for the hope of it all @routledgescherries - Tumblr Blog

Oct 18, 2025

♡ 𖥻 girl, so confusing ──── dick grayson x kryptonian!reader.

┆PARING .ᐟ dick grayson x fem!reader.

┆SUMMARY .ᐟ being superman’s kryptonian protégé was complicated, but teaming up with robin made it worse. from chaotic missions to endless arguments as adults, the two of you clashed at every turn. everyone else saw enemies. clark and bruce saw something deeper. though calling it hate was simpler than admitting the truth.

┆WARNINGS .ᐟ enemies to lovers. slowburn. kryptonian!reader. clark kent is your mentor. kryptonian biology. sexual tension. +18, just a little smutty, angry make out. switch!reader and switch!dick grayson. reader is supergirl. dick grayson is nightwing/robin. reader is totally inspired by kara zor-el's background. also inspired by the runs "batman/superman: world's finest", "woman of tomorrow" and the animation "legion of superheros (2023)". this is the first part.

┆NOTES .ᐟ ──── So, guys, this is a long one, so buckle up and get comfy in your bed. You have no idea how happy I am to finally write something with a kryptonian reader! Most of the information I took from the comics, but when it comes to their biology, I got a little creative. Don't forget that, unlike Clark Kent, reader was raised under Krypton's culture and way of thinking. She's always a kryptonian first and human second.

ACT I ── I CAN GO ANYWHERE I WANT, JUST NOT HOME.

You remember everything as clearly as if it were happening again.

The day Krypton died is etched into your mind with a sharpness that makes your chest ache. The skies glowed a deep, unnatural red, and the ground beneath your feet trembled as if the planet itself were screaming. Crystal towers shivered on their foundations, and the streets you had walked a hundred times seemed to fracture before your eyes. Your home, your friends, your family, the countless memories of a civilization that had thrived for millennia, all of it was gone in an instant.

But before the chaos, there had been normal days.

You remember the mornings, waking in a crystal chamber that gleamed with the soft light of Rao. Your mother’s voice called you to lessons in physics and planetary studies, while your father prepared holographic models for the Science Council meetings. As a fourteen-year-old, you had been curious and wide-eyed, running along the skywalks that arched between spires, your mind full of experiments and questions about the stars. You and your friends would race through the gardens of floating platforms, the air clean and shimmering, filled with the hum of energy fields and the soft glimmer of floating light-orbs. Even in a society that prized discipline, there was enough space for laughter and love.

Then came the tremors.

You could still feel the subtle vibrations underneath your feet, like the pulse of some living heart deep beneath the planet’s crust. When Jor-El arrived at the Council, his voice was urgent, almost desperate. You could see it in your parents’ faces, the disbelief giving way to terror as the calculations were displayed, showing the core’s instability and the inevitable end of Krypton. Unlike the babies sent to safety, you could understand what was happening, feel the weight of knowledge crushing the room.

Your parents were among the few who truly believed him. The rest of the Council refused to acknowledge the danger, blinded by hubris and tradition. You remember the panic, the last instructions, the frantic whispers as your parents led you to the small spacecraft that would carry you away. Unlike Kal-El, who had been an infant and could only rely on instinct, you were awake, aware, able to see your world one last time. Crystal towers glowing, gardens suspended in the air, streets emptying as kryptonians run and scream in confusion.

All beneath the crimson light of Rao.

The launch itself was both terrifying and surreal. You felt the engines roar beneath you, the ship trembling as it tore away from the surface. Looking back, you saw the planet convulse, fissures racing across the continents like cracks in glass. Then came the blinding explosion, a flash that consumed everything, even the memory of home. You were hurled into the void, your body protected by the ship, your mind swirling with grief, fear, and the impossible responsibility of being one of the few left to carry Krypton’s legacy.

And as the stars grew around you, distant and cold, you held onto the memory of life before the end. The laughter of your friends in the gardens, the lessons in crystal classrooms, the smell of ozone in the city, and the warmth of your parents’ loving hands. They had saved you, given you a chance to live, and now the weight of survival pressed against your chest, heavier than any gravity you had ever known.

For thirty years, you floated through the void, suspended in the strange, timeless silence of the Phantom Zone. Time there was not like time on Krypton, it stretched and folded, leaving you both awake and dreamlike, yet utterly still. You had no gravity, no sunlight, no passage of seasons, only the dim echo of your own thoughts. At first, you clung to the images of your home, trying desperately to remember every detail. But as decades slipped by, those memories began to blur, and the world you had known became a distant, glowing shadow in your mind.

Then came the release.

Your small spacecraft emerged from the Phantom Zone and drifted into the solar system, finally under a sun that was not Rao. Earth’s yellow light bathed the ship, awakening your kryptonian cells. You were still a little girl, your body unchanged by the thirty years of suspended existence, though your mind carried the weight of centuries of grief.

When the ship finally touched down in a quiet, green valley, you emerged into a reality that was entirely foreign. Towering trees replaced crystal spires, the sky a brilliant blue instead of the red hue of your home. The air smelled of rain and earth, and you felt the strange warmth of gravity tugging at your limbs. It was then that they found you, a kind couple, ordinary in every way, yet their eyes held a warmth that reminded you faintly of your parents’ kindness. They took you in, gave you clothes that were soft and unfamiliar, and taught you the ways of Earth. They became your family in every sense that mattered, shielding you from the pain of loss while giving you a new place to call your own.

You soon realized that your spacecraft had not landed in some pristine, hidden place but had crashed into what your adoptive parents called a “lake house,” tucked away in a quiet, green stretch. The house itself was quaint, fragile, and utterly unlike the towering crystal spires and skywalks you had grown up with. It seemed almost laughably small, as if someone had shrunk a building down to toy size.

And then, one day, they took you to where they actually lived, a weird place called Chicago.

You could hardly believe your eyes. The city sprawled chaotically across the land, with buildings that scraped the sky yet felt crude, uneven, and disorganized compared to the gleaming symmetry of Kandor. Streets were cluttered with vehicles and people moving in every direction, honking and shouting, a jumble of noise and motion. There were no crystal towers rising effortlessly above the clouds, no floating platforms, no radiant light reflecting from perfectly smooth surfaces. Everything felt harsh and crude, a primitive world still learning to organize itself, stumbling blindly through its own chaos.

It’s easy to say your first days in the big city were overwhelming.

School was a particular challenge.

Children of your age ran about, shouting, laughing, and sometimes arguing, entirely unstructured and unpredictable. Their lessons seemed chaotic, with no grand libraries of holographic data or floating classrooms. Instead, there were chalkboards, books, and a teacher who spoke with patience but no sense of the precision or clarity you had been accustomed to. You longed for the clean order of Krypton’s education halls, where every lesson had a perfect sequence and every problem a clear solution.

“Poor girl,” your new mother murmured softly as you chewed the piece of bread, its rough texture strange against your tongue. You sat by the kitchen window, watching the sky beyond the glass, a vast stretch of blue where birds moved together in graceful, uncoordinated patterns. It was chaotic, yet beautiful in its own way.

