y†

your latest fic was so good but it kinda wrecked me😭

do you think you could make a pt. 2 with a happy ending for reader and jason ? pls🤧 (as silly as this sounds i feel like i if i dont get to read a part 2 with a happy ending then i will forreal be stuck in an unhappy marriage fhfkdkq)

and if this is not to spiteful make dick miserable for me g🫡

btw i dont care if its two paragraphs or an entire novel i just need #justice

i really tried to make this as happy as possible, though i think i only half-succeeded. it’s more of an open ending, you could read it as a jason!endgame if you want to. i hadn’t planned on writing a part two, so a fully happy ending didn’t quite fit here, but i hope it still feels satisfying in its own way.

JACK OF ALL TRADES MASTER TO NONE

pairing. jason todd x reader

tags & warnings. light angst, affair?, hurt/comfort, morally grey reader, morally grey jason todd, emotional manipulation, open ending

part i

you felt trapped inside your own choices, like you’d built the walls yourself and then forgot where the door was. when you agreed to the open marriage, it wasn’t out of choice or freedom, it was surrender. saying no would have only delayed what was already coming. the moment those words left dick’s mouth, something inside you broke. you weren’t enough anymore. maybe you never were.

but calling yourself a placeholder didn’t feel right either. dick wasn’t looking for someone new. he was too selfish for that. he just wanted everything at once, the comfort of you and the thrill of being wanted by someone else. letting you go would’ve meant losing a mirror that always reflected the best parts of him.

so sleeping with his brother wasn’t exactly your fault, right? he left you with no choice.

you waited quietly, faithfully hoping this would only be a phase, something he’d grow out of once he realised how empty it was. you never took advantage of the so called freedom you’d agreed to. the word open felt like a cruel joke. you stayed the loyal wife, pretending not to notice the traces of perfume on his shirts, the unfamiliar shades of lipstick that came home on his skin. each night you told yourself it would pass, that he’d get tired of chasing faces that all blurred together, that one day he’d look at you again and see enough.

so when jason reappeared, it felt almost inevitable.

it began small, a letter in the mailbox, the paper folded twice, your name written in that slanted, impatient handwriting you remembered. you’d stared at it for a long time before opening it. the postmark smudged, the ink faint where his pen had pressed too hard. you read it once. twice. by the fifth time, your eyes blurred. by the twentieth, you’d memorised it.

you were grateful that dick never bothered with small things like checking the mail. he wouldn’t have noticed the way your hands shook, or how your heart stuttered at the sight of that signature.

you hadn’t realised how much you’d missed your old friend until then. your life had shrunk so gradually around dick that you’d mistaken it for normal. he’d been your first everything — first love, first heartbreak, first mistake you kept trying to fix. but you were never his first. he’d had time to live before you came along, to taste freedom before calling it a distraction. and even after choosing you, he never really stopped reaching for it.

sometimes you wondered if you would’ve married him if he hadn’t been the first man to make you feel wanted.

“what are you thinking about?” jason’s whispered in your ear, pulling you closer to him.you could hear the weight in his breathing.

when you looked away and stayed silent, his hand found your chin — firm, but not harsh guiding your face back toward him. there was strength in the gesture, yet a kind of patience too, like he was afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. “tell me” he said, voice low but steady, a quiet demand that left no space to hide.

his eyes were the kind of blue that held your attention without trying. darker around the edges, the contrast so sharp it almost startled you. not like richard’s, whose eyes always seemed to sparkle in a way that invited admiration. jason’s gaze didn’t ask for anything. there was weight in it, something that made your pulse slow instead of quicken. you wondered how someone like him, someone known more for being feared than loved could look at you with such quiet gentleness.

appearances deceive. that was the story of your marriage, wasn’t it? the golden boy who could do no wrong, smiling wide enough to make everyone forget the cracks beneath it. dick had always known how to hide behind that perfect, camera-ready grin, a charm polished enough to blind anyone who wanted to see the truth.

“i’m thinking about how much i love you.” you tell him, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. his eyes catch the light at that, not surprise exactly, but something softer. it isn’t the first time you’ve said it, and you know you weren’t the first to say it.

jason had dropped the old friend act months ago, by your third meeting. he’d practically begged you then, voice rough with things he didn’t know how to hide, to leave your — in his words — “low-life husband” you hadn’t taken him seriously at the time. you’d smiled, maybe even laughed, because what else could you do? but now, sitting here, you wish you had.

“then leave him… leave him and be with me,” he says, voice lower now. not scared, not hopeful just worn out, like he already knows what’s coming.

you don’t know what to say. you really want to. dick has made it almost easy with the way he keeps humiliating you, tearing away what little love still clings to your marriage.

“jay—” you start, your voice small, ready to repeat the same words you’ve been saying for months.

“don’t start with the jay bullshit.” his tone sharpens, frustration slipping through. “you know what i’d do for you. you don’t even love him anymore, why are you making this harder than it could be? just leave him… and i’ll take care of you.”

his words catch in your chest, and for a moment you think you might cry. a tear slips down before you can stop it. his expression changes the second he sees it; the edge in him softens. he reaches out, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand, rough fingers trying to be gentle.

“no, don’t cry” he says quietly. “you know i’m saying this because i love you. seeing you like this, it does something to me. watching the woman i love stand beside someone who tears you down when i know you deserve more— it drives me mad.”

you want to believe him. you really do. but the words are too much, too heavy. they sound like comfort, but underneath them there’s something sharp, an expectation that you can't meet.

“we could make this right” he continues, eyes searching yours. “you don’t have to stay trapped. just walk away.”

walk away. as if it were that simple.

you straighten up a little, forcing air into your lungs. “jay, please… don’t make this harder. i’m confused enough as it is.” your voice shakes, and it annoys you that he can hear it. “you don’t know what you’re saying. you’re angry, and i— i can’t be the answer to that.”

he runs a hand over his face, tension flickering through him. “then tell me what you want” he says, quieter now. “because if you won’t do something, i will. i can’t keep watching this.”

that makes your stomach twist. “what does that mean?”

he doesn’t look at you at first. “it means i’m done hiding this, as if what we're doing is a crime. if you won’t tell him it’s over, i will.”

panic flares hot and immediate. “you wouldn’t.”

he looks up then, eyes dark. “you don’t know what i’m willing to do for you.”

✧.*

btw sorry ive never requested from u before so i dont rlly know ur rules etc. 😭

i know this one’s on the shorter side (sorryyy i'm going through stuff😭) and pretty jason-centred, but i hope you still enjoy it! i really liked the song suggestion, by the way. as for my rules, you can request pretty much anything (non-con and anything pedophilic are off-limits). that doesn’t mean i’ll write every request, but i’m open to hearing any ideas!

SO BE CAREFUL WHO YOU SCREW

pairing. jason todd x reader

tags & warnings. heavy angst, hurt/no comfort, one-sided pining, unrequited love, depression, rejection, jason todd has unhealthy coping mechanisms, he's not okay, dickgraysonxreader endgame, unhappy marriage, jealousy, implied older reader

jason was always compared to his older brother. it was natural, he guessed. he got all of dick’s leftovers anyway. that didn’t mean it didn’t mess with him, especially when he was younger, back when he didn’t really know who he was, only who he wasn’t. and one thing he was sure of — he wasn’t dick grayson. you made sure he remembered that.

he’s seeing a therapist now. not because he believes it’ll fix him or anything .no, jason’s pretty sure he’s one of those cases that make therapists see dollar signs. the kind they write papers about. but lately he’s been so lonely, he just wanted someone to talk to. sometimes the therapist gives him little assignments, things that might help. one of them was keeping a diary.

he laughed when she first suggested it. the red hood, writing in a diary like some bored teenager girl. writing things down doesn’t change them, it just makes them more permanent. but he started anyway. not because he believed it would help, but because he needed to remember.

thinking about the first time you made him feel true rejection feels distant now, like a dream that’s started to fade at the edges. he doesn’t remember every detail.it’s blurry, so he fills in the blanks himself. maybe it’s biased, maybe not. doesn’t matter. it’s his version. his truth. the one thing you can’t correct.

when he was fifteen, he didn’t know much about love or the difference between that and infatuation. bruce wasn’t exactly the person you’d go to for advice on it either. though bruce did notice, of course. hard not to. jason had been acting like an idiot, in hindsight. bruce never brought it up.he probably thought it was just a phase, some awkward teenage crush.

it’s almost funny.how he only met you because of dick. how dick brought you into his life, and somehow managed to take you out of it too.

