#dc fic

How the fuck did Vanessa cheat on this man?

You’d known Dick ever since he and Vanessa were in the early stages of dating around two years ago, and you hated to admit it, but he was one objectively sexy man. Who was sat there with a cappuccino in a local Blüdhaven coffee shop, looking the most tortured you’d ever seen him, over a girl who cheated, nonetheless.

You sipped your latte. “You look like shit, Dick.” Your voice was softer than intended. Maybe a portion of you felt bad. “What’re you thinking?”

He scrubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to drag you out here to sit in silence, I’m just… confused. How could she— did I do something?”

You sat forward in your seat, raising an eyebrow, sighing. “Really?” You clicked your tongue noncommittally. “You’re gonna blame yourself for this? Dick, you got her expensive jewellery to ask her to be your girlfriend, you were pretty fucking perfect.” He’d done the research. Seen what colour jewellery she wore, if she preferred gold or silver, her birthstone, what cut, how long, and got it custom made. If he did anything wrong, you’d be surprised. “It’s her fault.”

He looked sceptical. He even let out a disbelieving scoff, like you were talking bullshit. “You don’t seem heartbroken. Like, at all.”

You shrugged, stirring your latte with a wooden stick. “If she can take him, she can have him. Carter couldn’t do anything without his mother’s approval anyway.”

His nose wrinkled. “Yikes. That sounds rough.”

"Why'd you offer to buy me coffee anyway?" His text had come out of nowhere, but he probably had his reasons. One or two at least.

His sigh was of defeat as he rubbed a sugar packet between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck with another hand. “I just— you got caught up in my ex-girlfriend’s shit, and it felt unfair.”

You gestured to him. “You got caught up in my ex best friend and my ex-boyfriend’s shit, so arguably, I should be paying for this.”

“But I already paid.”

“So let’s go out for a drink sometime.” You shrugged. “I wanted to get wasted and forget about this anyway, might as well take you with me.”

His grin was blinding, the kind of thing Vanessa used to giggle about when she first met him. “A little too soon to go out for drinks, huh?”

“It’s a proposition.” You laughed, shrugging. “Drinks on me. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Dick had been used to fancy hotel bars, at least whenever Bruce had thrown parties with bars included. The ones where the bartenders wore suits and ties with top shelf liqueurs.

He felt a sort of thrill when you dragged him into a bar on the corner of 6th, one with dim, flickering warm lights that clashed with blue and purple ones. The bartender wore plaid, spoke in a thick Boston accent, had an unkempt five-o’clock shadow. The bar top was wooden and chipped, and on the makeshift dance floor were plenty of drunk people grinding on each other.

“Oh, this is amazing,” He couldn’t help but smile widely, turning to you. “There are places like this in Gotham?”

“Yes, Mr Trust Fund— Scott!” You flagged down the bartender. “Can we get a round of shot roulette?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Scott flashed you a smile, wiping down a glass before heading to set up the shot roulette.

Dick turned to you, leaning on the bar slightly, tracing the wood grain with his finger. “So, you come here often?”

You perched yourself on a barstool, prompting him to do the same. Something that sounded like 50 Cent was playing on the speakers in the corners, bass thrumming in the back of your mind. “Oh, all the time. Best place in Gotham.” The shots were slid in front of you, and you both grabbed the glass and chucked it back, both of you humming. “Huh.”

“Kind of… fruity.” He mused, staring at the shot glass, putting it down. He glanced at you through his stupidly long and pretty lashes, clearing his throat. “How did you find out that… never mind.”

You chased the alcohol down with water. “I got a photo of a girl fucking Carter.” You scoffed lightly. “I saw a tattoo on her upper thigh that I’d paid for when we were in college.”

He ran a hand through his hair, huffing. “Fuck, shit, I’m so sorry— she just came clean to me. Maybe after you found out.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said lightly, waving your hand. “It’s theirs. They couldn’t keep it in their pants, Vanessa had a great, hot guy and she lost him, so…”

He couldn’t help his soft smile. “You’re gorgeous too, you know. Carter doesn’t know what he lost.” His eyes flicked down, to your lips, then to a barely working lightbulb like a moth would. But you caught it.

Your teeth snagged your bottom lip.

Vanessa made a huge mistake.

Dick’s hand was firmly on your jaw, leaned over the centre console of his Bentley so his lips could slot easily against yours. Your hand was carding into the floppy strands of his hair, swallowing each other’s heavy breaths. His cologne was deliciously clouding your senses, the hand not on your jaw reaching behind you to grab at your ass, squeezing, teasing your bottom lip with his warm tongue. His mouth separated from yours to burn down your neck, laving your pulse, pressure on your jaw gone in favour of tugging your shirt down over one shoulder to palm your tits over your bra.

“Your apartment is,” You paused to moan quietly, tugging his hair as a keep going, “literally right there. We can — fuck — get comfy.”

He nodded into your neck, brushing your skin with his lips one more time before looking you in the eye. “Good idea.”

You couldn’t remember how you actually got into his apartment, but you did remember stripping him of his clothes and pushing him down onto his bed, unclasping your bra. He hummed, biting his lip. “I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.” You breathed, your breathing stuttering as you ground your panties-covered pussy over his boxers-covered cock.

His hand slid over the back of your neck, encouraging you closer. “Let’s send them a photo,” He murmured, pecking your lips, his nose rubbing against yours. “You know. Revenge.”

Your hand was already scrambling for your phone, switching to selfie mode just as he smashed his lips to yours, your thumb hitting the circular button and taking the photo. “Good?”

“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot,” He nodded, tugging you so he could kiss you, middle finger reaching down to rub at your entrance over your panties. “You’re soaked, shit, sweetheart,” He reached up and tugged, sliding down the lace covering your pussy with his pointer until they slipped off, lazily chucking your panties into the corner of his room. “C’mere.” He grabbed your hips and pulled you till your pussy was right above his mouth.

Wait what— fuck.

His mouth wrapped around your clit as two fingers pushed into your cunt, practically sucking his fingers in, dear God. Your head fell back, mouth dropping open as a surprised moan left you, hand shooting to grip his hair. He groaned, deep in his throat, other hand pressing on the small of your back to encourage you to grind your clit on his tongue that was circling and pressing on your clit.

