𓆩♡𓆪 multi-fanfic dealer @ uni 💌 • living in too many universes at once • •20• she/her • i love poetry 𓆩♡𓆪 “Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” — Emily Brontë
hi angel ✦ this is where all my little love stories live—soft, messy, dramatic, and just the right amount of short n’ sweet. I would write about anything if i could
grab a snack, get comfy, and maybe fall a little bit in love while you read. ♡
wp:lavend3rhaze
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𝐃𝐂 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬
Mrs. Wayne – Bruce Wayne x Reader
𓆩♡𓆪 You are married to Gotham’s most untouchable man — billionaire Bruce Wayne — and the city’s hidden protector, Batman. Loving him means glittering charity galas and cold, empty nights; it means soft mornings with coffee and bruises he tries to hide. The woman who makes him human when the world demands he be more than a man.
We Don’t Talk About Before – Dick Grayson x Reader
𓆩♡𓆪 Childhood friends turned strangers, you and Dick Grayson reunite years after your father betrayed Bruce. Now an antihero, you push him away—until missions, old memories, and unspoken feelings pull you back into the Batfamily’s orbit. One kiss turns into a week of tension, ending in a night you can’t take back… and a morning where the whole family knows.
Kiss Me Like a Villain – Clark Kent / Superman x Reader
𓆩♡𓆪You’re chaos dressed in a suit and a smirk. He’s righteousness wrapped in red and blue. You betray him, he forgives you. He says he shouldn’t want you. You show him just how much he does. It’s toxic. It’s hot. It’s everything neither of you admit you need.
The Warmth of the Kents
𓆩♡𓆪When Clark invites you to meet his parents
Rage-baiting Superman
𓆩♡𓆪 A silly breakfast debate turns into you pushing Clark’s buttons, teasing him out of his mild-mannered calm — and into kisses that taste like syrup and victory.
Shadows at the Dinning Table
𓆩♡𓆪 Meeting your boyfriend’s family is nerve-wracking enough. Meeting the Batfamily? Terrifying. When Dick Grayson finally brings you to Wayne Manor, you find yourself caught in a whirlwind of interrogation, side-eye judgment, and Alfred’s subtle tests of character.
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𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐏𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫
Smoke Between Us – Sirius Black x Reader
𓆩♡𓆪 In your seventh year at Hogwarts, you fall in love with the one person you’re not supposed to — a boy with a silver tongue, a dark family name, and eyes full of secrets. You’re the sun he should never touch. He’s the ruin you swore you’d never chase again.
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𝐊-𝐏𝐨𝐩/Celeb
Table for Two – Jeon Jungkook x Reader
𓆩♡𓆪 you and Jungkook are idols and both are dating in secret. You both plan a date at a Korean bbq.
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🪩 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞
more messy, sparkly, hopelessly romantic stories coming soon… stay tuned, short n’ sweet things ♡
summary: Clark is the perfect boyfriend. He sends your work flowers, is always on time, and genuinely listens to whatever you have to say. Until he's late by forty-five minutes and cracks begin to show.
word count: 17.4k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: my man on willpower might be my favorite song off of man's best friend... okay i lied, i can't pick my favorite song. anyways, it got me thinking, clark would obviously be the best boyfriend, but at some point things would start to crack because he can't possibly be the bestest boyfriend ever AND superman
*edit* - this has been in the drafts since like... september? october? i hope people are still reading this lovely goofball :)
warnings/tags: fluff, angst, clark is a little secretive, but he's trying his best guys, implied smut (but it's a fade to black scene, nothing explicit), it's also implied that clark has a big dick lol, drinking alcohol, getting drunk, clark isn't the greatest liar, you don't know clark is superman
Your desk was already crowded with half-finished drafts, a stack of sticky notes you swore you’d sort later, and the empty coffee cup you’d been nursing since nine a.m. So when the delivery guy stopped at your cubicle holding a glass vase filled with a ridiculously perfect bouquet of pink lilies and yellow roses, you almost thought he’d gotten the wrong floor.
“Delivery for… you,” the man said, squinting at the tag before pronouncing your name. He placed the vase down amid your mess of papers, the flowers instantly outshining everything else on your desk. Around you, the newsroom erupted into a mix of whistles and knowing laughter. A few of your coworkers leaned over their monitors to get a better look.
“Wow,” someone muttered. “Somebody’s got a keeper.”
You could feel the heat creep up your cheeks as you plucked the little card tucked into the blooms. Sorry I couldn’t walk them over myself. Don’t work too hard today. —C.
Clark.
The silly grin broke across your face before you could stop it. You slid the card back into the arrangement and tried to refocus on your monitor, but the words blurred. A coworker nudged your shoulder. “Is this, like, the third time this month? Flowers at the office? You sure he’s real and not, like, some romance novel you manifested?”
You laughed softly, ducking your head. “He’s real. Trust me.”
And he was. Clark Kent. Sweet, impossibly polite Clark, who had held the door open for you the first day you’d met, who walked you home after dinner even though his apartment was in the opposite direction, who never forgot to ask about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was the kind of guy who remembered that you liked sugar in your coffee but hated cream, who called his mom once a week without fail, who looked you in the eyes like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
It felt absurdly… easy with him. No guessing games, no disappearing acts, none of the constant anxiety you’d carried from relationships past. Just Clark, steady and warm as the Kansas summer he came from.
That night, he showed up at your apartment door holding a bag that smelled like takeout pad thai. “Dinner,” he said with a sheepish grin, adjusting his glasses with one hand. “I thought maybe you hadn’t eaten yet.”
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Flowers at my office and pad thai at my door? You know you’re setting the bar way too high, right?”
Clark tilted his head, his smile spreading slow and easy. “Then I’ll just have to keep meeting it.”
It wasn’t the grand words that melted you. It was the way he said them, simple and honest, as though they were the most obvious thing in the world. You let him in, taking the bag from his hands as he shrugged off his coat. “One day, my coworkers are going to make a betting pool about you,” you teased, placing the food on the counter. “Half of them are convinced you’re secretly a model.”
Clark actually laughed at that, low and warm. “A model? That’s new. Usually people just assume I’ve got hay stuck to my boots.”
“Don’t tempt me, Kent. I’d pay to see you in a cowboy hat.”
He shot you a mock-stern look over his glasses, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward anyway.
You were used to sweet gestures from Clark now—flowers, food, the way he carried your groceries as though they weighed nothing. But it wasn’t just that. It was how he never seemed to be playing a part, never doing it for show. His kindness wasn’t performative. It was him.
And that, more than the lilies and roses sitting on your desk, terrified you in the best possible way. Because for the first time in a long time, you believed you’d found someone who really was too good to be true.
---
The rain had started sometime around eight, soft at first and then pounding against the windows in steady sheets. You were curled on the couch with a blanket draped over your lap, the faint glow of the TV screen painting the living room in flickering light. The scent of popcorn filled the air, warm and buttery, though you hadn’t touched it yet because Clark had insisted on being the one to make it.
You watched him in the kitchen as he moved about with an almost comical level of focus, peering down at the stovetop pan like it held the secrets of the universe. The sound of kernels popping filled the silence, punctuated every so often by his quiet hum—something you had noticed he did when he was comfortable. A little tune, off-key but charming, that made the apartment feel more like home than it ever had before. “Clark,” you called, smiling when he glanced over his shoulder at you with that earnest look that always knocked the air right out of your lungs. “You know we could’ve just microwaved a bag, right?”
He blinked, adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. “But this way’s better.”
“Better, or just an excuse to hover over a pan like a mad scientist?”
His grin broke through, bright and boyish. “Maybe both.”
By the time he brought the bowl over, full to the brim, you’d already queued up the movie. He sat down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed, the couch dipping under his weight. You pulled the blanket over both of your laps, and his hand slipped under it almost instantly, warm and calloused against your own. He gave your fingers a gentle squeeze without even looking, eyes fixed on the opening credits. “You always do that,” you said softly, leaning your head against his shoulder.
“Do what?”
“Hold my hand like you’ve been waiting all day just to do it.”
Clark was quiet for a moment, then angled his head to glance at you. His blue eyes caught the light of the TV, clear and startling even in shadow. “Maybe I have been.”
You rolled your eyes, though your chest tightened in the best way. “Dangerously close to cheesy, Kent.”
“Mm. But you like cheesy.”
You couldn’t argue with that, so you only smiled, turning back to the movie as you dug a handful of popcorn out of the bowl. Clark let you, though you noticed he hadn’t touched any yet.
Half an hour in, you caught yourself watching him more than the screen. He was invested in the film, brows furrowed slightly, mouth parted just enough to show he was completely drawn in. You’d seen that expression before—whether you were talking about your day, whether he was leafing through a book at your apartment, whether he was holding a conversation with a stranger on the subway. He paid attention. Real attention. The kind that was so rare it felt almost like a miracle. When he caught you staring, his lips curved into a small, crooked smile. “What?” he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the movie’s dialogue.
“Nothing.” You shook your head, settling back against him. “Just… you’re kind of perfect, you know that?”
He chuckled under his breath, pressing a kiss to your temple like it was second nature. “I don’t know about perfect.”
“Well, I do,” you murmured, and you meant it. Every silly, sappy word. You stayed like that for the rest of the night, tangled under the blanket, Clark’s arm warm around you. The rain kept on against the windows, the popcorn slowly dwindled, and you thought—not for the first time—that if this was all there ever was, it would be enough.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something of a tradition, though you couldn’t remember when exactly it started. Maybe it was the first time he’d shown up outside your building with two coffees in hand and said, “come on, there’s a farmer’s market a few blocks over,” like it was the most obvious idea in the world. Since then, it had become your ritual: wake up late, wander through the market together, buy things you didn’t really need, and eat pastries that were too sweet for breakfast but somehow perfect anyway.
That morning was no different, except that the sun was shining in the kind of way that made the city look alive—golden light glancing off windows, air already warm but softened by a breeze that carried with it the smell of bread, flowers, and fruit.
Clark walked beside you with the easy confidence of someone who seemed made for sidewalks and crowded streets, though he still had that Kansas farm-boy way of greeting everyone. A smile here, a nod there, the occasional “good morning” to a vendor who looked half-asleep. You carried a tote bag slung over your shoulder, already heavy with apples and a jar of honey Clark had insisted you try because “the bees here are different, you can taste it.”
He reached over to lightly brush the back of your neck as you stopped at a stall bursting with sunflowers. “These look like you,” he said, just as casually as if he’d said these are yellow.
You raised a brow, half teasing, half flustered. “Tall and prone to wilting in the heat?”
Clark laughed, the sound warm and unguarded, and shook his head. “Bright. You make people stop and smile.”
You didn’t have a good comeback for that, so you busied yourself pretending to examine the flowers. The vendor, an older woman with silver hair pulled into a bun, caught the exchange and grinned knowingly. “You’ve got yourself a sweet one,” she said to you, as though Clark wasn’t standing right there.
“He’s alright,” you replied, fighting your smile as you glanced up at him. Clark ducked his head, clearly embarrassed, and you felt a rush of affection for the way his ears turned pink when someone complimented him.
Eventually, you moved on, weaving through stalls filled with homemade jams and colorful scarves. Clark stopped to taste every sample offered to him—bits of cheese on toothpicks, slices of peach, small cups of cider—and made thoughtful little comments to each vendor. You teased him for it, whispering, “you know you don’t have to write a review for every single one, right?”
“I just think they should know their work’s appreciated,” he said earnestly, handing a few dollars over for a small loaf of bread you weren’t sure you needed. “It’s not easy, making something with your own hands and putting it out here for people to judge.”
The sincerity in his voice made your heart twist in that way it always did when you realized, again, that this was who he was. Not an act. Not something he put on to impress you. Just Clark—kind in ways that were almost disarming. At one point, you both stopped at a stand selling handmade candles. The vendor had arranged them in neat little rows: lavender, vanilla, cinnamon, pine. Clark picked one up and held it under your nose, his hand brushing against your cheek as he said, “this one smells like Christmas.”
You inhaled, smiling. “You’re right. We should get it.”
“You sure? You already have three candles on your coffee table.”
“And now I’ll have four.”
He chuckled and set the jar in your tote bag without further argument. As you made your way back toward the end of the market, your bag now heavier with bread, fruit, honey, and candles, Clark reached over and laced his fingers through yours. It wasn’t a dramatic gesture; he just did it in that simple, steady way of his, like holding your hand was as natural as breathing.
And you thought about how easy it was, walking with him. How different it felt from every other relationship you’d had—no guessing, no waiting for the other shoe to drop. Just warmth, laughter, little touches, and the steady certainty that he wanted to be there, with you, exactly in that moment. You let yourself believe, just for a little longer, that maybe he really was too good to be true.
---
You checked your watch for the third time in ten minutes, the ticking second hand making you more aware of the quiet hum of the restaurant around you. The host had already come by twice, asking gently if you were still waiting on someone. You’d smiled politely, insisting your date would be there any minute. But you couldn’t ignore the way the waiter glanced at your empty water glass, or the way a couple at the next table whispered, eyes darting in your direction.
Clark was late. Not a little late, either—forty-five minutes.
You shifted in your seat, trying not to let the disappointment settle too heavily in your chest. Up until now, Clark had been impeccable. The kind of boyfriend who texted if he thought he’d be five minutes behind, who apologized for sneezing too loudly during a movie. It wasn’t like him to leave you sitting alone at a table while the evening dimmed outside and strangers quietly wondered if you’d been stood up.
Finally, just when you were considering asking for the check and slipping out before you embarrassed yourself further, the front door swung open. Clark stumbled in with his hair windblown and his tie loosened like he’d sprinted the last few blocks. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, and he looked both breathless and guilty as his gaze found you immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, hurrying over to the table. His large frame seemed awkward as he tried to shrink into the small space, sliding into the seat across from you. “I—Perry kept me late. He wanted edits on an article and I couldn’t leave until I turned it in.”
You raised an eyebrow, masking the sting with practiced calm. “An hour late?”
Clark winced, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “I know. I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to leave you waiting.”
You studied him across the table. He looked tired, yes, but not in the way you’d seen him before after a long day at the Planet. There was something else in his eyes—something sharp, like adrenaline fading, like he’d just been somewhere else entirely. Still, you told yourself not to overanalyze. You weren’t going to be that person, the one who jumped on the first misstep. “It’s fine,” you said finally, your voice softer than you felt. “Just… next time, a text would be nice.”
Relief washed across his face, his shoulders sagging as though you’d lifted a weight off of them. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. It won’t happen again.”
The waiter came by to take your order, and you tried to settle back into the rhythm of the evening. Clark smiled, made jokes, asked about your day. He reached across the table and brushed his thumb over your knuckles, that warm, steady touch that usually melted every trace of frustration from you.
But even as you laughed at one of his self-deprecating stories, you couldn’t shake the image of him rushing in with his hair askew, looking like he’d just stepped out of a storm. Perry White might have been demanding, sure—but you’d never seen editing an article leave someone looking like they’d run through a war zone.
You pushed the thought aside. One late night didn’t erase the flowers, the movie nights, the mornings at the farmer’s market. Everyone slipped up eventually. Everyone had flaws. Still, as you lifted your wine glass and forced another smile, a whisper curled in the back of your mind.
Maybe he isn’t as perfect as I thought.
---
By Tuesday afternoon, you had almost managed to let the sting of Friday’s date fade. Almost. The office was loud enough to distract you—phones ringing, printers whining, keyboards clattering—but every now and then, your mind circled back to that long hour you’d spent alone at the restaurant table, pretending you weren’t being pitied by strangers.
That was when one of the interns appeared at your desk, a little nervous and balancing a cardboard tray in both hands. “Uh—delivery for you,” he said, carefully setting it down beside your computer.
You blinked, surprised. Nestled in the tray was a perfectly iced cup from your favorite café across town. Not just your favorite café, but your favorite order—the one so specific and overly complicated you barely asked for it unless you were in a mood brave enough to risk the barista’s side-eye. And next to the drink, a small paper bag with the café’s logo stamped on the front. You opened it to find a sandwich wrapped neatly in parchment, exactly the way you liked it.
A folded napkin slipped out, and tucked into it was a note, written in Clark’s careful handwriting: Sorry for Friday. Thought lunch might buy me forgiveness. —C
You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your mouth, even as you tried to shake your head at the audacity of him. He hadn’t just sent flowers this time. He’d remembered the drink you always rambled about, the sandwich you’d ordered once when you dragged him across town, swearing it was worth the hike. He hadn’t teased you for your oddly specific preferences, hadn’t forgotten. He’d remembered.
“Wow,” one of your coworkers muttered, leaning against your cubicle wall. “The flower guy’s leveling up.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t deny the warm flutter in your chest. “It’s just lunch.”
“Mm-hm.” The coworker raised a brow. “He’s spoiling you. Admit it.”
You didn’t answer, instead sipping your drink and savoring how perfectly made it was. Later that evening, Clark showed up at your apartment, looking sheepish as he shifted from one foot to the other in your doorway. He carried a small, battered notebook in his hand, though he quickly tucked it into his coat pocket when he saw your curious glance. “Did the bribe work?” he asked lightly, but there was an edge to his tone—a carefulness, like he wasn’t sure if he’d been forgiven yet.
You crossed your arms, pretending to deliberate. “Well, the sandwich was a strong move. And the drink didn’t hurt.”
His smile softened, relief flickering across his face. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
You stepped aside to let him in. He shrugged out of his coat, but instead of settling onto the couch like he usually did, he came right up to you and cupped your cheek with one broad, warm hand. The earnestness in his expression made it hard to hold onto even a thread of irritation. “I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “Leaving you waiting like that—there’s no excuse.”
You wanted to ask again about Perry, about why exactly editing an article had left him looking like he’d run a marathon, but the words stuck in your throat. Instead, you let yourself lean into his touch, the steady strength of him grounding you. “You could’ve just texted me,” you murmured. “That’s all I needed.”
“I know,” he admitted, thumb brushing gently across your skin. “I’ll do better.”
And maybe it was the way he said it—soft but so utterly sure—that made you believe him. Clark wasn’t like the others. He didn’t forget birthdays, didn’t leave you guessing, didn’t brush things off with half-hearted excuses. When he said he’d do better, you thought maybe he actually would.
The two of you ended up eating takeout on your couch that night, watching a rerun of a show neither of you particularly liked, just because it was background noise to your laughter. Clark insisted on carrying your empty cartons to the trash, then washed the few dishes in your sink like he lived there. And as you watched him hum off-key while rinsing a mug, you wondered how anyone could ever doubt he was everything he seemed.
But later, when he kissed you goodnight at your door and left just before midnight, you found yourself lingering in the quiet, staring at the empty hallway. The sandwich, the drink, the apology—they’d smoothed over the rough patch. For now. And yet, a small, nagging thought twisted at the back of your mind: Why does he always leave before midnight?
---
By Wednesday afternoon, the office was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and too many spreadsheets. You sat hunched over your keyboard, trying to make sense of your notes, but your brain kept circling back to one thought: Clark always left before midnight. Always.
It wasn’t just the restaurant, or the way he’d duck out of your apartment after movie nights. Even on weekends, when neither of you had to be up early, he’d kiss you softly, make some excuse about getting rest, and disappear into the night like Cinderella running from a ball.
“Alright,” your friend and coworker Marcy said, sliding into the chair beside your desk with her second coffee of the day, “spill it. You’ve had that scrunched-up forehead look for an hour. And don’t even try to tell me it’s about your work. You get that look when it’s about a guy.”
You gave her a flat look, but she only smirked. She wasn’t wrong. “It’s nothing,” you tried.
“Mm-hm. Nothing. Which is why you’re staring at your monitor like it insulted your mother.” She took a loud sip of her coffee. “It’s Clark, isn’t it?”
You sighed, setting your pen down. “It’s just… he’s perfect. Like, actually perfect. Which is why this is starting to drive me crazy.”
Marcy perked up immediately. “Go on.”
“He always leaves before midnight,” you admitted in a low voice, glancing around as though confessing a crime. “No matter what we’re doing, no matter how late the night is already, he’ll kiss me, say goodnight, and go. Like clockwork.”
Marcy leaned back, considering. “And you’ve asked him about it?”
“Not directly.” You fiddled with your pen, spinning it between your fingers. “I don’t want to be clingy. I just… I don’t get it. It’s like he turns into a pumpkin if he stays past twelve.”
Marcy snorted. “Maybe he’s got some weird sleep schedule. Or maybe—” she lowered her voice dramatically “—he’s secretly Batman.”
You laughed, tension easing for a moment. “Clark? Please. He apologizes when he bumps into strangers on the subway. He’d last two seconds in Gotham.”
“Fair point.” She tilted her head, smirking again. “So, what are you gonna do about it?”
“I don’t know,” you muttered. “Part of me thinks I should just let it go. The other part wants to… I don’t know. Test him.”
Marcy’s grin widened like she’d been waiting for that. “Oh, I have ideas.”
You groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m not gonna like this?”
“Because you’re a coward when it comes to confrontation, and I’m not.” She tapped her nails against her cup. “Okay. Scenario one, you straight-up ask him why he keeps bailing before midnight. Direct, efficient, no games.”
You raised a brow. “And scenario two?”
She leaned in, eyes glinting mischievously. “You lure him into staying. Cute pajamas. Or better yet—slutty pajamas. Make it hard for him to walk away.”
Your face went hot instantly. “Marcy!”
“What? I’m just saying! If he still bolts after that, then something’s definitely up.”
You buried your face in your hands. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, I’m brilliant.” She patted your shoulder before standing, her coffee already half gone. “Think about it. Cute pajamas or straight-up honesty. Either way, you’ll get your answer.”
As she walked off, you sat staring at your blank screen, trying not to imagine Clark’s face if you ever actually tried Marcy’s suggestion. Still, the thought of him leaving you at your door again, just before midnight, with that soft smile and some vague excuse—
It made your stomach twist. You didn’t want to lose him. But you couldn’t help wondering: was there something he wasn’t telling you?
---
It was a Thursday night, nothing special. Clark had shown up at your door with his usual soft smile and a grocery bag in hand. Inside were the makings of pasta—fresh basil, tomatoes, a loaf of bread from the corner bakery. He’d insisted on cooking, which really meant you sat on the counter with a glass of wine while he did most of the work, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened but not quite discarded.
Dinner was easy, the kind of rhythm you’d slipped into months ago. You teased him for chopping garlic too slowly, he teased you for drinking more wine than you ate pasta. Afterwards, he helped you wash the dishes, humming under his breath as he scrubbed a pot, bubbles clinging to his forearms. The domesticity of it all made your chest ache in the best possible way.
But the entire time, a thought lingered in the back of your mind—Marcy’s voice echoing, sing-song and mischievous: Cute pajamas. Or slutty pajamas.
By the time the two of you moved into the living room, the weight of it was almost unbearable. You sat with him on the couch, his arm slung around you, the low murmur of a late-night talk show filling the space. It was perfect, comfortable… but you knew what would happen soon. He’d check his watch, give you that apologetic look, and head out into the night before the clock hit midnight.
Not tonight, you told yourself. Tonight, you were going to see if he’d stay. You stretched, feigning a yawn, and stood. “I’m gonna go change. These jeans are killing me.”
Clark looked up at you with that gentle concern that was so him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you said quickly, heart hammering a little too fast. “Just… more comfortable clothes.”
You slipped into your bedroom, closing the door behind you. Your pulse roared in your ears as you opened your dresser drawer and pulled out the pajamas Marcy had planted in your head all week. Not quite slutty—but close enough. The soft silk clung in ways your usual oversized t-shirt didn’t, the hem riding a little higher on your thighs than you were used to. You checked yourself in the mirror, cheeks warm. This was either going to work spectacularly… or blow up in your face.
When you opened the door, Clark was standing in the hallway, one hand tugging at his tie like he’d been debating loosening it further. His other hand held the hem of his button-up, as if he’d been considering changing into something more relaxed. He froze when he saw you. “Oh,” he said, his voice catching just slightly. His eyes widened, and for once, he didn’t immediately mask his reaction.
You bit your lip, pretending nonchalance as you crossed the short distance between you. “Thought I’d get comfortable,” you said, fingers brushing against the knot of his tie.
Clark swallowed hard. “You look… uh—” His voice trailed off, his usual eloquence deserting him. His gaze flickered away, then back again, like he couldn’t quite decide where to rest his eyes.
The corner of your mouth curved as you caught the edge of his tie and gave it a playful tug, guiding him a step closer. “Cat got your tongue, Kent?”
His laugh was nervous, breathless. “Just wasn’t expecting—”
“Me?” you teased, leaning up slightly so your faces were closer.
Clark’s hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should. You tugged lightly on his tie again, coaxing him toward the bed. “You can change later,” you murmured.
That did it. His ears turned bright red, and the tips of them peeked through his dark hair. His flustered expression was so achingly adorable you almost laughed. But he didn’t pull away. Not this time.
Instead, he let you guide him, his tie slipping through your fingers as he leaned down. His lips brushed against yours, tentative at first, then with a hunger he usually kept tightly reined in. His hand came up to your waist, steady and warm, the other bracing against the doorframe as though he needed something solid to keep himself grounded.
You smiled against his mouth, relief and satisfaction curling through you. For once, he wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t glancing at the clock, wasn’t making excuses. He was here—with you.
And when you tugged him down to the bed, his flustered laugh turned into something deeper, something that made your pulse skip. Whatever midnight rule he’d been living by, it didn’t matter tonight. Because tonight, Clark stayed.
---
The first thing you registered was warmth. The second was weight—the solid, steady press of an arm curled around your waist, pulling you against a chest that rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. Your sheets smelled faintly of detergent and basil, a reminder of last night’s pasta dinner. And underneath it all, the more distinct, grounding scent of Clark.
Your eyes blinked open slowly, adjusting to the thin morning light spilling through your curtains. It took you a moment to realize the full reality: your bare skin against his, tangled legs, the soft mess of clothes scattered across the floor.
You turned your head slightly. Clark was still asleep, or something close to it. His face was relaxed, mouth parted slightly, hair mussed in a way you’d never seen before—wild and unpolished, no trace of the neat reporter who always seemed so put-together. His glasses, of course, weren’t on. They lay folded on your nightstand, lenses glinting faintly in the sun.
Without them, there was something startling about his face. You couldn’t put your finger on it—just that the edges of him looked… sharper. His eyes, though closed, seemed framed differently, as though the glasses softened more than just his appearance. For a strange, fleeting second, you almost didn’t recognize him. Then he shifted, tightening his arm around you, his breath brushing against the back of your neck. And he was Clark again—your Clark, warm and steady and achingly gentle even in sleep.
You smiled into the pillow, letting yourself melt into the moment. For weeks you’d watched him slip away at the stroke of midnight, offering excuses that never quite added up. But last night had been different. Last night he stayed. Not just for dinner, not just for movies and laughter—he stayed all the way through. Stayed long enough that now you were wrapped in his arms, your heartbeat syncing with his.
“Mm,” he hummed softly, the vibration in his chest making you shiver. “You awake?”
You turned slightly, enough to catch the half-lidded way he looked at you. His voice was rough with sleep, lower than you’d ever heard it. “Yeah,” you whispered.
His mouth curved, slow and drowsy. “Morning.”
You couldn’t help laughing. “That’s all you’ve got? Just morning?”
He groaned, burying his face in your shoulder for a moment, then pressed a lazy kiss to your skin. “Sorry. Not exactly awake yet. You… you’re distracting.”
Your cheeks flushed, though you tried to keep your tone light. “Pretty sure you’re the distracting one, Kent.”
He chuckled, but his hand skimmed softly across your side, drawing absent patterns against your skin. The tenderness of it made your throat tighten. It was almost unfair, how he could make something so casual feel so intimate.
For a long while, you lay there like that—no rush, no ticking clock, no excuse waiting at the edge of his tongue. Just him, his heartbeat under your palm, his breath warm against your hair. At last, Clark shifted, reaching blindly toward the nightstand. His hand brushed the edge of his glasses, and in a practiced motion, he slid them back onto his face.
The change was subtle but immediate. It was as if the air between you shifted slightly. The Clark without glasses—the one who looked like a stranger and yet more himself than ever—was gone. In his place was the Clark you knew, mild and unassuming, the gentle reporter who said sorry when he sneezed too loud. “Better,” he said softly, like the glasses anchored him somehow.
You tilted your head, curious. “You don’t need those in bed, you know.”
He hesitated just a fraction too long before chuckling. “Force of habit.”
You hummed, letting it slide, though the little pause tucked itself away in the back of your mind. Instead, you pressed a kiss to his jaw and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you stayed.”
His arms tightened around you, his voice low and steady in your ear. “So am I.”
And maybe he meant it. Maybe he wanted to mean it. But as you felt him hold you, you couldn’t shake the faint, lingering thought: what was it, exactly, that had kept him away every other night until now?
You fell asleep again until the smell of coffee coaxed you out of bed more than the alarm on your phone ever could. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, tugging his button-up shirt—the one that had landed on your floor the night before—over your shoulders like a robe. The sleeves were too long, brushing your wrists, and the fabric still held the faint warmth of his skin.
Clark was already there, moving quietly as though he belonged in your space. His tie was draped over a chair, his white undershirt soft and clinging, his glasses fogged slightly from leaning over the steaming coffee pot. He hummed under his breath, the same little tune you’d noticed he always carried when he was content. When he noticed you, his face lit up, boyish and unguarded. “Morning again,” he said, like he’d been waiting for you.
“Morning,” you echoed, fighting back a smile as you leaned against the counter. “You’re entirely too chipper for someone who didn’t get much sleep.”
His ears went pink immediately, and he turned back to the mugs. “I, uh—sleep better here.”
That pulled a laugh out of you, soft and genuine. “You’re such a terrible liar.”
“I’m serious,” he said, handing you a mug. His big hands dwarfed the ceramic, and you noticed the way his thumb lingered against the rim as he passed it to you. “You don’t believe me?”
You took a slow sip, watching him over the edge. “I believe you slept well. I just don’t think it had much to do with the bed.” Clark coughed into his own cup, so flustered you almost felt bad for him. Almost.
You sat together at your small kitchen table, the morning light spilling through the blinds in golden stripes across his face. He buttered a piece of toast like it was the most important task in the world, then slid it onto your plate before making another for himself. That was Clark in a nutshell: always making sure you were fed first.
As you ate, you realized how easy it felt. No clock watching, no excuses lined up in his throat. Just breakfast, quiet conversation, and the clink of silverware against mismatched plates. It was so normal you almost forgot last night had been the first time he’d ever stayed. “You’re going to work today, right?” you asked between bites.
He nodded, sipping his coffee. “Perry’s probably got three assignments waiting for me already.”
“Does he always ride you that hard?”
Clark shrugged, unbothered. “That’s just Perry. He pushes because he knows we can handle it. And I… I don’t mind. I like the work.”
You studied him for a moment, the curve of his mouth around the rim of his mug, the way his tie still sat neglected on the chair instead of knotted neatly at his throat. There was something softer about him this morning—unguarded in a way you didn’t see often. Maybe it was the fact that he’d stayed, or maybe it was just the quiet light of a weekday morning shared over burnt toast and coffee. Either way, you liked it. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” you said suddenly.
Clark frowned, startled. “Dangerous?”
“Yeah.” You nudged his foot under the table. “You make this look way too easy. Breakfast, coffee, staying the night… it’s like you’ve been doing this with me for years.”
His expression softened, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Maybe I’ve been waiting years to do this.”
Heat crept into your cheeks at the honesty in his tone. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t joking. He meant it. And that—that was more dangerous than anything. You stood finally, setting your mug in the sink. “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving.”