Life here was unlike anything you had known. Humanity seemed almost careless in its living, their homes uneven, their routines imperfect, their emotions unguarded. Yet there was something comforting about it all. The normalcy of human life had its own quiet rhythm, its own fragile charm. They didn’t obsess over perfection or order like your people once did, instead, they embraced the mess of existence. Your adoptive parents tried to explain it all, the concept of “neighborhoods,” of “seasons,” of “holidays.” Words that felt clumsy and strangely disconnected, like fragments of a language not yet refined.

Still, you listened. You watched. You learned.

And everything was at peace, for a while.

It all began on an ordinary morning, or as ordinary as life on Earth could ever feel. The sunlight filtered weakly through the apartment windows, spilling across the faded wooden floor. You sat at the kitchen table, half-listening to the sound of your adoptive father flipping pancakes while the hum of the city buzzed faintly beyond the glass. Chicago was already awake, cars honking, trains screeching, the whole world moving in its loud, imperfect rhythm.

Then, for a moment, everything seemed to stop.

The sunlight shifted, brighter and warmer. It touched your skin, and a pulse shot through your body like a sudden heartbeat that wasn’t your own. You froze. The fork in your hand bent without you realizing it, metal twisting as easily as soft clay.

You stared, breath caught in your throat.

Your father turned around, puzzled. “Sweetheart? You okay?”

You forced a shaky smile, hiding the ruined fork beneath your napkin. But the feeling didn’t fade, it grew. The air seemed sharper, your hearing too clear. You could hear the soft tick of the kitchen clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator, even the sound of footsteps two floors above. Your heart raced. Every sound, every vibration, every breath in the apartment became distinct and overwhelming.

You stumbled to your bedroom, clutching your head. The sunlight followed you, streaming through the curtains, wrapping you in gold. And then it happened again, your hand brushed the edge of the dresser, and it splintered under your touch. Panic surged. You tried to steady yourself, but the floor groaned as if protesting your weight.

You took a deep breath, staring at your trembling hands. The light was everywhere now, every beam from the window felt alive, humming through your veins. You stepped closer to the window, your heart pounding so loudly it filled your ears.

You pushed the window open and leaned into the sunlight.

It was blinding.

And then you lifted.

It wasn't graceful, more like the world had forgotten to hold you down. You rose a few feet before panic snapped you back, sending you tumbling into a pile of blankets and books.

The crash echoed through the apartment.

Your mother rushed in, eyes wide. “Honey, are you all right? What was that sound?”

You looked up at her, your breath coming in quick gasps, the window curtains fluttering in the sudden draft. “I… I don’t know,” you whispered. But deep down, you did. The warmth in your veins, the weightlessness, the impossible strength, they were all echoes of what you were.

Kryptonian.

Later, as you stood alone by the window again, the city lights stretched below you and the sun sank over the skyline. You felt its energy coursing through you still. That was how you discovered what the yellow sun had done to you, how its light reshaped every cell, every breath, every heartbeat. Beneath its warmth, your body became something entirely different.

Magnificent and terrifying.

But you soon learned you weren’t the only one with extraordinary abilities. Humans had their own kind of champions, people in masks and capes who called themselves heroes, rushing into danger to save the day. You saw their images on television, heard their names whispered with admiration, yet you never paid them much attention. Krypton hadn’t needed “heroes.” It had order, science, and the Military Guild, a force powerful enough to maintain peace across an entire world.

At least, that’s what you had believed.

Before the core began to tremble.

Then, one evening, as the golden light of sunset poured through the apartment windows, you saw him. The television screen flickered with images of a man soaring through the air wrapped in blue and red. You froze. The newscaster’s voice faded into nothing as your eyes locked on the emblem on his chest.

That symbol.

Your breath caught. You knew it instantly, though you hadn’t seen it since Krypton’s final days, the crest of the House of El. The mark of Jor-El. It gleamed bright against his suit, unmistakable and impossible. He was kryptonian. He had to be.

You moved closer to the screen, your heart hammering in your chest. Every emotion you’d buried since the explosion came rushing back all at once. He spoke to the world in calm, steady words about hope, justice, and protecting life, but you barely heard him. All you could see was the echo of your home, alive again in that one symbol.

For a moment, you almost cried. After months of silence, of pretending to be human, of believing you were utterly alone in the universe… there he was.

Someone from Krypton.

You didn’t even think. The next thing you knew, the window was open, the air whipping past your face as you shot into the sky. The city lights of Chicago blurred beneath you. You didn’t know how to stop, didn’t care, your heart led you east, faster and faster, toward the shining skyline of Metropolis.

The impact had left a crater in the concrete. You sat at its center, dazed, smoke curling around the edges. The sound of sirens wailed in the distance, and before you could gather your bearings, a shadow fell over you. Superman was already there, cape rippling, eyes calm and steady, the crest of El burning bright in the sunlight.

He landed lightly, as if gravity obeyed him out of respect.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, voice steady but kind.

You looked up at him, heart pounding, unable to find your words. “You’re real,” you whispered. “You… you’re from Krypton.”

You rose easily from the cratered ground, not a scratch on your body, even though the impact had left a massive hole in downtown Metropolis. Your gaze couldn’t leave his chest, locked on the familiar symbol, the emblem you had known your entire life.

“Is… your dad Jor-El?” you whispered, voice trembling.

For a moment, he just stared, surprise flickering across his features.

“How…?” he began, uncertain.

“I know your family,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know your parents...”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy with history and loss. He took a slow step closer, his eyes softening, understanding dawning.

Your eyes filled with tears as you stumbled closer, wrapping your arms around him. You clung to his broad chest, sobbing uncontrollably, the child within you surfacing for the first time in months.

“Our home… it’s gone. F-forever,” you stammered between gasps, your voice breaking. “I… I watched it… explode from the spacecraft… your dad made it for me…”

He held you gently, letting you cry, his presence steady and grounding. For the first time since Krypton’s death, you allowed yourself to feel the weight of everything you had lost, the towers, the gardens, your friends, your family, all swept away in fire and light.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered softly, his hands resting on your shoulders. “I’ll help you. We’ll carry it together.”

So you let yourself be small again in his arms, letting the grief pour out as the two of you bonded over the memory of a dead planet, one that had shaped everything you were and everything you were yet to become. The day you destroyed half of downtown Metropolis, you didn’t just gain a mentor, you gained a father figure and a friend.

Your parents easily accepted Superman’s presence in your life. In truth, they were more relieved than anything else. Finally, someone who actually understood what was happening to their child. Clark was patient, calm, and endlessly kind, guiding you through every new and terrifying discovery as your powers began to unfold. For your parents, his presence was a gift, a steady anchor in a storm they couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Still, it wasn’t easy.

You scared that poor couple more times than you could count. There were nights when your strength slipped out of control, when doors came off their hinges or furniture cracked beneath your touch. And then there was the day your heat vision first flared to life, a blinding, searing light that split the air and nearly tore the small apartment in half. You could still remember your mother’s scream, your father’s desperate attempt to cover you, and the way Superman appeared almost instantly, his calm voice cutting through the chaos like sunlight through smoke.

After that, your parents stopped seeing him as just Superman. He became something more, a mentor, a guardian, and, in many ways, the reassurance that their child wasn’t cursed, just different. Under his guidance, you learned control and purpose. And though the fear never fully left your parents’ eyes, neither did the pride.

