never felt what it was like for someone to buy you coffee without you asking. Because you were used to begging. Begging for food when they punished you. Spending entire days with your stomach empty, hearing it growl inside you, while the scientists ate in front of you as if you did not exist.
And of course, despite being named a project, despite being called L008L as if you were a box, your powers did not take away your hunger. Because despite everything, despite the way they had discarded you like trash, despite the fact that you never had a family who loved you, despite the way they treated you like a thing... you were human.
You had a human body.
You needed to eat. You needed to sleep. You needed someone to see you for what you were.
And Clark gave you coffee. Sometimes a pastry. He always said the same thing, with that silly smile and those red cheeks:
“Oh, I stopped by the bakery on my way to work. Bought too much. Want one?”
And you accepted it.
Because you were hungry. Because the hot coffee warmed your hands and your chest. Because the pastry tasted like something you did not remember ever tasting before. Something like... affection? You did not know. You did not know what that was called.
But you liked it.
And it scared you that you liked it.
Clark carried the papers for you. When you came back from an interview and had piles of documents with you, he took half of them or more, just so you would not have to carry so much. Sometimes, when they received small gifts at events or press conferences, bags with notebooks, pens, brochures, he took those too.
“So you don’t have to carry them,” he would say.
As if it were the most normal thing in the world. As if taking care of you were not an effort.
And he smiled. Every chance he got. When he saw you arrive in the morning, he smiled. When you finished a difficult article, he smiled. When you made a mistake while writing something and he corrected you in a low voice so no one else would hear, he smiled.
And he got so nervous.
So much that sometimes he stuttered. So much that things fell from his hands.
And you had never felt it until that day in the elevator. Never in your whole life. Not when they treated your wounds. Not when they said “good job.” Not when Luthor ran his hand through your hair after a fight. None of that had made your heart beat.
You thought you did not have a heart. Or that you had forgotten you had one. Because after so many years of pain, something inside you had fallen asleep. Or died. You did not know which one.
But that day, in the elevator, something woke up.
It happened so soon. So quickly that you almost did not notice it. The two of you were alone, going up to the office after coming back from an interview outside. The elevator was small, one of those old ones that made noise and moved slowly.
You were looking at the floor, as always, thinking about nothing and everything at once. Clark’s hand brushed yours by accident. A small touch. Nothing. Almost nothing.
But he looked at you. And he pointed at your face with a trembling finger.
“You have a... paper,” he whispered.
His voice sounded low, soft, as if he did not want to scare you. As if speaking too loudly would break something fragile.
You looked at him without understanding. You did not feel anything on your face. You did not know what paper he was talking about. You had worn your hair loose all day, and sometimes things stuck to it without you noticing.
But when you were about to raise your hand to your face to find it, he stopped. Clark lifted his hand, but froze in the air, halfway between you and him.
“May I?” he asked.
And that question went through you like a knife.
Because no one had ever asked you “may I?” No one. Not to touch you. Not to treat your wounds. Not for anything. They simply grabbed you, moved you, put needles in you, hit you, lifted you from the floor when you fell.
Never, never had anyone asked for your permission to come close to you.
That was when you felt it for the first time.
Your heart.
It was there. Waiting. And it began to beat hard, fast, like a bird trapped between your ribs. You had spent days wanting to feel him. Not just see him, not just observe him from a distance the way you did with everyone else. You wanted to feel Clark. You wanted to know what it was like for someone to touch you without it hurting.
And you nodded. You moved your head up and down, only slightly, because your throat had closed and you could not speak.
He came closer. Very slowly. Very carefully. His hand rose to your head and removed a small piece of paper hanging from your hair, the kind that comes from notebooks when you tear out a page.
But along the way, his fingers brushed your cheek.
A small touch.
Perfect.
So soft you almost did not feel it.
But you did.
You felt it down to your bones. It was as if that touch had lit something inside you, something that had been turned off for as long as you could remember.
Clark looked at the paper in his hand and then looked at you. His eyes were bright behind his glasses. And he smiled. That smile you were beginning to recognize, the one that made you feel less alone.
“That makes you officially a full-time newsroom employee,” he joked gently.
He tried to make a joke. He tried to say you had passed the test of having papers stuck in your hair. And something happened inside your chest. Something you could not control.
You smiled for real.
Not like the rehearsals you did to behave human, even though you were. Not like those fake smiles you practiced in front of the Daily Planet bathroom mirror so no one would suspect anything.
No.
This smile came out on its own. Without permission. Without an order. Without practice. Because Clark’s smile reached you, touched you, and you could do nothing but return it.
You lowered your gaze with red cheeks. They burned. They stung. But it was not a bad pain. It was a pain you wanted to keep feeling. You felt so much that you never wanted to stop feeling it.
Never again.
But outside, in the real world, in the cold world that waited for you every night, Luthor wanted proof. He wanted something. Anything. You had been at the Daily Planet for weeks and you had given him nothing useful.
Only silly things, things from Clark’s daily life, things that were useless for capturing Superman. Luthor was giving you time. Of course he was. He knew it was not an easy job. He knew you had to earn people’s trust, that you had to pretend, that you had to wait.
But time was running out.
And every day you spent beside Clark, Luthor’s orders weighed more heavily on you. Because what you had were not secrets or plans or Superman’s weaknesses. What you had were irrelevant things. Things about Clark’s parents. Stories from his childhood in Kansas. Names of his friends. Places he visited.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing about Superman.
And maybe, deep inside, you already knew. You were already beginning to understand why Clark never mentioned Superman. Why, whenever people in the office talked about the hero, Clark stayed quiet or changed the subject. Why he never, not once, said anything bad about him, but never anything good either.
It was as if he avoided the topic carefully, like someone walking over thin ice.
And that made you afraid.
Because if your theory was right, if what you were starting to suspect was true, then your mission became impossible. Then you had to choose.
And you had never chosen anything in your life.
One night, after a long day of pretending, you returned to the laboratory. Luthor was waiting in his office, the lights turned off, illuminated only by the reflections of the city outside. He did not greet you. He did not ask how you were.
He only said:
“What do you have?”
“There’s nothing related to Superman and Clark,” you replied without expression. Your voice sounded flat, empty. Maybe because you wanted to hide what was already beginning to fall into place deep inside your mind. Maybe because you were afraid he would see in your eyes what you could barely believe yourself.
Luthor nodded. Slowly, he rose from his chair and walked toward you. You did not run. You did not step away. You knew what was coming. It was part of life. Part of being a project.
A harsh slap struck across your face, so violent it forced your gaze down to the floor. Your cheek burned. The same cheek Clark’s fingers had brushed days before. And that contrast hurt more than the blow itself.
“I need that stupid flying man in the grave,” Luthor hissed, his voice dripping with venom as he stood so close you could feel his breath against your forehead. “Do you understand me? In the grave. And if that doesn’t happen, you’ll kill Clark Kent. Maybe then Superman will come to claim him. Maybe then he’ll crawl out of hiding to save his little journalist friend.”
You nodded.
You were used to it. The blows were part of you. The orders too. But something twisted painfully inside your chest when you heard his name.
Clark.
Kill Clark.
The words sounded different when you repeated them inside your head. It was not like killing a target. It felt like killing something you were beginning to love.
And no one had taught you how to survive that.
That was not part of the project.
You wanted to push him away. To tell Clark to leave. To run. To leave the country. To never come near you again.
So, in the following days, you started giving him options without him realizing it. You left papers on his desk. Job offers in other countries.
A job in Germany, you thought. He would be perfect there.
Clark would read them and look at you with a smile, not understanding what you were truly trying to tell him.
“Are you thinking about changing jobs?” he would ask with that innocent tone of his, with that way he had of looking at the world as if everyone in it were good.
You would smile and shake your head. Then you would leave more offers. New Zealand. A journalism exchange program in London. Good opportunities, the kind any reporter would accept without hesitation.
But he did nothing.
He read the papers, stared at them for a moment, and then set them aside. As if they did not matter. As if where he already was had become enough for him.
One night, while you were gathering your things to leave, being among the last people left in the office alongside Clark, he finally spoke. His voice sounded different. More serious. As if he had been thinking about it all day.
“I don’t want to change jobs,” he said suddenly.
Clark stood near the door, his jacket hanging from one hand.
“Did I make you think that?”
You shook your head quickly, maybe too quickly.
“No, I just... think you’re very good at what you do. That you could become a great international journalist.”
You played with your bag strap without looking him in the eyes. Your fingers trembled slightly.
Clark stayed silent for a moment. Then he nodded.
“That would be a big step, I admit.”
You nodded too, your head lowered. But he kept speaking.
“But I think I’m happy here. I have a good job. Good friends.” He paused, and when you finally looked up at him, his cheeks were red again. “And this job gave me the chance to meet you.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
Clark swallowed nervously and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I think you’re... a great journalist,” he corrected awkwardly, as if he had realized he had already said too much.
But it was too late.
You had already heard him.
You swallowed hard. Your heart was beating again, just like it had that day in the elevator. And for the first time, for the first time in your entire life, you decided to be honest.
Not because someone ordered you to.
Not because you had to pretend.
But because you wanted to.
Because you needed him to know.
“I’m happy here too,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “The difference between you and me is that... I don’t care whether I have friends or a good job. Working beside you somehow feels like enough.”
The words lingered in the air.
Silence followed. A deep, endless silence that filled the empty office. Through his glasses, you could see something shining in Clark’s eyes. Something you had never seen there before.
And then, without either of you planning it, you stepped closer.
He did too.
As if your bodies already understood what words could not say. As if both of you had realized that somehow, impossibly, you seemed to need each other. Ever since the moment you met, something in the world had changed for both of you.
Clark kissed you.
And you rose onto your tiptoes just to reach him.
His lips were soft. Warm.
You did not know how to kiss. No one had ever taught you. You had never kissed anyone before. But your body knew what to do. As if it had been waiting for this moment your entire life.
As if every blow, every wound, every night filled with pain had only been the path leading you here.
To this kiss.
To Clark.
And that was enough for you to realize that another life existed. A different kind of life. One where nobody demanded that you be the best. One where you did not have to beg for food. One where affection was not something you earned only after winning a fight.
A life without humiliation. Without blows. Without numbers tattooed into skin. Without laboratories, owners, or orders.
There was only Clark.
Clark with his glasses.
Clark with his flushed cheeks.
Clark with his gentle hands and tender voice.
Clark, who had unknowingly taught you that you were not a project.
That you never had been.
Clark was strangely adorable.
You did not say it lightly. It was not a word you used carelessly. But he truly was. Everything he did felt sweet in a way you could not explain.
The good morning hugs, when he arrived at the office and saw you sitting at your desk, and he would walk toward you slowly as if he did not want to bother you, only to wrap his arms around you and squeeze you just a little, whispering “good morning” against your hair.
The goodnight hugs, when he walked you to your apartment building after the two of you wandered through the dark streets together, and he stayed standing outside until you went inside, just to make sure you were safe.
Holding your hand while walking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if his fingers needed yours to feel complete.
Kissing your forehead. Your cheek. Sometimes your nose, whenever he was being silly and trying to make you laugh.
Kissing you.
That.
The kisses he pressed against your lips, soft and slow, as if he had all the time in the world and nowhere else he would rather be except there, with you.
And that life, the one you had created with a name that was not a number, with someone who did not scream at you that you belonged to him as if you were an object... that was the life you wanted to live.
For the first time in your life, you wanted to wake up the next morning.
For the first time, you were not afraid of what would happen next. You wanted to get up just to see him, to hear his voice, to feel his hands. You wanted to keep pretending to be a normal employee, but not because you had been ordered to. Because that disguise allowed you to stay by his side.
That life was a dream.
A dream you never wanted to wake up from.
But the code carved into your shoulder, those letters and numbers you had carried for as long as you could remember—L008L—always reminded you of reality. They burned against your skin like a brand. Whispering into your ear that you were not real, that you were not a person, that you were only a project.
Reality waited for you outside.
Outside of Clark’s arms. Outside of his kisses. Outside of that bubble of affection that had wrapped itself around you without you even noticing.
