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killerplink · 7 days ago

Text

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Words: 4,8k

Plot: After a long night of patrol, Nightwing comes home, too tired for anything—but he's never too tired for you.

CW: 18+, smut, established relationship, praise, creamp!e

Dick's body aches by the time he gets home, his muscles tight from a long night of patrolling and fighting. Blood, grime, and sweat cling to his skin, and all he can think about is getting clean and sinking into bed beside you.

His steps falter as he walks into the bedroom and his eyes rake over you—the way his favorite black lace set hugs your curves, your thighs pressing together as you shift in your sleep. You're lying on your stomach, the soft, delicate fabric of your thong perfectly framing the curve of your ass.

The straps rest high on your hips, leaving just enough of your skin bare to make his dick twitch against the towel. God, he loves how that little number hugs your body. Even after all these years, you can ruin him with so much as an innocent stretch.

But this? There's nothing innocent about the way you're laid out like a gift for him.

He runs a hand through his damp hair, trying to focus on not waking you, but the ache in his body shifts downward. He should have been exhausted after the long patrol, but right now, the only thing he wants is you.

Dick crawls onto the bed, careful not to wake you fully, and presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another to your back. His arm circles around your waist as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the familiar scent of your skin as he presses himself against your warm, soft body.

"Hi, doll," he murmurs as his lips continue to brush tender kisses along your shoulder.

Your sleepy hum vibrates against him, and you stir in his hold. "Baby..." you whisper, the sound almost a whimper as you instinctively press back against him.

Your ass grinds lazily against his cock, which is hard and heavy beneath the towel, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Yeah, sweet girl?" he asks, his voice strained.

His hand roams over your waist, slipping beneath the thin strap of your thong to squeeze the soft flesh of your hip. Dick can't stop himself from grinding against you for a moment, reveling in the feel of your soft curves against his aching cock.

"Missed you," you murmur, your tone laced with sleep and heat, and he chuckles softly, his lips brushing your ear.

"I missed you too," he replies, his voice soft like velvet.

But the smile playing on his lips quickly turns into a groan when you roll your hips again. The way you move, even half-asleep, drives him insane. Your body rolls back against his, and the lazy grind of your hips has him throbbing. His large, warm palm slides down to cup your ass before dipping between your legs.

The second his fingers brush over the damp fabric of your panties, he groans. "Fuck," he mutters, his thumb pressing against your clit through the thin lace. "Did you play with yourself before I got home, baby? You're soaked."

Your cheeks heat at the question, but you nod, murmuring sheepishly, "Mhmm, too horny... couldn't help it," you admit.

Dick hisses as his cock throbs, pressing insistently against the thin towel. "I'm sorry I was late. Let me make it up to you, yeah?" he murmurs, his tone laced with genuine remorse, but his fingers don't let up, circling your clit with practiced precision.

You whimper as his fingers tease your entrance, dipping inside just enough to make your hips jerk. You moan softly, pushing back against him, your body silently pleading for more.

"Need your dick, love," you plead, your voice sweet and needy, and his restraint snaps.

His breath hitches at your words, and he doesn't need to be told twice. His hand leaves your clit, and he tugs down his towel, tossing it carelessly, his dick springing free.

Your panties are soaked, the thin fabric clinging to your folds, and he swears under his breath as he slides them aside. You feel the thick weight of his cock press against your bare ass, his warm precum smearing across your skin as he moves you, positioning you against him with your back flush to his muscular chest.

But then one of your hands reaches between your bodies, trembling slightly as you grab his dick, guiding him to your entrance. The blunt head presses against your folds, the stretch burning in the most delicious way.

"God, this pussy," he thinks, jaw clenching as he slides deeper, "so warm, so fucking tight."

Your thoughts mirror his—he's perfect, thick and long, veins pressing along his length, the flushed head leaking against your slick folds, filling you in a way that always leaves you breathless. No matter how many times he fucks you, it's never enough. His dick stretches you open, inch by inch, and he bites his lip to keep from losing it right then and there.

"Fuck, baby," you moan, your walls fluttering around him as you adjust to the stretch.