In exchange for his infinite calm and the quiet love he showed you, you gave him everything you had, every memory, every fragment of a world long gone. You told him about your home, about Krypton and its cities of crystal and light, about the people who once walked beneath its red sun. You told him about his family, their traditions, their brilliance, their hopes for the son who would one day outlive them all. Every story you shared felt like breathing life back into ghosts, a way to keep them from fading completely.

You even told him about the tiny baby launched into the stars by Jor-El. About him. How his father’s trembling hands placed him gently into the pod, how Lara’s voice cracked as she whispered her final goodbye. You painted the picture as if you’d been there yourself, every word carrying the weight of a history he could never remember but somehow still felt in his bones.

“And they made me babysit you a lot of times,” you said, absentmindedly playing with the hem of your shirt. The two of you sat on the rooftop of your parents’ lake house in the middle of Wisconsin, the quiet shimmer of Lake Geneva stretching out beneath the summer night sky. From inside, the faint clatter of dishes and the soft hum of conversation drifted through the open windows. Your mom was making dinner after unlocking your old spacecraft, showing Kal-El the few surviving remnants of your people’s technology.

“You were a really chubby baby,” you added with a small laugh, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. For a moment, Superman, the savior of the world, just smiled.

“I wish I could remember more,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the reflection of the stars rippling across the lake, the same stars that had once carried him here. There was a quiet ache in his voice, the kind born from longing for a life he never had the chance to know.

After a long moment of comfortable silence, he turned to look at you.

“You know, kid,” he began, his voice low but thoughtful, “we were born with a gift. A beautiful one. When used well, it can help the world find peace, give people something to hold on to, something to believe in.”

You smiled faintly. “Yeah… most Earthlings seem to need that. To hold onto anything that gives them comfort.”

Your mind wandered for a moment, to the image of your mom praying quietly beside your dad in the living room.

There was religion on Krypton too.

Rao was the main god of your people.

“Earthlings?” Kal-El chuckled, breaking your train of thought.

You turned to him, puzzled. “What? Aren’t they Earthlings? Earth… things? I don’t know the exact terminology of this species.”

He grinned. “You mean Homo sapiens?”

“Oh, right,” you said, nodding seriously. “The monkey cousins.”

He laughed, a genuine, bright sound that carried softly over the lake, mingling with the hum of summer air and the quiet rhythm of waves against the dock.

“Okay, we need to work on that if you ever want to become a hero,” he said, trying not to laugh again. “That sounded super xenophobic.”

“Xeno–what?” you asked, brow furrowing. “And hero?”

Kal-El sighed, smiling as he looked out over the lake again. “Yeah. Someone who helps people. Someone who protects them, even when they don’t understand you.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Sounds exhausting.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah… sometimes it is. But it’s worth it.”

You looked down at your hands. “Before the explosion… I was training to be part of the Military Guild,” you said quietly, remembering the long hours of drills, simulations, and sparring with the other teens.

Kal-El gave you a confused look, one that reminded you he was human first and kryptonian second. You smiled faintly, realizing he had no idea what the Military Guild even was.

“So… what’s the Military Guild?” he asked.

You took a deep breath and began to explain, your voice soft but steady. “It’s… the organization where kryptonians train to protect our planet. Not just in combat, but in strategy, diplomacy, and leadership. They teach you how to defend your people, how to make decisions in impossible situations… how to survive and still do what’s right. It’s honor, duty, and responsibility, all rolled into one.”

Kal-El nodded slowly, absorbing every word. “Sounds like a lot to carry for a little girl,” he said.

“It is,” you admitted, your eyes drifting to the stars above the lake. “And it was everything I wanted. Everything I thought I was meant to be. But, who knows… maybe the hero stuff is kind of similar to being part of the Military Guild,” you said slowly, glancing at him. “If the main goal is to help people, then…”

“Then?” he prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“Then… I can try,” you said, a small, determined smile tugging at your lips. “Does… Supergirl sound good?”

Kal-El’s face lit up with a soft, approving smile. “It sounds perfect,” he said. “It suits you.”

You laughed quietly, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement.

ACT II ── I THINK WE’RE TOTALLY DIFFERENT BUT OPPOSITES DO ATTRACT.

Soon enough, you were soaring through the bright blue skies above Metropolis, the wind whipping past your face, the city sprawling beneath you like a living map. The symbol of the House of El gleamed proudly on your chest, the crimson and gold catching the sunlight with every turn and dive. Kal-El had convinced you that wearing the emblem and adopting the colors of his family wasn’t about forgetting your roots or your own house, but it was about joining him on his journey, sharing in the responsibility of protecting this world.

You weren’t abandoning your own surname in favor of the El family; you were honoring them and your kryptonian parents, while stepping into your new role as Supergirl. And sure, wearing his famous symbol and colors also made it easier for the citizens of Metropolis to trust you.

As you and Kal-El soared above the city, people on the streets looked up in awe. Children pointed excitedly with eyes wide. You caught glimpses of cars pulling over, cameras flashing, and people pausing their daily routines just to witness the two of you flying together. You could feel their hope, subtle but tangible, flowing up to you from the streets. Every time you swooped past a skyscraper or hovered beside Kal-El, the emblem on your chest shone like a silent and honest promise, a symbol that you weren’t just another sidekick, but a protector in your own way.

But it is still a personal and sweet promise.

A promise that you came in peace.

That the Earthlings shouldn’t fear you.

“You ready for a race?” he asked, hovering beside you, his cape fluttering like a banner behind him.

“You’re on,” you replied, your heart pounding with excitement.

With a sudden burst of speed, you shot forward, feeling the exhilaration of flight pulse through every inch of your body. Kal-El laughed, the sound carried by the wind as he matched your pace effortlessly. You weaved between skyscrapers, banking sharply around towers, diving toward the river below and then soaring back up into the sunlight.

“You’re going down!” you shouted, eyes sparkling with determination.

“Not a chance,” he teased, and in a blur of red and blue, he surged past you. You twisted, diving beneath him, laughing as you gained ground. The city became a blur of glass, steel, and sunlight as the two of you raced higher and higher, your laughter mixing with the rush of wind.

When you finally slowed, floating side by side above the glowing skyline, your chest heaving and your cheeks flushed, Kal-El looked at you with that familiar, gentle pride in his eyes.

“Not bad, Supergirl,” he said, his voice warm. “You’re a natural.”

Yes, you were. He was right.

But if only the others saw it that way.

You weren’t unfamiliar with criticism, you’d grown up in a society that demanded perfection, where even small mistakes were frowned upon. You were used to that pressure, but under the Dark Knight’s cold, assessing glare, you almost froze.

It was the first time the three of you were working together on a mission, officially as Superman’s sidekick. Metropolis was under attack by a massive, hulking humanoid tearing through downtown, and adrenaline surged through you. You dove straight for its chest and immediately lost control. Your punches sent the creature crashing into buildings, and before you could stop yourself, your heat vision flared. Blinding beams of red seared through the air, shattering windows and splintering walls. Cars were overturned, storefronts obliterated, and apartments, innocent civilians’ homes, were caught in the crossfire.

You tried to pull back, but every movement, every effort to strike, carried too much power. Each swing, each blast, left a trail of destruction. Metropolis’ streets were a chaotic blur of debris and smoke, and you could feel the weight of every shattered window and crumbled wall in your chest.

Superman swooped beside you, his calm voice cutting through the chaos. “You need to control it! Focus on precision, not strength!”