One night, Clark invited you to his apartment for dinner. He said he was tired of restaurants, that he wanted to be alone with you, without people around, without noise, without anything except the two of you.
You accepted.
Of course you did.
You would have accepted anything he offered you.
When you arrived at his apartment, it felt so... him. Cozy. Messy but clean. With books stacked on tables and plants resting by the windows. It smelled like homemade food, like something cooked slowly and lovingly.
Clark was chopping tomatoes in the kitchen, wearing an apron that was slightly too small for him. You laughed seeing him so focused, his tongue peeking out a little while he cut them.
And suddenly, without stopping, he said:
“I think shaving your head during hot weather is actually a pretty smart strategy. I wouldn’t do it myself, but it’s a good strategy.”
You laughed. A genuine laugh, the kind that came more easily every time you were with him.
“But if you lost all your hair, you’d end up...” You gestured toward your head playfully. “That would hurt more, wouldn’t it?”
Then you handed him the onion you had chopped. He took it carefully and dropped it into the pot where something bubbled softly, releasing steam that smelled incredible.
“Well, that is an excellent point,” Clark admitted, turning to look at you with that smile of his. The one that completely unraveled you.
You smiled back.
But maybe your smile wavered a little. Just slightly.
Because deep inside your mind, in that dark corner you kept trying to ignore, you knew you had spent days ignoring Lex. You were not answering his calls the way you were supposed to. You were not giving him full reports. You kept telling him there were no updates, that Clark knew nothing, that you were still investigating.
You lied.
You lied every single time you opened your mouth in front of him.
And that lie sat inside your chest like a stone. But you could not stop. You did not want to stop. Because every time Clark looked at you, every time he touched you, you forgot Luthor existed. You forgot you had a mission. You forgot you were a project.
There was only him.
Only this moment, in this kitchen, with the steam rising from the pot and the smell of tomatoes and onions filling the air.
His hands were skilled and steady, even though he always pretended to be clumsy at the office. And you only helped when necessary, because he kept telling you to sit down, to rest, that you already did enough during the day.
“All I need is for you to kiss me every once in a while,” Clark would say whenever you complained about not helping enough.
He always said it with a mischievous smile, those flushed cheeks you loved so much coloring pink again.
And you would laugh.
And kiss him.
And he would continue cooking as if nothing had happened, though you could see the foolish smile spreading across his face every single time you did it.
At some point, your gaze drifted away.
You did not know how long you stayed like that, staring into nothing while thinking about everything. About Luthor. About the mission. About what would happen once all of this ended. About what would happen if he discovered you no longer wanted to obey him.
Clark noticed.
He always noticed everything about you.
Slowly, he walked closer, his hands still slightly damp from washing vegetables, and carefully tucked your hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your skin, and you felt that familiar shiver running through your body every time he touched you.
“Everything okay?” he asked softly, concern filling his voice.
You nodded, even though it was not entirely true.
But you could not tell him the truth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He smiled, as if he had decided to believe you, and said:
“You’re my main assistant. Without your kisses, I can’t continue. Dinner will burn if you don’t give me one right now.”
“So dramatic,” you whispered.
But you stepped closer and kissed him anyway. Short. Quick. But filled with everything you did not know how to put into words.
Clark nodded in satisfaction.
“That’s better,” he said, continuing to cook as if nothing had happened.
If only he could hear you.
If only he were the one reading your mind and knew the guilt you carried.
That heavy, dark guilt crushing your shoulders every night when you were alone. The guilt of knowing you were supposed to obey, that Luthor was waiting for you, that the mission still existed even if you no longer wanted to complete it.
Because you did not want to anymore.
You did not want to obey.
You did not want to hurt anyone.
You did not want to return to that cold laboratory, to those needles, to those beatings, to those sleepless nights listening to the scientists’ footsteps echoing down the hallway.
You only wanted to stay with him.
You only wanted this forever.
This kitchen. This smell of homemade food. Clark’s hands holding yours.
But you were certain the world would still point at you and call you the villain.
Because that was what you were, wasn’t it?
That was what you had always been. A project built to hurt people. A weapon. A thing.
People never understand that sometimes villains do not choose to become villains. Sometimes they are placed on that road from the moment they are born and never given another choice.
And you had never been given a choice.
Not until Clark arrived.
You watched him smile while stirring the pot.
And then you remembered.
You remembered that night after the kiss in the office. The night he walked you home and stayed by your door because neither of you wanted to say goodbye. You remembered how he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as if he were trying to tell you something he could not put into words.
And during that kiss, in that moment when his lips touched yours and the world stopped moving, his mind opened to you.
Not intentionally.
Not because you searched for it.
It was as if the kiss had broken down a wall. Or as if, for the first time, he had lowered his guard completely.
That was how you found out he was Superman.
You discovered the truth you had spent months suspecting, the one spinning around inside your head like a knife that refused to sink all the way in.
Clark was Superman.
The man who flew. The hero Luthor wanted dead. The alien your owner claimed needed to be destroyed.
And you held him there in your arms while he kissed you as if you were the most important thing in the world.
Your suspicions were confirmed.
But not because you used your powers.
Because he revealed himself without meaning to.
Inside his mind, in that moment of tenderness, you saw everything. You saw the child arriving in a spaceship. You saw the parents who raised him in Kansas. You saw the first time he flew. You saw the symbol on his chest.
You saw Superman.
And you saw him smile, and cry, and love.
You saw him be more human than anyone who called him an “alien.”
Your mission was complete.
That moment should have been the end of everything. You had what Luthor wanted. The final proof. The connection between Clark Kent and Superman. You could have gone back that same night and told him everything.
And he would have smiled at you. Congratulated you. Given you that twisted version of affection you once mistook for love.
But you did not do it.
You could not.
You did not want to.
So you kept it to yourself.
Like a secret.
Like a treasure.
Because you wanted it to last a little longer. You wanted that night to never end. You wanted to keep feeling his lips, his hands, his warmth. You wanted to keep being the girl from the Daily Planet, the one with the fake name and the invented life who, for the first time, finally felt real.
You were afraid Luthor would grow tired of waiting. Afraid he would train you until you were capable of fighting Superman yourself.
And not only him.
You knew Luthor had other creations. Other projects. Other weapons. You knew that if you failed, he would use someone else.
And that terrified you.
Terrified for Clark.
Terrified for yourself.
Terrified for everything you had started to build.
But good things always come to an end.
You knew that. You had known it from the beginning, even if you had tried to cover it up with kisses and dinners at his apartment. Because a villain never got a happy ending.
Villains did not deserve one.
And at the end of the day, no matter how Clark looked at you as if you were a person, no matter how his hands treated you as if you were made of porcelain, you were still a project.
And projects were only carried out.
Or, if they did not work, they were discarded. Sometimes, they were useful until they fulfilled their purpose, and then the same thing happened.
They were discarded anyway.
Like trash. Like something useless. Like a broken toy no one wanted to fix.
You looked at Clark that day.
It was a night like many others, one of those nights you had started treasuring like someone saving coins in a jar, knowing that sooner or later, they would run out. You were standing at the door of your apartment after walking together through streets lit by lampposts.
He was saying goodbye with a kiss on your lips, one of those slow kisses that left you breathless. Your hands were on his shirt, tucked beneath his jacket, feeling the warmth of his chest through the fabric.
You were smiling.
You could not help it.
And your eyes shone like they had never shone before. As if, somewhere inside you, tiny lights had been switched on and no one had managed to put them out yet.
“We should go out tomorrow,” Clark whispered close to your lips, with that voice that made you shiver.
It was not an order.
It was never an order with him.
It was an invitation. An I want to be with you disguised as simple words.
“We’ve been dating for three months. I think I want to surprise you for the fourth.”
You smiled. But inside, something shifted. Something uncomfortable.
Because surprises were not meant for you. Gifts were not meant for you. Beautiful things had never reached your hands without you having to pay a price first.
“A surprise?” You looked at him, searching for his eyes behind his glasses. You swallowed before speaking. “I don’t think I deserve a surprise.”
The truth escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Because deep down, in that dark place Clark could not see, you believed it.
You did not deserve anything good.
Projects did not deserve.
Projects only received orders and punishments.
But Clark did not understand the depth of your words. He couldn’t. Because he did not know what you were. He did not know where you came from. He did not know what you had done, what had been done to you, what you still had to do.
He only saw you.
The girl from the Daily Planet. The shy reporter who blushed whenever he held her hand.
And he smiled at you with that wide, sincere smile of his, the one that broke something inside you every time you saw it.
“You deserve it more than anyone,” he whispered.
His hand rose to your face, and he tucked that same rebellious strand of hair behind your ear. The same gesture as always.
The one you loved so much.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at that Italian restaurant you like so much. Eight o’clock, after work.”
“Alright, then I’ll see you tomorrow... even though we’ll see each other at work,” you said, and your voice sounded happier than you felt inside.
Clark laughed again. That laugh that soothed your soul.
“Well, I’ve realized that seeing you at work isn’t enough.” He smiled, soft and impossibly fond. “I want to have you for my whole life.”
You looked at him with flushed cheeks. They burned. They stung. But it was a beautiful warmth, the kind you wanted to last forever.
You hugged him. Pressed your body against his and felt the way he wrapped his arms around you, holding you as if you were fragile, as if he were afraid of breaking you.
He had no idea.
No idea that you wanted to leave your real secret behind too.
No idea that while he was planning a surprise for your fourth month together, you were planning something much bigger.
Something that terrified you and gave you hope at the same time.
You looked into his eyes. Took a breath. And spoke from the deepest part of your heart, from that place you had believed empty until he filled it without asking permission.
“I want to have you for my whole life too, Clark,” you whispered.
The words came out trembling, but firm. It was the first time you had ever said something like that. The first time you had wanted something for yourself.
Not for Luthor.
Not for the mission.
For you.
And in that moment, you decided.
You would tell him.
Everything.
The laboratory. The experiments. The number on your shoulder. Luthor. The mission. Superman.
Everything.
If he could help you, if he could love every part of you, even with your past, with your scars, with the terrible things you had done and the terrible things that had been done to you, then you would help him defeat Lex.
Together.
Because you no longer wanted to be a weapon. You no longer wanted to be a project. You no longer wanted to be L008L.
You only wanted to be the girl Clark kissed in apartment doorways.
Clark kissed you one last time that night.
A long, soft kiss, filled with promises neither of you knew if you could keep. His lips parted from yours slowly, as if leaving was difficult for him, as if he knew something terrible was going to happen.
But he did not know.
He could not know.
“Tomorrow,” he said with a smile.
“Tomorrow,” you replied.
And he walked away down the sidewalk, looking back every few steps, smiling each time he saw you still standing in the doorway.
Until he turned the corner and disappeared.
You remained there, alone on the threshold, your heart beating so hard you could feel it in your ears.
Could you have a dignified life?
Was it possible?
Could someone like you, born in a laboratory, raised among needles and blows, trained to kill, have a happy ending?
You wondered that while climbing the stairs to your apartment. The building was old, the hallway lights flickered, and your steps sounded hollow against the concrete.
Maybe it was your illusion that blinded you.
Maybe it was hope, that new thing Clark had planted in your chest without you realizing it, that made you lower your guard.
Because as you climbed, you did not think to check the door. You did not think to listen before going inside. You did not think about anything except him, his smile, his I want to have you for my whole life.
You climbed the steps with a foolish smile on your face, your hands tucked inside the pockets of your jacket, feeling almost normal.
Almost happy.
You opened the door to your apartment.
The one you rented.
Or rather, the one Luthor rented.
Because nothing was truly yours. Not the walls, not the furniture, not the name you used, not even the clothes on your body. He had given you everything.
And everything had a price.
When you opened the door, your heart froze.
Lex Luthor was standing there, staring out the window as if nothing were wrong. As if it were his apartment. As if you belonged to him. As if nothing had happened.
His hands were clasped behind his back, shoulders straight, head slightly tilted. The streetlight filtered through the glass and painted his long, slender silhouette across the floor.
You walked forward slowly.
Every step took enormous effort, as if your legs had been filled with lead. The door behind you closed by itself.
Or not by itself.
You barely turned your head and saw one of his projects. One you had heard of, though you knew very little about him. Only that he was strong.
