The sound of muffled screams echoed through Wayne Manor.
You pressed your lips together, trying very hard not to laugh as Damian’s older brother — the ever-so-graceful Dick Grayson — clutched the armrest of the chair like it was the only thing tethering him to this world.
“You said it wouldn’t hurt!” Dick yelled, his voice cracking like a teenager’s.
“I said it would be worth it,” you corrected, holding up the wax strip like a trophy. “And look — smooth as a baby’s butt.”
Damian stood beside you, arms crossed, looking as unimpressed as ever. “Grayson, you are embarrassing yourself. You’ve faced assassins, death traps, and the Joker. Yet you scream at a piece of wax.”
Dick shot him a glare. “You try it, demon spawn!”
Damian smirked. “I do not participate in barbaric grooming rituals. My hair grows in perfectly regulated patterns.”
You snorted. “Sure, sure. Says the guy who uses five different combs for his hair.”
“That is called discipline, Beloved,” Damian replied coolly, then turned his eyes to Dick, who was sweating like a sinner in church. “What she is doing to you, however, is chaos.”
“Oh, come on,” you said, heating up another strip. “It’s not chaos, it’s self-care.”
“Self-destruction,” Damian muttered.
Dick peeked up nervously as you approached again, wax strip in hand. “Wait, wait, wait! Where are you—”
RIPPPP.
Silence.
You blinked. Damian blinked. Dick blinked.
Then Dick screamed.
“Y/N! I swear, if I don’t survive this, tell Barbara I love her!”
You doubled over laughing, clutching your stomach. Damian was stoic for exactly three seconds before his lips twitched. He looked at Dick’s half-waxed chest, sighed, and said with absolute deadpan seriousness:
“You look like a plucked pigeon.”
That was it. You fell to the floor laughing so hard tears filled your eyes.
Dick, still holding the remaining wax strip like it was a cursed object, groaned. “You two are evil.”
Damian raised an eyebrow. “Correction — she is evil. I merely supervise.”
You wiped your eyes and smirked. “Yeah, but you love me.”
Hiking up your beautiful woven red and black dress he insisted you wear tonight. You could tell by the way he was staring at you all night he wanted this, need it in fact. Kept sneaking glances at you while others tried to take his attention away.
The taste of you alone sent him into a groaning and grinding mess, sending vibrations to your cunt. His gorgeous nose rubbing against your clit perfectly.
"R-Right there sy-oh fuck" you managed to let out as he continued to go, sucking you dry of everything you're worth.
He had you up against your apartment wall, being too needy to even wait a few more seconds. He slowly snaked two fingers into you, pumping in and out while he lapped up your juices. He knew you were close by the twitching in your stomach.
"Give it to me kitten, need it s'bad" he muttered, breaking away from your pussy before immediately diving back in. Gripping his shoulders like he was your life line, you were so close.
With one final curl of his fingers, you let go. Riding his face until your high was over. He tried his best not to cum at the sight, wanting to save it for when you both are comfortably in bed.
Panting, you look down just to see a smiling sylus staring back "get out you dork" you giggle before pulling him up for a kiss.
Have you watched or are you going to watch the new Superman movie? If so, would you write about a Superman!Reader? Like, a Superman!Reader in Jujutsu Kaizen or another fandom you prefer.
Love your writing!
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐩𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧
pairing: platonic yandere!batfam x neglected!super!gn!reader (ft. platonic!clark kent x neglected!super!gn!reader)
summary: your family learns that overlooking one person might bring a lot of trouble. Especially if that someone's mother is from Krypton.
warnings: mentions of neglect, major character death!!!, that death could be considered a suicide in a way, batfam's obsession develops too late, unspecified family relations with Clark Kent, Lazarus Pit mentioned, there are no healthy coping mechanisms in this one, Jason's death mentioned, Superman is MAD, I have no clue how they bury the dead on Krypton I just be making shit up, body horror, post Pit insanity, jokes about graves and their sizes? (there's one but like it can be sensitive subject idk)
a/n: I've been in the mood for some neglected reader lately so…
There were parts of you that always knew you were destined to end like this. Your body restrained by cuffs made out of Kryptonite, at the mercy of Gotham's most infamous clown.
You knew you didn't have long before the Kryptonite poisoning would kill you. Assuming Joker won't grow bored of watching you wither away and end this faster.
A part of you still clung to hope that your dad would come and save you. Just like you watched him do with Tim or Damian. Keeping the promise he made to his kids that he won't let another death happen. Not from Joker. Not like he let Jason pass.
You hoped that even if he didn't show it, Bruce considered you to be one of his children. And while you weren't his top priority, you still made the list.
You knew you weren't Bruce's favourite child. You realised that very quickly as you settled into the manor. The birthdays no one seemed to care to remember, the school recitals, and the awards ceremonies. All events you were forced to celebrate by yourself.
You knew that your heritage was part of the reason why they didn't want to be around you.
Damian made sure to let you know that the only reason you exist is because your mother 'tricked' his father into thinking she was a human. 'Father would never lie with a woman like your mother; he has standards,' he once told you. You will never forget the punishment you received after attacking him that night.
Bruce never wanted you to become a hero. He did everything in his power to keep you away from this life. You hated it at first. Hated being the only one with powers in this stupid family, yet being kept away from the one thing you could actually be useful for.
Clark was the only one there for you. Even if Bruce was against you and him having any relationship, there wasn't much he could do to stop two Kryptonians with flying powers from spending time together.
Clark helped you design your suit and asked his mother to make it. You remember the first time you got to put it on. The way it felt stretched across your skin. You remember the first time Clark took you out to help him save Metropolis.
And you remember the argument he shared with Bruce. You remember each tear you shed, watching Batman destroy your suit, the one Martha poured her heart into making.
Your second suit you made all by yourself; it was mimicking the one Martha made, using the scraps of fabric from the old one to keep a piece of her with you. You wanted to keep helping people, even if that meant you had to make a thousand more suits like this one. Even if that meant having to leave the manor and never come back.
You rarely helped out in Gotham since none of the Bats were interested in working with you, and you much preferred patrolling the night sky along with Superman. Because of that, there weren't many villains that knew your connection to them.
Joker happened to be one of them.
You start to wonder if maybe you should've listened to Bruce when he told you that you're not fit to be a hero. Maybe you shouldn't fight this hard to save people.
Maybe then you wouldn't be in this situation. Maybe you wouldn't be helped by the Joker, him broadcasting you to the world to see.
And maybe then you wouldn't have to rely on Batman to come and save you.
You didn't want to think about him not coming. You had to cling to the last bits of hope that he will bust through the door at any moment to sweep you in his arms. Tell you that it will all be alright.
"Dad…" you whispered, one lonely tear running down your cheek.
Joker bursts out laughing, his body folded in half with his arms around his stomach.
"He's not coming! He'll just get another one like he did with that second robin!!!" Joker keeps laughing, coming up to you to grab your face.
"You don't get it! He doesn't care; none of them ever did!" He screams, the drops of his saliva hitting your face, getting into your eyes. "They will be so happy that you're dead! One mouth less to feed. One less freak in the manor" he laughs again, stepping away.
"This time, I will make sure there's no body for them to revive." Joker has his back to you and you can't see what he's grabbing.
Only then do you realise that you can't rely on someone that never came to save you before. But you knew who did. Someone that you practiced Kryptonian way of log distance communication.
'Superman…' Your voice was quiet, and you had to hope it wasn't too quiet for him to hear you.
You try to reach Clark again, but your body slumps unconscious against the chair.
You didn't know that Clark was already searching for you. He only saw a second of the broadcast before flying off to find you. His entire being was focused on trying to find you when you reached out, your voice ringing quietly in his mind.
It was enough for him to find the basement of the old warehouse Joker dragged you into.
He sweeps in, wind howling as he flies into the dark space. He threw Joker's body into the nearest wall, knocking him unconscious.
Joker wasn't Clark's priority. You were. He left the clown for the bats to deal with. Or for the maniac to escape, he couldn't care. Not when your cold body was resting against his.
Not when no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't feel your heartbeat.
His entire world came crashing down when the robots confirmed the worst. You were no longer on this world with him.
Clark sobbed, holding your cold body against his. The tears that fell from his eyes slowly wetted the top of your head. He kept whispering apologies, begging you to forgive him.
But the sadness didn't last. No, Clark was furious. At Joker for doing this to you. At himself for not being there sooner. At Batman for not saving his child, like he vowed to do. At the world that kept spinning even though you no longer could breathe.
And his anger only grew when the family came to collect the body. Seeing them unable to meet his eyes because of the shame they felt made the last piece of human in him snap.
Clark ordered the robots to throw the Waynes out of the fortress, making sure they're warned to not return. He was the only one in your family, no one else. Especially not the ones that let you die in the first place.
The ones that didn't try to join you on your patrol. The one that didn't bother putting a tracker on you, even though each of his kids had multiple on them just in case.
None of them deserved you. They never did, and Clark understood that now.
Every part of him felt guilty for not taking you away from Bruce sooner, scooping you up and taking you home. You always loved visiting his parents' farm, and you'd be ecstatic to live there.
It was too late now, and Clark had to learn to accept it.
He decided to give you a proper burial. A month-long ceremony fit for someone from Krypton. Since the human part of your family never celebrated you, giving you a human burial felt wrong.