“O—Oh, Dick—”

“Yeah, that’s right, give it to me, baby.” He moaned, yanking his fingers out, and just before you could protest at the loss of anything filling your aching pussy, he thrusted his tongue into you, flicking at your clit with his thumb, his nose bumping occasionally against you. The taste of you on his tongue made him want to sing your praises, but it came out muffled, the vibrations making your hips twitch and eyes roll back.

Repeated cries of “yes” punctuated by your broken moans fuelled his ego and his already painfully hard dick. With your walls fluttering around his tongue fucking into you, he’d say you were fairly close.

A lot of things were going through your head. Like how this was a stellar pussy eating. How Carter refused to let any part of his face touch your vagina. How Dick was so willing and drinking your arousal up like it was the gods’ nectar.

You were coming on his tongue soon enough, pulling at his hair to make him moan and lap at your cunt faster, slicking his lips and chin.

A minute later, he was still kitten licking you clean, and as much as the stimulation made you stroke his hair and whisper praise, you needed to get a move on. So you pulled yourself away from his mouth, pulling down his boxers while he whined and pawed at your hips to try and bring you back.

“M’ not done— fuuuuck,” His head dropped back into the pillows, giving way for the weight, as you sank down onto his waiting cock. Your warm walls wrapping around him, making his head spin before he snapped into reality. His hands took hold of your hips again, helping you move on him, thumbs kneading your skin as you dragged up and down his dick.

He hadn’t felt like this before. Your lips were on his neck, leaving kiss prints on his skin, from his chest to his jaw and around his lips. Raising your phone and clicking a photo of his fucked-out grin as you rode him, thumb hovering over send to Vanessa.

“You ok with this?” Your voice was uncharacteristically soft, circumstantially breathy, your nails raking down his abs and making him shiver.

He grabbed the phone, pressed send himself, propping himself up so he could take one of your tits into his mouth, sucking to stifle his shamelessly loud moans. Wasn’t working. “Mhm— ride my fucking dick, gorgeous,” He gasped between switching to your other tit, laving over your skin with his tongue. “Just like that, so perfect, honey.”

His mouth running away with him told you he was close, his thumb reaching to rub circles on your clit propelled you that much further, but you refused to come twice before he had even once, so you pulled his head away from your tits, bit his earlobe and sucked a mark behind his ear.

He shuddered and groaned your name, hot come spilling into you — morning after pill, here we come — and the twitch of his cock sent you straight after him, his mouth slamming sloppy into yours, gripping the back of his neck while his tongue slid over your lower lip and his lips following straight after.

You milked him for all he had, until you were both panting and he was staring up at you through his lashes like he wanted to fuck you on all fours. “Wanna go again?”

“We’ve got time.”

carter -> you carter : c'mon, baby, let's talk about it you know i love you she didn't mean anything i swear i can't live without you sweets you : she's busy. carter : doing what???? who is this ??? you : fucking me. it's dick, btw ;) carter : vanessa's ex? you piece of shit give the phone back to her [ blocked ]

vanessa -> dick vanessa : you're really gonna throw years away for that bitch ?you're mine i want you back let's talk about this i miss you so bad we can go to couples counselling, work on our problems together you weren't really fulfilling my needs, i had to look out for myself dick : for a guy who wasn't 'fulfilling your needs' nessie he sure was fulfilling mine vanessa : youre such a bitch to think you were my best friend fucking my EX ??? could you go any lower ?? dick : *you're vanessa : UGH

i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom. 

he would be the kind of guy who brings roses to a date, run across the car to open the door before you get there and bend down to fix your shoelaces for you.

jason todd is the type of guy to teach you how to do things, especially practical things like changing a tire or oil from your car. he would probably make excuses to see you at first, coming over to fix something and getting himself a little extra dirty just to feel you wipe the scuff off his cheek. he’ll drag his hand over his face purposefully because he wants that excuse to touch you without having to initiate it.

jason todd would finally admit his feelings for you after a long day with you because he just couldn’t help it. he’s rubbing at his temples from the sheer amount of energy it takes from him to be away from you. acting like it didn’t make him want to rip out his skin and scream that he’s in love with you. it would probably slip out in conversation. your complaining about guys in your city and he’s telling you how it shouldn’t be a problem, forgetting about the implication of his words.

“none of them are good enough for you anyways. you deserve a protector,”

you roll your eyes, “i’m not some damsel jason.”

he’ll smile, give you those pretty teeth that he swears never got braces to achieve their straightness with, “nah you’re not. but you’re someone worth dying for.”

you’ll pretend to be unfazed and not like your heart isn’t swelling because he’s the one you wanted all along.

jason todd is never rough or mean in any regard. not with you at least. he would absentmindedly stare at your lips, mind wandering off on how the supple skin would feel against his. faintly wishing he had permission to touch you. shaking his head when you say his name and snap him from his thoughts, smiling up at you.

when you date him, he wouldn’t touch you unnecessarily at first, dragging his hands on the couch next to you. restraining himself for god knows why. he doesn’t initiate touching until you do, until you put his hands where you want them. until you have to straddle him to show him that you need him to touch you more.

jason todd is not half the dominant sexual force people say he is. sure, he’ll kiss you passionately, letting you melt into him before deepening it at all completely. mouthing at you til your breathless, like he wanted his very soul to be fused to yours. he’s hungry, but he’s not rough with it.

he matches your pace, he lets you build it.

he doesn’t just crave reciprocation—he needs it.

jason todd wouldn’t have sex with you immediately either. nor would he be rough in bed like some sex craved demon, even if you wanted him to. one night when you step out of the shower, he’s got dinner cooking and ready for you, and you couldn’t help but appreciate him for his efforts. palming at him through his shorts, whispering that you need him now. he stops your wrists immediately, grabbing them just to tell you he doesn’t need you to, even though he really wants it. jason settles for laying you back on the couch and showing you what a real man does.

when you blink at him, he’s already on his knees.