Very strong.
He was covered entirely in black, from head to toe, like a breathing shadow. He did not move. Did not speak.
He only watched.
Waited.
You looked at Luthor.
At last, he slowly turned around, wearing that false calm he always used when he was truly furious. His eyes traveled over you from head to toe, as if he were inspecting a defective product.
As if he had already decided you were useless.
“I don’t know what bothers me more,” he said, his voice low and dangerously calm. “That Clark Kent took advantage of my project, or that my project, the one that took me the longest to build, now has to be discarded.”
He stepped closer to you.
You stepped back.
One step.
Then another.
Your back hit the wall, but there was no way out. The man in black stood by the door. You could not escape.
“It’s part of the plan,” you said.
But this time, you did not manage to stay calm. Your voice trembled. Your hands trembled. You could not hold his gaze.
You lowered your eyes.
And that was the sign.
He knew that gesture perfectly.
He knew what it meant.
It meant you were lying.
It meant you were afraid.
It meant you were no longer his.
Luthor seized your chin harshly, his fingers cold as ice, and forced your face closer until his breath struck your skin.
You looked at him.
His eyes were full of rage. Disappointment.
Something worse.
“Part of the plan?” he spat the words like poison. “What the fuck is your plan?”
You trembled.
Your whole body trembled.
But you had to keep going.
You had to protect Clark.
Even if they killed you.
Even if they discarded you.
Even if they dragged you back to the laboratory and injected you until you forgot his name.
“Mr. Lex,” you said, your voice barely more than a thread.
He released your chin abruptly, as if you disgusted him. You stayed pressed against the wall, breathing fast, feeling as if your heart were trying to claw its way out of your chest.
“Clark Kent knows nothing about Superman,” you lied.
You wished it were true.
Wished he were not the flying man.
Wished he were only a clumsy, loving reporter who had nothing to do with the hero Luthor wanted to destroy.
“He doesn’t actually know where he is or where he lives. He thinks he comes to the planet whenever he wants.” Another lie. Your throat dried. “Clark Kent is just a... puppet. He is.”
Luthor stared at you in silence.
A long, heavy silence that crushed your shoulders.
He knew.
He knew something.
You could see it in his eyes. He did not believe you. He had never fully believed you. But he needed to hear you say it.
He needed you to condemn yourself.
“And what was my order if Clark Kent got in the way?” Luthor asked, his voice so cold it seemed to come from somewhere else.
You stayed silent.
The words stuck in your throat like thorns.
“What was it?” he shouted suddenly, and the sound bounced off the empty apartment walls.
You flinched.
The man in black did not move.
“To kill him and bring Superman down to earth,” you whispered.
The words tasted like blood. Like betrayal. Like everything you did not want to be.
Luthor nodded slowly, as if savoring your confession.
“Kill him,” he said.
It was not a suggestion.
It was an order.
Perhaps the last one he would ever give you.
“I want Clark Kent dead. Tonight.”
“I can’t,” you said.
And this time, you did not tremble.
This time, your voice came out firm, even as you were falling apart inside.
Luthor looked at you with a smile.
A small, ugly smile that did not reach his eyes.
And then came the slap.
Hard.
So hard it snapped your face to the side and made stars burst across your vision.
Before you could react, before you could raise your arms to protect yourself, the man in black grabbed you. He lifted you without any effort at all, as if you were a feather, as if you weighed nothing.
And hurled you against the wall.
The impact was brutal. The wall split open slightly, a long, ugly crack running through the plaster from top to bottom. The framed pictures hanging there crashed down over you, their frames breaking, glass exploding into shards that cut your face and arms.
You fell to the floor among the debris, your head spinning, blood running down your cheek, your ear ringing as if a bee were trapped inside it.
Luthor wiped his hand with a handkerchief, as if touching you had dirtied him.
He looked down at you from above, from that godlike height he had always held over you. And there was nothing in his eyes.
No rage.
No disappointment.
Not even hatred.
Only indifference.
As if you no longer existed.
As if he had already thrown you in the trash.
“Another damned failed project,” he said, sounding tired, as if even despising you bored him. “Take her.”
That was the last thing you heard.
The man in black approached you.
You felt a sharp sting in your neck, something cold, something metallic.
An injection.
The liquid entered your veins like liquid fire. Your body went numb. Your head filled with cotton. Your eyes closed without you being able to stop them.
And as you fell asleep, as the darkness wrapped itself around you like a cold blanket, you thought of only one thing.
Him.
Clark.
His smile.
His "You deserve it more than anyone".
The Italian restaurant.
The surprise you would never get to see.
His arms.
His warmth.
Everything you had wanted to have, now falling apart between your fingers like wet sand.
You did not need to open your eyes. The smell told you everything.
That cold, clean scent, like a hospital but worse, like something that had never seen the sun. That smell of disinfectant and metal and fear. The sound told you too. That low hum of machines, that heavy silence of empty hallways, that echo of your own heartbeat bouncing off white walls. You were in your cell. The one you used to call a room because you had not known it could be called anything else. Because they told you it was your room, and you believed them.
But now you knew. Now you knew it was a cage. It always had been.
You opened your eyes slowly. Your gaze scanned everything, just as they had taught you to do, like a weapon activating after being shut down. The narrow bed. The padded walls. The metal door with no handle on the inside. The large mirror on the far wall, behind which you knew someone was always watching. And the clock.
You looked at the time. Twelve noon.
They had sedated you. Most likely so you would sleep as long as possible, so you would be weak when you woke, so you would not be able to fight. But you had to get out of there. You had to see Clark. You had promised yourself. You were going to tell him the truth. You were going to ask for his help. You were going to start a new life. A real life.
You stood. Your legs trembled slightly, but you managed to stay upright. You ran to the door with your hand outstretched, hoping it might be open, hoping it had all been a mistake, hoping they had not locked you in again.
But the moment you touched it, an alarm went off. A sharp, violent beeping pierced your ears like a needle, and before you could pull your hand away, an electric current shot through your arm, your shoulder, your chest.
You gasped. The pain forced you back, stumbling until you fell to your knees on the cold floor. Your fingers still trembled from the shock.
“I thought I could trust you.”
Luthor’s voice echoed through the room, coming from speakers you could not see. You looked at him through the large mirror. He was on the other side, as always, arms crossed, wearing that godlike posture of a man who believed he owned the world.
“And my most... valued project,” he said, pausing dramatically as if saying it wounded him, “betrayed me for one of Superman’s friends.” He nodded slowly, as though processing something tragic. “How painful.”
But all you saw in his eyes was irritation. Not pain. Not sadness. Irritation. Like when a favorite toy breaks. Like when something that belongs to him stops working the way he wants it to.
You stared at the mirror and frowned. Your mind focused on the glass. You could break it. You could tear through it with your energy. You could reach him.
The glass trembled a little, barely at all, but Luthor noticed.
And he smiled.
“No scenes,” he said calmly, dangerously. “Or I’ll be forced to sedate you again. And this time, you won’t wake up in twelve hours. Do you understand?”
You stopped. Lowered your hand.
Rage burned inside you, but fear was stronger. Not fear of being hurt. You already knew that one. Fear of never seeing Clark again. That was new. That paralyzed you.
Luthor left. The screen went dark.
You stayed alone in the white room, sitting on the floor, your arm still tingling from the shock. You looked at the clock again. One in the afternoon. You had to get out. You had to see Clark.
The restaurant. Eight o’clock.
You had seven hours.
Seven hours to find a way to escape, to slip past the guards, to reach him. But you needed to be patient. You could not throw yourself against the door again. You could not hurt yourself. You had to think.
And then it happened.
Five in the afternoon.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Doors opening. Low voices. A man entered, deactivating the electric lasers with a remote control. You knew him. You had seen him before. One of the usual guards, the kind who looked without seeing, who spoke to you as if you were an animal.
Behind him came a woman you also recognized, holding a metal tray. On the tray was a syringe filled with a transparent liquid you knew very well.
Punishment.
The reward for misbehaving. For disobeying. For thinking for yourself.
“Hello, pretty thing,” the guard said with an ugly smile that turned your stomach. “We were told you behaved badly.”
You looked away. You did not want to see him. You did not want to give them the satisfaction of watching you tremble.
The guard stepped closer, confident, as if you were the same as before. The one who stayed still. The one who endured.
“You decide,” he said, his voice almost amused. “Do you want to do this sedated or conscious?”
The woman stepped forward too, the syringe ready.
You knew what “conscious” meant. It meant feeling everything. It meant they would not put you fully to sleep, only weaken you, only strip away enough of your strength so you could not fight, but you would feel every needle, every blow, every humiliation.
And Luthor always punished that way.
It was not enough to hurt you. You had to know you deserved it. You had to feel it.
But something had changed.
Something inside you was no longer the same.
You stood slowly. Both guards froze, surprised. You never stood. Never defended yourself. Never spoke. You only knelt and waited.
“I decide,” you said, and a smile spread across your face. A smile they had never seen before. “That I want to kill you.”
Your hand moved so lightly they did not even see it. A quick, precise movement, one they had drilled into you through years of training. The needle on the tray flew through the air, and before the guard could blink, it buried itself in his neck. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened to scream, but only a choked sound came out.
He dropped to the floor like a stone.
The woman screamed and stepped back, but you were already on her. You struck her in the head with the metal tray, and she collapsed too. Both of them fell to the floor.
It had all lasted only a few seconds.
Before, you had done nothing. Of course you had the strength. Of course you could. But it had been carved into your mind that it was your fault. That you had to endure everything, even if you hated it, even if you had nightmares.
Because Lex said it was your punishment.
Because Lex said you deserved it.
And you believed him. You believed him for so long that you forgot you could say no.
But not anymore.
Now you had Clark.
Now you had a reason to fight.
You stepped over the guards’ bodies and left the cell. The hallway was long and white, just as it had always been. The alarm activated immediately. Red lights flashing. A loud, irritating sound filling the entire place.
You ran.
Most of the doors were locked, sealed by security. So you used your powers. You pushed with your mind, with the energy flowing from your hands, and the doors burst open by force, shattering locks, ripping metal frames apart.
Corridors. More corridors.
Then came the guards. They fired. Bullets flew toward you. You deflected them effortlessly with a movement of your hand, sending them ricocheting into the walls.
You kept running.
And then, as you were deflecting those bullets, a blow slammed into your body. Something enormous, something unstoppable, lifted you off the ground and smashed you against the wall. The impact was so brutal you felt the air leave your lungs.
You fell to the floor, coughing, your vision blurred.
“Bad, bad, bad.”
Luthor’s voice came from speakers mounted in the corners of every hallway. Your head hurt. Your ribs hurt. You lifted your eyes and saw the man standing before you, the same one who had knocked you unconscious in the apartment.
He did not move.
He only stared at you, waiting.
“Did you think it would be easy?” Luthor continued, his voice almost cheerful, as if he were enjoying the spectacle. “No one betrays Luthor, my dear project. Never.” A pause followed. A silence that froze your blood. “Besides, you couldn’t leave without being properly introduced to my newest creation. The one who is going to replace you.”
The man in front of you slowly lifted his hands, calm, as if he were in no hurry.
Then he removed his mask.
Your pulse stopped for a second.
Maybe longer.
Your lips trembled. Your heart stopped beating, then began again harder, faster, more afraid. Because it was like looking at Superman. A corrupted version of him, yes, but still. The same strong face. The same jaw. The same dark hair, though longer, more unkempt.
But no.
It was not Superman.
It was worse.
It was like looking at Clark.
Clark without the glasses. Clark with dark, empty eyes, without a soul, without love. Clark the way you had once been. The way they had raised you to be.
A project.
A weapon.
A thing without feelings.
“Meet Ultraman,” Luthor said, pride overflowing in his voice. “Isn’t he nearly perfect? A few small defects, perhaps, but better than you. Much better.”
You shook your head. It could not be. There could not be another like him. There could not be another like you.
“I’m certain he would kill Clark Kent,” Luthor continued, as if thinking out loud. “But first, he has to kill you. A little training exercise, don’t you think? A warm-up.”
And then Ultraman attacked.
