Pairing: Frank Castle/The Punisher x Powered!Vigilante!reader
Genre: Fluff & Angst
WC: 2,493
A/N: Saw Spider-Man Brand New Day yesterday and literally fell in love with Frank Castle! With me liking him so much, I came up with this! Enjoy!!!
The metallic and bitter copper tang of blood coats your tongue, thick enough that every breath tastes like rust.
Itâs not yours.
You groan as you spit the crimson liquid onto the cracked pavement, watching it disappear into a puddle streaked with oil and ash.
The alley around you smells like smoke, damp concrete, burnt gunpowder, and gasolineâthe lingering aftermath of a firefight that had transformed three whole city blocks into a war zone mere minutes ago.
Your back slams against the freezing brick wall behind you as your knees finally give out.
The impact of your knees hitting the pavement sends a lance of pain through your spine, causing you to let out a hiss through your clenched teeth.
Every muscle in your body trembles violently.
The graffiti-covered wall is cold enough to bite through the damaged armor covering your shoulders, but right now it feels like the only thing keeping you upright.Â
Chunks of broken concrete litter the alley floor around your knees.Â
Empty shell casing glint beneath the flickering glow of a dying streetlamp.
And far above your head, the neon sign of the motel that is on the opposite side of the alley buzzes erratically.
VAâANâY
Both Cs are burned out.
Every few seconds, the broken sign paints the alley in flashes of crimson before plunging everything back into shadow.
Several streets away, sirens scream through Hellâs Kitchen.
NYPD.
EMS.
Maybe firefighters.
Itâs impossible to tell anymore.
Late.
Always too damn late.Â
By the time the police arrived, the Russian syndicateâs operation was nothing more than smoking rubble and corpses.
Business as usual.
Your head tips back against the wall behind you.
Your eyes slide shut for just a moment.
You force yourself to inhale.
The air burns your lungs.
The energy still simmering beneath your skinâthe power youâve spent years trying to masterâflickers weakly through your veins like a dying electrical current.
Normally it burns beneath your skin with restless life, responding instinctively to danger.
Now⊠It barely whispers.
The battle tonight has drained you further than ever before.
The explosion.
The shield.
Holding an entire floor of collapsing concrete above two people with nothing but raw force of will.
Youâd managed it though.
Barely.
Your vision still swims from the strain, your hands shake uncontrollably and you can also feel your heartbeat echoing painfully inside your skull.
Thatâs when a heavy pair of boots crunches across the broken glass scattered around you.
You donât even have to open your eyes.
You know exactly who it is.
Frank Castle.
He comes to a stop at your side without saying a word.
The alley somehow feels smaller with him standing there.
Heâs a massive silhouette wrapped in black tactical gear, broad shoulders outlined by the pulsing neon overhead.
His vest is almost unrecognizable beneath layers of soot, dust, dried blood, and fresh bullet holes.
The iconic white skull painted across his chest is streaked with grime, chipped from flying debris, and splattered with the blood of men who had made the mistake of pointing guns at the two of you.
His breathing is slow.
Heavy.
Controlled.
But you know him well enough now to hear what hides beneath it.
Fatigue.
Adrenaline.
Relief.
He'd never admit to the last one though.
One gloved hand still rests casually on the grip of his sidearm.
The rifle hangs against his chest on its sling.
His dark eyes never stop moving.
Rooftops.
Windows.
Fire escapes.
The mouth of the alley.
Every shadow.
Every possible threat.
Frank Castle is never truly at rest.
Even now.
Especially now.
"You're bleedinâ."
His voice cuts through the silence like gravel dragged across concrete.
Low.
Calm.
Matter-of-fact.
You open one eye.
"So are you."
He doesn't even glance down.
"It's mine."
You manage a weak laugh.
The motion immediately makes you regret it as pain tears through your ribs.
"Well..." You cough once. "...that's reassuring."
Frank's gaze finally shifts toward you.
Only for a moment.
Just enough to assess.
His eyes travel over every visible injury with practiced efficiency.
Split lip.
Burns climbing your left arm.
Bruising already darkening beneath your suit.
The tear across your side where shrapnel had ripped through reinforced fabric.
He notices all of it.
Nothing escapes him.
"You should've pulled back."
You roll your eyes despite the exhaustion. "And let twenty mobsters surround you?"
"I would've handled it."
"You would've gotten yourself blown to hell."
"I've survived worse."
"So have I."
A quiet silence settles between you.
Only broken by the distant scream of sirens.
Rain begins to fall.
Just barely.
Tiny droplets hiss against still-smoldering debris.
Steam curls upward from scattered wreckage.
"You should see the other guy," you mutter eventually.
Your voice is hoarse.
Weak.
"Oh..."
Another tired smile tugs at your lips.
"...wait."
You glance toward the alley entrance where several bodies remain scattered across the pavement.
"You did."
Frank follows your gaze.
Then back to you.
"I shot him."
"He was aiming for my head."
"He was." He agrees with a nod.
"You didn't hesitate."
"No."
The answer comes instantly.
No remorse.
No uncertainty.
Just simple truth.
"He would've killed you."
"So you killed him first."
"Yeah."
He says it like discussing tomorrow's weather.
To Frank, it is that simple.
Someone points a weapon at the person he's protecting.
They stop breathing.
End of story.
You don't argue.
Not anymore.
Months ago, maybe.
Back when you still believed there was a line between justice and vengeance.
Back before you'd watched murderers laugh as they walked free.
Before judges accepted bribes.
Before witnesses disappeared.
Before corruption swallowed every courtroom in New York.
Now⊠The line doesn't exist.
Not for either of you.
This isn't your first mission together.
HellâYou stopped counting after the tenth warehouse.
Then came abandoned docks.
Drug labs.
Human trafficking rings.
Safehouses.
Arms dealers.
Private compounds.
The Russian mob.
The Irish mob.
Cartels.
Mercenaries.
Every operation ended exactly the same.
Smoke.
Gunfire.
Blood.
Silence.
At first, you tolerated each other.
Then you trusted each other.
And then⊠Somewhere along the way⊠Without either of you noticing...
You became partners.
Not officially of course.
Frank doesn't do partners.
But somehow⊠That's exactly what happened.
The difference between the two of you has always been obvious.
Frank relies on relentless discipline.
Military precision.
Training earned through decades of violence.
Every movement is calculated.
Every shot is deliberate.
You⊠You were born different.
Power lives beneath your skin.
Raw.
Volatile.
Dangerous.
Energy crackles invisibly beneath your fingertips whenever your emotions spike. It can shield buildings, level concrete walls, stop bullets in midair, or hurl armored vehicles like toys.
It has saved Frank's life more than once.
Tonight⊠It nearly killed you.
The syndicate had rigged the entire third floor with military-grade explosives.
Neither of you saw them until the detonator clicked.
By the time Frank shouted your nameâThe world exploded.
Concrete.
Steel.
Glass.
Fire.
Everything came crashing down.
Instinct took over.
Your hands lifted.
Power erupted from every nerve in your body.
A shimmering barrier formed above both of you.
The explosion hit.
The building collapsed.
And somehow⊠Somehow⊠You held.
Just long enough.
Long enough for Frank to drag both of you through the collapsing hallway.
Long enough to survive.
But powers always demanded payment.
Now every nerve in your body feels like exposed wire.
Frank finally turns fully toward you.
For the first time since entering the alley...
He stops scanning.
Stops listening.
Stops hunting.
He just⊠Looks at you.
Really looks.
The burn marks climbing your neck.
The soot smeared across your cheek.
The strands of hair stuck to your forehead with sweat.
The exhaustion in your eyes.
The way your hands still shake.
His jaw tightens. "You pushed too hard."
"I know."
"I told you to stay outside."
"I ignored you."
"You always ignore me."
You smile tiredly. "You noticed."
A ghost of something almost resembling amusement touches the corner of his mouth.
Barely.
Gone almost as soon as it appears.
"I saved your ass," you murmur.
"You did." He agrees.
That makes you look up at him fully, eyebrows raised. "No smart comeback?"
"No."
"Are you admitting I was right?"
"Don't push it."
You laugh again.
This time he actually steps closer.
Close enough that the cold wind suddenly disappears.
Close enough that his body blocks the rain beginning to fall.
Close enough that you can smell him beneath the smoke.
Gunpowder.
Leather.
Rain.
Aftershave.
Blood.
Frank kneels in front of you.
The movement surprises you.
He almost never lowers himself for anyone.
His gloved hand reaches toward your face.
You instinctively freeze.
His fingers stop inches away.
Like he's giving you the chance to pull back.
You don't.
Instead⊠You lean forward.
Just slightly.
His thumb brushes carefully across your cheek.
Gentle.
Almost impossibly gentle.
It wipes away a streak of dried blood you hadn't realized was there.
The rough leather of his glove contrasts with the incredible care behind the movement.
The tenderness steals your breath.
This man has broken bones with his bare hands.
Snapped rifles over his knee.
Dragged grown men across concrete like rag dolls.
Yet somehow⊠He's touching you like you're made of glass.
His eyes never leave yours.
Dark.
Unreadable.
But softer than you've ever seen them.
"You scared me."
The words are so quiet you almost miss them.
Frank Castle.
The Punisher.
The man criminals whisper about like an urban legend.
Admitting fear.
Because of you.
Your heart stumbles. "Frank..."
"You stopped moving."
"I was tired."
"You weren't breathing."
"I got better."
His jaw clenches harder. "Don't joke about that."
The seriousness in his voice erases your smile.
You reach up slowly.
Your hand settles against the side of his face.
Rough stubble scratches your palm.
Warm.
Real.
Alive.
"You came back for me."
His eyebrows knit together.
"I always come back."
The words hang between you.
Simple.
Certain.
Absolute.
Something shifts.
Months of stolen glances.
Late-night stakeouts.
Shared coffee in abandoned safehouses.
Silently stitching each other's wounds beneath flickering lights.
Watching each other's backs without ever asking why.
Every unspoken feeling suddenly presses against the surface.
You look at him.
Really look.
The scar cutting across his jaw.
The exhaustion hidden beneath relentless determination.
The tiny crease between his brows that only appears when he's worried.
The man beneath the legend.
His gaze drops.
Just briefly.
To your lips.
Your pulse spikes.
His breathing changes.
Slower.
Heavier.
The city disappears.
No sirens.
No rain.
No smoke.
Only him.
Only this impossible moment suspended in the darkness.
"Frank..."
You barely whisper his name.
He closes the distance before you can say anything else.
One hand slides behind your neck.
His fingers disappear into your hair.
The other settles firmlyâbut carefullyâagainst your waist.
Then his lips meet yours.
The kiss isn't careful.
It isn't tentative.
It crashes into you with every emotion the two of you have buried for months.
Relief.
Fear.
Need.
Longing.
Hope.
Grief.
It feels like surviving.
His lips are warm despite the freezing rain.
They taste faintly of smoke and copper and the bitter coffee he'd downed hours earlier before the mission began.
You kiss him back instantly.
Thereâs no hesitation.
No second thoughts.
Your arms slide around his neck, your fingers disappearing into the short hair at the back of his head, pulling him impossibly closer.
Frank lets out a low sound against your lipsânot quite a groan, not quite a sigh.
A sound you've never heard him make.
Raw.
Honest.
Human.
The tactical vest presses firmly against your chest as he gathers you closer.
You can feel his heartbeat.
Fast.
Far faster than he'd ever admit.
Strong enough that it almost matches your own racing pulse.
His forehead bumps lightly against yours before he kisses you again.
Longer this time.
Slower.
Less desperate.
More certain.
As though he's memorizing you.
As though proving to himself that you're really here.
Really alive.
Rain continues falling around you.
Tiny droplets collect in his dark hair.
They cling to your eyelashes.
Neither of you notices.
Neither of you cares.
Months of restraint dissolve with every passing second.
Every lingering glance from opposite rooftops.
Every time he'd silently handed you ammunition without being asked.
Every night spent patching up bullet wounds in silence.
Every argument over reckless plans.
Every moment one of you had instinctively stepped between the other and incoming fire.
This⊠This had been building for a long time.
Neither of you had been brave enough to acknowledge it.
Until now.
Eventually, the need for air forces you apart.
Your foreheads remain pressed together.
Both of you breathe heavily.
Rainwater trickles down his face.
You brush it away with your thumb.
Frank's eyes remain fixed on yours.
Dark.
Intense.
But beneath all that steel⊠Thereâs something heartbreakingly vulnerable.
His hand cups your cheek once more. "You don't get to die."
His voice is rough.
Almost breaking.
"You hear me?"
You smile softly. "I'll do my best."
"No." His thumb strokes slowly across your jaw. "I'm serious."
"So am I."
"I can't..."
He stops himself.
Swallows hard.
Then finishes quietly. "I can't lose you."
Your heart aches.
You rest both hands against his chest, feeling the warmth beneath layers of armor. "You won't."
"I've buried enough people."
"I'm not one of them."
"You almost were."
"But I'm here." You smile through the exhaustion. "I'm still here."
For several long moments, neither of you speak.
The rain grows steadier.
The sirens come closer.
Blue and red lights begin flashing at the far end of the street.
Frank notices first.
Of course he does.
His head turns instinctively. "Cops."
"They'll ask questions."
"I don't like questions."
"I noticed."
Another tiny smile tugs at his lips.
Before you can protest, he slips one arm behind your back.
The other slides beneath your knees.
With effortless strength, he lifts you into his arms.
You instinctively wrap one arm around his neck.
"You know," you murmur, resting your head against his shoulder, "I can technically still walk."
"Barely."
"I've had worse."
"I know."
"You don't have to carry me."
"I know."
"So..."
"So I'm carrying you anyway."
You huff out a quiet laugh, too tired to argue.
Your eyes slowly drift closed.
You listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear as he walks deeper into the maze of narrow back alleys, away from the approaching police lights and into the familiar shadows that have become your refuge.
The city continues to howl around you.
Sirens scream.
Helicopters circle overhead.
Somewhere, another gunshot echoes through Hell's Kitchen.
Another war waits for tomorrow.
Another battle.
Another impossible night.
But for now⊠Wrapped safely in Frank Castle's arms, with the rain washing the blood from the streets behind you and the warmth of his body shielding you from the cold, you allow yourself one rare, impossible luxury.
You let yourself believe that, for tonight at least, the two of you have survived together.
Summary: You joined Spiderman and Frank's mission to take down Jean from destroying the Department of Damage Control. Having been an Avenger, you knew that there was always a risk. A price to pay. But you never thought it'd be so high...NOT PROOFREAD
Warnings: mentions of gunshot wound, death, angst, angst, like double omg everything in this is so sad, descriptions of violence, you have a superhero name (change it in your head if u want lol)
WC: 3k
a/n: MAJOR SPIDER-MAN: BRAND NEW DAY SPOILERS. YOU'VE BEEN WARNED. But also when is Frank going to be happy in my stories LOL . I know I said next week but truthfully this just wrote itself after a couple of depressing things that occurred since I posted that
Peterâs own chest was heaving up and down after the battle with the Hulk. He was a lot bigger and terrifying in person. âIâm really sorry Miss. Bannerâs usually a lot nicer, trust me.âÂ
You waved off his apology, a playful smile tugged at your lips. âIâm joking, kid. Besides, we havenât gone out in a while have we, Frank? Almost like a date.â You tried to ease some of the tension that radiated off of Frank. His voice, though gruff, had the slightest hint of humor laced in it. âMore like a babysittinâ gig, if yâask me.â
Before they could fall into another one of their antics, you cut in. âOkay, argue later, fight now. You take care of the Hulk. Frank and Iâll handle the girl.â That seemed to snap them both back to the seriousness of the situation. Jean was somewhere in the building, lurking around, searching for whatever it was she desperately seemed to need, using Hulk as a distraction. âWeâll split up. Cover more ground at a time.â Frank, ever the protective lover youâd come to find out, immediately shook his head, mouth opened with an argument at the tip of his tongue. The masked vigilante beat him to hit as he nodded along to the idea of your plan.Â
âCopy that. Just stay at least 33 feet from her so she wonât be able to get into your head.â It was your turn to nod. You could tell Frank hated the plan. Not because it wasnât the best one, he knew it was, but because it would mean you would be running alongside with him towards the danger. The same danger he had tried to keep you from. The same one thatâd cost him everything with Maria. With his kids.
Without another word, Spiderman ran towards the sound of Hulkâs roars. You turned, beginning your search for Jean when Frankâs hand wrapped around your wrist gently, the roughness of his palm a sensation youâd grown to love against your soft skin. You allowed him to turn your body towards his, your chests pressed up one anotherâs, eyes meeting each otherâs. âStay close, you got that?â His tone rough from years of war but the weight of flowing emotions swirling in his eyes said everything words couldnât. You smiled, like you werenât in the situation you were in. âNowhere else Iâd rather be than by your side, Frankie.â
His gaze lingered, tracing every familiar line of your face before he let your wrist slip from his grasp. When he turned away, he made sure to keep himself between you and whatever waited ahead.Â
â
You two had only been searching for what seemed like minutes when you entered a room full of jars, each oneâs content more gruesome than the next. Frank slowly lowered his gun when his eye caught on a particular jar. Inside was a floating face, skinless, showcasing every vein, tissue, and ligament. All of which caused your face to scrunch in disgust. This brief flicker of distraction from your mission should have been inconsequential. Meaningless.Â
But it had meant everything. An unfamiliar feminine voice broke the silence. âHi.â Jean.
It was simple. Short. But it set into motion everything you had never accounted for. Frank lifted his gun but hurled back as if physically struck. No.
You lifted your arm and threw Jeanâs body back but suddenly, it was your turn to stumble back as if youâd been struck. Because you had. An all-consuming, growing pain towards your lower abdomen caused you to stumble back, a hand immediately coming to the wound to apply pressure. âFrankââ You didnât have time to finish your sentence as another shot was rang out. Before the bullet could find you, the morgue table lurched across the room, dragged by an invisible force. It slammed down in front of you, the bullet burying itself deep into the metal with a loud pang. The force of moving something that large tore through your already wounded body, your knees threatening to buckle.
More shots. A large piece of cement. Another round of bullets. A pile of broken structural beams. But your strength was draining away far too fast. From the overexertion of your powers to the wound in your gut you knew was gushing out large amounts of blood. You were bleeding out. You knew you could throw Frankâs body to knock him unconscious, rendering him useless to Jean. But it was Frank.Â
Frank whoâd always wait until you fell asleep first before closing his eyes. Frank, who spent months meandering around your relationship before he realized that you deserved more than someone who was constantly one foot in and one foot out. And he decided he didnât want to see another man being that for you, so Frank became it. Frank, who had kissed you silly when the l-word slipped out of your mouth a couple months into your relationship.
When his gun finally clicked empty, he merely tossed it aside before taking long strides to close the distance between you. Your free arm lifted, palm facing outward but before you could draw your powers out, Frankâs hands wrapped around your neck, forcing you to stumble back. Youâd lost your footing and had fallen backwards. Frank had cage your body in with his legs, trapping you under him, eyes that once held all the love in the world whenever they landed on you were now emotionless, cold.Â
The look in Frankâs eyes now was one you imagined his enemies were used to seeing. You never thought youâd be in that category.Â
One of his hands moved from its choking grip around your neck, moving to his waistband while the other one remained wrapped tightly around your neck. The click of the safety being turned off seemed to echo in the midst of the chaos.Â
You were flat on your back with a gun being pressed against your forehead by the man you love. Blood continuing to flow, like the sand in an hourglass. You were running out of time.Â
You were also Levity.Â
But Levity was also you.Â
And you would never hurt Frank. You could never hurt Frank.Â
âYou have the power to snap his neck before his finger can pull the trigger. Why donât you do it? Would you really prefer to die by the man you love?â Jeanâs words echoing through Frankâs voice. It shouldâve hurt, hearing the rough and harsh tone coming from the man you love. But you knew it wasnât him.Â
Because even though Frank was The Punisher, he was also Frank Castle.Â
And Frank wouldnât. Frank could never.Â
You choked out, âIâm not dying by Frank. Iâm dying by you, Jean.â Frankâs grip loosened slightly, though the finger on the trigger didnât falter. âItâs his voice but your words. His strength and movement but your control.â
A blood-stained toothy smile graced your face despite the dire mood of the whole situation. Your face full of life just moments ago had gone sickeningly pale. You were dying. And still, you smiled. Because if these would be your last moments, you were selfishly glad he was the last thing you saw. âFrank, baby,â your voice gone exponentially quieter. âI donât know if you can hear me but if you can, itâs not your fault, okay? I love you. I love you. Forgive yourself because I donât hold any blame.â Tear drops slipped down your temple, onto the concrete floor. The excruciating pain from the gunshot wound had faded, the only pain that resided was the one in your chest. How you knew Frank would snap out of the control once Jean jumped into anotherâs consciousness. How the first thing heâd see is your unmoving body beneath him, the gun in his hand.Â
Your wedding was planned for next Saturday. The venue had been picked out. Catering selected. You thought back to the sleepless nights spent forcing Frank choose between two shade of purple and how youâd argued for the next ten minutes when he said they were the same color. You remember him tackling you and the onslaught of kisses planted on every inch of exposed skin he found on your body, declaring that the argument was over.
You had been looking forward to it. It was your wedding after all. You were supposed to marry him in only a couple of days. The guest list had been comically small, a choice fitting for both you and Frank but in truth, you knew youâd be more than happy if it was just you two and a witness. As long as Frank was the man waiting for you at the altar.Â
But you wouldnât make it to next Saturday. So your smiled had turned into a soft one, one that only Frank ever had access to.Â
âI,â you said your name, âtake you, Frank Castle, to be my wedded husband-â a shuddering breath caused your whole body to shake. FrankâsâJeanâsâlook of determination had faltered when it was clear what you were doing.
âStop-â But you didnât. Frankâs eyes screwed shut, as his hold on you completely disappeared. Whether it was Jeanâs actions simply replicating itself onto Frankâs face or it was Frank actively trying to fight against Jeanâs powers, the answer no longer mattered. ââto have and to holdâ
Jean searched your face through Frank's eyes, hunting for fear. Betrayal. Heartbreak.
She wanted to see her own grief reflected back at her. The same grief that had hollowed her out when she lost her sister. The same grief that had turned every person in her path into an obstacle to be destroyed. But she didnât. She only saw love in your eyes. A fond look as you stared at herâat Frank. You were gifted with powers, just like her. She had done her research, knew you were once an Avenger. Knew of all the hardships and trauma that came with that title. She expected to see a war-haunted soldier.Â
Thatâs what she saw in Frank. But then you appeared. In the crevices of all the darkness in Frankâs mind, your face, your laughter, your smile, filled the cracks, not saving, but accepting. Loving him, even all the parts he thought condemned him. You loved him unconditionally. Her hesitation was evident in the expression on Frankâs face. Jean had harmed yes. But she had never killed. Let alone be the murderer of someone as good as you.Â
Frankâs entire body reared back as Jean left his mind. Dazed, he shook his head as he tried to figure out what happened in the last moments. But his eyes caught onto a figure on the ground. You.
He rushed over, a hand cupping the back of your head as the other replaced your hand over the wound. âHey, hey, hey,â Frank rushed out, panic practically spewing out every word. He said your name. ââSweetheart, câmon, keep them pretty eyes open fâme, yeah?â A ghost of a smile graced your features when you realized Frank was in control of his own mind again. âFrankie, you came back to me.â
His eyes glassy as he let out a playful scoff though he was anything but amused in the moment. âTold ya Iâd always come back to you. I keep my word, donât I sweetheart?â His grip on your face tightened when he saw your eyes begin to flutter close. âBaby, you gotta stay awake fâme. Eyes on me. Canât leave me standing at the altar.â He hadnât heard. Though there was no witness, you had said your vows. Had promised to love him in sickness and in death.Â
He yelled for Spiderman. For someone. Anyone. To help the woman he loved who was actively dying in his arms. âPlease-â he croaked out, âAnyone. Please.âÂ
âItâs okay-â You began but his voice was sharp as he cut you off. âIt sure as hell ainât okay. Iâm not losingâ you, sweetheart.â A tear that had escaped his right eye had fallen onto your ruined clothes. Your eyebrows scrunched at the effort it took for you to lift your hand up to his cheek, Frank leaning in instinctively, pressing a kiss upon your palm. âIt doesnât hurt anymore.â They were meant to be soothing words the onset of fresh tears that streaked down Frankâs cheeks meant they were anything but.Â
From behind Frank, a flash of blue and red landed. For a second, Peter didnât see Frank and you on the floor in the middle of all the rubble. He saw himself and Aunt May. He heard her heartbeat slow before falling silent, heard the death rattle in her chest as the light disappeared from her eyes. Then he heard yours. Uneven. Weakening by the second. Following the same dreadful pattern. âKid.â Frankâs words directed at him, snapping Peter from the memory. He caught the older manâs gaze before Frankâs eyes dropped back to you. âYâgotta help me move her. Take her to the nearest hospital.â Frank rasped.
For a moment, Peter wasnât Spiderman. He wasnât Peter who had just finished college. Peter was the boy in high school who had just lost his aunt. He thought back to the times where you and him would hang out at the Avengersâ Tower, you cooked him a meal any time he came over, claiming he wasnât eating enough. Youâd doted on him the same way his aunt had.Â
âKid.â Frankâs voice rose along with his panic. âPlease.â That seemed to snap Peter back into focus.Â
âHang on fâme, baby. Gotta see you in the dress you picked out.â Frankâs words distracted you while Peter figured out how to move you without causing you to bleed out faster than you already were. Your eyes held onto Frankâs but they were becoming dazed, like you were lost in another world. âYou wouldâve loved it. Made me look all pretty.â He kissed your palm again. âYouâre always pretty, sweetheart.âÂ
A cry of pain tore from lips when both men tried to lift you. âEvie-â Spidermanâs voice was now also filled with the same panic Frankâs held. âHow far out is help?â It seemed he didnât like the answer that was given as a string of curses left his lips.Â
âIâm so sorry,â He said your name, âThis is all my fault. Helpâs almost here. Just a couple more minutes.â
Frank pressed a heartbreakingly gentle kiss to your forehead, like if he used anymore pressure youâd fracture completely in his arms. âYâhear that, sweetheart? Youâre gonna be okay.â But none of you knew if you were. Up until this moment, Frank had never lied to you. And your heart broke at the realization that he only lied to put on a brave face, to put his pain aside if it meant youâd feel comfort.Â
You didnât. But then again, you couldnât really feel much. Not your legs. Or your arms, your hand that caressed Frankâs cheek had fallen for you were too weak to hold it up any longer. You couldnât feel the heat that constantly radiated from Frankâs body as a shiver ran up your spine. You were so cold. So tired. Slowly, your eyes began to drift from the man you loveâs face as your eyelids began fluttering close.Â
Frank was holding you in his arms, the masked vigilante kneeling right beside you. Both men begging you to keep your eyes open, to hold on. Yet their voices sounded as if they were miles away across the planet.Â
They say the last seven minutes of your life is spent flashes through memories of your loved ones. You saw Tony, Steve, Natasha, and all the others from a brief moment. But the minute Frankâs face flashed through your mind, it never left. It seemed almost impossible that the entirety of your relationship could be compacted into such a short amount of time. But you saw everything, from the day that you met to last night.Â
You never knew what life had in store, but you didnât think it would ever include living in an unmoving, renovated ship with the man who had become your entire universe. The most interesting thing about you. How through him, youâd learned to love yourself, to see what he saw.Â
So, you smiled and took your last breath.Â
Frank didnât need Spider-Man's heightened hearing to know you had died in his arms. He knew the exact moment it happened. Your final breath ghosted against his neck before disappearing forever.
Then your body surrendered. Every ounce of fight left you at once, your weight collapsing into him with a lifelessness that stole the air from his own lungs. You'd always felt safe in his arms.
Now all he could feel was death.
"No..." It wasn't even a word. Just a broken sound torn from somewhere deep inside him. His thumb brushed across your cheek as though he could coax you back with something as simple as his touch.Â
He said your name. Nothing. Again. Please. Again.
Each time quieter than the last, as if somewhere along the way he realized you weren't choosing not to answer. You couldn't. And in that unbearable silence, Frank Castleâthe man who had survived wars, buried his family, and endured more pain than anyone shouldâfelt what was left of his heart die with you.
A/N: I just saw Brand New Day, and I was just blown away! Naturally, my brain filled with fic ideas! Here's to starting a new blog for only Spider-Man stuff! In this universe, MJ doesn't exist! Sorry lol!
Summary: While saving his girlfriend from a new threat, Peter discovers a surprising connection between her and an old acquaintance.
Word Count: 2.4k
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
"Hey, Pete! It's me! Are we still-"
The door swung open, revealing a disheveled Peter whose hair stuck out every which way.
"Hey," he said as his chest heaved.
(Y/n) raised a brow and kissed his cheek before pushing past him. "What has you so out of breath? Run a marathon?"
"No, I was-I was just, uh- working out and-"
"I'm kidding," she interrupted with a smile.
Peter huffed and sank into one of the two chairs at his "dining table." Dining table, workstation, counter space... that table did it all. Everything became multipurpose in such a small apartment. He wiped a few crumbs from the table while he watched (y/n) flit around the kitchen, telling him about her day at the coffee shop.
He listened intently about the group of teenage girls who'd spent the whole morning sitting across from each other without saying a single word. She absentmindedly chopped up the vegetables she'd brought from the store.
"What's the point of even hanging out if you're just gonna stare at your phone the whole time?" (Y/n) shook her head. "I don't get it."
He couldn't help but chuckle.
"What?" she asked with a raised brow.
"Nothing."
"Yeah, yeah. Laugh at me. How about you tell me what you did today, Parker?"
What could he say? Yeah, I passed out and then woke up in a literal spiderweb? Or I'm currently fighting against arachnid DNA taking over my body?
"I just... delivered some DoorDash orders. A little dog got out, and I had to chase it down."
The expression on her face changed from faux annoyance to suspicion. âWhat color was it?â
âWhite,â he answered immediately.