You always were more attached to the Kryptonian side of you, taking every bit of information regarding your mother's planet with sparkling eyes and wishing to be able to experience Krypton.
In the Batcave, the entire family is gathered in the movie room of the manor. Earlier that day, Alfred found videos you made during ceremonies. Ones where you had no one by your side, the camera either held by a teacher or propped up on chairs to record the stage as you accepted rewards.
You still smiled, even in the ones where you wished yourself a 'happy birthday' and blew out a candle on the store-bought cupcake.
Smiled, when some of them doubted they would be able to.
All those years, all the times they should've been there for you. Where he should be there for you.
Bruce knew they still had a chance. You could still become a part of their family. They will make sure to not let anything bad happen to you ever again.
They just have to convince Superman that Pit was the right way.
"No." Superman's voice came out clipped, cold. There was no way he would let them take you.
In his eyes it was inhumane to throw you into the Lazarus Pit and bring you back. He would do anything to have you back, but the Pit was not the answer.
Bringing people back from the dead was not the answer.
You deserved to rest, even if that broke his heart. If there was anyone that deserved peace after their death, it was you.
"They deserve a Kryptonian burial, and they will receive one." Superman didn't bother turning around to face Batman, his body facing one of the many computers. "Their remains will be buried on my parent's farm in Kansas; you will be free to visit the grave after the soil sets."
"There won't be a huge grave then," Green Lantern chuckled from his seat on Clark's right.
Superman shook his head, glancing towards Green Lantern.
"What does he mean by that, Superman?" This time Batman's voice was cold, his arms crossed against his chest.
"By the end of the ceremony their body will be burnt, their ashes will rest in the grave," Superman sighed, finally turning towards Batman.
"I'm the one that should decide—"
"You're the reason they're dead, Bruce! You have no right to say what will happen to their body!" Superman stormed out of the Watchtower.
The rest of the family were unhappy about Clark hogging your body all for himself, but knowing he's planning on burning it sent them over the edge.
They had to get you back and keep you away from that insane man.
Getting into the fortress wasn't hard. Not for Batman and his gang of kids. And especially when one of those kids happens to date Superman's clone.
The kids focus on the robots, attacking them so they won't intrude or contact Superman. Bruce didn't fight; his focus was on retrieving your body and tucking it safely into his plane.
They already choose which Pit will be the most suitable one for dipping your body into. They couldn't risk anything not going according to their plan.
On the way Dick insisted on keeping your head on his lap, his thumb stroking your cheek as the tears rolled down his face. He could never forgive himself for letting his little sibling end up like this.
They will fix it. You will come back, and Dick will take you out for ice cream. Or if you don't like it, he will buy you other treats. Whatever you like will be yours; you will just have to say so.
The family gathers along the edge of the body of green liquid, watching as Bruce steps into it with your body in your arms.
Once the liquid reaches his hips, Bruce lowers your body into it, allowing you to fully submerge in the Pit. Your body disappears under the surface, and the family are holding their breaths, waiting for the alive you to spring out of the liquid.
Moments pass with no movement in the Pit, no hand reaching out, no head coming above it. Nothing.
Then, the liquid changes colour in the place where your body was put in. It was no longer the bright green it was supposed to be. No, now it was muddy, brown mixed with dark red. Something wasn't right.
Bruce reached into the liquid to pull your body out. Your eyes were still sealed shut, your chest still unmoving. The skin on your buddy started bubbling as the acid was thrown on you. Bruce panicked, rushing out to get you far from the Lazarus Pit.
But he was late, and the damage was already done.
The family watched in horror as your skin began to dissolve, uncovering the muscles underneath. The cave smelt of rotten flesh, and Stephanie had to keep her hand close to her mouth to stop herself from throwing up.
They tried to stop the dissolving, using wet wipes to clean what remained of your skin. When that didn't help and your muscles were fully uncovered, they realised that whatever dissolved your skin was now eating at your muscles.
Tim found water bottles in the plane, and he and Cass started to dump them one by one, hoping that will stop your body from decaying further.
But nothing worked.
There was nothing they could do to stop it.
And your body kept dissolving until there was nothing more left than bones, dressed in the white clothes Clark picked out for you.
he won’t admit it, of course he’s katsuki bakugo. but you’ve seen the way he softens, just barely, when your fingers slip through the wild tufts of blonde he pretends not to care about. he’ll grumble, call you a weirdo, say something about “touchin’ without askin’,” but he never pulls away. not once.
because it’s comforting, the way your nails scrape gently at his scalp. the way you untangle the knots life has left behind, with patience no villain ever dared show him. his hair, like his temper, is untamable, spiked and defiant, but you hold it like a secret, like you were born knowing it. and slowly, over time, he begins to trust your hands more than his own silence.
sometimes it’s after missions, when the adrenaline’s wearing off and his body still feels like smoke. you’ll sit behind him on the couch, his head in your lap, and wordlessly thread your fingers through his hair. you won’t speak, not yet. you’ll just comb through the gold and fire and ash of him until his breathing evens, until he forgets how to be angry for a while. and that’s when you’ll hear it, the barely audible, a quiet sigh escaping his chest, as if the storm has finally tired itself out.
kther times, it’s late, stars heavy above your windows, the night pressing in like an old friend. he’ll flop onto your bed after a long day, face-first into your pillow, muttering curses into the fabric. “back hurts. brain’s fried. world’s stupid.” you’ll laugh and settle beside him, your fingers already finding their rhythm in his hair before he even asks. not that he would.
but there are days, precious and rare, when he’ll crawl over, eyes tired but heart loud, and wordlessly nudge his head toward your lap. he doesn’t need to speak. you’ll smile, trace the crown of his head with gentle hands, and kiss his temple like a promise.
and sometimes, somewhere between the soothing cadence of your touch and the warmth of being understood without question, katsuki bakugo who is loud, brash, relentless, finally falls asleep.
with your fingers still in his hair.
and somehow, the world makes a little more sense like that.
SUMMARY: A frustrated figure skater who transferred from Illinois has only one goal: keeping her athletic scholarship this season, and she’ll do anything to change the way people on campus see her — especially if it means improving her image for pairs skating. Even if it costs her a fake relationship with the same person who spread the nickname that turned her into “Ice Heart.”
WARNING: SMUT AHEAD CONTENT RELATED TO SEX, RELATIONSHIPS, AND DISORDERS CONTENT CONTAINS FACTS, BUT REMEMBER THIS IS FANFICTION, IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT, LEAVE!
MASTERLIST
0.4 here
0.3 Confused
Things have been confusing. Not the kind of confusing where I don’t know what to do, but the kind where I don’t know what I’m doing. Because I really don’t.
John Logan and I haven’t seen each other in three weeks, we haven’t given a single sign that we’re together because guess what? We’re not. John Logan can’t stand me and he uses his sharp-ass humor to make that painfully clear. And honestly, my knees had been bruised so
many times during those two weeks that I could barely remember the fake story Logan and I had told everyone.
Until now…
“So you and Logan are just hooking up and nothing else?”
Allie’s question came like a ghost with bad intentions right behind my ear. She was supposed to be working her shift right now, not making me spiral over the mess I created myself.
“I… I don’t know, are we something?”
“But nothing exclusive?”
She asked while walking around the counter and leaning toward me.
“No…” That´s the same thing i told Hannah this morning. I started hesitating immediately.
“We never talked about it.”
“Well, you probably should because I saw him flirting with a redhead today and it honestly made me sick for you.”
“We’re okay. Thanks for telling me anyway.”
I smiled at her and looked down at my phone where I kept hoping for a notification, a call, something that showed I mattered.
“You going home for the summer?”
Allie’s question came softer this time and I shook my head.
“No, maybe after the season ends. Depends.”
“Your parents love you, sweetie. Don’t worry.”
She said while grabbing my hand and rubbing her thumb against the back of it.
“Yeah, I’m sure they do.”
I snorted out a sarcastic laugh and Allie let go of my hand, glancing over my shoulder before lightly tapping the counter.
“Great, table eight needs me and now someone else can take care of you.” She said, and before I could ask what she meant, two arms wrapped around my neck and Logan’s lips pressed quickly against my cheek.
“You need taking care of?”
“Yes, she does.”
Allie answered for me with a curious smile while grabbing the mug to my left, probably making a thousand assumptions in her head already.
Which scared the hell out of me.
“Hey.”
He said, sitting down on the stool beside mine while I took another sip of my tequila sunrise.
“My friends are getting suspicious.”
I muttered while looking at him from the corner of my eye and John Logan nodded.
“Yeah, the guys asked questions too.” He sighed and I felt him watching me. “Sorry. This week’s been shit.”
I looked at him then, and his eyes met mine with more honesty than I’d seen from him in a long time.
“It’s okay, I’ve got you.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them and he smiled a little without looking away from me.
“You work, right?”
I asked softly, taking another sip of my drink.
“Family business. I'm a mechanic in my free time, very fun.”
He said it casually, but I could swear he didn’t sound happy about it.
“I bet, all that grease and engine oil dripping on you feels exciting.´´
"It's a turn-on, believe me," he joked, and I laughed, lowering my head slightly.
´´Good to know who to call when my car dies.”
“I’m your guy.”