“let me worship you. please?”

he doesn’t need to touch you yet, he doesn’t even need to be inside you to lose his mind.

jason todd is the type of guy to create his own category of good men. the kind that you would have never labeled before, but knowing him, there was no one else quite like him.

he eats you out like he’s actually starving but he savours at the same time. going back for seconds when you think he’s done, when you think he’s not breathing enough. he acts like he’s got all the time in the world, lapping and not even inside yet, to get you whining and falling apart.

jason todd is a gentle lover, through and through. intimacy was no exception. he cried the first time you had sex, not because it hurt or anything, but because he couldn’t believe he could have you. inching himself slowly until he’s buried in the heat. he kisses you through it, making promises you knew he would never break. the words that slip past his lips, those were what got you. his gentle love that felt like a bed of feathers.

jason todd would carry you to a bath afterwards, even when you were exhausted. even when you told him you just wanted to nap. he’d wash your back anyways, run his fingers through your hair and lather up soap. he would be knowledgeable about it too, putting leave in conditioner in your hair and moisturizer on your face, even though you’re half asleep. you’ll wake up happy, clean and moisturized, with the slightest ache between your legs.

jason todd would already be up, the smell of something sweet and coffee mixing in the air like he lived in a bakery. beckoning you to find out what was creating such a delicious scent. you’ll find him in the kitchen, in a ridiculous apron that says to kiss the chef and no shirt underneath. when he sees you he smiles and strides over, spatula in hand. and when he kisses you, it’s like a thousand butterflies emerge from their cocoons and the warmth of the sun is shining directly on you, all at once.

jason todd would be the first to tell you he loves you when he’s comfortable. he just wouldn’t be able to hide it from you, and he’d probably say it in passing at first, saying bye to you before you leave the house, waving his hand up while he’s busy with something.

“have a good day, love you.”

he wouldn’t even realize until you tell him later that night, after beating yourself up for not saying it then. his cheeks will pinken and his jaw will unclench—like the realization dawned on him in that moment. then he smiles and doubles down.

“well even if you ever decide you hated me, it’s too late. i love you too much to let you go without a fight.”

even jason todds threats linger with sugary sweetness because jason todd is a sweet man, through and through.

You mornings together was your preferred way to start the day. Sharing burnt toast and strong coffee, others were spent with gentle hands and bandages after missions. Conversations whispered into skin, secrets exchanged in the dark that felt safe simply because they were yours.

You remembered thinking, This is it. This is what it’s supposed to feel like.

The memory shattered the moment you opened your eyes.

The tower ceiling stared back at you, sterile and unfamiliar. Your room felt too quiet now, too empty. His jacket wasn’t draped over the chair anymore. There was no warmth lingering in the sheets, no sleepy voice teasing you for staying up too late.

That life belonged to another version of you.

And Dick Grayson belonged to someone else.

The last mission had been brutal — not the worst you’d ever faced, but draining in a way that left exhaustion sitting heavy in your bones. You worked well with the team, always had, but something felt… off.

It took you longer than you cared to admit to realize why.

Dick was there, and fought and covered civilians. He moved with the same precision he always did. He checked in over comms, just like he did with everyone else.

But he wasn’t fighting with you.

There was no familiar pressure at your back, no instinctive trust that someone was watching your blind spots because you watched theirs. No silent coordination born from knowing how the other person moved, thought, or reacted. You didn’t realize how much you’d relied on that unspoken connection until it was gone.

He hadn’t abandoned you. You knew that. He still cared — as a teammate. As a friend?

But the space between you felt cavernous. And fighting alone, even in a crowd, felt lonelier than you expected.

You stood under the spray of the shower longer than necessary, letting the water pound against your shoulders, hoping it would wash the memory of the mission, and the announcement that came after, from your mind.

Everyone had been so happy for them, Dick and Kori. Official. Public, almost aggressively so.

The way she glowed at his side, radiant and unapologetic in her affection. The way his smile came easy around her, unguarded in a way you hadn’t seen directed at you in a long time. They looked good together, like couple that belonged on the front page of a magazine or whispered about in awe.

It shouldn’t have hurt. You were broken up, and this was inevitable.

But your heart didn’t seem to care about logic.

You shut off the water, wrapped yourself in a towel, and stared at your reflection until the redness around your eyes faded enough to pass as exhaustion instead of heartbreak. You dressed quickly, deliberately. If you stayed in your room too long, you’d think too much.

You just needed food. Something solid, something normal.

The common room lights were dimmed when you stepped inside. Late evening, the tower winding down, and for one fleeting moment, you thought you might be safe.

Then you saw them. Kori sat curled against Dick on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, her laugh bright and unrestrained as he murmured something into her ear. His arm was slung easily around her shoulders, fingers resting at her waist like they’d memorized the shape of her already.

Arms that had once held you. Something in your chest twisted painfully.

Dick’s eyes lifted instinctively, catching yours across the room. For a split second, something flickered there — surprise, maybe guilt — but you didn’t give him the chance to figure it out.

You turned on your heel and headed back the way you came. You didn’t hear him call your name. You didn’t want to.

“Hey— wait up.”

Wally’s voice cut through your thoughts like a jolt of electricity, familiar and grounding. You slowed but didn’t stop, side-eying him as he fell into step beside you.

“You wanna hang out?” he asked lightly. “Maybe grab a snack? Get outta the tower for a bit?”

You huffed out a breath, arms crossing instinctively as you kept walking. “This isn’t because you feel bad, right?” you said. “I know this has got to be awkward for you.”

While Dick had insisted on keeping it quiet about any kind of relationship the two of you had, Wally was the exception to the rule. So while the rest of the team had no clue about any history between you and Dick, Wally has insider information. It wouldn’t be a far guess to say that he might just actually pity you, which is why you couldn’t help but ask. Not that you were really in a position to refuse a friend anyway.

Wally stopped short enough that you were forced to glance back at him.

“No,” he said immediately, cutting you off before the words could sink too deep. His tone was gentle, but firm. “It’s not about that.”

He jogged a step forward, falling back into stride beside you. “I can’t get a late-night treat with my friend and teammate now? And if it coincidentally means we leave the tower for a bit,” he added with a shrug, “well… who cares?”

He nudged your shoulder with his own, just enough that you stumbled slightly before catching yourself.

A small smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. You sighed, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Fine,” you said quietly. “But you’re buying.”