"God," he groans, his voice rough as he sinks deeper into you.

Your pussy molds around his dick, so perfect, like you were made for him, and he's always mesmerized. He's hard, hot and fucking perfect, filling you so deeply you can feel every ridge, every pulse of his cock as he bottoms out. A moan slips from your lips, soft and needy, and he presses a kiss to your neck.

"You feel so good, baby. Always so good for me," he murmurs softly, almost sweet.

Your body trembles, a quivering, writhing mess against him, every nerve alight with pleasure as his cock moves inside you. The way he fills you—his length dragging slowly against your sensitive walls—has your mind spiraling, the deep pressure of his thrusts making your toes curl. Your pussy grips him tightly, clenching greedily with every stroke, and the wet, obscene sounds of his cock gliding in and out of your slick heat make your cheeks flush.

Dick groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your neck where his lips linger. "Fuck, my love," he rasps, his hips rolling in a deliberate rhythm.

His cock feels like it's made to ruin you—stretching you perfectly, the veins along his shaft brushing sensitive spots inside you as his head nudges against that sweet, devastatingly good place with every deep thrust.

"You're so tight, baby," he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear.

The words send a shiver down your spine, your walls fluttering around him as you gasp his name. "Dick... oh, God," you whimper, the stretch of him almost too much, but exactly what you need.

One of his hands slips under your body to cup your tits through your lacy bra, his fingers tugging gently at your nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks, while the other grips your thigh, keeping you spread wide open for him.

"Greedy little thing," he growls, his large hand sliding down to grab your ass, spreading your cheeks as he watches his cock disappear into your slick heat. The sight makes his dick twitch inside you, and he lets out a low, guttural groan. "Look at this pretty pussy, swallowing me up like it was made for it."

You whimper at his filthy praise, your walls fluttering around him. The angle has you gasping, sending sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.

Every thrust feels deeper than the last, each one deliberate, calculated to drag against every sensitive spot inside you. He watches the way your arousal coats his dick, glistening in the dim light of the bedroom, and groans again, deeper this time.

"Look at you," he mutters, his voice rough. "So wet for me. You love this, don't you, baby?"

His hips snap forward, grinding deep, and you cry out, nodding desperately. God, he's so big, stretching you open, filling you up just right—perfectly, like he was made for you. Every slow, deliberate thrust presses you tighter against him, his broad chest flush against your back, muscles taut and burning with restraint. He's warm, solid, every inch of him hard in the way that drives you insane, from the thick curve of his cock to the powerful arms wrapped around you, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

And of course, you can't get enough. How could you? He's everything—tall, strong, built—his body a masterpiece of discipline and power, honed from years of pushing himself to his absolute limits.

And yet, here he is, using all that strength for you, to fuck you slow and deep, to keep you right where he needs you, to stretch your needy little pussy around his dick like it's the only thing that matters.

And it is, at least to him.

He groans, burying his face in your neck, voice thick and wrecked as he watches the way you take him, the way your body clings to him, sucking him in deeper every time he moves. He can feel how much you love it—how wet you are, how your slick coats his cock, dripping down to make a mess of his thighs. Fuck, you're perfect. And his. Completely, utterly his.

His fingers trail down, slipping between your legs, rubbing slow, teasing circles over your swollen clit. You shudder, gasping as pleasure sparks down your spine, and he smirks against your skin.

"You feel that, sweetheart?" he rasps, nipping at your ear. "The way you're squeezing me? So greedy, baby."

And you are. Desperate for him, desperate to take every inch, to keep him buried deep inside you, to let him fuck you until you're ruined—until you can't think of anything but him. And God, he's going to give it to you. All of it.

He smirks against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin as his hips start to pick up speed, just a little. The drag of his length turns into long, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with a steady, deliberate force. Each thrust sends a wave of heat rushing through your body, your cunt tightening around him as your moans grow louder.

The soaked lace of your panties, shoved to the side, clings to your skin and drags along his cock with every thrust, maddeningly slow and deliberate. The damp fabric, sticky with your slick, adds a friction so filthy it makes his head spin. Each movement sends a sharp jolt through him, the wet lace teasing his length as if designed to drive him insane.