I looked at him and for a second my heart jumped in a way that felt weird as hell. What the hell was that?
My chest still felt tight while Logan watched me with that irritatingly calm look of his.
Like he knew exactly what he did to me.
He gently pulled my tequila sunrise from my hand and took a sip without asking permission. I rolled my eyes immediately.
“You’re obnoxious.”
“And you have terrible taste in drinks.”
“Then don’t drink it.”
“Too late.”
He set the glass back in front of me and rested his arm against the counter, leaning a little closer. His scent — soap, mint, and something ridiculously masculine — invaded my space way too fast. Way too dangerous.
“You look tired.”
The comment came low.
Real.
Not teasing.
“Practice,” I mumbled. “And exams. And life generally sucking.”
“Hm.”
Logan stared at me for a second too long.
“You’ve been limping a little.”
My face heated instantly.
“I am not limping.”
“gorgeous, you almost tripped walking in here.”
“Will keeps dropping me.”
His eyes hardened immediately.
Again.
His jaw tightened and he looked away for a second like he was trying to control some over-the-top reaction. Which was weird because I’d started noticing a pattern whenever the topic came up.
“You know what? Wanna get outta here?” Logan pointed toward the door and I followed his gaze before he added, “It’ll look convincing.”
“You’re not planning to murder me, are you?”
“You’ve been helping me lately, so no.”
He said it while holding out his hand for me to take.
And I did.
“Great.”
Logan intertwined his fingers with mine without hesitation, like it was natural. Like we were natural. We walked out of the bar under a bunch of curious stares and my cheeks burned when he dramatically opened the truck door for me.
“What a gentleman.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, right. Your ego won’t allow it.”
I climbed into the truck trying to ignore how much it smelled like Logan. He started driving without explaining where we were going.
“You’re really kidnapping me.”
“Maybe.”
“That’s kinda romantic.”
“You seriously need better standards.”
I smiled while looking out the window as campus disappeared behind us.
“Not if my standards are dark romance standards.”
“They’re not. You’re too doll-like for hardcore shit.”
Logan let out a quiet laugh through his nose, eyes still on the road lit only by the truck headlights. I gasped dramatically.
“That was offensive on multiple levels.”
“It was an observation.”
“You barely know me. Maybe I have a dark and problematic side.”
He finally looked at me for a second, a crooked smile slowly appearing.
“gorgeous, you order tequila sunrise. Your dark side is probably returning library books late.”
“Oh my God, I hate you! Just because I’m not some slutty manwhore like you who sleeps with anything with a hole under a skirt doesn’t mean I don’t like stuff.”
I huffed loudly.
Logan slowly turned his head toward me. And then he started laughing.
Actually laughing. His head tipped back slightly while he covered his mouth trying and failing to control himself.
“Did you just call me a slutty manwhore?”
“You heard me perfectly.”
“My God, gorgeous…” he kept laughing. “You get really aggressive when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous! You think I’m jealous over some slutty manwhore?”
“Absolutely.”
I crossed my arms and dramatically turned toward the window.
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you just described me like I’m a walking STD. That hurts.”
“Oh please. You know exactly what reputation you have.”
“My reputation is wildly exaggerated.”
I let out an incredulous laugh.
“Logan, there are literally stories about you in the girls’ dorm.”
“Good stories at least?”
I looked at him, offended.
“You’re impossible.”
He smirked like he wasn’t offended at all.
Worse. He looked entertained.
Logan’s amused smile slowly faded. Slowly. Until only silence remained.
He stared at me now with this strange expression, intense enough to make my stomach tighten. It wasn’t arrogance. Or teasing.
It was almost… vulnerable. But I didn’t know how to read John Logan when he got like this.
“What?”
I asked, and he shook his head.
“Nothing.”
I looked down toward the window while silence filled the truck.
“So… did our casual sex help distract you from the fact you’re still in love with Hannah?” I asked and felt John Logan choke in the driver’s seat.
“I told you I’m not in love with her. Or Garrett.”
“Then what is it, Logan?”
“My parents are divorced, my dad’s an alcoholic who should be in rehab but isn’t because we can’t afford it, and I’ve never actually seen love work. I never had an example of it. But when I look at those two… deep down I realized that if I ever find someone, I’d want what they have.”
“But you don’t believe you’ll get that, do you?”
I asked honestly, and his gaze dropped heavily on me while he parked somewhere I hadn’t even noticed. For a second, Logan just sat there.
Hands still on the wheel. Jaw tight. Like he’d already said more than he meant to.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I think… people like me don’t usually get that kind of thing.”
My chest tightened immediately.
Because for the first time since I met John Logan, he didn’t look like the funny, arrogant, impossible guy who flirted without thinking. He just looked… tired. Human.
“People like you?”
He let out a humorless laugh.
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
Logan finally looked at me.
“Baby, I’m the guy who’s slept with half the campus and avoids thinking too hard because when I do…” he hesitated. “I usually don’t like what I find.”
That hurt more than it should’ve.
“That doesn’t make you incapable of loving someone.”
He held my gaze for a second too long.
“Maybe it makes me incapable of believing someone would stay.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Cruel.
My chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. Because I understood that feeling more than I wanted to admit. The feeling that nobody would actually choose to stay.
“That’s sad as hell, Logan.”
My voice came out softer than I intended. He let out a quiet nasal laugh.
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before.”
But this time he didn’t sound teasing.
Just tired.
Then he shut off the truck.
It was only when I looked out the window that I realized where we were.
The soft lights.
The giant screen lighting up the dark sky.
The distant sound of a movie echoing through the night.
“I’ve always wanted to go to one of these.”
I looked at his profile and watched him nod.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I heard you talking about it last month. ´´
My heart stumbled inside my chest.
“You do?”
Logan nodded slowly, eyes still on the drive-in screen.
“You were on speaker with Hannah complaining that every romantic movie feels better at an outdoor theater.”
I frowned immediately.
“You remember that?”
“You’re loud.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
He finally looked at me and shrugged way too casually.
“I pay attention to you. You’re a tiny annoying little thing, Y/n.”
The answer came simple.
Weightless.
Without realizing the damage it caused.
Because my heart literally forgot how to function for a second.
Logan looked away first, clearing his throat before climbing out of the truck.
“Come on before the movie ends and you start complaining that I ruined half the cinematic experience.”
I smiled involuntarily while climbing out after him.
The cold wind hit again and I shivered automatically.
I didn’t even have to ask. Logan pulled his gray hoodie over his head and tossed it at me without ceremony.
“Here.”
“You’re gonna freeze.”
“I'm used to it. Just take it. ´´
I rolled my eyes, laughing quietly while putting it on.
Too big. Too warm. Way too much like him.
Logan grabbed an old blanket from the back of the truck and climbed up first, settling against the cab before pulling me up by the hand.
The giant screen partially lit up his face now. And unfortunately, that only made John Logan prettier. Which was deeply irritating.
“So…” I murmured while glancing at the movie halfway through. “You brought me to watch A Knight’s Tale?”
“Perfect movie. Swords, chaos, and Heath Ledger.”
“Oh my God, you like medieval romance.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“You do!”
He immediately pointed a finger at me.
“It has fighting.”
“And forbidden love.”
“And gambling.”
“And love letters.”
“And violence.”
I smiled victoriously when he rolled his eyes.
“You are definitely more romantic than you pretend to be.”
Logan laughed quietly while spreading the blanket over us.
“And you definitely talk too much when you think you’ve figured something out.”
I leaned my head back against the truck, watching the screen in silence for a few seconds.
For the first time in weeks my head didn’t feel like a complete disaster.
Maybe because Logan was strange tonight. More honest and less performative.
“And you know? You shouldn’t say you’re incapable of receiving love or making someone stay just because your parents couldn’t stay together. You’re not them.”
I whispered while curling a little closer against the warmth of his body. I refused to look up because I knew he was staring at me.
“I hope not.”
I heard him murmur.
My chest tightened at the quiet answer.
Not because it sounded dramatic.
But because it sounded honest.
And honesty from John Logan was rare.
Slow.
Careful.
Like a wounded animal getting close enough to decide whether to run.
I slowly turned my face toward him.
“Do you really think you’re that impossible to love?”
Logan kept his eyes on the movie screen.
But I caught the exact moment his jaw tightened.
“I think I spent too much time watching people leave.”
The answer came simple.
Without self-pity. Which somehow made it worse.
The cold wind passed through the drive-in again and I hugged myself while the light from the screen crossed his face. Logan watched me pretending I wasn’t shivering. Pretending the cold wasn’t cutting straight through me. His expression shifted almost imperceptibly before he let out a quiet laugh through his nose.
“You’re stubborn as hell.”
“And you complain too much.”
“C’mere, baby.” Before I could ask anything, Logan grabbed my waist firmly and pulled me all the way closer. A surprised sound escaped my throat when I ended up basically sitting between his legs in the
back of the truck. His chest immediately pressed against my back.
His knees rested on either side of me while the blanket wrapped around us better now. And damn. It really was warmer there. Way warmer.
“Better like this,” he murmured near my ear.
My heart started beating way too fast when I felt his arms wrap around me lazily, keeping me tucked against him. Like it was natural.
Like he’d done this hundreds of times before. But somehow… it didn’t feel rehearsed.
It felt caring.
Which was worse.