Clark followed suit, slipping his tie back over his neck and knotting it with practiced ease. You watched him, amused at how he went from flustered and boyish to polished reporter in the span of a few minutes. Glasses in place, tie tightened, hair smoothed back—your Clark, the one the world saw, stood in your kitchen. But when he looked at you, his gaze softened again, as though none of the armor mattered here. He stepped close, kissed your forehead, then your lips. “Thank you,” he murmured.
“For what?”
“For last night. For this morning. For… all of it.”
Your chest squeezed, and you touched his tie lightly, smoothing it against his chest. “You don’t have to thank me for staying, Clark.”
“I know,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “But I want to.”
And as you walked out the door together, hand in hand, you thought maybe Marcy had been wrong. Maybe there wasn’t a mystery to solve, no midnight secret pulling him away. Maybe it had just been nerves, bad timing, work stress. Because for the first time, he’d stayed. And that had to mean something.
By the time you made it into the office, the elevator ride up had already convinced you of two things: one, coffee was the only thing keeping you upright, and two, walking in heels after last night was not your smartest decision. Every step carried just the faintest reminder of Clark’s strength, a dull ache hidden in your thighs that no amount of stretching on the commute had shaken off.
You slid into your cubicle as quietly as possible, hoping to disappear behind your monitor. But of course, Marcy had radar for these things. She popped up in your doorway like a jack-in-the-box, her coffee in hand, one brow raised. “Well, well, well,” she said, drawing the words out as though savoring them. “Look who’s late and walking funny.”
You froze mid-shuffle with your bag, glaring at her. “I’m not walking funny.”
She leaned on the frame of your cubicle, smirk widening. “Sweetheart, I could spot that limp from the elevator. Guess it worked.”
Heat rushed to your face immediately. “Marcy—”
“I told you,” she interrupted gleefully, wagging her coffee cup at you like it was proof. “Slutty pajamas. Works every time.”
You buried your face in your hands, muffling a groan. “You are the worst.”
“The worst, but right.” She perched on the edge of your desk like she owned it. “So? Spill. Did our boy wonder finally stay past midnight?”
You dropped your hands and glared, though you couldn’t quite wipe the reluctant smile off your lips. “Maybe.”
“That’s a yes.” She grinned like the cat that got the cream. “And?”
“And what?”
Marcy tilted her head. “And how was it? Come on, you can’t dangle that limp around the office and not share at least one detail.”
You picked up the nearest stack of papers and swatted lightly at her knee. “Get out of my cubicle.”
She laughed, unbothered, sipping her coffee as though she had all the time in the world. “Fine, fine. You don’t have to give me details. But let me just say, I’m very proud. About time Mr. Perfect dropped the Cinderella act.”
Her words hit a little closer than she realized. You forced a light smile, hoping she wouldn’t notice the hesitation. “Yeah. About time.”
Marcy hopped off your desk, smoothing her skirt. “See you at lunch. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone about the limp. Your secret’s safe with me.”
You rolled your eyes, but as she sauntered away, you exhaled slowly. Yes, Clark had stayed. Yes, it had been everything you didn’t realize you’d been craving. But the whisper lingered in your mind even as you logged into your computer: what had changed? What made last night different from every other night before it? And more importantly—would he stay again?
By the time work let out, the city was drenched in that golden hour glow that made everything softer—warm light spilling between buildings, the sidewalks humming with people headed home. You were halfway through debating if you had the energy to cook or if you’d end up with takeout again when your phone buzzed. Clark: Dinner? My treat. Don’t make other plans.
You couldn’t help but smile, typing back a quick bossy before slipping the phone into your bag.
When he knocked on your door later, he was balancing a pizza box in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “Figured we’d save the fancy restaurants for when I’m not keeping you waiting,” he said sheepishly, lifting the box like an offering.
The sight of him—tie loosened, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, that impossibly earnest smile—made your heart skip the way it always did. “You’re forgiven,” you said, stepping aside to let him in.
Dinner was simple, pizza, a salad he insisted on making because “we can’t live on bread and cheese alone,” and the bottle of wine you’d been saving for some hypothetical occasion. Clark poured carefully, like the stemware might shatter under his touch, and you teased him for being overcautious until he laughed and handed you your glass.
You ate cross-legged on the couch, the box open between you, your knees brushing every time you reached for a slice. Clark told you about the chaos at the Planet that day—how Perry barked at poor Jimmy until his ears turned pink, how Lois had nearly thrown her coffee at a malfunctioning printer. You laughed, picturing it, though you knew you’d never quite see the world the way he did.
At some point, the conversation shifted into softer things. He asked about your day, not just the broad strokes but the details—the coworker who’d stolen your stapler, the headline you’d been proud of writing, the way you’d stopped to buy a pretzel from the vendor outside your building. He listened to every word, nodding, eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the world worth paying attention to.
By the time the pizza box was nearly empty, you had your legs tucked against his, the warmth of him seeping into you. You swirled the last of your wine in your glass and leaned your head against his shoulder. “You know, I could get used to this,” you murmured.
Clark glanced down at you, his expression unreadable for a beat before softening into that small, crooked smile you loved. “Me too.”
You set your glass aside and turned slightly, catching the end of his tie between your fingers. “Not running off tonight?”
The question hung in the air, casual on the surface but heavier underneath. Clark’s eyes flickered, something you couldn’t quite name passing through them, but then he shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, voice low, steady.
Relief washed through you. You tugged lightly on his tie, pulling him down for a kiss that started slow but deepened quickly, his hand finding its way to your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. He kissed you like he’d been waiting all day for it, like he’d been holding his breath until this exact moment.
Later, when the two of you ended up stretched out together on the couch, your head on his chest and his fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm, you realized the clock had already ticked past midnight. And he was still there. No excuses, no half-smile apologies. Just Clark, warm and solid and exactly where you wanted him.
For once, you let yourself believe that maybe the cracks you’d seen weren’t cracks at all—just shadows you’d mistaken for flaws. Maybe this was who he was, who he’d always be: steady, kind, and here. And as you drifted half-asleep against him, the hum of his heartbeat under your ear, you let yourself forget every question you’d been carrying. Because for tonight, at least, Clark stayed.
---
It started as an offhand suggestion, tossed out near the end of the day when the office was finally quieting down. One of your coworkers—Janine, the type who wore three-inch heels like they were sneakers—popped her head over your cubicle wall and said, “Drinks after work? Come on, it’s been a week.”
A few of the others perked up, including Marcy, who swiveled her chair toward you with a grin. “You in?”
Normally, you would have hesitated, mentally juggling the idea of a late night out with your usual plans with Clark. But something in you wanted to prove, if only to yourself, that you didn’t have to orbit your life entirely around him. He was wonderful—perfect, even—but you still had your own friends, your own world. “Yeah,” you said finally, surprising even yourself. “Count me in.”
The group cheered, already gathering purses and coats. On the walk to the bar, neon signs flickering against the dusky sky, you pulled out your phone. Your thumb hovered over Clark’s name for a moment. With guys before, this was always the part that made your stomach twist—the texts that came after you said I’m going out with friends, passive-aggressive replies, thinly veiled jealousy, endless check-ins like you were sneaking around instead of living your life.
You typed quickly: Going out for drinks with the girls from work. Don’t wait up tonight. Your finger hovered before hitting send, the tiniest tremor of nerves sparking. And then you sent it.
The reply came faster than you expected, the little typing dots barely lasting three seconds. Clark: That sounds great. Hope you have fun. Be safe.
That was it. No follow-up questions, no “who’s going?” No guilt, no tugging on a leash you weren’t wearing. Just have fun. You stared at the screen for a moment, warmth blooming in your chest. It was such a simple thing, but the kind of simple you weren’t used to.
Marcy peeked over your shoulder as you slipped the phone back into your bag. “That from Clark?” You nodded, trying not to smile too hard. “What’d he say? ‘Don’t get too drunk’? ‘Remember you’ve got a boyfriend’?”
“No,” you said softly. “He said have fun.”
Marcy slowed her stride for a second, blinking at you. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
A slow grin spread across her face. “Damn. Keep him. Seriously. If a man can handle his girlfriend having her own life without making it about his ego? That’s rare, babe. Hold onto that one.”
By the time you slid into a booth at the bar with the other girls, the dim lights catching on glasses of wine and cocktails, you couldn’t stop thinking about that little text. About how easy he made it to breathe. How different it felt not to brace yourself for a fight over something as harmless as a night out. Your friends laughed and gossiped, trading stories about bosses and boyfriends, but every so often you caught yourself smiling down at your phone, rereading his simple message. Hope you have fun. Four words. And yet, they felt like a promise, he trusted you. He respected you.
And for someone like you—someone who had spent too long with people who made affection feel like a trap—that was more intoxicating than anything in your glass.
The bar was louder than you realized. It wasn’t until you slipped off your stool and nearly tipped into Marcy’s shoulder that it hit you just how much you’d had to drink. Two glasses of wine had somehow become three… then a shared round of shots you’d been peer-pressured into. Now everything had that soft, slightly tilting glow to it, like the world was wrapped in cotton.
“Okay, lightweight,” Marcy teased, steadying you with a hand. “Time to get you a cab.”
You waved her off, fumbling for your bag. “I’m fine. Totally fine.”
“You’re weaving like a sailor,” she said flatly. “You want me to call Clark?”
Your head snapped up, indignation rising even through the haze. “No! I don’t need—” But your tongue tangled itself, and the protest dissolved into a laugh. “Okay, maybe. Just don’t tell him about the shots.”
Marcy rolled her eyes but pulled out her phone anyway. “You’re lucky he’s cute and clearly obsessed with you.”
Fifteen minutes later, the bar door swung open, and there he was—tie gone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses catching the glow of the neon beer sign. Clark scanned the room, found you instantly, and the crease in his brow softened with relief. “Hey,” he murmured as he reached you, his voice low and warm like you might spook if he spoke too loudly. “Rough night?”
“Fun night,” you corrected, though your words slurred just enough to make Marcy snort.
Clark slipped an arm around your waist like it was second nature, guiding you upright. “Thanks,” he said to Marcy, his smile polite but grateful.
“She’s all yours,” Marcy said, giving you a wink before gathering her things. “Text me tomorrow, babe.”
You leaned heavily into Clark as he steered you outside. The night air was cool against your flushed skin, and you shivered instinctively. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, tucking it close like he was wrapping you in something more solid than fabric. “You didn’t have to come get me,” you mumbled, the words half-buried against his chest.
“Of course I did,” he said simply. “I’d come anywhere for you.”
The sincerity in his voice, even filtered through the fog in your head, made your chest ache. You tilted your face up at him, squinting like you could see straight through him. “You’re too good to be true, you know that?”
His mouth quirked in that small, self-conscious smile you adored. “Or maybe you’re just too hard on the guys you dated before me.”
“You don’t leave when I go out,” you said suddenly, the thought bubbling up unfiltered. “They used to. They’d get mad. But you’re not mad.”
“I’d never be mad at you for having friends.” He guided you to his car, opening the door carefully before helping you in. His hand lingered at your elbow, steadying you until you were settled. “You deserve to have fun. You deserve everything.”
Your vision blurred for a moment—not from the alcohol, but from the sheer, overwhelming tenderness of him. By the time he pulled up outside your apartment, your head was lolling against the window. Clark circled to your side and scooped you up effortlessly, as though you weighed nothing. You gasped, looping your arms around his neck. “Clark!” you hissed, though you couldn’t stop laughing. “What if someone sees?”
He smiled down at you, utterly unbothered. “Then they’ll just think I didn’t want you to trip on the stairs.”
He carried you all the way up, setting you gently on the edge of your bed before kneeling to slip off your shoes. The care in every movement undid you completely. “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, too drowsy to form anything sharper.
“Maybe,” he agreed softly, tugging the blanket over you once you’d curled on your side. “But you’re safe. That’s all I care about.”
As he brushed your cheek lightly, you caught his wrist weakly, blinking up at him. “Stay?”
His expression softened, the faintest crack of something unspoken in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Yeah. I’ll stay.” And when you drifted off, his arm was around you, steady as ever—no excuses, no vanishing. Just Clark.
---
The first thing you felt when you opened your eyes was regret. Your head throbbed, your mouth was dry, and the sunlight streaming through the blinds was at least three shades too bright. You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, dragging the blanket over your head in a futile attempt to block out the world.
Unfortunately, the world smelled like coffee. Fresh, rich, dark coffee. And—was that bacon?
You froze, brain sluggishly catching up. Clark. Sure enough, when you dared to peek out from under the blanket, there he was in your kitchen. Shirt sleeves rolled up, tie nowhere in sight, his hair an adorably messy halo. He moved with quiet purpose, flipping pancakes on your stovetop while humming under his breath. The sight was so painfully domestic it made your heart ache even through the pounding in your skull.
Of course, he noticed you before you could duck back under the covers. His head turned, that impossibly soft smile spreading across his face. “Morning,” he said gently, as though his voice might shatter you if he wasn’t careful. “How’re you feeling?”
You buried your face back in the pillow with a muffled groan. “Like I fought a truck.”
He chuckled, low and warm. “No truck. Just tequila, apparently.”
Heat crept up your neck even as you hid. “You weren’t supposed to see me like that.”
“Like what?” His voice was teasing but not unkind. “Having fun with your friends? Laughing? Smiling so much your cheeks hurt?”
You peeked at him again, narrowing your eyes. “Like a mess.”
Clark shook his head, flipping a pancake with ease. “You weren’t a mess. You were—” he paused, searching for the word, “—adorable.”
You groaned louder this time, shoving the pillow over your face. “Don’t call drunk-me adorable. She’s chaos.”
He laughed outright now, that deep, earnest sound that always made your chest loosen. “Chaos, maybe. But still adorable.”
A few minutes later, he set a tray down on the edge of the bed: coffee, pancakes stacked high, bacon crisped just the way you liked. You blinked at it, then up at him, suspicion warring with gratitude. “You did all this while I looked like death?”
“Seemed like a fair trade,” he said with a shrug, sitting down beside you. “You had your fun last night, and I get to make sure you don’t regret it too much today.”
You sipped the coffee cautiously, sighing as the warmth slid through you. “You’re too nice. Most guys would’ve teased me mercilessly.”
“Oh, I plan to tease you,” he said, eyes twinkling. “But not until you’ve had at least two cups of coffee.”
You laughed, even though it made your head throb, and nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “But I like taking care of you.”
You froze for half a second at the honesty in his voice. No games, no performative chivalry—he just meant it. And somehow, that was more dangerous than any hangover. You sighed, sinking against him with your plate balanced in your lap. “You know, Clark, you’re making it very hard for me to remember you’re human. People aren’t supposed to be this perfect.”
For the briefest flicker of a second, something unreadable passed across his face. Then he smiled again, soft and sure. “I’m not perfect. But I promise, I’ll always try to be good to you.”
And as you sat there eating pancakes in his shirt, head pounding and cheeks hot, you thought maybe you’d never felt so cared for in your life.
---
The cramps had hit mid-afternoon, the kind that made you curl up under a blanket and declare war on your own body. By the time Clark arrived, you were a blanket burrito on the couch with zero intention of moving for the rest of the night.
He took one look at you, eyebrows knitting with concern, and immediately shifted into caretaker mode. Within minutes he’d dug your heating pad out of the closet, plugged it in, and settled it across your stomach with the same care he used for handling glassware. Then he adjusted your pillows, made you tea, and queued up your comfort show—the one you’d seen a hundred times but always came back to when you were feeling low.
Now, you were half-curled against him, your head on his shoulder, his arm looped around you. His tie was gone, his shirt rolled at the sleeves, and the warm, steady weight of him made everything ache a little less. “I hate this week,” you muttered into his chest.
“I know,” he said softly, rubbing slow circles against your back. “But I’ve got you. Heating pad, tea, bad sitcom reruns… we’ll survive.”
You managed a small smile, keeping your eyes on the flickering TV. A character tripped over a sofa in an over-the-top gag, and normally you’d laugh, but right now all you could think about was how badly you wanted—no, needed—something sweet. “God, I’d kill for a pint of cookie dough ice cream right now,” you murmured without thinking, snuggling deeper under the blanket. “Or those pretzel bites from the vendor down the street. Or both.”
It was meant to be idle complaining, not a request. You didn’t even glance away from the TV. But Clark, who had been quiet beside you, shifted slightly. His head tilted toward the window, like he’d heard something outside you couldn’t. Then, just as quickly, he was on his feet. You blinked, sitting up a little. “Clark?”
He smiled, smoothing his shirt like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’ll be right back.”
Confused, you frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Just… don’t move.” His grin widened—adorable, boyish, but with that same cryptic glint you’d started to notice sometimes when he thought you weren’t paying attention. “I’ll be back before the commercial break.”
And with that, he slipped out your door, leaving you on the couch in your blanket cocoon, heating pad humming softly.
You shook your head, baffled, turning back to the TV. He was probably running down to the corner store. Still, the way he’d said before the commercial break stuck with you. Because Clark might’ve been perfect, but no one was that fast.
You kept your eyes on the TV, half-expecting to hear the familiar creak of the hallway stairs or the low rumble of the elevator. Instead, there was silence—except for the laugh track blaring from your comfort show.
You adjusted the heating pad against your stomach, cocooned deeper in your blanket, and told yourself not to overthink it. Clark was just… thoughtful. Probably sprinted to the bodega on the corner because he couldn’t stand to see you suffer through a craving. That was all.
Still, when the first commercial break hit only five minutes later, you frowned. No way. Not even with the fastest cashier alive could anyone make it down, grab ice cream and pretzels, pay, and get back up the stairs in that time.
The front door clicked open just as you were starting to sit up. Clark stepped inside, balancing a paper bag in one hand and a sweating pint of ice cream in the other. His smile was sheepish but triumphant. “Got both,” he said, a little out of breath, holding up the bag like a prize.
You blinked at him. His dark hair—usually neat even after a full day at the Planet—was tousled, like he’d been caught in a wind tunnel. And his shirt… your eyes narrowed. His buttons were misaligned, the fabric tugging unevenly across his chest. “You…” You tilted your head, suspicion stirring even through the dull ache of cramps. “You were gone for five minutes.”
He froze for a fraction of a second before flashing that disarming smile, the one that usually made your heart somersault. “Guess I got lucky with the line.”
“And your shirt?” you pressed, pointing with a lazy wave of your hand. “It’s buttoned wrong.”
Clark glanced down, startled, then chuckled, fumbling to undo the buttons and redo them correctly. “I must’ve rushed. Sorry. Didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I notice everything,” you mumbled, though you couldn’t help smiling as he set the ice cream and bag down on the coffee table. Inside were still-warm pretzel bites, the exact ones you’d mentioned offhand. The smell of butter and salt filled the room, making your stomach grumble despite the discomfort.
Clark handed you the pint first, already armed with a spoon. “Cookie dough,” he said softly, as if the name alone might soothe you. “Your favorite.”
You looked at the ice cream, then up at him. He was sitting beside you again, calmer now, his hair still slightly wild but his hand steady as it rested over yours. “Clark,” you said carefully, “you didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.” His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing. “If you’re hurting, and I can make it even a little better… why wouldn’t I?”
Your chest squeezed at the sincerity in his voice. You scooped a bite of ice cream, shoving down the dozen little questions buzzing in your head. He’d been gone five minutes. His hair looked like he’d flown through a storm. His shirt had been wrong. None of it made sense.
But then he reached over, breaking a pretzel bite in half and offering you the bigger piece without a second thought, and your doubts slipped under the weight of his sweetness. You took the bite from his hand, chewing slowly as your show returned from commercials. He wrapped his arm around you again, settling you against his chest like nothing was unusual at all.
And for now, you let yourself melt into him, the mystery pushed aside by the taste of butter and cookie dough on your tongue. Because if Clark wanted to be the man who brought you ice cream and pretzels in five minutes flat, who were you to complain?
---
You’d picked out your outfit hours ago, set your hair the way you liked it, even spritzed that perfume you saved for special occasions. Tonight was supposed to be date night—just you and Clark, dinner reservations at that little Italian place you’d been dying to try. But the clock kept ticking. First fifteen minutes. Then thirty. Then forty-five.
Your wineglass sat untouched on the counter. You checked your phone every couple of minutes, the empty notification bar mocking you. Not even a running late text. By the time your apartment clock chimed the hour, disappointment curled into your chest, heavy and sour. You tried to keep the doubts at bay—maybe he was stuck at work, maybe Perry was being impossible again. But a small voice whispered the same fear you’d carried for weeks: Maybe he’s pulling away. Maybe he’s not who you thought he was.
Just when you were ready to blow out the candle you’d lit on the table, there was a hurried knock at the door. You opened it to find Clark standing there, chest rising and falling like he’d jogged all the way over. His shirt sleeves were rolled, his tie askew, and a scrape marred the corner of his jaw. His glasses sat crooked on his face, and in his hand—cracked down the middle—was his phone. “Clark,” you breathed, all your irritation collapsing into worry.
“I’m so sorry,” he said quickly, voice low and earnest. “I should’ve called—I wanted to call—but…” He held up the phone, its screen a spiderweb of cracks, completely dead. “It’s useless.”
Your eyes widened. “What happened?”
“There was an attack downtown,” he said, running a hand through his messy hair. “Some kind of—well, I don’t even know what they were. But Superman showed up, and the whole street went into chaos. Cars overturned, glass everywhere. I got caught in the middle of it trying to get out, and my phone—” He gestured helplessly. “Smashed. I barely made it through without worse.”
The frustration you’d been nursing all evening evaporated instantly, replaced by a cold rush of fear. You grabbed his wrist, tugging him inside, eyes scanning him up and down. “Are you okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Just the scrape,” he said softly, touched by your urgency. “I swear, I’m fine.”
You reached up, fingertips brushing the bruise forming along his jaw. He didn’t flinch, but something in his eyes shifted—like he was both grateful and guilty under your touch.
“God, Clark,” you whispered, throat tight. “You scared me. I thought you’d just… forgotten. Or—” You shook your head. “I don’t know. I was worried.”
His big hand closed gently over yours, grounding. “I’d never forget you,” he said firmly. “Never.”
You swallowed, meeting his eyes. Blue, steady, so full of sincerity it almost hurt. “Promise me,” you said quietly. “If something like that happens again, if you’re ever caught in the middle of something dangerous—you’ll tell me. Just so I don’t sit here imagining the worst.”
“I promise,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ll always come back to you.”
And you believed him. Still, as you rested your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, another thought pressed at the edge of your mind: How did Clark always seem to walk away from disasters barely touched, when others weren’t so lucky?
The server returned with menus, giving Clark a once-over that said she, too, had noticed the rumpled hair and the broken phone on the table. But she didn’t comment—just refilled your water glasses and left you to settle back into the night.
You expected the awkward silence to linger, for the ruined start to sour everything. Instead, Clark leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, and looked at you like you were the only person in the room. “I really am sorry,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “You shouldn’t have been sitting here, wondering if I was going to show up.”
The sincerity in his tone unraveled some of the tightness in your chest. You sighed softly. “Just… next time, Clark, please. Even if it’s two words—I’m alive. I need that.”
He winced, guilt flickering across his features, and nodded. “You’re right. I’ll figure out something—even if my phone’s in pieces. I promise.”
And then, almost like he’d flipped a switch, he set himself to making you smile again. He cracked self-deprecating jokes about being the guy who could ruin two phones in as many months. He teased you for picking the salad section first when he knew you’d end up ordering pasta. He even convinced the server to bring you a complimentary glass of wine, telling her—loud enough for you to hear—that you deserved it for putting up with a boyfriend who ran late.
Slowly, the tension melted. Dinner was… normal. Almost idyllic. He listened, asked questions, leaned in with that intent expression he wore when you spoke, like every word mattered. When you told him a story about Marcy’s latest antics at the office, he laughed so hard his glasses slid down his nose, and you reached across the table to push them back up, both of you smiling too wide.
By the time dessert arrived—two spoons and one slice of cheesecake you hadn’t planned on ordering—your earlier panic felt like it belonged to another night. He fed you a bite across the table, eyes warm with affection, and you thought, not for the first time, that maybe this was the man you’d been waiting for without even realizing it.
Later, when he walked you home, the city was quieter, the chaos of earlier contained to distant sirens. His hand was steady in yours, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself you were there. At your door, he hesitated, the broken phone still in his pocket, his shirt still slightly creased from whatever he’d run through. “Thank you,” he said quietly, “for not giving up on me tonight.”
Your throat tightened. You reached up, cupping his jaw, feeling the faint scrape of stubble under your palm. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
He kissed you then—gentle, lingering, like the whole world outside the two of you could collapse and he’d still be rooted right there. And as you pulled him inside, the broken phone and the strange details of his night faded to the background, drowned out by the way his arms wrapped around you like you were the only thing he’d been fighting for.
---
It was the kind of sleep you only ever fell into when Clark was beside you—deep, warm, cocooned. His arm had been wrapped firmly around your waist when you drifted off, the weight of him at your back like an anchor against the rest of the world. You remembered mumbling something incoherent, felt him kiss your shoulder, and then nothing.
When you woke again, it was to cool sheets. Your hand stretched automatically across the bed, expecting the familiar slope of his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing. Instead, your fingers met rumpled fabric and empty space.
Blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights seeping through your curtains, you pushed yourself up on one elbow. The apartment was quiet—eerily so. No humming, no clatter in the kitchen, no off-key singing from the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. Just silence. “Clark?” you whispered, voice hoarse with sleep. Nothing.
You sat up fully, pulling the blanket around you as if it could soften the strange pang forming in your chest. His glasses weren’t on the nightstand. Neither was his tie or his watch. Even his shoes, which he’d left by the door hours earlier, were gone.
The ache sharpened into something that felt an awful lot like déjà vu. How many times had he slipped away before midnight, murmuring excuses about early mornings, work, needing to get back? And now, after a night that had felt whole—after cheesecake and laughter and whispered promises in the dark—you were alone again.
Your phone sat on the nightstand. You reached for it, thumb hovering over his contact. But what would you even write? Where are you? Why did you leave? Why do you keep doing this?
Instead, you set it back down and curled into the sheets, pressing your face into the pillow where his scent still lingered. It shouldn’t have hurt this much. You weren’t naïve—you knew couples didn’t spend every night tangled together. But the emptiness of that bed, the silence of your apartment, made it feel less like space and more like abandonment.
As sleep threatened to pull you under again, one thought echoed, heavier than the rest: What is it you’re not telling me, Clark?
---
The morning sunlight pulled you awake, sharp and insistent. You blinked blearily, half-expecting to find Clark in the kitchen again—hair mussed, glasses perched on his nose, humming while he made coffee like last time.
But the apartment was silent. The bed was still empty. You sat up slowly, the ache of disappointment settling in your chest. His absence felt sharper today, maybe because last night had been so good—because you’d thought, for once, he’d let himself stay. The knock on your door startled you. For a wild second, you thought maybe it was him. You pulled on your robe and padded across the floor, heart thumping as you opened the door. It was Clark.
He stood there with two coffees balanced in a cardboard tray and a small paper bag tucked under his arm. His hair was neatly combed again, though you could see it had been wet recently, like he’d showered elsewhere. His shirt was fresh, his glasses polished, and his smile—soft, apologetic—hit you right in the chest. “Morning,” he said gently. “Thought you might need fuel before work.”
You stepped back automatically, letting him in even as you searched his face. “Clark… you left.”
His smile faltered. He set the coffees down on your table, careful, precise, like stalling for time. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I, uh… couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d go grab coffee, maybe breakfast.” He held up the paper bag—bagels from that little shop two blocks away. “Your favorite.”
It was a good excuse. Believable, even. But you knew the truth of his rhythms by now—the way he slipped away in the middle of the night, the way his shirts came back rumpled, his hair windblown. Something in your gut whispered that he hadn’t just gone for bagels. You crossed your arms. “You could’ve left a note. Or texted. I woke up and—” You swallowed, voice thinner than you meant. “I didn’t know where you were.”
His face softened, guilt pooling in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “You’re right. I should’ve left something. I wasn’t thinking.”
The sincerity in his voice made it hard to hold onto your frustration. He looked so… earnest, standing there with bagels and coffee, like all he wanted was to take care of you. Still, the question pressed against your chest: Where were you, Clark?
Instead, you sank onto the couch, pulling a bagel from the bag. “One of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
He sat beside you, his thigh warm against yours, and passed you your coffee. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”
You shot him a look over the rim of your cup. “Big words for a guy who disappears in the middle of the night.”
He chuckled softly, leaning down to kiss your temple. “Fair. I’ll try harder. Promise.” The heat of his lips lingered, but so did the empty space you’d woken to.
And as you bit into your bagel, chewing slowly, you couldn’t help wondering if you’d ever get the real answer about where Clark Kent went when he left you behind.
By lunchtime, you’d almost convinced yourself not to mention it. Almost. But then Marcy slid into the booth across from you at your favorite café, setting her latte down with a thud, and gave you that look—the one that said she knew you were holding something back. “You’ve got that face,” she said before you could even unwrap your sandwich.
“What face?” you asked, feigning innocence.
“The one that says, ‘my perfect boyfriend did something less-than-perfect, and now I don’t know if I should be worried or if I’m just being neurotic.’” She sipped her drink. “So. Out with it.”
You sighed, picking at the corner of your napkin. “He left. Again.”
Marcy leaned forward instantly, eyes sharp. “Left? As in, middle of the night left?”
“Yeah. I woke up and he was gone. No note, no text, nothing. Just—” You shook your head. “Empty bed.”
“Okay, that’s strike… what, three? Four?”
You bit your lip. “He came back in the morning. With coffee. And bagels.”
Marcy rolled her eyes so hard you swore she saw the inside of her skull. “Classic male deflection. Disappear mysteriously, then show up with food. Works every time.”
“It’s not like that,” you protested quickly, though your voice wavered. “He looked guilty. He said he couldn’t sleep and went out. And he remembered my exact order.”
“Sweetheart, remembering your bagel order doesn’t erase the fact that he Houdini’d out of your apartment while you were asleep.”
You pressed your hands around your cup, warmth seeping into your palms. “I don’t think he’s… cheating or anything. That’s not him. But…” You hesitated, the words tasting heavy on your tongue. “I feel like he’s hiding something.”
Marcy tilted her head, considering you. “Do you want to know what it is?”
“Of course I do,” you said, frustration bubbling in your chest. “But every time I get close to asking, he looks at me like—like he’s carrying the weight of the world, and I can’t bring myself to pile more on him.”
Marcy reached across the table, resting her hand over yours. Her usual sarcasm softened for once. “Listen. Maybe he is hiding something big. Maybe it’s not even about you. But you deserve honesty. You can’t keep waking up to an empty bed, wondering if he’s coming back.” You nodded slowly, her words hitting deeper than you wanted to admit. Marcy pulled her hand back, smirking again to cut the tension. “Also, for the record? If he’s sneaking out to do something boring like karaoke practice, I expect full disclosure when you find out.”
You laughed weakly, though the sound didn’t quite reach your chest. “Yeah. Deal.”
But as you sipped your coffee, the unease lingered. Because no matter how sweet Clark was—no matter how many bagels or bouquets or apologies he offered—the truth was still there, just out of reach.
And sooner or later, you were going to need to know it.
---
Saturday mornings with Clark had become something you looked forward to all week. You’d woken early without even needing your alarm, already planning which stalls you’d drag him to first—the bakery for croissants, the honey vendor who always slipped you a free sample, the flower stand where Clark always insisted on buying something “because you look like you belong in a field of sunflowers.”