It's intoxicating, the mess between you only making him lose himself more, and the thought of how soaked you are for him, how even your panties can't keep up, has him groaning, his hips slapping softly against your ass like he can't control it anymore.

"You take me so well," he praises, his voice soft but heavy with arousal. "Your pretty little pussy is so perfect for me, baby. Feels so fucking good."

And it does—he feels incredible, his cock pulsing inside you, the ridges of his shaft stroking your walls with every thrust. The way he moves is driving you crazy, his rhythm deep and unhurried, but perfectly in control, designed to keep you on the edge.

You're a vision of wrecked beauty, your body pliant and trembling against him, your moans like music to his ears. Your pussy squeezes him so tightly, sucking him in, slick and warm, the perfect fit. He's losing himself in the feel of you, the way your body responds to him, the soft, desperate sounds falling from your lips.

"Shit," he growls, his voice thick with need. "So sensitive, baby. You're close, aren't you?"

You nod, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the pleasure builds, white-hot and all-consuming. "Close—so close," you whimper, your back arching as his cock thrusts deeper, hitting that perfect spot with devastating accuracy.

He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear as he whispers, "Cum for me, doll. Let me feel you."

And when you do, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, your cries spilling into the air, it's almost too much for him to handle. Your entire body trembles, back arching as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you, each pulse of your cunt around his cock drawing a ragged groan from his chest. It's intense, the way your walls flutter and tighten, gripping him so perfectly, like you're made to keep him right there, buried as deep as possible inside you.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, and the sound only spurs him on. His hips snap forward, grinding deeper, and you swear you can feel him everywhere—stretching you open, rubbing against every spot that makes you see stars, pulling every last ounce of pleasure from you.

Your slick gushes out, dripping onto his cock and your thighs, the lewd, wet sounds filling the room as he keeps moving, fucking you lazily through your orgasm like he's got all the time in the world.

And he doesn't stop—won't stop—not until he's wrung every last shudder, every last moan from you. His large hand splays over your thigh, gripping tight, spreading you open wider so he can push deeper, chasing the way your pussy clenches and pulses around him. He's groaning your name, low and wrecked, his cock twitching with every squeeze of your cunt.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his voice full of praise as his thrusts slow slightly, but remain deep, deliberate. "So perfect, baby. Always so good for me."

Your voice is soft but so utterly desperate, trembling as you whimper, "Dick, please, baby. Pump me full."

His cock twitches inside you at your plea, the sweet, breathless way you beg for him undoing him every time. He always gives you what you want—there's never been a single time he could resist you—but the way you ask for it, the need in your tone, makes his chest tighten and his blood burn hot.

How could he ever say no to you when you're trembling, soaked, and so damn sweet for him? He doesn't even want to try.

"Fuck," he growls low in his throat, his hips rolling deeper, the thick weight of his cock pressing into every inch of your sensitive walls. "You're gonna get it. Gonna fill this pretty little pussy up, just like you want."

You moan at his words, already desperate for the warmth of his cum. "Please, baby," you whimper. "Give it to me—want all of it."

"That's it, doll," he rasps, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release. "Fuck—gonna fill you up, sweetheart."

The promise alone makes you moan, your body arching against him, your overstimulated cunt clenching around him as if trying to pull him deeper, if possible. Your mind is hazy, fogged with nothing but the feeling of him stretching you so perfectly, hitting every nerve, every spot that makes you shatter.

You're still sensitive from earlier—three orgasms on your toy hadn't been nearly enough to take the edge off, and now, the intensity of him inside you has every inch of your body alight with need. It's overwhelming, but you've learned to crave this with him: the way he pushes you, drags you past your limits, only to leave you trembling with more pleasure than you thought possible.

His hand slides down to your swollen clit again, rubbing slow, purposeful circles as his dick drives deeper, harder. "Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough, full of adoration. "You're so wet for me. So greedy, baby. This pussy's perfect, always takes me so well."

Your breath catches as his words send a new wave of heat rushing through you, and you feel the tension coiling tight in your belly once more. The sensitivity is almost unbearable, every drag of his dick against your tender walls sending a fresh jolt of pleasure-pain through you.

