Summary: Loving Maeve means watching her leave over and over again.
͏𝒘 — Queen Maeve x Fem! Civilian! Reader. Not proofread. ( Angst. ) TW: Toxic-ish relationship
“Seriously? You’re walking out again?”
Maeve doesn’t even try to soften the blow this time. Just turns to face you, arms crossed over her chest, her expression so practiced and calm. The complete opposite of you. Standing in the dim light of your living room, watching Maeve sneak away in the middle of the night again.
“You know I can’t stay. You know why.”
Her voice is firm. A steady wall in the hurricane of your impending emotions. She can’t look at you for long. The hurt in your eyes is too much for her to handle.
“You can’t keep coming back, Maeve. This isn’t healthy—“ You hate how your voice wavers when you speak. You hate how weak you are for her. Letting her crawl back into your bed with no remorse, until the inevitable moment you wake up alone. Her side, cold and empty.
You miss the way things used to be. Before she was apart of the seven. The infamous Queen Maeve. She was your Maggie. The girl who held you close when you cried. The girl who made sure to take you out at least once every week, no matter how busy her schedule was. And now it’s like she’s ashamed of you. You know that’s not it. You know it’s dangerous. But apart of you is angry at her. Angry she chased fame instead of sticking with you. Angry she’s a public figure now, too closely watched under the eyes of the masses, under the eyes of Homelander, to be seen with you.
You inhale softly, watching her approach your broken form. Staring at her through your watery eyes. You’re not surprised, just disappointed. Again. But, God. You can’t help but melt as soon as her hand touches your damp cheek. Fingertips brushing against the expanse of your wet skin, regret seeping into flesh through her touch.
She says your name. Quiet and calm, as her brown eyes study your somber expression. All you feel is impending doom, an explosion you can’t pull your gaze away from.
“I need you.” She mutters, tone hushed. “I can’t do this without you.”
Here she goes again. Worming her way right back into the custom made Maeve shaped hole in your heart.
You can’t help but bristle. You want to give in so bad. Tell her you know why she’s doing this. That you need her too. But the incessant ache in your chest convinces you to stay silent.
“Say something.” Maeve breathes out. Attempting to coax something out of you. Anything you have to offer.
“You should go.” It takes everything you have in you to say it. And it hurts. To repeat yourself again and again. An endless loop of joy, pleasure, disappointment, and anger.
She doesn’t argue. She slips her hand from your cheek. Pressing a kiss to your forehead. Her touch is almost reverent. You’ve always been her strong girl, even now.
She opens your apartment door, slipping out. Not sparing you a glance back. But you know she’ll be back. She leaves because she loves you. At least that’s what you tell yourself.
Summary: You sneak into LexCorp alone, again, and Clark has to save you, bandage you up, and remind you he’s not going anywhere.
͏𝒘 — Clark Kent & Journalist! Reader ⟢ ( 2k ) proofread. established relationship. fluff.
You should’ve listened to Clark.
You know that, like it’s muscle memory. The same way you know the back stairwell at the Daily Planet creaks on the fourth step, or that Lois is still stealing your pens and lying about it. You knew it before the glass cut your arm, before the alarm tripped. Before the first guard called for backup and you realized again, you’d pushed too far, gone in too deep, and now you’re facing it alone.
Waiting has never been your strong suit.
“I’ll be quick,” you’d told yourself. You always say that. LexCorp was practically dead after hours, just the hum from the lower floors and a lazy security rotation. You had a tip, a burner phone, and a fake ID clipped to your jacket. But you didn’t have a plan for what to do if someone spotted you.
Now there’s a gash on your upper arm from broken glass, your phone’s somewhere between the lab and the elevator shaft, and two armed guards are looking for you, while you’re crouched in the shadows, behind a desk.
You press your palm to the bleeding wound. It’s not deep, not lethal, but enough to sting like hell and remind you that Clark is going to kill you for this.
Or worse, look at you like a kicked puppy.
That soft, hollowed-out expression. Like he’s not angry, just scared. Like he’s already seeing the headline: “Local Journalist Killed in Break-In Gone Wrong”. And honestly, you’re starting to see it too, but nothing can satiate your curiosity.
There’s a metallic click somewhere in the distance, then heavy footsteps.
You try to move, but your shoe snags on the wiring from whatever prototype Lex was hiding back here, and the noise echoes louder than you thought it would. Someone’s yelling now. A flashlight beams through the dark room, thankfully not on you. You curse under your breath and get to your feet, stumbling down a hallway with no plan other than to run.
When you’re almost to the door a voice shouts, “She’s over here!”—the air pressure changes in a way you’re all too familiar with.
And then, across the room— Crash.
One of the side walls collapses in on itself, sending the a few guards flying backwards. You stay hidden behind the desk just as a red cape swirls into view.
Clark.
His eyes are glowing faintly with heat, not firing, but threatening. His whole body hums with restraint, like he’s one breath from tearing the place down.
You hurt?” he calls, not turning his head, not taking his eyes off some of the guards as they scramble to flee.
You rise slowly. “Just a scratch.”
He turns, when he sees the blood that faint glow in his eyes fades instantly.