âHmm.â
Then she went back to cooking. Peter got up to join her, but then he bowed over, clutching his head with a hand on the chair for balance. (Y/n) ran over to him and helped him to the couch.
"Pete?" she sputtered, kneeling in front of him with her hands resting on his knees. "Hey, hey, hey. I'm here. What can I do?"
Her only answer was another groan as he tightened his grip on his head. Peter's headaches had started a few months prior and got progressively worse. This was the worst she'd seen.
(Y/n)'s eyes scanned the room, thinking of what she could do to help when they landed on the medicine cabinet. Advil. It wouldn't do much, but it would give him a little relief... right?
Promising she'd be right back, (y/n) sprinted to get the bottle and a glass of water. By the time she returned a few moments later, it appeared the worst of it had passed. She got him to take a few pills before sitting next to him.
She soothingly ran her fingers through his curls. Peter leaned into her touch as she whispered. "Feeling any better?"
Peter nodded slightly.
"Good... Babe, have you been to the doctor yet? They keep getting worse and-"
"I'm fine," he ground out. "I don't need to go. The meds are helping."
(Y/n) opened her mouth, but Peter beat her to it. He squinted over at her. "Dinner's burning."
"Shoot."
With a gentle kiss to his hair, she got up and sprinted to the kitchen. A sharp pain rang through his head at the loss of her touch. He didn't understand it-how he'd become so attached so quickly. One day he was content with being alone. But then the next, she was there, smiling at him from across the hall as she moved in.
And a year later, he couldn't imagine his life without her. Gone were the days of endless Little Caesars boxes littering his apartment. Instead, he had home-cooked meals most nights before patrols. (Y/n) brought back a light in his life that had long been extinguished... a warmth that had disappeared when May died.
May would like her. Peter had no doubt about that.
His heart beat a little faster, and his mind got fuzzy in her presence. He knew love was the word to describe how he felt, but saying it out loud made it more real. More dangerous.
The closer they got, the more danger she was in. Peter had battled within himself time and time again about telling her, but he could never justify putting (y/n) in more danger. So he kept her close, but just shut out, just far enough away to keep her from knowing the truth about him.
But a few days later, when the... thing that was inhabiting people found him, it shook him to his core.
"You know, your apartment is just what I expected. A sad, twenty-something man's apartment. Imagine my surprise when I read the letter on the fridge. Sweet really."
Peter's brows furrowed beneath his suit. "You're bluffing."
They had to be.
"Am I?" Then the thing jumped across the way to inhabit a man walking by. "Does (y/n) know about this side of you, Peter Parker? Does she know about the⊠monster inside you?"
Peter took a step closer, ignoring the forming pit in his stomach. âWhat do you want? V-MAX? Youâre not getting it.â
The person laughed. âI can get whatever I want. I think (y/n) would love to know that her beloved boyfriend is New Yorkâs favorite web slinger.â
âYou donât know where she is.â
âItâs a long way to the coffee shop.â
His heart sank. The letter. Sheâd talked about going there on their first date. And there was the picture hanging beside the letter of them. Peter was pretty sure you could see the window art behind them.
Before he could move, the thing switched to a woman twenty feet away. âRace you.â
And then he was off, frantically swinging through the city after the thing as it inhabited person after person. Peter couldn't, wouldn't let it near (y/n). If anything happened to her... no, he couldn't think about that. But then the thing inhabited the helicopter pilot, and Peter thought it was over. His heartbeat echoed in his ears as he frantically got E.V. to figure out its max jump distance.
33 feet.
Peter managed to trap the thing by webbing the helicopter to a crane, suspending it with no one inside the jump radius. He breathed a little easier as he swung to the bakery.
He checked the time on his HUD. 2:30. She'd be on her lunch break, probably eating her sandwich on the roof of the building like normal. Peter smiled at the memory of that conversation.
"Why do you go up there?"
(Y/n) shrugged, smiling over at him. "I just like feeling the sun on my face."
It was the little things that made him love her. How she cooked for him without being asked, how she never pried about his past, how she was always patient when he had to cancel. But most of all, how she grounded him. Spider-Man had started to take over Peter Parker's life.
But then she'd arrived.
Peter found her just where he thought he would, sitting in a ratty beach chair atop the building. The crust of her sandwich lay in the plastic bag on her lap. Perching on the far corner of the building, Peter found himself watching her for a few moments.
A warmth he could only describe as adoration settled inside him where worry and fear had been occupying minutes earlier. She was safe.
But if this thing could travel that fast, he had to get her out of here. But where was far enough from people to keep her safe? Then it hit him.
Who was the one person who isolated themselves from everyone and could actually defend her if need be? Frank.
He turned on the voice changer on his suit and hopped down from his perch. "Miss (y/l/n)! You need to come with me right now. You're in danger."
She whipped around so fast that she almost fell out of the chair, barely managing to catch herself before shooting up. "Spider-Man? What are you talking about?" she sputtered.
"There's no time," he said with a shake of his head. "Someone's after you, and we need to get you out of here. Right now."
"But-"
"We gotta go." Peter extended a hand to her. "Trust me."
(Y/n) narrowed her eyes for half a second as she came to a decision. After a moment, she sighed. "Okay."
In a flash, she was in his arms, clutching him for dear life as he swung them across the city. Holding her close eased some of Peter's anxiety, but he wouldn't feel completely at ease until they reached Frank's.
"Hey! Spider-Man!" She cried, tapping his shoulder. "Put me down and tell me what's going on! Now!!"
They didn't have time, but he swung them onto a nearby roof anyway. She immediately stepped back from him. He expected her to run her hands through her now-tangled hair, but instead she bent over and placed her hands on her knees. After taking a few deep breaths, she stood up and approached him with wide eyes.
"What's happening right now?"
"There's this thing... it-it can inhabit people and control them," Peter stuttered. It was even scarier saying it out loud. "And now it's coming after you. We've got to get you out of the city so it can't reach you."
Her brows drew together. "Why is it after me?"
Peter took a moment to think. 'Because you're my girlfriend' didn't seem like the best answer at the moment. "I don't know."
"You don't know? Then how do you know it's coming after me?"
"I just do, okay?!" He took a few steps toward her so they were only a couple of feet apart. His voice softened. "You're going to have to trust me."
"I don't know you."
"(Y/n), please."
The desperation in his voice appeared to convince her. "Fine. But I need to let my boyfriend know I'm okay."
Peter couldn't help but chuckle. The irony of it all. "I'll take care of it."
"How do you know my boyfriend?"
"Peter, right?" he asked, rubbing the back of his neck. "He, uh, delivered my DoorDash the other day. Told me about his girl who loved Spider-Man. Even showed me a picture. Respectful guy."
She turned from him, pacing. "He didn't mention that," she muttered. (Y/n) stopped pacing and wrapped her arms around herself, standing on the edge of the building and staring out over the city. "I think heâs cheating on me.â
âWhat!? No!â Peterâs eyes almost bugged out of his head. âHeâs crazy about you, (y/n), I swear!"
She peered at him over her shoulder, eyes shining with tears. "And how would you know that, Spider-Man?"
"Because I..." Peter trailed off.
He had to tell her.
Turning off his voice changer, Peter approached her. "Because I know how I feel about you, (y/n)."
"Peter?"
Her face morphed from sadness to confusion as she recognized his voice. She raised her hands to his shoulders, then up to his face before slowly peeling off his mask.
"Hi," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It's because I-I love you, and I don't want anything to happen to you because of me."
(Y/n) shook her head at him, hands resting on his face. "You could've told me. And I love you, too."
Their lips met a moment later. She threaded her fingers through his hair as they kissed. Pulling away, she smiled and turned back toward the edge.
"It's funny, you know?"
"What?" he chuckled, unable to stop a wide grin.
"That you thought she'd accept your lies."
Peter's smile dropped. No, no, no, no...
(Y/n) turned around to face him, backing her heels to the edge of the building, sending a few rocks tumbling to the street below. Her face no longer held the warmth he'd seen moments before.
"Still didn't mention the monster inside you, Peter."
He held out his hands. "Please, just leave her alone. Please."
Then she was falling, nothing but air between her and the street. Peter darted after her and managed to wrap his arms around her just before she hit the pavement. He propped her up against his chest.
"Hey, hey, hey. You're okay," breathed Peter.
(Y/n)'s chest rose and fell slowly, and he felt like he could breathe again. That was until a car pulled up and its driver got out. The inhabited man threatened them one last time before getting back in and pulling away. Peter's HUD managed to get a picture of the culprit.
It was a girl. A teenager.
He would find out her identity later. The unconscious woman in his arms was his only priority. Wrapping his arms around her, Peter took off through the streets, swinging toward Frank's.
They were almost there when (y/n) came to. She started thrashing in his hold for a moment before realizing she was a hundred feet in the air.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! How'd I get here!? Spider-Man?"
"It's okay! I'm taking you somewhere safe, alright? Just breathe."
To his surprise, she only held him tighter and didn't ask any questions. Only when they landed at the docks did she speak.
"Look, I need to tell-"
He nodded back at her. "Your boyfriend knows you're safe."
"Okay, thanks, but that's not what I was saying," (y/n) said with a smile. "Make sure to watch where you're-"
Click.
A moment later, Peter set off a series of booby traps that ended with them rolling down into the dry dock. "You good?" he asked breathlessly.
(Y/n) nodded and rose to her feet just as a rough voice echoed through the empty warehouse. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
Peter raised a brow. "Didn't really have time to call, Frank."
"Not you, daffodil," Frank scoffed. "Sweetheart, what are you doing with web-slinger here?"
Sweetheart?
She shrugged. "I don't really know."
"Why is she here, kid?" said Frank, his attention returning to Spider-Man.
"There's this thing after her, and I need somewhere to keep her safe."
The man's face shifted to something resembling worry. Peter had never seen the expression on Frank's face before. He'd expected to have to convince him, but he only scanned the dock's entrance before smiling down at (y/n).
"Made your favorite chili."
Peter glanced between the two of them. "You two know each other."
i just read your peter parker bnd story and i LOVED it so much! i've also been OBSESSED with daredevil born again & with the announcement of the punisher series coming too... my brain started spiraling!
if you want, ONLY if you want... i would love to see frank castle x stark!reader be protective of spiderman because she remembers her father having a soft spot for him just going INSANE when she hears/sees on news that frank runs him over and them just having some serious TENSION đ„
literally love your work sm!!! âš
SHOOT TO THRILL
Frank Castle X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 0.9K
WARNINGS: Brand New Day trailer spoilers, cursing, LOTS of tension, enemies to lovers vibe, reader is SUPER protective of Spider-Man (even though she has no clue who he is), typical Marvel level violence, slight angst, mentions of Tony đ„ș
A/N: Ask and you shall receive đââïž I didn't have time for a full blown fic, so I hope you enjoy this short drabble! If y'all want in the future we can come back to this later and possibly make it a series or make a longer part! Hope it lived up to your expectations, thank you so much for all the love! đ«¶đ»
"Frank! You have exactly five seconds to get your sorry ass out here!" Your voice ricocheted off the cracked tile and dusty shelves, loud enough to rattle the flickering fluorescent light overhead. Beside you, Spider-Man shifted. His breathing was uneven, one hand clamped tight over his side where you knew dried blood had caked up and bruises had blossomed angrily. Even through the mask, you could feel how hard he was trying to play it off.
âW-We can just leave,â He tried again, softer this time, like if he said it gently enough you might actually listen. âItâs not, Iâve had worse, Iâm fineââ The look you cut him was sharp enough to draw blood. He shut up instantly. "You're clearly not fine." You snapped, your jaw locked so tight it ached. He swallowed, shoulders hunching just slightly as he reluctantly nodded. âSo maybe donât try to defend the asshole who hit you with a van.â
âThatâsâwhen you say it like thatââ Your laugh which was humorless and brittle cut off his rambling. âHow else would I say it? Should I thank him? Maybe send him a fruit basket?â Spider-Man's head dipped, the mask hiding his expression but not the guilt bleeding through his posture. âHe didnât just run you over, he aimed.â The words came out colder than you expected, slicing through the room.
âI saw the footage,â You continued, voice quieter now, but not necessarily calm. âHe had a clean line. No civilians. No crossfire. Just you.â Spider-Man didnât answer. Because he couldnât. Because he knew you were right. You exhaled slowly through your nose, forcing your hands not to shake as your gaze zeroed in on his side almost as if you focused hard enough you could take the damage and pain away.
âHe used toâŠâ You hesitated, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. âMy dad used to watch you. On the news. Heâd pretend he wasnât, butââ A quiet huff of breath, almost a laugh escaped you. âHe had this look every time you showed up. Like⊠like maybe the world wasnât completely screwed.â You didnât look at him when you said it. You couldnât. âHe liked you, trusted you.â As you finished, your voice rougher now no matter how hard you tried to push past your emotions.
âWhich means I like you and trust you. Which means that anyone who hurts you answers to me.â The last word barely left your mouth before a low, deliberate clap echoed from behind you. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. There, stepping out from the shadowed hallway like heâd been there the whole time, because he probably had, was Frank. Bruised. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Shirt darkened in patches.
âFive seconds,â He drawled, voice rough as gravel. âYouâre gettin' slow, princess.â You straightened, instantly placing yourself between them without thinking. âDidnât think Iâd see you anytime soon,â He added, eyes dragging over you before flicking past your shoulder. They landed on Spider-Man, something unreadable sparking in his eyes for half a second before it vanished. ââSpecially with a lilâ bodyguard.â
God, how you wanted to strangle him with your bare hands.
âYou ran him over.â
âHe was in the way.â
The casualness of it, like he was talking about a pothole instead of a person, made your vision sharpen at the edges.
âHeâs a kid.â
âHeâs a problem.â
âHeâs off limits.â
Frank tilted his head slightly, studying you. Not dismissing you. Not brushing you off.
Assessing.
âAnd youâre what exactly?â He asked, voice dipping lower. âHis bodyguard?â Spider-Man made a small, confused noise behind you that you ignored completely as you stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see every cut on Frankâs face. The faint twitch in his jaw. The way his breathing changed, just slightly, like your proximity alone mattered more than he wanted it to.
Your hand shot out before you could second guess it, fisting the front of his shirt, yanking him down just enough to meet your eyes. You leaned in just enough to invade his space, just enough that anyone else wouldâve called it reckless. âTry it again,â You seethed, voice barely above a whisper. âTouch him again, Frank, I dare you.â
The tension snapped tight, thick enough to choke on. Not just anger. Not just violence, but something sharper. The kind of tension that didnât belong in a fight but showed up anyway. Frankâs gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back up so fast you thought you'd imagined it. âYouâd like that, wouldnât you?â He rasped, voice rougher now, something almost amused threading through it.
Your breath hitched, just enough to betray you. The infuriating smirk on his face was enough for you to let go of his shirt, pushing him back as hard as you could. âYouâre fucking unbelievable.â You scoffed, turning your back on him before he could see the flicker of something else crossing your face. âCâmon,â You muttered, sliding an arm around Spider-Man to steady him. âWeâre done here.â
âAlways a pleasure, Stark,â Frank called after you, the rough edge of his voice softened by something you refused to think too hard about. âNext time, give me a heads up. Iâll have some champagne and caviar out waitinâ for you.â You didnât dare give him the satisfaction of looking back. âKiss my ass, asshole!â You shouted over your shoulder, lifting your middle finger without slowing down.
âI could do a hellâva lot more than that, sweetheart.â Behind you, Frankâs laugh was low and infuriatingly smug. You could practically see the stupid grin on his face, feeling the weight of his gaze dragging over your back, lingering just a second too long where your jeans hugged the curve of your hips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and didnât care if you knew it too. Slow. Intentional. Entirely unapologetic.
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A/N: saw the new spiderman movie and im a sucker for the punisher as well, i just had to write a Frank fic so here we are!!
Pairing: Frank Castle x Reader
WORD COUNT: 1.4k
WARNING: !!!! Spider-Man: Brand New Day spoiler !!!!
SUMMARY:Â You're surprised to see Spider-Man and an unknown girl at your boyfriend's hideout. Learning about what the kid is going through you discuss what you'd do if it happened to you, if you forgot about Frank.
MASTERLISTÂ |Â SUPPORT ME!
Walking into the old warehouse thatâs Frankâs hideout you notice that something is off, instantly. Some of the traps have been triggered, thatâs obvious and your heart rate jumps instantly as scenarios fill your mind where Frank is ambushed by criminals, hurt and alone. But then you realize thereâs no signs of fighting, no blood, no bullet holes in the walls, itâs like someone just walked in, accidentally tripped over the wires and was then invited inside by Frank himself.Â
You make your way down into the bunker where he lives, hiking your bag higher on your shoulder so you donât drop it and cautiously look around once youâre in the tiny kitchen area. You remember the first time you were here, Frank didnât want you to see where he lives, he was afraid his lifestyle would scare you away for good.
âFrank, you could live under a rock and Iâd still love you,â you told him before kissing him softly and making yourself home.Â
Youâve offered him to move in with you several times before, but one, you live in a literal shoebox thatâs filled to the brim with your stuff, he wouldnât be able to fit a single sock in there and two, you kinda both agreed that keeping his weapons and all kind of weird tech stuff away from your home is a great idea, so he stayed in the warehouse, you stayed in your apartment and you rotate between the two places.Â
Looking around you notice two extra cups on the table, three plates in the sink with some chili smeared on them, instant signs that he is not alone. You drop your bag by the wall and as you walk further inside you see two sleeping figures in the back room. A girl on the top bed andâŠ
Is that Spider-Man?
Your eyes widen just when two hands grab your waist, pulling you back.Â
âShh, donât wake the kids,â Frank murmurs into your ear and pulls you into his bedroom.Â
âIs that fucking Spider-Man sleeping in the back?â you gape at him once you turn in his arms, hands coming up to rest on his shoulders instantly. Frank growls, like he is irritated, but you see something else in his eyes too.
âHe is in trouble and now he is hiding his girlfriend here as well. Fucking nuts.â
âGirlfriend? Spider-Man has a girlfriend?â
âWell, he is clearly in love with her, but she doesnât remember him or some shit? I donât know, he rambles too much and makes no sense to me most of the time,â he sighs, his gaze settling on your face as he pulls you closer against him. âDidnât know you were dropping by today.â
You love how his voice turns softer when he is talking to you and though he would never admit, his whole being turns mushier once youâre around.Â
âI could get off work earlier and thought I would surprise you.â
Leaning in you kiss him softly and when he hums happily against your lips you canât help but smile.Â
âHave you eaten?â he asks pulling back. âSaved some chili for you.â
âYouâre sweet, but Iâm good. Iâm gonna take a quick shower and then we can go to bed.â
âGo ahead, Princess,â he winks, giving your ass a gentle smack as he lets you go.Â
Twenty minutes later youâre climbing into bed next to him, wearing one of his shirts. He drops the book heâs been reading instantly and opens his arms so you can climb into his embrace under the covers.Â
âMm, you smell good,â he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
âI used your soap, I literally smell like you,â you chuckle.Â
Moving around Frank rolls to his back and you lie half on top of him, chin resting on his chest. His hands are aimlessly wandering your body, slipping under the shirt, drawing circles on your soft skin.Â
âAre they in trouble?â you ask, nodding towards the other room where the two guests are sleeping.
âYeah, I guess.â
âYouâre gonna help them, right?â
âItâs his business, not mine,â he growls with a frown, but you pinch his peck lightly. âOw!â
âDonât even try to tell me you donât care about that kid. We both know you do.â
âWhat gives you the idea?â He asks, arching an eyebrow at you.Â
âThe fact that he is sleeping in the other room. You havenât let anyone here before.â
âI let you.â His gaze softens and a tiny smile tugs on his lips.
âOkay, you let me here and you love me, right?â
âOf course I love you.â
âSo that means you let people here who you love and care about.â
Frank opens his mouth to say something, but he canât argue. He sighs in defeat as you smirk at him.Â
âSure, Iâll help him,â he mumbles, giving your hips a squeeze.Â
âBecause youâre a good man,â you tell him, pressing a kiss on his chest before laying your head on it.Â
You both go silent for a while. Listening to his steady heartbeat you stare at a photo of the two of you pinned to the wall above his dresser. You love that picture, it was taken on your birthday last year, it was still at a time when Frank was fighting himself over you. It took him a long time to allow himself to love you and not feel bad about it. He was so paranoid that something would happen to you, he tried to stay away from you over and over again, but he always ended up crawling back to you until he just gave up and accepted that he canât live without you.Â
And you feel the same.Â
You have never loved a man like you love him and itâs scary and sometimes you hurt each other but you wouldnât want to live a life without him in it.Â
âYou said she forgot him? The girl, she forgot Spider-Man?â you ask, still looking at the picture.
âYeah. The kid said something about⊠a magic spell or some shit? I donât know.â
âThat must be horrible.â
Frank just hums, but doesnât say anything. Lifting your head you look at him, finding him already watching you.Â
âIf I forgot you, would you come after me and try to get me back?â
His eyes darken as he thinks about your words. His fingers that have been gently caressing your sides stop and you feel him gripping you, like youâre about to slip out of his hold.Â
âI donât know. That would be a chance for you to not be a target anymore,â he then says.Â
âBut I told you I would rather be a target than live without you,â you remind him. Reaching up you cup his face gently, running your thumb across his cheekbone. He leans into your touch instantly.Â
âI know. That doesnât mean I stopped worrying about you.â
You understand him and his worries. It hasnât been a battle only heâs been fighting, you tried to prioritize your safety as well, but you felt miserable every time you put distance between you and him. At last you had to realize itâs a price youâre willing to pay to love him and be loved by him.Â
âI would want you to find me,â you tell him after a few beats of silence.Â
âYeah?â
âYes. I would want to get to know you again and fall in love with you again.â
You see that soft shift in his gaze again, his hands squeezing you tighter. Pushing yourself up you move up on his body until you can kiss him. At first itâs soft and gentle, but it turns deep and passionate quite fast, as if youâre actually about to forget him and you want to drink up every bit of each other one last time, though thatâs not happening. You still remember and love him just like a minute, an hour, a day or months ago.Â
âI think,â you whisper, panting against his lips, âI think I could never forget you.â
âYeah?â he asks, biting your lower lip playfully.
âMhm. I love you way too much to ever forget about you.âÂ
Grabbing his hand thatâs on your naked thigh you pull it up until itâs laid over your heart.Â
âYouâre here. Forever.â
âForever,â he breathes out through hazy eyes as your heart pounds against his palm. Then he kisses you, repeating that word over and over again with his actions, showing you that he feels the same way.Â
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summary: you crossed the line. you had killed for the first time, and your world was shaken by it. the only one who's there for you is the punisher himself.
warnings: violence typical of the daredevil world (mention of blood, injuries, and explicit violence). trauma, murder. swearing. mention of prostitution and poverty. AFAB reader. fluff? kinda. angst.
content: frank tries to comfort you, or rather, to be there for you in the best way he can.
word count: 5730
clarification: english is not my native language, so i apologize in advance for any mistakes.
The line had always been there whenever you ventured out into the dark streets of Hell's Kitchen. You had told yourself time and again that it wasn't something you would cross, that this line existed for a reason: to separate you from what you hated so much.
But sometimes it was difficult, and that filled your being with a cold fear that made you recalculate every action and thought. It wasn't an unfamiliar cold, because fear had been your companion for a long time, but it was one you didn't want to experience to its fullest extent.
You wanted to do good, the difference being that there was no way when you were just a teenager stealing to survive or learning to heal wounds no child should ever see. It was a difficult childhood, but you remembered it with a certain fondness because, back then, you weren't aware of the precarious situation of your childhood neighborhood.
There was no one who cared about people like you. Class, race, gender; everything was disregarded by those with the deepest pockets, by those with white skin. For white-skinned men, specifically.
Your family was humble, but possessed a nobility that was ingrained in you from the moment you learned to string together complete sentences. You were raised in the best way possible, with love despite the lack of luxuries and the dangers of the worst streets in Hell's Kitchen.
You lacked things, you committed petty offenses, but it was nothing that didn't already exist in your neighborhood; you would never hurt a defenseless person, and if you stole, it was usually from a food stand because your mother hadn't managed to fill your lunchbox, having fallen asleep after working so long.
It was on a night when everything changed, when the reality of the place you lived completely shattered your idea of âânormality.
It was early morning, perhaps three in the morning, when the door of your apartment slammed shut with a force that jolted you awake. Your bare feet touched the wood as you rushed to your parents. There were shouts, blows, breaking glass, and your mother's desperate cries.
You ran to her, but a sharp blow struck your cheek. You knew blood; you had experienced it and seen it many times on your parents, but never like this, never so vivid and so deeply ingrained in you. Your hands trembled, and you had to blink several times as you propped yourself up on your elbows to understand what was happening, why you had been hit, why your mother was crying, and why your father lay on the floor, somewhat dizzy and unsure of what was going on.
Your ears were ringing, you felt an unwelcome warmth slide down your cheek, and you had to force yourself to focus. Your mother had taught you how; you knew how to withstand a blow, you knew you had to ignore any sensation that prevented you from acting.
âThe boss told you that you had to pay on time,â said a manâs voice, one you didnât recognize.
âWeâll pay! Please, weâll pay,â your mother sobbed, moaning in pain as another man yanked her hair hard to silence her.
âShut your mouth, you whore, this is all your fault,â the same man said. âThis debt is your fault. Whatâs going to happen is your fault.â
Those words chilled you to the bone. You felt a chill seep deep into your young spirit, ready to freeze every instinct within you and leave you like a rag doll lying on the floor. You couldn't imagine what was about to happen, you couldn't, not because you were unfamiliar with cruelty, but because you refused to let such an idea take root in your small world.
As you tried to get up, a heavy boot dug into your back, forcing you to stay on the ground. You were just a spectator; they wanted you to watch.
âDonât touch her!â your mother screamed, this time the sob coming out almost as a growl. You were her baby; she couldnât let them hurt you.
âOh, yeah, the little one, right?â the leader said. You assumed it was because he was the only one talking. âThis is what comes out of you when you were a stupid little slut who didnât know how to take care of herself, isnât it?â he snorted, spitting on the ground. âYou had a future, angel, but look at you now⊠playing with dolls,â he said to your mother.
The leader approached you, crouching down to your level. He smelled of cheap tobacco, whiskey like your father drank, and a cologne that permeated the deepest recesses of your nostrils; it was a woody scent, like sandalwood.
âYouâre a pretty little doll,â he said, taking your chin in his hand. âMaybe the boss will give you a job when your boobs grow,â you heard your mother shout something you couldnât quite make out. âListen, little doll, this is what happens when you donât hold up your end of the bargain, okay? Learn from this, donât be like your stupid mother.â
Your eyes followed him, followed his figure as he stood up and walked with a sickening arrogance, as if acting cruelly were second nature to him, and perhaps it was. You hated him, you hated this man who had barged into your house with his thugs, who had hurt and insulted your mother, who was surely the one who had left your father on the floor like a useless sack of meat. You hated him, you hated the way he spoke to you, the way he moved, the way he smelled.
You wouldn't forget.
The next thing you heard were your mother's muffled screams, a loud, heart-wrenching groan from your father, who seemed to be regaining consciousness, and a breaking sound; a bone snapping, that's what it was, mixed with the metallic clang that broke one of the pillars of your father's being.
The leader was breaking one of your father's knees with a metal rod. The left one, specifically.
He was tearing him apart. Again and again. Hard, without remorse. The viscosity of normal bodily fluids accompanied the rhythm of that crucial moment in your life. The skin tore, revealing the inner workings of the human body: blood, muscles, tissues, bones.
You froze, this time completely. You were deafened by your father's screams of pain, your mother's prayers, and the orchestration of cruelty playing before your young eyes.
You didn't close your eyes. You couldn't, or perhaps part of you didn't want to.
Out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of your mother managing to break free from one of the thugs' grip. You didn't know how, but your mother had always been the kind of woman who didn't give up, who fought back even when they tried to take her away.
She lunged at the leader with a living army within her. Your mother was the strongest person you knew; that's why your father had fallen in love with her. How could he not? She was always optimistic, always trying to get ahead one way or another, and she never let herself or her family be broken. She was everything you aspired to be.
One of her nails sank into the leader's eye socket; strong, uncontrolled. She wanted to hurt him, and she had to. He deserved it. He was a cruel man who was hurting the love of her life, who was threatening to hurt you too.
âBitch!â the leader shouted, throwing your mother off him. âWhore, youâll pay for this!â he yelled.
Before anything else happened, you heard the loud sound of a gunshot and the thud of a body falling.
âMom?â you whispered with a tremor that could soften anyone, except these beings.
Your eyes were wide open, threatening to spill tears you didn't even realize were coming. They followed a new trail of blood; it wasn't yours or your father's.
âThis bitchâŠâ the leader snorted angrily. âUgh, fucking whore. Look what she made me do. You saw it, right?â He pointed a gun at one of the thugs. âWomen always make me do this kind of stuff. Why donât they just stay put? Shit!â
The trail of blood unfolded like a river born from a wild waterfall. You couldn't stop your gaze and reached its source: your mother's head, from where the blood flowed. She lay motionless on the ground; she didn't complain of pain, she didn't sob, she didn't scream⊠she didn't breathe.
Your mother was dead.
You didn't know where you found the resolve, but you raised your gaze to look at the leader's face. He was almost bald, a mere wisp of hair resting on his head. Brown, his hair was brown, as were his eyes. He had a tattoo of a woman with angel wings on his neck and a scar at the left corner of his lip. He was memorable, perhaps intentionally so, because he knew the consequences wouldn't reach him.
You swore to remember him. Every one of them, but especially him. You swore it while your father sobbed, both from physical and emotional pain.
You swore it because you owed it to your mother and to all the people whose lives these monsters had ruined.
Fourteen years old. You were fourteen years old when tragedy struck your life and changed it completely.
âFourteen years old,â you murmur, as your fingers slide along the blood-soaked metal bar. Your mask rests in the back pocket of your tactical pants.
You could hear the dripping of water, probably from some exposed pipe in this seedy place. The flickering of poorly installed lights and the occasional bottle falling from the grimy bar.
Oh, and Leonard Clarkson's whimpers of pain. You remembered him as the leader, but now, seventeen years later, he had a full name.