"Dick," you gasp, your nails digging into the sheets as your thighs tremble. "Please—need it. Need your cum. Please."

"Shit," he hisses, his head dropping to press against the curve of your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he groans. His thrusts grow sharper, his rhythm erratic as the tight heat of your cunt pushes him closer to the edge. You're squeezing him so perfectly, your body trembling, your moans soft and needy as you beg for what he's already dying to give you. "Gonna cum, doll."

You nod frantically, your voice trembling as you whimper, "Yes, baby. Please, want it so bad."

His groan is guttural, torn from deep in his chest, as his thrusts slow but grow impossibly deeper. Each roll of his hips is deliberate, precise, his cock stretching and filling you to the brim with every inch. You can feel every throb of him, how he twitches inside you as his control finally snaps.

When he cums, it's with a sharp curse of your name, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. His dick jerks, pulsing deep inside you, and then you feel it—thick, hot ropes of his release spilling into you, flooding your needy cunt. The heat of it is almost too much, the way it fills you so completely, and it's all you can do to moan, your voice breaking as the sensation sends shockwaves of pleasure rippling through you.

Your body reacts instantly, your pussy clenching down around him, milking him for everything he has. The way he fills you, his cock still hard and nestled deep, sends you over the edge again.

Your orgasm crashes over you in dizzying waves, and you cry out, trembling as your cunt flutters and tightens around him, sucking him deeper. It's messy—so messy—his cum mixing with your slick, dripping down between your thighs as your body quivers uncontrollably.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice thick and wrecked.

His hips roll again, slow and deliberate, grinding against you, pushing his release deeper. You can feel him painting your walls, the sticky heat of his cum coating every inch of your pussy, and he doesn't stop—not until he's sure every last drop is exactly where he wants it.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his hand sliding to grip your thigh, spreading you wider so he can watch his cock disappear into your slick, messy cunt. "Taking me so fucking well, baby. You're perfect—fuck, you're perfect."

And you can't stop trembling, your body still riding out the aftershocks as his deep, deliberate thrusts drag your pleasure out. The stretch of his dick, the way it fills you and presses against every sensitive spot, leaves your mind blank and your voice hoarse from crying out his name.

Your moans soften into needy whimpers, your body limp as his hips slow, finally stilling. But even then, you can still feel him—hard and warm and buried deep, his cum seeping out around him despite how tightly your cunt clings to him.

You turn your head slightly, catching his lips in a soft, sleepy kiss, but it quickly deepens the moment his mouth moves against yours. His tongue brushes along the seam of your lips, coaxing them open, and you gasp softly as his dick shifts inside you, the sensation sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you.

He takes advantage of the little sound, his tongue slipping into your mouth, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring every second of it. The kiss is messy, your tongues tangling together as soft moans spill from you, each one muffled by his lips.

His hand grips your thigh tighter, pulling you closer as his hips rock just enough to make you feel him—hard, thick, and buried so deep it has you clenching around him all over again.

You whimper against his mouth, your sleepy haze making the kiss sloppier, wetter, your tongues sliding and licking against each other as you chase the taste of him. His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently, and you can't help but moan, your head tilting further to give him better access.

His groan rumbles low in his chest as he swallows your sounds, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek, holding you in place as he kisses you deeper, filthier. Every movement of his tongue against yours feels electric, sending shivers through your body and making you grind back against him instinctively, desperate for more.

"Fuck, doll," he breathes against your lips, his voice low and wrecked.

But you're already pulling him back in, kissing him like you'll fall apart without the heat of his mouth on yours. It's needy, unrestrained, and he matches you completely, his own low moans slipping free as the kiss grows impossibly hotter.

"You feel so fucking good," you whisper, your voice laced with affection.

"Yeah, baby? You feel that?" he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Feel how full you are? How messy we've made you?"

You whimper, your pussy clenching involuntarily around him as his words send another rush of heat pooling in your belly. The wet sounds of his cock sliding through the mess he's made only make it worse, and you bite your lip, trying to keep your moans in check.