Way worse.
“You use girls as portable heaters often?” I asked, trying to sound normal.
I felt his laugh vibrate against my back.
“Only the annoying ones.”
I rolled my eyes automatically, but snuggled a little closer without realizing.
Silence fell again while the movie continued on the giant screen.
But now everything felt different.
Because I could feel every breath he took.
Every tiny movement.
His long fingers resting absentmindedly against my stomach over the hoodie.
The heat of his body surrounding mine completely.
My God.
That was dangerously intimate.
Way more intimate than sex.
His head tilted slightly until his lips brushed near my temple without actually kissing me.
“Warm now?”
The question came low. Rough. And ridiculously close. I swallowed hard before nodding slowly.
“Mhm.”
“Good.”
But he didn’t let me go.
Not even a little.
Actually, his arms only tightened around me more while he rested his chin on top of my head.
And for the first time in a long time…I felt safe.
“Just so you know. Even though I kinda hate you a little, you deserve someone who stays and loves you because you might not be as bad as I thought you were.”
I said while absentmindedly drawing circles against his chest with my cup, comfortable in the position we were in even though I definitely shouldn’t have been. Logan went completely still behind me.
So still that for a second I thought maybe I’d gone too far.
My head was still resting against his chest while the muffled movie sounds filled the silence between us, but I could hear something else now.
I could fell his heart beat fast against my temple.
His fingers moved slowly over my stomach, almost distracted, like he was thinking too hard before saying anything.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out low.
Very low.
“That was weirdly nice coming from you.”
I rolled my eyes automatically even while heat crawled up my face.
“Don’t get used to it.”
I felt his laugh vibrate against my back again.
But this time it faded quickly.
Because Logan tightened his arms around me a little more before lowering his head near my ear.
“And you’re wrong.”
My chest tightened immediately.
“About what?”
He took a few seconds to answer.
Too many seconds.
“About me not being as bad as you thought.”
I frowned instantly and turned slightly between his legs, just enough to look at his face partially lit by the drive-in screen.
There was no irony in Logan’s expression now. No arrogance.
Just that tired look that kept appearing whenever he forgot to pretend.
“Logan…”
“No, baby,” he interrupted quietly. “You don’t get it.”
His jaw tightened slightly while he looked back toward the movie.
“People like the fun version of me. The easy one. The one who drinks, jokes around, and never takes anything seriously.”
I swallowed hard silently.
“But when things get hard…” he let out a weak laugh. “I’m really good at ruining everything.”
That hit my chest way too hard. Because he didn’t sound like someone fishing for pity. He sounded like someone confessing a truth he’d already accepted a long time ago. And maybe that was what hurt most.
The fact John Logan genuinely believed that.
“You talk like you’re some walking disaster.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’re not.”
The answer came out too fast.
Too firm.
His eyes immediately dropped to mine.
And shit.
That was a mistake.
Because I felt my entire heart stumble when Logan looked at me like that.
Silent.
Intense.
Like he was trying to understand something impossible.
“You really believe that?” he asked quietly.
I nodded slowly.
“I think you just spent too much time convincing everyone you don’t care about anything.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Without humor.
“It’s easier that way.”
“For who?”
Silence.
The question stayed hanging between us while the wind passed through the drive-in again,
lightly moving the blanket around us.
Logan watched me for a few more seconds before lifting one hand toward my face.
slowly like he was giving me time to pull away.
But I didn’t.
His fingers lightly touched my chin, tilting my face up a little more.
His gaze dropped to my mouth for one dangerously long second.
And my God.
The air completely disappeared from my lungs.
“You should stop looking at me like that,” I murmured without thinking.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re gonna kiss me.”
His jaw tightened instantly.
And for the first time that night… John Logan looked nervous because deep down, he seemed just as confused as I was.
“Yeah, but I can’t kiss you,” he grumbled, still not taking his eyes off mine.
“No, you can’t,” I grumbled back, my gaze shifting between his eyes and his lips. “ You can’t, because we’re enemies,” I finished, and he smiled, amused.
“Yeah, we hate each other too much to kiss,” he said, his voice softer than the words suggested, almost like he was testing how far he could push me.
“Yeah,” I said, though it sounded weaker than I intended. “We hate each other too much to kiss.”
He let out a quiet laugh, but there was no real humor in it—just tension.
“That’s the problem,” he muttered. For a second, neither of us moved. The space between us felt smaller than it should’ve been, like the air itself was pulling us closer. My gaze flicked to his lips again before I could stop it. He noticed. Of course he did. “You keep doing that,” he said, his voice lower now.
“Doing what?”
“Looking.”
I swallowed, suddenly aware of how close his mouth was from mine. My heartbeat wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore.
“I’m not doing anything,” I lied. He tilted his head slightly, studying me, then stepped closer until there was barely any space left between us.
´´Liar. ´´
I let out a short breath that didn’t sound convincing even to me.
“What i´m doing, John? ”
´´ Fucking with my head so bad rigth now. ´´
He grumbled, stroking my cheek with his thumb.
´´We can´t. You can´t kiss me, John. ´´
But neither of us moved away. His gaze dropped to my mouth again, slower this time, like he wasn’t even bothering to hide it anymore. My heartbeat skipped.
“You keep saying that,” he murmured.
“Because it’s true.”
“It doesn’t look like you believe it,” he said. Before I could answer, His thumb moved down to my lower lip. The touch stole my breath. His eyes flicked up to mine, darker now, searching my face like he was still deciding whether to stop.
“You’re not helping,” I whispered.
“I know,” he admitted. His thumb lingered a moment longer before he leaned in slightly—close enough that I could feel his breath against my mouth. Not a kiss. Almost.
“Say it again,” he said softly. “Say we shouldn’t.”
“We shouldn’t,” I repeated, but it came out weaker than before.
His lips hovered over mine, barely touching, just a ghost of contact—enough to blur every argument in my head.
“We can’t,” I whispered again, though this time I didn’t sound certain. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for too long.
“Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “We can’t.”
But again neither of us moved away. And then, like the last thread of restraint snapping all at once, he closed the distance.
Our mouths met—careful at first, then real. Like everything we’d been denying finally stopped mattering.
For a second, everything went still. Then the hesitation broke completely. His hand slid more firmly to my jaw, not rushing me, just holding me there like he’d finally stopped pretending he could stay away. The kiss deepened—slow, conflicted, like neither of us had fully accepted what we were doing even as we kept doing it. My fingers curled into his hair, grounding myself in something real as the rest of the world seemed to fall away. When we finally pulled back just slightly, it wasn’t far enough to create space—just enough to breathe.
His forehead almost touched mine.“This is a bad idea,” he muttered, voice rougher now.
I let out a shaky breath, eyes still on his. “The worst,” I agreed.
Juhoon is the most nonchalant person you’ve ever met, yet he shows you a part of him nobody else has seen before.
ᯓ★ INCLUDES fluff, swearing, oneshot, idol au, juhoon is a bit mean hehe
MIMI’s corner
hi guys!! i finally finished this and oml i hate how it turned out 😭 but i was busy and i had a pretty hard time doing it so i hope you still like this🫰🏻🫰🏻
Summary: You live in the same building as Clark Kent. You think he’s sweet but awkward, he carries your bags, helps you build things, fixes issues in your apartment. You joke he’s “like a superhero” for doing the chores your ex never did, and he panics and runs off
Warnings/Themes: mention of bad past relationship (nothing serious just like weaponized incompetence), bad communicator clark, bad communication in general, crying, awkward clark, clumsy cursed reader no mention of race, good at cooking/baking reader, no use of y/n, half proofread, if you notice fuck-ups no u didn't, wrote in like three days so messy concept but I needed it
Words: 8.2k
You’d just moved to Metropolis, still reeling from the messy implosion of your last relationship. Needing something new; and the day you moved into Apartment 4B, Clark Kent was there. Not as some official welcome wagon, just... there. You were wrestling a very heavy, probably over-packed, box of kitchenware up the cramped stairwell. The elevator had a handwritten 'under maintenance' sign— so you had to make the four story trip by foot, when a shadow fell over you.
"Need a hand with that?" he asked, his voice mild, almost timid. Sweat stinging your eyes as you looked up to see a glasses-clad man with dark hair falling perpetually over his brow, his tall figure absolutely towering you.
You grunted, hoisting the box higher, and nodding frantically. "Please, God, yes."
He took it from you as if it weighed nothing, a small, polite smile on his face. He carried it the rest of the way, and then the next ten boxes, and then helped you assemble your rickety IKEA bedframe— "so you definitely have somewhere to sleep tonight.", all without asking for anything in return. He just seemed… happy to help. Told you his name, and where he was if you needed him again, then just... left like he hadn't even been there at all.
One sweltering afternoon, only one week after the first encounter, you were struggling to assemble a truly monstrous wardrobe (last time you try to get something nice for yourself, with how much work it was taking). You’d spent a fat three hours wrestling with indecipherable diagrams, and runaway screws, and the thing was still just a pile of glorified wood chips.
Sweat was plastering your hair to your forehead, and frustration was a hot knot in your stomach. You were about to admit defeat and call a professional when there was a gentle knock on your door.