Now Leonard was completely bald; the old excuse of hair didn't exist in the now-clear valley that was his head. He was older, fatter⊠fuller. When you saw him again weeks ago, you couldn't believe he was still in Hell's Kitchen. But there he was, the bastard, reveling in a seedy brothel where he was the biggest fish in the tank, filling both his pockets and his stomach.
âI was fourteen years old,â you say, as you sit down in front of a chair that you yourself placed in front of him.
Leonard lay on the floor, crying and moaning from the suffering you caused him. You broke his kneecap, of course you did. If he wanted to leave, he had to crawl like the worm he was.
âMy father died a year and a half later, did you know?â you say, watching as blood gushes from the gaping wound you inflicted. âWe didnât have the money to treat his knee, but I know thatâs not what killed him⊠nah, my father couldnât take it after she died.â
No police officer had helped you that day. You had to beg a neighbor to help you take your father to the hospital, and there they tried to help as much as they could, but you didn't have the money to pay for proper treatment.
No one helped you. An attack like the one your family suffered was something no one wanted to get involved in. You were left alone with your father, and a year and a half later he died.
He was killed by sadness, by the tragedy that shattered the semblance of normalcy and familiarity you had known. Leonard killed him.
âBut I did,â you say, as your eyes travel from his throbbing knee to his face, passing first over his full bellyâwho knows how many he had swindled or abused to be so full of lifeâand the tattoo of a woman with angel wings on his neck. His eyebrows were sparse, filled with the hair that was missing from the crown of his head. The same color as years ago, vibrant, strong.
You stand up from the chair and he groans in pain⊠or terror? Either way, it was satisfying.
âI-I can give you money,â Leonard says, raising his hands covered in his own blood. âAll the money you want⊠I⊠I can give you this place!â he shouts desperately. âThe girls here can be yours, theyâre dumb, I promise. Youâll be rolling in money, nobody pays any attention to this place.â
You knew that. Not the bit about the dumb girlsâthey weren't dumb, they were unfortunate women who didn't have enough money for food or had debts they'd incurred themselves or that someone close to them had incurred for them. But you did know that this place didn't attract much attention; Leonard paid a fee to some bigwig in Hell's Kitchen, and then he could pretend to be the lion king in the poorest parts of the city.
Your mother had been one of those women. She didn't work directly for Leonardâno, he was just a nobody back then. Your mother was a paid stripper until she got pregnant by your father: that's where your family's debt began. According to your mother's boss, she should be working, and those months lost to pregnancy were bad for business.
A scam created by cruel people who took advantage of those who had almost no way to defend themselves.
Leonard used to have a boss, the same one as your mother; now he was the one in charge of his own little scheme, but it was a weak one, unimportant on the grand scale of things that was your home's criminal network.
You huff and shake your head. âLeonard, Leonard, LeonardâŠâ you say, crouching down to his level. âMoney was never the issue, you know?â
You extend your free hand toward his kneeâthe left one, the same one he shattered on your fatherâand squeeze hard. The unparalleled mix of his screams of pain with the viscous sensation of his bodily fluids filled you with a dark satisfaction you'd never allowed yourself to feel.
You had become a vigilante a few years ago. Your blows were always controlled, more agile than hard, but always premeditated. You didn't kill, you never allowed yourself to, nor did you ever enjoy inflicting this kind of pain.
Now? Now you didn't think this feeling could compare to any other.
There was no mask of a nonexistent pretense of sanctity. You were exposed, naked, and stripped of the guise of justice. This wasn't about your vigilante self, even if he was the reason you became a symbol of justice; it was about him and you.
âBitch!â he shouts, his anger a mixture of horror and the clear pain that gripped him.
âAh. There you are,â you say, staring into his eyes and pulling your hand from his knee. You use his white shirt to barely wipe yourself, just enough to stain the false cleanliness he wore as a disguise.
More words spilled from his mouth: insults, prayers, nonsense. None of it mattered. All you cared about now was him and the end of his sordid existence.
âYour men left you pretty quickly, didnât they?â you say, without breaking eye contact. âThey didnât even hesitate to leave when I told them to disappear,â you say, letting out an almost incredulous laugh. âI always imagined this moment would be more difficult, you know? But it was so easy having you hereâŠâ
It took you seventeen years to reach this moment. Not because you didn't look for him, but because there was never any trace of him. Not when you searched as yourself, and not when you searched as a vigilante. The lead that brought you here wasn't yoursâit came from Frank. Frank Castle. The Punisher.
You had a certain connection with him, a confusing one for both of you. He had always challenged your ideals a thousand times over. Not like he did with Daredevil, but from the perspective of two people who spoke to each other as equals.
There was a certain tension that threatened everything you believed in whenever you were near Frank. He was everything you were hiding from⊠hiding from yourself. You tried to keep your distance, but coincidences kept happening, and more than once you had ended up working together⊠and eventually sleeping together.
Sex didn't ease the tension between you, because it wasn't sexual tension, but rather a tension where you recognized each other and were waiting for the moment of explosion. The internal implosion of each of you.
This was supposed to be a joint effort between the two of you, that was the plan. He was going to accompany you, and it had been implicitly understood that he would finish the job.
Frank was on the other side of the line, that boundary you had forbidden yourself to cross, and he wouldn't hesitate to put a bullet in Leonard's head for you.
But wasn't that the same thing? If Frank killed him for you, it was the same as you killing him.
And this belonged to you. To no one else.
âI thought about a bullet,â you say as you stand up. âIt would be quick, you wouldnât bother me anymore.â You lower your gaze to the metal bar resting in your left hand. It was heavy and slick with the blood of the pig whimpering on the floor. âButâŠâ you sigh, âI donât think itâs enough for me,â you murmur, letting your voice tremble with honesty.
The first blow echoed in your head. A repetition that reverberated through every fiber of your being.
The second was more precise. Your hands trembled, but the way you gripped the bar prevented you from missing.
You stop, witnessing the unparalleled spectacle of blood gushing before you. Leonard is no longer Leonard; he is now becoming a work of art, one you control.
Then, you keep striking. Again and again, without pause. You don't blink, you don't scream, you don't sob or cry out as you shatter everything Leonard Clark once was. You don't want to miss this; you mustn't, you can't.
You strike relentlessly.
It's for your mother.
For your mother, for the women of this filthy brothel, and for every being who suffered at the hands of the scum that now lies shattered beneath the hand of your justice.
You think only of your mother, of how her spirit was stolen when the bullet struck her head; You think of your father, who was injured and then killed because of the sadness Leonard inflicted upon him; you think of the women who surely suffered at the hands of this pig; and you think of yourself, of all that you lost and were now losing of yourself because of him.
Strong hands pull you away, not violently, but to bring you back to yourself, though you're not sure if you'll ever be the same again. You don't try to figure out who it could be, and you almost fall to the ground if it weren't for those steady hands that catch you as if you were about to vanish.
âDoll? Hey, c'mere.â Frank's voice cuts through the haze as he slowly pulls you back against him. âHe's dead. C'mon, sweetheart, come back t'me.â
You blink, shaking your head. The trembling takes hold of you, and you let it turn your body so that it faces his.
âN-No⊠no⊠donât call me doll,â you whisper, panting as your eyes fail to meet Frankâs, find nothing. âNo⊠Iâm not a doll.â
Little doll kept repeating in your mind, with an annoyance like a mosquito that keeps you awake at night. It had never bothered you before when Frank called you that, but now you couldn't, you didn't want to endure that word.
Then Frank says your name, his usually violent hands cradling your face with a gentleness that doesn't belong in a moment like thisâone you don't think you deserve anymore. âYeah, yeah, you're right. M'mistake.â His thumb brushes across your cheek. âNeed you with me right now, sweetheart, alright? Gonna get you outta here.â
You don't argue. You let Frank lead you. You trust Frank more than you trust yourself now.
You didn't remember the journey, nor the thousands of rough yet gentle whispers Frank had made to you the whole way. He sat you down in a chair, and you stayed there until his figure reappeared in your peripheral vision.
Frank's hands took yours, and you felt something wet brush against your skin. It was something you would expect to be foreign to Frank, but it was gentle, soft as he wiped Leonard's blood from your hands.
You swallowed and looked down to see your hands trembling beneath his confident touch. You immediately pulled one hand away to touch your face, because you knew there was blood there, you knew you were dirty.
âShh, hey. Let me handle it.â Frank murmurs, wrapping a firm hand around your wristânot enough to hurt, just enough to remind you that you're here and not somewhere else.
You nodded, your eyes focused on him because he was the only thing preventing you from reliving what you had done moments before.
âIâm not⊠Iâm not a doll,â you whispered. The words escaped without permission, bursting from your mind, which was plagued by a horror you didnât want to face. âI⊠I⊠I need⊠I need to cleanse myself,â you whispered again.
âI know.â Frank says it without pity. Without exhaustion. Just certainty and that particular concern that seems reserved only for you. âI'll help you.â
Frank doesn't throw it in your face that you tricked him, that you told him to look for another lead in case Leonard's former boss is still alive, when in reality it was all so you'd deal with the bastard alone.
No, Frank soaks the cloth he was using to clean your hands and dips it into a bowl of water you hadn't noticed before. How many things were you overlooking now? You have no idea; your guard is down, and you only allow it because it's him, Frank. Perhaps the only one who could understand you now.
The cloth is squeezed under Frank's fist to let the excess water drip out, and then, slowly so as not to startle you, he places it against your cheek; it's almost a cold caress that brings you back to the present, to him. The cloth glides over your skin, cleansing the bloodstains that had been resting on your once pristine face.
Frank says nothing, but his eyes are fixed on you, all of him is fixed only on you.
âStay with me, sweetheart.â
You let Frank help you to your feet, not because you were hurt, but because your body felt numb, unresponsive to your commands. You feel his hands pat your shoulders, then your waist, down to your thighs and the ends of your feet; he's searching for a wound, something to tell him that what's wrong is physical, not emotional.
But Frank knows it's emotional. You took a life, and it was taking its toll.
âGot blood all over that suit, princess.â Frank lowers himself until he's at your level. âWanna get outta it?â
He's taller than you, bigger. His breath brushes against your face, and the warmth emanating from his body makes you feel as if he's the only real thing in your life.
âI canât do it alone,â you murmur in response.
You see him nod, and then his hands, careful not to touch where you wouldn't want, begin to remove each garment from you. First, he unzips the top of your suit; the vest, the shirt secured. He doesn't look too closely; he'd already seen everything anyway, but that wasn't the point. The point was the tenderness and respect he showed you now, the concern and attention he was giving you simply because⊠you killed someone.
Did he pity you? Did he know you were weak and that the act of killing would completely break you?
âI donât feel bad about killing him,â you say out of the blue, without looking at him. Instead, you stare at the metal coffee maker resting on the makeshift kitchen he has in this hideout.
Frank stops his hands, which were removing the safety bandage covering your abdomen, but then continues as if nothing happened.
âI wanted him dead, so I killed him,â you say. You donât know if youâre defending yourself against him, against yourself, or against anything that might be making you feel judged. You donât want to be judged, and you donât want pityâyou donât deserve it. âI killed him. I killed Leonard.â
âI know.â Frank lets the bandages fall to the floor. He shifts closer, making sure you're facing him when he says your name again: âI know, sweetheart. Ya did it. Finished that son of a bitch for good.â
You nod, trying to demonstrate a strength you no longer possess.
âI killed him,â you repeat as the orbs that were your eyes fill with tears. âI killed the one who killed my parents,â you whisper in a choked sob.
Frank's hands surround you without hesitation and you let him, you let yourself be sheltered in him, in this man hunted by ghosts, a man for whom blood seems to be his second skin and not what runs through his veins.
âYou did,â he whispers it softly. âYeah, you did. It's over now. You ended it.â
One of his hands rests on your back, holding you against him, against the firmness and certainty of his body. You feel a shiver at the warmth of his hand against your cool skin; only your sports bra separates the fullness of your skin from his. His other hand cradles your head, his fingers burying themselves in the strands of your hair to keep you completely under his living, warm, and protective touch.
You're pressed against him, but you won't pull away; you need him, you need Frank and his words, his touch, the protective embrace that only he can give you.
âYou ain't a monster, you hear me?â Frank whispers against your hair. He lets his eyes close for a second, breathing in the scent of your shampoo. Mint. Fresh. So damn you. âYou ain't like me, sweetheart. Ya just did what had t' be done, but you ain't like me. This don't change a damn thing about you, you hear me? Doesn't change nothin'. That son of a bitch had it comin', alright?â
Something about Frank's words bothered you. Something had changed in you, something definitive, and you both knew it was true, but perhaps you didn't believe it in the same way.
âI donât regret it,â you whisper, exhaling. You feel Frankâs heart against your chest, how fast it is beating, stirred by your comfort. âI donât regret killing him,â you whisper. âOr the way I did it.â
You swallow as you close your eyes and rest your forehead against his collarbone.
âFrank⊠I⊠IâŠâ The uncertainty in your words makes him tense, but he lets you continue speaking. âI donât regret killing him⊠thatâs what scares me.â
That was the truth. You don't regret killing him, the violence you unleashed in that horrible place. You weren't horrified by the vivid image of the open flower Leonard had become, by how unrecognizable you'd left him. The way you also struck his neck tattoo, the way you brought the heavy bar down against his brown eyes.
You don't feel the ghost of the metal bar in your hand, nor the specter of Leonard himself haunting you.
That scares you. It scares you that Leonard's blood splattered through your veins gave you a sense of justice you'd never known before, a power and satisfaction you thought you'd never know.
At first, you believed this decision would haunt you for the rest of your days, but the certainty of the feeling of fulfillment it gave you wasn't the expected outcome.
You were relieved that he died by your hand, that that scum no longer existed in this world because now you knew the security of knowing he wouldn't hurt anyone else.
Frank says your name again.
âFrank⊠it scares me that⊠that I feel good knowing heâs dead, that I was the one who ended it,â you say, raising your gaze to meet his eyes. âItâs the only thing I know, and it scares me. I donât know⊠I donât know what Iâll do now, I donât know⊠I donât know anything, I only know that I donât regret it and that I donât feel bad⊠has something broken inside me?â
âNo, no, no.â Frank shakes his head quickly, cupping your face and forcing you to look at him. Just him.
âNothin' broke inside you. You're still you. The same person slippin' through alleys an' rooftops like it's nothin'. The same person who waits with old ladies at bus stops when it's late. The same person bustin' their ass t' make this shithole neighborhood a little saferâ his thumbs brush against your cheeks. âThat's still you, sweetheart.â
He exhales and you see his eyes shine, as if he himself were holding back tears ready to be released.
âI don't know...â Frank admits, and for once there's no confidence in it. âI ain't got the words for this. Ain't got those big speeches Murdock's always pullin' outta his ass.â
A rough laugh escapes him.
âAnd I sure as hell ain't gonna give ya all that hero bullshit. The killin', the morality, the line you ain't supposed t' crossâall that pussy crap he likes talkin' aboutâ his voice wavers slightly. âBut I can tell ya this,â he leans closer. âNothin' broke in you.â
The words come out firm.
Certain.
âYou did what had t' be done. And if part of you feels good about it...â His jaw tightens. âIt's 'cause you know that bastard was still hurtin' people. An' now he ain't. You stopped it.â
You swallowed hard and Frank's thumbs wiped away tears you had unknowingly shed.
âI⊠I donât want to keep killing,â you admit, looking heartbroken. âBut I canât pretend that⊠that this doesnât change anything,â you whisper. âBecause this changes everything, because I know that if I pull the triggerâŠâ you sniffed, âif I pull the trigger it all ends and people stop suffering⊠I donât know, Frank, I donât know anything, Iâm not sure of anything.â
You hate how vulnerable you sound, how vulnerable you let yourself be in front of him. The tension that once existed between you is gone. The thread has snapped, and now you're naked before him in a way that doesn't involve sex.
You know you opened a door for Frank, and you didn't want to close it, even though you hate seeing yourself so broken in front of someone else.
âThat's alright, princess,â Frank says it quietly and, slowly, carefully, presses his forehead against yours, giving you every chance to pull away if you want to. âYou don't gotta know anythin' right now. Don't gotta be sure about anythin' either,â his thumb brushes against your cheek. âWe'll figure it out... hell, we'll figure it out together.â
When he says your name, his voice softens.
âYou ain't alone, sweetheart.â
A pause.
âM'right here with ya.â
You cried in his arms, letting Frank Castle take care of you, because he was the only refuge you knew now.
You let him help you clean yourself in the shower he had in his hideout. You weren't ashamed when his hands helped you undress and then cleanse you. You didn't pull away when his lips kissed your cheeks, neck, and mouth, nor when his calloused hands tightened around your waist, pressing you against him under the water. These weren't sexual gestures; they were actions that told you that, no matter what, he would stay by your side.
You lay down on the bed in the hideout, wearing one of his t-shirts, your damp hair soaking Frank's pillow. You were on your side while he sat on the floor, leaning against the bed to stay close to you.
You stared at him, watching a trickle of water run down his neck from his wet hair.
âDid you find him?â you whispered, without taking your eyes off his.
Frank doesn't take his eyes off yours or ask what you mean, because he knows very well who you're talking about.
âYeah. I did.â
Leonard's former boss was still alive, still out there, and that just let you know that this wasn't over.
âYou ain't goin' alone this time,â Frank's stare locks onto yours. âWon't let youâ
A smile creeps across your face, the first since you stained your hands with blood.
âHm, is that an order?â you murmur.
âFuck yeah it is,â a grin slips onto Frank's usually hard face. âAin't slippin' away from me twice, princess. Not a chance.â
âCome to bed,â you gently ask, and Frank canât find the strength to refuse.
Frank's body joins yours in bed; it's not a large one where you can both enjoy your own space or stretch out completely, but that's exactly what you needed. You let his arm encircle your waist and pull you closer to his warm body; he's shirtless, so his skin is against yours, and you appreciate that. You needed him as naked as possible; his natural warmth, his own scent, held you captive to this moment.
You sigh as Frank's breath brushes against the back of your neck, his chest pressed against your back.
âTogether, princess,â his voice drops low. âYa ain't alone. Not again.â
Just for this moment, you let that thought wash over you. You let his words become truth as you turn to face him and press your lips to his. Your lips part gently, and you let your tongue moisten Frank's lips. He groans and tightens his grip on your waist, pulling you closer, if that were even possible.
His lips don't try to break away from yours; on the contrary, they seem to want to melt into your mouth as his tongue caresses yours. His saliva mingles warmly with yours, and you're certain you want to savor its taste deep within yourself.
Things weren't over, but you weren't alone. Frank would be with you, every step of the way. And that was all that mattered now.
notes: okay, this is my first frank one-shot, not because i don't like him, i just prefer reading about him and I never got around to writing about him⊠until today! the spider-man trailer blew my mind and i needed to write something about my man.
i think it's thanks to the discussion on twitter about whether or not he's the right one to take care of MJ⊠and frank is a ladies' man, so obviously he is, but i decided to write about this topic because it seemed interesting, idk.
a slightly long intro? but i felt it was necessary.
i don't know if anyone will read this far lmao, anyway, thanks for reading. <3
"they said your name." ââ§Â°đČÖŒđą clark kent
summary: after a fight, clark kent comes home terrified--not for himself, but for the person always waiting up for him.
author's note: hi again! i wrote this a very long time ago, so please excuse the poor writing. i hope u guys enjoy!
warning: lowercased, established relationship w/ clark, angst/hurt + comfort, fear of losing a loved one
word count: 761 words
youâre halfway through the article perry, your boss, wants submitted by tonight. dressed in one of clarkâs oversized t-shirts, the duvet is pooled over your lap and warmed by your laptopâs gentle fan. your fingers clack restlessly against your keyboard, racing the 11:59 p.m deadline youâve grown to dread. itâs nearing 10 oâclock now, and the only light in the room comes from the warm yellow glow of the bedside lamp.
you feel him before you see him, his presence bringing a welcome halt to your frantic typing.
âfinally youâre home,â you begin, paying no mind to the shaking he wrestles to conceal. you ramble about the impossibility of submitting the article by tonight--the one where you interviewed clark super-man about his views on branded cereal. you couldnât care less about it, but itâs what perry assures you the public wants to hear about.
your voice dies down in your throat once you look up. clark is standing in the doorway, hands curled by his side. you notice the taut lining of his shoulders and the way he doesnât meet your eyes. you try to lighten the mood, something you usually do to remind him that heâs home and safe--that the bad guys didnât win today.
âdid someone punch you into next week again?â you tease.
his eyes flick to yours, but he doesnât say anything.
and thatâs when you take into account how while his suit is intact, his expression is a wreck.
he walks past your spot on the bed. gently, you close your laptop and move it aside, mindful of every motion. you stay in place though, allowing him to decide the distance. maybe he didnât win tonight and wants to be left alone.
âhey, you okay?â you ask carefully, but his expression relays something entirely different. heâs near the edge of the bed. frozen, allowing the warmth of your tone to wash over him. you look down and notice the tremor of his hands, and the hardness in his eyes. your tone shifts in accordance to his demeanor, âbaby, youâre shaking.â
he stays silent and unmoving.
âclark, youâre scaring me.â
he flinches like youâve hit him. his eyes close as if bracing impact. he turns around, and when his eyes open they immediately meet yours, a kind of rawness youâve never seen before flickering in them. clark never wants to scare you.
âthey said your name.â he whispers.
and you blink, taken aback, âwhat?â
âthe guy i was fighting,â he says, his voice running thin, his tongue unsteady, âhe--he said your name. your full name, like he knew who you were.â
your stomach drops.
clark shakes his head, like admitting it out loud would make it more real, âhe said he knew who i came home to.â
your mouth went dry, struggling to find the words. you were scared, of course, but he was distraught. while your tongue felt heavy and clumsy against the words you wanted to say, you forced your voice to steady, masking your panic because clark needed your calm more than your fear.
âiâm with you now, though. iâm alive, weâre together. weâre okay--â
he interrupts you, saying your name softly, like a prayer, âthatâs not the point--â
â--weâre safe. iâm safe, they were just trying to scare you, thatâs all.â you try to finish.
he takes a step closer towards you, and you tilt your head up simultaneously. heâs still hesitant, hands fighting to reach stillness. he brushes the edge of the duvet, and you battle the impulse to reach his hands. his voice cracks as he finally confesses, âi brought this to our door. you were never supposed to become part of this.â
âclarkâŠâ you try again.
âyou donât understand,â his words come quietly, âi couldâve lost you. i could still lose you. just by being me. by fighting--by existing,â he says guiltily.
you lean forward slightly, keeping your voice soft but firm, âbut you didnât lose me, clark. iâm right here. and itâll stay that way,â you allow yourself to reach out and hold his hand. his initial instinct is to pull back, but he finally gives himself the grace of letting physical touch anchor you both.
barely audible, he says your name in a way that trembles with everything heâs trying not to feel, âi--i canât lose you.â
âiâm not going anywhere,â you murmur, âjust breathe with me, okay?â
clark squeezes your hand as if heâs reassuring himself of the fact that youâre still alive, that youâre still his to come home to, and you let him.
warnings: angst, relationship distress, dynamic neglect, severe public panic, physical injury (head trauma, bleeding, concussion), and mild themes of endangerment/near death experience.
notes: i was gonna add more but it wouldve been wayyyyyy to long.. so pt3 when?! also slightly proofread!!
wc: 1.9k
đâ âč part 1
the elevator doors slid shut cutting off the desperate echoes of clarkâs voice.
the moment the steel walls enclosed you, your composure completely broke.
you collapsed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, sliding down until you hit the cold floor.
a breathless sob tore out of your throat, so loud it echoed.
you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your wet coat soaking through to your skin, but you didn't care.
your chest was heaving so violently you couldn't catch your breath.
Itâs just easier....
the words repeated in your head, a cruel mantra that pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat.
he had lied.. he had left you alone in the dark with cold food and lit candles so he could drink wine in his sweatpants on his ex girlfriend's couch.
by the time the elevator hit the lobby, you scrambled to your feet, wiping furiously at your face.
you didn't just walk out of the building, you broke into a run, rushing past the startled doorman and straight back into the storm, desperate to let the freezing rain wash away the humiliation burning on your skin.
when you finally threw open the door to your own apartment, the silence inside was suffocating.
the candles had burned down to stubs, leaving behind the faint smell of vanilla and melted wax.
the two plates of dinner still sat on the counter, perfectly arranged and cold.
"easier," you choked out, your voice shaking.
you walked over to the table and with a sweep of your arm, knocked both plates off the surface.
they shattered against the hardwood floor, ceramic exploding into a dozen pieces, pasta and sauce splattering across the room.
you didn't stop there.. you lunged toward the dining table, grabbing the vase of flowers youâd bought fresh that morning and hurled it against the wall.
the glass shattered, water and crushed petals raining down onto the floor.
you tore the cushions off the couch, threw the decorative pillows across the room, and grabbed a framed photo of you and Clark from the bookshelf, a photo taken at a park where he was looking at you with what you thought was love and threw it face down onto the floor, the glass cracking down the center.
you trashed the place until your lungs burned and your hands were shaking from the adrenaline.
you stood in the center of the room, panting, looking at the mess you had created.
it was the first time the apartment actually matched how you felt on the inside... completely broken.
you exhaled before moving, you dragged your large suitcase to the bedroom.
you didn't pack everything, just your clothes, your laptop, and the absolute essentials.
your phone buzzed on the counter.
lois: please answer me. i am so, so sorry. itâs not what it looks like, i swear to you. let me come over. let me explain. please don't hate him.
you stared at the screen but didn't reply.
it's not what it looks like... please don't hate him.
you scoffed and instead, you blocked her number and then, you blocked his.
wrapping your now dry coat tighter around yourself, you grabbed your suitcase, stepped over the broken glass, and let the door click shut behind you.
đâ âč
you'd rather be anywhere but here, you've avoided the office for as long as you could but today perry said he needed you here.
a week had passed since you've spoken to either of them.
the silence between you and clark shifted from uncomfortable to deafening.
you kept your eyes glued to your monitor, your fingers flying across the keyboard with a rhythmic click clack.
you could feel clark's eyes on you from across the room, but you didnât look at him.
not when he drops a file on your desk or when he clears his throat.
every time he builds up the courage to speak, you conveniently pick up your desk phone or rush off to the copy room.
you're making yourself unreachable, and it's driving him out of his mind.
you can hear clark's footsteps before he actually reaches your desk, so you keep your eyes locked onto your computer screen.
he stops right at the edge of your desk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously adjusting his glasses.
he looks entirely drained, the guilt weighing down his broad shoulder, the bags under his eyes are dark.
"hey," he starts, his voice quiet and hesitant. "you've been typing for three hours straight... you uh you need to take a break. let me get you something from the cafeteria? a snack, or... or some tea?"
you don't blink or pause, you just hit the backspace key a few times and keep typing.
clark lets out a small, ragged breath, leaning in slightly closer so his words don't carry across the busy bullpen.
"honey, i know you're furious with me and you have every right to be. what you saw at lois's apartment"
you snapped your head toward him, tilting it slightly as if analyzing a stranger. your eyes narrowed, drilling into his.
clark froze, the words dying in his throat as his eyes locked onto your face taking in every feature like it'd be the last he'd ever see them again before he spoke quietly.
he reached out, lightly brushing your hair from your face before caressing the side of your face. "... i know how it looked... and i know how much i hurt you by lying about where i was. i just want a chance to explain it properly."
he drops his hand, waiting, hanging on the hope that youâll at least respond but when you turn your head to stare back at the screen.
a look of quiet desperation crosses his face and he swallows hard.
"i'm not going to force you to talk to me here," he says softly. "but please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. let me take you to dinner tonight.. we can just sit down, and i will tell you everything. no secrets. i promise."
you remain still, your expression blank as you scroll down a spreadsheet.
realizing he isn't going to get a verbal answer, he reluctantly pulls a small pad of bright yellow sticky notes toward himself.
he grabs a pen from your desk organizer, his hand trembling just a fraction as he quickly scribbles down the name of a quiet restaurant downtown, along with a time.
he peels the sticky note and gently presses it onto the corner of your desk, right next to your keyboard where you can't possibly miss it.
"eight o'clock," clark whispers, his blue eyes searching your face one last time, practically begging for another glance. "i'll be waiting for you at our favorite table by the window. i really hope you come."
eight o'clock.
by the time 7:30 PM rolls around, the office has emptied out and you sit alone, staring at the note.
every logical instinct tells you to go back to your hotel room and let him sit there.
he lied to you, used his job.. the very thing that constantly tears him away from you as a shield to cover up the fact that he was with his ex girlfriend.
the humiliation in loisâs apartment hadn't faded.. if anything, sitting in the quiet of the office had only made it feel worse.
you feel like an afterthought and yet, your heart betrays your pride.
you want him to fix it, to give you a piece of truth so undeniable that the knot in your chest finally unspools.
so, you grab your coat, pull the sticky note from the desk, and leave.
8:05 PM
the sign of the restaurant shines through the rain streaked window of the cab.
you step out, the door of the restaurant chiming as you walk inside.
the inside is intimate, warm and lit by candles.
you scan the room, bracing yourself to see his broad shoulders slumped over the table, nervously checking his watch.
but the table by the window is completely empty.
a familiar knot forms in your stomach and you pull out your phone... 8:07 PM.
he's seven minutes late.
no, you tell yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit down at the empty table.
he said heâd be waiting and he wouldnât do this tonight.. not after everything.
you tell yourself he's just caught in traffic or that perry threw a last minute rewrite at him.
you make excuses for him, even now, because what could be the truth hurts too much to face.
9:00 PM
an hour crawls by.
the hostess brings you a glass of water, offering a polite smile that feels entirely pitying.
the bustling dinner crowd begins to thin out, the laughter of happy couples surrounding you sounds like a mockery.
every single time the front door chimes, your head snaps up, your heart doing a pathetic, hopeful leap only to sink lower when itâs a stranger stepping in from the cold.