before the joker. before everything broke. jason used to be pretty popular with girls his age. he didn’t take it too seriously — a kiss here, maybe a little more, nothing that meant much. but you were different. you were the only one he actually wanted. if someone had asked him why, back then, he would’ve said it was your eyes. the way they didn’t judge. he could’ve told you anything, even something awful and sure, you’d yell, maybe worse. tell him he was losing his way. but your eyes never carried that look. that look everyone else gave him, the one that said hopeless case. the one that said this was always where he’d end up.

you didn’t give up on people. he used to find that admirable.

if someone asked him now, his answer would probably be different. getting older makes you reflective, or at least it did in jason’s case. he can see now that there was something selfish in how he felt about you, something greedy. he wanted you to have the choice, to see both of them clearly, and still pick him over his perfect older brother. he wanted, for once, to have something dick couldn’t.

it’s a pity that stayed on the long list of things jason todd wanted but never got.

he can still feel the cold breeze from that night, the one when he finally decided to make a move. it was after patrol, a rare quiet night in gotham when the city seemed almost merciful. the air was sharp, your hair messy from the wind. he’d wanted to reach out, smooth it down, feel how cold it was. your breath came out too loud in the silence — back then, he found it comforting. now, he’d probably find it irritating.

“i really like being on patrol with you.”

he’d tried to sound casual, as if his heart wasn’t pounding through the words. your eyes were watery, maybe from the cold, but he still remembers how the streetlights caught them, how you looked almost unreal in that moment. it’s that version of you that keeps showing up in his dreams.

“me too, jay.”

you’d smiled, reaching out to ruffle his hair.gentle, careless. it stung. you treated him like a kid, and maybe he was one, playing dress-up in a mantle, pretending to be something he wasn’t.

still, that didn’t stop him from trying.

“i was wondering if yo—”

he never got to finish. the rejection didn’t come from you, not directly. it came from dick’s voice calling your name, too bright, too warm. you turned instantly, didn’t even hesitate. he appeared out of nowhere, wrapping you up in a hug that lasted too long, his hand resting lower than jason could stand.

jason should’ve been relieved that dick saved him from the humiliation of gentle rejection. he wasn’t. all he wanted in that moment was to wipe that perfect, toothpaste-commercial grin clean off his face.

the rest is hazy now — you and dick talking like he wasn’t even there, your laughter cutting through the night. and then you were gone. gone with him.

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─

he told himself it wasn’t weird. just coincidence. that’s what he said the first few times, anyway. same laugh, same shade of hair, same way of biting a lip before speaking. but after how many coincidences does an excuse stop working?

people might say jason’s got a type. they wouldn’t be wrong, but they wouldn’t know why. every woman after you was a fleeting resemblance he chased until it fell apart. none of them stayed. not because he pushed them away, but because sooner or later they all noticed that you’d locked his heart up years ago and taken the key without looking back.

one of those brief flings is asleep beside him now, tangled in the sheets, her slow breathing breaking the quiet. the room smells like cheap wine and rain seeping through the cracked window. the bed feels too big, too bare — it would look more like a home if it were you lying there instead. jason’s never been good at that domestic sort of thing. you were. you’d know how to fill the space, make it warm.

he’s been meaning to fix the clogged pipe in the bathroom. it wheezes every time the tap runs. he’s used to it now. it doesn’t bother him. but he imagines you here and knows you’d hate it, you’d call from the doorway, tell him off for letting it sit so long. he’d grumble, act put out, but he’d fix it right away. without you asking twice.

sometimes, while he’s brushing his teeth, he catches himself thinking about dick doing the same thing in your flat. does dick fix things before you ask? or do you have to do it yourself?

he hasn’t seen either of you in years — can’t bring himself to. every sighting, every mention, feels like being reminded of the obvious.that dick grayson is better. that he always has been.

every so often, word of you both reaches him anyway — through barbara, or bruce, on the rare occasions they still bother to call.

dick’s got it all, doesn’t he? bruce, tim, damian, barbara even barbara, who once swore she’d never forgive him, got over him faster than anyone expected. donna. wally. roy. a whole network of people who’d drop everything if he asked.

and jason? he’s got faces. strangers. names that blur the morning after. people he never sees twice. and that familiar ache that follows him everywhere, the kind that sits behind the ribs and never really goes quiet.

then someone let it slip — you and dick, not doing so well. rough patch, they said. bad enough that even the gossip filters down to him, and people know better than to talk around jason todd. must be serious if they can’t help themselves.

from what he pieced together, it’s an “open marriage” his mouth almost twitched into a smile at that. open, sure just not for you. he can picture it too easily, dick calling it healthy, modern, that smooth voice convincing you it’s freedom while he goes and charms half of gotham.

part of jason wants to laugh. part of him wants to punch a wall. maybe both. poetic, isn’t it? you choosing the city’s golden boy, only to realise he shines for everyone but you.

he wonders if dick still tells you you’re beautiful, or if it’s become background noise to him, something he doesn’t need to say anymore. maybe you still try, putting extra effort into your hair, your clothes, hoping it’ll remind him what he used to see.

jason would’ve noticed. he would’ve said it. not just said it — made you feel it. with hands that remembered, with quiet gratitude for the things you did without being asked. the meals, the laundry, the small, invisible gestures. he’d have returned them. fixed the leaks, unclogged the drains, cleaned the place before you even thought to ask.

he wonders if dick ever picks up after himself. or if you’re still there, folding his shirts for him while he wears them out to meet someone else.

sometimes he lets himself picture you standing in the kitchen, alone, the light above you too harsh, trying not to cry while pretending you don’t care.

he wonders if you feel humiliated. if you lie awake some nights wishing someone would pull you out of it.

pairing. hockeyplayer!jasontodd x figureskater!reader

summary. in which you, an obsessed artist are saved from the fate of ophelia by jason todd.

tags & warnings.slowburn, mutual pining, ongoing fic, obsessed artist trope, inspired by black swan, slight angst, mother issues, first times, loss of virginity in future chapter, uni au, dick grayson is a flirt, jason todd is bad at feelings,

note. i'm very proud of this, by far my favourite work yet. this will be a 8 chapter fic, so please be patient with me :)

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all you ever wanted was to skate.

your mum had signed you up for lessons before you even turned five. she’d been a figure skater once. made it to the world championships before finding out she was pregnant with you. she never really recovered from losing her career.

skating came easily. backwards, spins, jumps. axel, salchow, loop. you’d stay on the ice until your toes went numb, until your legs trembled and burned.

you loved it. no, you needed it.

the sound of blades cutting through ice, the cold air on your cheeks, that moment when you left the ground and everything went quiet, nothing else compared.

since you were little, you’d dreamt of gold at the olympics. of standing on the podium above the four-time champion you’d watched as a child—the first woman to land a triple axel back in ‘06. you were still chasing that jump, still chasing perfection. and you couldn’t win if you weren’t perfect.

you’d booked the rink. seven to ten, all yours. but when you walked in, it wasn’t empty.

loud rock music shook the boards. one guy, in full hockey gear, was hammering pucks at the net.

slam—one hit the glass.

slam—another clanged off the wall.

each shot harder than the last.

“excuse me!” you waved, trying to catch his attention, but the music drowned you out. “hello?”

slam. slam. none of them went in. pucks littered the ice around the net, and the sharp crack of stick against puck echoed painfully around the rink.

you marched up to the control booth and cut the music.

the guy spun round, frowning under his helmet. he skated over, pulling it off to reveal dark hair in desperate need of a trim. bruises bloomed under one eye, and a split lip marked him out as exactly what he looked like—a hockey lad with too much anger to burn.

“can i help you?”

“i’ve got the rink reserved.” you said, arms crossed.

“i’m not done.” he turned away, collecting another puck.

“you will be.” you muttered, yanking on your skates and stepping onto the ice. you pushed forward until your blade stopped right on his next puck, forcing him to look up. “once i’m done at ten, you can have it all to yourself.”

“the rink closes at ten.” he gestured at the far end. “can’t you just use the other half?”

“no. i need the full rink. regionals are next week.”

he exhaled through his nose, biting back whatever he wanted to say. “fine. it’s all yours, ice princess.”

he skated off, leaving the net and every puck scattered across the ice.

that wasn’t the last time you saw jason todd, though you didn’t know his name yet.