You nodded, trying to steady your breathing.

Superman and Batman had already handled the giant humanoid with ease, and now you hovered above the rubble, staring at the damage you had caused to one of the apartment buildings. The cracks from your uncontrolled heat vision ran across balconies and walls like jagged scars.

Heavy footsteps echoed behind you, and you turned to see an elderly man glaring at you.

“Don’t worry, fellow citizen of Metropolis, the giant was neutralized—” you began, but he cut you off.

“My apartment! Look what you did to my apartment, you crazy—” He pointed furiously at the cracks and crumbling balcony. “—bitch!”

“Excuse me?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “I saved it. You’re welcome.”

The two of you started shouting at each other, your voices carrying over the wreckage, while Superman and Batman stood a short distance away, talking in private, but you could hear every word.

“Look, just have your robot servants build you a better place,” you suggested, trying to reason logically.

The man froze, blinking at you as if you had sprouted a second head.

“Robot servants? Government-issued robots? Construction robots? Regular robots? Any robots at all?!”

“What kind of weird hellscape are you even from?!” he demanded, incredulous.

Now it was your turn to get angry. Your voice rose, echoing over the empty street.

“Krypton is… was great! Not like your backward planet! And this place? It’s… it’s like a jungle!”

He stared at you, mouth agape, completely bewildered.

You threw your hands up, exasperated. “Honestly, I try to help, and this is the gratitude I get?!”

“Your sidekick is a problem,” Batman said, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied his longtime friend and partner in the field. “You said we could trust her.”

Kal-El’s expression tightened, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his features. “We can trust her. She’s only been on Earth a couple of months. She’s doing her best.”

“It’s not good enough,” Batman replied flatly.

You stopped bickering with the elderly man and tuned out his indignant protests, your ears sharpening to catch every word of their conversation.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kal-El asked, his voice laced with barely hidden offense.

“You were so eager to meet someone alive from Krypton that you didn’t stop to consider the consequences for the rest of us mere humans,” Batman said, his tone cold and precise. “She destroyed buildings, couldn’t control her powers, and the worst part… she doesn’t seem to care. With her abilities, that makes her a threat.”

Kal-El’s jaw clenched. “I don’t like what you’re implying,” he said quietly, his usually calm tone edged with a rare firmness.

You hovered silently, fists clenched at your sides, feeling a mixture of frustration and hurt. His words stung, not because they were untrue, but because you knew you were trying. You were really trying. Yet, in his eyes, your mistakes were unforgivable.

“You know nothing about me, Earthling,” you said to Batman, your face carefully blank, though your eyes betrayed you, glistening with unshed tears.

“Listen, kid—” Superman began, his voice calm but firm, trying to reach you. But you were already gone, streaking into the sky, leaving the city and their judgment behind, if only for a few moments of solitude. The wind tore past you, but it couldn’t carry away the ache and shame in your chest. You landed hard on the rooftop of your parents’ lake house, your unofficial gateway whenever you needed to breathe. The quiet shimmer of the lake stretched before you, calm and endless, a sharp contrast to the chaos still burning in your mind.

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks as you stared at your reflection in the water below.

“Stupid Batman,” you muttered under your breath, swiping at your eyes. “Ridiculous, fragile Earthlings. Ungrateful kind…”

Your voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and you clenched your fists, angry at yourself for crying.

The air shifted behind you, a subtle change in pressure that told you he was there before he spoke.

“Kid…”

You turned sharply, glaring at him as Superman hovered just a few feet away, cape swaying softly in the night breeze.

“Go away!” you snapped, voice breaking despite your best effort to sound strong.

He sighed, landing gently beside you, the rooftop creaking under his weight. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his expression soft with understanding.

“Batman was harsh,” he finally said. “He knows it. He won’t say it out loud but he realizes he went too far. He forgets sometimes that you’re still figuring this out.”

You frowned, arms crossed tightly. “He called me a threat.”

Kal-El’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “And now he’s trying to make it up to you in his own… Batman way.”

You turned to him, suspicious. “Which means what, exactly?”

“He asked me to tell you that he’s inviting you to patrol with him and Robin,” He said. “Said it would be ‘good tactical exposure’ for you.” He chuckled lightly. “Which, translated from Bat-speak, means he’s sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “He wants me to patrol… with his sidekick?”

He nodded. “I think it’s his way of showing he knows you’re trying.”

You looked away. The lake shimmered under the moonlight.

“…Maybe I’ll go,” you muttered. “But if that little bird makes fun of me, I’m flying straight back here.”

Kal-El laughed softly. “Fair enough, Supergirl.”

You arrived in Gotham just after dusk, the city’s stone and steel swallowing the last of the light. The air tasted colder here, full of a different kind of danger, and you felt it in your bones. You hovered above an alley two blocks from Crime Alley, cape billowing, when a figure dropped out of the shadows and landed in front of you with the easy grace of someone born to fall and never break.

Robin folded his arms, one eyebrow raised like he was mildly offended you’d assumed he wouldn’t be there on time. For a heartbeat the two of you just stared at each other, strangers linked by the weird little web Batman had spun.

“Nice of you to show,” he said. He was smaller up close than you expected, lean and quick-looking. “Try not to smash anything, okay? I’m on damage-control today.”

You blinked. “You’re… responsible for me not crashing anything?” You let the incredulity hang there. “What even is your power?”

Robin’s grin went smug. “I’m fast. And apparently smarter than you.”

“Smarter than me?” You cocked your head, mock-offended. “Oh nice—being smart is your superpower. Gonna hit them with your high school diploma, or are you saving that for dramatic effect?”

Before he could retort, a chimney on the rooftop across the street collapsed from an earlier attack from Bane, the bricks tumbled free. You froze, instincts spiking. Robin was already moving, a blur of motion. He sprinted, vaulted off a fire escape, and in a few fluid, acrobatic bounds he was on the ledge beside you, hands snatching at the falling bricks.

He knew your strenght.

And your lack of control.

“Don't punch things, ok?” he said, breathless from the dash but steady. “Use a soft touch here, this whole thing is already collapsing. Don’t blast. Just—precise.”

You inhaled, forcing your heat vision to a whisper and letting your strength ease. The bricks clattered harmlessly to the pavement as you and Robin didn't let it crash the parked cars and people on the street. For a brief moment, you had to admit, he did look good. He looked like someone who’d spent a lifetime solving problems without ever needing to punch them into submission.

But that fleeting admiration didn’t last long. Moments later, he turned to you with that infuriatingly confident grin.

“Fly me to that building,” he said casually, pointing to a nearby rooftop.

You shot him an ugly look. “What?”

“Fly me,” he repeated, eyes narrowing.

“No.”

“What do you mean no? Superman does that for Batman all the time.”

“Do I look like Superman?” you snapped, voice rising.

He shrugged, unfazed. “Of course not. You’re super incompetent.”

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back at Robin, when suddenly a voice crackled through his comms.

“Robin, move out,” Batman’s gravelly tone cut through the night air.

Robin’s smirk vanished, replaced by sharp focus. “Guess that’s our cue,” he muttered, turning toward you.

“Finally,” you said under your breath, rolling your eyes. “Lead the way, Mr. Perfect.”

And with that, the patrol began.