You had no time to react. His enormous hand closed around your throat and lifted you off the ground. He flew with you, squeezing your airway, crashing you through the hallway walls.
Wall after wall.
Your back hit concrete. Your head struck hard. The pain was immense.
Then he released you.
You dropped to the floor like a rag, groaning, blood running down your forehead. Before you could stand, he lunged again.
But this time, you flew upward, covering your body in green energy to escape. The energy shielded you, strengthened you. You shot through the hallway, but he followed.
He was fast.
Too fast.
He caught you, seized your wrist, and when he lifted his other arm to strike you, your energy stopped him for one second.
Only one.
He shoved you back, and before you could see it coming, he hurled you downward. You gasped as you hit the floor. Something cracked inside you.
A rib, maybe.
Or something worse.
“And one more thing,” Luthor said through the speakers, like a narrator enjoying his own show. “He knows Superman’s movements as well as yours. He studied you just as much as he studied Superman. There are no secrets from him. No tricks.”
You swallowed, staring up.
Ultraman watched you from above, floating in the air with his arms crossed. He was in no hurry.
He knew he was going to win.
You began to attack him. Green spheres of energy shot from your hands straight toward him. Entire walls wrapped in your energy rose from the floor to trap him. But he was strong. Too strong. He broke through everything with his laser vision, like Superman. Like Clark. You fell once. Then again. Then again. Blood dripped from your nose. Your entire body hurt. There were only minutes left before eight. Clark had to be at the restaurant by now. Because whenever you had dates, he always arrived early. Always. It was his way of saying he did not want to lose a single second with you. But this time, you did not even know if you would ever see him again. If you were going to get out of there. If you were going to stay alive.
He threw another massive wall at you. He lifted it from the ground and hurled it in your direction. You stopped it before it could crush you, your hands trembling, your arms on the verge of breaking. The effort was titanic.
You shoved the wall off you with a cry of effort. You stood. You were going to attack him. You were going to give everything you had. But he moved with a speed your eyes could not follow. Everything happened too fast. His hand appeared at your back. He was close to you. For one second, only one second, you looked into his eyes. And you saw Clark’s eyes. The same ones. The same color. The same shape. But empty. Like a broken mirror.
You gasped. He held you still without expression, watching your reaction as if he were barely learning what it meant. As if he did not know what tears were.
You placed your hand over Ultraman’s other one. The same hand where he had buried a dagger. A strange dagger, glowing green and purple at the same time. You looked at him with tears in your eyes. You did not want to cry. But you could not stop it. He drove it in deeper. You trembled. Gasped. You felt the poison entering your blood, spreading through your body like frozen fire.
And then you felt your body move. The dagger was no longer in his hand. It was Lex. Lex Luthor had arrived, had stepped close without you seeing him, and now he held your body and the dagger’s handle in his hand. You looked at him without understanding. Your vision blurred. Everything became hazy.
“I’m sorry, Clark,” you thought. The words formed inside your head like a prayer, like a whisper he would never hear. “I’m sorry I won’t make it to the restaurant. I’m sorry I never told you how much I love you. Not even my first ‘I love you.’ I’m sorry I wasn’t honest. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything from the beginning. I’m sorry I lied to you, even if it was through silence. I’m sorry I didn’t kiss you one more time before leaving. I’m sorry I didn’t stay that night. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for everything, Clark. Everything.”
“My sweet, sweet project,” you heard Luthor’s voice pull you back to the present. He caressed your cheek with his cold hand, with a softness that disgusted you more than any blow ever could. His fingers traced your skin as if you were a pet, as if you were something pretty that belonged to him. “Do you know the best part?” he said, leaning close to your ear. His voice was a poisonous whisper, so close you could feel his warm breath against your skin. “How were you supposed to tell the man who was in love with you that sooner or later, you were going to betray him so I could stand face-to-face with Superman? How were you going to look him in the eyes and say, ‘I love you, but I was going to hand you over too’? See? This was better. I did you a favor. I spared you the shame. I spared you from having to see his face when he learned the truth.”
You looked at him in desperation. Your eyes, already fading, tried to throw hatred at him, but only sadness came out. You did not want his words to be true. But something inside you knew he was right. Not because of what you wanted. Because of what you were. Because of what they had made you into. Because you had been created to betray. Created to hurt. And even if you had wanted to change, even if you had wanted to be different, your fate had been written before you were even born.
“Don’t worry,” Luthor continued, straightening up and wiping his hand on his jacket as if he had touched something filthy. “Ultraman can finish your work for you. That dagger was necessary. Created from flowing energy and poisoned kryptonite. I just want you to know...” He paused. He looked at you with his cold eyes, without mercy, without a single trace of humanity. “Just as I created you, I can discard you. You are not the first. You will not be the last. You are only another number, L008L. That is all. You were never anything more.”
Those were his last words. He pulled the dagger out in one brutal motion. Blood spilled from your body, hot, too hot, and yet you felt cold. So cold. Your eyes slowly dimmed. The white ceiling blurred above you. The edges of your vision darkened. You could barely feel the pain anymore. Only an immense exhaustion. A deep sleep calling to you from the very core of your being. Your body fell to the floor with a dull thud. Blood spread beneath you like red wings. Your lips tried to form one word. Just one. The most important one.
Maybe it was not the life I wanted, you thought as the light went out forever. But I will never regret meeting you, Clark. Never. Not one day. Not one second. In the end, you freed me. You made me feel human. You gave me something no one had ever given me before: a reason to want to live. And even though I couldn’t stay... I leave peacefully. Because I had you. Because I felt you. Because for a few months, I was yours. And you were mine.
Maybe in another life, Clark. Maybe in another life I can have a better life. Maybe in another life I can be a real person. Someone who deserves you. Someone who can stay by your side forever. Maybe in another life, when you arrive at the restaurant, I will already be waiting for you with a smile. Maybe in another life I can tell you ‘I love you’ every morning. Maybe in another life, Clark... maybe in another life.
I love you, I love you, Clark...
And then, nothing. Silence. Darkness. Cold. Your heart, the one you believed you did not have, the one Clark had awakened with a touch inside an elevator, stopped. The heartbeats that had leapt with happiness when he kissed you, that had trembled with fear when Luthor caught you, that had cried with sorrow when you thought of never seeing him again... faded. One after another. Until none were left.
You never found out that Clark waited for you with a bouquet of purple and yellow tulips, the ones you liked because you said they looked like little suns. He had chosen them one by one at the flower shop, asking which were the prettiest, which would last the longest. The florist had laughed at him because he kept changing his mind. “They’re for someone special,” Clark had said with flushed cheeks. “For someone very special.”
You never knew that inside a small box lined with blue velvet was the key to his apartment. The one he was going to give you so you could spend more time with him. So you could stay. So you would know his home was yours too. He had gone to the hardware store that very morning, made a copy of his key, and placed it inside the little box as if it were a treasure. “I hope she likes it,” he had told the locksmith, who looked at him strangely. “I’m sure she will,” Clark replied, though he was not sure of anything.
You never knew he had rehearsed again and again in the men’s bathroom at work, standing in front of the mirror with a crumpled paper in his hand. That he had repeated the words until he memorized them, though he had written them down too, just in case. He had locked himself in the bathroom five times that day. His coworkers wondered what was wrong with him. Lois asked if he was sick. “No, no,” Clark said, “I’m just nervous.” “Nervous about what?” Lois asked. “Nothing,” Clark lied. And then he went back to rehearsing.
“I thought I would never meet the love of my life,” he whispered in the bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror, holding the crumpled paper he could barely read anymore after folding and unfolding it so many times. “And then you appeared as if it were nothing. And I thought it was a dream. But I love you. I love you so much that keeping it to myself any longer would be bad for my heart, because I don’t like lying, and lying to you would be not telling you this. So here I am. Here I am, telling you that I love you. That I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If you want that, of course. I don’t want to pressure you. But if you want to... I do.”
You never knew that he kept watching every time the restaurant door opened. That his heart jumped at every sound. That he ordered a glass of water just to have something in his hands, because he did not know what to do with his nerves. That he checked the clock every two minutes. That the tulips began to wilt on the table, their yellow and purple petals losing color, falling one by one like silent tears. That the waiter asked if he wanted to order something and he said, “No, not yet. She’s about to arrive.” That the waiter came back half an hour later and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to order something while you wait?” And Clark said, “No, thank you. She’ll be here any minute.” That the waiter walked away with a pitying smile, looking at him with sadness.
You never knew that the hours passed. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. The restaurant slowly emptied. Couples left hand in hand. Groups of friends said goodbye while laughing. The lights were turned off one by one. And Clark stayed there, sitting in the same chair, with the wilted tulips and the velvet box in his pocket, warm against his leg because he had touched it a thousand times to make sure it was still there.
You never knew he was the last customer in the restaurant. That the waiter had to tell him, regretfully, that they were closing. That Clark lifted his face, and for one second, the waiter saw something in his eyes he could not explain. An enormous sadness. An emptiness too vast to fit inside one person.
“Sir,” the waiter said gently, “I’m very sorry, but we’re closing now. We’ve actually been closed for an hour. We didn’t want to bother you, but...”
Clark blinked. He looked around. The restaurant was empty. Chairs were stacked on top of tables. The floor had been swept. Almost all the lights were off, except the one above his table. He had been waiting so long that he had not noticed everything slowly going dark around him.
“I’m sorry,” Clark said, his voice hoarse. He stood slowly, as if moving hurt. He took money from his pocket and left it on the table. Much more than necessary. He took the tulips and walked out slowly, aimlessly, with his heart heavier than ever. The streets were empty. The wind blew cold. Clark walked without knowing where he was going. He just walked. And walked. Until he reached the door of your apartment without knowing how.
You never knew that he did not sleep that night. That he called your phone again and again. Once. Ten times. Thirty. A hundred. That the phone rang and rang and no one answered. That he left messages at first, nervous, worried messages. “Hi, it’s me. Are you okay? I got to the restaurant. I waited for you. Did something happen? Please call me.” Then sadder messages. “Hey, it’s already eleven. Where are you? I’m worried because you’re not answering. Please call me when you get this.” Then more desperate ones. “It’s two in the morning. I called everywhere. No one knows where you are. Please, please answer me. Don’t do this to me. Don’t disappear like this. I’m begging you.” And then, near dawn, there was only one blank message. Thirty seconds of silence. Because he no longer had any words left.
You never knew that he went to your apartment and knocked on the door until his hand hurt. That he called the neighbors. That he asked people on the street. That no one had seen anything. That no one knew anything. That he sat on the hallway floor with his back against your door and waited until the sun came up. And when the sun rose, he was still there. With dead tulips in his pocket and the key he never got to give you. And he stayed there for much longer, until the building doorman had to ask him to leave because the neighbors were complaining.
You never knew that Clark returned the next day. And the next. And the next. That he searched hospitals, police stations, everywhere. That he used his powers, his superhero hearing, to listen for your voice somewhere. But he did not hear you. Because you could no longer speak. Because your voice had gone with your blood, with your heart, with your final breath. And Clark, no matter how hard he listened, no matter how much he flew across the city, no matter how many numbers he called... never found you. Because Luthor had erased you. Because the laboratories were hidden. Because the walls were thick and shielded. And because you were no longer anywhere.
You never knew that Clark never found out what happened. He never knew you had a number on your shoulder. He never knew you were a project. He never knew Luthor had created you. He never knew you had been sent to kill him. He never knew you protected him until the end. He never knew you died without telling him the truth. He never knew your final thought was him. He never knew you loved him. Because you never told him. Because you never had time. Because death arrived before your words could.
You never knew that you protected his secret with your soul. That not once, not even when the dagger was inside you, not even when you could feel death so close you could almost touch it, did his name escape your lips. You did not say that Clark was Superman. You did not betray him. You protected him. With your final breath. With your final thought. With the last beat of your heart. You protected him. And he never knew. He never knew that the girl who arrived at the Daily Planet with a false name and a rehearsed smile, the girl who blushed when he held her hand, the girl who kissed as if every kiss might be the last... had saved him. Without him doing anything. Alone. With her silence. With her death.