It was Clark, holding a small casserole dish. "I had extra lasagna, thought you might like some after your move-in efforts," he said, already scanning your apartment, his gaze landing on the chaotic heap of wooden planks. "Oh, gosh. Looks like you're having some trouble there."
Clark set the lasagna down on your kitchen counter, the warm, savory smell instantly making your stomach rumble. “Trouble” was an understatement.
“It’s… a work in progress,” you mumbled, pushing a stray hair out of your eyes.
He gave a soft, understanding nod. “Looks like it. Mind if I…?” He gestured vaguely at the pile of wood, a polite question in his eyes.
You scoff, falling back onto your floor in frustration as you waves both hands dismissively, rolling your eyes. Heat creeping up your neck in frustration— not towards Clark. You just hated being seen as helpless, especially by a man, after your ex had always made you feel like you were.
“It’s fine,” you mumbled, though your tone clearly indicated the opposite. “I can… I’ll wrestle it eventually. Or something."
Clark didn't lecture, didn't patronize. He just offered a gentle, knowing smile.
“Sometimes a fresh pair of eyes can make all the difference, though. And a little extra muscle never hurts, does it?” He knelt beside the instruction manual, you watched, exhausted and feeling defeated, as his eyes quickly scanned the diagrams. He hummed quietly, a low, thoughtful sound. Then, without a word, he began to work.
He didn't seem to struggle, he didn't swear or grunt. And within what felt like minutes, not hours, the bones of the wardrobe began to emerge from the chaos. He worked with a quiet concentration, occasionally humming a low, tuneless melody to himself. You just sat dumbfounded on the floor, occasionally handing Clark a screw or reading an instruction out for him, feeling pretty useless.
Within a mere half-hour, the sinister pile of rubble that threatened to haunt you was standing tall and proud, a testament to... well, to Clark. He straightened up, wiping a smudge from his glasses. "There we go," he said, a faint, pleased flush on his cheeks. "Looks sturdy."
“Clark,” you breathed, staring at the finished product, then at him. He was wiping a little sawdust from his glasses, a faint flush on his cheeks. “How… how did you do that so fast?”
He chuckled, a low, warm sound, and shrugged humbly. “Oh, you know. Good instructions, and a little teamwork. You were a great help."
You knew he was being kind, incredibly kind, but you still felt goosebumps rise on your arm.
Before you can really thank him, or offer him some water, or to sit. He's picked up the empty box it came in, filling it with all the plastic packaging and packing material. “I’ll just take these down for you.”
you can't even really protest, a weak, "Clark-" leaves with a sigh. But he was gone, leaving you with a perfectly built wardrobe and a warm, lasagna sat on your kitchen counter.
It became a quiet routine, an unspoken agreement that you had neither expected or requested— but wasn't unwelcome. You’d be struggling with an overflowing laundry basket down to the basement machines, and there he’d be, a polite cough and a gentle, “Need a hand with that?” before he’d somehow manage to carry it with one hand while holding the door open with the other. You’d find your groceries, especially those heavier bags of sugar or bulk-buy pasta, suddenly lighter as he’d appear by your side in the lobby, often with an “Oh, heading up? I’ll just grab that,” before you could even protest.
You’d settled into your new life, and Clark Kent was undeniably a part of that comfortable rhythm. He was the kind of neighbour everyone wanted but few ever had. He never asked for coffee, never lingered for small talk that felt forced. His kindness was earnest and unassuming. He worked at the Daily Planet— a journalist, you knew, you'd seen his article's and even read a few.
You started looking forward to seeing him, even. Like a warm cup of coffee on a cold morning. He was the antithesis of your ex, who had considered taking the garbage to the curb a Herculean task, and who expected a cookie, parade, medal, hoedown, just for helping, all while finding a way to subtly belittle your own efforts.
Clark just did. He folded your laundry one time when you’d left it in the communal dryer for too long, just leaving it neatly folded on your doormat. He once noticed your lightbulb flickering in the hallway fixture and, the next day, there was a new bulb and a note taped to it, “Fixed it for you! :) – CK.”
One evening, you were attempting to make dinner when a wallet draining gurgle erupted from your kitchen sink, followed by a torrent of brown, foul-smelling water backing up and spilling onto the wood floor. You stared at it in disgust, your half-chopped vegetables suddenly feeling a lot less appetizing. After a frantic, futile attempt with a plunger, and a quick, angry call to your landlord that went straight to voicemail, you slumped against the counter, defeated.
As you set your cell down angrily on the kitchen table, there's a faint knock at your door. Clark. He must have heard the gurgling, or maybe your frustrated groan.
“Everything alright in there?” He asked, his voice muffled through the wood.
You groaned, pushing yourself off the counter and trudging to the door. Pulling it open, you gesture back at the disaster zone that was your kitchen, a tired groan leaving your mouth. Murky water was still bubbling from the sink and pooling on the floor, the smell permeating the entire space.
“Clark! Oh my god, no. My sink just… exploded. And the landlord isn’t answering. I think I’m going to cry.” You admit, your eyes large and panicked as you let him in.
He looked at the scene, his brow furrowed with concern. His eyes moving from your distressed face to the overflowing sink, and then, without a word, he stepped inside.
“Oh dear,” he murmured. Taking the sleeves of his plaid shirt and rolling them to his elbows, revealing forearms that, surprisingly, had a lean strength to them, despite his general awkwardness.
“Let’s take a look.”
He walked towards the sink, not a hint of disgust on his face, even as he peered into the murky water. “Do you have a bucket? And maybe some old towels?”
You nodded, retrieving a bucket from under the sink and a stack of old t-shirts you used for rags. He worked with the same quiet efficiency as he had with the wardrobe. He listened to the pipes, tapped at them, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a large wrench and a snake.
He didn’t make a mess, somehow managing to disconnect and clear a section of pipe without drenching himself or the floor in more filth, directing the flow into the bucket you held, which he’d insisted you only lightly support while he did the heavy lifting. The stench was still there, but diminishing as he cleared the blockage.
His brow was furrowed— just ever so slightly, a look of mild concentration, then there was a distinct whoosh as the water drained, gurgling and bubbling on its way down the pipe. He reconnected everything, wiped down the area with a towel, and then, completely unprompted, started cleaning up the spilled water on your floor. This was at least something you could help with, lowering your body as you assist in sopping up the liquid.
"Clark, you're always saving my day," you sighed, feeling a wave of gratitude wash over you. "My ex couldn't even load the dishwasher without a hassle."
He gave a small, humble nod, a faint flush rising on his cheeks at the praise. He never quite knew what to do with compliments, often just offering a shy, modest smile in return. “Just glad I could help,” he murmured.
You looked at the shining sink (pipes intact), the clean floor, and then back at him. He was already halfway turned, stealthily on his way back to his own apartment, he'd fulfilled his neighbourly duty. But even though the immediate disaster was over, a different feeling settled over you. He’d helped you out of a literal mess, dealt with something truly disgusting, and hadn’t so much as batted an eye. He deserved more than just a thank you.
“Clark, wait,” you protest, making a gentle move for him, a hand landing on his arm.
“You can’t just go. You… you literally just cleaned up my putrid plumbing. And you were about to drain your wallet on dinner ingredients before all this happened.”
You gestured vaguely at the chopping board where your half-prepped vegetables lay. “Would you… would you mind staying for dinner? It’s the least I can do. I was making… well, I was trying to make pasta primavera, but I can easily switch to something else, if you prefer.”
He froze immediately at your touch— gentle as it was, he turned. His eyes widening in surprise, and he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Oh, you really don’t have to,” he stammered, his voice a little higher than usual.
“I wouldn’t want to impose. I, uh, I was just heading back myself. Got… got some… articles to write.” He gestured vaguely towards his apartment door.
“Clark, you just saved my kitchen from a brown, watery apocalypse. You’ve earned dinner. And honestly,” you added, a genuine smile forming,
“I’d actually enjoy the company. My apartment feels awfully quiet sometimes.”
The hand that had gone to his arm was still there, a gentle anchor. He swallowed, eyes darting from your face to the half-chopped vegetables, then to his own apartment door He seemed to grapple with some unseen internal debate, his usual humble demeanor warring with the simple human desire for company, or perhaps, just not wanting to appear rude by outright refusing your sincere invitation.
He hesitated for another moment, then a small, true smile touched his lips. “Pasta primavera… sounds lovely,” he murmured, his voice still soft, but with a new note of quiet acceptance. “Thank you. That’s… that’s very kind of you.”
"Oh great!" you breathed, turning back to the kitchen with renewed energy. “Make yourself comfortable. Is there anything you can’t eat? Any allergies?”
“Oh, no, I eat… everything,” he said quickly, you just nodded, already rummaging for a clean pot.
"Feel free to sit wherever you'd like." you tell him, gesturing out at all the furniture in the dining and living room.
He nodded, still a little stiffly, and settled onto one of your kitchen chairs, perching on the edge as if ready to spring up at a moment’s notice. Your attention back on your cutting board and dealing with the unchopped half of the veggies. It was a comfortable silence, surprisingly so for someone you only usually encountered in brief, helpful bursts.
The thud-thud-thud of your knife on the vegetables filled the silence. Clark stayed still on the edge of the kitchen chair, hands clasped loosely in front of him, watching you with a kind of intensity that would've been almost unnerving, if it wasn't so genuinely kind.