The tote bag was already folded in your purse when you left your apartment, humming with quiet anticipation. You got there ten minutes early, half-expecting him to already be waiting. That was his thing—early, with two coffees, one exactly the way you liked it. But when the clock hit the top of the hour, there was no sign of him. You lingered near the entrance, checking your phone. No texts. You typed a quick one—Here! Where are you?—and waited. The bubbles never appeared.
Minutes stretched. Ten. Fifteen. You pretended to browse a stand of homemade candles, pretending not to notice couples walking hand in hand past you, laughing and carrying bags of produce. You tried calling. Straight to voicemail. By the half-hour mark, your stomach wasn’t just empty—it was twisted.
You sat down on a bench at the edge of the market, clutching your tote bag like it might anchor you. The sun was warm, the air smelled like bread and basil, but all you could feel was the pit forming in your chest. He hadn’t just texted. He hadn’t said I’m late or I’ll be there soon. He was just… gone.
You tried not to think about the last time. The broken phone. The story about being caught up in the chaos while Superman fought whoever it was off. You tried not to wonder what excuse he would bring this time, what little gesture he’d use to smooth over the sharp edge of your worry. But more than anything, you tried not to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.
Because sitting there, alone in a crowd of people bustling through their weekend routines, you realized something painful, Clark made you feel safer than anyone ever had… until the moments when he didn’t show up at all. And those moments were starting to come more often.
You held out for almost an hour. Long enough that the croissant stand sold out. Long enough that the flowers wilted a little in the heat. Long enough that the ache of disappointment settled bone-deep. Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. You folded your empty tote back into your bag, stood from the bench, and walked home with your phone silent in your pocket.
By the time you got back to your apartment, your chest felt tight in a way that no heating pad or Clark Kent smile could soften. You dropped your bag by the door, kicked off your shoes, and sank onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn’t just that he’d missed the date. It was that he hadn’t told you. Not a text, not a call. Just… silence. The knock on your door didn’t come until late afternoon. When you opened it, there he was, hair windblown, shirt wrinkled, glasses smudged again. He had that look—guilty, apologetic, sheepish. In one hand he held a paper bag, the familiar bakery logo printed on the side. “I’m so sorry,” he said immediately, words tumbling out before you could even decide if you wanted to let him in. “I got caught up—there was this fire on 8th, and the street was shut down, and it all got so—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I should’ve called. I know.”
You crossed your arms, the sting of waiting in the sun still sharp. “Clark, we were supposed to meet at ten. You didn’t text. You didn’t pick up when I called. I just… I sat there.”
He winced, stepping closer, holding the bag out like a peace offering. “I know. I hate that I left you waiting like that. I grabbed croissants—they had some left at the bakery, somehow.”
You took the bag automatically, though it felt heavier than just pastries. “That’s not the point.”
“I know,” he said again, softer this time. His eyes were earnest, wide behind his crooked glasses. “You matter more than anything, I swear. I just—” He faltered, his jaw tightening, something unspoken hanging there. “Sometimes things happen and I can’t… I can’t explain them right away.”
Your heart squeezed, anger and worry warring inside you. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Clark. I just need you to show up. Or at least let me know why you can’t.”
He nodded quickly, stepping closer until his hands hovered near your arms, not quite touching. “You’re right. I’ll do better. I will. Please don’t think this means I don’t want to be there. Because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
And God help you, you believed him. Even as your doubt gnawed, even as the silence between texts stretched longer each time, the way he said it—raw, pleading—made you want to forgive him. You let him pull you into his arms, let him tuck his chin over your head like he could shield you from the very pain he’d caused. But later, as you sat together on the couch sharing croissants gone a little stale, you couldn’t stop the thought from circling back: What keeps pulling you away from me, Clark?
Clark stayed. Not just through dinner—which he insisted on cooking from whatever was in your fridge, humming off-key while he stirred pasta sauce—but through the soft, quiet hours afterwards, when the city’s glow seeped in through the curtains and the apartment settled into stillness.
He was attentive, almost overly so. He poured your wine before you asked, fetched your blanket before you reached for it, queued up your comfort show without needing a reminder. Every small gesture felt like a peace offering, like he was trying to stitch over the morning’s absence with warmth and familiarity.
You sat curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his, your cheek against his chest. The steady beat of his heart filled your ear, grounding you. And yet, you couldn’t shake the memory of waiting at the market, of the empty bench, of your phone silent in your hand.
Clark shifted slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re quiet,” he murmured.
“Just tired,” you lied.
He hummed, like he half-believed you. His hand rubbed slow circles over your arm, his touch gentle, patient. The kind of touch that usually melted every sharp edge inside you. Tonight, though, it made your throat tighten. You tilted your head up, studying him in the low light. His glasses caught a glint from the TV, hiding his eyes, but the rest of his face was open, soft, like he belonged nowhere else but here. “I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate you,” you said quietly.
He blinked, surprised. “I never think that.”
“I just…” Your words tangled, heavy with the truth you weren’t ready to spill. I just need to know where you go. Why you leave. Why I can’t always count on you. Instead, you swallowed it back. “I don’t want us to end up resenting each other.”
His hand stilled for a beat before he cupped your face, turning you gently so you were looking right at him. “I could never resent you. Not for anything.” His voice was low, steady, full of something that felt too big for the space between you.
The sincerity in his eyes broke down whatever was left of your defenses. You leaned into his hand, closing your eyes as his thumb brushed your cheek. “Stay tonight,” you whispered. “Don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” he promised without hesitation. And this time, he didn’t. He stayed through the credits, through the late-night reruns, through the drift of your eyelids. You fell asleep with him holding you, his chin resting lightly on the crown of your head. When you woke in the middle of the night, just for a moment, you reached across the bed—and he was still there. Warm, solid, his arm heavy around your waist.
Relief flooded you, soft and fragile. For now, at least, he’d kept his word. But even as you closed your eyes again, drifting back into sleep, you knew one night couldn’t erase the questions piling up inside you. Soon, you’d have to ask.
---
Sunlight warmed the edges of the curtains, spilling across the floor in slow gold. You blinked awake slowly, the kind of waking where your body resisted because it was too comfortable, too cocooned. Clark was still there.
For a beat you didn’t move, just listened to his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. His arm was still around your waist, heavy but secure, anchoring you in place. He always held you like he thought you might slip away if he loosened his grip.
You turned your head slightly, watching him in the half-light. His glasses sat on the nightstand, forgotten, and without them his features looked sharper, somehow more striking. There was something in the lines of his face that always seemed just a little… different when he wasn’t wearing them. You shook the thought away, tucking it back where all your other quiet questions about him lived.
Clark stirred, eyelids fluttering, and a lazy smile curved across his mouth when he saw you awake. “Morning,” he rumbled, his voice rough with sleep.
“Morning,” you echoed, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your own lips.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then sat up slightly, stretching one arm. “Don’t move. I’ll get breakfast.”
You propped yourself on your elbow, watching as he padded into the kitchen in his undershirt, the lines of his back broad and solid. It should’ve felt strange, this kind of domesticity. It was still new, still fragile. But instead it felt inevitable—like waking up to Clark in your kitchen was how mornings were supposed to be. By the time you wandered in, he had eggs sizzling in the pan and coffee brewing. He turned at the sound of your steps, his smile soft. “Perfect timing. Sit.”
You obeyed, sliding into a chair as he set a plate in front of you. Toast, eggs, and coffee fixed exactly the way you liked it. “You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, though your heart wasn’t in it.
“Ridiculously good at breakfast,” he countered, sliding into the chair across from you with his own plate.
You ate in easy silence for a while, the clink of silverware filling the space. But as you sipped your coffee, your eyes kept straying to him—his neatness, the way his glasses were back on, the way he smiled at you like you were the best part of his day.
And under it all, the memory of yesterday tugged at you. The empty market bench. The broken promises. The cracks he kept smoothing over with bagels, with croissants, with coffee and warmth.
You set your mug down, the words on the tip of your tongue. Clark, where do you go? Why do you leave? What aren’t you telling me?
But then he reached across the table, his large hand curling over yours, his thumb brushing gently against your knuckles. “I like this,” he said quietly. “Just us. Starting the day together.”
Your chest tightened. You wanted to ask, wanted to demand answers. Instead, you let his warmth soften you again, let yourself smile back even as the questions burrowed deeper. Because for now, Clark was here. And you weren’t ready to risk losing that—not yet.
---
The night had started like any other. Takeout cartons stacked on the coffee table, an old movie playing in the background, Clark sprawled comfortably beside you with his long legs taking up half the couch. He’d stayed late all week—he’d made you breakfast, walked you to work twice, even surprised you at your office with your favorite drink. For a moment, you’d started to believe the cracks were sealing themselves.
But belief wasn’t the same as certainty. And certainty was what you needed. So when the movie ended and you excused yourself to change, you didn’t reach for your oversized T-shirt or soft flannel pants. You reached for the pajamas—the silk ones Marcy had teased you about, the ones that had made Clark’s ears turn scarlet the first time you’d worn them.
You checked your reflection once in the mirror, nerves buzzing in your stomach. It wasn’t about seduction—not really. It was about proof. If he stayed tonight, maybe you could stop worrying. Maybe you could stop imagining all the shadows in the spaces he left behind. You stepped back into the living room, heart hammering.
Clark was loosening his tie, standing near the couch. He turned when he heard you, and just like before, his reaction was immediate. His eyes widened, his breath caught, and his hands stilled on the knot of fabric at his throat. “Oh.”
You leaned casually against the doorframe, forcing a smile. “Thought I’d get comfortable.”
He swallowed hard, his ears already pink. “You… you look—” His voice faltered, and he cleared his throat, tugging at his collar like the air had gone thin.
You crossed the room slowly, fingers brushing the tie still loose at his chest. “Stay tonight,” you said softly, tilting your head up at him. “With me.”
For a moment, you thought it had worked. His hands twitched at his sides, his gaze flickering down to your mouth, every line of his body taut with want. You tugged lightly on his tie, urging him closer, and his breath stuttered.
Then his head snapped toward the window. You barely had time to register the sudden change in his posture before he stepped back, stumbling slightly, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug. His expression shifted—alarm, urgency—something you’d never seen cut so sharply across his face. “Clark?” you asked, your stomach dropping.
“I—I have to go,” he blurted, already reaching for his coat. His voice was rushed, uneven, almost panicked. “I’m sorry, I—”
“What? Why?” You took a step after him, confusion and hurt rising in your throat.
“I just—” He glanced at you, eyes wide, torn, like he wanted to explain but couldn’t. “I’ll call you. I promise.”
And then he was gone—half-stumbling into his shoes, out the door before you could take another step. The echo of it rattled through the apartment, leaving you standing barefoot in silk, the air still humming with the ghost of his almost-touch.
You stared at the closed door, your pulse pounding in your ears. This time, there had been no excuse. No broken phone, no croissants, no story about Superman. Just raw urgency in his eyes, the kind that left you cold. And for the first time, you couldn’t convince yourself it didn’t mean something.
By the time you made it into the office the next morning, you’d barely slept. You’d lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, Clark’s hurried exit replaying again and again in your head—the way his eyes had darted toward the window, the almost-panicked way he’d stumbled over himself getting out the door. So when Marcy appeared at your cubicle, steaming latte in hand, you didn’t even bother with small talk. “He left again,” you said flatly, before she could open her mouth.
Her eyes went wide, and she perched herself on the edge of your desk like she was settling in for a story. “Again? When?”
“Last night.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “He was there. He was staying. And then… I don’t know, he just—heard something? Looked out the window? And bolted. Like I didn’t even exist.”
Marcy whistled low. “Oof. Not good.” She sipped her latte thoughtfully. “Okay, let’s brainstorm worst-case scenarios. Cheating. Secret family. Double life. Serial killer.”
You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Marcy—”
“No, think about it!” She ticked off her fingers. “Cheater? Bad, but common. Secret family? Messy, but at least he’s not wasting all his emotional energy on you. Serial killer? Well…” She tilted her head dramatically. “What’s worse, a cheater or a serial killer?”
Despite yourself, you barked out a laugh, muffled behind your palms. “That is not funny.”
“Oh, it’s hilarious,” she countered, smug. “I’d take a serial killer over a cheater any day. At least with a killer, you’re not competing with Susan from accounting.”
You dropped your hands, glaring at her through the exhaustion. “You’re insane.”
“I’m realistic,” she shot back, grinning. Then, softer, “but seriously, babe. If he’s running out like that? If he can’t even give you a reason? That’s not nothing.”
You sighed, slumping in your chair. “I know. But it doesn’t feel like cheating. When he looks at me—Marcy, it’s like I’m the only person in the world. I can’t explain it. But then he vanishes, and I’m left wondering if I imagined it all.”
Her expression softened, the teasing edge fading. “Then maybe he’s not a cheater. Maybe he’s not even a serial killer.”
“Thanks for that.”
“I’m just saying.” She nudged your shoulder. “Maybe he’s hiding something else. Something big. You’ve got to decide if you want to push him on it—or if you’re okay being in the dark.”
The words sat heavy in your chest. Because deep down, you already knew the answer: you weren’t okay in the dark. Not anymore. But the thought of shining a light on whatever Clark was hiding scared you more than you wanted to admit.
---
The knock came just after sunset. You weren’t surprised—it was almost a pattern now, Clark showing up late, carrying the weight of an apology in his posture. When you opened the door, there he was, hair neat but glasses slightly askew, a paper bag dangling from one hand and a bouquet of sunflowers in the other. He smiled, soft and tentative, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him in. “I brought dinner,” he said gently. “And flowers. To say I’m sorry.”
You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him enter. He set the bag on the table, laid the flowers carefully in a vase like they were something fragile. Then he turned back to you, his expression earnest, pleading. “I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said, voice low. “I know it hurt you. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”
Your throat tightened. “Then why do you keep doing it?”
He flinched, just slightly, but recovered with that same soft steadiness. “Sometimes… things come up. Things I can’t explain right away. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be here. With you.”
You pressed your hands into your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “Clark, I waited for you. At the farmer’s market. At dinner. In bed. Over and over again, I wait. And you leave.”
He took a step closer, desperation bleeding into his voice. “I come back. Every time, I come back.”
“But I don’t know if you will!” The words burst out, sharper than you intended. Your chest ached, eyes burning as you forced yourself to look at him. “I can’t keep doing this—wondering where you are, why you left, if you’re okay. I can’t keep waking up to an empty bed and convincing myself it doesn’t mean anything.”
His face crumpled, like the ground had shifted under him. “Don’t say that.”
“Clark…” Your voice broke, tears slipping free. “You’re everything I want. You’re kind, and sweet, and you make me feel like I matter. But then you vanish, and it’s like I don’t know you at all. And I can’t—” You shook your head, sobbing quietly. “I can’t do this anymore. Not like this.”
He stared at you, stricken, words caught in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he had the right. “I wish I could tell you,” he whispered finally, voice rough. “I wish I could tell you everything. You don’t know how much I want to. But—” He stopped himself, biting the words back. His chest rose and fell with a shudder.
You swallowed hard, wiping at your cheeks. “Then tell me. Please. Because if you can’t… I don’t know how we’re supposed to keep going.”
The silence between you stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. And for the first time since you’d met him, you weren’t sure if his sweetness, his apologies, his flowers, could make this right. Clark stood there, chest rising and falling, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as though even they were weary of carrying this lie. His hand flexed at his side, and then, with a shaky breath, he spoke. “Close your eyes,” he said softly.
You blinked at him, stunned. “Clark, this isn’t—”
“Please.” His voice was raw, desperate. “Just… if you trust me, close your eyes.” The tremor in his tone stilled your protests. Your heart pounded, but slowly—hesitantly—you let your eyes fall shut. “Do you trust me?” he asked, closer now.
You swallowed hard. “Yes.”
For a moment, there was only the silence of your apartment—the hum of the fridge, the faint city noise beyond the window. Then Clark’s hands were at your waist, warm and steady, and he drew you gently against him. “Hold on to me,” he murmured.
Before you could ask why, the ground shifted. Your stomach swooped, your hair lifted in a rush of wind. Instinctively, you clung to him, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt. Air whipped around you, cool and rushing, and a gasp tore from your throat. “Clark!”
“Shh,” he soothed, his voice steady even through the roar of wind. “I’ve got you.”
You cracked your eyes open—and your breath caught. The city stretched out below you in a wash of lights and motion, sprawling farther than you’d ever seen it. Streets glimmered like veins of gold, buildings pierced the sky around you, and the river shone silver in the moonlight. You weren’t in your apartment anymore. You were flying.
And Clark—Clark was the one holding you. Your gaze snapped to him, the wind tousling his hair, his glasses gone, his eyes impossibly blue, sharp and unhidden in the night. The face you knew, but different—clearer, bolder, his. Realization crashed into you like a tidal wave. “You…” Your voice shook. “You’re—”
“Superman.” He said it quietly, the word almost reverent, as if he were confessing a sin instead of revealing himself. “It’s me.”
Your chest tightened, tears stinging your eyes. All the absences, the broken phones, the midnight disappearances—suddenly they made sense. Not cheating. Not lies. Not betrayal. He hadn’t been leaving you for someone else. He’d been leaving you for everyone else.
“I should have told you sooner,” he continued, guilt threading every word. “But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean for you. For us. I didn’t want you to look at me differently.”
You shook your head, still clutching him tightly as the city rushed below. “Clark, I—God, I thought you were cheating, or hiding some secret family, or—I don’t even know.” Your voice cracked. “But this? You were out saving people while I was sitting at home wondering why you didn’t text me back.”
His expression broke, raw and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. “I wanted to protect you. I thought keeping you in the dark would keep you safe. But it hurt you, and I hate that. I never wanted to hurt you.”
You stared at him, at the impossible truth in front of you, at the man who was both the sweetest, gentlest soul you’d ever known and the most powerful being on Earth. And against all reason, you laughed, shaky and breathless. “Marcy’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out I was worried you were a serial killer.”
Clark blinked, startled, then let out a stunned, nervous laugh of his own. Relief softened his features, even as his arms tightened protectively around you. “I don’t care if you’re Superman,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the tears on your cheeks. “I just need you to be honest with me. I just need you.”
He looked at you like you’d hung the stars yourself. “You have me. Always.” The descent was so smooth you barely felt it, the city tilting back into place as Clark slowed, wind softening against your skin until your feet touched down on your balcony. His arms didn’t leave you right away; instead, he held you steady, like he wasn’t sure if your legs would trust the ground again.
You weren’t sure they would either. Heart still hammering, you clutched at his shirt for a moment before finally forcing yourself to loosen your grip. The apartment behind you looked painfully ordinary—blanket draped over the couch, empty mug still on the table. And yet, everything had shifted.
Clark set you down fully, then stepped back just enough to give you space. Without his glasses, he looked both impossibly familiar and startlingly new. His eyes, unshielded, searched your face with something raw in them—hope tangled with fear.
You let out a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You’re Superman. My boyfriend is Superman.”
His mouth curved into a small, almost self-conscious smile. “That’s… yeah. That’s me.”
You dropped your hand, meeting his gaze again. “All those nights you left. The phone. The farmer’s market. You were—”
“Saving people,” he finished softly. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d always come back. I just… couldn’t tell you where I was going.”
A lump rose in your throat. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting alone, thinking I wasn’t enough? That you didn’t want me?”
His face broke, guilt carved deep in every line. He closed the space between you, carefully, his hands hovering near your arms like he wanted to hold you but was waiting for permission. “I hated it. Every time I left you, I hated it. But I thought if I told you the truth… you’d look at me like the rest of the world does. Like a symbol. Not a man.”
You shook your head, tears threatening again. “Clark, I’ve never wanted Superman. I’ve always wanted you. The guy who brings me bagels, who sings off-key while he cooks, who worries if I’ve had enough coffee before work. That’s the man I’m in love with.”
His breath hitched, and this time he didn’t hesitate. He pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. “I love you too,” he whispered into your hair. “God, I love you.”
You melted against him, arms circling his waist, your cheek pressed to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the tension that had lived in your chest eased. The cracks weren’t cracks at all—they were pieces of a puzzle you hadn’t been allowed to see. When you finally pulled back, you caught his face in your hands, studying him with a small, breathless laugh. “You’re really Superman. And all this time, I thought you were sneaking off to… I don’t know, karaoke night or a secret family.”
His cheeks flushed, sheepish even now. “No secret family. And I’m terrible at karaoke.”
The laugh bubbled out of you, unstoppable. You leaned up and kissed him, slow and certain, feeling him smile against your mouth. When you finally parted, you rested your forehead against his. “Next time, don’t let me sit in the dark, okay? If you have to go, just… tell me. Even if it’s just a look. I can live with Superman. I can’t live with silence.”
His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek with infinite care. “No more silence. I promise.”
You leaned into the kiss fully, your arms wrapping around his neck, and for a few precious seconds there was no Superman, no danger, no lies—just Clark, just you, just the steady warmth of him choosing to stay.
pairing: clarisse la rue x daughter of aphrodite!reader
summary: you and clarisse have been dating for almost a little over three months, but a certain problem nags clarisse’s mind.
𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡ 𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡
a/n: plsss enjoy this!! 🥹 no hate and reminder to spread love!
word count: 1k+
𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡ 𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡・𓂃𓈒⟡
“Loving You”
Clarisse lays in her bunk as the rest of her cabin mates run wild. She does nothing of course, it’s not too big of a deal to her. Something else had been weighing on her mind. On the floor in front of her bunk sits you.
You had been in her cabin for a while. Whether it was sitting down, spending time with her, or bantering with her half-siblings.
“Clarisse?” you lean ur head back to look up at her; even though your view was upside down.
The girl quickly snapped out of her trance, looking down at you, “Yeah?”
“If you could choose on whether to be a crab or be a lobster, which one would you choose?” your question was silly, but it was enough to bring her out of her thoughts.
Clarisse raised an eyebrow, shaking her head.
“That’s a dumb question.”
“Just answer!”
Clarisse finally sighed, answering what she thought was a stupid question, “Fine, I’d choose to be a lobster, so then I couldn’t spot any mortals.”
Her answer made you smile. So typical. You stand up, crawling your way into her bunk. You sit beside her, pulling your knees up to your chest.
“That’s a ridiculous answer. The correct answer is neither because both get cooked,” you banter, playfully elbowing her.
Clarisse rolled her eyes, glaring at her half siblings before glancing at you. She spoke with irritation, “That literally makes no sense. All sea life gets cooked. What’s the significance with crabs and lobsters?”
“It’s just a would you rather, no need to get defensive La Rue.”
“I’m not defensive,” she says softer, running a hand down your arm. “It’s just an absurd prompt. Give me something more interesting,” she insists.
That makes you ponder for a new prompt. If there was one truth about your girlfriend, it was that she always took up a challenge (even a would you rather).
“Okay, would you rather eat out of the trash for the rest of your life or would you rather eat out of one of your half-brother’s snack stash?”
Clarisse scoffed, “That’s literally the same thing (y/n).”
“No, one is the trash and one is about to be trashed.”
“Exactly. So it’s the same thing.”
You smile, leaning your head on her shoulder. She never lets you win arguments unless you really want to. It wasn’t surprising that a dumb would you rather prompt would be any different.
Clarisse wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to her. She leans closer to you, whispering in your ear, “But you’re cute so you can say whatever you want.”
She kisses the top of your head, resting her head on top of yours. In the tornado that was Clarisse’s mind, she found peace in you.
“Oo… someone’s feeling lovey dovey,” one of her half-brothers say. Clarisse glares at him before chucking a pillow at his head.
Her eyes flickered back to you, her gaze softening. She rubbed her thumb against your shoulder as a way of showing affection. It wasn’t all the time that Clarisse showed affection like this. It made you slightly worried.
“Hey… are you okay?” you whisper, pulling back a few inches to look at her face.
Clarisse’s eyes stayed on you and she moved her hand to your cheek. Her eyes hid a puzzle that was impossible to solve.
“Yeah. I’m just gonna miss you when summer’s over,” she murmurs before pecking your cheek and pulling you closer.
You lean your head on her shoulder again, thinking about her words. Instead of questioning her, you just stay against her. Savoring moments like these are the best part of summers at camp.
When first meeting Clarisse, you never expected her to love this passionately. You of course had a huge crush on her the first time you laid your eyes on her. She always had a softer side when it came to you.
Clarisse nods towards her siblings, signaling them to leave the cabin. Wanting to leave the cabin anyways, they all run outside to train. A soft sigh escaped her once they left, finally feeling at peace.
“(Y/n), are you sure you can’t stay year around?” Clarisse asks quietly.
You knew it. You knew she’d ask that. Due to the great relationship with your dad and the popularity you have back home, you never stayed at camp fully.
“Clarisse, you know that’s not possible. I’ve got people back home who miss me. But I’ll write letters…” you sit up, pulling away from her.
Clarisse scoffed, “No. You always write letters. That’s not the same as being here. That’s not the same as being here with me.”
You shut your eyes for a moment, feeling a tug in your chest from guilt.
“Please don’t make me feel guilty for wanting to go back to my home.”
“Gods, I’m not making you feel guilty. You’re being too dramatic with this. I’m saying I love you too much to be sane without you.”
The air went tense and your eyes widened. Clarisse hadn’t said the L word yet and neither have you. Love was a deep feeling and you felt it, but never knew if she did.
Clarisse noticed this switch of energy, immediately looking away from you.
You scoot closer, grabbing her chin and turned her face towards yours. You smile before whispering, “I love you too.”
With that, Clarisse wrapped her arm around your waist and kissed your lips softly. Her eyes shut as she began to cover your entire face in kisses.
You giggle, running your hand down her arm and twirling your fingers in one of her curls.
This was the most perfect place to be. With Clarisse. In her arms.
“I love you in every way,” you confess, your words shaky with nervousness.
Clarisse pulled away from a second to rest her hands on your cheeks. Her eyes twinkled with happiness and she tilted her head to the side. She replied, “I’ll love you in every lifetime. I’ll love you in every universe. As long as I’m with you, I’ll never feel loneliness. You make me feel whole and full of life.”
The both of you spent the rest of your afternoon in each other’s arms. Loving one another was the source of happiness you both held for the world.
I’m a survivor from Gaza, holding on to hope in a world that has fallen apart around me. 💔
The life I once knew — my home, my family, my sense of safety — has been shattered by war.
Today, I live among the ruins, trying to find a path forward through the rubble and heartbreak. 🏚
Every moment is a battle against fear and uncertainty.
What was once ordinary — a safe place to sleep, a future to dream of — now feels like a distant memory. 🕊️
I share my story not to seek pity, but to keep hope alive — to believe that even in the darkest places, kindness can still find a way. 🤍
If my story touches your heart, please consider sharing it or offering support.
Every voice, every act of care, brings me one step closer to safety. ✨
Thank you for taking the time to listen. 🙏
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Please help Abed out!! He needs all the help that he can get. Share this, post this, reblog this. Innocent people are losing their lives in Palestine due to ethnic cleansing and you can help!!
warnings: slight internalized homophobia, mild violence, built up angst
genre — enemies to lovers? short fanfic
summary: you and clarisse have never gotten along due to differences in each other’s nature. however, a game of capture the flag shifts the entire dynamic between the two of you.
pairing — clarisse la rue x daughter of athena!reader
⋆˚࿔ ____________ ⋆˚࿔
a/n :: this is my first ever fanfic that has been PUBLISHED 🥹🥹!! i usually never post my fanfiction but im feeling brave!
The air was tense. The sun had stopped shining as brightly as it did earlier. Everyone seemed on edge.
People had every right to be on edge.
Today was capture the flag.
The one camp event that put pressure on everyone.
The one person who felt no pressure was Clarisse La Rue. The daughter of Ares feared no one and was cruel to everyone. She loved capture the flag because it allowed her to be in charge of something. This sense of control made her even more cold.
Two teams were made: blue and red. Six cabins were assigned to each team. The blue team had the Hermes, Athena, Aphrodite, Demeter, Hephaestus, and Poseidon cabins. The red team had the Ares, Zeus, Hera, Apollo, Artemis, and Dionysus cabins.
You’re standing in place, on a hill, defending your team’s flag. You are on team blue as a defender. The atmosphere suddenly gets very unnatural as the wind completely stops shifting.
Chills run down your spine, causing the grip on your sword to tighten. Everything went quiet and you could hear shuffling in the distance. The wind begins to whistle again, allowing you to calm yourself for a moment.
If only the whistling had actually been the wind. Out of nowhere, a group of five people begin to emerge from below the hill. You stiffen, holding your sword up a few more inches to prepare for an attack.
The group was filled with muscular kids that had scowls on their faces — Ares kids. That only meant that Clarisse had to be with them.
“Why don’t you move out of our way so we can get your flag?” One of the Ares kids spoke, a smirk forming on his face as he stepped forward.
He held a large sword that looked like it was twenty pounds. He had brown hair that was buzzed almost completely off, a scar on his left cheek, and armor covering almost all of his body.
“Yeah, just get out of here and we can peacefully grab the flag, win, and we promise we won’t rub it in your face,” a girl spoke up, her appearance hidden by a helmet and heavy armor. She held no weapons but stood near her siblings.
You stand your ground, scoffing merely at the group of campers.
“Yeah right. I’m not gonna betray my team just because of some low lives,” you say while gripping the hilt of your sword, holding it out to the group.
Adrenaline had taken over you, making you unafraid of the people in front of you. Your brain tried to figure out their motives. Why bring an entire group when they could’ve only sent two offense to the flag? Your eyes scanned the group meticulously, attempting to see through their sharp and shiny armor.
“Low lives? Do you even know who you’re talking to?”
“I do, but I’m not seeing anything too important. So why are you guys stalling? If you’re gonna fight then fight,” you reply with the witty comment, hoping that would give more insight on this team’s plan.
Suddenly, a raspy, deep voice spoke from the shadows of the trees, “Well we could, but we wanted to let you choose between the easy way and the hard way to do this.”
Walking out of the trees and into view was the one and only Clarisse La Rue. Daughter of Ares, head counselor of the Ares cabin, one of the strongest demigods at camp.
However, there’s history where legacies lie. You and Clarisse have never gotten along. Her bullying never worked on you and it irritated her. She continued trying to bully you but after a while she gave up. Her persistent nature is what drew you away from the girl. The repetition of attempting to gain your attention was one thing that drained all energy you had.
After you were claimed by Athena, you naturally became stronger and smarter. This made Clarisse envious of you, causing both of you to rival against each other.
“You say that like any of you are a threat to me. I could beat all of you with my eyes closed,” you said a tad too arrogantly. Beating any random demigod? Pretty easy. Beating Clarisse? Difficult but attainable. Beating Clarisse while she’s angry, during capture the flag, with five of her siblings by her side? That’s impossible.
You had only beaten her six times. These six times were six too many; especially since most of the events took place during sparring. Capture the flag was an entirely different battlefield. In this event, everyone is ready to win, no matter what.
In response to your words, Clarisse tilts her head. Her words are what allow you to reconnect with reality, “Is that so? Then I guess you leave us with no choice.”
She nods to her siblings as a signal to attack.
In an instant, five very strong demigods sprint your way. Right behind you is the very demigod that no one can successfully go up against and defeat during capture the flag.
You act anyway. You turn, facing Clarisse and her egotistical face. She merely raises an eyebrow at your movement, almost daring you to try and run off.
This is where an idea forms. You charge at her but as soon as she reciprocates, you side step and run down into the forest. Soon after, loud yells echo throughout the woods, and hurried footsteps are heard after them.
Your breathing becomes rapid as you run, making your ribs feel sharp. The wind in the atmosphere eventually picks up again, slowing you down.
Before you can speed up again, a heavy thing slams into you, tackling you to the ground. Any excessive breathing you once experienced was now knocked out of you.