Maybe in another life, Clark would not have let you go that night. Maybe he would have stayed one more minute. Maybe he would have held you tighter, longer, as if something inside him told him it was the last time. Maybe he would have said, “Don’t go alone,” and walked you to your door. Maybe he would have gone upstairs with you. Maybe he would have been there. Maybe he would have heard Luthor. Maybe he would have seen Ultraman. Maybe he could have done something. Maybe he would have saved you. Maybe everything would have been different.
But this life was not made of maybes. This life was made of pain. Of projects. Of numbers on shoulders. Of owners who create you and discard you as if you were trash. And sometimes, only sometimes, it was made of loves that arrive too late. Loves that arrive right when there is no time left. Loves that teach you what it means to be human just before you stop being one.
And maybe that, even if it hurts more than any dagger, is enough. Maybe for Clark, it will not be. Maybe he will spend the rest of his life wondering what happened, why you left, why you disappeared without saying anything, why you did not answer the phone, why you never arrived at the restaurant, why the tulips wilted alone on the table while he waited for you with a velvet box in his pocket. Maybe he will never find answers. Maybe he will always wonder. Maybe he will always look for you without knowing there is nothing left to find.
Because you are no longer here. Because you left the same way you arrived: in silence, without anyone seeing it, without anyone knowing. Alone. Like a project that stopped working one day. Like a light going out, and no one noticing it was gone.
WHAT THE FUCK HES SOOOOOOO FUCKING HOT IM ACTUALLY SUPER PISSED AND HORNY OVER IT FUUUUUUUCK 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥❤️🔥
series description: new to metropolis and the daily planet, you find yourself falling for your deskmate, Clark Kent, who you're convinced will never look your way. a rescue from attempted mugging becomes many late nights spent with superman on your apartment balcony... god why does he seem so familiar?
warnings/tags: use of yn, fluff, angst, ..serious tension, lois lane supremacy:)
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part 1 - 2k words
part 2 - 5k words
part 3 - 3k words
part 4 - 2k words
part 5 - 3k words
(part 6 teaser)
part 6 - 5k words
(part 7 teaser)
part 7 - 7k words
(part 8 teaser)
part 8 - 8k words
(part 9 teaser)
part 9 - 6k words
disclaimer !! please read
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a/n: it's finally here! pls pls comment any suggestions you have for where the story should go and dms are open if you'd like the proofread or see the next part early 👀 thank u lovelies for letting me b creative (and take my sweet time writing lol)
He heard you voice tremble beneath the downpour from above. Dex wanted to attribute it solely to the rain. His mind was desperate to connect the hesitation in your tone to the weather. To anything other than what he witnessed. To what you realized he saw. Your eyes -- the ones he came to memorize in his mind -- were wide with concern. Fear. It was an expression he had yet to see on you. Confidence was the standard and a smile was your default, but fear? It changed your whole body. What once were animated hands now hung limply, fingers restless at your side. Your posture had sunk slightly, crestfallen in the wake of the revelation. Dex wanted to form a concrete thought, but his mind buzzed with activity. He could see your lips moving, but the sound of static was too overwhelming.
"... somewhere and talk about this?"
Dex pushed through the white noise, clearing the thick haze of his mind until he was present once more. The mission. The rain. You. It all came surging back. You had moved closer. Did he miss you closing the distance the same was he missed some of your words? Had his overstimulated mind lose that time? Or had he chosen to ignore you to preserve what last bit of sanity he had left?
"Dex," you implored, "Can we talk? Please?"
The pad of Dex's thumbs pressed against the handles of the blades he held before he moved to slip them into his belt. He took a step back, then another. Your hands wanted to reach out. To connect. Being unable to only seemed to distress you more. He hated that. The mission was still active. He hated that more. There would be no closing it until you were both safe and out of sight.
"Target's eliminated," he reported, turning towards the direction of the stakeout point, "I'll grab the gear. Go back to the car."
"Dex--"
You had moved to follow after him. It was a mistake. Your steps were swiftly halted when Dex spun around. He stared you down, eyes hardened and void of warmth. The sight had you more than just pause. Danger didn't just tease at the edges. It consumed and filled the space between you.
"The car. Now."
The words had you flinching, as if delivered with a sturdy blow. The order had snapped something in you. Dex watched a your lips parted to speak, but no words came as you seemed to decide against it. You reached up to wipe the rain -- or at least what he thought was rain -- from the corner of your eyes before you turned to leave. You passed the two bodies, only slowing to pick up one of the flashlights from the ground. Dex didn't wait for you to leave. The target was down. It was only a matter of time before police would be dispatched and search the woods. The white noise rose in the back of his mind as Dex walked back to the stakeout point. He broke down the sniper rifle, secured it in the case, and collected all traces of your presence onsite. He picked up the now muddy coat that he threw off in haste to get to you, slipped it on to conceal his tactical gear. He found your fallen hat as well, tucking it into the backpack.
It was around that time Dex saw the first man begin to stir. Dex glared up ahead at the men that laid on the ground. They were the reason. The disruption was their fault. He moved without thinking. The slip of a blade cut through the rain, embedding itself into the skull of the first man. The same fate met the second man soon after. He picked up the remaining flashlight without slowing down his stride, continued his trek back to the car.
You were waiting by the rental, leaning against the passenger's side door as Dex cleared the woods and stepped onto the dirt road. He fished the key from his pocket and unlocked the car before he moved to store the bags in the trunk. By the time he slipped into the driver's seat, you had already seated yourself in the passenger's side seat and buckled yourself in. Dex yanked his Bullseye mask from his face and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. Between the rain and mud, the rental would be a mess. They'd have to pay extra fees for the carelessness. Something Dex knew would upset you... or rather upset you further. Dex risked a glance in your direction as he moved to buckle himself in. You were quiet, uncharacteristically so. Your arms were crossed over yourself, fingers curling into the soaked fleece you wore. Reddened eyes stared ahead, silently waiting for him to drive.
The drive back had only the sound of rain to fill the silence. The bed and breakfast had quieted down significantly by the time you both returned, granting the opportunity to grab the bags and make it to the rooms without anyone seeing the disheveled state you both were in. You both walked down the short corridor towards your separate rooms, keys quietly unlocking the doors across from one another. Dex's hand remained on the doorknob. Not yet pushing the door open to step inside. He listened for a pause, for the sound of you turning, for the possibly of even a word.
CLICK.
Dex looked over his shoulder as the door to your room ticked shut, followed by the flick of the lock. His jaw set as walked into his room. He let the door close behind him, dropping his case by his feet. Flipping the lock on the door, he stripped himself from his soaked coat. The fabric felt tougher, made it harder to peel off. Frustrated, Dex ripped the remainder of the coat from his arms. Hands clawed at the rest of his wet clothes until he was rid of them. He ran his hands over his face, raked through his hair as he forced himself to breathe. Steady breath in, hold, then slow breath out.
Just like you showed him once.
Fuck.
Dex dropped onto the bed, face down on the mattress. What the hell was he going to do now? Dex buried his face into the nearest pillow as the noise in his head turned up slowly. For once, he welcomed the static. He let the white noise in his head drown out the thought of you and what he saw, pushed the responsibility of figuring it all out until the next morning. He slept. Barely. Restless, he turned and twisted beneath the sheets. He fell in and out of consciousness, in-between the sleep he needed and the twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach that prevented him from a moment of respite.
"I saw the news this morning, bud. We're very happy about this one. I'll reach out with your next mission once it comes in. Absolutely crushing it, you two."
The message came in early morning from Mr. Charles. Things didn't feel right, even with the stamp of approval from the higher ups. Dex threw on a pair of sweats and a tank before he padded across the hall to your door. His knuckle brushed against the door before he tapped two solid knocks against the wood. He waited, only earning silence in return.
"It's me," he finally said, knocking once more.
Nothing.
Dex contemplated grabbing a knife and breaking the door open, even going so far as to check the hall around him. Setting his hand on the doorknob, he expected the resistance that came with a locked room. Instead, the handle turned completely, clicking open softly. Dex wordlessly slipped inside. Maybe you were in the restroom, maybe you were ignoring him still. Either way, he needed to see you. Better to ask for forgiveness than an apology. Not that he'd actually ask for either. He closed the door behind him, turned towards the room. The empty room. No suitcase. No bed that was slept in. Not a single trace of you left behind.
You were gone.
And you stayed gone for days.
More accurately, you were gone for nine days, one hour, forty-five minutes, and twenty-three seconds.
The first day was wasted in France, where you seemingly turned off your phone and forced Dex to search nearly every five star hotel and restaurant within a respectable distance from the airport for you.
He took a flight back to Washington on day two, where he spooked your address out of the poor girl who sat outside of Mr. Charles's office. Once that was obtained, he searched your apartment, which he suspected was the address you must have supplied to Charles for CIA records. The minimalist space he broke into in no way aligned with your personal style. It was too clean and muted. Boring. It has absolutely none of your touch, your style, or your warmth.
Day three consisted of combing through the dummy apartment, the leasing apartment, and what he could find of your financials to extract your real apartment address in DC.
Days four was spent casing your actual place, waiting for you to reveal yourself.
He lost his patience by day five, inevitably breaking into the window of your living room to take a look around. The sight of your apartment made Dex dizzy. Compared to the bogus apartment the CIA had on file for you, this place felt loud and lived in. Comfortable, if not a little chaotic. Plush seating overflowed with soft blankets and decorative pillows, bookshelves littered with paperbacks and trinkets. Each room had a wall of a different, deeply rich color. There was always something on a wall as well. Artwork, a mirror, a shelves filled with bottles and vases, a plant. There was still no sign of you though. He moved through the space and stepped into your bedroom, where he found a very old, very worn green sweater with NEW YORK in big, bold letters thrown over the small chair in the corner of your room. Dex found himself brushing his thumb against the soft cotton sleeve, contemplating the potential insanity of his next move.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Getting into New York unseen proved difficult, but not impossible on day six. From there, Dex moved a little more comfortably. This was his city. The same city he almost died and was reborn in. The same city that granted him his new life. He resumes his search similar to his method in France. Only instead of a five star radius around the airport, Dex lined up the top ten most expensive hotels in the city. He knocked the more traditional ones from the list with ease. You weren't going to stay in historic hotels, as nice as they were. Your choice in living space would be as colorful and sleek as you were. That fact was exactly how he spotted you.
Shopping bags swung from your hands and bright red heels click, click, clicked against the marble of the Baccarat Hotel. He kept his head down and stayed a safe enough distance away, but his eyes found themselves locked onto you. You looked... good. More than good, if he were being honest. Dressed in far finer garbs than the last time he saw you. He left a wide space, watching as you walked into the nearby elevator. Once the elevator doors closed with you inside, Dex moved from his cover. He observed each numbered floor above the elevator doors light up. One by one, floor by floor, until it stopped at the top floor. He scouted out the most expensive suite. The only one that occupied the top floor of the hotel. Bedroom, separate living and dining area, kitchenette. An opulent waste to Dex, but to you? He had no doubts you'd book the expensive suite without a second glance.
Dex had initially planned on cutting your trip short. Make his presence known. Yet somehow he found himself on day seven, waiting for you to leave the hotel. It was nearly afternoon when you finally appeared, immediately hailing a cab. He trailed the cab on the motorcycle he borrowed off some guy the night before, following you across town. All the way to... a maximum security prison. Despite his desire to track, Dex kept his distance. He may be working for the CIA now, but he knew better than to tempt fate and follow as you went inside. You were in there for two hours. The visitation time. Though his memory was spotty during his incarceration before Vanessa Fisk broke him out, he remembered how some inmates would receive visitors. Dex waited those two hours, noted the way your lips were set in a firm line when you left. He wondered what -- or who -- in that prison had caused that expression on your face. He wondered if he'd get the chance to ask about it someday.
He succumbed to the agitating feeling in his stomach on day eight and booked two tickets back to DC for the next morning. He kept his distance for eight days. You left without a warning or a trace. Without an explanation. Instead, you chose to run away to New York. He didn't understand it, yet he still sought you out. Still found you. That was honorable in his mind. A politeness. Surely you would agree with his assessment of the situation, if he could just get you alone. A task that currently felt impossible when you planted yourself in the middle of a packed night club that evening.