From the start, it was chaos. Robin moved with precise, calculated efficiency, scanning rooftops, alleyways, and the streets below with methodical attention to detail. You, on the other hand… well, you were Supergirl. You could fly faster than the speed of sound, lift cars like toys, and shrug off most hazards without a scratch.

So naturally, you did things your way.

Leap after leap, dive after dive, you’d swoop down on a suspect, only to accidentally blow open a dumpster or knock over a streetlamp. Every time, Robin would hiss at you:

“Cover! Stay quiet! You’re blowing your— shit.”

His patience snapped during a particularly disastrous rooftop chase. You’d tried to corral three petty thieves, but your heat vision accidentally scorched a vent and sent smoke billowing across the street, ruining the element of surprise. Robin skidded to a halt, arms flailing.

“Are you kidding me?!” he barked. “Do you ever think before you act?!”

You hovered midair. “I am thinking! I’m thinking I can handle it! Isn’t that what heroes do?”

Robin groaned, massaging his temples. “Heroes don’t burn buildings down! Heroes don’t blow their cover! Heroes—heroes think strategically!”

“Strategically?” you shot back, circling above him. “You mean slowly and boringly. I can do anything! I have powers! That’s the point!”

He finally snapped, eyes blazing beneath his mask. “I cannot believe you right now! Powers don’t mean brains! You’re going to get someone killed with that attitude!”

You hovered there for a moment, mouth open, realizing maybe… just maybe, he had a point. But only for a second.

“I’m not done proving I can do this,” you muttered. Robin groaned again, muttering something under his breath about “reckless kryptonian pride,” and took off toward the next rooftop. You followed, already anticipating the next clash and secretly enjoying it.

Even with all your years of training on Krypton, and every lesson Kal-El had drilled into you, there was still something oddly fascinating about Robin’s reactions. The twitch of his eyebrow, the way his jaw clenched, the sheer rage that twisted his face every time you ignored his orders.

The patrol had been one long, glorious argument from start to finish. And it ended, fittingly, in chaos.

He’d asked, again, for you to fly him to the other part of the city. Far from Gotham’s downtown.

So, naturally, you grabbed him by his cape and took off.

The Boy Wonder’s furious shouting echoed through the Gotham skyline for thirteen whole minutes as he flailed in the air like an angry, overcaffeinated ragdoll. You couldn’t stop laughing, the sound of his muffled protests only made you fly faster.

“Earthlings,” you muttered to yourself, amused.

When you finally landed on a rooftop in the Narrows, you let him go, gently, of course, and he stumbled forward, hair a complete disaster, his cape twisted and tangled. His face was pure fury.

“You’re such a bossy little thing,” you said with a teasing smirk.

“Little thing?” he exploded, voice cracking with indignation. “We’re the same freaking size!”

You crossed your arms, still grinning. “Not when you’re dangling, you’re not.”

He jabbed at his comm, muttering through clenched teeth. “B, this patrol is over. And you—” he pointed at you, cape still flapping behind him like a battle flag “—never, ever do that to me again!”

You just shrugged, utterly unbothered. “You’re welcome for the free flight.”

His groan of frustration echoed through the night, and you couldn’t help the small, victorious smile tugging at your lips.

It was easy to say that Kal-El, or Clark Kent, had a few harsh words for you once Batman filled him in on what happened in Gotham. You barely had time to land back in Metropolis before he was there, arms crossed, that disappointed look etched perfectly across his face.

“You toyed with him? In the middle of Gotham’s sky?” he said, his voice calm but firm, the kind of tone that made you feel like a kid again.

You tried to defend yourself, but he cut you off, his blue eyes hardening. “You know humans are fragile!”

The words hit like a punch. He wasn’t yelling, Clark almost never yelled, but the weight in his voice was enough. You glanced down, guilt tugging at your chest.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” you said softly. “He was being… bossy.”

Clark sighed loud. “He’s Batman’s partner. You don’t have to like him, but you do have to respect the people you work with. Especially the ones who don’t have powers to protect themselves.”

You shifted awkwardly, crossing your arms. “I was careful.”

His gaze softened slightly, but only slightly. “Careful for you isn’t always careful for them.”

You didn’t answer. The silence between you stretched, filled only by the low hum of the city far below.

“…I’ll apologize,” you finally muttered.

Clark’s expression eased into a small smile. “That’s all I ask.”

You rolled your eyes. “Does it have to be sincere?”

“Yes.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

The next time you saw each other, Batman and Superman were knee-deep in another crisis, this time, magic was tearing through Metropolis, and the Doom Patrol was already in over their heads. In the chaos, the World’s Finest decided it was best to split up and somehow, once again, Robin and Supergirl got paired together.

From the sky, your enhanced hearing caught every word of Robin’s frustrated rant below as you lifted off toward their target zone.

“She’s impossible! And it’s not that I have a problem with aliens—Starfire’s great—but Supergirl? She’s a psycho!”

Superman shot him a look sharp enough to stop a speeding bullet.

“Don’t talk like that about her, Robin.”

“Sorry, Superman, but—”

The apology died in his throat as you descended ahead, cape flaring like a streak of sunlight through the smoke. You didn’t even look back, just swallowed the nice words you had prepared for today.

“Supergirl,” Robin said as soon as you landed.

“Monkey,” you shot back, watching his eyes go wide inside his mask.

“What did you just call me?” Robin stammered, fists clenching.

“Don’t call humans monkeys,” Superman said, beside you both, arms crossed, his tone firm.

“Y—you’re the alien freak!” Robin snapped, pointing at you, cheeks burning beneath his mask.

“Language,” Batman interjected. “Focus on the mission.”

“Alien freak, really? I’m not the right type of alien for you?” you teased, unable to hold yourself. “It’s because I don’t have orange skin and don’t kiss you goodnight?” You made exaggerated kissing noises, letting the words hang in the air.

Robin’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Shut up” he sputtered, flailing slightly.

You smirked, letting the tension hang for just a beat before turning your attention to the magical chaos around you. Robin huffed, muttering under his breath, clearly torn between anger and exasperation, while Superman pinched the bridge of his nose, and Batman simply sighed.

You were never really good with feelings, especially with creatures so different from you, even if so many biological traits made you almost physically identical. It was like watching your adoptive parents cry over something trivial, but Robin didn’t just spark curiosity in you, but something about the tension in his body, the flush on his face, even the way his hands tightened, made your own body feel suddenly warm.

When he screamed at you in the field, when he lunged mid-step as if to strangle you with both hands, you just stared at him with that dazed, wide-eyed expression that made Superman and Batman exchange subtle, knowing glances.

This time, he wasn’t just frustrated, he was about to lose control. You’d said something sarcastic and cruel, and he was already swinging his fists before he could think. Batman reacted instantly, stepping in with inhuman speed and holding Robin firmly down, one arm across his chest, the other gripping his wrists, anchoring him like a human clamp.

“Let me go!” Robin struggled, gritting his teeth, veins visible along his forehead.

You tilted your head, watching him squirm and growl. There was a sudden thrill in your chest, a curious heat spreading through your body. Humming softly, almost to yourself, you thought, Hmm… what is this feeling?