With your face to the ground, and your body pinned down by the weight of something else, you could feel your confidence waning.
You are turned to lay on your back and your eyes could finally see what tackled you.
Above you was Clarisse, her curls falling from the front of her ponytail, framing her face. She held you down by pressing her hands to your shoulders. Her eyebrows furrowed together, and her eyes narrowed.
“Where’d that fighting spirit go? I thought you could beat all of us?” she said before laughing like a hyena, her grip loosening just slightly.
A few of her siblings finally caught up, staring down at you.
“Tell us where the flag is!”
“We can either get the flag or get your head on a stick.”
“Shut up!” Clarisse yelled, she grimaced at her siblings. “Three of you go east, two of you go west.”
“But she can easily tell us where the flag is!”
“And I’m telling you where to go,” she snapped, loosening her grip almost completely.
With her last words, all five of her siblings scrambled off, searching for the blue team’s flag. While Clarisse was still off guard, keeping a loose grip, you quickly shove her off of you. Clarisse falls to the ground, making a thud. You quickly get on her, hoping to pin her down.
Before you can even get close, you catch that specific type of anger she gets in her eyes. She twists your arm before tackling you once more.
This wrestling continued for a good three minutes. You’d roll, she’d attack, you’d fight back; it was a never ending cycle, until it ended.
When Clarisse got on top of you again, she took her spear from behind her back and pressed it to your neck.
Cold metal was felt against your throat, intensifying the moment.
“I’m tired of your continuous empty threats. You think you’re so much better than me? Prove it,” she says with venom.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about how you think you’re better than me. You clearly aren’t if I’m the one with the blade to your throat.”
You look away, gritting your teeth. It made sense. Clarisse wanted her siblings to search for the flag so that she could finally beat you.
“That means nothing. I’ve fought you one too many times and have won,” you say with a scoff, staring up at her.
Clarisse raised an eyebrow, pressing you further into the ground and pushing the blade closer to your skin.
Her eyes held a deep hatred that you couldn’t quite understand.
She leaned closer, loosening her grip slightly.
“Yeah? Well you aren’t gonna win this time. For once, you’ll lose.”
“No I won’t.”
“Yes you will. And once you do, I’ll never let you live it down.”
“How do you know that will happen?” you question, your face contorting in confusion.
After your question, a loud blow horn noise was heard. Campers cheered in triumph in the far distance, making your eyes widen. It was a stall. The entire interaction with Clarisse was a stall. You had been ambushed and didn’t even know it. Without directions from yourself, the other Ares campers wouldn’t know where to go. However, Clarisse sent them anyway. She sent them because she knew that her team had already found the flag. The entire group of her siblings was just a decoy.
Your theory was proven when Clarisse smirked. An annoyingly obvious smirk that made your blood boil.
“Seems like you did lose,” she said before cackling. Her grip was taken off of you and she stood up. Despite her happy demeanor, her eyes glared daggers down at you.
You slowly sat up and at that time, Clarisse crouched down. Your eyes narrowed and you jumped to strike her, but she shoved you back down.
“I really was starting to like you and that ego that you call success. I guess I was wrong, brainiac,” she said with a laugh.
“You think that winning will soothe the pain in your heart but deep down you’ll still be weak.” Your striking comment changed the scenery of this moment. What used to be pride, anger, and disappointment, was now an awkward, eerie silence.
Clarisse grabbed you by the shirt, using all her force.
“You’re not special (l/n), but you probably already know that. Someone who’s extraordinary wouldn’t be so upset to lose for once. I guess you really aren’t interesting after all,” she said in anger.
“Then why stay?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you leave right after the win was announced? Why are you even bothering to disrespect me?”
Everything went quiet. No one ever stood up to Clarisse like you ever had, and no one would ever dare say what you’ve been saying to her. You expected to get punched in the face, but something completely unexpected happened.
Clarisse leaned closer, looking you up and down.
“Maybe I actually like being around someone as irritating as you. It gives my life entertainment to constantly argue with someone like you. Someone so… unafraid,” she said softly, her tone completely changing from before.
“Unafraid? You’re acting like someone should be afraid of you. There’s nothing to fear,” you say harshly, moving your face away from her. The close proximity made your heart rate sky rocket.
Clarisse had never acted like this before. It was weird but also nerve wracking. You had always hated Clarisse. Her tough exterior, her unfunny insults, and her attitude were things that you couldn’t get past. But maybe the girl had a point. The banter was interesting.
You just didn’t know why Clarisse was going to all of this trouble to torment you. Especially right now. Especially in this moment. Clarisse was never satisfied and always had to chase for more, but why wouldn’t she celebrate her win and leave you in the dust?
Why would she spend her victory by being close to you?
The daughter of Ares chuckled, letting go of you.
“I could say the same about you,” she said with a smirk before standing up. She continued looking down at you, but her face changed. Her eyes slightly sharpened and her arms crossed. She was thinking. Pondering. But what could she possibly be thinking about? “Goodbye y/n, enjoy explaining to your team how you helped them lose miserably.”
Clarisse turned and began to walk away, which is when you scrambled to stand up. She had only gotten a few feet from you before you were grabbing onto her arm. That was the mistake. Everyone knows to never touch Clarisse. It’s an unspoken rule at camp.
The girl slowly turned to face you, her anger radiating. Clarisse’s hair was still loose and several strands escaped her hair tie’s grasp. She looked down at your hand, as a sign to tell you to let go.
Her muscles tensed, uncontrollably flexing her bicep.
You quickly let go of her, rubbing your sweaty palm on your jeans. A million thoughts run through your head as you and the daughter of Ares stare intently into each other.
“Did you mean it?” you say blankly, being vague with your words.
“Mean what?”
“Did you mean it when you said it was entertaining to argue with me?”
“I said it, didn’t I? So what do you think?” she scoffed, shaking her head.
Clarisse turned back around, beginning to walk again. Her steps were slow and steady, as if waiting for a response.
That change of pace. Was she upset? Why would she be upset? What did you do this time?
“What?”
“Use context clues, (y/n).”
“Why didn’t you just beat me up back there? Why did you tell your siblings to split away from us? Why are you so content on arguing with me?” you ask desperately, showing your frustrations as you follow the girl.
Clarisse whipped around, almost making you bump into her.
“Gods you are so dense, (y/n)!” she begins to step closer to you, staring down into your eyes.
“Yknow, for a daughter of Athena, you sure are acting pretty stupid right now.”
“Stupid about what?”
“You really can’t see?”
“See what?!”
“The way I look at you, (y/n). Haven’t you noticed the reasons I’ve been acting like I am today?” Clarisse clenched her fists, staring at the ground.
You step closer, feeling your face heat up as you do so. You begin to speak with anger lacing your voice, “I don’t usually pay attention to you. I definitely didn’t want to pay attention to you today.”
“You think I care if you pay attention to me? I don’t, (y/n). I never have. You’re nothing to me. Nothing more than an enemy that needs to be taken out,” she spits out, stepping closer. “You make me question everything and then make me regret even thinking about anything. You’re so exhausting and I can’t deal with it anymore.”
You grab her by the shirt, staring at her facial features before looking into her eyes. The height difference made the action look awkward with Clarisse being tugged down.
“I’m exhausting? You dedicate every single day to making me miserable.”
“Why do you think I do that?”
“Because you’re sad about your own dreadful life?”
Clarisse groaned, smacking your hand away and standing up straight. She bit the inside of her cheek, feeling her emotions before expressing them.
“It’s because I like you! I like you in the way I’m supposed to like boys and it’s not okay. It’s horrible. Is that what you wanted to hear?!”
You stand in shock, but Clarisse’s siblings run into the forest and collect her for celebrating their win. Loud cheers are heard in the distance and it reminds you of how little of time has passed. While screaming at Clarisse, it felt like an entire century had passed. It’s several minutes until they’re completely gone. That’s when you feel it. You feel the feelings you had hidden from yourself. You had always found Clarisse attractive personality and looks wise, but you shoved it deep down. Why?
Summary: Childhood friends turned strangers, you and Dick Grayson reunite years after your father betrayed Bruce. Now an antihero, you push him away—until missions, old memories, and unspoken feelings pull you back into the Batfamily’s orbit. One kiss turns into a week of tension, ending in a night you can’t take back… and a morning where the whole family knows.
“So I'll wait for you, love/Broken down and hungry for your love”
-Archer - Taylor Swift
“Then I hate my reflection for years and years/Cause all of my enemies started out friends”
-Where’s My Love - SYML
“Did you run away? Did you run away?/Just come home”
-Still With You - Jungkook
“If I see you again, I will look into your eyes and say, "I missed you”
-I wanna be yours - Arctic Monkeys
“Maybe I just wanna be yours/I wanna be yours, I wanna be yours”
-Heavy - The Marías
“Cause I don't wanna be in love with another/even in another life”
-Video games - Lana Del Rey
“He holds me in his big arms/It's you, it's you, it's all for you”
A/N: this has been in my drafts for a while…enjoy ;)
(I left a scene out on accident but i edited it in😭)
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Gotham City, midnight
THE city hasn’t changed.
Not really.
Not enough.
The sirens still echo up from the alleys like angry lullabies. Steam still bleeds from the sewer grates in hazy plumes. The same neon signs blink out over damp pavement like half-hearted promises.
You forgot how loud Gotham was.
Or maybe you just got good at forgetting.
The soles of your boots are heavy with soot as you perch on the ledge of an old rooftop, half-shielded by a rusted billboard for Dent’s campaign. The wind is cold tonight—sharper than you remember—and it threads through your jacket like it knows you don’t belong here anymore.
You press your fingers to the concrete edge and breathe.
Just once.
Your hands are gloved, but your knuckles still ache. From the last job. From the way that one guy’s jaw crunched under your elbow. From holding your fists too tight all the time.
You’re trying not to think.
But Gotham makes that impossible.
Especially when you feel him before you even hear him.
A shift in air pressure.
A whisper of wind across your shoulder.
That maddening, familiar silence that always used to come before—
“Didn’t think you’d come back.”
His voice is quieter than you remember. Or maybe it’s just been a while since someone said something that wasn’t a threat.
You don’t turn around.
Not right away.
Instead, you stare out over the rooftops, where the city gleams like it knows your secrets and is daring you to lie to it again.
Then, softly:
“Didn’t think you’d be watching.”
“I’m always watching,” he replies.
And you can hear the unspoken part of it.
I’m always watching you.
You finally glance over your shoulder.
He’s changed.
Not by much—he still wears the same black and blue armor like it’s a second skin, still moves like shadows part for him. But his face is older now. Tighter. There’s tension in his jaw he never used to have, and the stubble along his chin makes him look more like Bruce than he probably wants to admit.
You hate how much that gets to you.
“You look like shit,” you say instead.
He huffs a breath. “You always did have a way with words.”
There’s a long pause.
You both let it sit there.
The air between you is thick with things neither of you are brave enough to name.
Grief. Betrayal. Memory.
The stupid smell of rain on brick.
“How long’s it been?” he finally asks.
You shrug. “Since I left, or since I stopped returning your messages?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
When he does, his voice is careful.
“Since I last knew you.”
The ache behind your ribs blooms sharp.
You don’t flinch, but it’s a near thing.
You stare at the skyline again. Anything but his face.
“You shouldn’t be up here,” he adds, a little more softly. “They’re still looking for you.”
“So let them.”
“They’ll catch you eventually.”
You smirk. “Not if I catch them first.”
He doesn’t laugh.
That used to work. That cocky little edge in your voice, the recklessness, the way you never let anyone see you shake. It used to make him smile.
Now he’s just watching you like he’s trying to solve a riddle he used to know by heart.
“You shouldn’t be doing this,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re not like them.”
You stiffen. “No?”
“No.” He’s closer now. You can hear the rain dripping off his hood. “You’re still—”
“Don’t,” you say.
That stops him.
You turn to face him fully for the first time, and the look in your eyes must be something sharp, because he doesn’t finish the sentence. Just stands there, jaw clenched, heart wide open behind that stupid mask.
“I’m not whoever you remember,” you tell him.
“I never forgot you.”
Your breath catches.
You wish it didn’t.
You hate how easily he can still do that.
“You don’t know me anymore,” you say, trying to sound cruel, but it comes out hollow.
“I know what happened wasn’t your fault.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does to me.”
His voice is raw now. Just a little. Like he’s tearing pieces of himself off to say this out loud.
“I know what your father did. And I know you’re not him. I know you think pushing everyone away is the only way you’ll survive, but you’re wrong.”
Your throat tightens.
“Don’t—”
He cuts you off.
“No, let me finish.” He’s stepping closer again, his voice rising—not loud, but urgent. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You’ve built this wall, and every time someone tries to climb it, you light it on fire.”
You open your mouth, but he barrels forward.
“I get it. You’re angry. You’re grieving. You think you have to be this… thing. This weapon. You’re not. You never were.”
You take a shaky step back, but he catches your wrist.
Gently.
Like you’ll break if he’s not careful.
“Let me help,” he whispers.
“I don’t want help.”
“I don’t care.”
You stare at him.
For a second, everything slows. The sirens, the wind, the noise in your chest.
You just look at him—his rain-wet hair, the blood on his lip, the pain in his stupid eyes.
And you want to scream.
Because you want to believe him.
You want to let him back in.
You want to tell him that there are nights you wake up reaching for the sound of his voice.
But instead, you pull your hand back.
Hard.
And say, “You should go.”
He doesn’t move.
“Grayson,” you warn.
But he just nods.
Not because he agrees.
Because he knows he has to let you push him away.
For now.
But his eyes say what his mouth doesn’t:
I’ll be back.
You watch him disappear into the dark, that electric blue symbol on his back flashing once as he vaults off the edge.
And then you sit down again.
On the ledge. Alone.
Like always.
You press your palms to the wet stone, tilt your head back, and wonder—
How many more times can he come back before you finally stop making him leave?
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Gotham Safehouse, 2:14 AM
THE DOOR clicks shut behind you, and for a second, all you hear is the hum of old radiators and the sting in your ribs.
You drop your bloodied jacket to the floor. Sit. Breathe.
The safehouse is quiet. A tucked-away apartment Bruce keeps off-record, with medical supplies and blackout curtains. You’ve bled in worse places.
You peel your suit from your shoulder. You’re not even sure when the gash happened. Somewhere between the rooftop ambush and the second explosion. Your fingers are shaking.
And then the door opens again.
You don’t look up.
But you know his footsteps.
“…Y/N.”
You wince, more from the sound of your name than the wound. He says it so softly, like it still means something.
“Thought I lost you back there,” Dick murmurs.
You don’t answer.
He doesn’t push. Just walks around the couch and crouches in front of you, eyes scanning your body like he’s looking for damage and counting regrets.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah,” you mutter, shrugging your shoulder higher. “Not really a new thing.”
You expect him to sigh. Or scold you. Or do that thing where he says your name again like it’s supposed to ground you.
Instead, he moves gently — grabbing the med kit from the end table and unscrewing the antiseptic like he’s done it a thousand times before. Which he has. Just… not for you. Not for a long time.
“I can do it myself,” you whisper.
“I know.”
But he still doesn’t stop.
The silence stretches thin between you. He soaks the gauze. Swabs the wound. You hiss at the sting, and he pauses — looks up.
“Still stubborn,” he says. It’s almost a smile, but not quite. “I missed that.”
You stare at the opposite wall. “You don’t miss things that try to disappear.”
“I miss you.”
The words are so soft you almost pretend you didn’t hear them.
You hold still while he stitches you up. His fingers are careful. Precise. Gentle in a way that almost makes you cry.
You want to pull away. You want to say stop looking at me like I’m still her — still the kid who used to wait for you at the end of the manor hallway, still the girl with a future and clean hands and a father who wasn’t a liar.
But instead you say, “Bruce is gonna be pissed.”
Dick snorts under his breath. “He’s always pissed.”
“No. At me. For going off-book. For what happened.
“You got ambushed.”
“I disobeyed.”
“You saved three civilians, Y/N. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Didn’t I?” You blink hard, voice tight. “You think that matters to him?”
Dick finishes the last stitch in silence. He cuts the thread. Looks at you.
His voice is lower this time. Rough around the edges. “If he says one word to you — one goddamn thing — I swear to god I’ll—”
“What?”
Your voice breaks. “Get in trouble again? He already thinks I’m a walking liability.”
“Well, he’s wrong.”
You look at him then. Really look. At the bruise on his jaw. The dried blood in his hairline. The anger simmering low in his throat — not at you, but for you.
And it unravels something.
“I didn’t want any of this, Dick,” you whisper. “I didn’t ask to be the daughter of a traitor. I didn’t ask for you to look at me like I broke your heart.”
He flinches. “You didn’t.”
“Then why does it feel like I did?”
The silence this time is heavy. Too full.
He reaches for your hand.
You let him.
“I’ve never stopped—” He swallows. Looks away. “You’re not your father, Y/N. And you’re not broken.”
“You sure?” Your voice is brittle. “’Cause it feels like I’ve been bleeding out for years and no one noticed.”
“I noticed.”
The knock on the door cuts through the quiet like a blade.
You both go still.
And then the door opens — and Batman steps inside.
He doesn’t say hello. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay.
He just looks at you like you’re a problem that keeps getting worse.
“You jeopardized the mission,” Bruce says flatly.
You stand. Wince. Hide the bloodstain as best you can. “I made a judgment call.”
“You were supposed to wait.”
“They would’ve died.”
“And now three gang leaders are still on the loose. Because you couldn’t follow orders.”
His words hit low. Exact. Like a scalpel. You don’t answer.
But Dick does.
“Enough.”
His voice is sharper than you’ve heard in years. “She’s not your punching bag.”
Bruce turns to him. “She’s compromised. Emotionally erratic. She acts alone and puts others at risk.”
“She’s alive. And if it weren’t for her, those civilians wouldn’t be.”
“Her father—”
“She’s not her father.”
Dick’s voice breaks open. “And if you can’t see that by now, maybe the problem isn’t her.”
The silence after that is the worst kind of heavy.
Bruce looks between you both. His eyes narrow.
Then he leaves.
The door shuts again. Hard.
You stare at the floor.
“I didn’t need you to do that,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“I’m not your problem, Dick.”
He exhales. Walks closer.
“You never were.”
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor, 5:26 PM
The car ride to the manor is quiet.
Dick doesn’t push conversation. You watch the trees blur past the window like you’re on your way to a funeral. Maybe you are — not for a person, but for a past version of yourself that once fit into the place you’re about to walk into.
“Sure you wanna do this?” you murmur.
He doesn’t look away from the road. “I want you to do this.”
You say nothing. Just grip the inside of your coat a little tighter, hiding the fresh sutures on your side. You’d fought men with sharper teeth than Bruce’s judgment, but stepping inside that house again feels like opening a wound.
The doors creak open.
You’re hit with the scent first — old books, faint cologne, the polished oak of a place that pretends it never changes.
You breathe in.
It hurts.
The manor is mostly empty. Alfred’s out. Damian is god knows where. But the grand hallway looks exactly the same — the same staircase, the same chandelier. You blink too fast and the memory hits: you, sitting cross-legged at the base of the steps, bleeding from a busted lip while Dick tried to ice your knuckles and Bruce lectured you about restraint.
You’d been so sure back then that this place meant home.
Your throat tightens.
“You okay?” Dick asks softly beside you.
You nod. A lie. “It’s just weird being back.”
“I know.”
His hand lifts — like he wants to touch your back, or your shoulder, something — but instinct overtakes you.
You flinch.
Barely, but enough.
He freezes. Hand hovering.
You exhale shakily. “Sorry.”
His eyes soften. “It’s okay.”
You both stand there too long.
Then you hear it.
Footsteps. Heavy. Boots.
Jason.
“Shit,” you mutter.
He walks in through the kitchen like he owns the place. His gaze lands on you, then on Dick. He scowls. “Well, look who finally showed up. The golden boy and his… ex–something.”
You stiffen. Dick’s jaw tightens.
“Jason—”
“No, I’m serious,” Jason shrugs, tossing a protein bar in the air. “You didn’t think to maybe give us a heads-up that you were dragging in the caution-tape comeback story?”
You blink slowly. “Nice to see you, too.”
Jason gives a crooked grin. “Thought you were dead. Or in Arkham. My bad.”
Dick opens his mouth — but you cut in before he can speak.
“Say one more thing and I’ll put you through that grandfather clock.”
Jason blinks.
You step forward, voice even, not loud. “You don’t get to talk like that. Not when you’re the poster boy for second chances. You know damn well I didn’t choose what happened. So if you’re still mad about shit from five years ago, grow up.”
The room falls silent.
Jason’s mouth opens. Closes. He looks down. “Tch. Whatever.” He pauses. Then mutters: “Sorry.”
You raise a brow. “What was that?”
He sighs like it physically hurts. “I said I’m sorry, alright? Jesus.”
You almost smile.
Later, in the training room, it’s just you and Dick again.
The tension between you two hasn’t eased — it’s shifted. A softer ache now. A quieter kind of electricity.
“You sure you wanna spar?” he asks, pulling off his hoodie, revealing the slim black tank underneath.
You shrug off your coat. “Might be good to hit something.”
“You mean me?”
“Maybe.”
You both move to the mats, circling each other, silent for a long beat.
He lunges first. You dodge. Quick.
It’s easy to fall back into this rhythm. Fighting him is like muscle memory. Push, spin, counter, breath.
But it’s not like before. There’s a crackle under your skin now. Every time his hand brushes your waist. Every time you twist and catch him off guard.
He grabs your wrist, and you twist out of it, swing your leg around — and drop him flat on his back with a breathless oof.
You straddle him before he can recover — thighs tight against his hips, one hand on his chest to keep him pinned.
Your hair falls over your face. His eyes catch yours.
And everything stops.
His chest rises beneath your palm. His hands are at your thighs, but not moving. Not pushing you off. Just… there.
He looks up at you like he’s caught in the middle of a memory he never wanted to forget.
You realize too late how close you are.
And then you pull back. Hard.
You scramble to your feet. “That’s enough.”
He sits up slowly, breathing heavier now. “Y/N—”
“I said it’s enough.”
You grab your coat. Your heart is hammering.
He doesn’t move to stop you.
He just watches you go.
Like he’s afraid if he says anything too loud, you’ll disappear again.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
You wake to morning light filtering through heavy curtains, warm and soft and too gentle for Gotham. It’s disorienting, the quiet. For a second you think you’ve woken up in your apartment, or somewhere worse — some crumbling rooftop, a cold metal cot in a safehouse. But then you realize.
You’re in that room.
The one you picked during the summers you used to “sleep over.” Back when Bruce still pretended things were normal. Back when you were still pretending, too. The room next to Dick’s, because even then you felt safer with him close.
You sit up slowly, sore in all the usual places. Your body remembers the mission — the one that went sideways — but it also remembers the sparring match with Dick last night. You’d pinned him. Briefly. It should’ve been a win.
You’re still kicking yourself for getting up so fast.
The manor is quieter than it used to be. No hallway alarms, no Alfred clinking dishes just yet. You dress in silence, your fingers slow on the zipper of your hoodie. The moment your door creaks open, a blur of motion intercepts you.
Damian.
He throws an arm around your neck, pulling you into a headlock before you can blink. “When did you come back, big sis?” he smirks.
You twist and use his own weight against him, flipping him onto his back with a satisfying thud. He groans, stunned.
“Yesterday,” you say, amused. “Miss me?”
Damian groans dramatically. “I forgot you do that.”
He looks up at you. “You got stronger.”
“Time away’ll do that.”
He studies you from the ground like he’s trying to memorize you. Something unreadable passes through his face — something softer. He lifts a brow. “…You staying?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Hmph.” He lets you help him up. “You should.”
“Do I even want to know what’s going on out here?” a familiar voice calls down the hall.
You look up — and your mouth almost drops.
Dick leans in the doorway to his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes and very intentionally not wearing a shirt. His sweatpants hang low on his hips. His hair is a mess. He looks like something out of a memory you’ve tried too hard to bury.
You recover fast, but not fast enough.
He catches it. The pause. The blink. The flinch of your mouth like it’s about to say something dangerous.
He smiles — slow and smug.
Definitely on purpose.
“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, brushing past him.
“Good morning to you too.”
Breakfast is… chaotic.
Damian’s bragging about how much he can bench now. “Eighty pounds over my body weight,” he says, arms crossed.
“That’s adorable,” Jason mumbles, half-asleep and moody in the corner. He looks up at you, then back at his coffee.
Dick sits across from you, too close, flipping through a file you’re not supposed to see but letting you see it anyway.
“You still eat eggs with hot sauce?” Tim asks from the doorway, looking like he hasn’t slept in two days.
You glance at him, blinking. “When did you get back?”
“Late last night. Heard someone was crashing the manor again.”
His smile is gentler than Jason’s grumble, but there’s a weight behind it too. Everyone has questions. No one says them out loud.
Not yet.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Later, you and Dick are in the gym again.
Sparring. Again.
It’s slower this time. Deliberate. You fall into old rhythms, like your bodies remember before your minds do.
“Remember when we used to sneak in here?” Dick asks between swings. “You stole my hoodie once and wouldn’t give it back for a week.”
“It was comfortable,” you say, blocking him. “And oversized.”
“It was mine.”
You land a hit. His shoulder dips.
He smiles.
But something in your chest is tightening.
You pause. “Do you ever miss it?”
He looks up. “What?”
“The way things used to be. Before… everything.”
His expression shifts, softens. “All the time.”
The tightness grows. You lower your fists. “My father sent a letter. From prison.”
Dick straightens, no longer sparring. Listening now.
“He wants me to visit.” You exhale, shaky. “Says he just wants to talk. That he misses me.”
Dick says nothing, waiting.
“I can’t do it,” you whisper. “I can’t look at him and not see it — see what he did. What he became.”
The words feel like glass in your throat. You can feel tears climbing, but they stop halfway up. You choke them down.
“I don’t know what he sees when he thinks of me,” you add. “If he still sees his daughter. Or just another failed version of himself.”
Dick takes a step forward, hands twitching — like he wants to touch you, but isn’t sure you’ll let him.
You pull away before he can try.
“Sorry,” you say too quickly.
“It’s okay,” he says gently. “You never have to apologize for how you feel.”
You blink away the burn in your eyes. “We should do something else. Distract me.”
You get your distraction.
By evening, the air changes.
Footsteps echo through the foyer. Voices murmur below.
Bruce is back.
You brace yourself. Expect the explosion. The “why is she here?” The cold fury only he can manage.
But when he sees you… he just nods.
Nothing more.
You freeze. Even Jason straightens a little, surprised.
“Grayson. Todd,” Bruce says, eyes flicking between the two. “Mission briefing. Fifteen minutes. Bring her too.”
He doesn’t even look at you when he says it.
Dick frowns. “You sure?”
Bruce glances over his shoulder. “She’s still capable, isn’t she?”
Your jaw tightens.
Dick opens his mouth — probably to argue — but you touch his arm.
“I want to go,” you say. “Let me.”
He watches you for a second, then nods.
“Suit up, then,” Bruce says. “We leave at nightfall.”
You make it to the weapons room and pull on old armor like it’s never left your skin. Dick is quiet while he gets ready beside you.
“You don’t have to prove anything to him,” he says eventually.
You shake your head. “I’m not. I’m proving it to myself.”
He doesn’t argue.
You don’t expect Jason to show up. But he does — standing at the door, arms crossed. He won’t meet your eye.
“I was a dick earlier,” he mutters.
“No kidding,” you reply.
A beat.
He shifts awkwardly. “I’m glad you’re back.”
You pause, surprised.
“Even if the old man won’t say it,” he adds.
You nod once. “Thanks.”
The mission is simple. In theory.
But this is Gotham.
Nothing stays simple for long.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
the mission
The city blurs beneath your boots.
You land hard on the rooftop, knees bending into the momentum. It’s slick from a recent drizzle, steam rising in curls from the vents around you. Gotham below is neon-lit and pulsing, but this building—abandoned, fortified, and suspiciously well-guarded—is your target.
Your comm crackles.
“South side clear,” you mutter.
“North too,” Grayson’s voice answers, low and crisp in your ear. “We’re good to move.”
You don’t say anything. You just move, shadows swallowing you.
The intel came through just hours ago—black market tech trades, something WayneTech-adjacent. Bruce gave the green light, you volunteered, Grayson hesitated. But you insisted. You needed the distraction. Something real. Something with stakes.
Jason’s voice cuts in over comms, dry as usual. “Hey, anyone else feel like this is a trap?”
“It’s always a trap,” you reply. “That’s what makes it fun.”
You hear Grayson’s soft exhale. That little sound he makes when you say things that toe the line between reckless and charming. You pretend not to notice it.
Inside the building, everything goes wrong five minutes in.
The guards are enhanced—cybernetically modded, fast, stronger than they look. You duck a punch, slide under another, send a blue-bladed boot to someone’s chest. It’s muscle memory, but your focus slips for half a second.
You get hit.
Hard.
Your ribs crack against the wall, pain blooming sharp under your armor. You grunt but recover, spinning with a flick of flame that throws your attacker off balance. Jason shouts something across the line, Grayson calls your name—but then a familiar voice breaks through the static:
“Need a hand?”
Your blood goes cold.
Barbara Gordon drops from the rafters like she owns the place—red hair tied tight, grin wide, body moving in that fluid, confident way she always has. She lands beside Grayson like they’ve been partners all their lives.
“Hope I’m not late,” she says, cracking two batons out from her belt.
“Oh great,” you mutter, just loud enough that she probably hears.
Grayson’s voice perks up. “You weren’t briefed—how did you even—?”
“Bruce sent me. He thought you could use backup.” She smiles, eyes flicking to you. “And clearly, he was right.”
You scowl and refocus, heat flaring under your fingertips.
The fight stretches on—tight corridors, strobing lights, screams over the comms. You and Grayson fall into sync, your old rhythm finding its legs again. But every time you hit your stride, Barbara slips in. Saving him. Covering him. Pressing a hand to his shoulder, too familiar, too easy.
At one point, she laughs at something he says. You grit your teeth and push harder.
By the end of it, you’re standing in a pile of scorched debris, armor scuffed, hair damp with sweat. Jason’s breathing heavy beside you, muttering about needing a drink. Grayson’s touching a cut on his jaw that wasn’t there earlier.
Barbara’s the one who breaks the silence.
“Well, that was fun,” she chirps, twirling one of her batons and sliding it back into its holster.
You don’t answer. You’re busy wiping blood off your glove.
But she turns to you anyway, all bright-eyed interest. “So… you’re back. For good?”
You glance at her, then away. “Don’t know.”
She steps closer. Too close. “You and Grayson—did something happen while I was gone?”
Your gut tightens. “No.”
Her smile sharpens, just a little. “Right. You’d tell me, right?”
You meet her gaze. Flat. Tired. “What exactly are you asking, Barbara?”
“Oh, nothing,” she says with a breezy wave of her hand. “Just curious. It’s just… the way he looks at you. Kinda hard to miss.”
She turns to walk away before you can answer. And as she passes Grayson, she touches his arm again—lingering, smiling. Your chest tightens, stupidly. You feel it deep, in places that were supposed to be armored.
You look away before anyone notices.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Back at the safehouse, you strip off your gear in silence.
Grayson’s in the next room talking to Bruce over comms. Jason’s off grumbling somewhere about cracked ribs and bad leadership. You sit on the edge of a steel cot, staring down at your hands.
You shouldn’t care.
You don’t care.
But it sticks in your throat anyway—the way Barbara looked at him, the way he smiled at her. You’re not together. You’re not even close. But the ache says otherwise.