You wore a winter blue dress that draped over your front and dropped at your back. The fabric looked like it was dusted with sparkles. You looked like stars rippling across dark ocean waters as you danced. The lights in the club reflected against the glitter in your hair. At least that was how it looked from where he leaned on the second floor railing. Dex wasn't a fan of night life. The odd hours of service, the loud and unfamiliar music, the cramped space... It was a sweaty, sensory overloaded mess. He had little interest in it. Although it was impossible not to have his curiosity piqued at the sight of you that night. He watched as you moved to the music in the sea of bodies. The way your hips dipped and swayed, the way your hands trailed along your body and the body in front of you.
Wait.
Dex's grip on the railing tightened at the sight of another dancing near you. Was this normal? Did people just touch one another in night clubs? He watched with a different kind of intensity in his eye as you continued to move. This time his eyes were burning holes into the guy's hands, which trailed a little too close to your lower back. He considered his options, fairly certain he'd tip his hand if that man suddenly dropped dead on the dance floor. So his eyes continued following your movements, his feet stepping to keep you in his line of sight.
You departed sometime in the early morning on day nine, sweat covered and hair mussed from the night. Dex followed you down the streets of Queens, down the city blocks until you made your way up the ramp of a diner. Dex stared up at the giant letters above the building.
BEL AIRE DINER.
The space was nearly empty and looked like repairs had been made since the last time Dex was there months ago. A new lobster tank in place, patched up walls where bullet holes used to be. You sat at a window booth, eyes moving over the plastic menu in your hands. The glow of the lights was softer in the evening. Music softly played in the air as Dex made his way across the room. Your eyes don't lift from the menu when Dex slid into the booth across from you.
"Took you long enough."
You raised your gaze to look at Dex over the top of the menu.
"Over a week," you noted, "I was starting to think you weren't as good as they say you are."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"You didn't. At least not about that."
You set the menu down on the table, manicured nails tapping the tabletop as you leaned back in your seat. Dex set his forearms on the table as he leaned forward. He watched you, waited for your smile. You had smiled during the days he followed you. At the staff in the hotel, at the taxi drivers when you left the hotel, in the stores you shopped in. Your smile had been as carefree as your dancing earlier that night, but now? Now your face had none of that. You were pleasant, not openly hostile. However, the warmth that came so naturally to you had cooled significantly. Your lips parted to speak, but quickly stopped when a waitress made her way over to the table. Thankfully, it was not the same older woman as the last time Dex had visited the diner. The odds of anyone recognizing him diminished greatly. He sat back as the older woman smiled warmly as she approached.
"Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," the waitress said, "How long has it been, honey?"
"Too long," you replied, melting to the picture of ease.
"You're not getting your pancakes somewhere else, are you?"
"I wouldn't even dare to try and replace this place. However, if I were -- which I absolutely haven't at all -- they weren't half as good as here."
The older woman laughed, a hand resting on her hip. Dex watched as the waitress tipped her head in his direction, though she still addressed you when she spoke.
"And is this one the reason you haven't been around?" she asked, hint of a grin on her lips.
Dex raised an eyebrow faintly, interested in hearing your reply.
"Quite the opposite," you replied, "Benji here is the reason I'm back in town."
Benji? Dex made a face at the nickname, as you continued.
"Unfortunately, I got a job out of state," you explained further, "But I had some time and decided to take my friend here to my favorite place for breakfast."
"We'll get you the usual then. Same for your friend?"
The waitress looked at Dex, who nodded faintly.
"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed, earning a kind smile from the woman in response.
"Handsome and polite?" she grinned, scribbling down the order on a pad she pulled from her apron. She sent an obvious wink in your direction. "You got good taste in friends, honey."
You smile as the waitress collected the menu and made her way off to drop the orders into the kitchen. The curve of your lips faded slightly as you found yourself alone with Dex once more. Fingers itching for motion, you found yourself picking up the paper napkin nearby. You twisted it, then unrolled it. Repeated the motion in silence.
"If you're here to kill me," you finally said, eyes focused on the napkin as you continued to twist. "I'd prefer for it to happen after pancakes. Ideally, not in front of the staff. I've been coming here for years. It's a nice place and she's a nice lady. She works as a waitress most nights so she can watch her grandkids in the afternoon while her daughter's at work. If it happens here, the diner will be down for at least a couple days for a police investigation. She'll be out a few days worth of a paycheck. Some people live check to check. It'd be... rude. I don't want my last moment on earth to be an inconvenience in a place I really like."
"I'm not here to kill you."
Your fingers paused.
Your eyes rose.
"You're not?"
His answer was simple.
"Why would I?"
"Why wouldn't you?" you immediately asked, fingers tearing the napkin into strips as you added, "Mr. Charles would have dispatched you the moment you told him I ran. It would be the correct protocol for the CIA. AWOL or whatever..."
"Mr. Charles doesn't know."
Your eyes were touched with confusion.
"You didn't tell him I ran?"
"I didn't tell him anything."
You looked at him for a beat more before you began to lower your gaze to the napkin in your hand. Dex reached out, a large hand coming to rest over both of yours. It lingered there before Dex slowly curled his fingers around the torn napkin. He drew the pieces from your hands, leaving it at the edge of the table and out of your restless fingers.
"You--" you stopped yourself for a moment as the waitress brought over a couple waters, continuing when you were once again alone. "You saw what I did and then you just... sent me back to the car. You didn't give me the chance to talk about it. You were cold--"
"I was direct," he told you, "You were... upset. I was not equipped to fix that. We were in the middle of a mission. The target was just eliminated. Police would have been called. We already had two intruders onsite. You may not have liked it, but what I did was necessary."
Dex took note of your restlessness. The way your hands flexed open and closed, the feeling of your leg bouncing beneath the table. Quietly, Dex reached out and slid his napkin in your direction. He waited for you to take it. It seemed to soften some of the tenseness when you began to tear it to pieces.
"Why are you here, Dex?"
"You left," he simply replied, "I'm here bring you back."
"It can't be that simple."
"Why not?"
There was a brief pause as the waitress arrived with food. Two plates stacked with pancakes, fresh strawberries, and whipped cream. A small dish for butter and a bottle of syrup was left, as well as a few extra napkins. Neither of them moved as the waitress left them alone once more.
"Don't you have questions?" you asked him.
"I do," Dex replied, "I'll ask them when we get back to DC."
"Why?"
Dex gave you a look. Isn't it obvious? He motioned to the plates that sat between you both. Your ridiculously requested sweet treat in the early morning hours.
"It's 2AM, sweetheart."
Dex saw it then. The way you tried to bite down an incoming smile. The attempt was futile. There you were. The smile that was so big it touched your eyes and made them shine. The laugh -- soft at first, then slightly louder -- that took up space in his mind more then he'd like to admit. Dex found himself grinning. His first real smile in days. You picked up a fork and tugged your plate closer.
"These are my favorite pancakes in all of New York," you beamed, reaching out to drizzle syrup over your already sugar sweet plate, "From age six to ten, my parents would take me here before every drop off and after very summer pick-up from boarding school. Didn't matter what time of day. Pancakes were always ordered. I've yet to find a place that makes them this good."
"Why six to ten?" Dex asked, as he picked up his own fork.
"I was six when they first sent me to school in New York," you explained, "And they passed in a car accident when I was ten so..."
There must've been something in Dex's face -- the tilt of his head or a blink in the eyes -- that conveyed sympathy, because you were quick to keep talking.
"It's okay though. Really. I mean, at the time it definitely sucked. No one enjoys being orphaned during their formative years, but I ended up with a decent trust at eighteen. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough not to be terrified of the future."
Dex sat with that information for a moment. He was orphaned around that age. He didn't know why that sat on his tongue or why he wanted to share that piece of himself with you.
"Were you sent to an orphanage too?" he asked you.
Maybe one like Lyndhurst, where he had ended up, but for girls. Dex watched as you bit into a pancake piece before you shook your head at his question.
"A few of the teachers were concerned about a kid with my... condition being placed in the system," you shrugged faintly, "So when most of the kids went home to their families for the summer, I stayed at school. It wasn't too bad. There were other kids who didn't have places to go to and most of the teachers were around. It made it less lonely."
Dex felt his fingers tense around the fork he held, forced himself to soften the hold. Your experience was so unlike his own. Did that environment craft the person you became? Did his own upbringing make him the way he was? Would it have changed anything? He wasn't sure it would have.
"Sounds like a good place to land in."
"It was," you smiled, admiration in your voice, "I kinda owe my life to Xavier's. I make donations as frequently as I can. For a school for gifted youngsters, you can only imagine the kind of maintenance they need to keep that place running."
"'Gifted youngster'," Dex repeated, as he stabbed a piece of pancake onto his fork, "Is that what you are?"
"What I am is a mutant," you replied, thoughtfully, "Human-presenting, which others can't say, but I guess it's easier to call us 'gifted' when we're younger. Makes us feel special instead of different."
"You are different," Dex explained, simply, "But you're special too. You're... You're both."
He noted the way your face tinted faintly, a blush touching your cheeks. Your lips pressed to suppress a particularly deep smile. It took you a moment before you spoke again.
"I guess I stayed in New York because of Xavier's," you said, "Well, that and this place. There were a few years that I wasn't around. I got caught up in something that went sideways. I was advised to cut my losses and skip town, which I did. I tried Boston. I hated it. Thankfully, I got a call a few months back. A favor for a friend. My first time back in a while. I missed the city. I tried to visit this place, but the diner was closed for renovations. Some drug bust with the NYPD--"
"AVTF," Dex corrected, immediately, "And it wasn't a drug bust. It was a vigilante call."
"Whatever," you began to say, eyes focused on your pancake. You paused for a beat, eyes flickered up to look at Dex. "Wait.... How exactly do you know all that that?"
Dex smiled a little too proudly.
"You know what?" you quickly added, "I don't wanna know."
"You sure you don't want to know?"
"Of course I wanna know," you quickly replied, "Tell me everything and leave out nothing."
Dex smiled as you scooted forward in the booth, leaning in as he started to tell his story. You'd both spend the rest of the early morning meal that way. Just two people exchanging words over pancakes without a care in the world. Dex embraced the opportunity to speak with you, to witness your smile once again. It felt like catching up on time lost. It's nearly 3AM when you stacked the now-empty plates and moved to pay at the register. Dex stopped you, suggested you hail the taxi while he covers the tab. You waved goodbye to the staff, whispering for Dex to remember to tip before you left. Dex watched as you made your way outside, through the double glass doors towards the sidewalk.
"Give the girl your jacket, honey."
Dex turned to spot the waitress, who was all smiles as he moved towards the register.
"It's cold out," the older woman advised, "Offering your jacket would be sweet. She seems like the type of girl that likes sweet."
Dex looked over his shoulder slightly, caught the sight of you -- still in your shimmering dress and heels, most likely hopped up on sugar pancakes, and soon to experience the crash that followed -- slowly twirling circles on the sidewalk outside of the diner and not at all thinking about hailing a cab.
"Yeah," he hummed out, under his breath, "She's a sweet one."
He pulled out eighty bucks, dropped it on a thirty buck tab. He murmured a faint 'keep the change' before he made his way out of the diner. You were mid-spin when you came to a stop, eyes landing on Dex... and his jacket. Held open for you. He got the pleasure of seeing the glimmer of surprise, followed by earnest recognition. You said nothing as you turned to slip your arms through the sleeves of the jacket. You're instantly engulfed with heat. You silently insisted to yourself that was the reason your cheeks get warm.
A taxi is hailed moments later, Dex rattling off your hotel to the driver as you both slip into the back seat. The ride to the hotel is spent in relative silence, with only the sound of the radio playing. Some unfamiliar pop star singing some enchanted song. He couldn't focus on the lyrics. Not when the side of your body leaned into his. Not when your head finds its way onto his shoulder. Dex spent the next twenty minutes sitting completely still, unable to move. Not wanting to move for fear of disturbing you.
When the taxi neared the front of the hotel, Dex rouses you with a hand on your knee. You insisted on paying the taxi this time and bid the driver a safe night before you moved to join Dex on the sidewalk outside the hotel.
