Superglue: Breakfast Agenda
Superman!Lottie Matthews x Reporter!Reader
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The blow came hard and fast, fist wrapped in some kind of energy field—slamming into Superwoman’s ribs and launching her through the wall of a parking structure. Concrete cracked like eggshells around her, dust and metal shrieking as she hit the ground on her back.
She coughed once. Felt the sharp pinch of something tear across her shoulder. Blood? That was new.
The enemy dropped down from above, silent, masked, brutal. No powers, just tech and precision. Military-grade. Maybe off-world. Charlotte couldn’t tell. Her head was ringing.
“You’re not invincible,” the figure in black said through a modulated voice.
Charlotte wiped blood from the corner of her mouth. “That’s the thing about rumors,” she rasped. “They never get the details right.”
Another punch, this time to the gut, and Charlotte doubled over before forcing herself back upright. Pain screamed down her side. She stumbled back, vision swimming. You need to be more careful out there, you had whispered, lips brushing hers. And I mean it, Matthews.
She grit her teeth. “I know,” she whispered.
Because the worst part wasn’t the pain. Or the possibility of defeat. The worst part was that she’d promised.
She’d stood in that office, smelling like lo mein and jasmine tea, kissed you until her knees went weak, and promised to be careful. And now here she was bleeding, heart pounding in her ears, thinking about her instead of calculating her next move.
The enemy came at her again, blade drawn this time. Charlotte ducked, barely, and the edge of it grazed her cheek, slicing skin open like paper.
“You’re distracted,” the voice said.
Charlotte’s breath caught. Yeah, she thought. I am.
She caught the next hit. Just barely. Spun, elbowed the figure hard in the ribs, and sent them stumbling backward. Her strength was still there, but her focus was unraveling.
Not because she wasn’t strong enough.
Because she cared too much. She pushed forward, anger, panic, and something deeply human roaring in her chest.
“I made a promise,” Charlotte hissed, shoving the figure into a car so hard the windshield shattered. “And if I have to drag myself home in pieces to keep it—I will.”
The enemy disappeared in a flash of smoke and light, slipping into the shadows of the city. Charlotte stood in the broken lot, gasping, bloodied, shaking. And for the first time in a long time, she was scared.
Not for herself.
But for the moment she’d have to walk back into that office…see you and lie. Lie about how she didn’t get hurt. Lie about how she didn’t almost die. Lie about how she was careful.
The city shimmered beneath her as she flew, a blur of orange haze and steel shadows. Her left shoulder throbbed with every beat of her heart, and her ribs ached like they’d been put through a compactor. The sky was quiet tonight, too quiet, and even from this high up, the hum of sirens and streetlights felt far away.
She landed on her balcony with less grace than usual, boots skidding slightly against the railing before she shoved the glass door open with her good hand.
The apartment was dark—except for the soft glow of her kitchen light and the faint smell of jasmine and leftover takeout. Charlotte blinked once, a soft breathy chuckle escaping her lips.
She didn’t even need x-ray vision to know who it was.
“You really need to stop doing this,” she said, voice hoarse, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she stumbled into the living room.
You looked up from where you sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked beneath you, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty cup of tea in her hand. Your eyes were sharp. Assessing. And far too calm.
“Doing what?” you said, setting the tea down. “Checking in on the most powerful being on earth?”
Charlotte chuckled weakly, then winced. “Breaking in.”
“You left the window latch undone,” you said, standing slowly.
“I was raised better than to lock people out,” Charlotte murmured, gaze dropping.
A beat passed. You stepped forward. Charlotte tried to stay upright, but her knees gave out the moment she stopped pretending they could hold her.
Strong arms caught her mid-fall. The familiar scent—clean soap, ink, and a hint of sandalwood—wrapped around her like a balm. She leaned her forehead against your shoulder and exhaled.
“You’re bleeding,” came the whispered observation, a hand brushing gently along her jaw.
Charlotte didn’t answer. “Remind me to make you a key,” she murmured instead, eyes fluttering shut. “So you’ll stop breaking in.”
Your grip around her tightened slightly, holding her up like she mattered. “I’ll take the key,” you said quietly. “But you don’t get to make jokes until I know you didn’t puncture a lung.”
Charlotte managed a shaky laugh, breathless against the hollow of her throat. This—this right here, was worse than the hit to the ribs.
Because Charlotte Matthews had been in battles. She’d taken hits, survived wars, stared down missiles. But none of it had ever made her feel this soft. None of it had ever made her want to come home this bad.
Charlotte winced as she pulled off the torn remnants of her suit, one arm moving slower than the other. The apartment lights were low, casting soft shadows across the walls, and the faint buzz of city life below drifted through the open window.
She dropped onto the couch with a groan, leaning her head back against the cushions. “I’ll be fine by morning,” she mumbled, voice half-muffled. “I just need a few hours under the moon. The sun’ll finish the job.”