The door creaks open.
It’s Grayson. Fresh out of armor, still wearing that breathable undersuit, sleeves pushed up, hair damp.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, but it’s a lie.
He walks over, crouches in front of you. “You barely said a word after the mission.”
“I’m tired.”
“Bullshit,” he says, gently. “You’re never this quiet.”
You let out a breath. “I just—Barbara being there threw me off.”
He watches you carefully. “Why?”
You don’t answer right away.
Instead, you say, “She thinks there’s something between us.”
“Isn’t there?” he asks.
It hangs there, thick in the air.
You look at him. Really look at him. His face is open, waiting. Like he wants you to say something real, something brave. But your ribs still hurt. Your heart even more.
“I don’t know what there is,” you whisper.
He doesn’t press. He never does.
Instead, he just says, “She doesn’t matter. Not like that.”
And it should comfort you. But it doesn’t. Not yet.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor 1:47 AM
YOU head down to the kitchen for water, barefoot on the cold tile.
You’re halfway to the fridge when a voice pipes up from the doorway.
“Long night?”
Barbara leans against the doorframe, hoodie over her suit, hair loose now. She’s holding a mug of tea like she’s been waiting.
“Something like that,” you answer, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge.
“You don’t like me,” she says matter-of-factly.
You raise a brow. “We’re doing this at two in the morning?”
She smirks. “You think I’m stepping on your toes.”
“Do I have to remind you we’re not in high school?”
“No,” she says, sipping her tea. “But I know the look. I know how he looks at you.”
Your jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Her eyes flicker, softer for a split second. “Maybe not. But I know him.”
“Good for you.”
There’s a beat of silence before she says, “He’s different when you’re around. Whether you want to admit it or not.” She turns toward the hall. “I’m not your enemy. Just remember that.”
And she’s gone, footsteps fading upstairs.
The voice that comes next is much lower.
“You gonna keep scowling at the floor, or…?”
Jason’s leaning against the counter, still in sweats, a bruise blooming along his jaw. You didn’t even hear him come in.
“Thought you’d be asleep,” you say.
“Couldn’t. Too many thoughts.” He grabs a beer from the fridge. “You looked pissed back there. At her.”
“Drop it, Todd.”
“I’m just saying,” he continues, cracking the cap, “if you like him, maybe… I dunno. Tell him before someone else does.”
Your laugh is humorless. “Not that simple.”
He studies you for a moment. “Guess not.”
You’re halfway to the door when he says, “For what it’s worth, I think he’s already picked.”
You don’t ask what he means. You’re not sure you want to know.
You pass Bruce in the hall on your way back upstairs.
He’s out of the cowl, but still in armor, looking like the mission dragged him through glass.
“I heard you held your own tonight,” he says.
You stop. “Surprised?”
He regards you for a long moment. “No. I’ve always known what you’re capable of.”
It’s almost a compliment — the Bruce Wayne equivalent of one, anyway.
But you tilt your head. “That why you wanted me on this mission? Or because you wanted to keep me where you could see me?”
His jaw shifts. “Both.”
There’s a pause before you say, “You don’t have to like that I’m here. But I’m not leaving again.”
He nods once. “Good.”
And just like that, he’s walking away, cape trailing the hall.
You close your door, lean against it, and let out a slow breath.
You’re still not sure what tonight changed. Only that something has shifted, subtly, and you can feel it in the way your chest is too tight to sleep.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor 5:03 AM
YOU wake like you’ve been ripped out of the water.
Your chest is tight, lungs dragging in air that won’t stay. The room is dark but feels too small, walls pressing in. The nightmare fades in jagged pieces — your father’s voice, Bruce’s back turned, blood on your hands that wouldn’t wash off.
It’s not real.
You curl forward on the bed, pressing your palms into your knees until they hurt, until the tremor in your breathing slows enough that you can stand.
You can’t stay in here. Not with it still clinging to your skin.
The training room smells like mat cleaner and faint motor oil from the treadmills. No one’s here yet — not even Damian. You pull off your hoodie, tighten the wraps around your hands, and start throwing jabs at the heavy bag.
Left. Right. Right. Left.
Your shoulders ache, but you welcome it.
You try not to think about Barbara’s voice — He’s different when you’re around.
Or Jason’s — If you like him, tell him before someone else does.
Your knuckles slam harder into the bag.
“You’re up early.”
You don’t need to turn to know who it is.
Dick’s hair is damp, like he’s just showered. He’s in compression gear, gloves in one hand. He takes in the way you’re hitting the bag — sharp, relentless — and frowns a little.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
“Didn’t,” you correct.
He steps closer. “Nightmare?”
You glance at him. “Drop it, Grayson.”
He doesn’t. “You’ve been pushing too hard since you got back. Physically, I mean.”
You snort. “Says the guy who used to break his own ribs just to make a deadline.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I wasn’t running from something.”
That hits too close. You step back from the bag. “You think you know everything about me, don’t you?”
“No,” he says, meeting your eyes. “But I know more than you want me to.”
You stare at him, heat rising under your skin. “Like what?”
He shrugs, but it’s calculated. “Like the way you avoid looking at me when Barbara’s around.”
Your pulse spikes. “Wow. Subtle.”
“And the way you don’t flinch when I touch your arm anymore, but you do when I ask about how you’re feeling.”
“That’s not—” you start, but he steps closer, crowding just enough that you can smell his soap.
“I notice,” he says quietly. “Whether you want me to or not.”
You’re breathing too fast again. Like after the nightmare.
You want to tell him everything — the dream, the panic, the way Barbara’s hand on his arm made something ugly twist in your chest — but the words stick.
Instead, you shake your head. “We should spar. I need the distraction.”
YOU circle each other on the mats.
It’s tense from the start. Every move feels like an argument you’re not having out loud. He grabs your wrist — you twist free. You sweep his leg — he catches himself, flips you instead. You roll, recover, slam him back.
You end up with a knee on his chest, pinning him down.
His hands rest lightly at your thighs — not pushing, just there.
“You’re distracted,” he says.
“So are you,” you shoot back.
Something shifts in his gaze — softer, sharper, both at once. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears. You could tell him. You almost do.
But you push off instead, standing.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not,” he says, sitting up. “But you’re not ready. I get it.”
That almost makes it worse — that he won’t force it, that he’s giving you space you don’t know what to do with.
You leave the room before he can see how shaken you are.
But his voice follows you out, quiet and certain:
“I’m not going anywhere.”
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor 3:12 AM
The dream starts quietly.
Too quietly.
You’re in your childhood home, the one you haven’t seen in years. The light is warm, a low hum of a radio somewhere in the kitchen. For a moment, you think it’s safe.
Then the air changes.
The radio static grows louder, buzzing until it drills into your skull. The windows rattle. And your father steps into the room — but not the version you knew when you were a kid. This one has ash under his nails, his suit blackened, his eyes reflecting fire.
“You could’ve stood with me,” he says, voice smooth as oil.
The floor shakes. Outside, the world is burning — rooftops collapsing, the sky lit red. Gotham’s screams seep through the walls. You turn to run, but your feet are locked in place.
“It’s in your blood,” he adds, smiling as the flames crawl toward you.
You open your mouth to argue, but smoke pours down your throat.
You wake with a gasp so sharp your chest aches.
The room is pitch black, the sheets clinging to your skin. Your pulse is thundering in your ears, your breath coming in shallow, frantic bursts. You shove the covers off and stumble toward the door before you’ve even thought about where you’re going.
The manor’s hallways feel too long. Too narrow. You pass portraits and locked doors, barely aware of your feet on the carpet. The front doors are heavy, but you shove them open, stepping straight into the cold downpour outside.
Rain hits your skin in sharp pinpricks. You tilt your face up, drag in air that tastes like earth and metal, trying to breathe through the panic. It doesn’t work.
“Hey—”
His voice cuts through the storm.
You turn to see Dick running toward you, barefoot in sweats and a long-sleeve, hair messy from sleep. He doesn’t hesitate — just comes down the steps, the rain soaking his clothes in seconds.
“What happened?” he asks, already searching your face.
You shake your head. “I had to get out.”
“Nightmare?”
You huff out a humorless laugh. “If it was just a nightmare, I wouldn’t be standing out here like an idiot in the rain.”
“Tell me,” he says, softer now.
“It was him,” you admit, voice shaking. “Every time I close my eyes lately, I see him — my father — burning everything down. And I’m just… watching. I can’t move, I can’t stop it. And the worst part?” Your throat tightens. “Some nights, I believe him. I believe it’s in my blood. That no matter what I do, I’ll end up like him.”
“You won’t,” Dick says firmly.
But the words keep spilling. “I’ve been bottling it up because if I let it out, I don’t know what happens next. Everyone’s watching me, waiting for me to mess up. Bruce, Jason… hell, even I’m waiting for it. And I’m so tired of pretending I’m fine.”
Rainwater slides down your cheeks — you can’t tell where it ends and the tears begin.
“I can’t lose control,” you whisper. “I can’t lose—” You stop, chest tightening.
He steps closer. “Lose what?”
You look at him, the rain blurring the edges of his face. “I can’t lose the people I care about. I can’t lose you because I love you—”
The words hang there, suspended between raindrops.
Your eyes widen. “I didn’t mean—”
But he’s already closing the gap, pulling you against him. His arms are solid around you, his chin resting on your hair, holding you like you might vanish.
“You don’t have to take it back,” he murmurs.
You stand there, soaked to the bone, letting the rain and the weight of him steady you. And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself breathe without forcing it.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor 9:17 AM
Two hours of sleep feels like none at all.
When you wake, the rain’s stopped, sunlight cutting pale lines across your room. Your hair is dry — you must’ve towel-dried it without remembering. You’re still in the hoodie from last night, the one that now smells faintly of rain and laundry soap.
The dream doesn’t come back, but the words you almost said do.
You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, hearing your voice in your head. I can’t lose you because I love you—
You’d like to believe it didn’t happen. But it did. And Dick heard it. And he didn’t run.
That might be worse.
By the time you make it downstairs, the smell of coffee and toasted bread fills the air.
The kitchen is alive in that strange Batfamily way — everyone’s here, but no one’s really talking in full sentences. Damian is dissecting the sports section like it personally offended him. Jason’s nursing a mug of black coffee like it’s life support. Tim is on his second plate of eggs, laptop propped open beside him.
You hover at the edge for a moment before sliding into a chair.
“Morning,” Tim says without looking up, though his eyes flick toward you in a quick, assessing way. You can feel the weight of it — like he’s noticed something but, for now, is keeping it to himself.
“Morning,” you echo, reaching for the coffee pot.
Across from you, Dick’s leaning against the counter, mug in hand, talking with Alfred about some busted security camera on the east wing. But you can feel him watching you between sentences, like he’s keeping you in his periphery no matter where you move.
When you finally glance up, his mouth quirks — subtle, private, like last night’s rain is still between you.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Breakfast is a quiet war of glances.
Jason cracks a joke about you looking “less dead than usual,” and you lob a grape at his head without breaking eye contact with your plate. Damian mutters something about immature adults, and Alfred sighs in that patient, suffering way he’s perfected.
Through it all, Dick stays casual. On the surface. But every time he moves around the table — grabbing more coffee, snagging a piece of toast — his hand brushes yours, just enough to be felt, not enough for anyone else to notice.
You don’t flinch, but you do grip your mug tighter.
Tim’s gaze flickers again — to your hand near Dick’s, to the way you both look away too quickly afterward. His lips twitch, but he says nothing.
Smart boy.
You’re almost finished eating when Dick pulls the move you’ve known was coming.
He leans down behind you to grab the sugar jar, close enough that his breath brushes your ear. “We should talk later,” he says, low enough that it’s meant for you alone.
Your pulse trips. You keep your eyes on your plate, forcing your voice steady. “About what?”
“You know what.”
Before you can answer, he’s straightening again, sugar in hand, resuming whatever harmless conversation he’s having with Alfred.
And you’re left staring at the last bite of toast like it’s going to give you answers.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor 4:02 PM
THE training room is quiet except for the dull thud of your fists hitting the heavy bag. You’ve been at it for a while — long enough for sweat to bead at the back of your neck, long enough to know he’s been watching.
You hear his footsteps before you see him. Slow, deliberate, closing the distance like he’s giving you time to notice.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Dick says.
You keep hitting the bag. “Been busy.”
“Funny. So have I. Still managed to make time.”
You grit your teeth. “What do you want, Grayson?”
He steps into your space, catching the bag mid-swing with one hand. “You know what I want.”
You finally look at him. He’s in sweats and a fitted t-shirt, hair a little messy from his own workout. His expression is calm, but his eyes… they’re locked on you like you’re the only thing in the room.
“Last night,” he says, “you started to say something. In the rain.”
You shake your head. “I was upset. I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is soft, but there’s no give in it. “You meant it.”
You swallow, hard. “Even if I did, it doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Your voice falters. “Because if I say it out loud, it’s real. And real things can be taken away.”
He studies you, jaw tightening. “I’m not going anywhere. You can’t scare me off.”
“You should,” you say quietly.
“I won’t.”
The air between you feels charged now, like the seconds are holding their breath. He takes a step closer.
“Say it,” he murmurs.
You shake your head again, but your pulse is pounding, your skin buzzing with adrenaline and something warmer, softer.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing your jaw — not pushing, just waiting. “Say it.”
Your chest feels too tight. “I—”
You never finish.
He leans in, closing the last inches, his mouth finding yours.
It’s soft at first — careful — but the second you respond, it deepens, heat curling low in your stomach. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you like he knows your knees might give.
You kiss him back without thinking, without caring about who might walk in, without fear. Just the rush of him — his warmth, his scent, the way his lips move against yours like he’s been waiting a long time.
When you finally pull back, your head’s spinning, and there’s a flutter in your chest so strong it’s almost dizzying.
He smiles, the kind of smile that says he already knows the effect he has on you. “Butterflies?”
You roll your eyes, but you can’t fight the small, breathless laugh that escapes. “Shut up.”
But you’re still smiling.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor Late Evening
It’s been a week since the kiss, and you’ve become very, very aware of Dick Grayson.
The problem is, so has your body.
You’d like to think you’ve been subtle about avoiding him — slipping out of rooms before he enters, keeping conversations clipped, volunteering for errands with Damian just to stay busy. But the second you’re actually in the same room with him, it’s like your brain short-circuits.
It’s the little things.
The way his t-shirt clings to his chest when he comes back from a workout. The way his damp hair curls at the nape of his neck after a shower. That stupid cocky grin he gives when he catches you looking. And yeah, his six-pack — the one you swear he’s been showing off more lately, under the guise of “just stretching.”
You keep telling yourself you can handle it. That it’s fine. That avoiding him is the smart move.
But smart moves stop mattering when you hear a knock on your door.
Go away,” you call, though your pulse is already kicking up.
“Not happening,” Dick says from the other side, voice warm, confident. “We need to talk.”
“Pretty sure we’ve talked enough.”
“You kissed me back.” There’s no smugness in it — just fact.
You open the door before you can talk yourself out of it. He’s leaning against the frame, hair slightly mussed, wearing joggers and nothing else. His skin is still faintly flushed from training.
And suddenly, every plan to keep your distance goes up in smoke.
“You’re not making this easy,” you mutter, stepping back to let him in.
“Not trying to,” he says, closing the door behind him.
You stand there, arms crossed, trying to look unaffected. “So. Talk.”
He moves closer — slow, like he’s giving you the option to stop him. “A week is a long time,” he says. “Too long.”
You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your stomach. “Maybe I like making you wait.”
His mouth curves. “Then I guess I’ll just have to convince you otherwise.”
Your self-control snaps. You grab his jaw, pulling him down into a kiss that’s nothing like the cautious one from before. It’s hard, hungry, your fingers tangling in his hair as you back him toward the bed.
He makes a low sound in his throat — surprise, approval — before his hands slide to your hips, gripping tight.
“You’re bossy tonight,” he murmurs against your mouth.
“Shut up and take your pants off,” you reply, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the bed.
straddle his lap, kissing him again, slower this time, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan. His hands roam your back, your sides, mapping every curve like he’s been waiting for this forever.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice rough.
“Pretty sure I do,” you answer, nipping at his jaw.
You let your hands trail down his chest, tracing each line of muscle, the hard planes of his abs. His breath stutters when you slip your fingers under the waistband of his joggers, teasing.
“Gonna keep teasing me?” he asks.
“Maybe,” you say with a smirk, before kissing him again — deep, wet, your tongue brushing his until you both break for air.
From there, it’s a blur of heat and skin and breathless laughter between kisses. You guide him back onto the bed, your mouth exploring his neck, his shoulders, the way he shivers when you scrape your nails lightly over his stomach.
When he finally flips you beneath him, it’s not because you’ve lost control — it’s because you’ve let him, and he knows it.
“You drive me crazy,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours as he lines his mouth up with yours again.
And when it happens — slow at first, then faster, harder, until you’re both gasping — it’s everything you’ve been avoiding for a week and everything you didn’t know you needed, all at once.
He sinks to his knees in front of you.
“Missed you,” he says against your thigh, his breath hot on your skin.
You open your mouth to reply, but it turns into a gasp when his hands slide up under your hoodie, warm palms smoothing over your waist. He pushes it higher, exposing your stomach, your ribs, until you lift your arms and let him pull it off completely.
His eyes darken as they roam over you. “You’re gorgeous.”
You hook your fingers in his hair and pull him back up into another kiss, this one slower, deeper, your tongues brushing as you shift back onto the bed, letting him follow. He covers your body with his, one knee pressing between your legs until you open for him.
The pressure is maddening. You grind against his thigh without thinking, and he swallows the moan it pulls from you.
His mouth leaves yours to trail down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before his tongue soothes the sting. His hands are everywhere — your sides, your back, your thighs — as if he’s starving for you.
When his fingers slip under the waistband of your shorts, you don’t stop him. He pushes them down slowly, watching your face the entire time, like he’s looking for even the smallest sign you want to stop.
You don’t.
He cups you over your panties first, his fingers pressing just enough to make your breath catch.
“So warm,” he murmurs. “So wet already.”
Your hips roll against his hand, chasing the friction, and he grins against your neck before sliding your panties aside and touching you directly. The first stroke is light, testing. The second is firmer, his fingertip circling your clit in a rhythm that makes your toes curl.
When he slides one finger inside you, you gasp — and when he adds a second, curling them just right, your back arches off the bed.
“God, you feel perfect,” he says, his thumb never leaving your clit as his fingers work inside you.
He kisses his way down your body, slow enough to make you squirm, until his mouth replaces his hand.
The first swipe of his tongue against you has your fingers tangling in his hair, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. He licks you like he has all night, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your clit, his fingers sliding in and out of you in a rhythm that matches the movements of his mouth.
You can’t think, can’t breathe — the only thing you’re aware of is him, the wet heat of his tongue, the way he groans every time you tug his hair.
Your orgasm hits hard, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name. He doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, pushing weakly at his shoulder.
He crawls back up your body, kissing you again, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
You’re still catching your breath when you feel him, thick and hard against your thigh. You reach down, curling your hand around him, stroking slow, and his breath hitches.
“Condom?” you ask.
His eyes flick to yours. “Do you want one?”
You shake your head. “I want to feel you.”
He lines himself up and pushes in slowly, giving you time to adjust. The stretch has your nails digging into his shoulders, and he drops his forehead to yours with a groan.
“Fuck… you feel unbelievable.”
When he’s all the way in, you just stay there for a moment, breathing each other in. Then you roll your hips, and he pulls out only to thrust back in, deeper this time.
The pace starts slow — deliberate — every movement making you feel every inch of him. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them to open you wider, changing the angle until he’s hitting that spot that makes you gasp every time.
You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, and the pace picks up. His thrusts are harder now, deeper, the sound of skin against skin loud in the room.
He kisses you between breaths, his mouth hot and desperate against yours. You meet every thrust, chasing the pleasure building low in your stomach, the tension winding tighter and tighter.
When his thumb finds your clit again, you break — clenching around him, your orgasm tearing through you. He follows a heartbeat later, groaning your name as he spills into you, hips pressing deep as he rides it out.
You stay tangled together, sweaty and breathless, his weight a comfort on top of you.
“Worth the wait?” you murmur.
He grins against your cheek. “I’m not waiting that long again.”
And from the way you feel right now, you know you won’t make him.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━
Wayne Manor 8:14 AM
You wake up to the weight of an arm draped over your waist and the steady rhythm of someone breathing against the back of your neck.
For a second, your pulse spikes — the last shadow of a nightmare still clinging to you — until you register the heat of his body, the faint scent of soap and rain still clinging to his skin.
Dick.
Your chest loosens. The nightmare fades. The ache in your thighs from last night is a different kind of reminder — one that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
You stay still for a minute, letting yourself soak in the feel of him pressed against you. His hand twitches in his sleep, fingertips brushing your stomach, like even unconscious, he’s holding on.
But if you stay here any longer, you’re going to start something you’re not ready to explain at the breakfast table.
You slip out from under his arm, grabbing one of his shirts on the floor and pulling it over your head. The manor’s floorboards are cool under your feet as you head for the bathroom, toothbrush in hand.
You’ve just started brushing when the door creaks open.
“Morning,” Dick says, voice still rough with sleep. His hair’s a mess, his sweatpants hanging low on his hips. He looks unfairly good for someone who just woke up.
You try to answer with a mouth full of toothpaste foam, which earns you a low chuckle.
He leans against the sink beside you, brushing his teeth too, and you keep your eyes on the mirror instead of on him — which is why you don’t expect it when he suddenly scoops you up and sets you on the counter.
Your gasp is muffled by the toothbrush still in your mouth.
He steps between your legs, close enough that your knees instinctively part to make room. His hands settle on your thighs, thumbs rubbing slow circles against bare skin, and your stomach does that ridiculous flutter thing you’d rather not admit to.
You spit into the sink, wipe your mouth, and before you can say anything, his lips are on yours.
It’s not the wild, desperate kind of kiss from last night — it’s slower, softer, like he’s savoring it. But the fact that you’re sitting on the counter with him standing between your knees adds an edge that has you leaning into him, fingers curling in his shirt.
When he finally pulls back, his grin is lazy, satisfied. “Morning, beautiful.”
You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. “We should… probably go down for breakfast.”
He smirks. “If we must.”
The kitchen’s already loud when you arrive. Jason’s complaining about the coffee being “too bitter,” Tim’s reading something on his tablet, Damian’s trying to prove a point to Alfred about protein intake.
You and Dick take seats next to each other, but you’re careful not to be too obvious. Or at least, you think you are.
It’s about halfway through Alfred serving eggs when Jason leans back in his chair, smirking. “So… you two have a fun night?”
Your fork freezes halfway to your mouth. “What?”
Tim doesn’t look up from his tablet, but his mouth twitches. “We all heard you.”
Damian tilts his head like he’s analyzing evidence. “It was rather… loud.”
Your face burns. “Oh my god—”
Dick just grins, utterly unbothered. “Guess we don’t have to keep it a secret then.”
Jason laughs. “Didn’t think you were.”
Before you can come up with a retort, Bruce walks in, setting a folder on the table. “We’ve got a mission. All of you.”
“Even me?” you ask, grateful for the subject change.
Bruce gives you a once-over — unreadable as ever — and nods. “Especially you.”
The heat in your cheeks cools instantly.
Dick leans closer, brushing your knee under the table. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “We’ll handle it. Together.”
And you know he means more than just the mission.
━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━THE END
⋆｡°✩ thanks for reading, angel ♡
want more stories? ➝ [here’s my masterlist]
the ending is kind of rusheddd, sorry
I hope you enjoyed. I don’t read the comics as much but i hope some of the characters where at least a tiny bit accurate
SUMMARYᝰ you’ve never really liked jungkook. he’s annoying, reckless, knows exactly how to get under your skin and oh — did you mention annoying? but when a panicked lie leaves you scrambling for a fake boyfriend, he’s suddenly your best — and only — option. what’s the worst that could happen... right?
PAIRING... jeon jungkook x f!reader
GENRE/WARNINGS... 90s au, frenemies to lovers, fake dating, jk’s kind of a fuckboy, vmin is a side couple, a few cliches, all characters are adults!!, crack/humour, fluff, angst, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing
WORD COUNT... 3.1k
NOTE... I’M SAUR SORRY FOR THE SHORT CHAPTER turns out i accidentally pasted a scene twice when putting it onto tumblr so it added to the wc :< there’s a chunk if jk lore drop tho, so pretend that it makes up for it lolol. reblogs, asks and feedback are very appreciated!! enjoy reading my angels <3
⌗ series masterlist. ⌗ masterlist. ⌗ taglist. ⌗ playlist.
୨ৎ CHAPTER FOUR ; heartache
Jungkook is stretched out on his bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other picking at the cord of his headphones where it’s frayed from overuse. The cassette hums in his ears, some moody track Taehyung shoved into his Walkman weeks ago.
Normally, he’d welcome it — anything to drown out the scratch of silence that fills his room when the house is asleep. But tonight, the music doesn’t land right. Every chord feels too sharp, every lyric too loud. Instead of quieting his head, it only makes his thoughts trip over themselves faster.
He should’ve walked you home. That had been the plan.
He’d pictured it before you’d even met up, the way the night would end: the two of you trailing behind the others, your boots tapping against the cracked sidewalk while he scrambled to come up with something annoying and clever. He doesn’t even know why it mattered so much. It just did. He could see it clearly, him shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting, sneaking glances at you when you weren’t looking, biting back whatever stupid line popped into his head so he didn’t ruin it. Maybe even offering you his jacket if the air got cold enough. He’d wanted to know what you would do with it — accept it, roll your eyes, toss it back at him. Either way, it would’ve been his moment.
But then Taehyung had to play chauffeur.
“Easier that way,” Taehyung had said, already jangling his car keys. “I’ll drop everyone off.”
And of course Jungkook had gone along with it, because what was he supposed to do? Argue? Admit he wanted to walk you home so badly it was practically eating him alive? Not a chance. So he’d kept his mouth shut, plastered on some dumb smile, and climbed into the backseat.
Now he’s here, stuck staring at the ceiling he never grew out of, glow-in-the-dark stars still clinging to the plaster. He used to love them. Now they just mock him, faintly glowing, scattered and uneven like everything else in his head. He kicks at his blanket, restless in his own skin.
And then — god, the part that makes him want to slam his head into the wall.
The way you’d looked at him earlier, voice softer than usual, almost hesitant, when you’d asked if your outfit looked bad. Like you actually weren’t sure what he’d say. Like you thought he might laugh.
What kind of idiot lets it get to that point?
You. Doubting yourself.
It’s ridiculous. Insulting, even. You could walk into school tomorrow in the most ridiculous thing imaginable and still — still — you’d be the most beautiful person in the room. He knows this for a fact, because you already have. Last Halloween. You’d shown up in that stupid clown get-up, face paint and all, waving balloon animals around, and he’d nearly lost his damn mind. You’d been magnetic. He’d had to bite his cheek to stop from staring.
So the idea that you’d even wonder for a second if you don’t look good? That’s on him. He’d made some comment that landed wrong, some joke too sharp, and now it’s stuck in your head. The weight of that hits him hard, heavy enough to sit on his chest even hours later. You’ve probably forgotten already. Meanwhile, he’s lying here, replaying it like a broken record.
He flips onto his side, the springs of his mattress groaning in protest. His headphones slide, tugging at his ears, but he doesn’t bother fixing them. The guilt is louder than anything he could blast into his skull.
The truth is, he knows what he is. A pain in the ass. Too quick to tease, too loud, too smug. He leans on that persona like a crutch. It’s safer to make you roll your eyes at him than to risk you catching him being sincere. Safer to annoy you than to let you see how much he cares. But tonight, he knows he pushed too far. He’d crossed some invisible line without even realising it, and the thought that you might tuck that away as proof he’s nothing but a jerk — it makes his stomach twist.
And then there’s Taehyung. Jungkook loves the guy, but god, he doesn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut. Not about this. All it would take is one slip, one offhand joke, and the whole thing would unravel. You’d put the pieces together faster than anyone. And if you found out about everything? That Jungkook’s been carrying this thing for you, quietly, clumsily, for longer than he’s willing to admit? You’d never let him live it down. You’d wield it against him forever. Or worse — distance yourself.
He drags a hand over his face, pressing his palm into his eyes until he sees spots. He yanks his headphones off completely, letting them fall to the bed beside him.
Listen to him. Christ. He sounds like he still likes you.
He doesn’t. He can’t. That crush was supposed to be buried years ago, shoved so deep even he couldn’t dig it up again. He’s just restless tonight, that’s all. Restless and stupid, nineteen with too much time and too many impulses. It’s not about you. It’s about the lifestyle he’s trapped himself in — late-night flings, smirks that don’t mean anything, distractions stacked on distractions. That’s what’s messing with his head. That has to be it.
Because if it isn’t, then he has to admit something he doesn’t have the guts to say out loud.
And besides. You said it yourself. The two of you don’t match. You — steady, composed, always put together. Him — perpetually a mess, a half-step away from stumbling, from ruining things.
It doesn’t work. It never could.
Even if he wishes it would.
The lunch rush isn’t even close to over, and you’re already convinced that this whole fake-dating thing has spiralled out of your control.
The bell above the diner door jingles every two minutes, the booths filling with groups of students, parents on break, and the usuals who nurse coffee for hours. You’ve worked shifts before, busy ones, but never with the weight of this hanging over you.
Because apparently, Jimin knows every breathing human being in this town. And because Jimin is Jimin, the news about you and Jungkook being “a thing” spread faster than spilled soda on the counter.
It started with one classmate, someone you barely talk to, wandering up to the register with a too-bright smile and asking, “So, when did you and Jungkook make it official?”
The words had nearly made you choke on your own spit.
You had managed to stammer out something, half-ready to deny it, but then the thought hit: if this circles back to Jimin or Tae, it’ll only become a bigger mess. So you’d forced a laugh and let it slide.
Now, two hours later, at least three different people have cornered you with the same question. Each time you’ve smiled like it’s fine, like it’s not actively digging you deeper into a hole you’re not sure you’ll be able to climb out of.
You don’t even blame Jimin for telling people. That’s clearly who he is — friendly, open, incapable of keeping good news to himself. But you’re still hyper-aware that every fake nod, every fake smile, every fake confirmation is building into something that’s starting to feel way too real.
And Jungkook…
Jungkook has it worse.
You’ve been watching out of the corner of your eye, the way you always do without meaning to, and it’s been a steady parade of women drifting up to him at the counter or near the jukebox. Not classmates — at least, not always — but older, college girls, the ones he’s built his reputation on. Some are curious, asking if it’s true. Others aren’t so polite. You’ve seen at least two leave him fuming after they’d thrown something sharp in his face.
By the time you slide another order ticket into the carousel, you’re pretty sure he’s been cursed at twice already. And it isn’t even one in the afternoon.
The last straw comes when a girl in a cropped cardigan storms off, her face flushed, muttering something that makes Jungkook roll his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t get stuck. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head like he can’t believe his luck.
And maybe it’s reckless, but you abandon the counter for a second and head his way, the tray tucked under your arm.
You stop beside him, dropping your voice low so no one else hears. “I would be sorry for you,” you say, keeping your tone light.
Jungkook turns his head, one eyebrow arched, like he already knows where this is going. “Would?”
“Yeah.” You shift the tray, letting it rest against your hip. “But it’s not my fault you chose to sleep with half the town.”
Jungkook lets out a quiet laugh, not loud enough to draw attention, but enough that you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head, leaning against the counter.
“Half’s generous,” he mutters, just for you.