"Fuck," he pants, pressing soft kisses to your neck as he holds you close. His fingers trace lazy circles on your skin, soothing you as your body trembles in the aftermath.

You shiver, your voice soft, breathless, as you murmur, "More, baby."

His lips twitch into a smirk against your neck, and his hand tightens on your thigh once again, spreading you wider. "Oh, you're getting more, alright," he murmurs, his voice full of promise.

Before you can catch your breath, he shifts, flipping you onto your stomach with an ease that makes you shiver. He grips your hips, pulling you back onto his dick in one smooth motion, burying himself deep. The new angle has you crying out, the way he hits that perfect spot inside you over and over leaving you clawing at the sheets, desperate and completely at his mercy.

His thrusts grow harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room as he pounds into you. Each stroke is precise, deliberate, making you feel every thick, veiny inch of him stretching you, filling you to the brim. His large hands grip your ass, spreading you wider as he watches himself disappear into your dripping, swollen cunt.

You moan into the mattress, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you. His name falls from your lips like a prayer, your voice cracking with each broken cry he pulls from you. And he doesn't stop—doesn't even slow—driving into you with everything he has, determined to leave you a trembling mess.

Hours later, when your body finally goes limp, completely wrecked and satisfied, he watches you with a smug, adoring grin. His large hands smooth over your shaky thighs, fingers brushing the sticky mess that's dripping from your pussy, his cum still leaking out no matter how deep he fucked it into you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low and filled with pride. "So full of me, baby. You made such a mess, but you're so perfect like this."

He lets his fingers trail lazily between your thighs, spreading you open just enough to watch his release spill out, dripping down onto the sheets. The sight alone makes his cock twitch again, still heavy and sticky from everything you've already given him.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before dragging his lips to yours, soft at first but growing hungrier with each passing second. His tongue slips into your mouth, tasting you, teasing you, even as his hand strokes your trembling thigh, his grip firm and grounding.

"Made it up to you, didn't I, my love?" he murmurs, his voice low and sweet.

You hum weakly in response, and he chuckles, pulling you into his arms, his body still pressed against yours as he holds you close. His fingers lazily trace patterns over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can't help but feel utterly adored—ruined, yes, but completely his.

No matter how exhausted or bruised he might be from a night of patrol—whether it's the weight of the city's darkness or the physical toll on his body—Dick never lets it show when he's with you. He's always there, still finding the energy to smile, to laugh, to touch you with that same warmth that's been constant since the beginning.

You can see it in the way he makes time for you, no matter how drained he might be. And it's that part of him, that unwavering commitment, that you love most. Even when the world is demanding everything from him, he still gives you all of him.

He kisses your forehead softly, his arms tightening around you slightly. Even when the weight of the world feels like it's crushing him, the moment he's in your arms, everything fades away.

It's not just the way you soothe him with your words—it's the way you are there, a steady presence in the chaos of his life. Whether it's holding him in silence after a long night or taking the time to gently tend to the bruises he's too used to hiding, you make him feel human again.

You don't treat him like the city's hero or the man with too many scars; you treat him like someone worth caring for, someone who deserves softness. And somehow, that's exactly what he needs—what he craves, even more than the sleep that often eludes him. With you, he feels like he can breathe again.

When he finally carries you to the bathroom, the exhaustion is still there, but it feels like a quiet, shared bond between the two of you. Neither of you speaks—there's no need. The warmth of his arms around you, the steady rhythm of his breath against your temple, it all says more than words ever could.

He sits by the tub with you still clinging to him, his grip firm but gentle, like he knows you need this closeness just as much as he does. His free hand reaches for the faucet, twisting it until a stream of warm water begins to fill the tub, steam curling into the air around you.

You don't move, don't loosen your grip, and he doesn't make you. Instead, he shifts just enough to let you stay curled against his chest, one hand stroking slow, soothing circles over your back. The heat from the water seeps into the air, but all you can focus on is him—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers trace mindless patterns against your skin, the quiet strength in his hold.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice soft but sure, lips brushing against your temple. "Just breathe, baby."