9:30 PM
half an hour later.
you stare at your phone and there's nothing.. no texts or missed calls and you had unblocked him before you stepped through the door.
the anger thats been in you this past week starts to form into a sickening ache...
is he back at loisâs?
10:00 PM
the restaurant is dead and the staff are quietly sweeping the floors and stacking chairs in the back corner, their hushed voices a subtle hint that youâre overstaying your welcome.
a realization sinks into your chest..
he stood you up.
to explain away a lie, he gave you another promise, and then he broke that one too.
you pull your coat over your shoulders, your body tense with humiliation and exhaustion.
standing up from the table, you slide a generous stack of bills out of your purse, far more than enough to cover the untouched glass of water and the time you took up occupying their best table by the window.
as you walk toward the front entrance, you stop by the hostess stand where a tired looking server is wiping down menus.
"i'm so sorry for keeping you all late," you say, your voice tight as you force a small, apologetic smile. "thank you for letting me stay so long."
the server looks up, her eyes softening with a wave of pure sympathy that almost makes your composure crumble on the spot. "don't worry about it, sweetie. have a safe night, okay? it's really coming down out there."
you nod quickly, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and push open the heavy glass doors.
you walk blindly, your head ducked against the harsh wind as you begin to walk down the cracked sidewalk of the downtown district.
the towering office buildings shut out what little light the night sky has left
your mind is trapped in a loop of humiliation.
he promised, with his hand trembling, and swore there would be no more secrets.
and you, desperate to believe him, sat in an empty restaurant for two hours like a fool.
a sudden, earth shattering boom rips through the air, vibrating so violently that you stumble.
you freeze, it wasn't thunder and before you can even process it, there's a wave of police cars speeding down the street, one siren echoing after the other.
you shrug it off and keep walking but then the corner of the intersection half a block ahead erupts.
a wave of people come screaming around the brick building, bodies fleeing the main strip.
it starts with a handful of late night commuters, but within seconds, it grows into a desperate flood of dozens of people.
umbrellas are abandoned on the flooded ground, crushed by feet as everyone sprints for their lives.
"he's killing them! he's picking up the cars!" a man screams, his voice hoarse with terror as he sprints past you, his tie flying over his shoulder, his eyes wide.
a woman trips on the slick curb just a few feet away, her heels skidding out from under her.
she hits the wet concrete hard, crying out as the crowd blindly swerves around her, too consumed by panic to stop.
you instinctively step forward to help, but the momentum of the crowd hits you.
a rushing shoulder slams into yours, forcing you forward, your head slamming against the concrete with a sickening crack.
everything goes white, your head is ringing and the noise around you is deafening, slaps of wet shoes, the ragged, breathless screams of children being dragged by their arms, and the blare of police sirens in the distances.
a throbbing ache is at the base of your skull, and when you blink, hot rain washes over your face except itâs too thick and warm.
you reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing your forehead, and they come away stained a dark crimson.. you're bleeding.
you try to push yourself up onto your elbows, but your limbs feel like lead and the stampede of people don't care that you're down.
heavy boots and soaking sneakers splash violently into the puddles just inches from your head.
a heel catches the fabric of your coat, dragging you a few inches, while another foot just slightly misses stomping directly onto your hand.
you are completely invisible to them and if you stay flat on your stomach, youâre going to get trampled to death.
adrenaline forces your body to move despite the dizziness.
you push yourself up trembling hands and knees and the ground sways beneath you, while you gasp for breath, you begin to crawl, dragging your heavy, soaked coat through the water.
you lose your sense of direction entirely.
instead of reaching the shelter of the storefront doorway, you accidentally crawl off the lip of the curb and slide directly into the open, empty street.
the stampede remains confined to the relative safety of the sidewalk but you are completely exposed.
the massive, armored villain stands in the center of the intersection, his eyes fixed on the remaining police line.
with a guttural snarl, he digs his heavy fingers deep into a crumpled, overturned sedan.
he lifts the multi ton vehicle over his head with sickening ease and launches it forward.
but itâs not aimed at the cops, the trajectory is completely off.
it's hurling through the air directly toward you.
time seems to slow as you stare up from the wet street, paralyzed by the sheer horror of whatâs coming.
the massive underbelly of the car blocks out the flashing emergency lights, casting a large shadow over you as it tumbles end over end through the heavy rain.
your completely frozen, it feels impossible to move, impossible to run.
you can feel the rush of wind pressing down on you as the falling metal begins its final, crushing descent.
you close your eyes and brace for the impact but the crushing weight of the falling car never comes.
instead,the sound off concrete shattering rips through the air directly infront you, so powerful it blows the rain away in a wide, circular shockwave.
the deafening screech of tearing metal explodes right over your head as the shadow stills.
trembling, you force your eyes open through the blood and rain falling down your face.
standing over you, his feet planted firmly into the now dented concrete, is superman.
"are you okay ma'am?!" his voice clear and steady through the rain.
he's holding the entire crumpled sedan above his head with one hand, his jaw clenched as he effortlessly hurls the massive piece of steel away, sending it crashing into an empty, abandoned building down the block where it canât hurt anyone.
the savior of metropolis is standing right in front of you.
his red cape snaps in the rough winds, and the streetlights catch the bright 'S' across his chest.
he looks completely invincible.
but as he turns his head to look down at you, the confident aura of superman completely fractures.
he freezes.
through your dizzy, blurred vision, you can see his face perfectly.
superman is staring at you with a look of absolute horror. his chest heaves, his breath catching in his throat so sharply it looks like heâs the one who just took a physical blow.
his eyes track the dark crimson blood dripping down your forehead, your soaked, shivering clothes, and the way you are helplessly sprawled on the wet pavement.
he drops to his knees, sinking straight into the deep puddle without a care for the mud or the freezing water soaking into his suit.
before you can even gasp through the pain, his massive hands are framing your face.
his palms are calloused and warm, completely covering your cheeks, but they are shaking violently against your skin.
he cradles your head with tender care, his thumbs brushing frantically across your cheekbones to wipe away the rain and the dark blood that wonât stop leaking from your hairline.
"hey, hey....look at me, you're okay, hmm," he begs, his voice cracking.
"it's okay.." words tumble out of him in a breathless, frantic rush.
the resonant voice that superman uses when he addresses crowds or speaks on the news is completely gone.
in its place is a soft, broken whisper filled with terror.. a voice that hits your concussed, foggy brain with a wave of familiarity.
It's a voice you know intimately, stripped of all its usual calm.
he leans down so close his face is basically against yours, using his broad shoulders and the heavy fabric of his cape like a makeshift tent to block out the biting wind and the downpour.
his eyes are wide and wild with guilt as they track the injuries on your face again, the way you are shivering uncontrollably, and how close that car actually came to ending everything. a ragged, choked sob catches in his throat.
"i've got you, baby, i've got you. you're okay, i promise you're okay," he murmurs against your wet hair, entirely forgetting the rest of the city, the damage echoing down the avenue, and the fact that he is wearing a symbol meant for millions.
in the middle of the dark street, the hero has completely evaporated.
the mask has slipped without him even realizing it, leaving only a terrified man holding onto his entire world.
he presses his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips as he closes his eyes.
"i'm so sorry. oh God, my love, i'm so, so sorry. i shouldn't have been late. i'm right here."
you look past the bright 'S' on his chest, past the heavy red cape, and look straight into his wide, terrified eyes.
through the static of your concussion, the familiar slope of his jaw and the specific, frantic cadence of his breath finally cut through the illusion.
the impossibility of it settles into your chest, an unsure realization.
"clark...?" you breathe out.
itâs barely a whisper, more like a faint, breathless question easily swallowed by the howling wind, but his entire body goes completely rigid at the sound.
his chest stops heaving and his thumbs freeze against your wet cheeks, eyes widening in shock as it hits him that you've seen past the suit.
but you don't have the strength to wait for an answer.
the pulsing concussion has you passed out, your head lolls back against his arm, your eyelids fluttering shut as your body goes completely limp in his embrace.
"no, no, no.. hey! sweetheart, wake up! look at me!"
đâ âč
the first thing that returns to you is the smell.
that sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and heavy bleached linens.
then comes the sound, there's a rhythmic, electronic beep that echoes in the quiet room, a steady, comforting pulse that keeps time with the throbbing ache at the base of your skull.
you force your eyelids open, but the harsh light above makes you wince, a low groan escaping your dry throat.
the ceiling is made of those familiar, white acoustic tiles... a hospital.
"honey?!... hey, take it easy. don't try to sit up just yet."
the voice is soft but cautious, and instantly draws your eyes to the right side of the bed.
clark is sitting in a cramped hospital chair pushed right up against your mattress.
he looks completely exhausted, his flannel shirt is wrinkled, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the chair, his glasses sitting squarely on his nose, and his blue eyes are bloodshot.
the moment he sees you looking at him, his shoulders drop in a massive, visible wave of relief.
he reaches out, his large, warm hand carefully enveloping yours where it rests on the stiff hospital sheets.
his fingers are trembling slightly, his thumb gently tracing the back of your knuckles.
"the doctor said you have a concussion, and they had to put a few stitches on your forehead and the gash on your cheek," clark says softly, his voice raspy as he leans a bit closer.
he looks down at your hand. "but you're going to be okay. they're just keeping you for observation."
you look at his hand wrapped around yours, and a spike of hurt flares in your chest.
with a tight frown, you pull your hand completely away from his grasp, tucking your fingers beneath the stiff hospital blanket.
the sudden movement makes your head throb but you ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on him.
clarkâs thumb freezes, he looks down at his open palm for a fraction of a second, his expression fracturing with a look of hurt before he slowly lets his arm drop back to his lap.
"where were you?" you ask, your voice raspy, the exhaustion making the words sound heavier than you intended.
you stare at his wrinkled flannel shirt, "i waited for hours, clark. you didn't text. you didn't call. i was sitting there by myself like an idiot, and then the whole city went to hell while i was trying to get home."
clark looks completely devastated.
he flinches slightly at your words, his jaw tightening as he stares at the white blanket between you.
he opens his mouth to say something, to give the usual clumsy excuse about a deadline, a lost phone, or getting caught in transit but the words seem to catch in his throat.
he looks up at you through his thick glasses.
the silence stretches between you, you turn your face away from him, staring fixedly at the blank white wall opposite the bed.
the sight of his slumped shoulders and his guilty, exhausted face is just too much to handle on top of the throbbing ache in your skull.
"just go home, clark," you say quietly.
your voice is flat, stripped of all its anger, leaving only exhausted exhaustion.
beside the bed, Clark goes still. "darling, please... let me stay. just let me make sure you're okay..."
"i am okay," you interrupt, still refusing to look at him.
you pull the rough hospital blanket higher up around your shoulders, physically shielding yourself from him. "the doctors are watching me. i don't need you here. just... go home. go back to the daily planet, or wherever it was that was more important than meeting me."
out of the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to plead, to give you some kind of explanation, but he stops himself.
a ragged exhale escapes his lips.
slowly, the vinyl chair groans as he stands up. he towers over the bed, he goes to walk but stops.
he leans down into your space and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"I am so, so sorry," he whispers against your skin, his voice filled with regret.
"i'll... i'll go," he whispers, "but i'm leaving my phone on. if you need anything.. anything at all.. just call me. please."
you don't answer, you just close your eyes.
he pulls back slowly, as if pulling away from you physically pains him, before turning and making a quiet, reluctant exit from the room.
the soft click of the latch signaling that you are finally alone.
your eyes stay closes, your chest aching with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.
you expect to feel a sense of relief now that heâs gone, now that you don't have to look at his guilty face or listen to the excuses you were sure he was going to make.
but instead, the anger and hurt begins to drain away, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness.
you shift slightly on the stiff mattress, and a sudden vivid image flashes behind your closed eyes.
not the empty restaurant table or clark in his wrinkled flannel.
you see a cape blowing in the wind, a blue and red figure kneeling in a flooded street, unbothered by the storm.
you feel the ghost of massive, trembling hands framing your face with terror, and a voice deeper, stronger, but carrying that exact same, frantic cadence whispering sweetheart and my love into your wet hair.
your heart rate spikes, the monitor beside you accelerating slightly.
hands that could crush steel, yet held you as if you were made of glass.
the monitor beeps faster, its frantic rhythm filling the quiet room as your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.
the voice, the breathless, cracked panic of the city's hero as he knelt in the mud, crying over you, calling you darling, calling you my love.
it wasn't the booming voice Superman used on the news, it was a voice you knew personally, a voice that felt like home.
âclark...?â
the breathless question you had whispered right before passing out echoes perfectly as you repeat it out loud.
summary: after Clark breaks your trust, he knows it's a long road to forgiveness. He just hopes that it isn't too late, and that the road doesn't stretch on for longer than he can bear â but then again, you weren't a pushover, and he may have pushed his luck a bit too far this time. (silver springs part 2)
word count: 10k
contents: fem!reader, angst, mentions of emotional cheating, crying, lying, heartbreak, longing, cursing, drinking, parties, readers birthday passes (but no specific date), kissing, mentions of neglectful parents, scorned reader, awful and uneducated men (not Clark), bad dates, illusions to sex, Lois Lane is an angel, some fluff, forgiveness, semi-happy ending
a/n: bet you all thought I was dead in a ditch somewhere!! I'm so happy to announce part 2 of Silver Springs, based on Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. I'm so sorry I made you all wait so long for it, I hope it's not too much of a disappointing ending, and thank you all so much for the support!!
The cold metal frame between your fingers feels like ice gnawing through frail skin tissue as you stare at it with vacant eyes. You hated this photo â your hair was frizzy, and your smile wasnât quite right because the person taking the photo forgot to warn you before she clicked the capture button on Clark's old digital camera.Â
He had taken you to the Metropolis Bay aquarium, insisting that you get over your fear of deep water by letting him take you out. âOnce you see all of the cool stuff that lives in it, it won't seem so scary anymore,â he promised, hand clasped around your wrist gently as he looked at you with pleading eyes, the tickets already sitting in his cart as you both lounged on the couch on some odd Saturday night.
Heâd never admit it, but the main reason he wanted to go was so that he could look tough in front of you, like some sort of avid protector â as if he wasnât already a 6â4 giant who always made sure you were walking on the inside of the sidewalk, because god forbid something happened to you.
One of the workers had taken the photo of you and Clark in front of the sea lion exhibit â you were crushed against his side tightly as his arms wrapped themselves around you, his bright eyes looking down at you with the same soft sentiment you were always rewarded.
You still remember wincing when you saw the photo printed out and sitting on your coffee table the next day â making it a point to huff at everything you hated about it while Clark frowned from behind you. He loved that photo of you, said it was one of his favorites because you looked real â all soft smiles and squealing laughter instead of perfectly practiced poses and angles.Â
You had woken up the very next morning to some god awful hammering in your living room, the sound reverberating around your thin walls like a jackhammer to the skull. Dragging yourself out of your warm fleece sheets at 8:03 am, you found none other than Clark with a hammer and nail in hand, massacring your previously pristine wall.
âI guess I wonât be getting that deposit back, huh?â you muse, arms crossed over your chest, the large t-shirt you went to bed in enveloping you. It was one of Clark's old Smallville high ones that he conveniently left at your place after he caught you wearing one of his Mighty CrabJoy ones when he first spent the night.Â
He turned around, a hint of sheepishness climbing onto his face as he finished hanging that same photo on your living room wall, conveniently placed just out of your reach so you couldn't take it down â now complete with a metal nautical-themed frame that made you shake your head in laughter.Â
Because as much as you hated that picture, you loved Clark â Clark who always knew how to make you smile, make you feel better â or at least he used to.Â
Maybe that's why youâre now balancing on one of your old kitchen chairs, a hammer in one hand and the picture in the other as you work the nail out of the eggshell-painted wall. Sure, you could always put a different photo in that spot, one you actually liked, but it felt wrong now â like that place would always belong to something else.Â
When you finally dig out the nail, you toss it into a small cup full of other identical ones, climbing off of the chair carefully in the process. You drop the photo, frame and all, into a cardboard box that sits a few feet away, full to the brim with photos, cards, tickets, and even a napkin that Clark once wrote a goodbye message on one morning when he had to leave early and didnât want to wake you.
Every memory that was haunting you like a ghost for the past two weeks now confined to a small, fragile box you pulled out of your closet a few hours ago. Your once fully decorated and lively living room now an empty shell of what it used to be, littered with holes of what used to be a symphony of laughter and love â maybe it would be ironic if youâd let yourself think about it for more than half a second, but you don't.
You feel tears pulling in front of your eyes, your tongue pressing harshly against your teeth, willing them back as you reach for your glass of wine that sits on the mantle of your fireplace. Taking a large gulp, you stare off into your open window. The shiny golden streetlamps refracting across your dark living room, the air stale.
You don't even notice the tears falling until one hits your arm, jolting you out of your reminiscence like acid rain. You take one more look around your living room before you retreat to your bedroom, not looking back as you shut the door behind you.
I took my love, I took it down.
This was a new low, even for you â not that Cat would actually say that, but the look she was giving you spoke volumes, as she took in your appearance with quirked brows and crossed arms, standing at the front door of your apartment.
You look up at her, a hint of guilt smeared across your face as she takes in your devastating appearance, which consists of some old, grey yoga pants and a pink sweater that hangs off your shoulder unflatteringly as you peer up at her tiredly.Â
âYou told me you weren't sulking- I knew I shouldnât have believed you!â she accuses, her heels clicking as she pushes past you and into your apartment, freezing at the empty, hole-ridden walls. âOh, hun,â she frowns quietly, turning to look at you as you stare bullets into the floor.
âYeah?â you whisper, biting the inside of your cheek harshly to push back blearing tears that make their way to the forefront of your retinas. She takes a slow, cautious step towards you, a sad smile on her face âI know itâs hard, but this could be a good thing,â she murmurs, reaching out to rub your back softly as she looks between you and your apartment.Â
âBut just in case, I think we should get you out of here for a bitâ she adds, steering you towards your room like a sheep dog. You dig your heels into the floorboards, shaking your head, âI dont think so, I just want to spend the day inside-â âyouâve spent the past week inside. That's all you do now. Wake up, go to work, go home, sleep â you need to get out of hereâ she insists, pushing you towards your room with the strength of a small cat â making you crack a smile.
âOkay, well where are we going?â you huff, a reluctant smile on your face as Cat tears through your closet in search for, in her words, âthe perfect mix of sexy and casualâ before finally landing on a pair of bootcut jeans and a black halter top with lace detailing that showed off way more cleavage than youâd prefer.
âLet me worry about that, go showerâ she urges with a glint in her eye that youâre not so sure you should trust, but if you know anything about Cat, itâs that she is completely and utterly unwilling to let anything go, no matter how much you push.
And so, you drag yourself to the shower, scrubbing off the despair and depression youâve been sitting in for days now, before you head back to your room â Cat having made herself at home at your desk as she scrolls through her Tinder account.
You get ready in record time, partially because Cat is rushing you and partially because you don't really care how you look at this point, mind wandering off to the list of things you had to do as a result of the ongoing physical and emotional neglect of your everyday life.
Grocery shopping, buying new work shoes, and oh yeah, buying new wall decor.
By the time you finish getting ready, itâs 2:00 pm â thereâs still plenty of day left, and maybe youâd even have time to get your errands done after Catâs activity.
âOkay, will you tell me where weâre going now?â you hum as you slip on some black leather kitten heels and reach out for your vintage Juicy bag â your previous and beloved Coach bag sitting in the back of your closet where it can't taunt you with bitter recollections.
âNopeâ she muses as she grabs your wrist and drags you out of your apartment, a slick smile on her face as you two make it down the old, creaky elevator of your apartment complex and onto the street full of people. It was a Saturday, meaning there was no shortage of locals and tourists walking the streets of downtown Metropolis.
You make it two blocks away, Cat droning on about some guy she met up with who ended up owning seven cats. âAnd that's why you canât trust dating apps,â she huffs, hands thrown up in frustration as she recalls her last date gone wrong. âBut enough about that, because weâre finally here!â she smiles, her manicured hands waving dramatically in front of a small coffee cart nestled at the edge of Metropolis park, a few sets of wired chairs and tables surrounding the area.
âAnd we are here because?â you laugh, looking onto the large park to find children playing, dogs running, and old couples going on walks around the lush green oasis surrounded by a multitude of skyscrapers.
âBecause you need fresh air and a clear perspective,â she laughs, but you can tell thereâs something hidden underneath â altruism, maybe, some frustration in there too.Â
You canât deny itâs beautiful, the long willow trees blowing off with the wind like curlicues, and the infectious laughter of children like a reminder that life still goes on, that hearts still beat, even when broken. You don't come here much; youâve been a few times with Clark, but you usually keep within the city, smushed between the tall concrete buildings that hold you like vice. It feels safer that way, somehow.Â
You don't even notice Cat ordering your drinks until she pulls you away to find a table sat in the grass. It's a mosaic made out of colorful stained glass and white plaster with flecks of gold glitter shimmering through, and when you stare at it for too long it becomes a stark reminder of how it felt to be young and full of dreams, like the world was some colorful gameboard that you could make all your own.
You lost sight of that idea when you turned fifteen, burdened by the realities of neglectful parents and a life with constant bills to pay.
Clark never lost sight of it, though; he always believed that life, and the people in it, were supremely beautiful. That real beauty didnât come from perfection, but from what people made with their love and passion in a messy mix of freedom and creativity.
âYouâre thinking about him again, arenât you?â Cat hums, a sad but knowing smile on her face as she looks at you curiously, âWhat happened between you two?â she asks, for the millionth time, and you give her the same runaround answer you always do.
âHe wasnât who I thought he was.â You couldnât tell her the truth, but you couldnât lie to her either, so you settled for half-truths â fragments of reality intertwined with fictitious stories that made your chest ache.
âWell, I didnât bring you out here to talk about Clark,â she hums, lifting her flat white up to her mouth knowingly. When did the drinks get here?
âI brought you here because youâre in need of perspective. Real perspective that canât be found from the inside of your apartment walls." she huffs, "So tell me, what do you see?â she asks, gesturing around her like some blase therapist.
âI see people, Cat. A lot of people.â you huff softly, hands tapping rhythmically on your metal chair as she sighs, shaking her head. She gives you a bored look as she scoots her chair next to yours. âYouâre not even trying. You wanna know what I see?â and before you can respond, sheâs already talking.
âI see a mother, and children, and elderly couples walking together hand in hand, who probably have more experiences in life than anyone else around â including both you and me."
"I see people who are, or have been in, the same place as you and moved on from it because growing is a part of life.â sheâs looking at you now.
âItâs hard, and itâs messy, but itâs yours at the end of the day. And this situation that youâre in is not the end of it â maybe a chapterâs closed, and maybe itâs hard to let go, but if you really want to, then you will over time.âÂ
You stare off into a grassy patch a few meters away where an old couple sits under the shade of a tree, sunlight cascading down through the weaving branches as they talk, smile, and laugh.
âAnd if I canât? Let it go, that isâ you whisper, eyes glossed over slightly as you drink in the sight, catching the way the elderly man brushes a stray hair away from his lover's face in tender adoration.Â
âThen maybe it never really closed in the first place,â she murmurs, staring at you with a soft smile, before snapping you out of the scene youâre but a mere spectator of. âBut you won't know that until you try something new. This shell of a life youâre living, I don't want that for you. And Clark may have done something fucked up, but we both know he wouldnât want that either.â she finishes, arm wrapped around your shoulder as she leans her head on you, a sad smile resting on her lips as you nod in reluctant agreement.
âThen how do I move forward?â you murmur, and she smiles that same smile she always does, the one so full of hope and knowing that it makes you question her grasp on reality.
âOnly you know how to do that, because itâs unique to you. But if and when the time comeâs youâll know.â she hums, and you just nod silently, because you canât promise yourself that if you speak, you wonât cry â and youâre tired of crying.Â
You two sit in comfortable silence for about five minutes when the scene youâve become privy to watching turns into something else â children stop their games of tag as they look up to the skies in carefree fascination.Â
You follow the eyes of one little girl as she drops a soccer ball from between her fingers, mouth agape as she stares up into the sky. You feel your heart clench at the sight, your knuckles gripping the wire rungs of your chair harshly, because up in the sky is your name spelled out in clouds.
You hear Cat gasp as she follows your line of sight upwards, âoh my godâ she manages to choke out, but you canât tear your eyes away from the spectacle in the sky, especially not when you see Superman fly by the last letter. You feel sick.
âWe should get going,â you murmur to Cat, ripping your eyes away as you grab your purse from the back of your chair and stand up quickly. âWhat? Are you- are you kidding? Superman just spelled your name out in clouds, and you wanna leave?â
âIt was probably Clarkâs doing,â you mutter, âYâknow how he and Superman are friends.â you huff, eyes rolling as you shove your phone into your purse, refusing to look at Cat's gobsmacked face. âYeah, but I just thought they were like colleagues â like him and Loisâ bad choice of words.Â
âI have some errands to run, do you wanna come?â you murmur, deflecting, and Cats smart enough to realize when sheâs said something she shouldnât have.
âMaybe you should go alone, give yourself some time to think,â she hums, practically pleading with you to see the sign that's right in front of you. Whatever Clark did, heâs clearly sorry. But sorry doesnât cut it, not anymore.Â
And so you don't look up, and you don't turn around. You leave with your pride and your dignity clutched tightly to your chest as you make your way towards the shoe store â maybe youâd buy a pair of Louboutins to go with your new apartment decor. You deserved something nice.Â
Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Youâre proofreading this article for the sixth time, and it doesnât sound any better than the first time youâve revised it. Thereâs something missing, but itâs one of those little things that you don't see right away, you sort of just feel it. Maybe that's why you make your way over to the coffee machine for your third refill of the day, an earsplitting headache radiating through your skull.
The first cup was to get you caffeinated enough to actually wake up on time, having spent the entirety of yesterday shopping, and the second cup was to enhance your energy enough to appear perky even in your new shoes, which are currently tearing your feet to shreds.Â
The third one, you pray, will be sufficient enough to draw your attention to the issue at hand by the end of the day â the last thing you needed was a late work day when all you wanted to do was crawl up into a ball and rot.
Youâre pouring some hot coffee into one of the old paper cups at the coffee station â the same ones that burn your fingers and break after an hour of use, but you hardly have time to go out and buy an actually decent coffee from the cafe down the street, so you settle.
Itâs not so bad, however, when you see Jimmy walk over â that same playful smile on his face as he stands next to you, preparing his own cup. âHow many are you on today?â he laughs, and you smirk, âThree, you?â âHa, sixâ
You roll your eyes, a reluctant smile worming its way across your lips. You didnât see Jimmy as much anymore; he wasn't just a desk away now that youâve switched your desk with Cat's to escape being next to Clark â bless her generous heart.
âYes, well, Iâll be the one with the last laugh when you contract heart palpitations from caffeine overdose,â you smirk, taking a sip of your drink as you eye him playfully.
He lets out a choked laugh, shoving your shoulder gently as he leans against the wall âWhat did I do to deserve all this hostility? Between you and Clark, I-â he begins to drone, but you stop listening when he mentions Clark. Like a switch in your brain, you pivot, because that's what you do in situations like these.
âWell, good to know itâs not just me seeing it. Heâs so crabby lately,â Lois pipes in as she squeezes between you and Jimmy with a small apology, causing you to freeze, your fingers now strangely numb and your eyes flitting around the newsroom in a panic.
What are you supposed to do? You canât just walk away, that's rude. You wonder briefly if she knows â if sheâs playing dumb about the whole thing because of Jimmy, or if this is actually the one thing Clark hasn't told her. Unlikely.
You didn't actually tell anyone that the breakup was because of Lois, because at its core, it wasn't. It wasnât her fault that Clark confided in her instead of you, and itâs not her fault you felt insecure about their friendship. Though the way she looks at you, a mix of confusion and guilt laced across her face, you figure she may have figured it out. She was the best journalist at The Daily Planet for a reason.Â
You tune out the rest of their conversation as you bid them both a quiet goodbye and dip out of there as quietly as possible, though nothing's very quiet with your new shoes, which seem to draw attention to you by the clacking sound alone. Maybe you should go back to your old ones, they were worn in and familarâ no.
You stop yourself, the reminder that change is good â or at least healthy â fresh in your mind as you steel yourself with determination and make your way over to your desk.
You're not shocked to find a cinnamon muffin sat on it, still warm like a fresh taunt that your space is never really private, never really just yours.
Itâs been over two weeks of fresh pastries and coffee sat at your desk when you weren't looking, the flowers having finally stopped showing up at your apartment a week ago after Clark saw you throwing them out with blurry vision and tear-streaked cheeks.
Usually, you throw it out, or if youâre really hungry, youâll pretend to throw it out while actually taking it to the supply closet where youâd devour it in comfortable privacy. But youâre not hungry right now, so you award yourself the full-fledged satisfaction of tossing out the pastry right in front of Clark, who youâre sure is watching you between the divider walls of the bullpen.
Superman has x-ray vision, right? You think youâve read that somewhereâŠ
You wonder if heâs going to take the hint, give it up, and let it all go â but then again, you guess heâs never been particularly good at that.
You busy yourself with drawing up some mock-ups for Perry, your beat was long since finished, and you could use the brownie points if you were going to take a vacation anytime soon.Â
Youâre bringing the last drafts to his office when the air turns thick with familiarity, an aching feeling fleeting your chest as you take a slow turn and look down the previously empty hallway.Â
Clark stands a few feet behind you, a nervous look on his face as he looks at you â almost as if he didnât fully think through the implications of following you. Typical. âWhat do you want?â you whisper, eyes sharp as you take in his appearance â his ever crooked tie that you used to fix in the morning clinging to his chest, and the scruffy head of hair that hangs by his eyes looking worse for wear.Â
âI wanted to talkâ Iâve been trying to reach you, but it hasnât exactly been working out like I planned." He murmurs. âWell, if youâre trying to reach someone and theyâre avoiding you, then there's a good chance they don't want to see youâ you mutter plainly, shaking your head in agitation.
âI have to get these to Perry.â you say finally, turning on your heel before you hear his voice cut in. âWait! Please, just wait,â he murmurs, pained, one hand outstretched in an attempt to stop you without overstepping.