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fifteen minutes in, and your new tights were already torn.

impressive.

your mum was going to scold you. or worse, give you that quiet look of disappointment, the one that said i gave up everything for you and you can’t even take care of your things.

she’d never say it outright, but you could feel it between the lines. her own career gone before it ever peaked, replaced by two part-time jobs and endless late nights just to keep you on the ice.

you were grateful. you really were.

this was your dream — the only one that ever made sense.

two months.

two months to perfect your routine. anna karenina. two months to land the triple axel that kept slipping away from you like a ghost.

you picked up speed, the rink blurring around you. deep breath. you launched into the jump — one, two, three turns and crashed hard, knee first.

“again!” your coach clapped, his voice echoing against the boards.

you nodded, teeth gritted, skating back into position.

another fall. harder this time.

“not good enough!” he barked, and then, softer, “take the night off. clear your head. we’ll try again tomorrow.”

you forced out a breath. “yes, coach.”

by the time you limped off the ice, blood had already started seeping through the tear in your tights. the sting made you wince as you sat down on the cold bleachers, rubbing your knee to keep it from stiffening.

the rink lights buzzed overhead. a few distant shouts carried from the other side. the hockey team finishing up practice.

“hey.”

you glanced up. the voice was familiar.

“hi?”

the guy standing a few feet away looked vaguely sheepish, helmet under his arm, hair damp and curling from sweat.

“i’m the guy from last week,” he said, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “the one with the pucks?”

you blinked, trying to place him. then it clicked. “oh. right. the one who nearly shattered my eardrums.”

he laughed under his breath. “yeah.” he rubbed the back of his neck. “sorry about that. bad day.”

“we’ve all got those,” you said, tugging at the edge of your ripped tights. your knee looked worse than it felt. maybe. “don’t worry about it.”

“you sure? i kinda hogged your ice.”

“i’ve already forgotten about it.”

he nodded, glancing at your knee. “doesn’t look like your night’s going any better.”

you really didn’t want to talk right now. “it’s fine.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

a whistle blew across the rink. “todd!” his coach’s voice sharp, impatient.

he groaned quietly. “that’s my cue.”

you watched him push back onto the ice, smooth and fast. definitely more control than you’d expected from someone who’d been ricocheting pucks off glass the week before.

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sunday was for resting, but you spent the entirety of it at the rink. the air was sharp, clinging to your throat each time you breathed too hard. the place was empty but for the echo of your blades and the dull thud of your falls. the triple axel blurred together — takeoff, spin, crash. again and again, until the sound of it became a rhythm.

by practice the next morning, your legs burned, your knees were cut up, and your toes blistered beyond repair. it felt like your body was rejecting you.

on monday, your coach decided you needed a break.

“i’m putting you on rest for the week.”

you blinked, barely processing. “what?”

“clear your mind,” he said, the words felt like a dismissal, gentle but final. rest meant you’ve done enough and it still isn’t working.

you knew then he didn’t believe you’d land the triple. didn’t believe you’d win nationals.

“again” you said quietly.

he sighed, but you pressed play on the music anyway and pushed into your routine.

and fell again.

“what am i doing wrong?” you finally broke down, not only haven’t you mastered the art of perfection, no you were a total failure.

“you need an edge,” he said finally. “you need to seduce.”

edge? you had edge. you had tricks, precision, drive.

“i have that,” you murmured. “i have edge. i can be… sexy.”

he shook his head, resting a large tan hand on your shoulder. “no. peggy fleming is sexy. tara lipinski is. their music, their costumes, their movement — they draw the audience in. they seduce.”

you swallowed. “i can do that.”

“how?”

“i—” the words wouldn’t come. you’d always skated to soft piano pieces, wore pastels and pale dresses, light makeup. you didn’t drink, didn’t go out. you’d kissed a boy once in year eight, but truth or dare hardly counts. you were a virgin.

“you could be brilliant,” he said while his hand slid slowly down your arm. “find your edge. learn to seduce us, me.”

his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “then,” he said softly, “you can be perfect.”

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university wasn’t anything exciting. you didn’t move into a dorm or join clubs. you just woke up, went to lectures, trained for hours, went home, and did it all again.

it had been almost a week since your coach put you on rest. sunday night now. you were waiting for monday, the chance to step back on the ice, to feel like yourself again.

you sat on your bed, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. a few minutes in, your eyes burned from the light, and you tossed it aside. boredom filled the silence. then the screen lit up again.

a message from isabella.

heyy love, are you coming to grayson’s xx?

you stared at it for a moment, unsure what to say.

another one followed. come on, everyone’s here. you need to have a little bit of fun once in a while 🫠

you sighed, already half-set on ignoring it until you remembered your coach’s words. you need an edge. you need to seduce.

you’d told him, i have edge, i can be sexy.

a lie.

you opened your wardrobe. pastels, soft skirts, cardigans. it looked more like a child’s dressing-up box than a university student’s closet. no wonder you’d never stood out. no wonder you’d never–

you checked the clock. 11 p.m. your mum was asleep down the hall.

her wardrobe was neater, tucked behind the door. maybe she still had something from before, back when she went out. she’d never let you out this late, not with training tomorrow, but she wouldn’t notice if you were quiet enough.

you moved carefully, the hinges of her wardrobe groaning faintly as you opened it. and there it was, a black halter top, sequinned and sheer enough to catch the light. it tied at the front, a little reckless, a little unlike you. you paired it with fitted black shorts, then pulled on your knee-high boots.

you caught your reflection in the mirror. it didn’t look like you. that was the goal.

you applied heavy makeup, took your bag and went out of the door without waking your mum.

the night air outside was cool, carrying that faint hum of the city winding down. your breath clouded as you walked, hands tucked into your jacket.

grayson’s flat wasn’t far, music leaked from the windows, not too loud, just enough to make the glass tremble. you hesitated by the door for a moment, feeling the weight of every reason to go back home.

then you knocked, and someone called for you to come in.

warmth, lights, the faint smell of cheap alcohol and perfume. people talking over one another, some drunk laughter.

no one looked at you twice when you stepped in, which somehow made it easier. you exhaled, pulling your jacket a little tighter around you, until isabella’s soft hands hugged you from behind.

“omg, i knew you’d show up” she said, a bit slurred from how drunk she was.

you gave her a look, and she immediately burst into laughter. “yeah, no, i’m totally lying. i’m actually surprised you came.”

“i just felt like it” you told her, playing with your hair, not sure what to do with your hands. luckily, another one of her friends, some guy who looked a bit too old to be at a uni party handed you a beer.

before you could even take a sip, isabella dragged you with her to a room where it was slightly quieter. a few people, dick grayson included, were sitting on a couch just talking.

before isabella could introduce you, grayson looked up and asked, “hey, do we know each other?” flashing that handsome, toothpaste-commercial kind of smile.

“she’s my friend” isabella blurted before you could speak, probably too drunk to remember basic social cues.

“yes, her friend” you repeated, setting the beer down. dick noticed you standing there awkwardly and scooted over to make space for you to sit.

“thanks.”

the night went on, and you found yourself taking tequila shots with them. at first, it was the most disgusting liquid you’d ever tasted, making your nose scrunch up, but after the first two you got used to it. you had to admit, you liked how it made you feel. more relaxed, a little giddy, and shamelessly craving touch.

dick handing you some drink he’d just mixed snapped you out of your thoughts. “it’s the grayson special” he gave you a wink.

you took it from him. “the gay son special?” you giggled, and he corrected you over the loud music, “no, the GRAYSON special” which only made you laugh harder. he just shook his head.

oh, the drink was strong — you realised that after just one sip, but weirdly delicious. “what’s in it?” you asked, a bit too loudly.

“now that’s a secret. just drink it, sweetheart.” the sweetheart made you giggle again. everything was funny now. you finished the drink within minutes.

everyone stared at you, exchanging glances. “thirsty girl” some girl teased with a laugh.

suddenly, you felt the need to move, to walk or just stand up, anything but sit.

“i’m going to the bathroom” you said, excusing yourself. isabella offered to come, but you waved her off.

you wandered through grayson’s massive flat. there was no way he lived here alone, right? then you remembered, billionaire’s son. of course he did.

you walked far enough that the music faded to a distant hum.

you wanted to lie down so badly that you just stepped into the first empty room you found. thankfully, no couples hooking up inside.

collapsing onto the bed, you glanced around. the room was neat, almost too neat. a hockey helmet on the floor caught your eye. hockey player, maybe. the bookshelf was lined and orderly, big reader too apparently. the place looked barely lived in.