"Keep it," Dex said, as you began to shrug out of the jacket, "You can give it back to me at the airport. LaGuardia. 11:30AM. Gate B13."
"You were that sure you'd find me by today?" you asked him.
"Got the ticket yesterday," Dex smirked, nodding towards the jacket, "Ticket's in the inner right pocket."
Your eyes narrow playfully as you pat a hand over the right side of the jacket, fingers dipping into the front before you drew out a flight ticket from the pocket. You blew out a small chuckle before placing it back into the pocket once more.
"Where are you staying?" you asked him.
"Got a hotel down the road," Dex replied, "Cheaper. Guy at the front desk doesn't look too closely at IDs. Takes cash."
"Sounds about right," you laughed, "Do you need to get another cab?"
"I can walk."
"You'll be cold without your jacket."
Dex smirked.
"I'll live."
You smiled in return.
"You better."
Dex watched as you shifted on your feet. Weight from one heel to the other as you hugged the jacket around yourself. You shift closer to him. One step followed another until you stood toe-to-toe. You looked up -- and up -- to meet Dex's eyes. Your face softened, grew more heartfelt. Dex felt a chill roll down his spine as you rose onto the tips of your toes, arms reaching to wrap around his neck and shoulders. His hands took a moment before he remembered to move them, placed them cautiously at your hips. You're holding him -- hugging him -- with your face buried slightly into the crook of his neck.
"Thank you for finding me," you murmured against his shoulder, a small laugh in your words as you added, "And for not killing me."
You raise your head just enough to press small kiss to his scarred cheek. He wills his pulse to slow at the contact. It refused to. Instead Dex felt the beating go into overdrive. It continued to beat as you lowered yourself back to your height. A relentless pounding forming two words when you began to pull away. Don't go. Dex's fingers curled around the fabric of his jacket. He drew you closer before your arms could fall away completely from his shoulders.
His head dipped, swiftly closed what little distance there was between your face and his. Between your lips. Dex had never really been one to participate in gestures of romance. He had seen others perform the motions, yet so rarely engaged in it himself. But this moment? With you, in the early hours of the day, still beneath stars and moonlight and city lights? This he can do. So he kissed you. His lips were hesitant at first, unsure. A soft brush against softer lips. Testing. Slowly teasing. Then, when he was certain you wouldn't push him away, he tasted. He kissed deeper, hands slipped beneath the jacket you wore. Fingertips slid against your sides, gripped at your hips. Pulled you closer, kept you pressed against him. Your hands dropped from his shoulders and came to rest against his chest. His lips begged for entry and claimed your mouth completely once granted.
You'd both part slowly with shuddered, nearly desperate breaths. Dex dropped his forehead down, lightly rested it atop your head as you gathered your bearings. His thumbs brushed against your hips slightly before he withdrew his hands, taking the front of the jacket and drawing it closed. You said nothing as Dex brushed a hand along the length of your arm. A small touch. A quiet gesture. Your fingers grazed against his for a beat before breaking away completely. Neither of your spoke again. Dex simply nodded towards the hotel, a silent signal for you to head inside. You didn't question it. You moved on shaky legs towards the large entrance of the hotel doors, looked back slightly where Dex still remained. He waited until you were completely inside before moving from the sidewalk and down the long city block, towards his own hotel.
Something shifted in the air, changed the winds irrevocably, but Dex paid it no mind.
At this point in time, Dex simply existed with one simple fact.
Chapter Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Fluff, Emotional Block, Self-Deprecation, Some Awkwardness, Allusions to Smut but it happens next chapter.
It had been a few weeks since you officially got back together, and you had assumed you would bounce back eventually. A naive hope that everything would just be okay when you were really together again, like you both had been wanting for months.
But nothing felt the same anymore. For either of you.
Every interaction you had was now underlined with an awkward residue of the months you spent apart. Your relationship now polluted by the anger and misunderstandings, and worst of all your own guilt gnawing away at you every step of the way. A little voice in the back of your head piping up every time Adrian reached for you, telling you he deserved better, that you should have believed him. That you should have listened to him sooner so you could have been there to help him face his worst demons. Now every time you look into his eyes you love so much, all you see is worry. That you'll do it again, that you’ll hurt him, or worse leave him all together. And every time you see that glint in his eye you're reminded of it all, everything you said to push him away echoing through your head, eating away at you like a parasite in your chest. Not letting you react to his touch the way you wish you could.
Adrian finally had everything he had been yearning to have back for so long, but none of it felt the way he thought it would. The fear and bitterness of the last few months still wedged itself between you both, no matter how hard he tried to fix it. It had never felt like this with you before. Everything about your relationship had always gone so smoothly, but now he could feel the awkward tension every time he stepped closer. Every time he reached for you, only to stop unsure if you wanted to feel his touch. He never questioned himself this way before, he knew what he wanted and it had always been and would always be you. No matter what you had done, or would do, he didn’t care, he just wanted you back.
He didn’t want to overstep, fearing that one wrong move would push you away again. So he let you move at your own pace, even when he was shaking trying to restrain himself. You noticed, of course, he was quieter than usual, biting his tongue when a topic he liked came up. Curling into himself until you allowed him to move closer. Becoming someone you didn't recognize, all because of what you had put him through. A pull to help him would tug at your chest every time you saw him, but you just didn't know how. You didn't even know if he wanted it in the first place.
Everything felt too new, a sensation Adrian would never get used to, he didn’t like change, didn’t like when what he was used to got thrown up in the air. Like when Chris went to prison, or when Ads joined the group, he had to settle an internal turbulence that threatened to break him. But with you he never had to, because from the moment you entered his life it felt like you had always been there, like his life hadn’t even really started until you met. He always was a late bloomer, and it took you crashing into his life for his feelings to start turning in his head correctly.
He took every chance he could to be with you, subconsciously making up for all the time spent apart. But even sitting right next to you, he longed for you. A sharp tug that was in a way, worse now than it had been in the months he spent watching you from afar. He wanted to hold you more than he ever had, he wanted it so bad it physically hurt to hold back, but he didn't know what he was allowed to do anymore. He didn’t know where the line for too much sat now.
And you didn’t know how to tell him.
Movies spent awkwardly far apart, his mind racing with thoughts of how this went with Mark. Wondering if you wanted him to act more like him, more normal and controlled. He side eyed you on the other side of the couch, the movie half finished, neither of you having actually paid attention to any of it. The tension between you was suffocating. Adrian coughed dramatically, drawing your eyes away from where they were spaced out on the screen to him. He wore a shy smile, making you swallow anxiously because you knew you were hurting him, again. Adrian watched you, reading your face and body language, misreading your discomfort, thinking it was from him, that you didn’t want to be here alone with him. He sighed, an ache in his chest as he reached forward, grabbing the remote and pausing the movie. “Was this a bad movie pick?”
Your mouth opens and closes, throat tight while thinking of something to say, “I- Honestly I wasn’t paying attention.” You laughed nervously, like you were afraid of how you would react, only making his fear of failing you worse.
“Yeah, me either, uh maybe we should just do this some other time?” Your eyes sparkled slightly as he stared into them, a look of hurt flashing on your face before you masked it.
“Sure.” And he left, sulking, hurt in a way he didn’t know how to ignore or push away. Both of you spent the night thinking the other wanted space, not realizing you both needed the same thing.
For everything to go back to the way it was.
~~
Adrian hadn’t seen you in days, had barely heard from you at all really, and having you, knowing you were his, but still being unable to do anything about it hurt more than when he was longing for you from below your window. You were hurting him again, and more importantly, you were hurting yourself without even realizing. One night, not long after your failed movie date, during a mainly silent patrol, he decided enough was enough. Everything reminded him of you, from the shape of the clouds to the rocks scattered on the ground. He took it all as a sign, and he knew he needed to reach further, needed to pull you back into him, pull you out of your own head like you had done for him when you met. Even though he was afraid it was too late, or that he could never do or be enough for you, he realized it had been too long without seeing you, and on a whim, in a rare burst of confidence, he decided he had to go to you now. He didn’t want to push or pry, but he needed you to know he would still be here, waiting no matter how long it took for you to open back up.
He couldn’t bring himself to go to his friends, because he knew none of them would understand. Somewhere deep down he knew this wasn’t healthy, this suffocating, desperate need he had for you. He just didn’t care, he couldn’t care about anything as deeply as he cared for you, and he couldn’t bear the thought of hearing Ads or Chris try to convince him to let you go. To find someone else, because for him there would never be anyone else. And he selfishly needed to be the only one for you too.
“Hey,” Adrian spoke as he cautiously opened your door with a little knock, when he used to just walk right in, sending another pang of guilt cracking through your chest. “I brought you something from patrol.”
You smiled up at him, calling for him to come in. When he sat it was at a cautious respectful distance, holding out a nearly perfectly flat rock in the palm of his hand. You took it, flipping it around in your hands, observing it like it was a precious jewel while Adrian observed you in exactly the same way. He coughed slightly, obviously wanting your attention, which you gave him without a second thought. Watching his face contort with anxiety before you took his hand softly, giving him just enough courage to push through.
“Did you know male penguins give rocks to their mates when they’re ready to mate for life?” His eyes fix onto yours, a sincere look of worry and pain washing across his face.
“Are you saying you want me for life Adrian?” You ask with a giggle, trying to ignore the memories that flood your head at the tension building between you both again. Adrian scoots closer, his chest rising and falling with frantic breaths as his hands move to hold both of yours and the rock in his.
“Yes,” His eyes glass over as his lips quiver along with his hands, “I thought you knew that already.”
“I did Adrian, I just wasn’t so sure anymore, I hurt you and I would understand if-” Your voice cracked and your eyes fell away from him, not being able to even say the words.
“I need you back, it feels like you’re here and not here at the same time and it scares me more than going out there every night ever did. I want you back, the you that made me feel right for the first time.” Adrian spoke in a matter of fact tone, sounding more confident than he had since the morning you broke it off with Mark, “I know that I hurt you too, it was an accident but I did, it wasn't your fault and it wasn't mine and I want to find a way past it. I love you and I think you love me too. I want you more than anything, I just can’t keep hurting like this. Every time I reach out for you it feels like you pull away, like you don't want me anymore. That’s why I’m giving you this, so you know I want a life with you whenever you're ready to have me. However freaky our life together is, I want it, I don't care what other people think about it.”
Before you can stop them, tears start to fall down your cheeks, and Adrian’s hand twitches like he wants to rub them away but he doesn’t. Unsure if you would allow it, and unable to handle the rejection if you didn't.
“I still want you Adrian. I just- I don’t know how to act around you anymore, I fucked up and wasted so much of your time, of our time. I put you through so much pain and made you go through it alone while I tried to forget you all together. I don’t even understand why you still want to be with me after everything I said and did.”
“I still want to be with you because I can’t stand being without you, it hurts too much.”
“Even though I was with someone else?” Adrian’s hands tighten around yours subconsciously, his jaw clenching so hard you thought it might break his teeth, “Even though I slept with someone else?”
“It makes me want you even more,” His voice, so low it was almost a growl, sent a shiver running down your spine at his words as he rushed to finish speaking before he lost his nerve, “It makes me want to show you who you really belong with. Makes me want to love you harder and better so you never think of anyone else ever again.” His eyes widened as if he didn't mean to tell you that part, like he was afraid it would scare you. “Is that horrible?”
He asked so softly and with such a scared look on his face that you couldn't help but lean in and capture his lips with yours.
“No, it's not horrible, a little possessive maybe,” you laugh weakly, your throat wobbling as tears still fall down your cheeks, your lips less than an inch away from his, “but not horrible.”
Adrian let out a strangled sound that mixed with the gasp you let out as he slams his lips into yours. A comfortable feeling washed over you both, blanketing you in warmth and desperation to stay connected for longer. Adrian had lost himself in the feeling of your lips on his in a matter of seconds, melting into you and releasing soft whimpers into your mouth, only noticing how desperate he was when you pulled away from him, standing from the couch as he dissolves further into the cushion, trying to get away from you out of pure embarrassment. Eyes squeezing shut as he tries to calm his aching desire to have you for the first time in months. His need to reclaim you as his sending sparks throughout his entire body, his hands flexing against the couch to control his urge to pull you into his lap and mark your entire body.