Superman hovered a few feet away, eyebrow raised, clearly aware of the strange little moment playing out, while Batman’s grip never wavered, muscles coiled, silent but absolutely firm, ready to let go the second Robin calmed down. Robin’s angry protests sounded distant to you, replaced by the subtle, new awareness of your own pulse, and the way watching him struggle, so raw, so alive, made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

That was strange.

Because of that little encounter with the “monkey,” you started exploring more Earthling literature and psychology, trying to understand the strange behaviors and emotions humans seemed to take for granted. That’s when you stumbled across something utterly foreign, a foreign concept called sexuality.

On Krypton, reproduction didn’t involve sex.

Babies were created through advanced technology, and intimate physical relationships were entirely unnecessary. Your people didn’t kiss to express affection in a sexual way, didn’t experience desire as humans did, and certainly didn’t use physical contact for anything other than communication or efficiency. Everything you knew about intimacy was clinical, logical, and devoid of complications.

Yet here, on Earth, every page hinted at something thrilling, confusing, and slightly alarming. The way humans paired, touched, and reacted to one another, sometimes gentle, sometimes intense, made your pulse quicken in a way you had never experienced. There was an odd, almost magnetic pull in the way Robin’s reactions had made your body feel, and now, reading about sexuality, it all started to make a strange sort of sense.

You approached it scientifically at first, taking notes in your mind, cataloging behaviors and emotional responses. But beneath that logical framework, something new was stirring, a curiosity that was distinctly physical. That last encounter had sparked something inside you. And while you still didn’t fully understand it, you couldn’t deny the delicious, confusing warmth that came with the realization that there was more to human connection than efficiency, strategy, or logic.

And because of that, at the age of seventeen, you found yourself watching porn on your dad’s laptop. To you, it wasn’t something shameful or forbidden, it was just research. Every motion, every expression, every interaction was data, a way to understand this strange human behavior called sexuality. You observed with the same meticulous attention you gave any scientific experiment, cataloging responses, analyzing patterns, and trying to reconcile what you saw with your own kryptonian physiology and experiences.

As you watched it you slowly realized something entirely unexpected. You could totally imagine yourself in that type of situation, especially if Robin were involved.

“I’m feeling the primitive need to copulate with an Earthling,” you said, completely serious, right in the middle of dinner at your parents’ apartment.

The fork paused halfway to your dad’s mouth. Utensils clinked against plates. A stunned silence filled the room. They exchanged glances that were equal parts confusion, disbelief, and mild concern.

“Excuse me?” your mom finally said, raising an eyebrow, trying to hide both shock and curiosity.

“It is a basic biological impulse,” you continued, entirely deadpan. “My studies of human sexual behavior indicate that I am experiencing the urge to engage in copulation with a homo sapiens male.”

Your dad’s mouth opened, then closed again, as if he had forgotten how to chew.

“Well, you’re seventeen, that’s expected,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“What does me being seventeen have to do with anything?” you asked, tilting your head, genuinely confused.

“Uhm, well, teenagers—they have hormones and—” he started, flailing his hands in the air, clearly grasping for words. He paused, looked at your mom with desperate eyes, and added, “Yeah, Lorelai, what does her being seventeen have to do with anything?”

Your mom sighed loudly, a mixture of exasperation and resignation, as if she had faced this exact situation a dozen times in her head and none of the explanations would suffice.

She rubbed her temples, then tried again. “Well… humans, when they reach a certain age, sometimes feel… attracted to other humans. It’s natural.”

“Define natural,” you asked, tilting your head and folding your hands neatly on the table. “Are there measurable physiological processes associated with this so-called attraction? What is the expected behavioral output?”

Your dad blinked, caught mid-sentence. “Uh… hormones, emotions… and sometimes… um… actions?”

“Actions?” you repeated, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Explain these actions in full detail. I am unfamiliar with their parameters.”

Your mom groaned softly. “Dickens, I mean… yes, sometimes humans will… you know… engage in physical intimacy. That’s the action.”

You leaned back slightly, processing the information. “Fascinating. So, the primitive need I described is a combination of chemical, neurological, and psychological processes? And the observable output is… copulation?”

“Y-yes,” your dad admitted, voice tight with embarrassment, and your mom nodded, lips pursed like she was willing him to stay quiet before saying anything else.

“Then it is consistent with my studies,” you said, completely deadpan. “And it explains why I am experiencing the sensations previously observed in Robin.”

Your parents stared at you, stunned into silence.

“Damn, you really have to bang the weird kid that uses pixie boots?” your dad muttered under his breath.

“Just shut up, Josh,” the older woman snapped.

“He looks like a flamboyant theater kid,” he added, clearly trying to justify his comment, though it only made the tension thicker.

“Flamboyant?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. We’re just happy for you and, hm, your new personal… discovery.”

You smiled.

Of course, the next day, you were floating around Clark and Lois’s apartment, lost in thought. Lois noticed you first, glancing up from her coffee with that warm, knowing smile she always had for you. She’d always treated you with kindness, not just because you were young, but because your very presence seemed to make the love of her life feel a little less alone.

And maybe because, ever since you’d arrived, Clark had been talking more about the possibility of having kids.

“Hi, Supergirl,” she greeted, setting her mug down.

You landed gently, fidgeting for a moment before speaking. “Lois,” you started, serious and thoughtful, “as a human woman— have you ever noticed if Clark, as a kryptonian, displays… attraction toward you?”

The room went still. Lois blinked once, twice, processing what you’d just asked.

Lois blinked a few more times, then let out a soft laugh. “You really don’t tiptoe around topics, do you?”

You looked honestly puzzled. “Is that a human custom?”

She sighed, smiling despite herself. “No, it’s just… most people don’t ask questions like that over morning coffee.”

“I’m conducting research,” you said, perfectly serious.

“I figured.” Lois leaned against the counter, arms folded, the veteran reporter kicking in. “The short answer is yes. Clark feels attraction, just like anyone else. He’s still kryptonian, but he grew up here. His emotions are human enough that he falls in love the same way we do.”

You nodded thoughtfully, filing it away as new data. “Interesting. So it’s environmental adaptation rather than biological inheritance.”

“Exactly,” Lois said, pleased that you were following along, until you tilted your head again.

“And that also means… sex?”

The reporter froze, blinking once before a slow smile tugged at her lips.

“Sounds like you need a girl talk, Supergirl,” Lois laughed. “Come here. We’ll start with the basics, no research notes required.”

Already inside the apartment, you sat on the couch while Lois handed you a mug of coffee. She knew you didn’t actually need food or drink, solar energy was more than enough, but after some time on Earth, you’d grown fond of the taste.

Especially coffee.

Lois settled beside you, one eyebrow raised. “So,” she said with a grin, “who’s the person that’s got your panties in a twist?”

You blinked, not sure what that meant, but answered anyway with perfect seriousness. “Robin is making my panties in a twist.”

Lois choked on her coffee, coughing and laughing at the same time. “Oh, honey,” she wheezed, wiping her mouth, “we definitely need to talk about figures of speech before Clark hears you say that.”

So she gave you what she called a “big-sister talk” and a few tips about human men. Lois talked about patience, about learning to tell the difference between curiosity and genuine feeling, and about not over-analyzing every heartbeat. You tried to memorize each point, treating it like data, even as her tone softened into something more human than theoretical.

By the end of it, she squeezed your shoulder and said, “You’ll figure it out, kid. Just don’t make it homework.”