Wally grinned, flashing you a wink as he turned toward the exit. “Wouldn’t dream of letting you pay.”

And for the first time that night, as the tower doors slid open and the cool air brushed against your skin, it felt like you might be able to breathe again.

⚡︎𓅩

You noticed it without meaning to. You’ve been trying to give the happy couple their space, but it seems like the universe is determined to keep shoving them into your face. So, of course, you notice Kori’s new fashion accessory.

Dick’s jacket was draped over Kori’s shoulders. It sat heavily on Kori’s shoulders, the fabric too large for her frame, sleeves hanging past her wrists as she laughed at something Dick murmured under his breath. The emblem on the back curved with her movement, catching the light as she shifted closer to him. Dick didn’t even look down when she tugged it tighter around herself — his arm came up automatically, settling at her waist like the two gestures belonged together.

Like this was normal, like it had always been allowed. Your fingers tightened around your cup.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was just a jacket. A piece of fabric. Something practical, something replaceable.

But it wasn’t. Not to you.

The memory came without warning.

You were still flushed from the mission, sweat cooling too quickly against your skin as you stepped into the hallway outside the lockers. Your hands trembled faintly as adrenaline bled off, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. Dick stood beside you, already half out of his suit, laughter soft as he recounted something stupid Roy had said over comms.

You’d been cold.

You remembered hesitating before reaching for his jacket, fingers brushing the sleeve tentatively. “Hey,” you’d said lightly, trying to keep it casual. “Can I—?”

He’d looked down, surprised. Not upset, not angry, just…caught off guard.

“Oh,” he’d said, gently pulling it back before you could fully shrug it on. “Careful.”

You’d laughed, embarrassed. “What?”

“I just—” he’d smiled apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t want you to accidentally rip it or stain it or something. You know how that suit fabric is.”

You remembered nodding immediately. Too quickly.

“Oh. Yeah. Of course,” you’d said. “That makes sense.”

He’d kissed your temple instead, warm and familiar, arm sliding around your shoulders like that was supposed to make up for it.

At the time, you’d believed him.

You’d told yourself he was being practical. Protective or possessive even. That it didn’t mean anything deeper than caution and habit. You’d told yourself love didn’t need symbols, that the way he held you when no one was watching mattered more.

Now, watching Kori wear it openly and proudly, you understand. It had never been about stains, or rips, or carelessness.

It had been about visibility. He hadn’t wanted the team to know.

Not fully, not unmistakably. Not in a way that couldn’t be explained away as a coincidence or convenience. Loving you had lived in private spaces, in shadows, in rooms with doors closed and lights low.

Kori wore his jacket in the middle of the room. No hesitation or apology.

Dick didn’t flinch or glance around. He didn’t look uncomfortable. He just let it happen.

Something inside you sank quietly. It wasn’t jealousy — not really. None of this was Kori’s fault. It was clarity. The kind that arrived too late to change anything, but early enough to hurt.

You’d spent so long being careful with him. Making yourself smaller. Accepting less because you thought that was the price of loving someone who carried so much weight.

And now you saw it plainly.

He hadn’t been protecting the jacket.

He’d been protecting the story he told everyone else.

You took a slow sip of your drink, gaze drifting away before the ache could sharpen further. Across the room, Dick laughed at something Kori said, his hand resting on her back without thought.

You didn’t look again.

Because you didn’t need to.

You finally understood what you’d lost — and what you’d never really had.

But now there’s Kori tugging the jacket tighter around herself, smiling up at him. Dick’s hand rested at her waist without hesitation, easy and familiar.

You swallowed and turned away.

“Hey.”

Wally’s voice cut in gently, and you startled just enough to feel silly about it.

“Sorry,” you said automatically.

“For what?” he asked, already grabbing a drink from the fridge and sliding it toward you. “Existing in the same room as… people?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.”

He followed your gaze, took in the scene, and then looked back at you — really looked. The slight tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders had drawn in on themselves.

He didn’t comment. Instead, he leaned against the counter beside you. “You eat yet?”

“No.”

“Cool,” he said, nodding once. “Same. Tragic, honestly.”

You smirked. “You say that every time.”

“And every time it’s true.”

The banter was familiar and easy. It helped more than you wanted to admit.

⚡︎𓅩

It happened again a few nights later.

You were on patrol, moving across rooftops, when a familiar neon glow caught your eye. A café window, warm and inviting, steam fogging the glass.

Dick sat inside, with Kori across from him, chin propped in her hand as he spoke, eyes bright with attention. He smiled in that open, unguarded way — the one he used to reserve for late nights with you, when the world felt smaller.

Your feet slowed before you could stop them.

“Don’t,” you muttered to yourself.

Wally, your new patrol partner, ran back towards you when you saw you were stuck, having noticed immediately. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, forcing your pace to pick up again.

He glanced through the window, understanding dawning. The rest of the patrol passed in near silence.

Not the uncomfortable kind. Just… quiet. The city stretched out beneath you in a scatter of lights and distant sirens, wind rushing past as you and Wally moved from rooftop to rooftop. Normally, he filled the air with commentary, bad jokes, half-finished thoughts that tumbled out of him faster than he could filter them.

Tonight, he didn’t. He stayed close, matching your pace, eyes scanning the streets while occasionally flicking sideways to check on you. You appreciated the lack of pressure more than you could say.

By the last stretch of your route, your feet were aching, and your shoulders felt heavier than they should have.

Wally let out an exaggerated groan.

You blinked, glancing over. “Are you dying?”

“Slowly,” he said, hand dramatically over his heart. “Tragically. From starvation.”

“You ate before patrol.”

“And, why are you keeping track of that? Who are you, my doctor?”

You snorted softly. “I feel like that’s more like a dietician.”

“Come on,” he said, nudging closer. “There’s this place I love. Best late-night snacks. Open all hours. We could swing by?”

Spend the night replaying the scene you saw, or hang out with Wally? An easy choice. You shrugged, the effort minimal. “Sure. Why not?”

His eyes brightened. “Really?”

“It’s food,” you said. “You don’t need to sell it.”

“Excellent.” He paused. “Can I carry you?”

You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Just for speed,” he clarified quickly. “We’ll get there faster. Less walking. You look, don’t take this the wrong way, tired.”