“You know, you don’t have to just sit there like a statue, Clark,” you teased gently, turning back to segment a bell pepper.
“You’re welcome to relax, maybe grab a book— i can get you a drink, or put on some music, what do you like?”
He blinked, as if startled from a deep thought.
“Oh! No, no, I’m fine,” he said, straightening a fraction.
“It’s… captivating. Watching you cook.” His admits, earnest and sincere, remained fixed on your movements. “You’ve got a good… rhythm.”
Your knife paused for a second, a puzzled type of smile on your lips; your back is still turned to him, and your head cocks to the side subtly. What? Captivating? you gave an internal scoff, was he sure about that? his words had sounded so genuine, pure, full of a type of appreciation you had never been shown before.
you hummed, finishing the pepper off and moving on without turning to face him. "Most people find cooking to be pretty mundane."
He flushed immediately, a faint pink spreading across his cheeks.
"No, no, I mean it!" he insisted, his voice earnest.
It was truly endearing, the way he found a simple appreciation for all aspects of things. You sliced some zucchini, and began mincing garlic; when the cutting was complete, you started boiling water for the pasta, then sautéing the aromatics. The smell of olive oil heating in a pan began to waft through the kitchen, mingling with the fresh scent of bell peppers and herbs.
“Smells amazing,” breathed from behind you, his voice barely above a whisper. It was an involuntary reaction, almost like a sigh of contentment.
You glanced over your shoulder, a smile on your lips. Noticing he was still perched on the edge of the chair, but his posture seemed to have softened a fraction. His eyes, were still fixed on your movements with that curious, focused intensity.
"Do you need any help?" he offered immediately, eyes snapping up to yours. He shifts in his seat, like he wants to stand up.
You shook your head right away, you didn't want him doing anymore than he had, it felt unfair to a point. that this was the first time you're able to repay him for all the tasks he has either assisted with— or outright done for you. It would feel incredibly wrong to ask him to help with more, at this point.
You shook your head, turning back around and gesturing vaguely with your wooden spoon.
"Oh no, you've helped so much tonight." You insist. "I'm just going to finish the vegetables, then set the table while the pasta cooks."
He seemed to perk up at though, when he heard an unfinished task on your hands.
“I can do that!” He declared, nodding happily. He left from his spot with surprising speed, a blur, almost, you just blinked and he was just… standing there. Making his way to the drawers and cupboards, like he already knows their contents, pulling out the dishes and placing them at the table neatly.
“All set,” he announced, turning back to you, hands clasped in front of him again, a picture of humble satisfaction.
“Perfect,” you said, looking at the pot. The water was at a rolling boil, and you carefully dropped the pasta in.
“Just a few minutes for the pasta, then we’re good to go.”
He settled back into the chair, this time a little less stiffly, watching the pot intently as if his gaze alone could make the water boil faster. The kitchen filled with the comforting aroma of the dinner you're cooking. It was a homey scent, it had completely washed out the murky drain smell.
You drained the pasta, tossed it with the sauce, and then brought the steaming bowl to the table, along with a sprinkle of fresh parsley and a bowl of grated Parmesan. as you carried them to the table, Clark immediately jumped up to pull out your chair for you, like a true gentleman.
“Thank you, Clark,” you murmured, genuinely touched by the small gesture. It wasn't often someone took time to be so gentlemanly to you, never really in the comfort of your own home.
He mumbled a quick, “Of course,” as he settled into his own seat. Clark’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the colorful pasta. He picked up his fork, hesitated for a moment, then took a bite. His careful chewing gave way to an expression of bliss.
“This is… incredible,” he murmured after a moment, looking up to you in appreciation. “I really like it!”
You smiled at him brightly, he could see your eyes light up before you respond.
“Thanks! It’s hard to mess up good ingredients.” You took a bite yourself, enjoying the fruits of your labor. He was right, it tasted delightful, especially after the disaster you had gone through just prior. The awkward silence from before had shifted into a comfortable quiet, accompanied by the clinking of forks and the occasional appreciative hum from Clark.
You watched him as he ate— not on purpose, you were just a little mesmerized. He consumed his food with a sort of reverence, not fast, but steadily, enjoying each mouthful.
It occurred to you then, seeing him sitting at you kitchen table, eating with you, that this was the longest you’d ever really talked to Clark, or rather, existed in the same room with him without needing help with something, or an emergency happening. Usually, he was swooping in, fixing something, then politely excusing himself. This was different. This felt… normal. And nice.
He finished his first helping with quiet efficiency, then looked up at you, a hesitant question in his eyes. “This is really good. Is there… more?”
You nodded happily at him, chuckling. “Of course there’s more, Clark. Plenty for seconds, and probably lunch tomorrow. Help yourself.” you insist, nudging the serving bowl in his direction.
Clark’s face lit up, a sweet, boyish smile spreading across it. He reached for the bowl eagerly, spooning a generous second helping onto his plate.
"Thank you!" he says softly, digging into this portion with the same quiet enjoyment as the first.
You stood up while he finished eating, taking your dishes to your newly unclogged sink, leaning down into a cupboard to get a Tupperware to put the leftovers in. You heard the gentle clinking of his fork on the ceramic plate for a few more moments, then silence.
When you straightened up with the container, you saw that Clark had completely scraped his plate clean, again. He looked up at you with a faint flush on his cheeks, as if he was caught in the act.
“That was… truly wonderful,” he said, his voice a little softer than usual, filled with genuine gratitude. He even patted his stomach discreetly.
“Thank you, really.”
You can't help the giggle that escapes you, you couldn't really describe the type of happiness Clark made you feel with one word; not only did you just feel so safe and taken care of when he was around, but his boyish tendencies had a type of purity to it. an inherent goodness.
you brought the container over to the serving bowl, with at least enough for a couple more meals in it; and scooped it inside. setting it down to let the steam out before you close it. your hands come down for Clark's empty plate, bringing it to join yours in the sink.
"Glad you think so. It’s comforting food, I think.”
Clark’s eyes, still wide and earnest, followed all your movements. When you took his plate, he stood up. “Let me help with that!” he offered immediately, reaching for the remaining serving bowl and the Parmesan.
You chuckled again, shaking your head gently. “No, no, Clark. Please. You’ve done more than enough tonight. Consider this a, well, a thank you dinner,” you said, nudging the serving bowl subtly away from his reach with your hip as you turned to the sink.
“You rescued my evening, quite literally. Let me take care of the rest.”
He stopped mid-action, his hand hovering for a moment, then hesitantly lowered it.
“Oh. Okay,” he said, sounding the slightest bit resigned, but still understanding. He watched as you quickly rinsed the plates and stacked them in the sink, then sealed the Tupperware of leftovers.
"Here!" you eld the plastic container out to him, still slightly warm to the touch. You wanted him to take the leftovers, not only to repay the lasagna from when you'd first moved in; but to repay for everything, all his kind acts that he didn't really allow you to reward or praise.
"please take it, you loved it so much."
He looks like he wants to say no, his tall frame towered over you no matter how small or meek he was able to make himself appear, hesitant and nervous. his eyes flick up to the ceiling, his face concentrating on something before he sighs softly and nods.
He took the container from you with both hands, cradling it almost carefully.
“Thank you,” he repeated, his soft gaze holds your eyes as he gives a smile and a nod to you.
“You’re very thoughtful.”
that night broke down a barrier. the one between friendly neighbour, and good friend.
You found yourself making excuses to extend your conversations in the hallway, lingering at your door just a little longer, hoping to catch him coming or going.
He still did the little things, but now Clark finally stopped pulling Irish goodbyes after. Instead, when he helped bring your groceries in, he stays for coffee when you offer— opening up about his job and the people there. He’d sheepishly admit to Perry White’s booming presence making him nervous, or marvel at Lois’s uncanny ability to sniff out a story; and how he wishes he could be that good.
But you read his articles (all, not just some now) and he was good, so many times you tried to explain this to him; how his pieces weren’t just well-researched, but infused with a real sort of empathy and humanity that others often missed. How he didn’t just report on the tragedies like a struggling family, but found their hope, their beauty. That he didn’t just list statistics, but he made you feel the injustice, the triumph– whatever the story demanded.
He’d just blush, run a hand through his messy dark hair, mumbling something about "just doing his job," But you knew better. It wasn't solely his work ethic (although that was a force of itself); it was his heart.
You share your baking with him, brining a plate of cookies or brownies over on your way by. Every time he seemed slightly startled at the idea of being given things, before his face softened into a genuine smile. "For me? You're too good to me."
He’d say it with such earnestness, as if a simple plate of chocolate chip cookies was the greatest treasure.
Sometimes, when the evening light softened the city into shades of bruised purple and gold, he'd knock on your door, a carton of Chinese takeout in hand, mumbling something about "a long day" and "not wanting to eat alone."
You’d clear a space on your small coffee table, and he’d settle in, shoulders visibly relaxing as he recounted the day's events at the Planet, or sometimes, surprisingly, mused about the quiet life in Smallville. You'd learned he was adopted, and how his Ma and Pa raised him to be so kind, how he does a lot of what he does because of them.
One particularly rough week, after a project at work went sideways and you felt utterly deflated, he knocked. This time, there was no takeout, just a hesitant smile and a small, slightly squashed bouquet of daisies.