“what the fuck are you doing in my room?” a familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

“wait what are you doing in my room?” he corrected himself a second later, confusion replacing the irritation.

“i think i wanted to walk” you said, not particularly bothered by how strange this whole interaction was becoming.

“you wanted to walk… in my room?” he raised an eyebrow, clearly trying to make sense of the situation.

“yes, and i also wanted to be touched” you said bluntly, no filter left in you.

sadly, you couldn’t see the look on his face if you had, you probably would’ve burst out laughing. jason paused for a moment, trying to decide what to say.

“okay, you’re a funny girl. how many drinks have you had?”

“i think… five to nine shots… and ah, the gay son special.”

“do you often take five to nine shots and wander into strange men’s rooms?” he asked, half joking, half serious.

“no, you’re the special first” you said, finally meeting his gaze. his eyes were ocean blue, studying you like you were some strange attraction at a circus. weirdly enough, it didn’t bother you. it didn’t even offend you. if anything, it felt nice to be seen like that, with such intensity.

“can i ask you something?” you broke the heavy silence.

“yeah?”

“do you want to kiss me?”

for the second time that night, he gave you that look, a mix of disbelief and confusion, like he couldn’t figure out if you were joking or just bold.

“yes.”

you weren’t surprised. you’d caught the way his eyes lingered, your lips, your neck, even lower.

“will you?”

“no.”

no? the word hit you strange. why say yes and then stop himself? you were practically inviting him.

“why not?”

“because, for one, i don’t know if you actually want me to kiss you or if you’re just drunk. and…”

“and?” you slurred.

“and it doesn’t matter.”

you frowned, suddenly curious, but before you could press him, your stomach turned. he caught the change in your face immediately and pointed toward the bathroom. you hadn’t even noticed it was there.

you rushed inside, grateful to make it in time. no way were you about to throw up on his bed after breaking in uninvited that would be just rude. since you hadn’t eaten much, you were mostly just getting rid of the drinks. you could even taste the grayson special again still weirdly sweet, like gummy bears.

a knock came at the door. “do you need help, ice princess?” he called, teasing.

you rolled your eyes. “NO!” — maybe a bit too harsh. you softened your tone. “thank you, i’m fine.”

the embarrassment hit you then, the sort that creeps in as the alcohol fades. you washed your hands, ran your fingers through your hair. okay, you didn’t look that bad. totally normal. just your average uni experience, right?

when you opened the door, he wasn’t there anymore, just one of his shirts laid neatly on the bed. you sat down, staring at it for a moment. you’d been running into him a lot lately… though now you were wondering, why the hell is he living in dick grayson’s flat?

he came back a minute later, holding a glass of water and an ibuprofen. “for your hangover” he said, handing them to you.

you glanced at the shirt, and he nodded toward it. “it’s late. maybe rest here for a few hours before you head out in the morning” he said. his tone was serious, but his actions were kind, strangely gentle for someone who looked like him.

“i never asked your name” you said.

“jason. my name’s jason.”

“jason” you repeated, testing it on your tongue. you smiled. “pretty name.”

he didn’t know what to say to that — so he didn’t.

“will you also sleep here?”

“no, don’t worry. i’ll take the guest room.”

and even though part of you still wanted him to kiss you, wanted that touch you’d been craving, you were glad you wouldn’t be sharing a bed.

you took a moment to really look at him. tall — definitely around 6’2, maybe taller. broad shoulders, thick arms, built like he could lift a car if he had to. not like dick, who was lean, jason was all strength, solid and unshakable. his hands were big too, the kind that made everything else look small. you wondered if his books ever felt too small in them.

his face was rugged but striking, his lower lip still bruised. the black eye was gone now. dark brows sat low over piercing blue eyes, eyes like the ocean, or the sky right before it rains. his hair looked cleaner than last week, shorter, freshly cut. he looked like someone who frowned a lot, though no permanent lines gave it away. he was handsome.

“what are you looking at?” he asked suddenly, irritation flickering across his face.

“nothing.”

he just hummed. “get some rest.”

he left you alone in his room. you wanted to look around a bit more, his books, but exhaustion hit you. and, honestly, you didn’t want to get caught snooping. so you pulled off your top, slipped into his shirt, and fell asleep surrounded by the faint scent of him.

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you woke up around 10 a.m. to nineteen missed calls from your mum and three from your coach. forty more messages from your mum.

oh, you’d fucked up. badly.

you were still too dizzy for the full panic to hit, but it was coming. you needed to get out of here, fast.

what the hell were you even wearing? you scrambled around for your clothes and shoes, running your fingers through your tangled hair. as soon as you opened the door, you walked straight into a half-naked, muscled wall of a man — jason.

he’d just stepped out of the shower, towel slung low around his waist, hair damp and messy as he rubbed it dry. he looked even more built like this,like some greek god who’d just wandered out of a marble statue.

“you’re in a hurry?” he asked, still drying his hair, calm as ever.

“oh, i’m more than in a hurry,” you said, trying to sound composed but failing. “my coach is going to kill me. if he doesn’t, my mum definitely will.”

jason stopped, eyebrows furrowing. “why?”

“i slept in. i missed training.” you muttered, shame creeping up your throat. you could feel the embarrassment burning under your skin — this wasn’t you. this wasn’t who you were supposed to be. sneaking out, getting drunk, flirting with strangers, missing training. last week, the thought alone would’ve sent you spiralling.

“so what?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“so what?! i fucked up, jason. now move, i need to fix this.” you brushed past him before he could say anything else.

it was only a twenty-minute walk from dick’s flat to your house, but it felt longer, every step sinking with dread.

by the time you reached your street, the reality of it all hit. you weren’t often scared of your mum, but this… this was one of those times. she wouldn’t ground you you were an adult now, and besides, she never had to. you’d always been the perfect child, her bragging right. the reliable one. and now this.

not knowing what she’d say made it worse. that look of quiet disappointment that would sting the most.

before you could think too much, you were already standing in front of the door. you unlocked it carefully, hoping to sneak in quietly, but it was pointless. she was standing right there, waiting.

“what the hell are you wearing?” she asked, sounding more like a headteacher than your mother.

“an outfit, mum.” you muttered, trying to slip past her. you couldn’t do this right now.

her hand shot out, catching your arm. “is that glitter on your eyes?”

“yes.”

“and why do you reek of alcohol?”

“i don’t know, mum.” you yanked your arm free and stormed up the stairs, slamming your door shut behind you.

you were acting like a brat you knew it, but you didn’t care. your head pounded, your body ached, and you’d missed training. but somehow, the only thing clouding your mind was, jason todd.

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pairing. dickgrayson x bestfriend!reader

summary. bestfriend! dick grayson being your boyfriends worst nightmare.

tags & warnings. domestic fluff, best friends to lovers??, jealousy, intimacy, cheating, babytrapping, slight breeding kink, no use of y/n

note. wrote this with the dumbest grin on my face the whole time 😭 so excited for all the nightwing halloween costumes.

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bestfriend!dickgrayson who loves to show off in front of your insecure boyfriend. he always pulls you in for a hug, your face tucked into his shoulder, while he looks straight at your boyfriend with that smug smile, the kind that turns into an even smugger wink.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who you always run to after another argument, usually about him. you’re frustrated, ranting about how your boyfriend keeps insisting there’s something between you and dick, something you keep denying because he’s your best friend — nothing more, nothing less.dick listens, calm and unbothered, throwing in quiet remarks like “he’s insecure.” “he doesn’t trust you.” “if my girlfriend had a close mate who’s a guy, i’d never overreact like that.” he says it so casually, like he’s just stating facts, but deep down he knows he’s full of shit. he knows that if some guy ever acted around his girl the way he does around you, he’d lose it. still, he never says that part out loud.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who shows up to the halloween party dressed as flynn rider because you’re rapunzel. you’d asked your boyfriend first, but he said he was doing a group costume with his “homeboys” fine, whatever. dick didn’t even try to hide how thrilled he was to take his place. “guess i’ll have to be your flynn then” he’d said, grin a little too proud.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who somehow convinces you to help him shave his beard because “it’s hard to get the lines even.” you’re standing between his legs in the bathroom, razor in hand, his hands resting lightly on your hips as you tilt his chin up. the tension is quiet, too quiet until he murmurs, “careful, sweetheart, i’m trusting you with my face.”

bestfriend!dickgrayson who loves to walk you home even when your boyfriend’s waiting in the car. he leans against the door, smirking, saying, “i’ll make sure she gets in safe.”