You hesitated — then nodded. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… fine.”

He grinned. “Great.”

He barely gave you time to brace before he scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other steady at your back. The city blurred into streaks of color and light, the wind cool against your face, his grip solid and careful.

When he slowed, you felt the shift immediately.

You glanced around — and frowned.

“This is the tower.”

“Mm-hmm.”

You looked up at him. “Wally.”

“Yes?”

“This is your room.”

“Correct again.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You said favorite snack spot.”

He opened the door and gestured grandly inside. “Yes. My favorite late-night snack spot. It has everything I love and is open at all hours.”

He stepped inside, smug as anything, heading straight for the kitchenette.

You stood in the doorway for a beat, then followed, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Effective, I’d argue,” he countered, rummaging through a cabinet. “There’s a difference.”

He tossed you a packet of something chocolate-coated, a bag of chips, and a water bottle. “Here.”

You caught it. “What is this?”

“Protein bar, allegedly. I have to be a good influence and provide something nutritious.”

You squinted at the label. “This is barely food.”

“Manners, that is no way to treat a gracious host.”

You laughed despite yourself and wandered closer as he grabbed a couple more things.

“So,” you said, leaning against the counter. “Why do you get a whole suite with a kitchenette, anyway?”

He puffed up slightly, raising three fingers. “Seniority. Pension. Hero benefits.”

You give him a deadpan stare. “You’re in your twenties.”

“Mentally? I’m at least seventy.”

You laughed again, softer this time.

He shrugged, more genuine now. “Actually, it’s the speed thing. Easier to have my own stuff than accidentally blow up the communal kitchen at three in the morning. Trust me.”

“That makes sense,” you admitted.

He nodded. “See? Practical.”

He turned and promptly fumbled the protein bar, dropping it against his chest where it smeared something sticky and dark across the front of his suit.

“Oh— come on,” he groaned. “Rude.”

He peeled the top half of the suit down in one smooth motion.

Your brain…just kinda…stopped.

His skin was warm gold under the lights, muscles defined in a way that made no effort to be subtle about the work they did. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a chest that made your thoughts go pleasantly blank.

You were aware, distantly, that you were staring.

You were also aware, slightly less distantly, that you had stopped breathing.

“Uh.”

His eyes flicked up and caught yours.

Something shifted between you, like the air before a storm breaks. The room seemed to shrink, narrowing to just the space you both occupied. Your skin prickled with awareness, heartbeat suddenly loud in your ears.

His eyes darkened slightly, pupils expanding as they held yours, and you watched his throat work as he swallowed. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath, like he was trying to steady something inside himself. Neither of you moved, caught in that fragile moment where possibility hung suspended, electric and dangerous.

Then there was a knock, and the door slid open before either of you could react.

Roy leaned in, eyes immediately taking in the scene: you standing far too close, Wally shirtless, snacks scattered, the air very clearly Not Normal.

“Well,” Roy drawled, leaning against the doorframe, grin slow and wicked. “What’s happening here?”

You and Wally looked at each other.

Whatever had been building between you snapped — not gone, just… scattered.

You both started talking at once.

“It’s not—”

“He just—”

“We were just—”

“He spilled something—”

“She was tired—”

You stopped and blinked before closing your eyes and taking a step back.

“Goodnight,” you said flatly, and turned and walked out.

Behind you, you heard Roy’s laugh and Wally’s very distressed, “Roy—!”

You didn’t stop walking until you were back in your own room.

And only then did you sit on your bed, heart racing, face warm, and whisper quietly to yourself:

“Oh no.”

⚡︎𓅩

It wasn’t just that Dick was affectionate. It was that he was affectionate everywhere.

The tower’s common spaces had always been neutral ground — places where masks slipped just enough to breathe, but not enough to expose anything fragile. Or at least, they used to be. Now, it felt like every room carried the echo of something you no longer belonged to.

You saw it in passing moments first.

Dick’s hand was resting at the small of Kori’s back as they walked down the hall, guiding without thinking. Fingers brushing her wrist when he laughed, lingering just a second longer than necessary. The way he leaned into her space openly, shoulder pressed to hers, head tipped close as if the rest of the room didn’t exist.

You tried not to stare.

You tried not to remember how many times you’d reached for him like that and felt him subtly shift away. How often he’d murmured, “Later,” or “Not here,” as if affection were something private, something that needed to be rationed carefully.

You had told yourself it wasn’t rejection.

You had told yourself he was just cautious. Guarded. That loving him meant understanding the weight he carried.

Now he laughed freely, loud and unrestrained, pressing a kiss to Kori’s temple without hesitation as she teased him about something trivial. The room reacted; smiles and easy acceptance, and something inside your chest tightened painfully.

You looked away, but reflections betrayed you.

In the glass of a display case, you caught the way his arm curved around her waist, familiar and intimate. You saw the way she leaned into him, trusting and unafraid, his hand settling there as it had always belonged.

You felt… smaller.

Not jealous — not exactly. Just painfully aware of how much you’d minimized yourself to fit beside him. How gently you’d loved him, careful not to ask for too much, careful not to make him uncomfortable.

Careful not to be a burden.

It hurt in a way that was dull and sharp all at once, like pressing on a bruise you hadn’t realized was there.

You busied yourself with gear checks, adjusting straps that didn’t need adjusting, focusing on routine. Anything to avoid watching the way he touched her so easily.

When the mission call came through, you welcomed it with something like relief.

Action was easier than feeling.

—

The mission was chaotic from the start.

Smoke and shouting as more concrete collapses.

You moved without thinking, instincts honed from countless hours in the field. When the opening appeared, you took it — pivoting, feinting, striking with precise timing.

Dick, however, followed through perfectly.

Your move.

The mission ended successfully. The team gathered for a quick debrief, adrenaline still buzzing.

“Nice work, Nightwing,” Roy said. “That move saved our asses.”

Dick smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Figured I’d try something new.”

Your stomach dropped. You stared at the floor, jaw tight, pulse roaring in your ears.

Wally looked at you, really looked, and saw it. The stiffness in your posture. The way you folded inward.

He remembered Dick talking about that move months ago. How impressed he’d been, how proud.