You stood across from her, arms crossed, not convinced. “That’s not how bruised ribs work, Matthews.”
Charlotte peeked one eye open. “It is when you can fly,” she said with a lopsided grin. “Promise.”
But then she froze. Her gaze landed on the small, angry cut just above your left eyebrow, the purpling bruise spreading across her jaw. The playfulness in her face drained instantly.
“Wait—what is that?”
You flinched, a sigh escaping your lips. “It’s nothing. Just—”
Charlotte was already on her feet, eyes narrowed as she stepped in close, studying the injury like it had personally offended her.
“Who did this?” Her voice was low. Dangerous. Protective.
You smiled, soft but amused. Your heart soaring at her protectiveness. “I can take care of myself, Lottie. I’m a big girl.”
Charlotte didn’t smile back. Instead, her hands came up to gently cup your face, thumbs brushing carefully along your cheekbones, fingers featherlight.
“Yeah, you are,” she said, voice softer now, almost reverent. “But that doesn’t stop me from caring.” Her eyes searched hers. “Just answer the question.”
Your breath hitched slightly at the closeness. Your usual composure faltered. “It was nothing,” you said again, but quieter this time. “One of the protestors outside the consulate. Thought I was press from the other side.”
Charlotte’s jaw ticked. “You shouldn’t have been there alone.”
“I wasn’t alone.”
“But I wasn’t with you.”
That hung in the air for a second, heavy. You didn’t pull away from Charlotte’s hands. If anything, you leaned into them.
“Well, you’re here now,” you said softly. “And I brought dumplings, so that counts for something.”
Charlotte exhaled slowly, her thumb still brushing just beneath your bruise. “Next time, call me.”
“And next time,” you said, smirking gently, “you don’t get to lecture me unless you call me when you’re getting punched in the face by mystery villains in the dark.”
Charlotte laughed, reluctant and tired and with a soft look in her eyes. “Deal.”
They stayed like that a little longer, caught in the stillness. Outside, the first hints of dawn teased the horizon, but inside, Charlotte didn’t care about the sun just yet. She had everything she needed right here in her hands.
You didn’t know what time it was. But it was late enough where charlotte had finally knocked out. You slipped your arms through your jacket slowly, quietly. Your bag was already on your shoulder, shoes in hand, careful not to wake the sleeping figure on the couch.
Charlotte had insisted she’d be fine. That by morning, the sun would do its thing and knit her back together like it always did. And you believed her—mostly. But still, there was a pang as you looked back, lingering longer than you meant to.
You were halfway to the door when Charlotte’s voice stopped you. “Stay.”
It was barely more than a whisper, hoarse and sleepy but unmistakably hers. You turned, met with Charlotte’s soft gaze, half-lidded, hair messy, a vulnerability there she rarely let anyone see.
“You sure?” you asked, voice gentle, still standing at the threshold.
Charlotte nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “Please.”
So you stayed.
You toed off your shoes again, slid your jacket off, and padded back to the couch. But Charlotte was already moving, reaching for your hand.
“My bed’s more comfortable,” she murmured, tugging you toward the hallway.
They didn’t say much more that night. Just the rustle of sheets, a quiet exhale as they found space beside each other. The city murmured outside, but inside, everything was still.
Charlotte curled behind you, an arm slipping around your waist, her forehead resting lightly against the back of your shoulder.
For once, she let herself relax. Not as Superwoman, not as someone with the weight of the world on her back—but as Charlotte. A girl holding the woman she loved, just trying to keep her close for a little longer.
The sun filtered in soft and golden by morning. Charlotte blinked awake slowly, stretching under the warmth now blooming across her skin. Her aches were already fading. The split in her lip gone. The bruises receding. But none of that was what made her beam.
What made her heart stutter and soar was the woman beside her, still fast asleep, pressed into her chest with one hand loosely curled in the fabric of Charlotte’s shirt.
Carefully, Charlotte leaned down and kissed you—barely brushing her lips against yours, soft and reverent. And when you stirred, eyes fluttering open with a sleep-roughened, confused blink, Charlotte just smiled wider.
“Morning,” she whispered.
You yawned. “Mmm. Are you glowing or is that just obnoxious joy on your face?”
“A little of both,” Charlotte said, grinning.
You chuckled and buried your face against Charlotte’s shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”
Charlotte only held you tighter. “I know. But I woke up with you in my bed. So, ridiculous or not, I think I’m winning.”
The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the city just beginning to wake. Traffic buzzed faintly several stories below, and sunlight filtered in through the tall windows in soft gold streaks. You stood barefoot in Charlotte’s kitchen, hair still tousled from sleep, wearing one of Charlotte’s old oversized tees that hung off your shoulder like it was made for you.
You moved through the kitchen with ease, clearly comfortable here now, grabbing the coffee tin from the top shelf, filling the pot, humming softly under your breath as you did it.