bestfriend!dickgrayson who sends the “home safe?” text before your boyfriend even thinks to.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who always manages to find a reason to touch you — a hand at your waist, fingers brushing your wrist, guiding you through a crowd like.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who looks your boyfriend straight in the eye when he calls you “sweetheart” voice low and warm like he’s daring him to say something.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who insists you come with him to get fitted for a suit, says he needs a “second opinion” and then stands there half-buttoned, letting you adjust his tie while the tailor tries not to stare.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who buys tickets for a couples only pottery class because he “didn’t read the fine print” and you’re too nice to say no once you’ve already shown up.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who takes you furniture shopping for his apartment, asking which bedding looks best “for hypothetical guests” he adds, but you both know he’s not talking about guests.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who helps you move flats, doing all the heavy lifting while you hand him bottles of water and laugh. he sets up your bed for you, tests it by sitting down, and says with a grin, “feels sturdy. might crash here sometime.”

bestfriend!dickgrayson who takes you to an art gallery and stands too close while looking at the paintings, leaning in to whisper what he really thinks about them except his breath is warm against your neck, and you forget what painting you were even looking at.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who always insists on teaching you “self-defence moves”, but somehow every lesson ends with you pinned beneath him, breathless, his grin smug as ever “you’ve gotta react faster than that.”

bestfriend!dickgrayson who insists on carrying all your things when the three of you go out, joking that your boyfriend “shouldn’t strain himself” as he lifts everything effortlessly. you laugh it off, but the air feels thick after that.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who drives you both home after a night out because your boyfriend had one drink too many. he teases him lightly, hands steady on the wheel, voice calm while your boyfriend mumbles in the back seat. you can feel the contrast in how composed dick is.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who casually brings up stories from your childhood. little memories your boyfriend’s never heard, each one ending with “remember that, sweetheart?” and you do, too vividly. your boyfriend doesn’t say much for the rest of the night.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who shows up at your flat with soup and paracetamol when you’re sick. your boyfriend texts “sorry, can’t take the day off.” dick just shrugs, takes off his jacket, and spends the day there anyway making tea, tidying your place, sitting on the floor next to your sofa while you nap. when your boyfriend calls that evening, you’re asleep, dick picks up your phone “yeah, she’s fine. i’m taking good care of her.” he flaunts to your boyfriend, asserting dominance.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who doesn’t correct the barista when she calls you his girlfriend. he meets your eyes over the counter, grin slow and easy and says, “two lattes for us, love?” you could say something, but you don’t. not when his hand is already on the small of your back, steering you away.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who sits beside you at dinner, leaning in when he talks so you have to tilt your head toward him. his cologne lingers, his knee finds yours under the table, and his voice is low enough that your boyfriend can’t hear the small, private things he says just for you.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who notices the shiver in your hands when the night turns cold and quietly slips his jacket around your shoulders before you can ask. you say thank you, he just murmurs “looks better on you anyway.”

bestfriend!dickgrayson who drives you home, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear at a red light. he doesn’t move away after, and neither do you.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who opens the door before you can even knock properly, face softening the second he sees your eyes. you try to laugh it off, say it’s nothing, but the words tumble out anyway. how your boyfriend forgot about your anniversary, how you’d planned everything, how stupid it feels to care this much. dick doesn’t interrupt. he just pulls you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head.

bestfriend!dickgrayson who tells you everything you need to hear.soon enough, you’re getting fucked stupid by his 8 inch cock,“feel good? feel better than that piece of shit? he never made you cum, didn’t he?”

bestfriend!dickgrayson who gets even more cocky, telling you how he will knock you up, while he is pounding in and out of you. he will knock you up so you have no choice but to leave your loser boyfriend for good,”i’ll take good care of you baby, that bastard never deserved you.” you nod, too dumbfucked to worry about anything but dick’s thick cock.

summary. you navigate the fading intimacy and growing distance in your relationship with jason, quietly observing the signs of his detachment and infidelity.

pairing. jason todd x fem!reader | 1,6K

tags & warnings. infidelity, angst, hurt/no comfort, unhealthy relationship, handjobs, vaginal fingering, jason todd is not the good guy in this fic, no happy ending,

note. i was listening to you by charli xcx, which inspired this fic. i don’t think jason todd would normally cheat, to be honest, but i love exploring a bit of classic infidelity angst. in this story, he’s a little ooc, more mean spirited than usual, but it’s subtle, nothing over the top.

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you sit in the living room, the light feels different today—thin, almost transparent, like it’s passing through a memory instead of glass. the plants by the window have started to wilt again, their leaves curling inwards, quietly giving up. you make a note to water them, though you probably won’t. the guitar’s still there, half forgotten beside the sofa, one string missing. it’s strange how you can live somewhere and never really notice the things inside it until everything starts to feel temporary.

when you and jason first moved in, you said you wanted the place to feel like both of you. the idea sounded nice at the time, something about balance, or compromise, or love, maybe. now it just looks like a collection of choices made too quickly. the record player you never use, the expensive lamp that hums when it’s on, the big windows with no curtains. all of it beautiful in theory, just slightly off in practice.

there isn’t much to feel, not anymore. it’s more like the quiet after a concert ends, nothing tragic, just that small ache of knowing it’s over. you’re staring at the clock, trying to remember the exact moment you knew it was over—when it shifted from something breakable to something already broken. denial’s a strange thing; it doesn’t announce itself.

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“i’m just saying, jay, maybe act like i’m actually your girlfriend when other people are around.” your voice wasn’t sharp, just tired. it wasn’t even meant to start a fight. you’d stopped wanting fights weeks ago. you just wanted… something to register. anything.

he didn’t look up from his drink. roy and artemis had just left. jason exhaled, rubbed at his temple like he was trying to hold something in.

“can we not do this right now?” he said finally, low and flat.

“you weren’t too tired twenty minutes ago,” you said, not even looking at him. “you were laughing pretty hard then.”

he froze for half a second, then let out this small, bitter laugh—like he’d been waiting for that line.

“jesus. here we go again,” he said, turning to face you. “you always do this. you start something out of nothing and then act like i’m the one losing it.”

“i’m not starting anything, i’m just saying-”

“no, you’re never just saying” he cut in, voice rising just enough to sting. “you think i’m the bad guy every time i don’t play into your script. i never asked you to stay, you know that, right?”

for a while, neither of you said anything. the kitchen felt too quiet, too clean.

you looked at him then. not angry, not even hurt, just aware. the version of him who used to care about how he spoke to you was long gone.

that was five months ago. you could still tell yourself it was just a rough patch back then—bad timing, bad moods, too much silence between texts. now it’s harder to lie to yourself. you don’t need to check his phone to know. it’s in the way he’s always somewhere else, the way the excuses come too easily. the smell of someone else’s perfume on his hoodie—sweet, synthetic, vanilla. not yours. never yours.

he says he’s been busy, patrol, work, whatever version of the truth fits that night. when you ask, he gets defensive. calls you paranoid, says you’re making things up. but you’ve stopped arguing. there’s no point. you just know.

the door opens, breaks the quiet. keys drop onto the counter. 2 a.m.

“you didn’t have to wait for me" he says. his tone is flat, like he’s just commenting on the weather.

you look up from the sofa, force something that could pass for a smile. “i missed you. we barely see each other anymore.”

he steps out of his boots, distracted. you move closer, take his jacket before he can stop you. he doesn’t protest, but he doesn’t thank you either. when he finally looks at you, it’s like you’re a stranger he’s trying to place.

“i’m tired" he speaks.

you study him for a moment, the faint line between his brows, the smell of someone else’s perfume mixed with smoke and gotham air. you reach up anyway, fingertips grazing his jaw. the skin there is warm, tense.