“Hey,” Wally said softly, stepping closer. “You wanna grab food? Before Roy demolishes everything edible in a five-mile radius?”

You blinked, pulled from your thoughts. “What?”

He hooked an arm around your shoulders, not tight, not claiming — just there. “Come on. I’m starving, and you look like you could use a break.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking toward Dick without meaning to. He was already being pulled into conversation, attention elsewhere.

Wally noticed, he always did.

“Hey,” he murmured, nudging you gently. “I got you.”

You exhaled slowly, tension easing just enough to let you move.

“Fine,” you said. “But if you eat my fries—”

“Whoa, whoa,” he laughed. “I’m not a monster.”

As you walked away together, Dick glanced up, catching sight of you leaving — Wally’s arm around your shoulders, your head tilted toward him as he animatedly complained about Barry.

Something twisted in his chest that he steadfastly ignored. For the first time since he could remember, you didn’t look back.

⚡︎𓅩

The tower’s living room was loud in a comfortable way.

Soft music hummed from speakers tucked somewhere out of sight, low enough to blend into the background rather than demand attention. Someone had stretched out across the couch like they planned to stay there all night, boots kicked off without ceremony. Laughter drifted freely, unguarded, the kind that only existed on nights when no alarms screamed, and no one was counting down the minutes until the next emergency.

It should have felt safe.

You stood near the edge of the room, a warm mug cradled between your hands, letting the noise pass through you instead of into you. You nodded when someone glanced your way. Smiled when it was expected. You were present in the way one learned to be present when absence would be noticed.

Dick stood across the room, Kori sat beside him, close enough that her thigh pressed against his, his jacket draped over her shoulders like a promise.

“Dick,” Kori said brightly, nudging his arm. “Tell them the joke you said the other night.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from focusing on the conversation, despite knowing that it would most likely lead to your heartbreak again.

Dick blinked, looking slightly confused. “What—?”

“The one about the—” she laughed, waving her hand vaguely as she was unable to continue the background details. “The story. It was funny.”

The room leaned in, anticipation flickering easily from face to face.

Dick’s eyes flicked toward you.

Just for a second.

Your breath catches, afraid of what that look might mean. You didn’t move, you didn’t react. You simply lifted your mug and took a slow sip, gaze unfocused, fixed on nothing in particular.

“Oh,” Dick said, a chuckle slipping out as understanding clicked into place. “That one.”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

And then he told it. Your story.

Your voice, stripped of its softness. Your timing sharpened for laughs instead of honesty. A moment that had once lived quietly between you and a close friend — something vulnerable, something shared late at night when trust sat heavy and real between you — reduced to a punchline.

You remembered that night with startling clarity.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, lights low, the two of you laughing so hard you’d cried, a mixture of grief and laughter. How you’d confessed something small but meaningful about a close friend long since gone.

A moment you shared because you had felt safe only because of who you were telling it to. How you’d smiled afterward, warmed by the certainty that it mattered, comforted by your companion, and wanting them to carry this treasured memory with them too.

Now it was just… content.

A story told without context. Without care. Dick told it well; he’s a great storyteller.

The room erupted in laughter.

Someone wiped tears from their eyes. Someone else shook their head, already repeating the best part under their breath.

You stood perfectly still.

You felt it happen inside you, the moment something disconnected.

It was subtle, like a wire loosening, like a door closing softly instead of slamming. The ache didn’t spike. It emptied. The warmth drained out, leaving behind a numb, hollow space where feeling had once lived.

You didn’t laugh or flinch. You didn’t even look at him. You simply… stopped being there.

And it was almost as if Dick felt it.

Not immediately, but as the laughter stretched on, something in his chest began to tighten, an unease threading through the easy moment. His eyes found you again, instinctively searching for the familiar reaction he’d always been able to count on.

A smile or an eye-roll.

That look you used to give him; fond, conspiratorial, like the two of you shared something just beneath the surface.

Instead, he found nothing. Your eyes were distant, polite. Empty in a way that felt wrong and hurt.

Gone.

The laughter faded unevenly, as if people sensed the shift without understanding it. Dick’s voice trailed off at the end of the story, landing awkwardly in the space that followed. He shifted, tugging at the hem of his sleeve, suddenly unsure of where to put his hands.

His gaze locked with yours.

For half a second, memory surged: moonlight through your bedroom window, your laughter muffled against his neck, the way you used to look at him like he was home.

Then he saw it. The absence.

Whatever fragile thread still connected you, whatever hope he’d held that you could exist in each other’s lives without pain, disintegrated in that instant. Like paper catching flame, burning faster than he could reach for it.

Your eyes slid away.

You turned your body slightly, a subtle motion that somehow landed heavier than any argument ever had.

Dick’s heart stuttered.

“Hey—” he said suddenly, pushing himself upright, already stepping toward you. “Wait—”

He didn’t get the chance, because Wally was already there.

Not rushing or dramatic, despite the way Dick was experiencing it. He didn’t insert himself into the moment or raise his voice. He simply appeared at your side, like he’d been standing just outside the edge of your world, waiting for the exact second you needed a way out more than you needed answers.

Dick saw him before he registered anything else.

Saw the way Wally angled his body slightly toward you, shielding you from the rest of the room without making a show of it. Saw the way his expression softened when he looked at you; not concern exactly, but familiarity. Understanding.

Wally didn’t touch you right away; instead, he held out his hand.

Open and patient, a clear invitation, not a demand.

“Come on,” Wally said quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear him. His voice didn’t carry—it wasn’t meant to. “You promised me a rematch.”

You blinked, eyes unfocused at first, like you were surfacing from somewhere far away.

“I did?” you asked, voice faint but steady.

He smiled, small and easy, the kind of smile that came from shared moments instead of charm. “Mm-hmm. Loser buys snacks.”

Dick took a step forward, his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

Because you were looking at Wally now.

And then — without hesitation — you reached for him.

Your fingers slid into his hand naturally, like muscle memory. Like this was something you’d done before, something your body recognized even if your heart hadn’t fully caught up yet. Wally’s hand closed around yours with quiet certainty, thumb brushing your knuckles once in a way that was achingly gentle.

Dick’s breath caught hard in his chest.