Behind you, Charlotte padded in, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Her dark tank top clung to her frame, and her hair was a gorgeous, wild mess. She yawned and leaned against the doorway.
“You’re making coffee?” she mumbled, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.
You smirked over your shoulder. “Someone has to. You nearly died last night and refused to go to a hospital, so I figured I’d step in and play nurse-slash-barista.”
Charlotte grunted and came up behind you to nuzzle into your shoulder. “Coffee first. But I’m making breakfast.”
“You’re still healing.”
“I heal better with pancakes,” Charlotte mumbled.
You laughed. “That is not a thing.”
“It is in this household,” Charlotte declared, already grabbing a mixing bowl. “Breakfast is the superior meal. It works any time of day.”
You raised a brow, leaning against the counter with her mug. “Breakfast is great for breakfast, Lottie.”
Charlotte glanced at you with mock offense. “You say that like it’s a controversial opinion.”
“It is,” you said, sipping your coffee. “You’re a grown woman with a literal super metabolism and still insist breakfast is sacred.”
Charlotte stuck her tongue out, poured some flour, and began stirring with wild determination. “You’re just lucky I don’t break into heroic monologue about the healing properties of pancakes.”
You chuckled and hopped up onto the kitchen counter, letting your legs swing lazily as you watched Charlotte move around the space, hair still messy, sleeves rolled up, stirring batter like it was the most important thing in the world.
She was beautiful like this. Unarmored.
Charlotte looked up and paused. For a second, she just stood there with the whisk in her hand, batter halfway stirred, eyes locked onto you like something in her shifted.
Then she put the bowl down and crossed the kitchen in three purposeful strides.
You barely had time to blink before your coffee mug was gently taken from your hands and set aside. And then Charlotte’s hands were on your hips, slipping up to your waist, drawing you forward as she stood between your knees.
The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, like she was checking to see if it was really okay to go there. But then your hands found their way around her neck, fingers curling in the back of her shirt, and that was all Charlotte needed.
She deepened the kiss, slow and hungry, like she’d been thinking about it since the second she woke up. Her fingers tightened around your waist, her mouth moving with intent, savoring every press, every soft sigh she coaxed out of you.
Pancakes forgotten.
Coffee abandoned.
Only her and you in front of her, you, who was finally hers, not just in emergency moments or stolen kisses, but in the morning light, in her kitchen, in her arms. And for Charlotte Matthews, that felt more powerful than anything she could ever do in a cape.
Charlotte didn’t pull away right away.
She stayed there for a beat, forehead resting gently against yours, her hands still wrapped around her waist, thumbs brushing the hem of the shirt. The air between them was warm and quiet, the only sound the steady ticking of the clock on the wall and the faint traffic below.
You let out a slow, content breath, your fingers still tangled at the back of Charlotte’s neck.
“Pancakes have been abandoned,” you whispered.
Charlotte grinned but didn’t move. “Totally worth it.”
Another pause. Then Charlotte spoke, voice quieter now. “I think about this, you know.”
You tilted your head slightly. “This?”
“You. Here. In my kitchen. In my shirt. Laughing at my breakfast agenda,” Charlotte murmured. “And I—I don’t know. It’s just… better than anything else I could be doing.”
You blinked. You weren’t used to Charlotte being so openly soft. Protective? Yes. Flirty? Occasionally. But this? This was something you could get used to.
You leaned in, brushing your nose against Charlotte’s. “Better than flying?”
Charlotte nodded. “Way better.”
“Better than catching bad guys?”
Charlotte smirked. “Unless the bad guy is keeping you from waking up in my bed—yeah. Way better.”
A quiet laugh escaped you, and Charlotte’s smile softened again. Her eyes dropped for a second, almost nervous now. “I know it’s risky. Letting someone in. Especially with… with who I am.”
Your gaze held steady. “I already knew who you were before you kissed me. Still here.”
Charlotte looked at you like that meant everything. “I know. That’s what scares me.”
And then you reached up and gently cupped Charlotte’s face, just like Charlotte had done the night before, and kissed her softly, slowly.
“Don’t be scared, Lottie,” you whispered. “You’ve saved the world. You can handle being with me.”
Charlotte closed her eyes for a moment like she needed to commit those words to memory. Then she nodded, kissed you again, gentler now.
“I should probably finish breakfast,” she mumbled into your lips.
You smirked. “You really should. Otherwise, you’re just going to owe me Chinese food twice in a row.”
Charlotte groaned but pulled back with a reluctant smile, retrieving the bowl and stirring like her life depended on it—though her eyes kept drifting back to you sitting on her counter, sipping coffee, barefoot in her apartment, grinning like you knew exactly what you were doing to her.
And maybe you did.
Because Charlotte Matthews could stop wars, fly through storms, and bench press a car. But none of it compared to the way her heart raced when you smiled at her like that.