His voice drops. “Jesus.”
You force a smile, trying to play it off. “Took you long enough.”
His head whips toward you, sharp. You regret the joke before you’ve finished saying it.
“I was in Alaska,” he says, not yelling, but a little exasperated. “You didn’t even call.”
“I was going to,” you say quickly. “I thought I had more time.”
Clark’s already crossing the room, eyes on your arm. “You always think that.”
His hand wraps gently around your wrist. His thumb brushes the skin just above the band of your watch. His fingers are warm and strong.
“I had it under control,” you say, quieter now.
He meets your eyes. “No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
You open your mouth to argue, but there’s no fight in you tonight. Not with the way he’s looking at you.
He shrugs off his cape and drapes it over your shoulders without a word. Smooths it into place like he’s done it before.
“You said you’d wait for me,” he says quietly.
“I know.”
“You promised.”
You nod, jaw tight. “I know.”
And when you finally look at him, he doesn’t look like Superman. He looks like Clark. The one who leaves handwritten notes on your desk when he knows you’re having a bad week. The one who folds your laundry wrong but insists on doing it anyway. The one who proof reads your writing three times before print, even when he’s running on no sleep and six hours behind on his own work.
“I didn’t want you to get hurt,” you say. “I figured I’d be in and out.”
He swallows hard. “I’d rather take a bullet than get that call.”
You blink. “Clark—”
“I mean it.” His voice doesn’t crack, but it’s close. “You don’t get it. Every time you run off without telling me, every time I hear a siren and don’t know where you are, I have to pretend I’m not already imagining the worst.”
You want to say something, but you don’t know what.
He reaches out and brushes a thumb gently over your cheekbone. “Why do you keep doing this?”
You exhale. “Because if I don’t, who will? The people need to know what Lex is doing down here. And I don’t have heat vision, Clark. I don’t have super-hearing or a team of intergalactic allies. I’ve got a notepad and a byline and a little bit of nerve. That’s it.”
His brows draw in, not angry, almost heartbroken.
“You’re braver than me.” he murmurs.
You snort, dry. “You literally just busted through a concrete wall.”
“I did that with backup, with powers. You do this alone, with nothing.”
“That’s not true,” you say, barely audible. “I’ve got you.”
Clark stares at you, like you’ve just said something painful.
Then he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tight around you, tucking your head under his chin. His heart beats steady and solid against your ear.
You don’t say anything for a while.
Then, “I love you, you know.”
“I love you too,” he says, quiet and certain. “But if you sneak into LexCorp again, I’m welding the fire escape shut.”
You snort. “Bet you say that to all the girls you pull out of near-death situations.”
He leans back just far enough to look at you, deadpan. “Only you.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He flies you home just before sunrise, and when he sets you down on the fire escape outside your apartment. Your blood is still dried on your sleeve, making the fabric stick to your arm.
The cape slides off your shoulders the second you finally step inside. You’re still clutching it like a blanket when Clark gently tugs it away and tosses it over the arm of the couch.
“Sit,” he says, already turning toward the hallway.
“Clark, I’m fine—”
“You’re bleeding,” he calls back. “And limping. Don’t make me carry you.”
“I wouldn’t mind that,” you mutter, sitting on the couch anyway.
He reappears a few seconds later, first-aid kit tucked under his arm, sleeves rolled up, and a very specific look on his face: half “concerned boyfriend,” half “you’ve got to be kidding me.”
You lift your arm as he kneels in front of you and carefully pushes the fabric of your sleeve back. His fingers hesitate for a second before they touch you, like he’s scared he might hurt you.
You break the silence first. “You’re mad at me.”
He doesn’t look up. “No, I’m—” He exhales. “I’m worried about you. I hate being late.”
“You weren’t late. You showed up exactly when I needed you.”
He peels the gauze open, voice soft but edged with something strained. “You were supposed to wait.”
That makes you frown, even if it hurts a little. “You do realize I wasn’t trying to get caught.”
He glances up at you now, eyebrows lifted. “You broke into a restricted research wing of LexCorp by yourself. What did you think was gonna happen? They’d give you a guided tour?”
“I thought I’d be in and out before anyone noticed,” you mumble, wincing as he dabs at the cut.
Clark gives you a look. “You thought Lex Luthor wouldn’t have cameras.”
You don’t answer.
“Clark,” you sigh, quieter. “You know I have to chase the story.”
“You don’t have to chase it straight into a security lockdown,” he says, voice low. “You’re brilliant. You’re stubborn. You find leads no one else does. But if something had happened to you tonight—if I hadn’t gotten there in time…”
You don’t say anything. Because you don’t like the way he says “hadn’t gotten there in time.” Like it was close, like the idea really did sit heavy in his chest until he got you home safe.
He clears his throat. “There’s only so much you can hide behind jokes and adrenaline, you know.”
“Is that your subtle way of calling me emotionally avoidant?”
“I’m saying I love you,” he says, like it’s that simple, it always is with him.
You frown, guilt weighing heavy on your chest. “Clark.”
“I know who you are. I know you’re going to keep doing this. I’m not asking you to stop.” He wraps the gauze around your arm slowly, carefully. “I just need you to trust me enough to call next time, or to wait for me.”