“Sorry I didn’t mean to make -”
“No,” Adrian’s eyes locked on your outstretched hand, his breath catching further as you spoke, “I want to be with you again, really with you.”
Adrian’s chest closed in on itself as he shot up into your personal space. Bypassing your hand altogether and grabbing you, pulling your body closer to you, like he needed you to get a full breath.
“Are you sure?” Adrian’s voice shook, his hands unsteady on your waist but unwilling to let go. “We can wait longer if you need it, I can be celibate, I can totally handle that for you.” You giggled at him, making a smile split across his mouth as he stepped impossibly closer to you.
“I’m sure Adrian, I need to feel close to you.” Adrian’s hands stilled before reaching up to cup your cheeks, tugging your face into his, practically devouring your lips as he shoved you back towards your bedroom with an unashamed moan.
Please note, this list is a WIP. Its not perfect and, like a shelf in a library, there's probably stories here that belong elsewhere. If you find mistakes or have input please lmk!
➸ “even if you don’t love me anymore” by @matt-erialgirl - #stitches
➸ Not Again by @mvtthewmurdvck
➸ Always by @imaginesfordifferentfandoms
➸ Feel You by @titan-sl8yer - Matt loses his hearing and you comfort him
➸ hurt by @shrikeyryn - #savior!Matt x vigilante!Reader
➸ protected by @catholicdaredevil
➸ make amends by @honeycombstrawberry - Matt isn’t there in time to stop you from getting hurt
➸ you weren’t here by @multiharlot
➸ love on the moon by @multiharlot
➸ "What we had was so special, and you walked away from it" by @weareallstoriesintheend
➸ The Last Time and Worth It by @weareallstoriesintheend - Matt pushes you away, but finally realizes how much he needs you. #smut
➸ I Don’t Want to be Holy by @modern-vellichor - little #fluff, little #angst, lot of #religious imagery
➸ Tragedy by @modern-vellichor
➸ The Deep Cut and Lover, You Should Have Come Over by @itwasthereaminuteago
➸ Devil Upright w/ Matt by @raelwrites - toxic relationship, #angst, some #college!Matt
➸ Silence by @peterman-spideyparker - Matt loses his hearing and you comfort him
➸ Fall Asleep in My Lap by @pastafossa - You comfort Matt after a long day
➸ The Devil’s Lullaby & The Devil May Cry by @wint3r-h3art - You wake in Matts arms having not seen him since college
➸ Sick Twisted Fantasy Pt 1 & Pt 2 by @multiharlot - Age gap fic w/ reader meeting Foggy & Karen for the first time
➸ Devil In Me by @waspswidows - #stitches, #angst, #smut
➸ not able to lie by @mvtthewmurdvck - #hurt/comfort, you get beat up to send a message to Daredevil
➸ “You’re my family, too” by @thirstybitchs - softness and comforting Matt
➸ anyone but him by @dameronology - murdock v castle and jealous!matt
➸ red and blue by @dameronology - murdock v castle, #angst
➸ stupid love by @thatfangirl42
➸ Staying With Me by @americancowgirl19 - You get sick and Matt hates that he didn’t see the signs sooner
➸ calling me out by @starduststevie - Matt has been away from you for months and you’ve finally had enough
➸ Screaming the name of a foreigner’s God by @raelwrites - Matt copes with your death
➸ Morally grey vigilante!reader & working with frank by @raelwrites
➸ "I’d live for you.” by @murdocksluvrr - Matt comforts you
➸ stitches Part 1, Part 2 by @megthemewlingquim - Matt comforts you after a kidnapping, #smut in Part 2
➸ Polarize by @shedaresthedevil - Reader deals with sleep paralysis
➸ Would you pray before you twist the knife? by @shedaresthedevil
➸ "Why are you so scared of loving me?" by @what-the-hell
➸ Whatever's After Forever by @m4tthewmurd0ck - Avenger!reader, fighting and make-up
➸ Not Your Martyr by @amchapel - Matt doesn't sacrifice his moral code to save you
➸ "It hurts when you're not around" by @hail-matty
➸ (Un)Stealthy by @ellephlox
➸ The Marks Left Behind by @courtforshort15 - Matt thinks you're horrified the first time you see his scars, #comfort
➸ Sleepless Nights by @carters-things - Your worry over Matt has been keeping you up
➸ done by @serendipityrogers - you lose it after another bad night, fighting and make-up
➸ Under My Skin by @everlastingdreams - One day your abuser walks into Nelson & Murdock, tw sa, tw child abuse
➸ Under the Light of the Moon by @saintmurd0ck - you're matt's girlfriend and the vigilante being blackmailed to take down daredevil
➸ The Silence Between Us by @marvelswh0re - Matt lets you down again, #breakup
➸ Privilege by @courtforshort15 - #tw sexual assault
➸ Fragile by @devils-dares - sometimes matt slips into a headspace after a bad night
generally all fics regarding Matt’s death and resurrection, midland circle, his suicide attempt, and his time in the basement of Clinton Church. Angst ahead.
this is a nightmare by @literaila - #suicide
god forgive me by @catholicdaredevil
When The Lights Are Off by @trashmagines - on the gentler/fluffier side
You’re Somebody Else by @stylesparker - #mega angst
paint me a pretty picture by @literaila - up to Midland Circle
He should have just lied by @mvtthewmurdvck - You show up at Clinton Church
funeral liturgy by @redahlia-writes - You reunite with Matt in the basement of Clinton Church
Afraid by @churchofrain - He shows up at your door more than a year after he died
conversations of closure by @briefcasejuice - a post-S3 reflection, #no romance
Kinkvember 2018: Angry/Hate Sex by @i-the-hell-is-bvcky - #smut, #rough sex
90 days by @multiharlot - It takes you 90 days to break the habit of loving a dead man
bittersweet by @rogueonestan - grief has consumed you since matt's death
Kinktober Day Two: Temperature Play with Clark Kent
Word Count: 1.2k
Warnings: Temperature Play, Smutty, Implied PnV, Fingering(f!receiving), Misuse of Superpowers, Hints of a Size Kink.
[masterlist] [Kinktober ‘25]
Sweat clung to your entire body, leaving a sheet of stickiness shining on your skin. The windows of Clark’s apartment were wide open but barely any breeze came through, even as he came rushing inside still clad in his work suit that only made the heat radiating off of your body worse.
“Hey Gorgeous,” He announced, eyes tracing your form stretched out on his couch. You were practically dripping sweat, hair clinging to your forehead but to him you looked like a piece of art, “You okay?”
“It’s so hot, like record breaking heatwave for this time of year,” you whine, flipping over onto your stomach. Both you and Clark trying to ignore the way your tight shorts rode further up your shining butt. “Do you not feel hot in that?”
“I don’t really feel heat the way you do,” Clark starts, his sympathy evident in his voice, “Plus I can kind of cool myself off.” He removes his suit jacket and drops onto the couch beside you, taking your calves into his lap as you whine at the additional heat of his body. As if a lightbulb lit up above your head, you swiftly turn yourself to face Clark, eyes shining to him while he stares at you like you hung the moon.
“Cool me off….please.” Clark smiles at your words, his eyes bright as he reprimands himself mentally for not thinking of that first. Clark takes a small breath into his hand, visibly cold air hitting his palm before he gently places it on your simmering thigh, moving up and leaving a cold relief behind. You moan your appreciation, your body wiggling deeper into the couch with each shift of his hand.
You don’t notice the quickly growing tent in Clark’s tight slacks, your eyes lulling closed with satisfaction as Clark’s eyes trail over your form. He quickly cools off his other hand while moving up your body to drape himself over you. Before you realize it he has you caged in below him on his couch, one freezing hand on your hip the other inching below your shirt and sending shivers cascading down your spine.
In a small controlled breath, careful not to freeze your skin solid, Clark slowly lets his cold breath fan across your neck. His hands now warmer as they work their way up and down your sides absorbing the heat from your skin. Your hands find his broad shoulders, tugging him closer to you and digging your nails into his dress shirt.
“O-oh….oh my god that feels so good.” You whine, a small laugh falling from you at the sound of your desperation. Clark can quickly sense the moment your sounds shift from releif from the heat to a clear desperate need for him. He smells your arousal in the air, he hears your quickening heart beat underneath him and he needs more. His cold tongue slips past his lips, teasingly swiping across the soft spot of skin that drives you crazy before sucking the flesh into his mouth.
You moan out loud, the need indescribable as a feeling like cold icicles pinch across your exposed flesh. Your eyes shoot open with a whine when Clark suddenly pulls away, giving you a perfect view of his two giant fingers quickly shoved into his freezing mouth. His eyes locking onto your gaze before slipping them out, your gaze following them as they emit a cold mist into the air with each movement.
“I think you’ll like this even more Sweetheart.” Clark’s voice is breathy and almost as needy as yours, he quickly leans back into you, letting his mouth lock onto your neck again. Your whole body arches into him, craving him and the relief he can offer. The heat of his large, aching bulge has your fingers digging into his shirt harder, grinding into him and pulling a groan from Clark.
“Please Clark.” You whine, begging in a needy desperate tone as he lets his fingers warm up just enough to not hurt you. His icy tongue swirls across your neck and shoulder, dropping just low enough to tease your chest before bouncing back up to bite into your neck and listen to you whine for more. A shocked jolt of pleasure sends your head falling back in an obscene moan, in a split second his hand had slipped past your waistband so quickly you knew he had to of used his speed. He quickly inserted his two fingers with no warning, the stretch of his massive digits inside of you worsened by the cold.
“Oh fuck,” you scream, a moan ripping from your chest when he starts to piston them inside of you, pulling them from you still cold and wet to play with your clit before diving back into you with the same inhuman speed.
“Watch your mouth.” Clark reprimands firmly, his cold lips leaving your neck to smash into your simmering ones. You moaned into him, your lips parting to let his tongue find yours, dancing together in a breathy, needy kiss while his fingers worked between you. Your hands roam from his wide shoulders to his chest, feeling his steel muscles protruding from his work shirt as his fingers speed up to a pace that felt almost impossible for you to comprehend. You can feel your core tightening, the heat of your excitement fighting the cold of his superhuman hands. One of your hands shoots down to his wrist with a whine, the other rising to tug at his perfect curls. The pleasure was almost too much. His giant fingers dug into that soft, mushy part of you making your nails scrape at his wrist. Your weak hands do absolutely nothing against his, your legs shaking and moving to wrap around him, giving him an even better angle that he took immediately. Thrusting his fingers harder, digging deeper inside of you and making you scream his name.
Jolts of pleasure run up your back as his slowly warming fingers start to quickly, too quickly, go back and forth from expertly scissoring inside of you to playing with your throbbing clit and making you whine desperately into his mouth. He laughs into you at the feeling of your hand’s feeble attempt at pushing away his wrist, because he knows how much you want this, even without his extra senses he can tell. He can feel your walls tighten around his digits, your legs shaking, pulling him impossibly closer to you as he thrusts his fingers into you one final time. Your loud moan stifled by his lips still melting against yours, tongue prodding yours while he pushes you over the edge. Your heart pounded in your ears, your breath panting as Clark’s lips leave yours to leave soft, soothing, still cold kisses down your jaw.
When he looked down to you, his blue eyes were dark with need as he slipped his fingers free, sucking them into his mouth with a loud moan. His hips instinctively thrusting towards you while your body was slowly heating up again, his large frame hovering over yours trapping your body heat between you both.
“Can you do that with any other parts of your body?” You ask, your voice breathy and teasing while you tug your bottom lip between your teeth. His eyes widen slightly, a smile spreading across his perfect face before he dives back into your lips.
Reading through my own posts is so humbling, because when I was writing this I was SO certain it was going to get so so much love and be one of the more popular fics on my kinktober. Now it’s been 7 months and it’s under 200 notes still.
summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.
WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.
playlist | pinterest board
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
ONESHOTS (take place after the main story)
Sam’s BBQ
⋆⁺₊✧ MASTERLIST
AdrianChaseChaser @mrsriddlenott - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