âWhy? So you can lie to me some more? Or so that you can make me feel crazy about it?â you hiss, taking a step back. âIâm sorry, Iâm so sorry- I know I messed up, that I ruined everything, but I never meant to-â âWell itâs not about what you meant to do, Clark, itâs about what you did.â
âPlease, let me try to make it up to you, honeyâ he whispers, hand coming to rub across his forehead anxiously. You cross your arms over your chest before letting out a final exhale.
âYou know, maybe if you hadnât lied to me for months, things could be different â but you did. You chose to keep things from me because it was easier than letting me in. I mean, what did you think, Clark? That if I knew I was gonna go around and tell everyone?â you scoff.
âGod, Clark, I thought that you were the one person who knew me better than anyone, but now it's clear that you never really knew me at all. Because if you did, then you wouldâve known that I would've supported you, been there for you.â You mutter, voice raised slightly as you bite the inside of your cheek, taking him in one last time before you disappear around the corner towards Perry's office.Â
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Youâd already eaten half of the bread that sat idly in the metal wire basket, and Jack was still droning on about the financing secrets of Capitol Hill. You were going to kill Jimmy.
After another week of sulking, Jimmy and Cat devised their own plan to get you out of your head â and your apartment, which seemed to be the only place you go anymore, according to them. âHeâs got a great job, Iâm talking super loaded! Iâm telling you, just go on one date and see how it goes. What's the worst that could happen?â You can still hear Jimmy's pleading in your ear like a metronome.Â
âSo, anyway, I was telling General Flag to reallocate and supply other funding towards our Boravian allies to appease the arms investors.â âOther money?â you canât help but choke out a scoff, eyebrows quirked as you cut him off, a sour look on your face as you process his words.
âThe Boravian government doesnât need more money; it needs regulations. It needs to halt the destruction itâs imposing on innocent people. Destruction, which, by the way, violates over a dozen international peace treaties and human rights laws â and where is this âother moneyâ supposed to come from anyway?â you gawk at his complete disregard for, in your opinion, common sense and human decency.Â
He shoots you an incredulous look, as if you were the person who said something absurd before he continues. âWell, there are plenty of federally funded programs that donât make sense to keep funding, especially when the returns donât fit the federal budget,â he defends, and youâre doing everything in your power not to toss your drink in his face.
âLike the US Military budget? I agree-â you supply before youâre cut off by a laugh that makes your ears ring and your eyes twitch. âWhoa, sweetheart, I think youâre a bit lost here. The military budget is exactly as it should be, arms development is a goldmine for investors. I was thinking more of local programs that drain federal grants and subsidies with little to no rewards â the children's reading program in Gotham, for one-â you let out a shrill laugh at that, slapping your hand over your mouth before you can stop yourself.
âYou mean to tell me that youâd rather funnel more money into weapons of war while children struggle with literacy rates in some of the most run-down and impoverished areas in the country for the sake of financial returns?â you laugh, but itâs clear to you both that nothing is remotely funny about the conversation.
âListen, honey, if we offset costs within our government now and get a remittance payout later, itâs better for us here-â âa payout?â you scoff, a look of utter disbelief plastered on your face as you reach for your purse on instinct.
âItâs always about a payout with you people, isnât it?â you mutter, as you rifle through your purse to find your phone, already dialing the number of a taxi as you stand up out of your chair, the metal scraping across the wooden floor obnoxiously in the dimly lit restaurant.
You donât even give him a chance to say anything else before you grab your half-drunk cosmopolitan, gulping the rest of it down before setting it back onto the table and walking out without so much as a second glance.Â
Youâre a few blocks down the sidewalk, the chill air caressing your exposed arms as you open up your text messages with Jimmy, âyour friend is a dick btwâ is the only message you send before youâre colliding with someone.Â
âOh god, I am so sorry!â you murmur, taking an apologetic step back as you look up to see Lois. âNo, no! It was my fault, I was on my phone,â she murmurs, a half-tense and half-apolgetic smile on her face as she takes in your appearance.
âRough night?â she points out, the look on your face a telltale sign of your increasingly horrible night. Perceptive as ever. âYou have no idea,â you laugh nervously, nodding your head as you fiddle with your denim skirt.
âYou wanna talk about it?â she asks, uncharacteristically quiet â in the months youâve known Lois Lane, she has never once been quiet. Maybe itâs because she knows what happened between you and Clark, that your desks now sit meters away from where they used to, and that you don't talk anymore. Or maybe itâs because she feels partially responsible. You hope itâs not the latter.Â
âJust Jimmy's wonderful matchmaking skills put to use,â you laugh sarcastically, heels tapping nervously on the worn concrete as you mentally berate yourself. Lois lets out a huffed laugh as she looks at you like youâve suddenly grown three heads âYou took love advice from Jimmy Olsen?â
You wince as you run your hands down your face. âNot my proudest moment, but between us, I think he and Cat were sick of my moping,â you tease, and the once light air turns stale in an instant.
âStill not talking to Clark?â she supplies, and itâs in this moment that you remember why Lois is such an incredible journalist â she doesnât pull any punches.
âYeah, that ship has sailed,â you murmur tersely, and she winces at her carelessness. âYeah, uh, Iâve been meaning to talk to you about that,â she mutters, âIâm not really good at the whole friendship thing, so Iâm sorry if I overstep, but-â âItâs okay, Lois, reallyâ you whisper, but she whips her head seldomly.Â
âNo, itâs not. Donât get me wrong, Clark's an idiot for lying to you about all of it, but it was my fault, too. Heâs the only person who didnât run screaming when he saw all of my flaws. Itâs hard to let that go sometimes, even if there are no romantic feelings there anymore,â she adds, chewing on her bottom lip contemplatively, and you feel your heart ache.Â
âWell, between us, Iâm pretty sure Clark would pick you in a heartbeat-â you murmur before you're cut off, âWhat? No, you've got it all wrong. Clark is obsessed with you â believe me, Jimmy and I have made fun of him for it multiple times. Whenever heâs not with you, youâre all he talks about.âÂ
âMe and him, weâre too different. But when he talks about you, itâs like the sun shines down on him every time he says your name,â she laughs, but the look in her eye is as perceptive as ever. Like she has some sort of agenda you haven't figured out yet
âJust, maybe try to hear him out. Heâs ridiculous and silly and an absolute train wreck, but he means well. And I promise, Iâll back off-â there it is.
âLoisâ you murmur, cutting off her rambling with a small smile âNone of this is your fault.â you say slowly, emphasizing your words in a way you can only pray she takes to heart. This may very well be the first time youâve ever seen the Lois Lane so vulnerable, nervous.Â
This wasnât the confident, ingenious woman youâve been surrounded by for months now. This is someone who reminds you a bit of yourself, and maybe that's why you canât stop yourself from holding back what you say next.Â
âLois, would you wanna come to my birthday thing next week? Cat's throwing itâ you murmur, cheeks heating ever so slightly at the implication of your words. Birthday thing? Really? âPartyâ seemed so childish, but maybe you shouldâve just-
âYeah. Yeah, that sounds like fun. Thanks,â she nods, smiling gently as you force back a small smile of your own. Maybe the night wasnât a total loss.Â
Well, I've been afraid of changing cause I've built my life around you.
Dimensional Imps were not particularly hard creatures to subdue, but they made a heck of a mess, which would undoubtedly be included in Superman's next review by every newspaper and talk show in Metropolis in the upcoming weeks.
Supermans catastrophe causes fifteen million in property damages, is he really the hero Metropolis needs? He could hear the headlines now, and no matter how many incredible things he mentions in his article, the online chatter would always win out.
But, in spite of all of that noise, drowning it out like a waterlogged speaker, is something Clark couldnât imagine trading for anything â love.
Especially from children, who look at him like he hung the stars each time they watch him in action, running up to him with bright cherub faces and eyes full of hope the second his feet touch the ground.
It very well may be his favorite part of the job, bringing hope and light to those who need it most, who need someone â or rather something â to believe in. Clark relishes in being that for people, he always has. Maybe itâs because it means that he isnât so different from everyone else, from humanity.Â
Maybe thats why he canât help the way his face lights up when a little girl comes running into his arms, a little girl that looks shockingly enough like you â same hair he loved to press his face against in the middle of the night when you two would tangle limbs in your silken sheets, the same eyes heâs committed to memory after having stared into them so many times in adoration.
He feels three other children run up to him, hugging his legs with their little hands as their parents take pictures and smile. Thereâs a cacophony of praise and thanks emanating his way, but he canât tear his eyes off of the little girl in his arms.
It makes him painfully wonder if in the event that the two of you had children, a family, if they would look like you. Selfishly, he hopes so, clinging onto the bare thread of desperation as he imagines a life with you â never mind the complexities that may come with raising a half-human half-kryptonian child, of course.Â
Not that you would ever want that after what had happened â not that he could blame you in the slightest. Because no matter how many apology muffins and flowers he left, no matter how many grand gestures he performed, nothing could erase the look on your face after youâd found out heâd been lying to you for months.
He supposes he should let the dream die â the one of you two and your white picket fence, children giggling and running across a couple of acres of land that were wholly your own.
The one of pancakes every morning and baby bottles drying next to the sink, warm smiles and soft lullabies that echo through wooden floorboards, and soft lighting that highlights the wear of both of your faces after years of love and devotion.
He should let it go. He needs to let it go, respect your decision. You donât want to see him, and he could hardly blame you. But when he looks over at the girl in his arms, clinging to him like heâs some sort of hero, he canât help but force himself to try.Â
But time makes you bolder, even children get older,
Cat had bought the gaudiest cake youâd ever seen â five tiers of hot pink Italian buttercream piped into intricate leopard print with black ruffles along the border, and of course, edible glitter. You nearly choked out a laugh the first time you saw it. It was very⊠retro.
Not that you minded, Cat was generous enough to plan the whole party for you, and youâd be lying if you said you didnât love the theme. Your apartment was now decked out with hot pink streamers, cheetah print balloons, and glitter confetti scattered across your apartment floor. Something youâd undoubtedly wait until the last minute to sweep up.Â
Cat had locked you in your room to get ready with nothing but a pack of white cheddar goldfish and your ever-waning sanity for over four hours while she decorated the apartment. You had never felt so grateful than when she finally flung the door open with a bright smile and a bandage dress covered in glitter.
You stepped out in a baby pink mini dress, the silk gliding across your skin as you adjust the bow sitting at your waist. âOh you look hot,â she gushes, ushering you out of your sanctuary and into the living room â your cake glaringly evident of the theme as it sits on your pristine countertops.
âWow, Cat, you shouldnât haveâ you murmur, voice carrying a touch of awe as you look across your apartment. Your once empty walls now covered in streamers and leopard print wall decals, it almost makes you forget the memories that fester beneath the white paint and glitter.
âWell no, I absolutely did. That's what best friends doâ she laughs, rolling her eyes as she takes you through the apartment, showing off every detail before the first knock comes. You feel yourself stop in your tracks as Cat rushes towards the door with a squeal.Â
You don't know why youâre so nervous â you know one thing for sure, and itâs that it is certainly not Clark behind the door. The knock was too weak, and there was no way Cat would invite him here, he probably wouldn't have even shown up if she did, and-
âWhereâs the birthday girl?â you hear Jimmyâs familiar voice call out. Right, of course it was Jimmy. So why were you so disappointed?Â
You donât have time to dwell on it for long, Jimmy's arm wrapping itself around you and pulling you into a bone-crushing hug a few seconds later. âI see Cat has been busyâ he muses, eyes darting around the apartment with reluctant appreciation.Â
âCan it, Jimmy.â she huffs, smacking him over the head with an eyeroll. âOr else Iâm inviting Eve over,â she hums, causing you to stifle a laugh. âI truly donât know what she sees in you Jimmyâ you muse, eyebrows quirked as he stands there defensively.
âAnd to think I even brought you a present,â he mutters, drawing your attention to the pink wrapped box that now sits idly next to the gift Cat had brought â as if she hadnât already done enough.Â
âWell it is my birthday Jimmy, but thank you so much for taking time out of your busy schedule to celebrate someone whoâs not one of the many girls you keep in your rotation,â you say dryly, making your way over to the martini station Cat had set up on your kitchen counter.Â
âYouâre welcome,â he smiles brightly, sarcasm evident in his voice as Cat joins you. Youâre in the middle of mixing up an espresso martini when you hear another knock, this time Jimmy waltzes over to get it.Â
Itâs a few more girls from the office â truthfully, you didnât know them all that well, but only having three people at your party felt a bit sad, according to Cat.
Samantha takes over the martini station with a smile, and you make your way towards the snack table, picking up some chips and shoving them in your mouth discreetly to avoid any unnecessary conversation with someone you hardly knew.
The real event comes, however, ten minutes later with a light, calculated knock on the door â there was only one person who hadn't arrived yet. âI got itâ you shout, rushing towards the door, a nervous smile on your face as you open it to reveal a very spooked Lois Lane.
âHey Lois, come on inâ you smile, moving out of the way as she enters, a small purple box in hand as she looks around the apartment. âInteresting decorâ she muses as she sets her gift next to the others.
âCat went all outâ you laugh, âand you really didnât have to get me anything, thatâs not why I invited youâ you smile, nerves buzzing across your skin like lightning. You didnât know how to do this, what to say, and you had a distinct feeling she didnât either.
âYou wanna get a drink?â you murmur, and a knowing smile breaks out across her face as she leans in âWell what do you have?â
Two hours pass by, and youâre sure that you and Lois are the drunkest pair at the party. Two cosmos and one â very strong â espresso martini later, youâre both in a fit of giggles about office gossip, which Cat had so dutifully supplied.Â
âOh god, and have you heard the bull Steve spews across the office?â she shrieks, her head thrown back in laughter. âOh god, I know â can you believe he wanted my column cut to double his sports interview â like, learn to edit.â you huff, a wry smirk on both of your faces. This was nice.
âMan, I hate that guy. You should hear the shit he harasses Clark with,â Jimmy cuts in, a knowing look on his face as he eases his way into the conversation. You shouldâve known he would find a way to bring him up.
Jimmy may be both your and Clark's friend, but heâs had enough of Clark's kicked puppy routine to last a lifetime, and wanted nothing more than for the two of you to work it out.
You, Lois, and Cat roll your eyes at him âPlease tell me what relevance Clark has right now?â Cat digs, eyes glaring daggers at him as she downs another vodka martini.
âIt's fine Catâ you hum, a reluctant smile on your face as you shake your head âSteveâs a dick to everyone, that's something we can all agree onâ you muse as you take the last gulp of your drink, a wave of awkwardness washing over the room.
Like the saint she is, Cat immediately springs into action âWell then, time for cake and presents,â she shouts, manicured hands clapping together as she rallies everyone into the kitchen. You sat at the head of your dining table, your cake in front of you as Cat lights the candles with her hot pink lighter.
Between the candle smoke stinging your eyes and the numerous phone flashlights pointed your way, youâre shocked you can see anything at all besides splotches.
But by the end of their very pitchy rendition of Happy Birthday, youâre blowing out the candles with only one thing in mind: what was Clark doing right now?
And I'm getting older too.
The next day at work, you have a killer hangover that only Lois understands as you enter the bullpen together in comfortable silence. Cat and Jimmy are already quietly bickering from their desks, and as you make your way over to yours, you freeze at the blue and gold wrapped box that sits idly on top.
You don't need to check the tag to know who itâs from â the wrapping paper is crinkled from inexperienced handywork, and it smells faintly of the familiar cologne that used to invade your senses every time you crossed your apartment.Â
You can feel Clark's eyes on you without even looking up. You take a slow, cautious step towards your desk, a mix of dread and nerves climbing its way through your body, into your veins, and infiltrating your lungs like some sort of anesthesia.Â
You knew that whatever the box contained, it was going to hit you like a suckerpunch to the heart. This wasnât just some muffin or coffee you could throw away to make a point.
There were no impersonal gifts when it came to Clark Kent â he remembered the little things, and a part of you felt like you owed it not just to him, but to the relationship you two once shared, to at least open it. Way to rub salt in the wound.
When you take an idle seat at your desk, you canât bring yourself to do anything other than stare at the pretty blue packaging. That is, until you hear the familiar footsteps of Loubitons clacking across the tile floor. Cat.
If she saw the gift you know sheâd force you to open it right then and there, and while well-intentioned, that was the last thing you needed when you had a deadline to meet by the end of the day.Â
So, you did what anyone would do: you tossed it onto the floor and shoved it up against the corner wall of your cubicle with your heeled foot. Hopefully it wasn't fragile.
âHey, sorry to keep hassling you, but I needed to get away from Steve for like five minutes. He and Jimmy are arguing about margins. again.â she huffs as she takes a seat on your desk, âI mean, how many things can men argue about? Itâs exhausting-â she drones on, but you lose interest quickly.
All you can focus on is the gift that sits under your desk like a bomb getting ready to explode, the tip of your heel brushing it each time you swivel in your office chair like a fresh taunt. Your only savior is Lois as she walks up to you, a pen in her mouth as she shoves some papers onto your desk swiftly.Â
Cat, snapping out of her stupor, canât help but lean down with wide eyes, scanning the documents along with you. âOhh, what do we have here, more Lex drama?â she hums gleefully. âYeah, if you consider multiple Environmental regulations and International fossil fuel treaty violations âdrama,ââ Lois hums amusedly.
âFigured you could use these on your next piece. I found them when I was combing through stuff for my International Affairs beat,â she smiles, and a part of you canât help the way your heart warms at the gesture.Â
âThanks Lois, thisâll be great traffic for the Environmental page â stories on sequestrating Carbon through concrete are getting a little oldâ you muse. The box resting at your feet, which had been responsible for your tachycardic heart rate for the past thirty minutes, now long forgotten.
She offers you a knowing look before retreating to her desk, leaving only you and Cat to bask in the warm sunlight shedding itself across your desk. You and Cat work in silence, as you so often do â her writing markups on some print for Perry, while you scour through sources on your computer â for the next few hours.
That is until the work day comes to a close, and youâre packing up your purse with take-home files, extra prints, and a shiny box that's been sat under your desk for over seven hours now. The bullpen is empty save for a few interns, Cat having ditched you about an hour ago for some date.
The subway ride back home is dull, but the box burning a hole in your purse makes it feel exruciatingly long. Your apartment, which still has the decorations from the night prior, feel eerie when you enter â like some old abandoned Party City that lost its luster. You mentally table the issue for tomorrow as you take a slow seat on your couch, your heels long discarded next to your front door.
You can practically feel your lungs rattle as you steady yourself, fingertips pulling the box out of your purse shakily and setting it onto your lap. You debate on leaving it on the table and coming back to it later, but Catâs voice rings in your head like a warning âdont be a little bitch, just open it.â
So, with surgical level precision, you tug the gold ribbon on top gently, watching as the bow is undone and cascades down the sides of the box. As you lift the lid of the box off, your heart catches in your throat when you scan the contents inside.
The first item you pick up is a stack of photos held together with a piece of blue ribbon. You bite the inside of your cheek as you slide the first picture out â itâs you at the holiday work party from last year, the one Clark took you to. Youâre wearing a frilly red dress with a candy cane hairpin you found at some vintage store, a glass of champagne in your hand as you laugh with Cat about something or other. When did he take this?
The next one is you again, but this time itâs of you working on a 5,000-piece puzzle you and Clark completed a few months ago as one of your date nights. You're in your favorite pair of silk pajamas, hair an absolute mess, but the smile on your face is as bright as ever as you search through the pieces looking for a stubborn corner.Â
The next one is of you at the arcade, another date Clark convinced you to go on after you vetoed bowling, the words âIâll do a lot of things, Clark, wearing old bowling shoes on a date is not one of them.â leaving your lips the moment he suggested it, much to Clark's dismay.
Youâre clutching the small stuffed bear that Clark won you at one of the strength games, your eyes closed in excitement as you nearly squeeze the stuffing out of the poor thing. It was a light brown color and had a tie â you initially named it Clarkie before he vetoed that, and you both settled on Pudding.Â
You don't notice the way tears well up in your eyes as you pull out another picture frantically, like a woman starved.
This one is of you at Delphines the first time you and Clark had ever gone together after a long day of shopping â well, you dragging Clark shopping.
Youâre sitting in the corner booth directly across from him as your spoon makes its way to your mouth, the sun filtering in from the window making your hair shine and your eyes sparkle as you look up at him.
There have to be at least twenty more just like it in the stack, taken over various dates the two of you had shared â mini golfing, ice skating, painting in the park, picnics on the beach.
You tear through them in record time, analyzing every detail like a mad woman before you land on the last one. You feel your heart squeeze at the achingly familiar sight.Â
Because the last one is the photo of you at the Metroplois Bay aquarium, Clark having clipped himself out in an attempt to be respectful, but it just serves as a reminder that something's missing. You set the photos on the coffee table, heart heavy as you pull out the last item in the box. A letter.
You open it with shaking hands, as you begin to read.Â
My dearest,
I wish you saw yourself the way that I see you, because I doubt there could be anything more beautiful in this universe and the next. Here are some photos that I took during each of our dates â each perfectly captured to show you exactly how I view you, perfectly imperfect. Back when the only strain on our relationship was whether or not you liked the angle of the photo, or how your hair looked that day. Though, truth be told, there was never a moment that passed where I didnât truly believe you were the most beautiful being on any earth. Hopefully these photos can show you that, show you how I saw you â how I will always see you.
I know you think that I donât know you at all, but that couldnât be further from the truth.Â
You once asked me if I thought that you would tell someone my identity if youâd found out sooner. I didnât. I didnât tell you because I knew that if I had, my biggest fear could come true. That the danger you would face wouldnât just be that of people who seek to expose me, but of your own selflessness.
It's because I know you that I know you would jump face-first into danger if it meant aiding and abetting me, which is something I just couldnât live with. Your loyalty is something fierce, and loving you is the greatest joy of my life, but with that comes my unequivocal desire to protect you, in any form that may take.Â
And I know now that itâs too late, that I've violated your trust, and that maybe you view this all as a waste â but I wouldnât change a second of it because it led me to you. And I will always be a firm believer that loving someone is never a waste.
Yours always, Clark.Â
You feel the letter slip between your shaking fingers as tears drip down your cheeks, your head dropping into your hands with shuddered breaths.
Oh, take my love, take it down
Clark doesn't know where heâs going when he starts flying, but he ends up at the same place he usually does. He can hear Kryptos' incessant barking from miles away, and the icy chill across his skin is a familiar reminder that heâs at least somewhere familiar.Â
He lands at the base of the fortress, hair askew after a long day of work â or at least a long day of watching you from a distance while pretending to do work. Semantics and all.
He only stands at the base of the door for a few moments before he sees the sun creeping up from the horizon like a halo.
The glint on the ice is practically blinding, but thereâs something tempting about it that propels him in the direction of some glaciered hills to the West. The crunch of ice beneath his boots is a reminder that he doesnât feel in control of his body as he makes his way towards the pristine basin of ice and snow.
He studies it for a moment, the mix of slick ice and sunlight a culmination of what seems to be a mirror, but itâs not him he sees staring back, it's you. Or at least a memory of you.
Youâre standing in your pajamas in your kitchen, a whisk in hand as you dance around your kitchen on some odd morning when youâd promised to make him pancakes if he spent the night.
He vaguely remembers including a photo from that day in your birthday gift â he wonders if youâd opened it yet.
By the time he tears his eyes away, like some haunting dream, your face appears on the glacier opposite him again, but this time youâre taking a nap on your couch, and heâs looking in on you from your apartment window during patrol.
He remembers that day, youâd spent four extra hours working on your affordable housing article so that Perry would be able to get it out by the end of the week, just in time for the City Council meeting.Â
Clark tears his eyes away, but the painful, mocking truth is that no matter where Clark turns, runs, or flies, he knows in his bones that he wonât be able to escape the technicolor images of you staring back at him. The memories of the life you two shared, which seems so far away now.Â
But then again, Clark was always a hopeless romantic, which is maybe why after ten minutes of trying to outrun the memory of you across the Arctic, he decides to plead his case one last time.Â
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills, well, the landslide bring it down
Your legs dangle on the edge of your building's rooftop deck as you watch people walk up and down the dimly lit street near your apartment complex. Your pink fuzzy slippers are protecting your feet from the chill outside air, but your thin grey sweater is hardly doing a good enough job as you wrap your arms around yourself and exhale shakily.Â
The tears on your cheeks have just dried, and the photos still sit idly on your coffee table awaiting your return like a painful taunt from some schoolyard bully. You thought the fresh air would clear your head, make the pain radiating through your chest dim slightly â you were wrong.
You just feel tired, and lonely, and like you miss someone youâve pushed so far away that there may be no turning back now.
Youâre still upset at Clark, maybe a part of you always would be, but an even bigger part of you still loved him, and maybe that was worth something too.Â
Youâre so lost in your own lovesick psychosis that you donât hear the familiar woosh of Metropolisâ favorite hero as he touches down behind you. It's the scuff of his boots and the lingering drips of water by his cape that shock you out of your system as you scramble up and away from the edge, taking in his appearance.
Heâs still in his suit, no glasses, a single windswept curl hanging by his eyes in a way youâre still unused to seeing in person, but his eyes â his eyes are still the same.
âIâm sorry for showing up unannounced, but I had to see youâ he pleads, his breathing laboured as he takes in your appearance. You bite the inside of your cheek as you step a fraction of an inch closer to him âI got your presentâ.
Itâs impossible not to notice the way his eyes light up at your words as he waits for you to continue. âI know why you did it now,â you offer quietly, âbut it doesnât make it hurt any less,â you whisper finally.
Clark nods solemnly as he twists his fingers together nervously, a habit he thinks heâs adopted from you. âI know, honey, I messed up bad and Iâm still so sorry â been beating myself up about it this whole time if it's any consolation,â he offers, and you can't help but crack a smile.
âMaybe a littleâ you chuckle reluctantly before looking up at him, âwhy did you come by?â you murmur curiously, but thereâs no mistaking the longing in your eyes.
He takes a small step forward, âI came because no matter where I go, I canât escape youâ he admits, nervously.
âI see you everywhere I go, I miss you every night before I go to bed, and every morning when I wake up. I think of you whenever I hear that Steve Nicks song playing on the radio on my way to work-â
âItâs Fleetwood Mac, technically,â you cut in softly, and he lets out an exhausted laugh, âand I miss the way youâd correct me, even mid-sentence when Iâm trying to declare how utterly in love with you I amâ he adds, and just like that, the tears spring back to your eyes like theyâd never left.
The moment Clark notices, he feels his heart stutter, a frown overtaking him, âand now Iâm just making it worse all over again. Iâm sorry, hon, I really am. I shouldâve given you time, more space, like you askedâ he frets, but you just shake your head and wipe your face harshly.
âIâve missed you too, Clark, more than you even knowâ you murmur wetly, and he canât stop his body from moving on autopilot towards you â and you canât either when the way his arms envelop you feel like being home after a long time away.
âIâm sorry I was stubbornâ you admit, but he just shakes his head and he shushes you âNo, Iâm sorry for not being honest, it won't happen againâ he promises, like a last-ditch effort pleading for you to give him a second chance.
âYou weren't wrong, though. If I had known, I wouldâve put myself in some sort of danger if it meant helping you. I still will.â You admit.
âBut I think that may be something we both need to work on,â you murmur half-jokingly, and youâd be lying if you said you didn't feel the way Clark's arms tightened around you ever so slightly, your feet lifting off the ground as he takes in the familiar smell of your shampoo and laundry detergent.
âI think that's manageable. As long as we do it together,â Clark murmurs softly, his hand rubbing across the back of your neck as he pulls away to look at you, eyes shining with some mixture of fondness and yearning.Â
âTogether seems like a good plan,â you agree breathily, before pausing, "I'm still so pissed at you, though," you point out softly, Clark's face breaking out into a sheepish smile.
"I guess I'll just have to make it up to you then," he murmurs before leaning forward, his cool lips meeting yours as you bask in this moment. Because for the first time in nearly a month, you feel like you have your life back, and youâre not letting it go.
Not when things get messy or complicated, and especially not when you realize you're floating twenty feet in the air as you and Clark break away from the kiss with heated cheeks and soft smiles, because truth be told, you couldnât think of a better view.Â
Oh-ohh, the landslide bring it down.
some people asked me to tag them: @ilivboi @aesthetic-lyss @saltedcoffeescotch :)
summary: you and clark had a unique relationship, one you've never doubted until one day the lies become too much and the secrets â including the reason he's so infatuated with his ex-girlfriend, lois lane â all come crashing down.
content: angst, hurt/no comfort, fem!reader, insecurities, jealousy, lying, arguing, yelling, cursing, mentions of sex, mentions of drinking, mentions of weed, mentions of neglectful parents, gun violence, more angst, some fluff, david corenswet's clark kent, misguided clark kent, scorned reader.
a/n: went to go see Superman in theaters with my gf, and I'm literally obsessed with David's version. Based on the live performance of Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac (it's sort of a mess, but I've been working on it for so long, so I'm just gonna post it). I hope you all like it (7.5k words)
You loved your job. In spite of the seemingly endless deadlines, cramped cubicles, and near-always burnt coffee, you couldnât think of a better place to work. There wasnât a day that went by at The Daily Planet that something exciting didnât happen.
Though youâd have to admit that the most exciting part was getting to spend your workdays sitting next to your boyfriend, discussing whatever breaking news occurred the second you stepped into the building.Â
Well, sort-of boyfriend. You didn't actually know what to call Clark â the many nights you two spent entangled in your soft egyptian cotton sheets mangled the âfriendsâ title a long time ago.
Now heâs the first person to ask you what beat you were assigned that morning, your favorite iced cinnamon latte in hand.Â
Though that's not to say you two didn't have your challenges. Clark was incredible: smart, handsome, funny, thoughtful, succinct, but he had secrets.
Youâd always assumed one day youâd crack them, get him to open up â you were a reporter after all, itâs what you did. You guess you never thought about what would happen to your relationship if you didnât â maybe you shouldâve.