“too tired for this?” you ask quietly, voice steady but thinner than you mean it to be. your hand lingers against his collar, tugging slightly at the edge of his shirt.

he doesn’t answer, just watches you. the silence stretches, heavy but not hostile. you move closer until your breath catches against his neck, until the space between you is no more.

your hands move to his belt, slower than usual, clumsy in a way you can’t quite hide. your chest feels tight—too aware, too awake. you tell yourself it’s about closeness, but it isn’t. it’s about proof. about trying to feel like you still matter, even if it’s only for a few minutes. the buckle comes loose with a small sound that feels too loud in the quiet. you slide it free and drop it somewhere behind him, not bothering to see where it lands.

he finally moves, stops letting you do all the work, he picks you up swiftly with ease, god you almost forgot how strong he is. it happens fast—his hands on you, pulling you closer with the kind of force that used to feel reassuring. for a second, it almost does again. you’d forgotten how easily he could make you feel small, how strong he is when he decides to be.

he kisses you, hard, like he’s trying to prove a point rather than feel anything. there’s no warmth in it, just a quiet kind of anger, a need to take up space without letting you in. not tenderness, just muscle memory. still, you let it happen. you let yourself believe it means something, even as it doesn’t.

he pulls your thong to the side, and starts pumping two fingers inside of you, thinking this will get you wet. the only thing that makes it bearable is thinking about how it used to feel. back when things between you still made sense, when he actually wanted to be there. you try to hold onto that version of him — the one who looked at you like he meant it. now it’s just going through the motions, and you both know it.

you wince, stepping back slightly “fuck jay, it hurts.” he ignores you and continue fingering you. you lift your gaze to him, eyes wide, glassy. there’s something in his expression, anger, maybe frustration—before you can even speak he presses his lips to yours, sudden and sharp, like he’s trying to silence you before the words even leave your mouth.

you slide your hand under his waistband and over the ridges of his cock, it’s completely soft.he tries to make himself hard, stroking himself up and down. after five minutes, you become irritated, you pry his fist open, and replace it with your own. you start to stroke him, picking up your speed, squeezing his base, he lets out a moan. this goes on for another 15 minutes, jason shifted, turning completely away "look, i just… can't do it. another night.”

everything, the distance, the excuses, the way he just shut you out—hits at once. you crumble, tears spilling down your cheeks before you can stop them. “fuck you, jason” you manage to say.

you stumble toward the bedroom, searching for your passport and wallet. you throw them in your bag, “i can’t do this anymore” you choke out between sobs.

he’s quick to follow, but not gently. not with the softness this used to have. just steps behind you, heavy and certain, like he’s trying to close the gap between you without understanding why you’re running.

“you need to calm down” he tells you, rubbing at his temple, like he’s trying to make this small, like he can erase it with a gesture. you don’t hear it. you barely hear anything anymore.

“who is she, jason?” your voice is calm, detached, almost empty. not loud, not demanding.

“who’s who?” he says, pretending he doesn’t know. you stare at him, and you don’t even want to argue anymore. you don’t want anything from him except the truth, the one you’ve known for weeks.

he steps closer, too close, hands reaching for your face, brushing away tears you’ve stopped trying to hide. the gesture should feel comforting, but it doesn’t. it feels strange, almost wrong.

you flinch. something inside snaps—not anger, not hate, just hollow acceptance. the warmth he offers doesn’t reach you anymore.

“what do you want me to say?” he asks finally, voice quieter, almost defeated. “yes, there’s someone else. i’ve been fucking someone else. does that… satisfy you, because i’m the villain again, and you are some helpless victim?”

you look at him like he’s a stranger. “no. this isn’t about me. it’s not about her. it’s about you. about how you can’t see yourself as enough. about how you keep looking for a quick fix instead of anything real. you’ll never be happy, jason. you were born plagued.”

he exhales slowly,wanting to argue back. for a fleeting second, the thought of begging for forgiveness also flickers across his mind, but before he could do any of those things, you grab your bag without looking back.

ᴄʟᴀʀᴋ ᴋᴇɴᴛ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ / 4.5ᴋ

.✦── ᴡʜᴀᴛ’ꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏʀꜱᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀꜱᴋ ʏᴏᴜʀ ɴᴇᴡʟʏ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏ-ᴡᴏʀᴋᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰʀᴇᴀᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴀʀᴛɪᴄʟᴇ? ── .✦

𝙩𝙖𝙜𝙨/ 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣, 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙝𝙖𝙨 𝙣𝙤 𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣, 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙨𝙩, 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙠 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙧𝙪𝙨𝙝, 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙡𝙤𝙞𝙨, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙞𝙞, 𝙛𝙡𝙪𝙛𝙛, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙗𝙤𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙤𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙧-𝙞𝙨𝙝, 𝗮𝘄𝗸𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗼𝗺-𝗰𝗼𝗺 𝘃𝗶𝗯𝗲𝘀??, 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗿𝗸 𝗸𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗹𝗼𝗶𝘀, 𝗱𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗲! 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

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You really shouldn’t be so smug about Lois and Clark’s breakup, especially considering how brief their relationship was. You shouldn’t… but here you are, thinking of ways to start a conversation with your freshly single and undeniably fit co-worker.

Yes, he was a bit clumsy and awkward, traits you’d normally label as weaponised incompetence and steer well clear of. But with a face like his? You’d let him get away with far worse.

Clark Kent, in his usual blissful oblivion, probably wouldn’t even notice. Still, you spritzed on your most expensive perfume the one you reserve for dates where you’re almost certain you’ll end up in someone’s bed. You followed a “no makeup makeup” tutorial you found on TikTok, hoping to hide your very obvious desperation behind something that looked effortless. And you wore a skirt just a touch shorter than usual, short enough to be noticed, but not short enough to land you in HR’s inbox.

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You were a good journalist—damn good, actually and an even better writer. So, asking Clark for help on your article about the rise of anti-intellectualism was, admittedly, not the most convincing lie. But it was just believable enough for Clark, who would never even consider a colleague lying to him. One of his very few flaws, really. The man was far too trusting for his own good.

“I’m very happy to help,” Clark said, offering a shy smile. “But what exactly do you need my help with?” He looked genuinely confused probably because you hadn’t actually explained why you needed him, specifically.

He was sitting across from you, slouched slightly in the chair, all long limbs and broad shoulders trying to fold themselves into something smaller. God, he was so big, and yet always tried to make himself less. His fingers fidgeted with a pen he’d grabbed mid-sentence, a nervous habit you hadn’t noticed before but immediately stored in your mental archive of things that made you fall deeper in love with Clark Kent.

“I just needed someone to read over it—get a second opinion,” you replied, cringing inwardly at the transparent lie, hoping to God he wouldn’t catch on that you were really just looking for an excuse to talk to him.

“Oh, um, of course sure. Give it to me, I’ll look over it on my lunch break,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Never mind that his lunch break was unpaid, or that he could probably spend it doing something far more useful than proofreading an article that had already been edited to death.

Goddamn this man. He couldn’t be serious.

You should’ve felt bad. You did feel bad. You were a terrible, selfish person interrupting this man’s one pocket of peace in the day.All for your own ridiculous crush. Especially since the article had already been proofread seven times and was, objectively, ready to go. Not that you’d ever hand over anything short of perfection to your potential future lover. Your ego wouldn’t allow it. Then again, apparently your ego also wasn’t too big to stop you from lying straight to his sweet, trusting face.

“Oh, Clark, you really don’t need to do this,” you said, guilt creeping into your voice. “You should take your break. Read it whenever you’ve got time—it’s honestly no rush. I’ve got two other pieces ready to go before this one anyway.”

You smiled, guilty and sheepish. He smiled back, clueless as ever.

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You usually didn’t bother going out for lunch. A Red Bull and a cigarette were enough to suppress your appetite most days…maybe a granola bar if you were really starving. But you also had a nasty habit of stress eating in stressful situations, and today? Your guilt was practically biting at your insides.

You thought of Lois. Would she have done something like this? Probably not. But then again, she and Clark didn’t exactly work out, so maybe her judgement wasn’t the gold standard you should be following.

So, in a moment of weakness you found yourself at that bagel place everyone in the office had been talking about for months. The one creating abhorrent shit like ‘Labubu Dubai Chocolate Banana Bagel’. Consumerism it seemed, truly had no boundaries.

As you stood in front of the aggressively whimsical menu board, squinting at names that felt more like jokes than food descriptions, you spotted him.

Clark.

Of course.

Luck finally was on your side.

You felt like a teenager again, catching sight of your crush walking the school corridors. It was ridiculous, honestly. You were so down bad. ‘Get it together,’ you told yourself, playing with your hair in an attempt to casually fix it without looking like you were trying.

Then his eyes met yours.

Oh no.

He definitely saw you. He probably thought you were stalking him. Ridiculous. You hadn’t even known he came here. How could you? You two barely even spoke outside of awkward work conversations.

And yet here he was, standing just metres away. And here you were, silently begging the universe not to make this any more embarrassing than it already was.

As you saw him walking towards you,far too quickly for comfort, thanks to his ridiculous height and those long legs you scrambled to think of anything to say. Anything that didn’t make you sound intellectually inept. Just… anything.

“Hey Clark, what are you doing here?”