You flew back to your apartment still thoroughly confused about human courtship. Earthlings were so strange. “Bat your eyes at him”— what was that even supposed to mean?

Yeah, that’s totally not happening.

No fragile Earthling is worth enduring that level of humiliation.

ACT III ── PEOPLE SAY WE’RE ALIKE, THEY SAY WE GOT THE SAME HAIR.

As you and Dick Grayson grew up side by side — yes, you eventually figured out his secret identity, because that man sounded exactly the same in and out of that damn suit — the weird tension between you never really went away. Even after your seventeen-year-old self realized that most of what you’d felt for him wasn’t hate, just raw, uneducated curiosity about sex and emotions and whatever else made teenagers stupid, it didn’t disappear.

It just evolved.

Matured into something meaner and pettier, a constant friction that neither of you ever bothered to smooth out.

Years later, at one of those disgustingly glittery Wayne galas, the two of you collided again. He was in a tux, all charm and PR smiles. You were nursing a glass of champagne, counting the minutes until you could vanish. He turned too fast, laughing at something Barbara said, and splashed his drink straight onto your dress.

You looked down, deadpan, as expensive fabric shimmered under the spill. Then, very calmly, you leaned in close enough for only him to hear.

“Guess the circus monkey still doesn’t know how to handle glassware,” you said, voice soft and venomous.

His jaw tightened, that fake smile freezing for half a heartbeat. “Still hung up on that?” he muttered, eyes sharp. “You really don’t know when to shut up.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “You threw the first rock. You called me Krypton’s charity case, remember?”

That did it. He laughed, low and mean, and murmured, “Yeah? Well, your whole planet did blow up in a single goddamn day.”

The two of you stood there, smiles plastered on your faces for the cameras, spitting venom through your teeth like it was foreplay.

You exhaled through your nose, sipped your champagne, and deadpanned, “Wow. Bet Bruce is so proud of his favorite attention-seeking whore.”

“Still jealous Clark liked me better?” he shot back instantly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Jealous?” You smirked, raising your glass in mock salute. “I just can’t believe Boy Wonder turned into Gotham’s biggest PR whore.”

He grinned, teeth bright and false under the gala lights. “Still can’t believe you’re allowed in the same room as adults.”

You didn’t miss a beat.

“And I can’t believe you’re allowed to be in a closed room with anyone, actually. Don’t you have, like… every STD known to man at this point?” Dick barked out the fakest, loudest laugh imaginable, that polished socialite laugh rich people use when they’re two seconds away from committing assault. Heads turned, camera flashes went off, and his hand tightened just slightly around his champagne glass.

“I fucking hate you,” he said through clenched teeth, still smiling for the crowd.

You tilted your glass, eyes glinting. “Alien fucker.”

Dick’s jaw tightened, lips twitching. “You wish you were Kory,” he shot back, voice low and dangerous, “so you’d be the one getting it.”

“Aw, they’re even laughing together, Clark. Finally not on each other’s throats for once,” Lois said, arm in arm with his husband and looking at you both from a safe distance, just in case you start throwing punches. “I told you—she’s finally maturing.”

Clark, thanks to his inconvenient super-hearing that had just caught you calling Nightwing an alien fucker, looked down at his wife and simply nodded.

“Sure,” he muttered, tone flat as steel.

It was still a freaking shock how much you could ragebait Dick Grayson, the nicest man on Earth, and reduce him to this petty, flustered version of himself, less charming, less suave, more like a teenager tugging at his crush’s pigtails on a playground.

The last time you two had a horrible fight was when a reporter asked about your relationship, given that you were the most famous former sidekicks in the hero community. Your answer had been simple, brutally honest, and delivered with deadpan precision:

“Nightwing is a cultural appropriator, and he brings shame to kryptonians. Nightwing is the god that protects us from evil. It’s like I called myself Jesus and started throwing punches while flashing people my ass.”

The reporters had stared at you, mouths open. Naturally, one of them immediately asked how Superman felt about that.

“Ahm… I actually gave him the idea to use that name…” Superman muttered, eyes widening.

Awkward silence.

You had just internally sighed. Of course Clark had to have a hand in this mess. Of course he couldn’t just let it lie. Meanwhile, Dick was somewhere, probably simultaneously fuming and mortified, because you had once again publicly shredded his choices with the precision of a kryptonian scalpel.

But, as always, he didn’t take that punch with grace and silence. The next time you picked up Blüdhaven’s newspaper, out of simple curiosity and nothing more, the big headline caught your eye: Nightwing Responds to Supergirl’s Allegations.

His answer was short, dripping with sarcasm:

“We should all take a moment to sympathize with Supergirl’s… let’s call it ‘adjustment period’ and, of course, her mental health issues. Just imagine your entire planet exploding, landing on some random rock with zero knowledge of literally anything except punching things and then, through sheer confusion, publicly humiliating me, a friend and field partner, for honoring the beautiful culture of Krypton. Truly heartbreaking. My heart bleeds but I forgive her. Also, yes, Jennifer, I am on the side of immigrants.”

“And, on a serious note, Mental Health Awareness Month is coming up. Reach out to your loved ones. Stay safe. And maybe… give your coworkers a little grace when they’re having a rough adjustment period. Love is always the answer, folks.”

Then, as if to seal the performance, the article described in detail the moment he winked at the journalist, who giggled like a schoolgirl. The whole scene reading like a perfect blend of mockery and charm.

“Fucking bitch.”

You perched on the window of his Blüdhaven apartment as the sun dipped below the skyline, fists banging against the glass.

“Wake the fuck up, Richard Grayson! I can see you. I have X-ray vision!”

And there he comes, in nothing but white boxers, muscles fully on display against his tanned skin. His raven-black hair is tousled from four hours of sleep, and his blue eyes are narrowed in irritation.

“Ah… it’s you,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and annoyance.

He rubbed his eyes, squinting at you like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “If you bang on my window like that again, I’m calling ICE on you.”

You were already inside his living room, rolling your eyes at his ridiculous bachelor decor.

So tacky.

“Excuse me? Haven’t you just told Blüdhaven’s newspaper how much you support immigrants?”

“And I do,” he said, sinking onto his couch, legs spread lazily. Your gaze flicked, just for a second, okay, to the way the white fabric of his boxer clung to him, outlining more than you expected. Your stomach did a little flip. “I just fucking hate you. So what do you want?”

You wished you could say it was a lie, that you weren’t taking a second to admire the strong line of his thigh disappearing into the fabric, the way the material stretched slightly, hinting at everything beneath…

But, hum, well, Dick was, in fact, a philanthropist at heart, donating Alfred’s inherited fortune to institutions in Blüdhaven, building a city capable of supporting all kinds of people, all while using that shitty law degree he had to help immigrants navigate the system. And right now, all that admirable stuff didn’t stop your eyes from lingering where the white boxer hugged him just so well.

Gods above.

“You told the press I had mental issues,” you snapped, glare locked on his face and not on his probably huge cock.

He didn’t flinch. “Yeah? You told them I’m a culture appropriator.”

“Because you are one,” you shot back, voice sharp enough to cut.

The room went still for a heartbeat, both of you breathing hard, fury and something heavier sparking between you.

“Listen,” you said, stepping closer until the air between you felt electric, “I’m speaking slowly so your simian brain can understand. You’re going to go there and tell them I’m mentally capable. Got it?”