That wasn’t a first touch. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t careful. It was familiar. It was the kind of intimacy that came from repetition — from trust built slowly, from presence earned over time.

And suddenly, Dick understood.

This hadn’t started tonight. This hadn’t even started recently.

While he’d been absent in all the ways that mattered, someone else had been showing up. Someone else had been learning the shape of your silences, the weight of your tiredness, the moments when you needed to leave before something broke.

Wally turned slightly, guiding you with him. You followed without looking back. The room seemed to tilt.

Dick stood frozen, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walked away — not hurried, not dramatic — just decided.

You weren’t running from him. You were choosing something else.

The doors slid shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing the sound of laughter and music inside.

Dick remained where he was.

For the first time, it wasn’t heartbreak that settled into his chest.

It was understanding.

He hadn’t just lost you romantically. He had lost access to you; to your touch, your reactions, your presence in his life. The loss wasn’t theoretical anymore.

It was real and it was final.

⚡︎𓅩

The hallway was quiet, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft hiss that felt louder than it should have.

You walked a few steps before realizing your hand was still in Wally’s.

The warmth of it grounded you. Steady and real, pulling you back from the numbness that had settled over you moments before. Your fingers tightened briefly before you let go, clearing your throat as you slowed to a stop.

“Sorry,” you murmured. “I think I spaced out back there.”

Wally stopped immediately. “No worries,” he said easily. “Happens.”

You leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly as the adrenaline — emotional, not physical — began to ebb. The quiet wrapped around you, gentle and forgiving.

“Hey,” you said after a moment, trying for lightness. “You know you don’t have to… rescue me every time, right?”

He tilted his head. “Rescue?”

You gestured vaguely behind you. “You know. The dramatic exits. The timely distractions. You going full hero mode around me all the time must be exhausting.”

You smiled, small and self-deprecating, like it was a joke you’d rehearsed enough times to make it sound casual.

Wally didn’t smile back.

Instead, his expression softened into something serious and intent in a way that made your chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping closer just enough to keep your attention, not that he didn’t have it already.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Talk about yourself like you’re a problem I have to manage.”

You blinked.

“I don’t mind,” he continued, voice quiet but steady. “Not for a second. I’m not tired, I’m not obligated. I’m here because I want to be.”

His gaze held yours, unflinching.

“I care about you,” he said simply.

The words landed softly, but they knocked the breath from your lungs all the same.

Something shifted in your chest. Warmth bloomed where there had only been emptiness before. Gratitude, yes — but something else too. Something that made your pulse stutter, that made you see him differently all at once.

You looked at him, really looked, and felt it. Wally, who was looking at you intensely, saw it the second it reached your eyes.

His breath hitched, just barely. A slow smile spread across his face; not triumphant or smug, simply tender. Like he’d been hoping for that look without expecting it.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then Wally straightened slightly, clearing his throat.

“So,” he said, voice deliberately lighter. “Snacks?”

You laughed, the sound real and surprised, and nodded. “Yeah, snacks.”

“Good,” he said, already turning. “Because I’m starving, and I refuse to have this moment derail my nutritional needs.”

You fell into step beside him, the silence between you no longer empty; just full of things neither of you were quite ready to name yet.

And for the first time in a long while, the ache in your chest didn’t feel like something you had to carry alone.

⚡︎𓅩

The debrief room was louder than usual.

People talked over one another, adrenaline still buzzing from a mission that had gone better than expected. Roy leaned back in their chair, boots propped on the table. Garth was already arguing over credit for a distraction that hadn’t actually been planned.

You sat near the end of the table, tablet balanced against your knee, half-listening while scrolling through post-mission data. This part always felt strange—being surrounded by people dissecting a fight that already felt distant, like it belonged to another version of you.

“…and honestly,” Wally said suddenly, voice cutting through the noise, “the whole thing only worked because she spotted the second location before anyone else did.”

The room quieted. You looked up, startled.

“Wait,” Donna said. “You found it?”

You opened your mouth to clarify, but Wally, already committed, kept going.

“Yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely in your direction. “She basically mapped the entire pattern on the fly. I mean, she could probably predict weather systems if she wanted to.”

You stared at him.

“No, I can’t,” you said quickly, cutting in before the attention could crystallize into something heavier. “Obviously, the weather’s gotten to Wally.”

A few chuckles rang out through the room before the looks shifted back to Dick and Cyborg for finishing details. The room relaxed again, conversation sliding easily back into overlapping voices and half-formed jokes. Someone changed the subject. Someone else complained about paperwork.

Wally blinked, realization dawning, a sheepish expression on his face. “Okay, yeah, that was—”

“—dramatic,” you finished dryly, smiling as you shrugged. “I just noticed something off in the data. Anyone could’ve.”

Crisis averted. Or so you thought.

You leaned slightly toward Wally and mouthed, What the fuck?

He winced, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Yeah,” he murmured back, lowering his voice and leaning into your space. “Sorry, I got carried away.”

You raised a brow as if to say ‘oh really?’

“But,” he added quickly, earnest now, “you were great. If you hadn’t caught that second location, we would’ve screwed the whole mission.”

You laughed quietly, the sound warm and genuine, and reached out without thinking—your fingers brushing his knee in an easy, familiar gesture.

“Next time,” you said softly, “try not to make me sound like a wizard.”

“No promises, Dumbledore,” he replied, grinning.

The exchange was small, casual, and comfortable.

It didn’t slip past Dick.

He watched it from across the table—the way you leaned toward Wally without hesitation, the way you touched him like it was nothing, the way Wally’s attention never wavered from you. There was no tension or uncertainty in it.

Just ease.

The meeting wrapped up a few minutes later, chairs scraping as people stood and filtered out in loose groups. You gathered your things and fell into step beside Wally, already mid-conversation about something inconsequential.

“Hey.”

Dick’s voice made both of you stop. Wally turned, surprised but not uncomfortable. “What’s up?”

“I’ll catch up with you later,” you murmur to him, touching his arm to grab his attention. You could think of 50 other locations you’d rather be than in the same conversation with just Dick and Wally.

He nodded immediately. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You smiled at him, soft and unguarded, before heading off down the corridor.