Your voice drops to something raw. “What if you’re in another country again?”
“Then tell me and i’ll come back.” His hands still on your arm, steady and warm.
You study his face, how tired he looks up close. Not physically, but something else. The weight of caring about you too much.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, softly.
“You didn’t,” he says automatically, then shakes his head. “You did. Of course you did. But you also… you always scare me. That’s what loving you is like.”
You swallow thickly. “Sorry.”
“You’re not,” he says gently.
“I’m not,” you agree. “But I will let you finish playing nurse if it’ll make you feel better.”
He huffs a laugh under his breath. “You think this makes me feel better?”
“You love fussing over me.”
“I do,” he says again, more firmly this time. “Bandages and all.”
When he’s done, he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. He just kneels there, thumb brushing across your knuckles. That look in his eyes again, like he’s memorizing you, just in case.
You squeeze his hand. “You staying tonight?”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
You lean forward and press your forehead to his, letting your eyes fall closed. “You’re the only reason I’m still breathing, you know that?”
“No,” he says softly. “You are.”
You let the moment stretch out. Long and quiet. The kind of silence that only exists when two people trust each other not to break it.
Then, eventually, Clark gets up and scoops you into his arms like it’s second nature, which it is. You pretend to protest, but your head falls onto his shoulder anyway, and your fingers curl into the back of his shirt.
“Bed,” he says firmly. “Then sleep. Then tomorrow, you’re giving me every detail of that LexCorp tip.”
You smile into his neck. “What happened to ‘never doing that again’?”
“I know better,” he mutters, brushing his lips against your temple. “You’ll never stop chasing danger.”
“And you’ll never stop saving me.”
“That’s the deal.”
A/N — HELLO !!!!! it’s been awhile, thank you so much for reading if you got this far and expect more Clark fics soon because I am obsessed with him rn.
͏𝒘 — Carmen Berzatto & reader ⟢ ( 609 ) not proofread. established relationship. he’s a little mean but what’s new?
“Don’t even think about it.”
Carmy doesn’t look at you when he says it—eyes on the TV, one socked foot bouncing against the coffee table like he’s half-watching, half-simmering about something he ate earlier still stuck in his teeth.
You blink, brows furrowed. “Think about what?”
He finally turns his head, the look he gives you is flat. Deadpan. “The fuckin’ Crayolas.”
You follow his gaze to the coffee table where your sad little pack of markers is sitting, ripped open with half the markers spilled out. You left them there earlier when you were labeling takeout containers. Not your fault they’re in full view now, glinting under the shitty living-room lamp, tempting you so mercilessly.
He sees your expression shift, maybe not even on purpose, just the slight narrowing of your eyes, the way your hand twitches like it wants something to hold. That’s all it takes, he knows what you’re thinking.
“I’m serious,” he warns. “I’ll kick you out.”
You smile, it’s small but mischievous. The kind that could mean anything.
Carmy shifts on the couch like he’s about to get up, then doesn’t. You lunge at the coffee table, halfway falling off the couch. Awkwardly positioned with one leg hanging off the cushion beneath you.
“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters as you grab the pack and immediately uncap the blue one.
You crawl across the couch without shame, knee knocking into his leg, the marker poised between your fingers like a scalpel. Carmy sighs the way he always does when he lets you get away with something: like he’s surrendering, reluctantly.
“You’re seriously doing this?” he asks, lifting his arm a little when you nudge at it.
“Why not? you let me do it before.”
“I was drunk.” He grumbles, but doesn’t pull away. He lets his arm drop across your lap, lets you scoot in close. The cuff of his sweatshirt is already pushed up. The 773 on his bicep stares back at you like it’s been waiting for this moment all day.
“You’ve got nice skin for coloring,” you murmur, brushing your fingers over the tattoo before starting in with the marker.
Carmy doesn’t say anything, just stares for a while. Admiring the shape of your nose. The dimple on your left cheek. The look of pure concentration on your features.
You can feel him watching you, though. Not directly, but in the way his breath changes when you lean too close, the way his fingers twitch slightly against your thigh when you shift for a better angle.
“Could use a canvas that doesn’t talk so much,” you mutter, sarcasm in your voice.
“Fuck you.”
You grin and press the marker a little harder,
against his skin, shading in the curve of the three with the precision of an angry toddler.
“You color like a kid,” he says after a moment.
You hum. “Thanks.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
Carmy huffs. His head drops back onto the cushion and he exhales through his nose like he’s trying not to fall asleep—except his other hand is resting on your thigh now, thumb moving in slow, barely-there circles over your shorts.
He smells like rosemary and something earthy. You swear you’d climb into his chest and live there for the rest of your life if he let you.
“You know this shit’s permanent, right?” he mutters.
“It’s literally not. The box says they’re washable.”
“They leave residue.”
“Sounds like a you problem.”
Carmy shifts again but doesn’t pull away. His eyes flutter open when you pause—just for a second—and look at him.
“You gonna color the snail, too?” he asks after a moment, voice quieter.
You nod. “Yeah, eventually.”
Probably a little ooc cause I’m not used to writing for male characters. 😔