You were working on an investigative report on Luthorcorp, and its both immoral and illegal involvement in biological weaponry, when Clark took a seat next to you, a bright smile on his face as he handed you the caffeinated cup you were so desperately craving.
âHows the article coming?â he smiles knowingly, and you just huff out a tired sigh, âabout as well as it could, given the fact that Lex Luthor is like a brown recluse; hard to get a hold of and venomousâ you mutter. I was only 10:30 am, but you needed this done by end of day or else Perry would have your head.
He sends you a soft smile, âWell, if anyone could do it, it would be you.â he murmurs reassuringly, before turning to look over at his own computer.
You try to resist, but you canât help but sneak a peek at his screen, deep down already knowing what he was working on.
âAnother interview with Superman. How do you do it, Clark?â you muse, taking a sip of your coffee as you laugh in impressed exasperation. Everyone at The Planet wondered how Clark managed to snag an exclusive with Superman after every fight; it was like an anomaly.Â
âI swear, you and Lois are the only two reporters here who manage to catch him. Youâve made yourselves very indispensable,â you laugh, your acrylic french tips clacking on your keyboard as you talk.
He can practically feel his cheeks heat up at your comment, scratching the back of his neck nervously as he chokes out a weak laugh. âYeah, just lucky, I guess,â he murmurs.
It was always the same excuse, but deep down, you knew there had to be more to it than just luck.Â
âYes, well, hopefully some of that luck rubs off on me.â you hum playfully as you open your emails, groaning at the to-do list from Perry a mile long.
Clark steals a glance over your shoulder, wincing in sympathy âPerry, again?â he hums, and you nod with clenched eyes. This was most definitely going to be a long day.
âI swear to god, Clark, I am going to kill him.â you murmur as you look up at him, his signature puppy dog pout and bright blue eyes meeting yours halfway.
Itâs moments like these that make you wish you could stay like this forever, eyes locked on his as the rest of the newsroom fades away to quiet murmurs.Â
You could be my silver spring, Blue-green colors flashin'
âWell, if you did that, then who would be signing those paychecks of yours?â he points out, causing you to roll your eyes playfully as you send the files down to the copy room to be printed.
âYeah, but imagine how much press weâd get when I publish the story from my jail cell,â you wink as you stand up.
You push your chair back into your desk, straightening out your black pencil skirt and plain white blouse as you murmur a quiet âbe right backâ, your shiny black heels clacking against the tile floor of The Planet as you leave the newsroom in a rush.Â
You weave through the endless hallways, sending small waves to the colleagues you recognize, before you finally reach the letterpress. You work the buttons on it swiftly, practiced, as you wait for the 48 pages â front and back, double spaced â to be done.
You move away from the machine, leaning against the wall as you bite your bottom lip in boredom, going over the mental checklist for your day.
Thankfully, the silence doesnât last long when Cat comes waltzing in, a tired smile on her face as she waves at you. âHey! Perry, send you down?â she laughs knowingly. Before this was your job, it was hers, and letâs just say, she didn't miss it.
âGotta start somewhere, right?â you tease. You were by no means new, but you were the newest edition having joined seven months ago, and therefore being stuck with the worst jobs.
Sure, you still got to write a fair deal, but it was accompanied by hours of printing, fact checking, and shockingly enough, grocery runs to the market on Fifth Ave when Perry ran out of his favorite vanilla coffee creamer.
She smiles as she bumps your shoulder playfully, leaning next to you against the wall, sipping on her low-fat flat white. She was one of your best friends at The Planet ever since you started â well, besides Clark, of course.
âSo I hear you and Kent have been getting cozy,â she teases, shooting you a wink that makes your cheeks heat.
Thatâs the thing about Cat, she knew everything that went on at The Planet, even if she didn't mention it outright.Â
âYeah, well, itâs nothing serious,â you assure halfheartedly, though itâs not hard to see that you want it to be.
âWell, itâs as serious as heâs been since his relationship with Lois ended.â she muses, shooting you a smile that was meant to be encouraging, but instead only spurs an uncomfortable ache in your chest.Â
Of course you knew Lois and Clark had a thing before you two met, hell, everyone at The Planet knew â but it didnât occur to you how serious it was until now.
âWeâre justâŠtaking things slowâ you muse softly, an uncomfortable thought entering your brain, âDid he uh- was he gone a lot when they were together?â you pray that the hint of insecurity isn't noticeable in your voice.
Cat frowns, taking a sip of her drink âI don't really remember, but I don't think so. Those two were practically attached at the hip. Where youâd find one, youâd usually find the otherâ she laughs, shaking her head at the memory.
âI guess some things never change.â you murmur quietly, eyes locked on your pair of So Kates as she frowns, realizing that maybe she should have kept her thoughts to herself this time.
âOh, honey, no. Heâs- heâs obsessed with you.â She assures, rubbing your back softly, wincing internally at her big mouth. "He just disappears sometimes, y'know? and he never tells me where he is." you mumble softly, causing her to frown thoughtfully.
"Well, my advice is to talk to him about it. He can't change if he doesn't know he's creating a problem," she tells you honestly, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't make you feel a little bit better â though not by much.
âAnd do us all a favor and donât wait too long on making things official, okay? Anyone here can tell Clark is crazy about you. I mean, no one else gets their iced coffee hand-delivered to their desk every morning,â she winks knowingly, and you had to hand it to her â no one gave heartfelt speeches like Cat.
Your conversation is cut short when you hear the copy machine beep, a telling sign that your pages are ready to be sent over to Perry's office.
You snatch up the fresh, warm pages, tucking them under your arm as you shoot Cat a small goodbye and make your way out â your heart just a tad heavier than before.Â
And don't say that she's pretty? and did you say that she loved you?
You make your way towards the elevator at the far end of the deserted hallway, refusing to put yourself through fifteen flights of stairs to reach Perry's office. Unlucky for you, as the doors open, youâre met with none other than Lois Lane herself.
She's dressed in some fitting black slacks and a cute purple striped blouse, making you slightly jealous that you didn't think of it first. That's not fair, you think to yourself, she has never once been unfair or rude to you.
To make matters worse, she shoots you a friendly smile and a small wave as you enter, hitting the floor twenty button in silence.
You can't help but wonder if her and Clarkâs relationship had the same cracks yours did, or if it was a you problem.
âHey, how's the article coming?â she asks, her interest genuine as she leans against the elevator wall. God, did she have to be so pretty?
âAs well as possible, you know how Luthor is,â you muse, and she laughs. Lois is highly aware of the unique challenges that come with getting any type of information out of Lex Luthor. âHowâs yourâs coming? I didnât catch what your beat was.â you ask politely.
She smiles tiredly, âIâm doing politics. I managed to get an in-depth interview with Superman about what happened near Midtown,â she muses, and suddenly you feel so stupid.
You couldnât even get a representative from Luthorcorp to take your calls; meanwhile, she was getting an exclusive with the Man of Steel himself.
Nevertheless, you smile cordially, âWell, I canât wait to read it. Iâm sure itâll be great.â you offer softly as the elevator doors open, like a saving grace.
You wave goodbye as you straight shoot towards Perryâs office, the large mahogany door propped open enough for you to get a peek inside.Â
Thankfully, Perryâs not in there, and youâre able to drop off the paperwork at his desk and book it out in a matter of seconds. The last thing you wanted was to get caught in another one of Perry's hour-long lectures about âthe wows and woes of honest journalismâ.
By the time you make it back down to the news room, your face is flushed from the excessive amount of stairs you descended â refusing the elevator in fear of getting caught in another awkward conversation.Â
You had enough on your plate, the last thing you needed was your brain being clouded by insecure jealousy when you had a job to do. A job you very much did not want to lose, no less.
Realistically, you knew that things between Lois and Clark were over, that they were just good friends, and that the love they shared had fizzled out a long time ago.
But once in a while, youâd catch them in a quiet moment together, their chemistry palpable as you sat back like some bystander. Â
Unfortunately for you, when you catch sight of your cubicle, you feel your heart still in your chest as you observe Clark and Lois deep in conversation, the only thing youâre able to hear being soft whispers and shared laughter.
Part of you wants to run away, because if you stay here and dissect this moment, then it forces it to become real â not some figment of your imagination constructed out of jealousy, but a moment that changes how you perceive your own relationship.Â
But you know you can't run, not for lack of desire, but because your half-dranken â and now watery â iced latte still sits on your desk, spilling its condensation all over your last report, and if you leave now, itâll be drenched in minutes.
So you begin to walk, heels clacking against the tile flooring in a way that would usually alert Clark that youâre there, prompting a bright smile from his end, but that isnât what awaits you. Instead, you make it all the way to your desk without so much as a glance from Clark.
And, even though youâre not proud of it, you try your hardest to listen in on what they're saying, only half paying attention to the new conference calendar pulled up from your email.
You can feel your nails dig into your computer mouse as you bite your tongue, trying your best to tune out the soft laugh Lois lets out.
Theyâre friends, theyâre allowed to talk, you reason. You just assumed that all of the time they spent together outside of work would be more than enough.
âYes, well, no one does it like you, Lois. You deserve that promotion more than anyone,â he smiles softly at her, and she stifles a grin. âWell, make sure to tell Perry that, will ya?â she laughs, leaning against his desk as she takes a sip of her extra sweet cappuccino.
You bite the inside of your cheek as you steal a sideways glance at them, Clark's back half turned to you, Lois leaning down in front of his face, whispering something in his ear that makes him choke out a weak laugh.
Itâs the same stumbling laugh he lets out whenever you pick a particularly pretty piece of lingerie to wear under your dress during your dates, or when you pepper kisses down his neck while you two pretend to watch some old movie on the TV in your apartment.
It makes you sick. It makes you want to run and hide because neither of them have noticed you yet, and it's the first time in a while that youâve felt well and truly invisible.
Itâs not often that youâre thankful for Jimmy, he doesnât know a good thing when heâs got it, and he acts like having a million girls fawning over him is an issue â but right now, you feel pretty fucking thankful when you see him approach, calling out your name.
âHey, are you coming to the LutherCorp conference next week?â he asks with a knowing smile, you never missed an opportunity to rag on Lex Luthor, even if the process of getting to him was comparable to pulling teeth, âWouldnât miss it for the world,â you smirk.
Itâs only when your voice rings that Clark whips his head around, shocked out of his daze as he looks down at you, a half frown on his face. Why didn't you tell him you were back?
You and Jimmy exchange a few more words before he departs, and Clark quickly cuts in âHey, I didnât see when you got back, how was the run to Perry's office?â he laughs, attention undividedly on you.
âDid he give you another spiel on ethics in journalism?â he teases, but you can't bring yourself to find anything funny anymore, not when youâve spent the last fifteen minutes comparing you and Clark's relationship to the one he and Lois shared.Â
âYes, well, you seemed pretty⊠occupied. And no, he wasnât there.â Is all you manage before you look at the time. It was your lunch break, thank god.
Before Clark can ask you anything else, youâre out of your chair, black coach bag in hand, as you rush towards the door of the news room, gone in an instant and leaving him feeling utterly awful.
so I begin not to love you. Turn around, see me runnin'
âI donât want to hear it tonight, Clark, just leave.â you mutter, the front door of your apartment half open as you stand in the doorway, arms crossed as you shoot daggers at his tall frame. If looks could killâŠ
You had just spent over three hours waiting downtown at the small Italian place you two loved, just for him to pull a no-show.
Youâd even dressed up in that short pink lacy dress he liked so much to surprise him. You canât believe youâd been so stupid.
You shouldâve known this would happen, Clark was known for doing stuff like this. Part of you wonders if that's why he and Lois didnât work out â though something ugly and cruel inside of your brain tells you that this situation wouldn't have even occurred if she were in your place.
âI am so sorry, you gotta believe me- Something came up and I lost track of time, it won't happen again,â he murmurs, hair mussed and cheeks flush as he stares down at you, guilt evident on his face.Â
The worst part? You wanted to forgive him. To tell him it was okay and go to bed without a fight, but you couldnât. Not anymore.
âItâs not just this time, Clark, this is a constant issue. You always disappear off somewhere, and you never tell me what it was that you were actually doing.â Youâre borderline begging at this point for him to let you in, to be honest.Â
âI know how bad it looks, but I swear to you that if I had known this wouldâve happened, then I would've planned better.â he begs, but youâre not satisfied. Youâre tired of the half-truths and dodged questions.Â
âThen tell me where you were, Clark.â you huff, voice unwavering as you stand your ground. You loved Clark, but you were tired of whatever back-and-forth game you guys seemed to play each week.Â
âI was at The Planet,â he whispers, and you canât help but scoff, because you know that's not true. âThe Planets closed, Clark. And I know you don't have the administrative key to enter, so-â âI was with Lois. She has the key.â
Oh. And just like that, the fire inside of you dies. You don't know why youâre shocked, Lois is who he was with half of the time he left you hanging, but he usually would at least call you first.
âWhat?â you whisper, voice sharp enough to cut through steel as you shake your head in frustration. âShe needed help on an article, and-â âSheâs a grown woman, Clark.â you hiss, taking a few steps away from the door as you try to calm yourself down.
âYouâre telling me that you stood me up because Lois needed help on an article? Do you really think Iâm buying that?â you scoff, and he winces at how utterly ridiculous it sounded â lying was never his strong suit.Â
You didn't doubt that he was with Lois, but it was a well-known fact that Lois Lane didn't need anyoneâs help writing a report, especially not his. Leaving you to wonder what it was that the two of them were actually doing together, especially if he felt the need to lie about it.
Believe it or not, Clark had every intention of showing up on time for your date; hell, he even had the bouquet of pink lilies in hand when Lois called him about some important confidential breach at The Planet from a computer whose IP matched Luthorcorps exactly.
He wouldn't have even gone if it weren't for the fact that she needed his abilities to help break through the safe in Perry's office, which contained the computer lockdown codes; without them, Luthorcorp would have access to every piece of media â published and unpublished â and sources within the database. Not that he could explain that to you.
âShe just⊠she needed me there, Iâm sorry,â he whispers, remorsefully. âYeah, well, I needed you too, but I guess that didnât really matter, did it, Clark?â you scoff bitterly, eyes practically drilling holes into your fuzzy cow slippers that adorn your feet.
You refused to look up at him, you knew that if you did, he would see the tears building in your eyes and the last thing you needed was for him to see you cry â to see how he affected you.
It had only been three days since the incident at The Planet, and neither of you had brought it up. He had just called you the next day, inviting you out for lunch, and you all but jumped at the opportunity â wrongly assuming once again that this was the last time he would put someone else first.
Itâs not until this very moment, standing here in your own agony, that you wonder if he realizes how badly it hurt you â or if he even understood why.Â
âJust go, Clark.â you hiss, as he takes a cautious step towards you, prompting you to take a larger one back, refusing to let him console you when heâs the one who caused this.Â
âI don't- I canât see you anymore. Not when every time you leave me, it has something to do with her,â you choke out, wiping away a stray tear before lifting your head to face him.
"please, don't do this-" "It's fine, Clark. I mean, we were never really serious anyway, right?" you mutter weakly, arms wrapping around yourself instinctively as his voice falters, because he knows that's not true, you both do.
Every fiber of his being is begging him to stay there, to make things right, but he canât. Not now, not anymore, not when itâs clear as day that you didnât want him around right now.
And when he exits down the hallway, stepping into the old creaky elevator, it finally occurs to you that maybe Lois and Clark will be the reason that the two of you won't work out.Â
And can you tell me, was it worth it? Baby, I don't wanna know
The next day at The Planet makes you regret every positive sentiment youâve expressed about the place â a place that used to be synonymous with creativity and intellectualism, now paralleled by hurt and insecurity.Â
You get to work early â much earlier than you ever have before, anyway â taking a seat at your cubicle, dead set on keeping your eyes on your own space.
The last thing you want is to torture yourself by anazlying Clark's desk looking for some evidence that his and Loisâ meeting last night was anything less than wholesome.Â
Thankfully, the one thing youâve always been good at was compartmentalizing â tuning people out was like second nature, and youâve never been so grateful for that skill up until now.
Youâre just praying that Clark runs late, as per usual, and you can get out of here before he even steps foot in the building.
Unfortunately, that dream is squashed when you hear the tell-tale sound of Clark's messy footsteps across the tile floor, making their way over to where you sit, revising some old sports column for Jimmy as a favor.
You're semi-snapped out of it when an iced latte is placed gently on your desk, but you donât look up â you don't even move, acting as if he wasnât there at all.Â
Truthfully, you didnât have a game plan for today. After the events of last night, which included falling asleep on your kitchen floor after pounding back a bottle of chardonnay, you didnât have much time to plan out a strategy.Â
When it becomes glaringly obvious to Clark that he isnât going to get an acknowledgment from you, he takes a silent seat at his desk, pulling up some old beat he needed to fact-check before handing in.
Clark was always like that, neat, careful, meticulous; you wonder why he couldn't have been that way with your heart.
A few hours of less-than-comfortable silence go by before you finish your last article of the week â though it did include working through lunch, which Clark wasn't too keen on, making it a point to drop off a chicken salad sandwich on your desk quietly.
You pack up your belongings in record time as you tear out of the news room, Clark standing up abruptly to follow you as you head towards the elevator, signature black Coach bag in hand. He still remembers the day you bought it â you had dragged him shopping with you, claiming you needed an âoutsider's opinionâ.Â
Before you can get to the closing elevator doors, you hear a familiar voice call out to you, âcan we please talk?â Clark bumbles out, hand clasped gently on your shoulder as he looks at you pleadingly.
You freeze for a second before the pain flashes through you all over again, and you shrug him off. âClark, you abandoned me and then lied about it. I mean, what is there to say?â you scoff, eyes narrowed in his direction as he looks down, guilt-ridden.
When the events of last night first happened, he flew to the Fortress to clear his head â get a grip on his feelings.
He didnât even realize how bad all of the lies must have been weighing on you until he talked to Superbot #4 about it.
For a being with no human emotion, he sure was great at reading people.
He doesnât even know what to say, because as much as he wants to tell you everything, he can't go down that path again. Lois had found out about his secret two months into their relationship, and it complicated everything.
He had never intended on telling her, the same way he never intends on telling you. He would never be able to forgive himself if you'd gotten hurt because of your connection to him, so instead, he buries it deep inside him.
âI donât know what youâre talking about, we were working on her article.â he murmurs, doubling down as his eyes stare down at his pair of black loafers blankly. Because even he knows that heâs lying to your face, and itâs killing him.Â
You choke out a humourless laugh as you shove past him, âRight. Well have fun screwing her, because Iâm done letting you screw me,â you scoff, entering the elevator and pressing the first floor button without so much as a second glance.Â
Itâs official, Clark Kent was an idiot.Â
Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me
Clark dedicates the next week to trying to make it up to you, trying to prove to you that nothing like that was going on with Lois, not anymore.
That deep down, there's only ever been you.
It's the third time in a row youâve come home to some variety of flowers laid against your door, wrapped up prettily with a long card attached.
You roll your eyes as you pick them up, unlocking your front door and tossing them onto your kitchen counter where the other ones sit neatly in vases â card long discarded.
Just because Clark was a lousy boyfriend didn't mean the flowers had to suffer. Plus, as much as you hated to admit it, Clark knew exactly what you liked.
Whether that be in bed, with your legs thrown over his shoulders as he drilled into you, or getting ice cream downtown in the same flavor you always got.
Spending nearly every night with a person for months will do that to you.
Itâs the same way you knew everything about him â his favorite band, his favorite place to get falafel, the way heâd stifle a smile whenever he caught you singing and dancing to some old Fleetwood Mac song through the walls.
That's the only real explanation you have for his astute ability to somehow match the flowers he bought you to your apartment's decor perfectly â the white roses, pink lilies, and cream peonies working to complement the pink lacy tablecloth, throw pillows, and curtains adorning your apartment.Â
He really was trying, that much was evident â especially with the way heâd taken to hand-delivering your favorite cinnamon donuts from the bakery down the street to your desk whenever you offhandedly mentioned craving one to Jimmy.
Sure, he could've gotten you a gift card â but he knew you well enough to know how much you hated them.
Youâd gotten enough impersonal gifts from your parents over the years, you liked that Clark was thoughtful. Maybe part of you still did.
But at the end of the day, you refused to let yourself get sucked back in again. If Clark wanted to fix things between you, then he would tell you the truth about what happened the other night with Lois.
A few times you could handle, but part of you knows that now, even if he told you what had happened the last time, you didnât know if youâd be able to forgive him unless you knew the truth about all of the other times they snuck off.Â
That's the thing about lies, they spiral and build until they suffocate everything else underneath them, trust included.
But as you sit at your kitchen table, looking out onto the steady metropolis sunset, you ask yourself why you put up with this for so long. Maybe it's because you never thought Clark could be capable of cheating â that maybe his life really was as unpredictable as he made it out to be.
Or maybe itâs because you were out of your mind in love with him, and love makes people excuse a lot of things.
It's not until you take a step back, looking over your living room, that you realize Clark is everywhere. Your eyes lock onto the cow stuffed animal that sits on the mantle of your fireplace â the same one Clark had managed to get to work even after the two of you couldn't find a lighter in the apartment last winter.
You don't even realize youâve made your way over there until you feel the familiar soft fur underneath your fingertips. Clark had won this for you at some fundraising event that The Planet had sponsored for a new youth journalism program down in Gotham.
They had a ton of journalism-related games, and he had won you the stuffed cow after he had beaten out everyone at some âhistoric international journalistâ trivia. he was a nerd, but he was your nerd. At least, he used to be.
That was before all of the lies, all of the secrets. Back when he was just Clark Kent, youâre new coworker who was just a tad friendlier than the rest.
You never thought youâd long for moments like that again, moments before things got so complicated.
You don't even notice youâre crying until a tear falls onto the eye of the stuffed animal, shattering the fond memory and causing you to recoil. Your manicured finger slides across the fur gently. God, you missed him.
You missed the way he could barely fit in your queen-sized bed, and the way heâd shower with his glasses on after you two had a particularly riveting night.
You especially missed the way heâd hold you after a long day at The Planet, his arms wrapped around you like they were invincible, his head lying atop yours comfortingly as he'd whisper sweet nothings in your ear.
But most of all, you missed when he let you love him. no limits, no secrets, no half-assed excuse about some prior commitment he had made.
But then again, you guess that's the price you pay for falling in love with someone as unreliable as Clark Kent.
I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me
Nevertheless, the days drag â a day becomes a week, a week becomes two, and you and Clark still havenât spoken. He still brings you your morning coffee and apology flowers, but itâs different now. Heâs quieter than before.Â
You wonder if anyone else notices it before concluding that if they do, they certainly don't make a point of bringing it up. Even Catâs been watching her words around him lately, and you haven't seen Lois nearly as many times as youâre used to.
Part of you wonders if youâve blown this way out of proportion, ended things over something so trivial.
Everyone had secrets, you knew that, you just didnât expect Clark to keep so many after youâd given all of yours to him.
It's Friday when everything changes. Youâd just spent an extra three hours at The Planet doing some damage control for the geo-politics beat with Cat â which went up in literary flames after some new intern messed up the ordering â when you decided to call it quits.
âWell Iâm gonna head out, wanna come with? Delphineâs is having a deal,â you muse pleadingly. Delphines was a little ice cream shop down on Third Ave that you and Clark used to frequent.Â
âIâm alright, I promised Joe weâd try out those pot brownies together tonight,â she winks, and you let out a laugh.
âRight, have fun with that,â you muse, already expecting a call from her later tonight while sheâs high out of her mind.Â
You exit the office building, a chill sweeping past you as you and Cat go your separate ways. Youâre clad in your usual attire â a fitted skirt and blue striped blouse, plus the suit jacket Clark had left behind for you to use once he found out you were staying late.
You wouldn't have taken it, but it really was getting colder out, and the last thing you needed was to get sick when you had deadlines.
Youâre walking down some dimly lit street, half a block from The Planet, when you feel the familiar barrel of a gun pressed against your temple.Â
âGive me your purse, and Iâll consider not blowing your brains out,â you hear a slimy voice mutter as you let out a blood-curdling scream, the man's hand clasping itself over your mouth immediately as you drop your purse onto the floor shakily.
He keeps the gun pressed firmly against your temple as he snatches the bag, rifling through it to find your wallet, tossing out your favorite pair of sunglasses and spare lip gloss onto the floor in the process.
You can't even bring yourself to breathe until you see the familiar blur of red and blue knocking the gun out of the man's hand, wrapping them around his back swiftly, and sedating him before alerting police dispatch.Â
You scramble away from the scene, tripping over your heel in the process, igniting a fiery pain up your ankle, but you can't bring yourself to care.
Tears run down your face as you try to process what the hell just happened â you knew Metropolis wasnât exactly a haven at night, but it wasnât Gotham.
âAre you alright, maâam?â Superman asks, looking you up and down for any visible injuries, and you swear for a second you can hear his voice waver, but you just chalk it up to being in shock.
âI think so,â you whisper, lifting your trembling hand up to your face to wipe off the tears, fingers ghosting over where the gun was pressed to your temple.
You feel Superman corral you softly towards a well-lit alleyway, away from the prying eyes that lurk down from the apartment buildings that sandwich you.
âIt's alright, youâre safe now,â he murmurs, looking down at you reassuringly, but you canât help but wonder, âHow did you get to me so fast? I didnât even scream, but you- you were already here.â you murmur, brain on hyperdrive.
âI was justâŠin the areaâ he murmurs unconvincingly, his head shaking as he winces â real nice save.
âRight...well, thank you.â you choke out softly, fiddling with your skirt contemplatively â the last thing you wanted to do was take the subway home after that, but youâd rather chew on wood than call Clark for help.
âWould you like me to escort you to Delphines?â he asks gently, hand resting on your shoulder softly â he hated seeing you this shaken up, it threw him off balance, maybe that's why he didn't notice his mistake when he made it.
âHow did you know where I was going?â you mutter, brows furrowed as you take a step back, cautiously.
âI didnât. I just assumed, yâknow, a luckyâŠguess?â he stumbles out, but you know what you heard.
The only person you told about going to Delphines was Cat; there was no one else in the news room that late, meaning whoever this was must either know you really well or have heard you.
âAre you following me?â confusion evident in your voice as he winces at his carelessness.
There was no going back now; you werenât stupid, and he wasnât going to pretend you were just to save face.
This was it.
I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice can haunt you
You're standing in the alley, a vigilant look on your face as you stare Superman down â you never thought youâd live to see the day the Man of Steel was sweating.
You watch as he pulls out a pair of eerily familiar glasses, his eyes cast downwards. That is, until he lifts the pair towards his face, setting them on the bridge of his nose gently, turning to look at you.
There were very few times in your life that youâve felt yourself become speechless â one time in the fifth grade when you had to give a presentation on ladybugs, another time when youâd gotten the call that you had gotten the job at The Daily Planet, the other being this moment.
Because as much as you didn't want to believe it, the man staring back at you wasnât Superman; it was Clark.
You feel your mouth moving, but nothing comes out, eyes darting between the pile of clothes strewn across the floor, which you now recognize as the ones he was wearing at work today, and him â the man you used to think you knew better than anyone.
He takes a slow step forward. âI can explain, I swear-â he murmurs, but your brain is already working out the sordid details.
âExplain what?â you huff shakily, âthat youâve been lying to me for months?â you hiss, a hollow feeling of betrayal sitting heavy in your chest.
âI wanted to tell you- I didnât want to keep secrets, it just happened-â âit just happened? Clark, secrets like this don't just happen.â You scoff, eyes glaring daggers up at him before the harsh reality dawns on you, hitting you like a freight train going a mile a minute. Lois.
âSo this is why only you and Lois get interviews from Superman. She knows.â You breathe out, though it's phrased more-so as a statement because deep down you already know the answer as your tongue presses against your teeth, pushing back tears.
How could you have been so fucking stupid?
No matter what fucked up semblance of a relationship you and Clark had, she would always be the one he trusted with his secrets, with his heart.Â
âYes, but I swear it's not like that. I didnât tell her, she found out on her own, and-â âAll those times you ditched me to see her, it was never about The Planet, was it? It was about this.â you whisper, cutting him off as your heart aches painfully in your chest.
Clark runs his hands through his hair in a panic, internally screaming at himself to come up with a way to fix this.
âYes. But now you can see that there's nothing going on between Lois and me. I swear to you, I would never do anything to be unfaithful to you-â but heâs cut off by your scoff.
âAre you really this dense? You already did, Clark. From the moment you decided that she was the one you were going to confide in, you chose her.â You glare, tears running down your face as he shakes his head. How did he keep fucking this up?
âI didnât want to put you in danger,â he explains weakly, âI never even told her, she found out on her own â I chose to tell you now.â Heâs all but begging on his knees to get you to hear him out, but the damage is irreparable.
âYeah, because I caught you in a lie, Clark.â You choke out, the tender ache of hurt and exhaustion replacing the anger that once burned your chest.
It was true, you both knew it. If this night had never happened, he wouldâve continued to keep this a secret.
He thought he was protecting you from the world, but itâs in this moment that he realizes he was only protecting himself from what you might think of him if you ever found out.
There was always some hoax about Superman drifting around online, another nail in the coffin of what used to be his golden reputation. He didn't think heâd ever be able to handle it if you thought of him that way, too.
So he kept the two separate â when he was with you, he was just Clark Kent, the nerdy, crossword-loving, caffeine addicted reporter from The Daily Planet â shielded from the ever-changing reputation that bore into his soul every waking moment that he wasn't with you.Â
But whatâs done was done, and even though he meant it when he said nothing was going on between him and Lois, it was easier for him to confide in her about things like this.
Especially because he didn't care about what she thought of him, at least not in the way he did with you.
âGod, Clark, don't you know me well enough to know that I don't care about your reputation? That if I had known all of this, I would've been there for you, that I would've understood?â
That you didnât need her, you want to choke out, the tears coming back tenfold.
âThis whole time, I thought there was something wrong with me â that I was overbearing, that I somehow pushed you into Loisâ arms.â You choke weakly, and he feels his heart still in his chest, nauseous bubbling up in his throat as he realizes how badly heâs fucked all of this up.