You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and balance the tray on the counter so you can adjust the order slips tucked in your apron. “Not really making your case sound any better, Jungkook.”
Before he can shoot something back, Heather breezes past, carrying a stack of clean glasses that clink together with every step. She’s been at the diner longer than either of you — college sophomore, practical ponytail, always half-amused at whatever chaos you and Jungkook bring to the floor.
“Break up the flirting, you two,” she says lightly, not even looking as she drops the glasses by the soda machine. “We’ve still got three booths waiting on refills.”
You nearly choke, heat prickling your neck. “We’re not—”
But Heather’s already moved on, sliding behind the counter. Jungkook, of course, is smirking when you look back at him.
“Relax,” he says, dipping his voice low enough that it doesn’t carry. “If that’s the worst anyone thinks of us today, I’ll take it.”
You huff, snatching the tray back up. “You’re way too calm about this.”
“And you’re way too stressed.” His tone shifts — still teasing on the surface, but there’s a thread of something else underneath. “What’s the worst that happens, huh? People talk? They always talk. Give it a week, they’ll move on to something else.”
Easy for him to say. He doesn’t have to juggle your growing list of fake confirmations or the guilt of lying straight-faced to people you’ve known since kindergarten.
Still, the way he says it — like it’s not the end of the world, like you’re not completely screwing this up — makes something inside you loosen, just a little.
You tilt your head at him, weighing whether to admit it. Finally, you sigh. “I don’t like lying. Feels like… every time I nod along, I’m digging deeper.”
Jungkook looks at you for a long second, unreadable. “Guess that just means we have to get better at digging.”
The ridiculousness of it pulls a short laugh out of you before you can stop it, and his grin spreads wide.
Heather doesn’t give you long to enjoy it. A shadow falls across the counter, and when you glance up she’s standing there with a rag tossed over her shoulder, hip cocked, expression halfway between fond and exasperated.
“Kook,” she says, tilting her chin toward the clock on the wall, “your break ended, like, ten minutes ago.”
Jungkook groans dramatically, dragging a hand down his face. “Cut me some slack, Heather. I’m actively being hexed by half the women in this town. That’s gotta earn me overtime.”
Heather snorts, not even pretending to be sympathetic. “You’ll survive. Coffee’s not gonna pour itself.”
He straightens with a sigh, tossing you a look that reads Are you seeing this injustice? Then he pushes off the counter, brushing past Heather muttering something that earns him nothing more than her laugh ringing out behind him.
You’re about to turn away when Heather lingers at your side, lowering her voice as Jungkook disappears down the aisle with his coffee pot. She leans just enough for you to hear.
“I don’t know what you see in him, sweetheart.”
You blink at Heather, caught off guard. “What?”
She tilts her head toward Jungkook, who’s already halfway across the diner with the coffee pot, sleeves pushed up.
“Kook,” she repeats. “He’s trouble. Just… don’t let him drag you into whatever circus he’s running this week.”
Actually, he's the one being dragged into your shitshow circus.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind.”
Heather hums. She grabs a stack of menus and disappears toward the front, calling something to one of the other servers.
You watch her go and remind yourself, firmly, that this is temporary.
Just until things calm down.
The dinner crowd trickles out slower than the lunch rush, but eventually the clatter dies down, leaving only the low hum of the soda machine and the faint scrape of chairs as the last customer leaves. Heather clocks out first, tossing you a wave and a pointed good luck look as she disappears through the back door. That leaves you and Jungkook in the quiet of the diner, the overhead lights buzzing faintly, the whole place finally breathing after hours of chaos.
You gather up baskets of fries that never got touched, stacking them on a tray, while Jungkook lingers at the jukebox, unplugging it with an unnecessary flourish. He carries it toward the back like it’s a corpse.
“Drama queen,” you mutter under your breath, wiping at a ketchup smear on a booth.
He grins when he hears you, setting the jukebox aside before grabbing a rag of his own. “Hey, after the day I’ve had, I deserve a little theatrics. Might as well lean into it.”
He drags the rag across the counter in wide, lazy circles, like he’s not actually trying to clean it at all. You watch the streaks he leaves behind and groan.
“That’s not leaning into it, that’s making more work for me,” you say, snatching the rag from his hand before he can ruin another surface.
Jungkook only shrugs, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. “You’ve got the technique down better than me. I’ll handle supervision.”
You shoot him a look. “Supervision?”
“Yeah. Making sure you don’t miss a spot.” He points his chin toward the ketchup bottle you shoved under the counter earlier. “Case in point: that thing’s leaking.”
You follow his gaze, see the red streak running down the side of the bottle, and curse under your breath. Jungkook smirks, victorious.
“See? Useless at wiping tables, but I keep the place running.”
“You keep the place loud,” you mutter, grabbing napkins to fix the mess.
He laughs, a short, warm burst that fills the empty diner more than it should. For a second, it almost feels like you’re the only two people in the world.
You’re crouched halfway under a booth, fishing out a straw wrapper that someone shoved into the corner, when Jungkook’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“So, Tae was saying something earlier,” he starts, and you already don’t like the mischievous tilt in his tone.
You back out from under the booth, wrapper in hand. “That’s never a good sign.”
He ignores you, tossing the rag over his shoulder like he’s in some old Western. “Apparently, he and Jimin are dead set on this double date thing. Amusement park, Saturday. Said you’d be into it.”
You blink. “He said what?”
“That you’d be into it.”
You toss the wrapper into the trash and stand, brushing off your hands. “That doesn’t sound like something I agreed to.”
“Well, technically, you didn’t have to. Tae’s got this way of…” Jungkook gestures vaguely, circling a hand through the air. “Steamrolling people. Next thing you know, we’re eating funnel cakes and I’m winning you a giant stuffed panda.”
You arch a brow. “You? Winning?”
He scoffs, clutching his chest like you’ve mortally offended him. “You doubt my carnival game skills? Harsh.”
“I doubt anyone wins those games,” you shoot back, grabbing another tray of baskets. “They’re rigged.”
“Not against me,” Jungkook says, smug as ever. “I’ve got good aim. Strong arms. Deadly focus. Basically built for them."
You grab a spray bottle from the counter and start wiping down the next booth, and Jungkook trails after you, rag in hand, like he’s incapable of cleaning without an audience.
“You know what I’m picturing?” he says suddenly. “You on one of those spinning teacup rides. Head back, screaming, clutching my arm for dear life.”
You glance at him over your shoulder. “Wow. Very specific.”
“Because it’s accurate,” he fires back, quick. “You’ve got that look about you.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” You swipe at the table a little harder than necessary.
He shrugs, lazy but smug. “You talk big, but the second a ride goes over ten miles an hour, you’re toast. Bet you’d be begging me to get them to stop it.”
You cap the bottle with a snap. “I’ll have you know, I don’t scare easy. If anyone’s screaming on a ride, it’s gonna be you.”
Jungkook laughs, the sound bright in the quiet diner. He leans against the edge of the booth you’re cleaning, close enough that you catch the faint smell of dish soap clinging to his hands. “That sounds like a challenge.”
“Maybe it is.” You turn toward the next table, refusing to give him the satisfaction of your full attention.
“So you’ll come, then? The amusement park?”
You pause mid-swipe, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. If you didn’t know better, you’d say he sounded almost hopeful.
You slide the rag across the last corner of the table and straighten. “Yeah,” you say finally. “I’ll come.”
His grin breaks wide, his dimples showing, and it’s so stupidly sincere that it throws you for a second.
You didn't know he had dimples.
He turns back to the salt shakers, humming some tune under his breath, sleeves pushed up and hair falling into his eyes. You stand there longer than you mean to, rag limp in your hand, before realising you’re staring.
You shake your head before turning back to wipe down the table.
.ᐟGenre: Romance, Family Drama, Found Family, Slow Burn Intimacy
.ᐟSummary: Meeting your boyfriend’s family is nerve-wracking enough. Meeting the Batfamily? Terrifying. When Dick Grayson finally brings you to Wayne Manor, you find yourself caught in a whirlwind of interrogation, side-eye judgment, and Alfred’s subtle tests of character. Bruce is as intimidating as the legends say, Jason’s a menace, Damian mutters insults under his breath, and Tim might be your only ally. But beneath the sharp banter and family chaos, Dick shows you a piece of his past he’s never shared before—and you realize just how much trust is between you.
.ᐟAuthor’s Note: I had way too much fun writing this. it’s family chaos, found family softness, and some intimacy.
Now playing…
Je Te Laisserai Des Mots by Patrick Watson
Masterlist
YOU ALMOST back out on the front step.
You stand there—heels half buried in the gravel, the hem of your dress catching a tiny moon of dust—and tell yourself a hundred times that you can do this. You breathed in the night air as if it were a thing you could steady your hands with. The gargoyles stare down like indifferent judges. The manor lights throw warm rectangles through the windows. Dick’s hand is warm at the small of your back; the warmth anchors you in a way that says you don’t have to be perfect tonight. You only have to be you.
“You look ridiculous,” he says, and it’s gentle and sideways in the way only he can make it—half joke, half reassurance. He’s smiling like he’s already won.
“You mean like a criminal intruder about to meet the head of a family that literally punches bad guys?” you shoot back, unable to stop the sarcasm. It smooths the edge of your nerves. It’s your default; humor is a little shield, a practiced thing that keeps your voice steady even when everything under it threatens to spill.
Dick laughs. “You can be the criminal if you like. I’ll vouch for you.”
“That’s reassuring,” you say, and you try to picture Bruce Wayne smiling back. You know he’s more than the public face, that the man who owns the house is the same man who has learned to read people like a book—he’s part of the reason you’re nervous. You grew up in places that taught you to notice the details. You know when someone’s met you worth checking. You know when they’re checking you.
The front door opens before you can find a clever retort. Alfred is there like he always is—ankle-length robe, immaculate posture, the expression of a man who’s used to keeping the world from tipping over. He’s smaller than you expect up close. He looks at you like he’s seeing something savorable, assessing like a chef testing a new recipe.
“You must be—” he begins, and your name sits in his mouth like a little tick of approval. He welcomes you by your name the way a man remembers details, and the sound of it grounds you the way Dick’s hand did.
“(Y/N),” you say. When you say it aloud, you realize you say it for yourself as much as for him.
“Miss (Y/N). Do come in.” He steps aside with an old-fashioned courtesy that makes Dick flush just a little. “Mr. Grayson, nice to see you again.”
Dick nods, a small, genuine smile on his face. "Good to see you too, Alfred." He steps forward and squeezes your fingers together once. "I'd like you to meet some people," he says. He looks ridiculously proud, as though you're both about to perform a duet he's been practicing.
The entryway smells like lemon oil and fireplace smoke, the mingled domestic smells of a place that’s lived-in and kept tidy. A clock ticks in a room that must be ancient because it has time in it. The portraits on the walls—plenty of them—have faces softened by varnish and the light from chandeliers. You have to tell yourself you are not here for the house, though it’s beautiful and swallowing and somehow full of little nicknames in its frames and corners. Tonight it’s about them.
The brothers are already assembled in the library like a jury. Damian perches on the highest arm of a leather chair, legs tucked under him, chin almost resting on his knees. Tim sits cross-legged on the floor, a laptop open and more interested in Alfred’s tea than what’s happening. Jason leans with one shoulder against the mantel, smirk already sharpened in anticipation.
You notice them first like you notice lips—small details that tell stories. Damian’s expression is narrowed, but not entirely hostile. He has the look of someone ready to be unimpressed and determined to be unimpressed at the same time, which is a very Damian posture. Tim gives you a quick, appraising nod that’s almost a secret handshake. Jason’s smirk is a test. You could be eaten alive if you let them chew.
Dick goes first, of course.
“This is (Y/N),” he says, and he says it like an announcement. Like a show-off who has just acquired something valuable. “From Blüdhaven.”
You say hello. It comes out steadier than you’d expected. You nod to Jason because he’s the easiest to orient your humor toward.
Jason’s grin sharpens. “You’re Blüdhaven, huh? Color me surprised. What’s your real name?” he asks. He’s already leaning in like it’s a game, and his eyes are a challenge.
You bite back a smile. “It’s (Y/N). Last name—none of your business, unless you’re planning to send me a thank-you card for stealing your attention.”
There’s a flicker of laughter in the room; Tim chuckles too—soft, encouraging. You can practically see Dick breathing out in relief.
“You and Dick—how long?” Jason asks, playing it like an interrogation but mostly aiming to annoy.
“Long enough to know he leaves socks everywhere and long enough to know he steals cereal,” you reply. “Not long enough to have taken custody of any of his tax paperwork.”
Damian scoffs. “You joke too much,” he mutters, loud enough to make his voice clip like a blade. “A sense of humor is not a defense.”
“I never said it was.” You turn to Damian. You don’t patronize kids who think they’re better than they are. You meet his glare, quicksilver with the kind of brightness you learned to wield early. “But if it is, you’re about to see a pretty effective shield.”
He bristles, offended in the way most children are when they’re failing to intimidate. But there’s a flicker—maybe respect?—or maybe a simple interest in the fact you don’t wilt. “You’ve been with him a while.” He says it like it’s a fact of war, not a question.
“Yes. He feeds me. Sometimes I let him.” You grin. “He sometimes lets me win in arm-wrestling. Other times he pinches my ear when I’m annoying.”
“That sounds like courtship,” Jason says, which is his version of an encouraging comment. He decides, apparently, this is a show he wants to be in. “You two live where? Blüdhaven has—interesting zoning.”
You shrug and say, “We kept a studio above a bodega for a bit. It had a great roof. And the rats were very well behaved.”
The room dissolves into a small laugh; even Damian manages a smirk that’s too quick to hide. Dick’s hand finds yours in a subtle squeeze, the kind that says he’s still on your side.
Alfred’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway, smooth as the rumple of silk. “Mr. Grayson, perhaps we should move to the dining room while the casserole is still in one piece? And, Miss (Y/N), do come—there is a chair to sit on that does not squeak.”
It’s not an interrogation. It’s an army of softness against the tension of being evaluated. Alfred looks at you like he’s watching a page in a book he hasn’t read yet, eyes bright with private curiosity.
You follow him, heels making a soft clip on the floor, and it’s like crossing into a different scene of the same play. The dining room is wide and warm. The table is laid out with silverware that reflects somehow more than light; you find yourself tracking Bruce’s silhouette at the head of the table, tall, dark, the man who rarely raises his voice and whose silence carries as much as any sentence.
Dinner conversation is a kind of combat; or maybe it’s like a sparring session with manners. Dick fills you in with quick asides about the latest ridiculousness—Tim’s conspiracy theories about how the Manor has at least three secret passages to the kitchen, Jason’s latest fake resume (professional saboteur, apparently), Damian’s disdain for vegetables. You talk back, throw barbs with love like a couple of knives that are balanced and safe. You watch how they move around each other, like they’re all chess players who learned to anticipate each other’s moves.
Bruce looks at you the way you watch a player on a chessboard—patient, assessing, thoughtful. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, his voice drops like a sealed envelope being opened. “(Y/N), you are welcome here.”
It’s a simple sentence, but it’s heavier than a velvet rope being cut. It lands in you like a small meteor of relief. You say thank you, clumsy and earnest, and it lands back at him like a gift.
Tim leans over the table and, with the conspiratorial wink he always does when he picks sides, says, “So, what do you do in Blüdhaven besides roof surf and dodging vermin?”
You grin. “I do a little of everything. I bartend sometimes, freelance security work when people are willing to pay, and I—” you glance at Dick like you’re letting him in on the details—“I fix things. Appliances mostly. I have a talent for coaxing life back into machines.”
Jason’s eyebrows go up. “Handy.”
“You’d be surprised how many dangerous relationships start with a blown fuse,” you say. Everyone laughs. Even Bruce’s mouth twitches.
When Alfred asks about your hobbies, he does it softly, not like an interviewer but like someone wanting to know if he’ll have to dole out cake or stern lectures. “Miss (Y/N), what do you do for yourself, when you are not… saving the day in your own ways?”
You tell him about graffiti in old, forgotten subway tunnels—secret canvases that smell like paint and dust and rain. You tell him how you take late-night runs to clear your head, and how you write terrible poetry that you don’t show anyone. Alfred listens like those are treasures. He nods like he’s cataloging things he will remember.
“You’re a good woman,” he says finally, with that little knowing smile that says he has seen this movie before and lived to the other side. “You have grit. That is the thing that carries people through.”
It feels like an examination that doesn’t hurt. It’s a kindness you weren’t expecting.
Then the knives come out in the kitchen, where Jason corners you like a detective with a glass of Scotch and no patience for subtleties.
“So,” Jason says when you enter, ostensibly to get a glass of water. He props one foot on the counter like he owns the place. He squints at you with the expression of a cat who has a sudden interest in a new stranger. “What do you want with him?”
You level with him because that’s what you do. “To keep his socks picked up sometimes,” you say, leaning against the sink. “To make him laugh. To eat his uneaten cereal.”
He snorts. “All noble causes.” He’s smirking but his eyes aren’t. They edge into something sharper. “Is this—Blüdhaven’s finest? Are you out to steal him from the family or something?”
You laugh, hard and believable. You don’t pretend you aren’t annoyed by the implication; your guard’s up and they’re poking at it. “Steal him? Jason, I have more class than that. I prefer to borrow indefinitely.”
He leans in. “No games, then. You’re with him, you’re with us. We don’t take kindly to people who bend him around their fingers.”
“You want a loyalty oath?” you say. “Because I can write one in crayon.”
Tim steps in like a mediator and rescues the conversation with a perfectly timed deflection. “She knows you. She knows all of you. She doesn’t have to prove herself on your timetable.”
Jason’s eyebrow twitches. “And you’re the president of her fan club now, Tim?”
“No, I’m the secretary,” Tim says solemnly. “But I vote in her favor.”
You tilt your head to Tim. “If you’re secretary, what does that make you if I ever need someone on my side?” You wink.
He deadpans. “Your emergency contact.”
Jason snorts. “She’s funny,” he says. It’s an admission that means more than he wants it to. He flicks water near your shoe like a child, but there’s a new softness in his voice. “Alright. Don’t break him.”
The way he says it is halfway a threat and halfway a benediction; you file it under “family code.” You side-eye the stove like it’s an object of conspiracy. If Jason’s concern is proof of anything, it’s that he already cares about you in his own rough way. It makes you feel strangely honored.
𓍼ོ
At dessert, Bruce pulls you aside like a man who’s been practicing being casual for years. He stands in the small conservatory off of the dining room, where the plants make a small jungle. He studies you the way someone checking an old map checks the fold lines—careful, like he’s memorizing the creases. You meet his gaze without blinking because you promised Dick you would.
“You have made him laugh,” Bruce says. It’s a statement, not a question.
“You make it sound like a rare thing,” you answer, and you feel the brittle edge of your world smoothing. You’re not immune to his presence. You aren’t supposed to be; who would be? You let the truth sit between you. “He makes me laugh more.”
He gives a small, private smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but warms the corners of his face enough that it matters. “I looked into you,” he says, and there’s no accusation there—only something like duty.
You gape. “You did what?”
“I did what any concerned guardian of a man would do.” He says it with the flatness of a man who thinks preemptive strikes are kindnesses. “I read of your public record. I asked questions. I’ve found nothing that indicates you are anything other than honest.”
“You ran a background check,” you say slowly. “You’re the human version of a search engine, I get it. Was it a deep scan? Did you find the graffiti license I never applied for?”
He stares at you like you’ve added a joke into a dossier. And then—very slowly—he allows himself that infrequent flash of something like amusement. “You will not be judged by the sum of your youthful mistakes,” he says.
“Thank you,” you answer. It’s a small, protective handshake between you and the man people have called many things. “Appreciate the proactive parental instincts.”
“Welcome to the family,” he says finally, and because Bruce is Bruce, he says it without flourish and it lands like a benediction. It’s weighty and sincere and deeply dangerous in its implication.
You swallow. “That’s—”
“It means a lot,” Dick says from behind you, like he knew you needed someone to translate the emotional code. “It means he accepts you.”
You laugh, that jagged, joyful noise, and it feels bigger than the house. It feels like you’ve stepped into a room and been given permission to stay. You don’t know yet whether you’ll accept all the things that membership implies—the secrecy, the long windows of silence, the ways in which their lives are not quite normal—but you will try.
𓍼ོ
Later that night, after dessert and after laughter that drowns out the momentary solemnity of it all, Dick takes you by the hand. You walk down a corridor that seems like a throat into the house’s memory. Faded runners swallow the sound of your heels. The light is soft, and for the first time you notice small things: a paint stain half-dried on the banister, a carved initial scratched into the underside of a windowsill, a scrawl of childish handwriting turned into a permanent proof of existence. He walks you down here like he is showing you a secret he has kept for himself.
“You sure you want to see this?” he asks, voice low and fond. “It’s a bit of a time capsule.”
“I want to see you,” you say. “Which means I want to see the kid version of you who ruined his pajamas on the Flying Graysons’ stage.”
He laughs. It’s bright and real and it softens the set of his jaw. “Come on.”
The room at the end of the hall is smaller, like a little museum of someone’s boyhood. Posters with edges yellowed by light line the walls. Model airplanes hang from strings like a frozen storm. The bed is narrow but bedazzled with a hundred small things: a chipped trophy, a teddy bear stitched back together once, a faded poster of the Flying Graysons where a small boy grins in the center of a photo. There’s a little window that looks out over the grounds—a secret vantage point that makes the room smell like dust and sunlight.
He sits on the edge of the bed and pats the space beside him like he wants you to come closer. You do. You perch and take in the artifacts like a careful archaeologist. There is a sense of reverence in the way he touches the objects, like he’s taking inventory of pieces he thought he’d hidden or lost.
“You kept all this?” you ask. It’s incredulous and tender.
“Some of it. Some of it is Alfred’s doing—he kept things he thought were important.” He picks up a photograph that’s been thumbed soft with use. The boy in it is laughing; his eyes are round and wide. “That’s me. Before.” He points to the poster. “This was our world.”
You trace a finger over a tiny plane suspended on a string. “You looked like a clown with a cape in that poster.”
He pushes the hair out of his face and grins. “I was a clown with a cape. You should have seen our costumes. Glitter. Feathers. We were ridiculous.”
“You recovered from ridiculous to… masked vigilante,” you say, and in your voice is both the humor and the disbelief that he could contain multitudes.
He sighs. “I didn’t want to lose the kid who could laugh like that.”
“I can still see it,” you say. “Especially when you do that thing with your mouth when you’re trying not to smile.”
He turns to you, suddenly earnest. “I don’t show this to people much,” he admits. “Not because I don’t want to, but because it’s… private. It’s the part of me that I used to keep in a tiny box under my bed because I was afraid if I let anyone touch it they’d break it.”
You follow his fingers to the bed where, tucked under an old quilt, is a small dust-caked box. He hesitates, like the box is a living thing. You give his knee a soft squeeze.
“Open it,” you say. “Show me.”
He pulls the lid back with the kind of reverence you only usually see at funerals or proposals, and inside are small tokens: a first Robin mask, scrawled notes from Bruce in a handwriting that looks born of discipline, a few old, brittle feathers. You swallow—these are intimate things. They smell faintly of the past, of old glue and dust.
He pulls out the mask and runs his fingers over it, the way one might touch a relic. “This is the first mask,” he says. “I used to… I used to think it made me brave.”
“You still are,” you say. “You just are brave in more ways now.”
He looks at you like you’ve knotted a ribbon and put it on a fear. “You know the story.”
“You told it to me once in Blüdhaven,” you remember. “You told me about the trapeze and the fall and that you promised you’d keep going no matter what. I liked how you told it, like it was a recipe for survival.”
He leans in, voice dropping. “I keep this place because it reminds me of the person I can still be. Not the costume. Not the name. Just… the kid who wanted applause and his family back.”
You reach up and touch his face, thumb soft on his cheekbone. “You can be that kid here,” you tell him. “I mean, with me. If you want.”
He stares at your hand, like the wonder of being touched is its own currency. “You surprised me,” he whispers. “You surprised me in the way you fit into the small parts of my life that I thought were sealed.”
The room hums with a silence that’s almost a thing you can hold. You feel the gravity of it, like the pause before the drop in a ride you never thought you’d step on. He leans in slowly until your foreheads touch. The air between you feels charged—quiet and hot. He smells of soap and lemon oil, the manor in miniature. You feel your heart thud against your rib like it wants out.
“You know,” he says, teasing but earnest, “you can’t sit on my childhood bed and then make fun of my posters. That’s—”
“I would never,” you lie terribly. “I mean—,” you correct, softer. “You’ve got a great sense of color.”
He grins, deep and full. “You’re terrible.”
“You love it,” you counter.
“You love it,” he returns.
And then he kisses you.
It’s slow at first, a gentle crash of lips that makes the room fold in on itself. He tastes like sweet coffee and soap and a little like the adrenaline that follows a good joke. You respond like you always do—with quick wit melting into the body’s older language. Your hands find the back of his neck, fingers tangling in hair you know the exact pattern of. He tugs you closer, and the world narrows to the press of skin and the sound of his breath and the cadence of the room’s clock somewhere out there still ticking.
You lose yourself in the kiss in the way you lose yourself in rainstorms—easily, gratefully. He lifts you up, or maybe you ride the momentum and wrap your legs around his waist, and suddenly the bed is an island where the two of you make rules.
“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur between kisses, because that’s how you measure affection—by the number of ridiculous things a person will let you say to their face.
He smirks against your mouth. “Says the woman stealing my bed.”
You laugh—breathy and scattered—and it’s that kind of laugh that means you’re letting someone into the quiet places. The kiss deepens and becomes more urgent. The room seems to hold its breath. His hands find the small of your back and memorize the curve. You fit together like two halves that were never quite separate. The posters on the wall watch like ancient guardians. For a moment, you feel like a conspiracy of tenderness had decided to land on you both.
And then there’s a pounding on the door that makes the mirror rattle and the air shock. The noise is sharp and furious and unmistakably juvenile.
BANG
BANG
BANG
“DAMI! We can hear you!” Dick says, laughter turning sharp as wood.
The door starts banging again. “OPEN IT!” Damian’s voice is, perversely, both high and full of command. “I require the immediate removal of any illicit behavior occurring in that room!”
You break apart, amusement and exasperation mingling, pulling back enough to see the grin on Dick’s face, his eyes that glimmer like he hasn’t told a soul about how much he wanted that. Your cheeks are flushed like someone’s switched the lights on.
“You’re a monster,” you tell him, and it’s soft.
“You love me,” he says, voice low. Then louder: “Damian, knock if you want in. We’ll RSVP.”
There’s another round of chaotic banging, more dramatic than serviceable.
“Mind your dignity,” Alfred’s voice calls from somewhere down the hall. “And your volume.”
Damian’s muffled voice replies, “I will not be lectured on dignity by a man who drank tea spiced with conspiratorial herbs!”
Your laughter bubbles out—unrestrained and honest—and Dick’s thrum of amusement shakes the bed. He kisses you again, quickly, like a promise. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say, and the word feels true in your bones. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
He pulls you into his arms and you both listen as the absurdity at the door continues. In the hallway, tires squeal from machines you cannot hear, a brief scuffle, and then Damian’s irritated footsteps retreating down the corridor. Jason’s voice floats over, half concerned, half dramatic: “If you leave her, I will prosecute you in the court of sibling disorder.”
Tim’s voice is gentler. “We’ll tiptoe if you want.”
Alfred brings a tray into the doorway with theatrical timing, bearing a small plate of cookies and a pot of tea. “Might I suggest—?” He raises an eyebrow. “A short intermission? For the sake of decorum?”
You take a cookie and Dick takes two, and the gesture—simple, domestic—is both a reclaiming of the moment and an act of defiance against the house’s unblinking usuals. You dip the cookie into the tea with more ceremony than you care to admit.
After the storm calms, you stand and collect yourself, smoothing the dress where it has hitch. You look at Dick in a way you’ve never looked at him before—like someone who has been given keys to a place and is testing whether the locks fit.
“You showed me something precious,” you say—part gratitude, part request. “Thank you.”
He lifts the little box of relics like it’s a sacrament. “Only for you.”
𓍼ོ
On the way back to the main rooms, you pass through light and the deep antique. The brothers are back-to-back on couches, trading jibes like currency. Tim gives you a thumbs-up that is almost religious. Jason nods like the world is in a temporary truce. Damian avoids your eyes with the practiced solemnity of a monarch who’s decided you’re tolerable at best.
Bruce is at the top of the staircase and he watches you like a man who has seen a hundred entrances but gets a rare pleasure from the right one. He inclines his head just slightly, the smallest motion, but to you it means everything.
“That was not a test,” Dick says as the manor’s hush returns. “It was a tradition.”
“What’s that?” you ask.
“The debutante—no. Not the debutante.” He rubs his neck and makes a face. “The… initiation? Welcome ritual? The ‘let’s see if you can survive living with us’ ceremony.”
“You put them through that for all your girlfriends?” you tease.
“No. I reserve the family for those I want to actually keep.” He slides his arm around you and pulls you close in a motion that belongs to the two of you now. “You passed.”
“You have low standards,” you say, but there’s nowhere in it that’s bitter. You mean it as praise.
He kisses your temple. “You make sense to me,” he says. “When things are chaotic, you make them less so. When I’m loud, you’re loud back in the right places. You’re sarcastic in a good way. You’re witty, and you keep me in check.”
“You sure you want someone keeping you in check?” you ask, mock scandalized.
“Absolutely,” he says solemnly. “Otherwise I’ll grow soft.”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to stop you from growing soft,” you say, amused by your own boldness.
He laughs, and the sound is like a child sneaking candy from a jar. “You already do.”
Upstairs, in the quiet that the manor reserves for the midnight hours, you fall together in a quiet pile on the couch outside your door. The day that had felt like a potential trial has blossomed into something else: acceptance, small rituals that promise a kind of belonging. You run your hand along his arm and the hair on his forearm bristles like starlight. You think about the mask he keeps in a box, about the feathery remnants of his past that he still considers sacred. You think about what it means that he chose you to open that box.
“You’re very careful,” you say.
“I have to be,” he answers. “There are things I have to protect. People I have to keep safe.”
“You protect a lot,” you say, and it’s both a compliment and a warning. “Including me?” You test him.
“Especially you,” he says, like a vow, like something he means down to the bones. “Especially you.”
You let the statement sit. You let the sound of it sink into your ribcage and settle in your chest like a warm coin. Tonight, you had walked into a house and found a family the likes of which you hadn’t expected. You had been grilled and softened and welcomed in a manner of a dozen different tastes. You had been shown a boy’s trophies and a man’s mercy.
Outside, the city murmurs like a distant tide. Inside, the house breathes with you. You fall asleep with your face against the worn fabric of a cushion and the knowledge that family can be chosen, that the people who make up this strange constellation will make room for you, even if they’ve never met you before tonight. They will test you, tease you, corner you with questions, and maybe one day they’ll sit with you through your worst nights and your loudest successes. For now, they have accepted you. You have accepted them.
And at the very end, when the house is quiet and the clock in the hallway ticks like the steady heartbeat of something that always, always keeps going, you pull Dick closer and whisper, “Don’t ever stop being ridiculous.”
He murmurs something against your hair, half asleep, half awake. “Don’t make me.”
You smile and press a soft kiss to his shoulder, the tiniest of promises that you will stick around to watch him keep all his ridiculousness intact. The nights ahead promise complications and secrets and missions, but they also promise laughter and the never-quieting hum of a home that has somehow, at last, given you a place at its table.
Clark gets a concussion (and flirts with you miserably)
Summary: Superman gets a concussion and forgets about his wife (you) and his daughter.