"I, uh… I overheard you on the phone earlier," he mumbled, his cheeks tinged pink. "Sounded like you had a tough day. Ma always said flowers help."
Your ex had never bought you flowers, never even picked up a cool rock or a pretty weed for you. 'why would i? flowers just wilt and die.'
You felt a warmth spread through you that had nothing to do with the chill of the AC. You took the flowers, heart aching in a good way.
"Thanks, Clark," you managed, your voice a little thick.
you'd never in you life been met with such a sheer force of positivity. And not ever in a toxic way— Clark was just genuinely good. a driving force in his work, in the building, in your life.
It wasn’t just the flowers. It was the way he remembered your favorite brand of coffee when he went to the store, just in case you were low. it was the way he’d offer to take out your overflowing recycling bin, when his own was barely full. It was the way his whole face lit up when you laughed at one of his slightly corny jokes, a sound that seemed to chase away any shadows in the room.
You started to notice the subtle changes in yourself. You used to think so cynically, in your day-to-day life, at work, when any inconvenience befell you. But that shield began to soften. You found yourself smiling more, genuinely. The thought of Clark, of his unwavering kindness, was like a quiet hum of reassurance in the background of your days. He wasn't just doing things for you; he was showing you, through his simple existence, that genuine goodness wasn't a myth. It was real, and it lived just down the hall.
Today had been a long day, and you were looking forward to a relaxing evening with Clark. You’d invited him over for dinner, hoping to unwind with someone who was always easy to be around. things were even easier when you ran into him in the lobby of the building, groceries for the meal in hand. You saw Clark's face light up as he sees you, waving immediately and walking towards you, already relieving you of your bags and offering to head up together.
It WAS a nice walk up, but your face immediately fell as you step into your apartment with him. a grimace replacing the giggle that had just been on your lips as you immediately notice the eyesore of dishes, piled up in the sink from the past few nights of meals.
"Oh—jesus, sorry about this," you said, gesturing towards the mess. "Let me just get rid of it right now real quick—."
But Clark, being Clark, just smiled, setting the groceries down on the counter. "Don't worry about it. I'll just wash them up real quick."
You started to protest, but he was already filling the sink with soapy water. You watched as he carefully scrubbed each dish, his movements precise and efficient. It was like watching a dance, and you found yourself mesmerized by the way he moved.
As he rinsed off the last dish, you found yourself blurting out, "You're like a superhero, you know that?"
He froze, the dish in his hand dripping water onto the counter. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of something in his gaze. But then it was gone, replaced by the same gentle smile you'd come to know so well.
you must've said something wrong, but what?
"Oh," he mumbled, his voice a little lower, a little less steady than usual. "
No, no, just... just a regular guy. You know. Farmers are... resourceful." He gave a nervous chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Well, uh, I should, uh, get back. Got a... a thing. To do. Paperwork."
You're absolutely perplexed, he was leaving, because of something you'd said. You want to protest, your mouth opens to say something, but you're too clueless as to what could possibly be wrong, and he's already moving— fast.
He puts the plate down, and makes his way past you, towards the door; not quite bumping into the frame, but moving with a hurried, almost clumsy urgency that felt more like an escape than a polite exit. He vanished down the hall, leaving your door ajar, the familiar click of his own apartment door a moment later.
Clark let his apartment slam shut behind him, rushing inside in pure panic. He hurried to his couch, sitting down with a thud, his mind racing through the evening’s events. His thoughts tangled together like a mess of unraveled string. his chest feels tight, he feels hot and flustered— he definitely lost his cool back there, if you hadn't been hinting at something with your comment, you must be suspicious of something now.
It must've been that time he set the table, moving too fast, or when he had caught five apples falling from the top of your grocery bag without so much as stumbling, that must've tipped you off, and the comment was your way of letting him know you knew.
or, he was being silly. it was just a lighthearted joke, and you had no idea before he had rushed away from you with his tail between his legs.
He hated this. did you know? didn't you know?
Clark wouldn't lie to you. And technically, he hadn't. You had never even mentioned superman before tonight, so he felt safe never bringing it up; being just Clark, your neighbour.
He liked being just Clark with you. He loved it, in fact. The easy conversations over the laundry machines, how you’d wave from your doorway when he came home from work, the comfortable silences when you were just in each other's presence. He enjoyed the simplicity of helping you, seeing your grateful smile, hearing your lighthearted jokes. It felt... normal. It made him feel normal.
With you, he wasn't Metropolis's hero, or an alien, or the last son of Krypton. He was just… Clark. the perpetually helpful, sweet-but-awkward guy from the apartment across the hall. And you treated him that way, so, the thought of losing that, of your perception of him changing from 'sweet, awkward Clark' to 'Clark, who is also Superman,' made his stomach churn.
"Superhero." The word echoed in his mind. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the heat still radiating from his cheeks. He’d noticed the shift in your easy smile, the way your brows had furrowed in confusion as he stumbled over an excuse, all but sprinting from your apartment.
He must have looked like a complete idiot, a mess who couldn’t even handle a compliment.
This was not how he handled difficult situations. He was supposed to be the one who kept a cool head under pressure, the one who faced down villains and disasters and saved lives every day under extreme pressure and scrutiny. But a simple, off-hand joke from his neighbor had turned him into a overthinking, panicked, mess.
He knew you. He knew you were kind, discerning, intelligent. He noticed the softness in how you treated others, a thing he admired a lot. He knew how good you were, so it made him feel...bad. guilty. he should trust you, he knows he could, that you'd never tell, or do anything to jeopardize his secret.
But he was just scared, so scared. what if you looked at him differently? Would you still joke with him? Would you still offer him dinner? Or would he become ‘Superman’ to you, even in the quiet confines of their building?
He threw himself back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, his empty, quiet, apartment amplifying the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat.
What were you thinking right now? Were you piecing it all together? were you going back through old Superman interviews, and realizing that only Clark Kent had ever conducted them? were you upset that he hadn't told you? you wouldn't be mad, but he would be crushed if you felt betrayed.
He swallowed hard, fidgeting with his hands in frustration. He couldn't just pretend it didn't happen. He couldn't avoid you forever. The apartment building was too small, your connection had grown too strong. He owed you an explanation, he owed you the truth. He just needed to figure out how.
He slept on it— not well, tossing and turning and hardly really sleeping. Thinking of when he would see you next, and what he would say, what you would say. He knew he couldn't avoid you forever. This apartment building wasn't THAT big, he still had a job, a city to protect. He also didn't want to avoid you, your company was nice and he had grown used to your presence, spending time together in his off hours. He didn't want that to end.
In the morning he made coffee, the warm scent of it blanketing the entire apartment, but doing little to comfort him and the feeling crawling around in his stomach. He paced his apartment, the decision solidifying in his mind. He would tell you. Today. He just needed the right moment.
Before he left for work, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror, staring himself down. his icy blue eyes boring into every divot and curve of his skin, scrutinizing, he furrows his brow and stands up straighter, he took a deep, confident breath, the kind he usually saved for dealing with city-wide threats
"I-I am...superman." he says out loud, as if you were in front of him.
he scoffs and shakes his head in annoyance, that didn't come out right. Good Lord, why was this so hard? it was just...you. His neighbour— his friend, one of the people he trusted most, wanted to be around most. it should come easier to him, but as he stares at himself, repeating different variations of "I'm Superman..." out loud, all of them falling flat, sounding wrong. He squinted at his reflection, this wasn't going to work.
He turned away from the mirror, it was time for work anyways. he grabs his briefcase and listens closely, when he hears no movement from your apartment, he moves; rushing out as quickly and quietly as possible, by the time you'd be able to hear him out there, he would be already two flights down the stairs. his heart beating frantic in his ears, loud enough to give him a headache.
He wanted to tell you. He just didn't know how.
You hadn't seen Clark in a week.
It was like he was using the same sixth sense he had possessed to swoop in and fix any problem you had, to now avoid you. The hallways were quiet when he would usually be coming and going from work, he was never by the mailboxes or in the laundry room.
his helpfulness never stopped though, he took out the garbage bag you'd left outside of the door in the ten minutes it took you to finish your show and go to deal with it yourself. he brought your mail up twice. but it was like he was a ghost, never seen or heard by you. his goodness still seeped into your life, invisible, but you could feel it.
Something had obviously changed that night, when you'd made that joke. That's all it was, a joke. you, perhaps, naively, had thought 'oh wow! Clark is strong and handy, and always there to help me. like a superhero!' because, well, that's how you felt about him. he had saved your day countless times with his smile, with this eagerness to help.
You considered knocking on his door. You thought about it, again and again. You were his neighbor, his friend— whatever THIS was. Things felt awkward, a regression maybe, but it didn’t seem like something that should be swept under the rug. The way he had rushed out of your apartment without any explanation, the way his eyes had lingered on you before he made a quick, panicked exit... it all felt wrong.
The thought of a regression stung. You truly appreciated Clark’s steady presence, his quiet strength, the way his mild awkwardness only made him even more endearing. Now, the hallway felt emptier, the silence from across the hall heavier. It was like something was missing, he was missing.
It couldn't be that Clark was offended somehow, or that didn't like metahumans. Clark loved all life, big or small, powerful or weak, young or old; he valued everything all the same. so why has he reacted so suddenly to your words?