Wally watched you the entire time, only turning away once you disappeared around the corner.

“Feels like it’s been a while since we’ve hung out,” Dick said, attempting casual. “Just us. You know?”

Wally considered that for a moment. “Yeah,” he said honestly. “It has, sorry about that.”

Dick’s shoulders loosened slightly. “It’s fine, I’ve been busy too. I was thinking maybe we could—”

“But,” Wally continued, already stepping back, “maybe another time. I’ve got plans.”

Dick’s brow furrowed. “Plans?”

Wally grinned, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Yeah, with her. Don’t really wanna disappoint her, so I gotta head out now. But we’ll definitely hang out soon! Maybe we’ll do a boys’ night!?”

Before Dick could respond, Wally was gone—a red blur vanishing down the hall in the direction you’d gone.

The room didn’t stay quiet. Someone snorted. “Wow.”

Roy leaned back against the table. “You guys notice how often those two hang out now?”

“On missions, too,” Donna added thoughtfully. “They’re always paired.”

Cyborg chimed in, teasing. “Guess Dick and Kori really inspired love to bloom around here.”

Laughter followed, but Dick didn’t laugh.

Something twisted sharply in his stomach, nausea creeping in slowly and unwelcome. The room felt too warm, too loud. He stared at the doorway where you both had disappeared, chest tight with a realization he hadn’t wanted to make.

Whatever was happening between you and Wally had been growing quietly—right under his nose—while he’d been elsewhere, assuming you’d still be there when he looked back.

He swallowed hard. For the first time, the loss didn’t feel only like heartbreak.

It felt like a consequence.

⚡︎𓅩

Another month passed.

It wasn’t marked by anything dramatic; no declarations, no lines crossed, no moments that demanded names. Just time, shared and unspoken and steadily meaningful.

You and Wally fell into a rhythm without ever acknowledging it as one.

Late-night patrols that stretched longer than necessary. Coffee runs that turned into conversations about childhood, fears, and things neither of you talked about easily. Sitting side by side on rooftops, legs dangling over the edge, watching the city breathe while the world felt smaller and calmer than it had in a long time.

You learned how he liked his coffee — sweet enough to be suspicious. He learned the exact way you went quiet when you were thinking too hard. You learned that he always ran faster when you were tired, and that he always positioned himself just slightly closer when you looked overwhelmed.

He learned when to joke, and more importantly, when not to. Somewhere along the way, you realized you felt… safe again.

Not the fragile kind. The steady kind. The night it finally happened was unremarkable in the best way.

Patrol ended early. The city was quiet, streets slick from earlier rain, lights reflecting like constellations below. You sat on the edge of a rooftop, boots resting against concrete, the cool air settling comfortably against your skin.

Wally stood nearby, stretching, then dropped down beside you with an exaggerated sigh.

“Wow,” he said. “Peaceful. Suspiciously so.”

You smiled. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Right. Sorry.” He mimed zipping his lips.

Silence settled — not awkward, not empty, just unsure as to how to start.

You glanced at him without thinking and caught the way he was already

looking at you.

Wally gave no indication he was startled; he just kept looking, something you couldn’t believe was obvious in his eyes. Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

Wally noticed. Something in his expression shifted. It softened, deepened, like he’d been holding something back and finally decided to stop.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You turned fully toward him, giving him a small smile. “Hey.”

He rubbed his palms together once, nervous energy bleeding through despite his usual ease. “Can I… say something?”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “You just did.” You couldn’t help yourself from saying.

The look Wally gives you makes you laugh and helps break the uncomfortable tension that was in the air. “I think this is one of those moments you told me about that isn’t right to joke.” He teases you, throwing back your argument you told him.

“Yeah,” you said, giving him a sheepish smile and a shrug. “Sorry, I was nervous.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He murmurs back to you. The nervous energy is gone, and instead, a tension lingers in the air. He looks you in the eyes, then awa,y before looking back and slowly leaning in. His arm reaches out and grabs your hand, holding it gently in his grasp, his thumb rubbing against your knuckles.

He took a breath before letting it out slowly starting.

“I’ve been trying not to,” he admitted with a small, self-aware smile.

“Because I didn’t want to mess anything up. Or rush you, or make things weird.”

Your chest tightened.

“But,” he continued, eyes never leaving yours, “somewhere between the third late-night snack run and the fifth time you fell asleep during movie night… I realized I was already way past that point.”

You laughed softly, more breath than sound.

“Wally—”

“I care about you,” he said, gently cutting in. “Not in a teammate way. Not in a ‘I’ll always have your back’ way — although, yeah, that too.” He swallowed. “I mean… I like you. A lot. And it’s more than friendship, and I didn’t want to keep pretending it wasn’t.”

The words settled between you, warm and terrifying and real. You stared at him for a long moment.

Then you exhaled, shoulders relaxing as if something you’d been carrying finally found a place to rest.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” you admitted quietly.

His eyes widened. “You were?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Because I’ve been trying to tell myself it was just comfort. Or gratitude. Or… anything but this.” You smiled faintly. “But it’s not, and it hasn’t been for a while.”

You looked at him fully now, letting him see it.

“It’s more than friendship for me, too, Wally.”

The relief on his face was immediate — bright and unguarded, like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. He laughed, soft and incredulous.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Okay. Wow.”

You laughed too, the sound lighter than it had been in months.

He hesitated, just for a second, then asked quietly, “Can I…?”

You nodded before he finished.

He leaned closer, his gaze unwavering. As he hesitated, breath hitching in the space between you, the air thickened with unspoken words. Then, with a soft determination, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.

The kiss was tentative at first, a sweet brush that ignited a spark, before deepening into something more, a shared promise that lingered in the cool night air.

Neither of you rushed it because neither of you needed to.

The city hummed below, indifferent and vast, while something small and meaningful settled into place between you.

And for the first time in a long while, the future didn’t feel like something to brace for.

It felt like something you were allowed to want.

⚡︎𓅩

a/n: everyone say thank you to olivia rodrigo for inspiring this! this was originally 3k and was like a little drabble, but then? i just? couldn't stop? and now we have this pretty little baby.

this fic could also be named "wally showing he cares by making sure you eat",

as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. here’s a kiss from me to you 💋

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