Dad!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
tags: just crack
more kent family adventures here!
You weren’t expecting a knock at the door at two in the afternoon, especially not the specific kind of knock that sounded more like a polite bang bang bang followed by a grumble.
When you opened it, there stood Guy Gardner, still in his Green Lantern gear, looking both annoyed and mildly entertained. And slumped against his side, one arm over Guy’s shoulder, was Superman.
“Before you freak out,” Guy said immediately, “he’s fine. Mostly. Took a decent hit to the head. I think the word is… concussed.”
You stared at Clark—Superman—who was smiling dopily at the wall. “Clark?”
“Heyyy,” he slurred, turning his head in slow motion to grin at you. “You’re… pretty.”
Guy snorted. “Yeah, that’s your husband all right. Wanna take him before he decides to start complimenting my hair?”
You shifted Leia higher on your hip and stepped aside so Guy could maneuver Clark inside. The moment they crossed the threshold, Clark’s gaze locked onto you like you were the only thing in the world worth noticing.
“You’re really pretty,” he said again, leaning toward you. “What’s your name?”
You blinked. “My name?”
“Yeah.” His brow furrowed in intense concentration. “Because… I should know. But I don’t. And that’s… weird.”
Clark blinked down at the baby on your hip, squinting like he was trying to solve a mystery. “Wait… who’s this?”
“This,” you said slowly, “is Leia.”
His eyes lit up like a sunrise. “She’s the prettiest baby in the whole world!”
Leia blinked up at him, then gave a delighted squeal, reaching out for him with grabby hands.
“Can I hold her?” Clark asked, already reaching, his hands comically careful for someone who could bench-press a bus. You passed her over, and the moment she was in his arms, he just… melted. “Ohhh, she’s so tiny. And soft. Look at her little face! Oh, she smiled at me—did you see that?”
You smiled, leaning against the couch, still eyeing Clark carefully in case his hold on Leia wavered. “I saw it.”
Then, just to mess with him, you added, “Too bad I’m married.”
Clark froze mid-bounce, jaw dropping. “Married?! To who?!”
“To you,” you said.
He blinked. “Wait… I married you?!” His face broke into the biggest, goofiest grin. “Ohhh man. Best. Day. Ever.”
“And Leia?” you prompted. “She’s your daughter.”
His eyes went huge. “She’s mine?!”
“Yes.”
“And yours?”
“Yes.”
He gasped like you’d just told him he’d won the lottery. “We—” He gestured between the two of you. “We got married?”
“Yes.”
“And had the cutest baby in the world?”
“Yes.”
His voice dropped to an awed whisper. “Wow. I’m… so cool.” He looked at Leia like she’d just descended from the heavens. “I must’ve been so in love with you to make someone this perfect.”
Guy snorted from the doorway. “Okay, I’m leaving before I get cavities from all this. He’s all yours.”
Clark ignored him completely, still swaying with Leia in his arms, eyes bright with pure wonder like he’d just discovered his life for the first time. “This is amazing. You’re amazing. She’s amazing. We have to do this forever.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “That’s the plan, my love.”
Clark cleared his throat before taking a slow, wobbly step toward you, grinning like a schoolboy. “So… Mrs. Superman… can I kiss you?”
You laughed. “I think you’ve kissed me a few times before.”
His brow creased in mock seriousness. “Well, then I should definitely do it again.”
He leaned down—too far, almost losing his balance—but managed to press the gentlest, most ridiculously heartfelt kiss to your lips, before turning to Leia and planting another, even softer kiss on her tiny forehead.
-
The night only got more ridiculous after Clark drifted into his concussed nap on the couch. You sat beside him for a while, brushing back his hair, listening to his slow breathing. Eventually, though, practicality kicked in, his Superman suit was still streaked with grime, bits of monster goo, and a tear along the shoulder that definitely needed patching.
You sighed, leaning closer. “Okay, big guy. Let’s get you out of this before it stains.”
You tugged gently at the top of his suit, but before you could even get the zipper halfway down, Clark jolted upright like a man possessed. His eyes were bleary but his voice boomed with righteous indignation.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he blurted, clutching the neckline. “What do you think you’re doing?!”
You froze. “…I’m trying to help you out of your suit.”
Clark clutched the front of it like a Victorian maiden clinging to her pearls. “No ma’am. Absolutely not. I’m a married man.”
You stared at him, dumbfounded. “…Clark. I’m your wife.”
He squinted at you, suspicious. “Nice try. My wife’s a knockout. Smells like pie, has eyes that—” he paused, frowning as if words failed him, “—eyes that make you forget your own name. Not you, though. You’re trouble. I’m happily married. To the most beautiful, smart, kind-hearted woman on Earth. You’re not tricking me into…into taking off my clothes.”
Clark wagged a finger at you with all the seriousness of a Sunday school teacher. “I won’t be seduced. Not tonight, not ever, missy. I vowed to love my wife, and only my wife.”
You dragged a hand down your face. “Baby, I am your wife. You married me. We have a child together. Remember Leia? The prettiest baby in the whole world?”
His expression softened briefly, a dreamy smile tugging at his lips. “Leia… she’s perfect. Just like her mama.” His eyes flicked back to you, narrowing again. “But you’re not her mama. My wife is prettier.”
You started laughing so hard you had to brace yourself against the couch. Clark, entirely serious, tightened his hold on his suit like you were a thief out to steal it.
“Stop laughing,” he scolded. “This is serious business. I’ll wait. My wife will come. She’ll help me out of this thing, nice and gentle, because she loves me.”
“Clark, I’m right here,” you wheezed through your laughter.
“Nope. Not buying it.” He yawned hugely, eyelids already drooping again. “She’ll come soon. I’ll just… wait for her.”
With that, he slumped sideways, still clutching his suit like a child clutching a stuffed animal. Within moments, he was snoring softly again, mumbling something about his wife under his breath.
-
Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft gold across the living room. You were sipping coffee when Clark finally stirred, groaning as he sat up on the couch. His hair was sticking up in ten different directions, and his suit looked even worse than last night, wrinkled and smeared with dried monster goo.
He rubbed his temples. “Ugh… feels like a tractor ran me over.” Then, all at once, his eyes widened. He shot upright, suddenly panicked.
“Sweetheart, you won’t believe this! Last night—” He lowered his voice, glancing around the room dramatically. “Some woman tried to undress me!”
You smiled into your mug. “Excuse me?”
Clark nodded vigorously, hands flying as he explained. “Yeah! I woke up, and she was right here, pulling at my suit. I don’t know who she was or what she wanted, but she was very persistent. I told her I’m a married man. I was strong, honey. I didn’t give in.”
You set the mug down slowly, lips twitching as you tried not to laugh. “Clark…”
“I rejected her!” he went on, pointing at his chest proudly. “That’s why I’m still in my suit. She tried, but Superman stayed faithful. To you.”
You pressed a hand over your mouth, but a giggle slipped out anyway. He blinked at you in confusion, his earnest blue eyes searching your face. “Why are you laughing? This is serious!”
“Clark,” you said gently, “that woman was me.”
He froze. “…What?”
“I was trying to get you out of your dirty suit. You were concussed, and you thought I was some stranger.”
His jaw dropped. “That was… you?”
“Yes.”
He groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh, no.”
You grinned, sliding over to him. “You swore you’d never betray your wife. Which, considering I’m your wife, was kind of adorable.”
His eyes softened immediately, guilt and exhaustion written across them.
You cupped his face, “Do you need to go to the Fortress to heal?”
“No,” Clark answered a bit too quickly, leaning close to kiss your cheek, “Just need to be here with you.”
“Alright, then come on,” you said quietly, standing and holding out your hand. “Let’s get you to bed. You need real rest, not this couch. You also told ‘that other woman’ that only your wife has the right to undress you. So, let’s get you into comfier clothes, okay?”
He let you lead him, his large frame leaning against you just enough to remind you he wasn’t at full strength yet. Once you got him changed and settled in your bed, he sighed, finally allowing himself to sink into the pillows.
You climbed in beside him, and without hesitation, he curled into you like a boy seeking comfort. His head rested against your chest, the steady beat of your heart easing him. His arms tightened around your waist, protective even half-asleep.
“You’re really my wife,” he murmured, voice low and drowsy.
“Yes, Clark,” you whispered, stroking his hair and pressing a kiss on his forehead. “Always.”
He sighed, pressing closer. “Best thing I ever did… marrying you.” Within moments, his breathing evened out, and he was asleep again, safe in your arms.
genre: Domestic fluff, comedy, romance, smut (18+) smut is lowkey rushed, but i tried.
summary: A silly breakfast debate
song: “Adore You” by Harry Styles
or
Into You” by Ariana Grande
a/n: Rage-baiting Superman should be illegal, but it’s also the funniest thing. Posting this as I’m finishing my Grayson fanfic🥲
Masterlist
YOU STAND IN THE KITCHEN in one of your boyfriend’s oversized T-shirts — one of those gray ones he insists are “broken in” but you know is just a hand-me-down from his college days — and you stir sugar into your coffee like you’re performing small domestic magic. Clark’s at the table, paper folded into the shape of a fortress, reading the Metro section with the intensity of a man who treats crossword puzzles like classified intelligence.
“Okay,” you say, balancing the mug on your hip, “today’s extremely important debate: pancakes or waffles.”
Clark looks up, genuinely puzzled, and for a very small, ridiculous moment you forget why you ever fell for him — and then you remember, and smile. “Pancakes,” he says. “Waffles are… fine.” He folds the paper with careful, newspaper-man precision. “Pancakes are classic, forgiving, and better for soaking up syrup.”
You arch an eyebrow. “Classic? Forgiving? Clark Kent of Smallville, Kansas — defender of the downtrodden — says pancakes are forgiving. That’s poetic.” You take a slow sip of your coffee. “I’m Team Waffle. Crunch. Pockets. Structure. Waffles have structure, Clark. You like structure.”
He laughs, the sound soft and a little sheepish. “I— I like structure in my life. My wardrobe, my schedule, my metaphors.”
You set the mug down and sidle over to him, leaning your hip against the table. The light from the window pools around you both like someone hit the fade to warm. You reach out and tap the rim of his glasses with a mischievous smile. “Those ‘metaphors’ include the very structure you wear on your face?”
His cheeks heat just the slightest pink; the kind of color that makes him look like he forgot how to be an adult. “Hey, these glasses are… practical.”
“Practical because they’re iconic, or practical because they disguise the fact that you’ve got a cape and a curling regimen I don’t even have clearance to judge?” You lean in until the tip of your nose almost touches his. “Be honest.”
Clark’s hands hover on the paper, fingers curling into the fold like a man holding onto normalcy. “I do not have a—” He stops because you are grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “I mean, that’s ridiculous. Of course—”
“Too late.” You poke his side. He flinches and then chuckles, but you can feel the muscle under his ribs twitch, the way someone tries to control too many things at once. It’s fun to toy with him. It’s mean in the best way. You like seeing him lose his carefully arranged calm.
You sit down across from him, elbows on the table, and watch the war between pancake and waffle escalate like two nations about to sign a very small treaty. “You know what,” you say, leaning back, “I think pancakes are basic. Waffles are sophisticated. Waffles — like me — are multi-textured.”
“Multi-textured?” He looks scandalized in the most adorably earnest way. “You saying you’re a waffle is— I don’t even— Are you insulting yourself now?”
You drop your voice into a faux serious tone. “I’m making a case for waffles. Also for myself. And suggesting, gently, that you, Clark Kent, are maybe… just a little predictable.”
That’s the phrase. Predictable.
His jaw tightens just a fraction, a human fault line you can’t help but trace with your eyes. Predictable — that’s how Clark looks to the world: the glasses, the polite laugh, the mild manner that keeps him tucked neatly into the background. But right now, with that stubborn edge sharpening his features, with the flicker of heat in his eyes he’s trying to hide, he’s anything but predictable. He’s dangerous in the best way. And God, you think as your stomach flips, he has no idea how attractive he is when he lets that control slip.
“You’re calling me predictable?” he repeats, slow and incredulous.
“I am,” you say. “And I adore you for it. I just… like surprises. Like a waffle, you know? Hidden pockets. Little traps that make mornings better.”
He snorts. “Since when did you start lecturing me about breakfast architecture?”
“Since I knew it would bait you.” You grin. “And sought to see what kind of bait you were.”
That’s it. You’ve deliberately pulled on the thread you know will ruffle him: honesty laced with a tease. Clark is a champion of restraint, but also a man with a low tolerance for being bested in his own home debate arena. In the space of a heartbeat the paper vanishes and his hand is on the table, fingers drumming.
“All right,” he says, voice lesser and lower, the sound of a man ready for battle over batter. “Let’s be serious. Waffles are… overengineered. You’re praising something because it looks complicated. Pancakes are accessible. They’re inclusive.”
You scoff, mock offended. “Inclusive? That’s not a culinary argument, that’s a graduate seminar.”
“And,” he continues, warming to the rhetorical fight, “they’re sentimental. Fluffy. Like… like Sunday mornings in a little town. Like—” He gestures vaguely at your oversized T-shirt and the early light. “Like the small things that matter.”
“Is this an attempt to romanticize pancakes to win?” you ask, eyes glittering. “Because you’ve got romance on your side and I’m starting to think you’re cheating.”
“Not cheating. Context.” He’s smiling now, but the thing about baiting Clark is you don’t need to go loud to get a rise. You can go microscopic: a raise of the eyebrow, a soft provocation, and there it is — the heat under his skin. That heat is not anger so much as fiercely focused attention.
You fold your hands and put on your best investigative news anchor voice. “Okay, let’s fact check. Which of us actually—” you pause for dramatic effect “—has made breakfast in the past week?”
He narrows his eyes. “I made coffee.”
“You made coffee.” You translate his admission into the language of victory. “I made eggs. I made toast. I made a soufflé one time when we had too many eggs. So clearly my culinary record is—”
“Inflated.” He shoots the word like a dart. “You’re an outlier. You’re creative. You’re not representative.”
“And yet, you cling to your pancakes because they’re safe,” you say, gentle and cruel all at once. “It’s like your… your entire atheistic, strictly-metaphorical breakfast philosophy. Safe. Dependable. Hands folded one on top of the other.”
This is the bit where the real bait glints. You toy with the edges of his composure because you know the man who protects the world also hates being painted as ordinary. It’s like pressing a button that says, Please prove you’re not ordinary.
“You’re dramatizing pancakes,” he says, very adult, very calm. But the clench at his knuckles betrays him. “I like things that are good. That are honest.”
“I, on the other hand, like things that are a little reckless.” You lift your mug and take a long, slow sip. “Like you, when you fly without asking permission. Like you, when you save a cat from a tree and then casually drop five trivia facts about the tree species while you’re at it.” You wink.
It’s thin. It’s threadbare. It’s the kind of teasing that walks right up to a line. His face changes in an instant — not fury, but a sharpened, almost flustered focus. You can see him hearing the parts of himself you don’t let the world in on. It warms you, watching him fight to pin down things he thinks of as private.
“You’re baiting me,” he says finally. A warning, playful, laced with the tiniest thread of something like possessive concern.
“Am I?” you counter, and now you’re the one advancing, putting your hand over his. Your fingers press into his palm with casual possession. “Maybe I’m trying to see if Mr. Mild-Mannered has a back pocket of actual mischief.”
His laugh is short, more breath than sound. “Mischief? I—” He’s trying. He’s trying very hard to be validly indignant, but you’ve anchored him with touch and look and the old comfortable intimacy of being allowed to pull at his edges.
“You’re getting… testy,” you say, and purr the last word. “Which is a pleasant surprise.”
That’s the exact phrase that sets him off — but in the best way. His face blooms with red, a storm front you could map. “Testy?” he echoes. “I am not testy.”
“You are,” you insist, utterly delighted.
“Does Lois call me that?” he counters, mock wounded, and it’s your turn to raise an eyebrow. Lois — the name trips him up because he’s protective, because it’s a name that carries his life like a folder. “She’d say no.”
“See? You care about someone else’s opinion, Clark Kent, and you’re trying to project fairness. I love that about you.” Your thumb grazes his wrist, slow, and the contact is a tiny current.
He exhales sharply, the kind of breath that’s somewhere between a surrender and a concession. “Fine,” he says, voice softening. “If waffles mean structure and surprise and… beautiful pockets, then maybe… maybe I can appreciate them.”
A victor’s smile lifts your mouth. “You can appreciate them. You can… maybe make me waffles one day. Not today. I like being the one who gets to force your pancakes into something exciting.”
“You force them into excitement?” He pretends to be scandalized and you both laugh. The mood in the room loosens like a balloon surrendering air. The debate dissolves into something warmer.
“You did, you know,” you whisper, because this has always been the point. Tease him until he’s a little flustered; watch him shift gears from mild-mannered to deliciously, intimately earnest. “You get riled on the inside, Clark. It’s cute.”
“Cute?” He reaches across the table and takes your hand now, fingers threaded with yours, knuckles brushing in a way that says this is the only battlefield you’re allowed. “You enjoy tormenting me.”
“I enjoy seeing the part of you that doesn’t fit the cardigan,” you say frankly, and then you add, softer, “The part I fell in love with.”
You press your forehead to his for a second — just a breath’s worth. He smells like coffee and fabric softener and something indefinably warm that belongs to him. His hand curls around yours like a promise. “I’m not all cardigan,” he murmurs.
“No,” you agree. “You’re a cape, on the inside. But in here,” you tap your palm to your chest, right over the space that makes you both ridiculous and human, “you’re my cape who wears spectacles.”
“You’re going to keep calling me Mr. Cape then?” he says, and there’s mischief now, the real thing.
“Only when you deserve it.” You tilt your head, and your mouth finds his. The kiss is slow at first, a negotiation — warm, habitual, deliciously domestic. Then it deepens because he’s done holding back, because teasing ends in soft collisions and grease on fingers and the knowledge that you’ll both survive whichever breakfast you choose. His other hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, possessive as a whisper.
“You rage-bait me again and I’ll make you eat every pancake I can,” he says against your mouth, breath hot and ridiculous.
“Is that a threat or a promise?” you ask.
He grins into the kiss. “A promise.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, your forehead still touching his, eyes bright. “Then I guess we’ll have to work on your waffle technique.”
He pretends to groan, but there’s defiance under it. “I’ll take on the waffle challenge. But only if you asked.”
“Only because I asked.” You kiss him again, softer, then bolder, then laughing as he sighs, the kind of contented, utterly human sigh only you have managed to coax out of him.
But the laugh dies in your throat when his hand tightens at your waist, anchoring you like he’s suddenly afraid you might vanish. His mouth returns to yours, no longer sweet and slow — but hungry, rougher, tasting like coffee and restrained need. He’s still careful with the strength he carries, but there’s an urgency in the way he pulls you closer, pressing your thighs against the counter until you can feel how hard he already is through his jeans.
You push at his chest until he gives you just enough space to hop up onto the counter, perching there in nothing but his shirt, legs spreading wide to draw him in. He steps between them like it’s where he’s belonged all along.
“Trouble,” he murmurs against your lips, dragging the word across your skin before his mouth trails to your jaw, your throat, sucking a mark that will sit there for hours. His glasses are crooked, his hair a mess from your fingers tugging through it, and you’ve never seen him look more undone.
“Maybe,” you breathe, smirking even as your head tips back to give him better access.
His hands slide up your thighs, slow at first, then rougher, gripping, spreading you open on the counter until you’re heat against him. Your ankles lock at his back, dragging him into you until you feel his cock straining against denim, grinding into the thin cotton of your panties.
“God, Clark—” The moan slips out before you can catch it, and he growls against your neck, a sound you feel rumble all the way through you.
“Still think I’m predictable?” he asks, voice low and wrecked, thumb pushing beneath your shirt to skim bare skin.
You can’t answer — not when his hand slides higher, cupping your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you arch against him. He swallows the sound you make with another kiss, rough and claiming, his tongue stroking deep into your mouth like he’s starving for you.
The world narrows to heat, to his hands roaming up your shirt, to your hips rocking desperately against him. You tug at his belt, fumbling until he helps, one big hand yanking it loose, the other dragging your panties aside with a desperation you didn’t expect from him. The sharp, shuddering exhale he gives when his fingers find you wet and ready nearly undoes you.
“Fuck,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, glasses sliding halfway down his nose. “You’re soaked—”
“Because of you,” you gasp, bucking into his hand as two thick fingers sink inside you, stretching you open, curling until you’re moaning against his lips.
He groans like the sound alone is going to kill him. “You’re gonna make me lose it.” His pace is slow at first, deliberate, but the way you whimper and grind against his palm drives him faster, deeper, until you’re clutching at his shoulders, thighs trembling around his hips.
“Clark—oh, God—”
“That’s it, baby,” he rasps, kissing you hard as his fingers work you relentlessly, thumb circling your clit until your body tenses, then unravels. You come against his hand, crying out into his mouth, and he swallows every sound like it’s sacred.
He barely gives you time to catch your breath before he’s undoing his jeans, pushing them low enough to free himself. Your eyes widen at the sight — big, thick, flushed, and dripping with need.
“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse, tugging him closer by his shirt.
“Say it,” he groans, the tip dragging against your soaked folds, teasing, making your whole body burn.
“I need you, Clark. Inside me. Now.”
That’s all it takes — he thrusts in with one deep, slow stroke that has you gasping, nails digging into his back. He’s huge, filling you to the brim, stretching you open until you can’t think, can’t breathe, just feel.
“Fuck—” he hisses, jaw tight, holding still as if afraid of breaking you. “You’re so tight… so perfect.”
“Move,” you beg, rocking your hips against him, needing more.
And then he does — pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, setting a rhythm that’s both punishing and precise. Every thrust drags moans out of you, his name a chant on your lips. His hands grip your thighs, holding you wide open on the counter as he pounds into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the kitchen, mixing with the sharp clatter of his belt buckle against the cabinet.
You meet every thrust with your own, greedy for more, the counter cool under your ass while his heat consumes you. He kisses you between groans, sloppy and desperate, his tongue tangling with yours, his forehead pressed against yours like he needs the connection as much as the release.
“Gonna—fuck, I’m close,” he grits out, hips snapping harder, faster, the counter rattling beneath you.
“Me too, Clark—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. He drives into you until you’re falling apart again, body clenching tight around him as you cry out his name. The way you squeeze him is all it takes — with a strangled moan, he buries himself deep, spilling hot inside you as he shudders, clutching you like he’ll never let go.
The two of you stay there, pressed together on the counter, breathing hard, lips brushing, the smell of coffee and sex thick in the air. His glasses are hanging crooked, your shirt’s pushed up around your ribs, and pancakes are the last thing on either of your minds.
When he finally pulls back enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, hair messy, he smiles that sweet Clark Kent smile that makes your heart ache.
“Still want waffles?” he asks, voice wrecked but teasing.
You laugh, breathless, kissing him again. “Only if you serve them like that.”
Outside the window a delivery truck rumbles by, a small ordinary sound that anchors the moment. You make pancakes the next morning, because that’s the compromise you both smiled into last night. You let him flip one brave waffle attempt, which collapses gloriously in the center and somehow becomes your favorite failures stack. You eat them with fork and fingers and all the messy, ordinary joy of it, and when he reaches across the table to wipe syrup off your lip with his thumb, you think, not for the first time, that baiting him was worth every small victory.
“You know,” he says later, leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper as he brushes flour off your cheek, “you could just say you like me.”
You smile into the spoon you’re stirring with. “I don’t say it because I like watching you get riled. But if I did say it—”
“If you said it,” he says, humor threading through his voice, “would it ruin the rest of the debate?”
You cup his face with flour-dusted hands. “It would only make breakfast better.”
He nods solemnly as though you’ve solved something monumental. “Deal. Breakfast and—”
“And teasing,” you add. “Always teasing.”
He presses a kiss to your palm and then to your lips. “Always teasing,” he agrees, and for a man who can stop a meteor with a decisive glance, it’s the most lethal, glorious sentence he will ever use.
you overheard a conversation Bruce had, making your feelings hurt, a lot.
english it’s not my first language so please be kind about it :’)
part two.
Bruce Wayne was cold as ice.
Your relationship with him was great. You’d get use to his shy behavior and lack of affection, but he, somehow filled your heart with love.
And you, indeed, showed him how beautiful love can be. You loved kissing all over his face, you loved their showers together and even the silent breakfast early in the morning. His little smile and hand squeezes were enough.
You’ve always accepted the idea of Bruce being a vigilante. Your love towards him was very much intense no matter how ridiculous his decisions were when it came to Batman, you hated the idea of him getting hurt o putting his life in danger, at the same time though, you knew he wouldn’t leave his late night activities.
So you didn’t have any other option, and just live with his decision.
You were his eyes when he leaved at night.
Bruce allowed Alfred follow his actions while he was patrolling Gotham, letting him help Bruce if he needed it.
And you also watched him all night through his contact lenses praying for his health, and of course Alfred behind you telling you to go to bed and wait for him. Most of all nights you accepted and wait for him in bed.
Not that night though.
The cave was cold and alone sending shivers down your spine while you were walking to Bruce’s computer. The cave was almost in silence lacking of Alfred’s presence, making you frown when you saw the big screen, it was Bruce’s vision. Your eyes watched what he was seeing and your ears could hear a voice, a woman’s voice.
“Y/N, huh?” The voice was feminine, dark and warm. “Why you keep her if she’s annoying then?”
Selina.
“I didn’t say that,” Bruce’s voice was deep, and sharp.
“You said clingy, isn’t that the same thing?”
Somehow the air around you become more dense and cold, you felt your body paralyzed when you heard those words. Were you clingy?
Your eyes watched Selina’s face, her face was pretty and delicate, her eyes watched Bruce’s eyes with desire making youfeel your chest heavy every time your own eyes see their interaction.
“Selina…”
A small gasp came out your mouth when you heard that. Bruce’s voice was smooth —almost pleading— making your heart stop for a second. You gaze flicked to Selina eyes seeing how her owns travel to Bruce’s lips.
He never has sounded like that before, not around you.
“Please… let me take care of you, B” her seductive voice filled the cave making you feel sick and feeling your eyes getting wetter.
Before you could even get to watch more, you turned around to the elevator hearing only your heart pounding and your stomach aching. The jealousy feeling was overwhelming and making your chest hurt really bad you’d to grab it.
“Oh, Miss, I didn’t-“ Alfred voice made you jump a little bit when you finally went out of the Cave. “Are you alright, Madam?
“Uhm…” The words didn’t come out of your mouth making Alfred look at you with preoccupation. “I just… I-I saw Bruce downstairs on the screen and I-“
“Oh, darling” Alfred grabbed your hand that was on your chest and smiled just a bit. “I told you not to worried about it. He’s fine, was he driving way too fast, wasn’t he?
You looked at him and tried to smile. You could feel how your own eyes blinked many times to stop the tears to fall down your face. “Yeah… yeah, he was speeding… I got worried, that’s it”
“I’ll talk to him later.” Alfred squeezed your hand making you nod at him. “Try to sleep, I’ll make tea.”
Clingy was the word that repeated in your mind almost all the time. You were indeed a girl who loved to show your emotions, you were in love, for Gods sake, Bruce made you feel like no one else would.
You knew he wasn’t to affectionate towards you, but his little smiles were enough, his hands looking for yours under the table when both were out on public, his need to grab your tight every time, it was enough.
See him with Selina made you sick. You’d try your best to ignore the feeling but it was just too much to ignored it.
Even though Bruce was new at relationships, he knew something was off when you stopped give him bunch off kisses before he went on patrol. He has been busy, but he’d notice you suddenly change.
Until that night.
It was late at night when he came home. You’d hear his heavy footsteps walking up to the bedroom in which you were laying in bed only listening to the pouring rain.
Your back was facing the door and you close your eyes when you heard him open the door.
You felt your heart race but tried your best to fall asleep before he could talk to you, you’d felt your body relax and your eye lids getting heavy, the sounds Bruce make fading every time you breathed.
“Hey, baby”
You opened your eyes at his deep, quiet voice and blinked twice realizing you’d fall asleep.
Bruce was behind you, his nose was burried in your neck making you move your shoulders in a sleepish way. “Didn’t mean to wake you up,” He leaved little kisses on your neck making you fully open your eyes and tense and the sensation, you knew Bruce noticed. “You alright?” He asked, still smelling your neck and your hair.
“I’m just… sleepy” You murmured, still not facing him. Those kisses felt cold against your skin, you could only thinking about Selina.
“I missed you.” Bruce said feeling his hand gently touch your hip. “Is this your shirt?” He asks grabbing your own oversized t-shirt you used as a pajama. Not one of his. His question was full of confusion and you could hear a little disappointment coming out his mouth. Why would you use your own clothes anyway?
You close your eyes feeling the knot in your throat, in other time, you’d feel excited and you’d not wait any time to turn around to him. This time though, your chest was filled with resentment.
“Bruce…” You whispered. “I’m tired, maybe other time” you shyly said feeling the tears in your eyes with the guilt filling your whole body.
It was the first time Bruce frown his eyebrows at your reaction. You’ve never ever rejected him before. Bruce could feel his heart sank at the way you grabbed the blankets to your body, your back still facing him, trying to sleep. Hoping it was a type of joke and you were about to turn around and laugh sweetly, climbing up to his lap and kiss him with the most sweet smile.
But you didn’t.
The bedroom never felt so cold and gelid, even with you on his bed.
synopsis: clark kent wants to kiss you so bad but you don’t let him until he actually loses his mind from all the pathetic yearning
a/o: i’ve been sick with jealousy watching the various make out clips of the superman kitchen scene so i have to write this otherwise like clark kent i will explode. david cornswet- [redacted]
returning to your apartment after a long day of work at the daily planet and seeing your boyfriend clark kent in your kitchen cooking you dinner wasn’t on the agenda, but who were you to complain about a pretty boy doing domestic work for you like a simp?
you smile, sneaking up to your boyfriend (who obviously hears you with his super-hearing, yet entertains your antics.)
“ah yes, superman’s favourite reporter,” you tease with a grin and clark spins on his heels to turn towards you, eyes lighting up. he takes two big steps forward and his huge frame towers over yours. his arms fit your waist like a glove. he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“hey,” his voice is sweet as he greets you, still in his work clothes. “don’t be jealous,” he smiles, gorgeous dimples sinking into his cheeks on his handsome face. “you can be superman’s second favourite reporter,” he muses, bending down to kiss you.
you subsconsciously divert, shifting to his side, backing up into the counter. clark’s eyebrow raises, slightly perplexed, before following your turn, backing you into the counter. your hand places on his shoulder.
“well, it doesn’t matter to me since superman seems to lack some morals if he’s always conspiring with the same reporter,” you taunt, grinning wide. “who also happens to be the same person as him.”
clark smiles, teeth and all. it’s boyish and delightful as always, the type to make butterflies erupt in your stomach. “fine,” he moves down again, hands on your hips. “so i’m a little unethical, but i’m only human,” clark’s voice becomes a faint murmur by the end of his sentence because he’s leaning in, lips parted to kiss you—
you turn to your side, dramatically rolling your eyes. at first, avoiding clark’s kisses was unintentional, but seeing the heat of frustration rise in his neck, the way his hands tighten on you, and the way his teeth grit slightly every time you dodge his kiss plants a cruel idea in your head.
“or maybe superman has his favourite medium for positive media representation,” you pester, eyebrow raised.
your boyfriend frowns. “ouch,” he pouts at the accusation, caging you against the counter. “but the articles i write are never biased. they’re factual, with the most valid source possible. it’s perfect journalism,” he defends. this time he moves in more skilfully, head blocking yours, but you quickly begin to speak as his mouth inches closer.