You knew you'd messed up, but you couldn’t for the life of you figure out how. "Superhero." You mumbled the word to yourself, testing it, trying to find the hidden meaning that had sent him into a tailspin. It was a compliment, true and simple. He was YOUR superhero. He always seemed to appear exactly when you needed him, always went above and beyond, always with that earnest, gentle expression that both charmed and amused you.
Unless… unless he thought you were mocking him? But that made no sense. Your tone had been genuinely appreciative. You had no reason to mock Clark. You genuinely liked him. More than liked, probably.
"Superhero," you muttered to yourself, leaning against your door, listening to the lack of sound from his apartment. "What was I even thinking?"
Whatever it was, he must be mad, you think. You'd never seen Clark truly mad, but you figured this must be it. This silence, this absence. It had to be his anger.
A week. A whole week. This was ridiculous. Your patience, usually long-suffering, was wearing thin. You missed him. What was he doing right now? How was he doing at work? Was he alright? these were all things clawing away at your head when you're supposed to be sleeping.
this was enough, it was hurting. more than you could've ever expected to, tugging at your heartstrings and stinging in your eyes. you felt fractured, and the idea that you had somehow hurt the kindest person you'd ever known made it even worse.
You had to do something, say something. even if he was angry, even if he didn't want to say anything back.
Taking a deep breath, you walked to your door, your heart thrumming a nervous cadence against your ribs as you cross the hall. You paused, just for a second, then reached out and rapped gently on Clark’s apartment door.
One knock. Then two. You waited, expecting the quick, quiet click of the lock, perhaps the rustle of him moving inside. But there was nothing. You knocked again, a little louder this time.
Still nothing.
"Clark?" you tried weakly through the door, sighing gently as your hand falls to its side.
"Clark, i don't know if you're home. if you are though," you take a breath and clear your throat, you'd never felt so nervous when talking to him before, you don't know why this is happening now of all times.
"I just wanna say I'm really sorry..." you wanna beat yourself up for the way your voice audibly wavers, the tears that are big and fresh threatening to spill. you didn't normally cry over things, you usually shut down a bit, built defenses. but you felt so sad and pathetic begging at his door, you just wanted your friend back.
"I really didn't mean to make you mad at me, I'm sorry—"
The click of the lock, soft but distinct, made you jolt away from his door. You stopped, and you watched, anxious, as the door slowly swung inward.
There he was. Clark.
He definitely didn't look mad.
His curly hair was usually a little messy, but right now it was completely disheveled. His glasses sat askew on his face, his eyes were still kind and soft when you looked into them, but you saw he had just the slightest bags under them, he looked worn out.
His gaze met yours, and the look in his eyes instantly dissolved any remaining self-pity you had. The tears you’d been holding back finally broke free, tracing hot paths down your cheeks.
"Oh, Clark," you whimpered, your voice pathetic.
He winced, his brow furrowing deeper. "No! No, no, no, don't cry," he stammered, his own voice sounding rough, unused. He took a hesitant step forward, as if afraid to approach you, his hands hover awkwardly at his sides.
"Please don't cry. I'm not mad. I promise. Not at all."
Clark ran a hand through his already wild hair, his glasses still crooked. He looked genuinely pained, his eyes darting away from yours for a moment before settling back on your face, he hated that you were crying— because of HIM. He stepped fully out of the doorway, his hand reaching out tentatively, then dropping, was he allowed to touch you?
“Clark,” you choked out again, the single word the only thing you're able to conjure up; a plea, a question, an apology all rolled into one. Your chin trembled, and another tear slipped free.
Clark looked genuinely lost, a far cry from the composed, if slightly clumsy, reporter you usually knew. His eyes, usually so clear and honest, were clouded with a mix of distress and something else you couldn't quite decipher. He was beside himself.
"I... I never meant to make you cry," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.
He took another step, this time, his hand didn’t retreat. Slowly, and very gently, his thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the tear before it could fall further. The touch was feather-light, barely there, yet it sent a jolt through you, a warmth spreading from that small point of contact. Then, his thumb moved again, wiping away another tear. You leaned into the touch, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort it offered.
"Please. I'm so sorry." His skin was warm against yours, and for the first time in a week, you felt a fragile sense of peace settle over you.
“Why did you leave? And you've been avoiding me? I thought… I thought you were mad. I thought I’d done something wrong.” you sniffle, your eyes are glassy and wide as you look up at Clark for answers.
His thumb stroked your cheekbone, a quiet, repetitive motion that was incredibly soothing. He took a heavy breath, his eyes darting away for a brief moment, then back to you. he shakes his head, lips pursing slightly at the suggestion.
“I wasn’t mad,” he repeats, his voice low and strained. “Never mad. How could I ever be mad at you? You’re… you’re the kindest person I know.” He paused, searching for the words.
"I—" Clark paused again, clearly struggling to put the right words together. He took a shaky breath, rubbing his temples for a moment before meeting your eyes again, his face a mixture of uncertainty and guilt.
"I never meant to make things weird between us. I thought... I thought I could handle it. But I can't. I’ve been lying to you."
Lying? Clark? those two words just didn't make sense put together like that. you feel your brow knit together and your mouth opens with a question hanging silent on your tongue.
"Clark, what are you talking about? You haven't lied to me." You shook your head, desperately trying to piece together the fragments of his words.
He winced, his gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips, then to the hand still gently caressing your cheek.
“You called me a superhero,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “And... you were right. More right than you knew.”
When your expression goes blank, somehow even more confused than before, he speaks again. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“I am a superhero. Not just your superhero, but... a superhero. The one you hear about on the news. The one that flies. The one from Krypton.”
You stared at him, your mouth slightly agape, the tears on your cheeks drying cold. The warmth of his thumb on your skin was the only real thing, a tether to the moment, because everything else was tilting.
Superman. Clark Kent. Your awkward, sweet, kind neighbor. It was impossible. It was… undeniably obvious, now that its been pointed out.
The way he always seemed to know when you needed help, appearing just as your groceries threatened to spill, or when your pipes burst. Not physically clumsy, no, but his social awkwardness, his carefulness not to draw attention to himself.
"You... you're..." Your voice was a barely audible whisper, eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on his face.
Clark's face betrayed all his vulnerability, his gaze searching yours, absolutely terrified of your reaction. His hand, still on your cheek, trembled. He was bracing for anything– anger, disgust, fear, rejection.
"I know it's a lot," he mumbled, his voice softer now, laced with a raw honesty that pierced through the initial shock. "I'm so sorry. I should have told you. I just... I didn't know how. I didn't want to lose what we have."
He was scared? not just of you knowing his secret, but how you'd react to him— all of him. You had been so consumed by thinking he was mad, by your own hurt, that you hadn't considered any of this. He was scared you wouldn't like him anymore, that the ordinary, sweet neighbor you cherished would be overshadowed by the extraordinary hero.
But he was still Clark. Always had been. The heroics simply solidified the quiet strength and unwavering kindness you already knew. it made so much sense, if anyone was going to be superman, it would be him— and it was.
A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips, a shaky, tear-laced sound.
“You’re still Clark,” you murmured, your gaze unwavering.
“The Clark who helps me with groceries, who fixed my sink, who listened to me ramble about my bad days.” A small, genuine laugh escaped you, a sound of pure affection.
“The Clark who’s like… a superhero. just, even more so now, I guess.”
“You’re not… mad?” he asked, a hint of wonder in his voice.
“Mad?” you scoff, leaning a little closer.
“Clark, I’ve been worried sick for a week that you were mad at me. I thought I’d said something wrong. I thought I’d lost you.” Your voice softened, your gaze dropping to his arms, then back up.
“I missed you, Clark. Terribly.”
You saw the moment his fear finally receded, replaced by a glimmer of hope. His thumb, which had resumed its gentle stroking, paused. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there, a question in the depths of his blue eyes.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, an eager, excited rhythm. You had wanted this, in some unspoken way, for so long. You leaned in, just slightly, inviting him.
His other hand rose, cupping your jaw, his fingers brushing against your hair. The world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, standing in the quiet hallway of your apartment building, the weight of a universe-shattering secret hanging between you, yet feeling lighter than air.
And then, he brought himself in close. His lips were hesitant at first, pressing softly against yours. It wasn't a demanding kiss, it felt like the first taste of oxygen after a long week of holding your breath. It was soft, sweet, full of unspoken apologies and a blossoming hope.
When he pulled back, just barely, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed for a moment as if savoring the feeling. When they opened, they were alight with utter adoration, like you were the only thing to exist in this moment.
“I… I’ve wanted to do that,” he confessed, his voice thick with emotion, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks.
This was Clark. And he was everything you had ever hoped for, and so much more. The superhero, yes, but also the man who worried about his laundry, who looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world, and who, right now, was finally letting himself be fully seen.
“So,” you whispered, your voice thick with anticipation, your heart pounding excitedly from the aftermath of his kiss.
“does this mean dinner is back on the table?”
Clark’s lips curved into a soft, relieved smile, the kind made his eyes crinkle at the corners. The adoration in his gaze deepened, and he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against your forehead.
“Dinner is definitely back on the table,” he murmured, his voice laced with pure fondness. “And every meal after that, if you’ll have me.”
my first fic that's not a joc character, mom im scared. hope u like tho <3