His brows arched, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Or?”

Your jaw tightened. “What do you mean, or?”

He leaned back on the couch, eyes dragging over you with infuriating calm. “I mean it’s three in the morning, and you’re standing in my living room, barking orders like a lunatic. Are you sure you want to sell the world on your emotional stability?”

You stared at him, pulse spiking, hating the lazy way he looked at you, like he was dissecting you and enjoying every second of it.

Dick only tilted his head, that infuriating lazy smile spreading. “You’re insane, and I want you out of my apartment. Goodnight.”

He rose to go, all calm motion, and you moved faster, as you always do. Before he could reach the hall you’d closed the distance, slammed him back against the wall with a loud thud. Shelves shuddered, a few of his things clattered to the floor.

He never expected you to actually touch him.

Your forearm was flat against his throat, pressure controlled. The world narrowed to the heat of his skin under your own and the sound of his ragged breath.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” you spat, teeth bared. “Did you forget who I am? Did you forget I can melt your face if I wanted to? I can snap you in half.”

For a second he didn’t answer. Then Dick’s eyes flashed, equal parts defiance and something like need, and that stupid grin cracked into something sharper.

“You think I don’t know that?” he said, voice rough.

The sound of his words scraped against your nerves. Closer now, your face inches from his, you could see the way his pupils dilated, the tremor in his jaw.

Hate and want were banging against the same door.

You looked at his lips, so soft and full, almost too perfect, and nearly screamed in frustration. How could a man look like that? How could a stupid, infuriating Earthling be so unreal? His dark hair was still mussed, his jaw shadowed, eyes bright with the kind of calm that only made him more impossible to ignore.

Every inch of him looked sculpted by some divine creature, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the faint bruise blooming under his jaw probably from patrol, the glint of defiance in his blue eyes. He shouldn’t have been beautiful, not like this, not when you wanted to hate him.

But your body didn’t listen. Your chest felt too tight, your blood running hot. Your sharp, disciplined mind was slipping through your fingers like smoke. Maybe it was just the long-term exposure to the yellow sun.

Maybe humans really were a toxin.

“Grayson…” you breathed, and even to your own ears, it sounded nothing like a threat.

He saw it immediately. He always did. For all your enhanced senses and kryptonian intellect, Dick Grayson was still the better detective. He caught the flicker in your eyes, the softening, the crack in your armor. He didn’t need super hearing to understand what your silence said.

He was fluent in you by now.

“Not gonna melt my face with your heat vision, Supergirl?” he murmured, voice low, teasing, but the sound of it slid down your spine like static.

His hands moved before you could react, fingers trailing down until they rested on your waist. Even through the thick fabric of your suit, his touch burned. His grip was firm, grounding, his thumbs tracing lazy, infuriating circles that made your breath catch. And when you looked up again, his smirk was gone. There was only that look, the kind that made your heart slam painfully against your ribs. You hated him for it.

You hated that he could make you feel so human.

“If you tell anyone about this, I swear—” you started, but the words died.

He moved first, or maybe you did. It didn’t matter. You collided like two storms meeting in mid-air. The kiss wasn’t soft, it was an angry crash, teeth and heat and fury. Your hands caught his shoulders and pulled him closer, hard enough that he protested. His fingers dug into your back, holding on as if either of you might vanish if you let go for half a second.

The world narrowed to breath and heartbeat. Anger tangled with want until you couldn’t tell them apart. He tasted like adrenaline and every argument you’d ever had.

You shoved him back against the wall just to feel him slam into it, just to hear the rough sound he made in the back of his throat. He came right back at you, matching every ounce of force, lips bruising, teeth catching. Neither of you were gentle, neither of you wanted to be. It wasn’t romantic, it was release, the kind that left you shaking.

When you finally tore apart, both of you were gasping for air. His lips were swollen, his chest heaving. The world tilted slightly, the floor under you cracked from the force of that last push. Kryptonian strength had a way of turning even a kiss into a battlefield.

Dick’s hands still hovered near your hips, like he couldn’t decide whether to pull you back in or push you away. His eyes searched yours, every bit of him caught between wanting to fight and wanting to fuck you hard.

“If you tell anyone,” you said again, voice hoarse, rough, trembling with leftover adrenaline, “I’m killing you.”

He didn’t flinch.

His jaw clenched, breath ragged, and instead of answering, his hands went straight to your ass with possessiveness, grounding you in place under the pretty skirt of your Supergirl uniform. He dragged you closer again, until there was no space left between you.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dick muttered against you. His wet lips brushed your neck, licking and kissing your warm skin slowly as if he was tasting you, savoring you like a hot meal. You could feel his pulse hammering through the contact, fast and human against your kryptonian body, and somehow that contrast set every nerve in your body alight.

You’re gonna let an Earthling dominate you?

He nibbled at the sensitive skin of your neck, and your hips instinctively pressed against his. A soft whimper escaped your lips as you felt him straining over the thin fabric of his boxers, so tight it was practically see-through. Fuck, you could feel his cock twitching against your stomach. Heavy and warm, begging for your attention.

You were already sinking to your knees before your brain could catch up with what the fuck you were doing.

His blue eyes went wide.

“Whoa—already like this?” he teased.

“Shut up, monkey, just—” you leaned closer, glancing at his twitching bulge in front of you and, finally, licked him up, slowly, from his base to his warm tip. The salty pre-cum heavy on your tongue.

“Gosh,” he moaned softly, lips parted, “I thought that mouth of yours was only good for yelling at me.”

Without another word, he gripped your hair, tugging you closer, pressing his clothed cock against your lips and nose with the kind of possessive force that left your knees weak.

“Just like that, pretty girl,” he murmured, fingers lazily combing through your hair as you pressed tiny, hesitant kisses over the wet fabric, still insecure.

Then—

BZZZZZZ!

His comms blared loudly in the living room, shattering the charged moment.

Dick froze for a split second, eyebrows shooting up. “Oracle,” he groaned, trying to hold onto the tension between you both as he reached for the comm on the nearest shelf. His grip on your hair faltered just slightly, and you peeked up at him through your lashes.

Fuck.

You scrambled to stand, coughing awkwardly, cheeks flaming with pure embarrassment.

“Nightwing,” Oracle’s crisp, unrelenting voice buzzed through the speaker. “We have a situation. Now.”

Dick ran a hand down his face, sighing heavily, while his eyes flicked to you. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you,” he muttered.

You didn’t wait a second. Before Dick could even protest, you were already pushing off the floor, cape fluttering behind you as you shot out the window in a blur of red and blue.

You were fast.

Way too fast. In a heartbeat, the city below blurred beneath you, and before you knew it, you were sliding through your own apartment door, still a little shaky from the whole awkwardness earlier.

Jesus Christ.

You were really about to—

To suck his cock.

The next day, Clark caught you brushing your teeth so aggressively that you broke the toothbrush.

“Hey, kid… you okay in there?”

From behind the door came a chorus of horrifying gagging and retching noises.

“Uh… amazing,” you croaked, holding up the mangled toothbrush like a tiny weapon.

┆NOTES .ᐟ This originally had 25k words, but I decided to cut it in half because I was worried it would be too hard to read. So here’s the first part. 11.3k words of love.

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