“but superman would know exactly what to say!” you gently smack his chest when he leans in to kiss you again. clark groans, hands seamlessly lifting you up onto the counter as if you weight nothing. he hums absentmindedly while you continue to complain, hands gesticulating to drive your point home.
“fine,” he concedes, eyes moving down. “you’re right,” he gives up so you can stop lecturing him, leaning in again. you scoot back against the counter, creating distance between the two of you. frustration bubbles inside clark’s chest.
“it’s not really fair, is it?” you continue to question, eyebrows raised as your eyes find his face. and clark’s face is..
completely fucked out.
his lips are parted, breathing heavily through them, bottom lip slightly jutted out, eyes locked on your mouth. his glasses are carelessly lopsided, hanging from a thread on the tip of his nose. your lips curve upwards in the hint of a grin. he’s lost it.
“clark,” you breathe, hands suspended in the air at his shoulders. you use the inside of your wrist to nudge his broad shoulder. “i’m not done scolding you.”
he almost whines. “yeah,” his deep voice is unusually high pitched and feeble. “yeah— sorry,” it cracks, a thick gulp bobbing down his adam’s apple.
his eyes flicker up to your eyes for one second before uncontrollably twitching back down to your lips. frustratingly, you begin again:
“it’s just not ethical,” you lean back, head resting against the bottom of a cabinet while clark hums, not registering a word you’re saying. “interviewing yourself, knowing all the questions beforehand—”
this time when his will falters— he leans in, hands moving from your waist to your cheeks, fingers digging into your soft skin to ground you to one place. his mouth parts to capture your lips in a kiss when you grin wide, pulling his glasses up and off his face, his curls bouncing at his forehead. you turn your head to the side right when clark reaches you to place them on the counter, so his lips press into your hair instead.
he closes his eyes, sucking in a deep, patient breath. hold it together, kent. you’re saying something, but he can smell your shampoo, and god he’s going to rip out of his pants.
“and the thing is, if you just keep interviewing yourself, eventually someone’s going to piece together how suspicious that is,” your eyebrow raises as you give him a plain smile.
he nods, attempting a new strategy, that if he behaves, you’ll eventually give in and kiss him back. you smack your lips disapprovingly, and clark’s beautiful baby blue eyes darken.
he leans in again when you’re silent for a moment, determined to capture you this time, his mouth open. his lip grazes your top lip when your mouth falls open to block his.
god, for once, clark wishes you’d stop talking. just this once.
“but then again the glasses,” you turn to the side, eyeing his disguise. you turn back to him, hands sliding up his neck to tangle with the curls at the base of his neck. “sure, but i still don’t think they’re enough to curb suspicions if they ever arose.”
now you’re just not playing fair. clark chokes momentarily on air when he feels your fingers on his neck, chest heaving up and down heavily.
clark snaps. not vocally, but in restraint.
his voice is sharp when he gasps out your name, eyes closing. “you—” he purses his lips, his pretty dimples making an appearance.
you shamelessly reach down and poke one, and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter. “can you just kiss me first? please?” clark is so polite with his words, despite how you’re torturing him. his volume isn’t raised, tone isn’t demanding. he’s pleading like the usual, sweet ol’ clark he is, deep voice shaky.
“i promise i’ll listen to you scold me,” his eyes open and they’re pathetically glossy when they meet yours. his eyebrows crease, lips pouted slightly. pity fills your chest and you smile cruelly.
you shrug. “maybe i just don’t want to kiss you right now,” you smile, and clark’s eyes widen slightly. his expression falls, lips parting as hurt fills him. he tries to open his mouth to say something, eyebrows twisting in despair. he’s about to go crazy with questions, asking if he’s done something wrong, if you’re mad at him, if you suddenly hate him, when you chuckle.
“just kidding.”
and then your hand at his nape tugs forward, pressing your lips to your gentle giant of a boyfriend’s mouth.
clark moans. shamelessly, unabashedly, moans. his eyes close tight, hands flying over your frame, hard and huge on your waist and back as he tugs you closer, hips pressing into yours. his mouth is bordering aggressive as it opens and closes around your lips, taking them in between his plump ones, kissing you like a starving man.
which he is, considering you were torturing him for so long. his hands glide over your back again and again, feeling you up while there’s zero space in between your bodies, your legs fitted around his hips while he grinds against you.
your hand moves down his large arm, over his rolled up sleeves and then up, tangling into his curly black locks. your chin tilts up to better make out with him, panting heavily. it’s a messy, rough, desperate kiss, clark’s super-mouth having no intention of stopping, lips continuously gliding in and out from between yours, teeth clashing while he’s plunging his tongue into your parted lips with each kiss, cheeks dimpled as he swirls his tongue around yours in your mouth.
he presses his lips harder against yours for round two, shifting between sucking your bottom lip and then your top lip, equally dividing the attention. for a moment in between he keeps his lips parted against yours, intimately breathing hot air into your mouth, before pressing another long, never ending kiss against your lips with intense pressure.
you have to tap his bicep three times to remind him that you’re only human, and he breaks the kiss with a loud wet squelch, his eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights as if he hasn’t just kissed the life out of you.
his hands tighten around your waist, moving up your back and down, almost apologetically.
“gosh,” he breathes, drowning in guilt when he sees you struggling to catch your breath, panting and heaving. his own chest is rising up and down exasperatedly, cheeks flushed. “gosh, i’m so sorry..”
he leans in, nuzzling his nose against your cheek apologetically. “wanted to kiss you so bad..” he tries to justify, his words fluffy air on your cheek. “you were scolding me, and you weren’t stopping, and i just needed it..” his deep articulate voice is dark and whiny, his heart racing in his chest.
he gulps and it’s so fucking loud in the silence. your own heart is thrumming against your chest, your hands gripping his biceps.
“you forgive me, right?” clark breathes, nose digging into the warmth of your cheek while he intentionally nuzzles it around until it collides with your own nose, his plump, wet lips pressing a gentler, softer peck to your mouth. the quick sound of the kiss rings in your ears and your head feels dizzy.
“i just really needed it,” clark’s hand slides to your abdomen, reaching up and grabbing your wrist, gently bringing it down.
he places your palm over his crotch. god, your palm is nothing in comparison to how huge—
“see?” he presses a kiss to your cheek, lips parted as he breathes heavier against your skin. “just had to kiss you otherwise i’d explode.”
meanwhile— you’re a blushing, light-headed mess. how stupid of you to torture your sweet, monster kisser of a boyfriend. when clark pulls away enough to see the hazy look in your eyes, he blinks, eyebrows furrowing in genuine worry.
“golly, was that actually too much?” he switches from whiny and pathetic to genuine worry, lips pressing into a concerned thin line, cheeks dimpling as his hand reaches up to sweetly caress your cheek, thumb rubbing up and down.
you give him that same breathless look. “clark,” you breathe, voice bordering sulky. “clark i can’t be wanting you to fuck me everyday,” you complain, sounding like you’re about to cry.
clark’s pants tighten. he sucks in a breath, closing his eyes. he nibbles on his lower lip, trying to maintain himself, hands tightening around your hip and cheek.
“god,” clark’s voice is on the edge, and it’s probably the first time you’ve heard him say ‘god’ and not ‘gosh’. you gulp, practically feeling him tighten underneath your palm.
❀He may be Superman to the world, but to you, he’s just Clark — the boy who blushes when his mom tells stories and the man who makes a farmhouse feel like home.
❀farmhouse fluff · meeting the parents · smallville sunsets · clumsy livestock lessons · embarrassing childhood stories · twin bed struggles · found home · “he’s just Clark”
❀ pairing: Clark Kent (Superman) × Reader (f!city girl from Metropolis)
Four months into dating Clark Kent, you already know the truth — he’s Superman.
But the part that makes your heart ache isn’t the cape; it’s the way he squeezes
your hand in the car, the dorky grin he can’t hide, and the fact that he still
barely fits in his old twin bed in Smallville.
When Clark invites you to meet his parents, you’re pulled into the warmth of
the Kent farmhouse: dinner at a table full of love, embarrassing stories that
make him blush, early-morning chores with stubborn chickens, and a porch
You came to Smallville nervous about farm life, but you leave realizing that
“home” isn’t a place. It’s him.
💌 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆:
This fic is basically warm bread, sweet tea, and the smell of hay at sunset.
If you’ve ever wanted to spend a weekend with the Kents, this is your love letter.
(Inspo hit while I was spending the night at my grandparents’ farm.)
Songs:
💌“You Are in Love” — Taylor Swift
💌“Lover” — Taylor Swift
💌“Sweet Creature” — Harry Styles
💌“Can’t Help Falling in Love” — Haley Reinhart cover
✦••┈┈┈┈┈┈┈••✦
You breathe in before you step out of the rental, because the air in Smallville smells like something you only ever read about in books and see in movies — wide and clean and full of an honest kind of green that the city never lets you touch. The sky is ridiculously big here, blue stretching farther than any building could block, and the fields run on and on, rows of corn and soy like an ocean of green.
You look ridiculous in your city coat — something sleek and black, more useful for two blocks in Metropolis than two hours on a farm road — and Clark, of course, looks like he belongs here. He always looks like he belongs.
Today his hair is a little mussed from the drive, his hands on the steering wheel are the same gentle, sure hands you fumble with when you take them; he keeps stealing glances at you like you’re the only small thing in a very large, very rural world.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice folded with that soft, dorky humor you’ve fallen for. He’s using the same serious face he uses when he’s about to do something mildly heroic, the face that says he’s thought through seven different outcomes and decided you’re fine regardless.
You laugh, because nerves don’t deserve to stay inside you. “I’m excited. Also terrified. Also I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with my hands around livestock.”
Clark’s grin is all warmth. “That’s fair. Traditionally you can pet them, or your hands can be used to hold a coffee cup, or you can clap in a rhythm to the fence post. We’ll work on hand placement.” He pats your knee lightly. “You’ll be fine. My parents are going to love you.”
“You say that like I’m meeting your parents for the first time,” you say.
“You are,” he says, and there’s a tiny, conspiratorial lilt to his voice. “But also this is the first time they’ll meet you officially as… you. As Clark Kent’s girlfriend who knows the cape stays folded in the closet.”
You laugh again, and it makes him relax. He reaches across the console and fiddles with your hand, his thumb drawing little circles. The rental smells faintly of new upholstery and peppermint gum, and you lean into him because you can — because he isn’t Metropolis asphalt and fluorescent lights, he’s quiet front-porch murmurs and a smile that pulls the corners of your mouth up just by existing. He turns off the main road and onto a narrower lane and the trees feather over you like an old secret.
When the farmhouse finally comes into sight, the world tightens into something small and honest and very, very real. It’s a classic farmhouse — clapboard painted a sunfaded white, a wraparound porch that looks like it could host every small-town secret ever told, and flower boxes beneath the windows that Martha keeps immaculate. Fields stretch out behind it, a quilt of crops and pastures, and a red barn leans like an old tooth against the horizon. A wooden sign on the drive says KENT FARM in hand-lettered script. You feel the ridiculous twist of gratitude in your chest that this man you love grew up here.
Clark parks and turns toward you. “You ready for formal introductions to the most normal, not-superest people I know?”
You fiddle with the strap of your bag. “Yes. Please. Especially the not-super part.”
He makes a face like that’s the best joke he’s heard in days. “I am not—that is, I am very super in small ways. I can fix a blender. I have very fast reflexes when it comes to saving pies from burning. Also, I can lift heavy… laundry baskets.”
You snort. “A modern-day superhero, I see.”
“Exactly.” He opens his door and offers you his hand to climb out like you might tumble on the gravel. The small act is quintessential Clark: practical, small, human.
The porch swing creaks before you reach the steps; a man with soil under his nails and a slow, weathered smile stands, and Martha comes around from the side of the house with two mason jars of what looks to be iced tea and the kind of apron that has seen everything but still looks pristine.
“Clark!” Martha calls, arms wide. She’s taller than you expect, with kindness folded into the lines around her eyes. She envelops him in a hug that smells faintly of lavender. “And you must be—” she looks at you, and the warmth in her gaze wraps itself around you like a blanket. “Oh, you poor thing, you look like the city could eat you for breakfast. Come here, dear.”
You step forward awkwardly, and she hugs you like she has known you for years already. Her arms are solid and real, and for a second you forget your rehearsed lines about being Clark’s girlfriend. “I’m—” you start.
“Metropolis,” Clark supplies with a grin. “She’s from the city.”
“Well, Metropolis,” Martha says, and her voice is the melody of rolling hills, “welcome to the Kent place. I’m Martha Kent, and if you take care of my son, I will take care of you. Don’t worry — I already have the farmer’s market stall set aside for when you decide to sell your city snacks.” She gives you a look like she’s fully half in jest, and you can’t help laughing.
Jonathan comes forward, a big man with a slow smile that starts in his eyes. He looks like he grew out of the land — weather-beaten, comfortable in his work boots. “Clark’s told us a lot about you,” he says, extending a callused hand. “He says you like long sentences and short coffees.”
“You have me pegged,” you say, taking his hand. It’s warm and firm. “I’m—” You try, and he chuckles.
“Good,” Jonathan says. “That’s better than being pegged wrong.”
Inside the farmhouse, it’s like stepping into a different century without the dust. The air is a mix of cinnamon from a pie, sunlight through lace curtains, and something green and alive — herbs drying over the stove, a bowl of ripe tomatoes on the counter. Photographs line the walls: a smiling Clark as a kid with a missing tooth, Clark and a younger version of Pete on the front porch, a picture of a high-school graduation with Clark looking awkward and entirely adorable. You realize, suddenly, that the city has never been this quiet for you; here you can hear the clock in the hallway and the low murmur of a radio playing something soft in the kitchen.
“Make yourselves at home,” Martha tells you both like she’s offering a table at her heart. “We’re just finishing up some pickled beets, and Jonathan’s been telling me all morning how he can out-tractor any man in the county.”
“Oh, he can,” Jonathan says easily. “But only because I do that to keep him humble.”
You find yourself watching Clark watch his parents. When he thinks they aren’t looking, his face unspools into this easy, open thing you have come to know — the boy from photographs, the man who keeps his cape folded but wears his small-town roots like an invisible coat. He squeezes your hand under the counter before he lets go to return a pie to the oven, and the warmth of that squeeze is a private language.
Dinner is, predictably, enormous. The table groans under a roast that smells like heaven, biscuits, mashed potatoes, a green salad with herbs that Martha insists you taste, and vegetables with names you can’t pronounce but taste like sunlight. You eat under strings of soft light, with the windows thrown open to a twilight that smells of grass and hay. Conversation is easy; the comfortable sort that lives in houses that have seen winters and summers and the little tragedies and ordinary miracles of family.
“So,” Jonathan says mid-bite, chewing thoughtfully. “So, metropolis. What’s it like? Bright lights? People who never look up?”
You laugh and give him the city report in the clipped, theatrical way you’ve learned to. “Skyscrapers, mostly. Coffee shops on every corner. People who are very loud about their opinions and very quiet about their feelings. You wouldn’t be able to see the stars at night if you tried; they get shy.”
Martha leans in, elbow on the table. “No stars?” she says like that is unimaginable. “Clark has been keeping us in the dark.”
“It’s easier to breathe here,” Clark says simply, eyes finding yours.
Martha smiles at him the way you’d smile at someone who’s just performed a small, gentle miracle. “You’ll have to show me the stars sometime, then. Maybe we’ll drive you out to the barn and teach you how to look at the sky like it’s an old friend.”
You can’t keep from watching how their eyes crinkle when they watch him; how they relax when he’s home. You see the tenderness that has nothing to do with capes and everything to do with years of watching a person become himself. Over the course of dinner, stories come out the way stories do around kitchen tables: unvarnished and ridiculous and entirely loving.
“Remember the time Clark thought the pigs would float if you moved them onto the moon?” Martha says, and you burst out laughing before you know it.
Jonathan rolls his eyes. “We were trying to teach him about gravity with a slingshot and a pumpkin. He took it very literally.”
“Clark,” you say between laughs, “did you really think pigs would float?”
He flushes, suddenly fourteen again. “I was six.”
“There was also the time he rode the tractor like a rodeo star,” Martha continues, delighted. “He nearly rode it into the pond because he thought it would be funny. Jonathan had to chase him with a pitchfork.”
“Mom,” Clark protests, but the way his grin stretches says he wouldn’t trade that memory for the world.
You adore him more in that moment. His cheeks go faintly pink, like the city has never taught you that color, and you feel like you’ve been handed a private map of him. The more his parents talk, the more you see the threads of home woven into the person who walks with the restraint of someone who knows how to keep the world safe.
After dinner, Martha fusses over dessert — she’s put together some kind of cobbler that smells like the farmhouse itself. “You’re staying,” she says to you as if she’s not asking for permission at all. “We’ve got a spare room, but Clark’s twin bed downstairs is really the nostalgia experience. It’s like camping but with more quilts.”
You glance at Clark. “You already know I’m terrible at sleeping outside of my own bed.”
“You’ll be fine,” he says, the soft certainty that is his default. “Besides, I’ve slept in that bed for years. I can make it work.”
The odd, honest quality of the Kents shows again: an invitation like a promise. You want to say yes and then balk because the thought of sleeping in a small bed with a man who is both calm and enormous feels surprisingly intimate and slightly terrifying. Clark reads your hesitation like the open book he sometimes is, and he squeezes your fingers.
“Promise me you’ll sleep between me and the blanket,” he says, voice playfully authoritative. “It’s a safety thing.”
“Is it?” you ask, amused.
“Very much so,” he says. “The blanket is the line of defense. Also the quilt is made from Martha’s old shirts. It’s sacred.”
You laugh because who else would find comfort in a quilt made of shirts? Only the Kent family and probably a thousand other people like them across the Midwest. You accept their offer. It would be wrong to refuse the kindness; it would be wrong not to let this warm, slow life settle into you at least for one night.
The spare room is small and filled with things that smell like home: a brass lamp, a stack of dog-eared novels, a baseball glove in the corner.
You wake in the dark to find the bed empty beside you. For a panicked second you think of every terrible scenario city life has trained you to imagine, but then you slide your feet onto the cool wood and push aside the quilt. Outside, the porch is a band of silver under the moon. You step out barefoot, and the grass tickles like a secret. The night smells of crushed herbs and sleeping animals, and you can see the shapes of the fields like sleeping giants.
There is Clark, standing at the rail, hat in his hands, talking to someone you did not expect to hear — Pa Kent. His voice is low, threaded with the kind of earnestness that strips away the theatricality of the man you also know as Superman.
“—and she just laughs like she’s known me forever,” Clark says. “She makes me want to be small instead of always being big.”
Jonathan’s laugh is the slow sort that carries on the air like a piece of music. “That’s what you want, son? To be small?”
“No,” Clark says immediately. His voice is a whisper that is still clear to you. “I want… I want to be Clark. I want to be the guy who forgets to fix the screen door and leaves coffee on the porch and still knows how to be… not heroic all the time. With her, I don’t feel like I need to be anything more than me.”
You feel the membrane of your chest expand with that, like someone’s rolled back a curtain. You hadn’t expected to hear this. The moon makes his hair look like a halo and all your practiced lines about privacy and boundaries feel petty next to the rawness of the moment. Jonathan, who has always seemed steady as the land itself, sounds almost tender.
“She makes you happy,” he says. “You deserve that. You fought a lot of hard things in this world, son. It’s good to see you want the quieter pieces, too.”
Clark’s voice thickens. “She’s kind. She sees me as me, not the apron of the Superman stories. She asks me about my stories. She listens to the dumb things I say. She lets me be clumsy.” He chuckles, a small, private sound. “She thinks my jokes are funny, even when they aren’t.”
You feel your face heat with a pleasant, bright embarrassment. The porch light halo makes the spot where you stand brighter than the world, and you take, for a long moment, the permission to listen without being noticed. You didn’t realize you needed to eavesdrop on their conversation like this, but hearing him talk about you — the unvarnished, honest things — is like being named out loud by the person who matters most.
“You’re good for him,” Jonathan says finally, and you hear a kind of approval that is softer than you imagined. “You sure you’re ready for farm life?”
“You don’t have to move here,” Clark says quickly. “She’s got her life — I love her city world. I just want her to know my world, too. If she wants to plant a garden on our porch in Metropolis, I’ll help. If she wants to keep our relationship simple and not about capes and headlines, she has my word.” His voice cracks across that last sentence, but he straightens, resolute.
You feel something like gratitude and a tenderness so big it makes your knees weak. Standing on the porch under the constellation of his truth, you let the smell of night and hay and the chorus of frogs be the background to your heart. You want to go and wrap your arms around him and tell him that you love him as he is — small, luminous, quiet. But you don’t want to disturb this scene, this giving of himself in the dark.
“So you’ll stay, even if it’s just for a little while?” Jonathan asks.
Clark lifts his chin. “I’ll stay.”
You realize you walked onto the porch without meaning to, because the boards creak and both of them turn, surprised. Jonathan’s smile is quick and warm. “Well now,” he says like the world is still in order. “You’ll have to excuse us.”
You step forward, cheeks burning, and Clark crosses the porch in two strides to take your hand. “You came out,” he says, and there’s a happiness in his voice that is almost palpable.
“Couldn’t sleep,” you lie with a lopsided grin. The truth is simpler: the night had given you a gift, and you didn’t want to let it go unheld.
“Good,” Martha says, appearing at the kitchen door with a thermos and two mugs as if she anticipated the need. “We thought you might be chilly. Hot cocoa?”
Yes, please,” you say, and the three of you stand on the porch in the quiet and sip and talk in little, intangible ways — about nothing and everything. Martha asks about your job in Metropolis, which you describe in the exaggerated, easy way of someone trying to make their life sound less ordinary than it is. Jonathan asks what you miss about the city. Clark tells you that when he was a kid he used to hide comics in his boot. You laugh until your sides ache.
𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ𐦍༘⋆
By the time you slip back inside, yawns are tugging at the corners of your mouth. Clark trails after you up the narrow stairs, his big frame filling the little hallway, brushing against the old wallpaper he probably outgrew before high school. His hand finds the small of your back like it always does — grounding, steady. You guys decided to sleep in his old room.
Inside his childhood bedroom, you stare at the twin bed, sheets folded back neatly like Martha set them fresh this morning. Clark rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.
“I know,” he says, almost bashful. “Not exactly… spacious.”
You climb onto the mattress anyway, curling your legs in and patting the spot beside you. “Guess we’ll just have to get creative.”
His eyebrows lift, that boyish grin tugging at his lips. He squeezes onto the bed with you, and somehow his weight makes the whole frame creak like it might give out. He shifts, trying to make room, but his knee bumps yours, then his shoulder, then he laughs under his breath.
“Clark,” you whisper, biting back your own laugh, “you’re six-four. This is not going to work.”
“It’ll work,” he insists, already sliding closer, his arm slipping beneath your neck to pull you against him. “I’ve done harder things.”
You tilt your head up and kiss him, slow at first, then not so slow. His lips taste faintly of the apple pie Martha made, sweet and warm. The creaky mattress protests every move, springs squealing like they’re tattling.
“Shhh,” you murmur, though you’re the one laughing now.
Clark kisses you again, deeper this time, his hand brushing along your hip. His breath fans against your cheek as he whispers, “You know, I’ve wanted this all day.”
You don’t even get the chance to tease him back before—
Footsteps.
Heavy and deliberate, padding past the door.
You both freeze. Clark goes utterly still, head tilted toward the sound, and you swear you can hear his heartbeat hammering against your side.
“Your parents,” you mouth.
Clark squeezes his eyes shut, groaning silently like a man facing the cruelest fate. Then, deadpan, he whispers, “Smallville’s greatest supervillains: Ma and Pa Kent.”
You clap your hand over your mouth to muffle the laugh threatening to burst out.
The footsteps fade down the hall. You wait. One beat. Two.
Clark exhales, then drops his forehead to your shoulder in defeat. “We are never living this down if they heard that bed.”
You grin, running your fingers through his dark hair. “Guess we’ll just have to behave until tomorrow.”
He tilts his head up, his blue eyes catching yours in the dim lamplight, mischievous and tender all at once. “Behave? You? In a twin bed?”
You kiss him one more time, just to prove his point.
𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ𐦍༘⋆
Morning comes with light that looks like warm honey through glass. Wake-up is a chorus of roosters and an orchestra of distant cattle. You pad into the kitchen where Martha is already at the stove, hair wrapped in a scarf, apron on, humming something that has no need for lyrics. Clark slides into the chair and stares at the coffee like it’s sacred.
“You hungry?” Martha asks, tilting her head the way only a mother can.
“Always,” Clark says, and you laugh; he rolls his eyes, that boyish grin that doesn’t belong to the man who folds himself into the world with quiet conviction. “And yes, I will have the bacon.”
Martha hands you an apron like a priest blessing. “Help me with the eggs,” she says. “And if you plan on handling livestock, you’ll need to learn to gather them without fear. We won’t force you into a milking station, but you’ll at least carry eggs without launching them.”
You accept the apron like a ceremonial surrender. The kitchen is an island of warmth, and you kneel beside Martha at the sink to rinse eggs while the radio murmurs old country songs. Her hands move with the kind of confident speed that comes from years of practice. She looks at you, her eyes amused.
“You city girls are quicker than you let on,” she says. “You’ll be fine. Jonathan will tell you otherwise.”
You grin. “Oh, I bet. But I have questions too. Like, how do you tell a good egg from a bad one? And what do you do if a chicken looks at you like it’s judging your entire existence?”
Martha laughs. “You talk to it,” she says flatly. “You tell it about your day. They like gossip. Start light. Tell them about the skyscrapers. Then tell them about the subway jokes. They’ll gobble—well, they’ll cluck — in sympathy.”
Clark snorts, coffee forgotten. “That’s gross.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, and he reaches over to pinch your side. It’s playful and domestic and softer than any headline.
Later, you follow Martha out beyond the fence to the chicken coop. The chickens are a chaotic, feathered mosaic, scratching at the ground and clucking with the kind of importance only birds can muster. Martha moves among them like a conductor, reaching into nests and handing you fresh eggs with a wink.
“These are our pride,” she says. “We’ve got different breeds for different personalities. That one’s a Rhode Island Red — reliable, robust. That one’s a Sussex — gentle, likes children.”
You hold an egg gingerly like it’s made of glass. You find yourself whispering stupid things to the chickens, because Martha said it, and one of them looks at you as if you just revealed the plot of a bad soap opera. You laugh so hard you almost drop the egg.
“You’re doing fine,” Clark says from behind you, voice warm. He’s been watching you, admires written all over his face. “You look like you belong here already.”
“You’re biased,” you tell him.
He shrugs, mock-offended. “I’m not biased. I’ve been biased since day one.”
Jonathan appears with two buckets, and it turns out the simple life measures itself in small labors: carrying feed, rounding up a few sheep from the back pasture, helping hold open a gate without being stared down by a stubborn cow. You are, predictably, nervous around the animals. A cow is enormous, calm and patient, but their sheer size is still something your city senses didn’t prepare you for.
“Just stand by the shoulder,” Jonathan instructs, like teaching you something both simple and important. “Talk soft. Let them know you’re human.”
“You heard the man,” Clark says, holding your hand as you step closer to the beast. The cow sniffs your sleeve and makes a sound like a low contented hum. The animal’s eyes are kind, and suddenly you feel ridiculous for being terrified.
“You can do it,” Clark murmurs, and there’s admiration that makes your heart do small acrobatics. “You’re braver than you let on.”
You run your hand across the cow’s coarse hide. It’s warm and slightly sticky with hay, and you are struck by how close you feel to the idea of home, not because of where you are from but because of the people beside you. Clark watches you like this is the only right angle, the only exactness that matters. You roll your eyes at him but keep your hand steady.
“City girl meets cow, and it’s a love story,” you joke.
“It could be a movie,” he says. “We’d call it The Bovine and the City.”
Martha calls you over for the morning’s farmers’ market prep — a flurry of baskets, herbs, hand-labeled jars, and the steady hum of someone who knows their craft. She teaches you to fold herbs into bundles, to wrap produce for transport, to choose the right peaches for the display. You discover that your city-honed hands, used to typing and scrolling and pouring coffee, have a kind of deftness that fits here too.
“You should come by the market tomorrow,” Martha says, eyes alight. “We’ll put you behind the stall. You can tell people all about the city. You’ll sell out.”
“You really think I could do that?” you ask.
Martha’s smile is a secret weapon of encouragement. “You’ve got a way with words. And you’ve got Clark’s glow to sell whatever product you want.”
“You trying to sell me, Mom?” Clark teases. “That’s cheating.”
Martha waves a dish towel like a general. “Cheating or not, people like a story with their tomatoes.”
𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ𐦍༘⋆
The day moves with a relaxed rhythm that unravels something deep in you. You help mend a fence, learn to tie a knot that actually works (Clark is very proud of you for this), and sit on the back of a pickup truck while they bale hay. You’re filthy in places you didn’t think that cute would suit, and Clark loves you for it like it’s the most noble thing he’s ever seen. “You make dirt look glamorous,” he tells you, and you cannot tell if it’s the sun making him poetic or him just being him.
That evening, when the sky burns gold and the air cools to a comfortable hush, they drop you back at the farmhouse and Clark’s fingers find yours in a way that says he’s going to miss your hands all day. “Thank you for coming,” he says, as if this trip proved something to him.
“No,” you say, turning it into something quieter. “Thank you for bringing me.”
He leans forward then, like he’s going to kiss you, and for a second the world narrows. The porch light is a small pool of gold. “Please,” he says, voice thick with things neither of you needs to say. “Stay.”
You nod like you’ve always belonged here and always will. The farmhouse lights blink behind him, warm and steady, and you feel the improbable luck of being someone who is loved by a man who can move mountains but who chooses to kneel on a porch and talk for hours. It’s a kind of love that doesn’t need fanfare. It needs potatoes mashed properly and a quilt that smells like lavender and someone who will still hold your hand when the world is loud.
Before you leave Smallville, Jonathan walks with you to the gate. He clasps your hand in both of his once, and the contact is firm and approving. “You take care of my boy,” he says simply.
“I will,” you answer, and the promise sounds less terrifying spoken aloud than it felt when it lived in your chest.
Martha squeezes your shoulder. “Come back anytime. We mean that.”
You hug her like you mean it back. When you climb into the rental and Clark slides into the passenger seat so he can drive you back to Metropolis — because of course he’s driving — you watch the farmhouse shrink into the tapestry of fields and feel a new part of you tucked home like a seed.
The drive back is quiet but not empty. You’re full in a way that city nights rarely feed you: full of stories and laughter and the small, corporeal magic of being accepted. When the skyline of Metropolis unfurls again, a ribbon of glass and steel, you look at Clark and there is a quiet gratitude humming between you. He reaches over and squeezes your knee, his thumb warm and steady.
“You did great,” he says.
“You did,” you correct.
He smiles, like he’s both glad and impossibly proud. “We did.”
Years from now, when the city is loud and the world asks for spectacular things, you’ll remember the quiet white farmhouse and the way the Kent parents looked at you as if you were part of the family already. You’ll remember a porch conversation in the moonlight that carved a space for you in a man’s life, and the twin bed that couldn’t contain two big people but somehow could hold all the tenderness in the world.
For now, you have dirt under your nails, a head full of stories, and a hand to hold that knows both small, ordinary things and how to save the world. And in the quiet between those two truths, you fit.
𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ𐦍༘⋆
⋆｡°✩ thanks for reading, angel ♡
want more stories? ➝ [here’s my masterlist]
“City girl survives her first farm weekend. Clark’s twin bed, however, may not.”