What are you doing here? Seriously? Your ability to make yourself cringe was becoming truly impressive.

“Oh, um, you know… people at the office have been talking about this place, and it sounded cool, so I came to try one of their bagels. And I don’t have your impressively long article to proofread, so I thought,why not now?” he said with a chuckle, oddly relaxed for once. Not a trace of his usual awkwardness. In fact, he was making you look like the socially inept one.

“Yeah?” you replied, eyes drifting to the dimple in his cheek. God, he really did look like some kind of Greek god. It made you want him to have his way with you right there in the middle of the bagel shop.

No. You couldn’t be thinking like some primal, lust driven creature. Pull it together.

Because it wasn’t just lust, not really. You noticed the small things. Like how he walked slowly and carefully around pigeons so he wouldn’t scare them. How he always watered Jimmy’s plants when Jimmy forgot, every damn time. How he never once came back from his lunch break without bringing you coffee, knowing full well you never went out to eat. And he always got your ridiculously long order right: Big iced brown sugar shaken espresso with almond milk, sugar-free vanilla syrup, and light ice.

You didn’t even notice yourself zoning out.

“Hey, are you okay?” Clark asked, concern softening his features.

“Yes sorry, I, um I was lost in my thoughts. Work thoughts. You know me, a true workaholic,” you said, trying to play it off with a smile.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, grinning. “I really don’t know what to order…are these words even real or just made up.”

He laughed. The kind of sound you wanted to hear for the rest of your life.

“So,” he continued with a playful smirk, “what’s the usual order our top journalist’s getting?”

What has gotten into Clark? This sudden confidence was completely unexpected, but you weren’t about to complain. Someone had to keep the conversation going.

“Do you really take me for someone who’s a regular at a place that sells ‘Labubu Dubai Chocolate Whatever’ bagels?” you asked, raising your eyebrows and returning his smirk. Thank God, your wit was finally catching up after that tragic characterisation of you.

“I’m getting a regular bagel. Extra cream cheese. Everything seasoning.”

“Oh, you’re no fun,” Clark pouted.

You stepped up to the cashier and began to order.

“The same,” Clark said casually from behind you.

“Oh? Didn’t you want to have some fun?” you shot back, the petty tone in your voice unmistakable though it somehow came out sounding flirtier than you intended.

Clark just rolled his eyes with a smile he clearly didn’t want you to see. Then, just as you were about to tap your card, he swiped his first in a flash so fast your eyes barely registered it.

You blinked. “You’re paying? So this is basically a date now?”

The words slipped out before your filter could catch them, your insecurity briefly overpowered by your increasingly desperate desire to end up in his bed. You really were going all in.

Clark went red almost immediately, his ridiculously perfect face flushing with something between panic and delight.

“Um” he started, but you were already beginning to regret being so bold.

Then he gathered himself. “Would you… want it to be a date?”

Oh.

Oh, this was good. He wasn’t backing away, he was just shy. Your heart thudded in your chest.

“What if I said yes?” you asked, your voice smaller now, as your fingers moved anxiously to pick at your cuticles.

You were being a mess. But if not for Clark Kent, then for whom? Who else could ever deserve this kind of desperation?

He gently took your hand in his, stilling your fingers before they could turn your nerves into a bloody mess.

“I’d say you deserve a proper date,” he said softly. “Maybe tomorrow night?”

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You were losing your mind, standing in your apartment, trying on your fourth outfit of the evening.

Everything looked so much better in your head. Nothing was working. You didn’t even know what exactly you were going for. Cute, someone he could actually picture dating? Or maybe sexy, something to ensure the night ended successfully? Or should you go with cool girl—whatever that even meant. You immediately cringed, remembering the “cool girl” monologue from Gone Girl. Yeah, maybe not that.

You wondered if Clark was freaking out about what to wear right now too. Probably not. That man practically lived in his polite, boring grey suit.

After trying on three outfits and hating them all, you ended up going with the first one you’d tried on. A very short navy-and-brown checkered pencil skirt, black tights with grey leg warmers, your vintage brown knee-high boots, a simple navy blue shirt, and your oversized brown leather jacket. Makeup slightly heavier than your usual office face. Brown Stella McCartney bag slung over your shoulder.

You actually looked… pretty good.

Clark, ever the gentleman, was picking you up. He’d been waiting outside for at least fifteen minutes now without sending a single passive aggressive text or a “ready yet?” . Of course not. That wasn’t his style.

Still, you rushed down to avoid keeping him waiting any longer.

And when you finally spotted him outside, standing next to his car you were pleasantly shocked.

No grey suit in sight.

Instead, he wore navy trousers and a white button-up perfectly fitted. Not tight enough to seem like he was trying too hard, but just cling enough to make it impossible to ignore his frame. You’d seen Clark in dozens of shirts. Somehow, this one managed to be… devastating.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” you said with an awkward, downturned smile, completely unaware of how cute he found it.

He didn’t answer immediately. He was just looking at you.

“You look absolutely stunning… wow,” he finally said, his voice genuinely breathless.

That made you smile wider than you meant to. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Kent,” you replied, and that was enough to make him blush.

He opened the car door for you.

Of course he did.

His car was spotless,clean and polished, like everything else about him. One of your favourite David Bowie songs played softly through the speakers, low enough that you could still talk easily. God, was this man considerate.

“So,” you said, shifting slightly to get comfortable without slouching, “where exactly are we going?”

“That’s a surprise,” he replied, a playful glint in his eye.

And all you could do was sit there and quietly stare at the way his arms looked flexed as he gripped the wheel.

Even just driving, this man looked absurdly sexy.

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Clark was trying his best to hide how nervous he was.

You probably expected a nice restaurant. Candlelight, maybe. Something fancy. It wasn’t too late, he could still reroute, pick a place uptown, order wine, pretend he wasn’t completely out of his depth.

He wasn’t cheap. Sure, working at the Daily Planet didn’t exactly make him rich, but he earned enough to take someone like you out for a nice dinner.

But he kept thinking about Smallville. About how much he used to love picnics. Simple, peaceful, heartfelt. Maybe you would too. He’d even called his momma earlier that afternoon to ask for her recipes. Her famous iced tea, the crispy fried chicken he loved and her key lime pie that tastes like heaven.

This mattered to him. He wanted it to feel personal.

He could also hear the way your heart rate had started ticking up the moment you sat in his car. Getting faster, minute by minute. And as much as he tried not to focus on it, he couldn’t help but feel a little relieved.

You were just as nervous as he was.

Though he didn’t quite understand why. To him, you were way out of his league. You were sharp, witty, intimidating in the best way and gorgeous. He’d always wondered why someone like you didn’t already have a boyfriend. Surely he couldn’t be the only man on Earth with both eyes and a brain.

And yet here you were.

You’d always been kind to him, even when others overlooked him. He remembered how you used to cover for him when he disappeared mid-shift off saving the world, though you had no idea. You never asked questions, just quietly helped him.

You making the first move? That had been a blessing. Because he wasn’t sure he’d have had the courage, not after everything that happened with Lois.

“I should probably tell you,” you said without making any eye contact, “that I’m not very fond of surprises. For next time.”

Next time.

Clark latched onto the words instantly. You hated surprises he’d definitely remember that. But more importantly, you were already thinking about a next time. That was… very good.

He turned to tell you he’d taken note, but before he could even open his mouth, your voice came through, stern and sharp.

“Eyes on the road, Kent.”

Then, almost under your breath, you added, “I expected better from you.”

Clark laughed, caught completely off guard. His eyes flicked straight back to the street as he grinned to himself.

“I read your article, by the way,” he said after a moment, letting the warmth return to his voice. “Let me tell you—you don’t need my help, sweetheart. Next time, I’m coming to you for proofreading.”

Your whole face lit up at that, an automatic, touched “Aww, thank you, ” escaping your lips followed by an unconscious scrunch of your nose that very nearly killed him.

You were truly the sweetest thing he’d ever seen.

Eventually, he pulled the car into a quiet area on the outskirts of Metropolis one he hoped would stay relatively unknown, tucked away. The park was lush and green, filled with wild, blooming flowers and shaded by trees tall enough to drown out the skyline. There was even a tucked-away path that led to a smaller clearing, with a marble fountain at its centre where birds often gathered to chirp and bathe.

It looked like something out of a postcard. He really, really hoped you’d like it.

Clark got out of the car, circled around, and opened the door for you. Then, without a word, he reached into the back seat and lifted out the picnic basket one he’d spent his entire Saturday preparing.