âMy God, Clark, you made me question everything about myself because you wanted to live a lie.â you lament, eyes squeezed together in agony â the kind that makes your heart ache and throat close up.
He canât help but inch closer to you, eyes pleading as his hand reaches out to touch your face, trembling slightly as his large fingers tilt you towards him. âBaby, please know that I never did any of this to hurt you.â
You shrug his hands off, glowering up at him, âDonât touch me.â you hiss, your own hand coming up to rub at your temple, which was developing an ear-splitting headache from the information overload youâd just endured.
âYou are the one who threw it all away â threw us away â the moment you decided to lie to me for months.â You heave, voice watery as you observe his own tears blurring his eyes.
Because for the first time, Clark doesn't know how to fix this.
All of his instincts scream at him to console you somehow, but in his heart, he knows this situation has spiraled out of control and there's nothing he can do to rein it back in, not anymore.Â
âPlease, just give me a second chance,â he pleads, brows furrowed as if heâs in physical pain. You want to yell some more, to scoff, but you don't. You steady yourself, because you have to.
âItâs over, Clark. You canât just take it all back now,â you whisper, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you look up at him in anguish.
He shakes his head, like he truly canât believe that this is the end. âJust answer this for me,â he pleads weakly, voice coming out shakier than youâve ever heard it. âDo you still love me?â
You stay silent for a moment, thinking over the question as your fingers curl around the strap of your purse.
A part of you thought youâd always love Clark Kent, from the moment he weasled himself into your heart, embedding himself in every aspect of your life, you were convinced youâd never be able to live without him.
You never considered what would happen if everything you believed in ended up being a hoax.Â
âI canât love someone I never really knew, Clark.â You whisper, eyes vacant as you turn on your heel and exit the alley, head held as high as you could muster as Clark watches you leave his life for the last time. Â
Summary: A short drabble with you taking care of jungkook during one of the many nights during touring season.
A/N: first jungkook story! let me know your thoughts (:
The screams from the audience never ceases to amaze you. As you stand backstage with water in hand, you watch your boyfriend of five years wave to the crowd with utter happiness and admiration. His smile can be seen so easily as he tries to look at every fan possible.
You were proud of him, of his accomplishments. He got to achieve his dreams and you were right there beside him.
As the boys begin to run backstage after completing another concert, you catch Jungkook already trying to find you in the crowd of staff that applaud both him and the boys for another successful night.
All the boys smile and thank everyone for their hard work. Jungkook, not so subtly, tries to look around and once he spots you lingering in the corner of the room, he walks past everyone and comes up to lift you in his arms, giving you the hug of a lifetime.
You laugh holding onto him tightly as this is what he always does after a concert. He gives you the biggest hug followed by a sweet kiss to the lips. From a distance, you can hear Jimin making fake gagging noises at the sight, only for Jungkook to flick a middle finger his way while still carrying you with one arm.
He places you back down gently and pulls away from the kiss. He looks down at you, his smile growing softer and more appreciative than ever. You hand him water, and he takes it gratefully. In one big sip, he downs half the bottle.
âYou were amazing as always,â you smile.
As Jungkook continues to sip his water, he pulls out the necklace you gifted him, during your third year anniversary, from his shirt and says, âGotta keep my good luck charm on me at all times.â He winked at you, earning a loud laugh and a slight shove on the shoulder. âYouâre such a dork.â
âYes, but Iâm your dork.â
You roll your eyes but smile nonetheless at his corny behavior. Meanwhile, everyone else starts packing up and heading out to the vehicles parked nearby. Jungkook throws the now empty water bottle in the trash while he uses his other hand to take your hand in his as he leads you to one of the many vans inside the underground garage.
Once seated, along with Taehyung and Jin, Jungkook sighs heavily and leans his head on your shoulder while you look out the car window. Your hands are still intertwined as he rubs his thumb over your hand, in comfort, as he slowly starts to fall asleep on you.
Taehyung watches from behind while Jin also takes a nap beside him. Taehyung smiles at the sight of you two cuddled up, hoping that one day he would be able to find a love like both of yours.
By the time the van parks inside the garage of the hotel, you wake Jungkook up from his short nap, telling him he could sleep the minute he takes a shower.
He yawns, running his fingers through his hair as he looks at you sleepily. âYeah, Iâm too tired to eat.â He steps out of the van, holding out his hand towards you to hold. You thank him and not a second later, Taehyung jokingly takes jungkookâs helping hand and helps him get out of the van as well.
âOh kookie! Youâre so sweet,â Taehyung tries to imitate your voice by sounding a bit pitched. You laugh as Jungkook pulls his hand away dramatically and laughs.
All of you head towards your rooms, of course you and Jungkook share one while the other two head towards their own private rooms. You unlock the door, walking in beside Jungkook who continuously yawns as he shucks his shoes to the side while heading straight towards the bathroom to start his shower.
âIâm going to get room service. Did you want anything?â You call out to Jungkook as you head over to the phone with the hotel menu right beside it.
âNo, Iâm good baby. Iâm exhausted,â Jungkook answers.
You contemplate for a short minute before deciding to get a steak with some pasta, big enough for the both of you to share, just in case. While you order, you hear Jungkook already turning on the water for the shower.
After ending the call and getting notified that it would take twenty minutes for it to arrive, you head on over to the bathroom, opening the door and seeing Jungkook already half naked.
He turns to you and smiles. You smile back and turn to close the door behind you. Without a second thought, you strip as well, leaving yourself naked in front of the man you love. He follows suit and offers his hand for you to take as you both head in to shower at the same time.
Although some people might find this irresistible to ignore, you and Jungkook know when it is the right time to initiate sex. Sometimes there will be days where you two canât get enough of each other and will show clear signs of pure need. But other times, you will see soft love bloom in front of each other. Just like tonight.
Jungkook pulls you in close, kissing you softly as water cascades down both of your bodies. His hands remain on your waist while yours wrap around his neck, feeling the back of his hair.
You end up pulling away, staring up into his brown eyes as he stares right into yours. There were no words exchanged. It wasnât needed. You and Jungkook understood each other without needing to say anything, and you were grateful for that.
Jungkook turned your body around and squirted shampoo on his hands before running his fingers through your hair, scrubbing off the day.
You closed your eyes and hummed a soft song of his. Still with You. Your favorite song of his. Jungkook loves it when you sing. He tried to encourage you to audition back when you guys first started dating but you felt too shy to go through with it. And thatâs okay. Jungkook considers it his little secret. A treasure he thinks only he should really admire for himself.
By the time you both finish showering, you hear a knock at the door. In your robe, you walk over and see that room service finally arrives. You take the cart, thanking the worker, and wheel it into where Jungkook sat at the front of the bed. He was picking a movie on the television while you uncovered the food, displaying it like a grand feast.
Jungkook looks over, his eyes and mouth salivating at the sight. You laugh quietly, knowing all too well that ordering twice the amount of food was the right move once Jungkook saw it in front of him.
âWould you like some?â You raise an eyebrow.
Jungkook sheepishly smiles. âYou know me so well.â
The both of you decide to share the steak and pasta as expected. A movie plays in the background, long forgotten as you and Jungkook talk casually amongst each other. Majority of the time, Jungkook would bring up things that happened on stage and mistakes you wouldnât normally catch unless you were right there to see it.
âThere was a sign a fan made that asked if you were single. And there was a picture of my face as a meme right next to it!â Jungkook exasperates. You laugh, clutching your stomach at the story.
Their fans knew of you and Jungkook for years now. At first, it was hard. The hate comments easily came up the minute it was announced. It was hard to deal with but you and Jungkook made it through. Slowly but surely, everyone started to accept it and even cheer for it. Some fans would often make jokes with Jungkook, saying they prefer you over him and it would make him happy to see that his fans started accepting his relationship instead of bullying it out of existence.
So as time moves on, fans would make big gestures to Jungkook about you. Whether itâs to date you or simply say âyouâre hotâ, Jungkook wouldnât mind. He laughs it off, smiles in the moment, and tells you about it like it was one of the best moments of the night.
When the both of you finished eating, you cleaned up and started to settle into bed with jungkookâs arms wrapped around you. He yawns once again, the exhaustion settling deep into his bones. The movie that was once just beginning has now ended and starts playing another.
You lay your head on his chest, listening to the soft pounding of his heart as it slowly descends into a slow beat, signifying his sleep state.
With a kiss to his cheek and a flicker of light still shown from the tv, you drift off, joining your boyfriend for another relaxing night together.
Summary : Dex canât seem to bring himself to tell you that you killed your attacker.
Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : hurt/comfort, attempted assault by another character, strangulation/choking, graphic violence to the person who assaulted reader, blood and gore, self-defence escalating into overkill, panic attack, memory loss, non-sexual nudity and bathing, gaslighting, lying, possessive/protective Dex, unhealthy but sincere affection. (I pictured FBI!Dex in this but honestly I could see DDBA!Dex too).
Word Count : 5k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : I listened to Run Rabbit by Mollie Elizabeth by writing this, hence the title. Enjoy!
You did everything Dex told you to do.
You took the safest route home, even though it added twelve minutes to the walk. You stayed beneath the streetlights and kept away from the mouth of every dark alley. Your phone was fully charged, your location was shared with him, and your keys were already threaded between your fingers before you even left the busy part of the avenue.
You even noticed the man following you early.
He had been behind you for three blocks, never close enough to prove anything, but he always crossed when you crossed and slowed whenever you slowed. You knew better than to look directly at him. After all, Dex had told you not to let someone know you were frightened until you had decided what to do with that fear.
So you stepped into the late-night pharmacy and wandered beneath the fluorescent lights for several minutes. You pretended to compare shampoos while watching the convex security mirror above the aisle.
The man waited outside.
Your stomach sank.
You pulled out your phone and called Dex. It rang once before going to voicemail, which meant he was either working or already packing his things and moving towards you. You left the line open anyway, slipping your phone into your coat pocket as you stepped back onto the pavement.
âIâm on Stanton,â you said, quiet as you could, knowing the microphone would catch it. âIâm going on the safe route, and thereâs a man following me.â
You headed towards the twenty-four-hour diner two streets away. At least there were lights, cameras, and most importantly, people there.
You almost reached it, but the man caught you when you passed the narrow service road behind an apartment building. One moment his footsteps were behind you; the next, his hand gripped around the back of your coat and dragged you hard enough that the thicker collar choked into your throat.
Your keys fell from your fingers, and all you could manage was a pathetic little scream before he could cover your mouth.
His palm immediately struck your lips and teeth, crushing the sound back into your skull as he hauled you into the darkness of some random New York alley. Your heel scraped uselessly across the pavement as you bit down until you tasted blood that wasnât yours. It worked! He swore, jerking his hand away.
Immediately, you drove your elbow backwards.
Dex had shown you where to aim for, and you were trying to retrieve it from the rolodex of information in your mind, not quite the ribs, but lower in the soft tissue.Â
The man grunted, but he didnât let go. His arm locked around your throat instead, squeezing until firework-white sparks burst across your vision.
âYou stupid fuckingââ
You stamped on his foot before he could finish his sentence and threw your weight forwards, turning beneath his arm, exactly as Dex had taught you.
Eventually, his hold broke.
You stumbled free and ran, but the man recovered faster than you initially expected. His hand found its way and tangled his fingers in your hair, snapping your head backwards so violently that your neck burned.
He slammed you face-first against the brick wall.
Oh. Fuck.Â
A burst of pain exploded through your cheek, teeth unintentionally biting into the inside of your mouth. Warm, fresh blood flooded on your tongue, thick and metallic, while his body pinned you against the wall.
The panic bells ringing in your head turned everything white-hot. âS-stop!â
He didnât.
No. No. You were better than this.
You reached behind blindly, clawing for his eyes, his throat, anything you could find. Your nails found skin, raking down as he cursed and drove you against the brick again.
Maybe your nose broke, you couldnât really tell.
His hand slid beneath your coat, and thatâs when your vision went red. Rage flared hot inside you, burning through every thought in your head. You threw your skull backwards and felt his cartilage collapse beneath it.
His grip loosened, howling in pain.
You spun and shoved him with both hands.
He stumbled off the curb at the edge of the service road. His ankle twisted beneath him, and he went down hard. The man managed to catch himself on one palm before his shoulder struck the pavement.
You could have run.
The diner was less than a hundred yards away. You could see its red sign glowing at the end of the road, bright as a fresh exit wound.
That was when the man looked up at you.
A sick, satisfied feeling churned in your stomach as red poured from his nose and over his mouth.
And⊠he was smiling.
Oh.Â
He still believed he was going to win.
He pushed himself onto one knee. âIâm going to fucking kill you.â
Your hand found the loose brick beside the wall, and it was heavier than you expected. Its edges bit into your palm as you lifted it with both hands.
When the man saw it, his smile vanished in an instant.
You brought the brick down across his temple.
The sound that came off it was shockingly small. It sounded like a damp knock, followed by the scrape of his body collapsing onto the road.
He rolled onto his back, blinking rapidly. One side of his face had already begun to swell around the ripped skin as a blotch of blood ran into his ear and disappeared beneath his head.
You stood over him, panting.
He was still conscious. âWait.â
You couldâve stopped. You couldâve shown mercy.Â
Instead, you struck him again.
This time, the brick split the skin above his eyebrow. Blood sprayed across your coat and speckled your face in warm droplets.
He raised one arm to protect himself.
Huh. Cute.Â
You hit that too.
His arm gave beneath the brick with a muffled crunch. His forearm bent where it shouldnât have been bent, and he screamed, the sound travelling through the empty service road.
You dropped the brick.
For half a second, the sight of his ruined arm nearly pulled you back into your logical self.
Then, his good hand closed around your ankle.
You shrieked and kicked him in the face. Your heel connected with his mouth as teeth snapped together. One of them even skipped across the pavement and vanished beneath a parked car.
He released you, but you fell on top of him.
Your knees struck the ground on either side of his hips, and your hands seized the front of his jacket. His blood made the material slippery beneath your fingers.
Before you could think any better of it, you dragged his head upwards, then slammed it against the curb.
The back of his skull struck concrete with a thick, hollow crack.
His eyes rolled, and it horrified you how much you liked it, seeing the man who wanted to touch you fucking bleed out.Â
So you did it again.
Blood spread beneath his hair.
Again.
The hard crack now sounded wetter as the skin split and bone began to cave in. His body jerked beneath you, heels scraping against the pavement, but there was no strength left in it.
He made a noise through his broken mouth. You didnât know whether it was a plea or merely air left escaping.
âYou followed me!â you sobbed. âYou fucking touched me!â
You brought his head down again.
The edge of the curb disappeared beneath blood. It ran between your fingers, coating your palms each time you pulled him upwards.
âI did everything right.â
Again.
âIââ
Again.
âHaveââ
Again.
âAââ
Again.
âFuckingââ
Again.
âBoyfriendââ
Again.
âYouââ
Again.
âAssholeââ
Again.
âHeâll fucking kill you!â
The last word broke somewhere in your throat, ragged. You were crying now, maybe. You couldnât really tell. Your face was wet, your hands were red, and the whole world had shrunk down to the most-likely-dead man in your grip and the curb beneath him and the memory of his hand on you where it never should have been.
The back of his skull was now the shape of the concrete underneath.
You felt the structure collapse beneath your hands where there should have been resistance. It didnât feel dramatic or righteous. All you could think was how it felt gooey in the wrong places.Â
You pulled him up again anyway.
âI told you,â you sobbed, or screamed, or whispered. You couldnât tell anymore. âI told you to stop.â
But his eyes were open and empty, staring past you at nothing, and when you tried to lift him one more time, your hands slipped in all the blood and he dropped back against the curb with a sound that made your stomach sink
That was when the anger went out.
All at once, as if someone had blown out a candle inside your chest.
You stared down at your hands and the red beneath your nails. You saw a dark smear across your wrist where he had grabbed you. âI did everything right,â you said again, smaller this time.
His face had lost all expression. Blood bubbled faintly at his lips before spilling down his cheek.
He was dead.
You knew he was dead.
You screamed as you struck him again, though you no longer knew whether you were furious or terrified.
You remembered Dex telling you never to stop until you were safe.
Make sure they cannot get back up.Â
You had done everything he told you to do.
The manâs head struck the concrete one final time and didnât bounce.
You released him.
His ruined skull settled crookedly against the ground. The road beneath him shone black-red beneath the distant streetlights, and blood soaked through your tights at the knees and dripped from your hands in heavy threads.
The dead manâs head no longer looked human.
Your stomach heaved.
You tried to stand, but your legs folded beneath you. The world tilted violently, the brick walls stretching upwards as though the road had dropped away beneath your body.
Footsteps thundered behind you, but you couldnât turn around.
Your vision narrowed until the alley became a tunnel.
Then a hand touched your face, but this time, the touch was gentle.
His thumb swept carefully beneath your eye, avoiding the swelling along your cheekbone, as an arm curved around your waist before you could collapse fully onto the body.
âThere you are,â Dex whispered.
His voice sounded distant beneath the rushing in your ears.
You tried to tell him what you had done, but your lips would not let you.
Dexâs palm cradled the back of your head, carefully nudging your nose back into place. He pulled you into him, turning your face away from the ruin on the pavement.
âMy smart girl,â he murmured, stroking your hair with bloodless fingers. âYou remembered everything.â
The praise sank through your heart as he felt his lips press against your temple.
âYou saved yourself.â
Eventually, dazed and overwhelmed by the adrenaline crash, your eyes closed.
The last thing you felt was Dexâs thumb moving across your cheek, wiping away a tear.
â
Dex knew you.
He knew you were nothing like him.
That much had been obvious almost from the beginning, though he hadnât understood it properly. Dexâs first instinct had always been violence. Whenever a problem appeared, his mind found that the bloodiest way was often the fastest way to solve it. Even inconveniences made his skin crawl, from a jammed drawer, a car alarm that would not stop, to a man looking at you for half a second too long across a restaurant.Â
You were different.
You were gentle in ways Dex had once found impractical. Â
You apologised to furniture when you bumped into it. You cupped moths in your hands and carried them outside. You left sugar water out for bees in summer and lowered your voice around frightened dogs. You once stopped walking entirely because there was a snail on the pavement after rain, and you refused to let anyone step on it until Dex moved it safely into the grass with a leaf.
He had stood there watching you then, half-annoyed, half-fascinated.
âItâs just a snail,â he had said.
You had looked up at him like he had spouted bullshit from his mouth. âItâs alive.â
From then on, he realized alive mattered to you.
Even small alive. Even when it was inconvenient .
Dex hadnât been raised with that as a natural instinct. As a boy, he had thrown stones at birds because he found that he liked the little burst of movement. He hadnât thought of it as cruelty then. It was just aim, maybe boredom.Â
Then you bought a bird feeder for your apartment.
You hung it outside the kitchen window with such bright delight that Dex hadnât even known what to say. You filled it every morning, scattering seed with your bed hair falling over your face, then stood there with your coffee while sparrows and blue tits flickered down. You loved them. You loved their stupid little hopping, their bright feathers.
You loved listening to birdsong most of all.
You whistled back sometimes without realising it while you watered plants or folded laundry. At night, when you were deep enough asleep that your body forgot to be self-conscious, you made the same small breathy sounds in your dreams, sweet enough that Dex would lie awake beside you and listen as he calmed down.
So instead of throwing rocks at it like he used to, he learned how to imitate their songs.
At first, only because you smiled when he whistled them. Then, he did it because you looked at him like he had performed a miracle when a robin landed on the feeder while Dex stood still by the window, unknowingly calling them closer.
Without realising, he had learned to mimic their distinctive calls.
He even stopped exterminating annoying bugs because of you.Â
You were afraid of spiders, yes, but when one of them showed up in the nightstand and you screamed, hiding behind him like a shield, you would make this horrified and pleading sound because he reached for a shoe instead of a cup. To you, being afraid of the little thing didnât mean it deserved to die.Â
âDex, no. Outside. Alive.â
So for you, he learned to trap spiders beneath glasses and slide envelopes carefully underneath them. He learned to carry them to the windowsill instead of crushing them.Â
Eventually, he learned not to flick beetles off the balcony, because you worried about whether the fall would hurt them. He learned to scoop flies out of half-open windows with hands while you hovered behind him whispering, âCareful, careful,â like he was defusing a bomb.
He learned to pretend he cared whether tiny, ugly things lived.
Eventually, he cared because you cared, and caring about what you cared about was the closest thing to general empathy Dex had ever understood.
And that was why Dex knew that you could not wake up knowing what you had done.
Because you had not even wanted him to kill spiders.
How the hell were you supposed to survive knowing you had killed a man?
Dex had known that the moment you went limp in his arms, your bloodied hands curled weakly against his shirt, your body giving up its adrenaline high only after it was finally safe to stop fighting. You had passed out before he could praise you properly, even before he could look you in the eye and tell you that you had done exactly what he taught you to do.
You had saved yourself.
Dex was proud of you in a way he knew he couldnât show when you woke up.
Especially not with the body in the trunk of his car and your clothes stuffed into a sealed black bag hidden in the closet. His own clothes in there too, soaked with blood where he had held you, smeared bleach where he had poured it over the concrete.Â
He would deal with it later, when you were properly asleep, because the body could wait and you could not.
So Dex got you, half-passed out and half mumbling nonsense, home. Perhaps it was simply your mind coping on a traumatic memory.
He stripped you carefully, cutting fabric where it stuck, easing sleeves down your arms, peeling everything off your skin piece by piece until there was nothing left between you and him. His clothes came off too, though nothing was ever sexual about that, but because his soaked shirt was evidence, too.Â
He washed you in the shower while you leaned against him, barely conscious, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your knees buckling every time the warm water hit another bruise. He did this all while murmuring sweet nonsense into your ear, words he knew your body understood even when your mind was tuned out. âYou did so good, baby. Iâve got you. Iâve got you.â
He washed you until water at your feet ran pink, then red, then thin and clear.
Your hands took the longest as he held each finger between his own, washing beneath the nails, over the knuckles, around the raw places where the brick and pavement had scraped you open. You whimpered once, so quietly he almost missed it, and he kissed your wet temple before continuing.
He had to make them clean because you would look at your hands first.
When it was done, he carried you to bed and lay down naked beside you, pulling you onto his chest before the cold could bite.
The skin to skin was its own kind of intimacy, no barrier, but his body around yours.
By 2 a.m., he had not slept. He had tried, once or twice, mostly for the performance, because if you woke up and found him sitting upright in the dark watching you breathe, you would know something was wrong.Â
So he lay with you until dawn, and every time your breathing hitched, Dex tightened his hold. Every time you made a frightened sound, he kissed your head and whispered until you settled. He kept one eye on the bedroom door, one ear tuned to the street.
But mostly he watched you.
You looked smaller when you slept after fear, lashes clumping from old tears. Your mouth was swollen and a bruise was blooming along your cheekbone where the man had slammed you against brick, and Dex had to look away from it more than once because all he felt was red-hot rage.Â
But it wasnât like he could do anything. The man was already dead.
You woke up sometime around 3 a.m.
Dex felt it when you choked on a breath, curled against him, cheek on his chest, one leg tangled with his. Your fingers twitched against his ribs, and he knew some part of you had surfaced too quickly.
Your eyes opened.
Almost immediately, panic tore through you.
You jerked upright so fast the sheet slipped from your chest.Â
Your hands flew up in front of your face, fingers spread, as though blood might still be dripping from them. They were clean, but you stared anyway.Â
You turned them over, looking at your palms, backs, nails, and wrist.
You seemed shocked to find them⊠clean.Â
Dex sat up behind you. âBaby.â
You flinched at his voice, and that knee-jerk reaction hurt more than he expected.
You twisted towards him, naked and shaking, eyes wide with a terror that had no full memory attached to it yet.Â
Dex could see your mind reaching and clawing through fog, finding only flashes of memories. Maybe you remembered a streetlight, maybe a hand on your throat.Â
Your lips parted, but no sound came out.
Dex reached for you.
You scrambled back half an inch, and he frowned immediately.Â
He tried to make himself look harmless, like there was nothing hidden near the closet, nothing dead cooling in the back of his car.
âThere you are,â he murmured.
Your face fell, but the sob didnât come out. It got trapped in your chest, making your whole body shake. You looked down at yourself then, at your bare skin, at his bare skin, at the tangled sheets, and your confusion quickly became fear.Â
Dex moved carefully, scooting closer until his thigh touched yours.
âYou were cold,â he said, pulling the duvet back up around you before you could ask. â I had to get you warm.â
Your eyes darted around the room.
The bedroom looked normal. That made it worse.Â
There was no proof of anything, no blood, no alley, no proof of anything but your body remembering what your mind could not grasp.
Dex placed one hand over your knee.
You stared at it.
He expected you to pull away, but instead your breath hitched and your whole body tilted towards him, helplessly, like a compass finding north. He gathered you before you could think better of it.
You collapsed into his lap.
Dex wrapped both arms around you and pulled you against his bare chest again, tucking your face beneath his chin. You were shaking so hard it passed into him. You pressed your hands flat to his shoulders, then curled, then opened again, like you could not stand the idea of grasping flesh too tightly.
âThere,â he whispered. âThatâs it. Come here, baby.â
Your breath hitched against his throat, and he felt the first wet tear hit his skin.
Then you were crying without sound, which was worse than sobbing. Violent tears shook you from the inside while your body stayed stiff with shock.
Dex rocked you slowly, enough to give your panic a rhythm to follow.
âYouâre home,â he murmured into your hair. âYouâre with me. No oneâs gonna touch you.â
Your fingers dug into him. âIâIâŠ,â you whispered, not quite coming out with words yet
Dex closed his eyes for half a second. âItâs okay, baby.â
Your eyes darted in a panic. âI donât know what happened.â
He tried shushing you. âYou donât have to know all of it right now.â
âI-I donât know, Dex.â
âI know, baby. I know.â
Your breathing grew shallow, almost choking. You tried to pull back and look at your hands again, but Dex caught them between your bodies, folding them against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palms.
Focus there.
You did.
âI-I remember him,â you managed to say.
Dex stroked the back of your head. âOkay.â
âI remember walking. I took the right way.â
âYou did.â
âI did what you said.â
âYou did everything right.â
The sentence seemed to be a trigger, ripping a sob out of you.
Dex held you tighter.
âI-I did everything right,â you repeated, smaller now. âI promise.â
âI know.â
âI went inside. I waited. I called you.â
âYou were so smart.â
Your face pressed harder into his neck.
âSo smart,â he whispered again. âMy girl, you did so well.â
You shook your head, frantic, because praise did not fit beside the images cutting through you.Â
You didnât remember much, but you saw flashes of blood and concrete behind your eyelids.Â
Your breathing stopped.
His hand slid up the back of your neck and held you close. âNo,â he murmured, soft as velvet. âStay with me.â
âI sawââ
âYou saw too much.â
âI⊠did something.â
âYou protected yourself.â
âNo, Iââ
âYou protected yourself,â he repeated, more insistent this time.Â
Your fingers twisted against his chest.
Dex let his voice warm up, like honey in warm water. âYou were scared and hurt and you did what you had to do.â
He felt you take the information in, but your panic continued circling it like vultures on corpses.
Dex kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then the bruised corner of your brow. âYouâre okay,â he breathed. âI promise.â
You made a wounded noise, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
The kindness was not accidental, it was architecture. He was building a room inside your memory, where the bloodier parts could be locked outside until you forgot where you held the key.
âWhere is he?â
Oh. So you vaguely knew there was a he now.Â
âHeâs in the hospital.â He lied easily.Â
Dex knew this was how it would happen. One lie was enough to sound like mercy, and you would hold on to it because you trusted him more than you trusted your own shattered memory. He was making you need his version of the truth because he truly believed it was the only one that would save you.
You froze in his arms, and Dex held you through it.
âThe hospital?â you whispered.
âMm.â
Your hands clutched him harder. âHe looked...â
âI know what it looked like.â
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
Dex hated it, and not because he couldnât lie to your face. He could, he had, and would again if it meant it would preserve and protect your sense of self. Instead, he hated it because you looked so desperate for him to make the world kinder than really it was, and he loved you so much it nearly made him crueler.
He cupped your cheeks.
âHead wounds bleed badly,â he said. âYou know that, sweetheart.â
Your eyes blazed into his, and he knew he made a mistake then. You didnât remember that part.
âH-head wounds?â You breathed out in disbelief, unable to claw the memory now.Â
âHe was breathing when I got there,â Dex lied again.
A strangled sob left you, but it didnât sound like relief yet. For now, it was only the body realising it had been offered a way out.
Your face fell, Dex pulling you back in before the horror could.
âThatâs why I cleaned you up,â he whispered, and that part, at least, was not a lie. His thumb moved slowly along your cheek, careful in a way Dex was rarely careful with anything that wasnât you. âThatâs why we ended up like this. You were shaking so hard, and I couldnât get you warm. I tried. I swear I tried.â
His mouth brushed your temple, barely a kiss.
âI kept trying to move,â he murmured. âI kept thinking I should get you a shirt, but every time I pulled away, you reached for me again like you thought I was leaving, and I couldnâtââ His voice snagged, just slightly. âI couldnât make myself do it. Not when you looked at me like that.â
You stared at him, still heavy-limbed, your thoughts coming back to you in pieces. It sounded embarrassingly believable, because there was a warmth in your chest that remembered him. Your hands had always found him before the rest of you caught up.
âI did?â you asked quietly.
âYes.â
Your eyes narrowed, weakly suspicious. âYouâre lying.â
Dex leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there like the answer mattered more than the accusation.Â
âAbout you needing me?â His voice dropped. âNever.â
You cried harder then, finally making messy little sobs that broke against his chest while Dex rocked you, He ran his hands up and down your back, whispering into your hair. He called you precious until the word stopped sounding like a word at all.Â
You shook your head.
Dex closed his eyes and held you tighter.
âYouâre my girl,â he whispered. âNothing about you changed.â
His gaze drifted once, towards the closet.
The black bag waited.
Behind the wall, beyond the apartment, beneath the ordinary morning, the dead man waited too.Â
Later, he would get rid of the body. Later, he would burn what needed burning. For now, you were shaking in his lap, believing him because you needed to.
âDex,â you whispered.
âIâm here.â
âYou promise?â
He knew what you were asking.
You promise I didnât? You promise Iâm still me? You promise whatever I donât remember isnât real?
Dex pressed his lips to your temple and held them there. âI promise youâre safe.â
It was not the answer you wanted, but it was the one he gave.
You sagged against him after that, emptied by tears, your body surrendering. Dex eased both of you down until he was lying on his back and you were draped over him, skin to skin beneath the sheet. Your cheek rested over his heart, hand curled weakly near his ribs.
He kept touching your scalp, your spine, and the back of your neck in gently repetitive strokes until your breathing evened out.Â
Eventually, sleep took you again. Poor girl, still so tired after murdering an evil man.Â
Every few minutes, you twitched. Every time, Dex whispered you back down.
My precious girl, he would praise. You did so well.
At last, your body grew heavy over his, your fingers stopped moving. Your mouth grew pliant against his chest.
Dex waited for five minutes, then ten, then twenty.
Only when he was certain you were properly asleep did he turn his head towards the closet again.
He had things that needed doing.
But you stirred faintly against him before he could move, and Dex froze. Your brow pinched, your hand tightening on his skin, some nightmare threatening to pull you under.
He settled back immediately.
Not yet.
The dead could wait a little longer.
Dex brushed his mouth over your hair and smiled.âMy sweet girl,â he whispered.
His hand covered yours, pressing your clean palm flat over his heart.
âYou did everything right.â
He adored you for last night, even if he could never let you know exactly what you had done.
He adored the shaking, furious thing you had become when there had been no one left to save you. He adored the fact that some part of you had remembered him, remembered every warning, every lesson, every instruction, just in case.Â
He adored that you had survived. More than that, in some terrible private corner of himself, he adored that you had survived violently.
He adored that for a split second, you had become him.Â
But he knew you best, and he knew you werenât made for that.Â
So he would take that truth to the grave, and you would wake up tomorrow with the love of your life beside you.
You would wake up believing you had done only enough to live.
And Dex loved you enough to make that true.
âend.
NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically canât write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and itâs probably every 1 in 5.Â
Thatâs why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, itâs pretty much guaranteed Iâll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If Iâm uncomfortable with the request or donât think I can do it justice, Iâll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.
Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if youâre able to give it! Love yâall and thank you for reading!!! <3
you're the closest to heaven that i'll ever be â johnny storm
masterlist | part two
PAIRINGS: johnny storm x stark!female!reader
SUMMARY: in johnny's universe, you are his everything. that is until he weren't able to save you in time, and when they were pulled in another universe during a mission, he saw another version of you that is alive.
REMINDERS: please be reminded that this is a work of fiction. meaning that all events and occurrences in this story are all fictional and all are part of my imagination. any resemblance to actual life events and people, living or dead, are all purely coincidence.
WARNINGS: no use of y/n, multiverse, spiderman-esque fic, a little world building, open ending, idk what i'm doing but just roll with it, there are some inaccuracies, reader is not really a doctor doctor (phd in business đ), everyone is alive !!!!!, and minor typographical errors.
WORD COUNT: 3.5k
AUTHOR'S NOTE: idk if this kind of fic had already been done before, but thus had been in my mind for quite sometime. some doesn't make sense, but i try to make sense of it iykyk lol. everyone is alive in this fic bc i said so!!!!!!!! i'm not sure if i want to write a part 2 of this, but i'll think about it (i'm just lazy lol). anyways, hope you guys enjoy this one!
It all started with a tremor. Not in the earth nor in the skies, but in reality itself. An unstable ripple tore through space-time over the ruins of what once was a Latverian outpost, long since abandoned but still dangerously volatile. The Fantastic Four had been dispatched to neutralize an energy spike that Reed had flagged suspicious. However, Reed had not anticipated just how deep the breach had already gone, or how the rift would pull them out of Earth-828 and all of a sudden slamming them into something, rather somewhere.
A new Earth. One that is teeming with familiar architecture and faint echoes of names they barely recognize, everything feels off.
Earth-616. They were lucky enough to land within the protected perimeter of the Avengers compound. Alarms had flared, and Stark AI systems immediately flagged their arrival as potential incursion, until Bucky, who was currently manning the base while the other Avengers were away, recognized their signatures. He had seen versions of them before. Well, sort of.
âFacial recognition in progress. Welcome, Jonathan Storm, Susan Storm, Reed Richards, Benjamin Grimm. Earth-828 identifiers not found in multiversal registry. Alert: cross-dimensional duplicates confirmed.â
âFacility overseer: Dr. Stark, Stark Industries Executive Director.â
Youâve always had a main conference room reserved on the 41st floor of the Stark Towerâsleek glass walls, walnut wood table stretching across the length of the room, and a buzzing holographic projection of global networks, economic forecasts, and defense analytics. The kind of environment you thrived in. A structured chaos, numbers and negotiations, walls that are tall enough to keep emotions out.
You had just shut down an aggressive pitch from a foreign investor, when your phone lit up on silent mode, flashing a name you rarely ignored. Bucky Barnesâvery few people could pull you out of a board meeting, and he was one of them. You calmly and professionally excused yourself, and stepped out into the hallway, your heels clicking against the polished marble floors. You pressed the phone to your ear.
âBarnes?â
Buckyâs voice had that clipped tension you had come to know and recognize right away from past emergencies. âYou need to get to the compound. ASAP. SomethingâŠor someone showed up. Four of them. Not exactly hostile, but not from here either.â
âAnd dad?â Your eyes narrowed slightly.
âStill off-world. Cap, Romanoff, Barton, Wanda, everyoneâs out. Itâs just me here, and them.â
âAlright, Iâll be there in ten, tops.â
That was enough to convince you to go back to the compound. You pivoted, already striding towards your own designated elevator, tailored blazer moving with each swift step. You didn't know then that in a different universe, you had died in Johnny Stormâs arms, and you also didn't know that he would crawl into this one.
The drive to the compound was a big blur of the city lights and thoughts. FRIDAY updated you the en-route, inter-dimensional signatures detected, arrivals confirmed not to be hostile, communications disrupted. Reed Richards, Sue Storm, Ben Grimm, and Johnny Stormânames you recognized from archived reports, not from this universe, but recognized them nonetheless.
Inter-dimensional incursions were not new to you anymore. The multiverse was a broken glass pane, cracked and scattered, forever shifting. But what matters the most was what, or rather who, fell through. By the time you stepped into the compound hangar, Bucky was already waiting. Dog tags, fitted tactical shirt, arms crossed, his vibranium arm flexed as though he was already on edge.
âTheyâre in the east wing.â Bucky muttered, walking beside you.
âAny aggression?â
âThe stretchy one keeps talking science. The rock guy hasn't smashed anything. The womanâs assessing the area, and the fourth oneâŠâ he paused briefly. âHeâs loud and impatient.â
You entered the main holding room, but it was more like a debrief lounge at this pointâbright lights, reinforced walls, and monitors overhead. Reed, Sue, Ben, and Johnny turned simultaneously when you stepped in, confident and composedâStark blood running through your veins. Commanding without even trying.
Reed tilted his head lightly, Sue regarded you with both caution and familiarity, Ben grunted something unintelligible under his breath, and JohnnyâŠJohnny went still. You felt it, but you didn't know it, at least not yet. Still, thereâs something about the way his expression crumbled for a split second, how his chest stilled and shoulders locked. It was as if the world had stopped rotating for him, and only to restart violently seconds later.
In his universe, he watched you die in his arms minutes before your wedding. He was too late. Johnny never forgave himself for what had happened, and he swore that he would never love anyone again. But now, here you were. Standing before him in a pressed charcoal suit, your Stark Industries pin clipped to your lapel, posture sharp and assertive. Your eyes, while familiar, did not carry the softness that haunted his memories.
You didn't know him. Not at all.
Johnny didn't even blink, and you had no idea why. You didn't even flinch, just crossed your arms slightly, assessing the four of them.
âIâm here on behalf of Stark Industries and the Avengers initiative,â you said calmly. âYou are no longer in your home dimension. Earth-616, to be exact.â
Reed stepped forward. âThat would explain the shift in vibrational frequency. Iâm Dr. Reed Richards, andââ
âI know who you are,â your tone was polite, efficient, but firm. âMy father had catalogued the Fantastic Four from multiple universes. Your presence here is abnormal, to say the least, but not entirely surprising.â
Sue exchanged a look with Reed, and Ben shrugged. But Johnny had not moved an inch. His eyes were fixedâburning, with something that is unspoken. Something that is agonizing. He took a shaky breath, stepping forward as though drawn to you by some invisible tether.
âYouâŠâ it spilled out of Johnnyâs mouth. Barely a whisper, almost like a prayer.
You turned your gaze to him fully then. Johnnyâs faceâhandsome, disheveled, bright blue eyes, and blonde hair slightly askew from whatever chaos they had come through. He looked at you with a strange devastation.
Johnny took another step, his voice breaking a little, with Bucky shifting closer, protective by default. âYouâre aliveâŠâ
You raised a brow at him. âI donât believe we have met before.â
Johnny blinked harshly, like he was holding back a tidal wave. He gave a small broken chuckle, but it was devoid of humor, only grief. âYeah, we have. Or we had.â
âYou must be confusing me with somebody else.â You said, remained composed, even as you felt something heavy settled inside the room.
Reed spoke up softly, cautiously. âJohnny, donât.â
âYouâŠyou died in my arms. I couldn't save you,â his voice was raw, hands trembling. But Johnny didn't stop looking at you. âAnd youâre here. YouâreâŠhere. Alive and well.â
Sue closed her eyes briefly as though she had already witnessed this scene before. You inhaled slowly, calm but not cold. You glanced back at Bucky. There was a flash of concern in his eyesâhe knew loss, and had recognized it immediately.
You turned back, locking eyes with Johnny. âIâŠIâm sorry about whatever had happened. But Iâm not her.â
Johnnyâs jaw clenched, but nodded slowly. It was a tough pill to swallow. âI know,â his voice was a broken whisper. âBut you look exactly like her.â
In the silence that followed, you softened, just slightly. There was a small shift in your tone. âI understand. This must be very difficult for you.â
He laughedâpainfully, soft, and reverent. âYou have no idea.â
You eventually initiated the logisticsâsecure housing, containment, and possible ways to return them to Earth-828. Reed gave all the data needed as possible, Sue collaborated, while Ben asked about the whole place. Johnny remained mostly silent, but always near youâwatching and haunted.
It was already late when the team arrived, finally back from their off-world assignment. The quinjet had landed just before midnight, kicking up a storm of dust and loose papers across the landing pad. But you did not need a visual, you already knew that they were here.
You waited exactly twelve minutes before heading down. The lights in the hallways were dimmed at night, polished steel and glass of the compound washed in cool, bluish tones, corridor screens still displayed Stark Industries dashboardsâsatellite updates, global activity patterns, neutral-linked alerts that are synced to your personal feed. The soft hum of machinery surrounding youâfamiliar and efficient.
When you reached the briefing room, the doors slid open automatically. The mood inside was markedly relaxed, war was overâfor now. Whatever battle they had just returned from must have ended in their favor. There was no tension lingering in the air, only the calm disarray that followed adrenaline. The energy was warm, familiarâlow laughter, scattered banter, bodies slouched in chairs, and armor half removed. Some had ditched their gear entirely.
They all looked up when you entered the room.
You quickly scanned the room quicklyâSteve was leaning back in his seat, forearms resting on his thighs; Natasha stood behind him, arms folded, and a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth; Rhodey was beside Wanda, both of them in quiet conversation; Vision stood off to the side, as if waiting say his thoughts or opinions; Sam was perched casually near the end of the table; and both Bruce and Clint were in the middle of arguing over some minor mission detail. The only one that was not around was Thor, but you already knew he had returned to Asgard for a matter involving the bifrost.
Then there was your father. Tony was standing near the head of the table, his arc reactor glowing faintly beneath his black tactical undershirt, a half-empty espresso in one hand and a proud, tired grin on his face. You walked up to him, professional as ever despite the familial bond.
âWelcome back.â
âHey, kiddo.â Tony said affectionately, arms open in invitation.
You allowed yourself the briefest lapse in composure, leaning in for a side hug, letting your hand rest on his back. Tony pressed a warm kiss to your temple, a gesture so casual, and deeply familiar that no one inside the room batted an eye.
âYou cut another meeting short, didn't you?â He muttered low enough that only you could hear.
âWell I had to, Bucky called.â
âAlways dragging you out of your high towers, huh?â
âOnly when thereâs something important,â you replied, pulling away from the side hug. âAnd this time, it was.â
âAlright, show me.â Tonyâs tone shifted immediately to something serious.
âFRIDAY, letâs begin.â You turned towards the front of the room, and FRIDAYâs interface lit up at your voice command.
The room became silent as the lights dimmed, and the circular holographic projection table came alive, bathing the center of the room in cool light and flickering motion. You did not use the scripts, you didn't need them. You spoke clearly, posture straight, hands resting lightly on the edge of the table as you walked them through everything.
âEarlier today, four individuals arrived through what Dr. Reed Richards had identified it as an unstable inter-dimensional rift. Their molecular and vibrational signatures match that of Earth-828. They are currently contained and housed on-site under temporary status.â
A glowing map of the multiverse expanded across the table, folding over itself with rings and constellations of data. Earth-616 was centered in blue, while Earth-828 glowed in red.
âThey call themselves the Fantastic Four. Their existence had been recorded in multiple other universes, though this is the first instance of confirmed cross-universal physical entry into our dimension from their team.â You continued.
FRIDAY had projected high resolution images; Reedâs molecular stretch in motion, Sueâs brief invisibility flicker, Benâs stone form, and lastly, Johnny, surrounded by flame, hovering in the air with smoldering eyes. You noticed that from the corner of your version, Bruceâs interest.
âThey are not hostile,â you clarified. âAt least not at this time. Bucky did an initial assessment, and Iâve already spoken to all four.â
âThey crash land into our universe and get a five star welcome?â Clint quipped, scratching his chin.
âThey didn't crash,â you corrected. âThey were pulled. Theyâre as stranded as anyone would be in their situation.â
Natasha stepped forward. âDo we know what caused the rift?â
âNo, not yet,â you replied honestly. âDr. Richards has a working theory involving harmonic convergence across layered multiversal tears, and one of those may involve our own previously recorded incursions.â
You paused. Then, with a subtle flick of your fingers across the hologramâs edge, you pulled up the compoundâs schematics. âIâve assigned them quarters in the east wing, and theyâre secured. Not cells, but isolated enough that we can monitor movement and communication without giving them the impression of imprisonment.â
Rhodey let out a low whistle. âYou did all that on your own?â
âI didn't think it's wise to wait for everyone to get back before making the decision.â You said plainly.
Steve nodded in approval. âGood call.â
âI also figured Bruce and Ben would either kill each other or get along splendidly,â you quipped with a faint smile. âSo theyâre currently as far from each other as the architecture allows.â
A ripple of low laughter passed around the table. Bruce glanced up with a soft smile. âWhatâs he like?â
âGruff,â you said. âSurprisingly perceptive.â
âAnd the others?â Wanda spoke softly from her place near the corner.
âWell, Dr. Richards is brilliant, the kind of mind that could rebuild the whole compound from scratch with a coffee and screwdriver. Susan Storm has tactical precision, sheâs already been memorizing layout grids. Then Johnny StormâŠâ you stopped yourself, a pause. Just long enough for Tony to glance at you. âJohnny Storm has a unique energy, one we should keep an eye on.â
âFlaming hothead,â Bucky offered dryly from the back of the room. âIn every sense.â
You didn't bother to correct him, and you didn't speak again for a moment.
Tony folded his arms. âAnd youâre sure theyâre not a threat?â
âIf they were, weâd already know by now.â You met his gaze. âTheyâre shaken, stranded. But I believe theyâre sincere.â
Another beat of silence passed. Then, FRIDAYâs voice filled the room. âWould you like me to archive the debrief for full internal access?â
âYes,â you replied. âLog everything under multiversal priority class. Assign all access clearance to Level 4 and above. Thank you, FRIDAY.â
âYouâre welcome, Miss Stark.â
The projection faded, and the room slowly returned to its normal brightness. You took a moment to glance around familiar faces. The family you didn't choose, but in some ways, had grown into. The world was always changing, but this room remained constant, and you took pride in that. However, you remained quiet and stood by the projection table. You could feel her eyes on you before she even spoke. Wanda.
Wanda hadn't moved, nor laughed. Hadn't looked away from you since the moment you faltered during your rundown of the Fantastic Four. Her gaze was calm but piercing, like there was some unspoken understanding etched behind her irises.
A quiet voice in your mind sighed, âyou shouldn't be surprised.â
You quickly shot her a glance, lips were still. Wanda hadn't said anything aloud, she didn't need to. It was both a blessing and a curse for you, being known so easily by someone like her. You met her eyes just for a second, Wanda didn't press, at least not yet. But you knew she knew what was running through your mind.
You cleared your throat, drawing the roomâs attention again before anyone could fully disperse. âThereâsâŠâ you trailed off. âThereâs one more thing.â
The tone in your voice was measured with control, you slightly shifted in your balance, and put both hands inside the pockets of your trousers. Your action no doubt pulled everyoneâs attention back to you instantly. Your father raised a brow, Natasha tilted her head, Bruce paused mid-step, Sam eased back down into his seat, and Wanda stayed motionless.
Like the good old fashioned way a Stark would break a news, you gave it to them straight.
âThereâs a minor issue,â you kept your tone even, professional, though your fingers subtly tapped against the tableâs edge. Once, twice, and a third time before you forced them still. âIt concerns Johnny Storm.â
There was a sudden flicker of alertness around the room, like soldiers instinctively tightening their grip on imaginary weapons.
âHeâs not dangerous,â you clarified quickly. âNone of them are, that hasn't changed. But Johnny Storm recognized me somehow.â
âAccording to what I had gathered from Reed and Johnny himself, my counterpart was a significant person in his life.â
A beat passed, then you said it softly but clearly. It was a truth that felt so foreign and yet inexplicably close.
The room went very still, but you kept speaking, voice steady even as your heart betrayed you with its weight. âWe were told that we were supposed to get married, but I died minutes before the ceremony. Johnny wasn't able to save her in time.â
You didn't add the rest, not aloud. You didn't say how broken Johnny looked the moment he saw you. How he said your name like it was the last thing anchoring him to reality. How your presence seemed to rip open something deep inside of him. Instead, you forced the breath out of your lungs.
âThatâs why he looked at me like that, like I was a ghost. Well Iâm not her, obviously. But I think seeing me like thisâalive, here, breathing. It was disorienting for him. Thatâs all.â
Clint leaned back slightly, arms folded. âDamn.â
âThatâŠâ Bruce trailed off, frowning thoughtfully, half processing the emotional and multiversal implications. âThat kind of trauma layered with alternate universe memory, thatâsââ
âDangerous,â Natasha finished, sharp-eyed. âNot just for this Johnny guy, but for her too.â
Wandaâs voice finally entered the conversation, soft and certain. âItâs not just a memory, he feels it. Every single part of it.â She turned her head towards you slowly, âyouâre feeling it too.â
Your fingers curled subtly against the side of the table. Wanda didn't need to ask for permission, she never did because she already knew. Wanda had seen the thoughts that you tried to suppress, like static behind your composure. Not longing or recognition, none of those, but something shaken. Like there was a part of yourself that was trying to remember a dream that somebody else lived. You looked away from her, then back towards the rest of the room.
âBut heâs not a threat,â you said again. âHe hasn't done anything inappropriateâno aggression, no pushing boundaries. Heâs just grieving, and thatâs all this is. It does not compromise anything.â
Sam leaned forward. âAnd you? You good with this?â
âI donât have a personal attachment, I donât know him.â You said straightforwardly. âBut I understand that for him, this might be difficult. So we treat it like any other psychological impact of multiversal travel. We keep boundaries, we observe.â
âAre you sure thatâs all it is?â Rhodey asked gently.
âYes, and if anything changes, Iâll report it right away. But for now, we give him space, and treat him like weâd want to be treated if our world shattered beneath our feet.â
Your father clapped his hands once, decisively. âAlright, weâll monitor the situation. But good call telling us, kiddo.â
âYeah,â Bucky muttered from behind him, arms crossed. âIt is.â
You began collecting your datapad and hologrid controls. One by one, they gathered their gear, drifting out into the corridors with quiet goodnights or murmurs about late night snacks, showers, or sleep. Steve gave you a gentle pat on the shoulder as he passed, Clint threw you a crooked smile, and Bruce placed a hand on your back in a familiar gesture of calm reassurance as he walked past. Your father, Tony, gave you a hugâthat fatherly kind, and told him that everythingâs okay. Finally, the room emptied until it was just you and Wanda left. She stepped closer to you, voice low.
âI can help, if you want,â she said softly. âI can block him out, or help you anchor yourself if it ever feels too much.â
âThank you, Wanda.â You replied softly. âI may take you up on that.â
Wanda touched your arm once more, and then slipped out of the room, leaving you and your thoughts alone again. You rubbed at your temple, the lights were low and the room was quiet.
You should get some sleep, you know that, considering you have an early morning meeting with a new investor. Yet, as you stood there all alone in the darkened debriefing room, your mind drifted unwillingly to Johnny againâto the way his voice trembled, the way he said that you died in my arms.
i just read your peter parker bnd story and i LOVED it so much! i've also been OBSESSED with daredevil born again & with the announcement of the punisher series coming too... my brain started spiraling!
if you want, ONLY if you want... i would love to see frank castle x stark!reader be protective of spiderman because she remembers her father having a soft spot for him just going INSANE when she hears/sees on news that frank runs him over and them just having some serious TENSION đ„
literally love your work sm!!! âš
SHOOT TO THRILL
Frank Castle X Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 0.9K
WARNINGS: Brand New Day trailer spoilers, cursing, LOTS of tension, enemies to lovers vibe, reader is SUPER protective of Spider-Man (even though she has no clue who he is), typical Marvel level violence, slight angst, mentions of Tony đ„ș
A/N: Ask and you shall receive đââïž I didn't have time for a full blown fic, so I hope you enjoy this short drabble! If y'all want in the future we can come back to this later and possibly make it a series or make a longer part! Hope it lived up to your expectations, thank you so much for all the love! đ«¶đ»
"Frank! You have exactly five seconds to get your sorry ass out here!" Your voice ricocheted off the cracked tile and dusty shelves, loud enough to rattle the flickering fluorescent light overhead. Beside you, Spider-Man shifted. His breathing was uneven, one hand clamped tight over his side where you knew dried blood had caked up and bruises had blossomed angrily. Even through the mask, you could feel how hard he was trying to play it off.
âW-We can just leave,â He tried again, softer this time, like if he said it gently enough you might actually listen. âItâs not, Iâve had worse, Iâm fineââ The look you cut him was sharp enough to draw blood. He shut up instantly. "You're clearly not fine." You snapped, your jaw locked so tight it ached. He swallowed, shoulders hunching just slightly as he reluctantly nodded. âSo maybe donât try to defend the asshole who hit you with a van.â
âThatâsâwhen you say it like thatââ Your laugh which was humorless and brittle cut off his rambling. âHow else would I say it? Should I thank him? Maybe send him a fruit basket?â Spider-Man's head dipped, the mask hiding his expression but not the guilt bleeding through his posture. âHe didnât just run you over, he aimed.â The words came out colder than you expected, slicing through the room.
âI saw the footage,â You continued, voice quieter now, but not necessarily calm. âHe had a clean line. No civilians. No crossfire. Just you.â Spider-Man didnât answer. Because he couldnât. Because he knew you were right. You exhaled slowly through your nose, forcing your hands not to shake as your gaze zeroed in on his side almost as if you focused hard enough you could take the damage and pain away.
âHe used toâŠâ You hesitated, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. âMy dad used to watch you. On the news. Heâd pretend he wasnât, butââ A quiet huff of breath, almost a laugh escaped you. âHe had this look every time you showed up. Like⊠like maybe the world wasnât completely screwed.â You didnât look at him when you said it. You couldnât. âHe liked you, trusted you.â As you finished, your voice rougher now no matter how hard you tried to push past your emotions.
âWhich means I like you and trust you. Which means that anyone who hurts you answers to me.â The last word barely left your mouth before a low, deliberate clap echoed from behind you. Your head snapped up, eyes narrowing. There, stepping out from the shadowed hallway like heâd been there the whole time, because he probably had, was Frank. Bruised. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Shirt darkened in patches.
âFive seconds,â He drawled, voice rough as gravel. âYouâre gettin' slow, princess.â You straightened, instantly placing yourself between them without thinking. âDidnât think Iâd see you anytime soon,â He added, eyes dragging over you before flicking past your shoulder. They landed on Spider-Man, something unreadable sparking in his eyes for half a second before it vanished. ââSpecially with a lilâ bodyguard.â
God, how you wanted to strangle him with your bare hands.
âYou ran him over.â
âHe was in the way.â
The casualness of it, like he was talking about a pothole instead of a person, made your vision sharpen at the edges.
âHeâs a kid.â
âHeâs a problem.â
âHeâs off limits.â
Frank tilted his head slightly, studying you. Not dismissing you. Not brushing you off.
Assessing.
âAnd youâre what exactly?â He asked, voice dipping lower. âHis bodyguard?â Spider-Man made a small, confused noise behind you that you ignored completely as you stepped closer. Close enough now that you could see every cut on Frankâs face. The faint twitch in his jaw. The way his breathing changed, just slightly, like your proximity alone mattered more than he wanted it to.
Your hand shot out before you could second guess it, fisting the front of his shirt, yanking him down just enough to meet your eyes. You leaned in just enough to invade his space, just enough that anyone else wouldâve called it reckless. âTry it again,â You seethed, voice barely above a whisper. âTouch him again, Frank, I dare you.â
The tension snapped tight, thick enough to choke on. Not just anger. Not just violence, but something sharper. The kind of tension that didnât belong in a fight but showed up anyway. Frankâs gaze dropped, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back up so fast you thought you'd imagined it. âYouâd like that, wouldnât you?â He rasped, voice rougher now, something almost amused threading through it.
Your breath hitched, just enough to betray you. The infuriating smirk on his face was enough for you to let go of his shirt, pushing him back as hard as you could. âYouâre fucking unbelievable.â You scoffed, turning your back on him before he could see the flicker of something else crossing your face. âCâmon,â You muttered, sliding an arm around Spider-Man to steady him. âWeâre done here.â
âAlways a pleasure, Stark,â Frank called after you, the rough edge of his voice softened by something you refused to think too hard about. âNext time, give me a heads up. Iâll have some champagne and caviar out waitinâ for you.â You didnât dare give him the satisfaction of looking back. âKiss my ass, asshole!â You shouted over your shoulder, lifting your middle finger without slowing down.
âI could do a hellâva lot more than that, sweetheart.â Behind you, Frankâs laugh was low and infuriatingly smug. You could practically see the stupid grin on his face, feeling the weight of his gaze dragging over your back, lingering just a second too long where your jeans hugged the curve of your hips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing, and didnât care if you knew it too. Slow. Intentional. Entirely unapologetic.
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steve had you spread out beneath him, his thick finger buried deep, curling just right while his thumb worked your clit in sloppy circles. the feeling in your belly was building too fast, && within seconds, your body was already trembling.
âsteve sâtoo much-!,â you gasped, one hand flying down to grab his wrist, trying to slow him. âi c-canât-hold on-â
steve lifted his head, hair messy and falling into his eyes, lips glistening. âtoo much?â he echoed, but he didnât stop moving his fingers entirely, just dragged them slower, drawing it out. âcâmon, sweetheart, you were practically begginâ a minute ago. what happened to âdonât stopâ?â
you whined, nails digging into his wrist as another spark shot through you. âfeels too good.. mâalready close-â
he chuckled softly, the sound warm against your thigh. âyeah? thatâs kinda the idea honey.â
before you could beg again, steve sat back on his knees, he reached for his jeans on the floor, pulling the belt free with a familiar metallic clink that made your stomach twist.
âgimme your hands,â he said, holding the leather open like he was helping you with a jacket instead of about to tie you up.
your breath caught. hesitating for half a second, before you brought your wrists together. steve wrapped the belt around them a couple times, threading it through the buckle and tugging it snug. he tested the give with a gentle pull, then leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to your knuckles, his thumb brushing over your skin.
âyâgood?â he murmured, brown eyes searching yours.
you shook your head. âmhm good stevieâ
âatta girlâ he grinned as he guided your bound hands up and looped the extra length around a slat in the headboard, securing you there with a few efficient moves. your arms stretched above your head, chest arching, leaving you open and helpless under his gaze.
steve settled back between your thighs, looking way too pleased with himself. âthere. now yâcanât grab my hands and try to stop me when it gets too good huh?â he winked, ânot that i mind you getting all squirmy.. but iâve gotcha now baby.â
he didnât waste time. his finger slid deep inside you, curling perfectly while his mouth latched onto your clit again. you tugged at the belt instinctively as he sped up, the leather holding firm, your hips jerking against his face.
âsteve! pleasepleaseplease st-!â
he hummed against you, the vibration pulling another cry from your throat. when he added a second finger and sucked harder, you couldnât hold back anymore. wrists yanking hard against the belt, legs shaking violently around his shoulders.
steve worked you through every pulse, easing only when your trembling turned to soft whimpers. he kissed up your body, stomach, ribs, the curve of your breast, before reaching your lips.
âtold you iâd take care of you.â he undid the belt from the headboard but left your wrists loosely bound for now, flipping you gently onto your stomach and pulling your hips up.
âthink you can handle more?â he asked, already pressing against you, the thick head of his cock teasing your entrance. ââdonât think iâm done with you just yetâ
you pushed back against him, desperate. âdont you dare stop now, big boyâ
âalways so good fâme sugar fuuckâ steve groaned, gripping your hips as he sank in deep. one hand slid up to hold the belt between your wrists like a handle, using it to pull you back onto him harder. âdumb fuckinâ girl huh canât even move your poor handsâ
you could only moan, the angle hitting that perfect spot over and over. another orgasm built fast, your body was quickly oversensitive.