The moment your eyes landed on the scene, your expression softened completely. That look alone made all the effort worth it.

“I hope you’re not allergic to pollen—” he began.

“I love it,” you cut in, already smiling. “It’s Perfect! Really.”

Clark continued setting up the picnic, carefully laying out the checkered blanket, arranging the containers of food. But then a flicker of memory passed through his mind—picnic dates with Lois. He blinked it away.

No. He wasn’t going to be that guy. The kind of man who used one woman to forget another. That wasn’t him. He wasn’t built like that.

Maybe he should’ve waited a little longer before asking you out. Given things more time. He didn’t want to mess this up—not just because you were a kind woman who deserved honesty, but also because you worked together. If this ended badly, he’d be sitting between two women he’d disappointed. That thought alone made his stomach twist.

But more than anything… Clark Kent really liked you. And he wanted this to go right.

You both sat down on the blanket, and he noticed you shifting awkwardly, subtly adjusting your posture in a way that made him realise—ah. You were wearing a skirt. Maybe he should’ve told you this was a picnic. He filed that away under things to do better next time.

“Did you make all this yourself?” you asked, clearly impressed.

Clark smiled, though he didn’t think it was anything too grand. “Yeah, all my mum’s recipes too—especially the fried chicken. I mean, it’s nowhere near as good as hers, but I gave it my best shot.”

You nodded, but the look on your face was… complicated. There was something just a little too bright about your smile. A little too practiced. And then came the tiniest piece of chicken he’d ever seen pinched between your fingers, followed by an even smaller bite.

“It’s so good,” you said quickly. “I love it.”

Clark tilted his head slightly. Your pulse had just spiked, he didn’t need his powers to know that was a lie. Your face said it all anyway. You were a terrible liar.

He bit back a smile.

Rather than call you out on it, he let it slide and shifted the conversation instead.

“So,” he began, “what does our top journalist get up to when she’s not making me proofread her articles during my break?”

He followed it up with a dramatic little sigh and a mock “poor me,” which made you roll your eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic! You offered and I also declined”

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You couldn’t believe yourself. Really—this was where you drew the line? Years of strong, principled living thrown out the window… for a man with kind eyes and annoyingly perfect smile. You were genuinely about to risk gastrointestinal ruin just to spare Clark Kent’s feelings.

He had probably spent hours on that chicken. He didn’t know—how would he? You never ate at work, and the topic of your ten-year vegetarianism had simply never come up.

The logical part of your brain was telling you: Just thank him and tell him the truth, tell him you don’t eat meat. But then there was the other part of you, the part with no backbone and with overactive people pleasing tendencies —that won. And now you’d eaten something your body would probably reject later tonight.

Lying was starting to become a concerning habit.

Clark, unaware of the moral and gastrointestinal crisis unfolding beside him, turned to you with an easy smile. “So, tell me about yourself,” he said.

This… might’ve been the right moment to mention the whole vegetarian thing. But no. You feared it would only make you look even more unhinged. Like a liar and a lunatic.

You were an interesting person or at least you liked to think so. But whenever someone asked you that question, your brain seemed to go blank.

“Um… I like to read,” you started, trying not to wince at your own underwhelming answer.

“Classics and comics, mostly classics,” you added quickly, searching for something that sounded less dead behind the eyes. “I used to figure skate when I was younger like, seriously. Competitions and everything. Don’t really have time for it anymore except maybe around Christmas.”

You paused, then remembered the one thing that actually mattered to you. “And I volunteer at a homeless shelter most weekends. Saturdays, sometimes Sundays too. Work eats most of my time, but that’s kind of my constant.”

Clark turned to you with real interest. “You work at a homeless shelter? I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” you said, feeling a bit shy now under his gaze. “I’ve been doing it for a few years. It feels good to feel useful, contribute to something good, however little it may seem.You know,journalism’s great, but there’s a certain kind of helplessness that comes with constantly hearing about the worst of humanity.”

“So what about you ?” you quickly asked. “I don’t think you’re nearly as ordinary as people like to think.”

He gave you a soft smile, shaking his head. “You might be wrong there. I’m honestly not all that interesting. I write, even in my free time. Go to the occasional baseball game.Do some gardening. Watch a lot of sci-fi.”

You tilted your head, unconvinced. “Oh, come on. Don’t sell yourself short. You don’t have to be Superman to be interesting.”

Clark then laughed, an actual, proper laugh. Not a chuckle or a shy smile, but a deep laugh that made your stomach flutter . You’d never heard that sound from him before, and now that you had, you already wanted to hear it again. His voice was deep and rich, but never intimidating. More like the vocal equivalent of a warm blanket.

He looked at you, then said softly, “Can I tell you something?”

You blinked, suddenly feeling a little caught off guard. “Yeah, of course.”

“I had no idea you, um… had any interest in me,” he admitted, eyes a little wide.

You looked at him then, really looked. The strong line of his jaw, his warm, impossibly blue eyes, the slight wave in his hair, the curve of his mouth. His broad chest under that crisp white shirt, the sleeves just rolled up enough to make your stomach feel weird. His hands, large and gentle. Everything about him made your thoughts dangerously hazy.

It was still genuinely baffling to you—how could someone like Clark Kent, with that face and that heart, ever doubt that he was wanted?

“Why wouldn’t I be interested, Clark?” you said, your voice quiet but steady, eyes meeting his and holding.

His expression shifted, and you swore you saw his entire chest rise and fall just a bit more heavily.

He wasn’t ordinary. Not even close.

“I don’t know…” he then whispered, eyes drifting downward, a flicker of sadness clouding blue eyes behind his glasses.

And just like that, things turned cold. You hadn’t expected things to take such a turn, so quickly, everything had been going so well. Predictable, maybe, but good. Comfortable. Sweet. Now it felt as though you’d hit a nerve you hadn’t even known was there.

Lois. Was it about Lois?

Was that it? Had your compliment unknowingly pulled at an old scar reminded him of why that ended? Of who she was, and who you weren’t?

The silence made your guilt begin to rise up in your chest.

“I lied,”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “What? Lied about what?”

You exhaled, eyes stinging. The words came out, too fast to stop. “I only said I needed help with your proofreading because I wanted to talk to you. I didn’t know how else to start a conversation and it was stupid and dishonest and I’m sorry. I—I really like you, and I panicked. And then tonight—I ate chicken even though I’ve been vegetarian for ten years just to not hurt your feelings, and now I’m just spiralling and embarrassing myself and honestly you’re probably thinking I’m some unstable, unhinged, lying lunatic and—fuck, if I were you, I’d walk out right now—”

You felt a tear slide down your cheek.

But Clark reached over and gently stopped your rambling, his hand warm and steady as he wiped the tear away.

“Hey,” he said softly, coaxing your gaze back to his. “Shhh. Don’t cry. I would never walk out on a date. And… believe me, I’ve had worse.”

He was trying to make light of the moment, maybe hoping to draw out a laugh from you, but all you could do was stare at him, heart still racing.

“I won’t lie,” he continued, brushing another tear off your cheek, “I don’t love being lied to. But… I’m also incredibly flattered. You’re sweet and smart and you could’ve walked up to me and talked about the weather, and I’d have stood there listening for as long as you wanted. Probably would’ve followed you around the office after.”

That did make you feel a bit better.

Maybe it was the way his fingers lingered on your skin, feather-light and comforting. Maybe it was his voice, calm and kind, grounding you. Or maybe it was just the overwhelming emotions, but before you could think twice, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was soft at first. Hesitant. Unsure.

Clark didn’t move. For a second, he was still surprised, maybe. Uncertain. You pulled back, the regret rising again, your breath catching.

But then his hands were on your waist, pulling you toward him, and suddenly you were in his lap. His lips found yours in a kiss that was messy and searching.His hand cradled the back of your head like he was scared you might vanish. It wasn’t perfect, your mouths didn’t move in harmony just yet, not like people who’d kissed a hundred times. But it was intimate. Raw. Charged.

Another tear slid down your cheek, and this time Clark pressed a kiss there, slow and gentle.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. I promise.”

After what felt like just a few seconds gone as quickly as it had come you pulled away, breathless, cheeks flushed. You slid back onto the blanket beside him, fixing your skirt and brushing down your tights with shaky hands. Your fingers instinctively reached up to wipe beneath your eyes, just in case you had any mascara under your eyes.

Clark, still slightly dazed, blinked a few times as if trying to ground himself.

“You ate the chicken… after being vegetarian for ten years?”