You do. You breathe with him, feeling the last remnants of tension start to ebb away, washed out by the warmth of his touch and the rhythmic sound of the water filling the tub.

When he finally moves, it's only to make sure the temperature is just right. He tests it with his hand before turning back to you, his touch as careful as ever. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get you in."

You nod, but you still don't let go, and he doesn't ask you to. Instead, he helps you into the tub with quiet patience, keeping you close, keeping you grounded.

When the water finally surrounds you, it's like a second layer of comfort, wrapping around your tired limbs, but it's still his presence that keeps you steady.

You both have the same goal now—cleaning up, but it's so much more than that. You've made a mess, but somehow, cleaning up together feels like a perfect reflection of how you care for each other.

And when he slides in behind you, pulling you back against him, arms wrapped securely around your waist, you finally let out a soft, shaky sigh. You feel the words slip from your lips, sleepiness making your voice softer, more vulnerable.

"I love you so much," you murmur, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

You can feel his smile before you even see it, that same tenderness you know so well. With him, everything feels right, even in the aftermath of chaos. He pulls you a little closer, and his hands never stop moving—one smoothing up and down your arm, the other resting over your stomach, holding you like he's afraid to let go.

He presses a kiss to the side of your head, voice nothing more than a quiet murmur against your skin. "I love you too, baby."

The water swirls softly around you both, the quiet hum of the tub filling the space. It's intimate, it's comforting, and as he holds you, everything feels like it's been put back where it belongs.

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karalovesallthegirls · 7 months ago

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Kara has always dreaded the day she’d meet her soulmate.

There’s relief in knowing she has one, of course. The person meant for her didn’t die with Krypton. That’s something! Even still, it’s hard to feel excited for the moment they meet, because that’s the moment Kara will hurt them. She’s had their exclamation of pain inked into her skin for as long as she’s been on Earth. In some ways it’s better. Most people have phrases like “good morning” or “hold the door please” as their soulmate’s first words. They have to endure hundreds of almosts, breath held just in case that stranger really is the one. Kara won’t have to do that. Her words are far too distinct.

It's agony, thinking about how their meeting will go. She spends years imagining every possible scenario, each one more painful than the last, yet the day it happens she barely even registers it. The words wash right over her, drowned out by the loud crack as her hand makes sudden contact with a stranger's face. The telltale crunch of contact shocks her. She hadn't registered anyone was there during her dramatic retelling, otherwise she would have kept her gestures small. She wouldn't have flung her hand out with such force.

The woman she's hit is hunched over, clutching at her face. She gasped loud and sharp when it hit, and now she's just wheezily breathing in shock. Kara can see blood starting to drip down her wrist.

“Did you," the woman gasps, and her voice sounds wet. "Did you just break my nose?” Kara wants to die.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay? I am so sorry!”

People are looking at them and the woman keeps cursing under her breath and Kara really, really doesn’t know what to do. Her hands hover uselessly over the hunched figure, desperate to soothe but scared to touch in a moment like this. “I didn’t mean to – I was telling a story and I got too excited with my hands I guess, I didn’t see you there. Are you- can I-”

She looks to Alex for guidance, but she’s just staring at the interaction with a wide-eyed wonder. Typically her sister knows what to do in a scary situation, but now she’s looking just as clueless. They’re both barely awake at this point – it’s six in the morning and they’ve been at this airport terminal since midnight, miserably watching their red eye flight push into a mid-day departure. They’re both half-delirious, which is fun when you’re goofing off but less so when you’ve just broken a stranger’s nose.

And then it hits her. The words she’s carried on her arm for so many years are tingling, she realizes, and they’ve been tingling from the second her skin met the girl’s.

Did you did you just break my nose?

“Oh wow,” Kara says, dumbfounded. “It’s you.” The woman falls silent. She must be realizing too Kara thinks as she fumbles with her sleeve, pushing it up enough to show her inked arm. The woman's eyes drop to the tattoo that's brought such shame to Kara for so long. She feels her eyes like a touch. “I – I’m so happy to meet you! I’m so sorry it happened like this.” She laughs and it sounds strained. Her hands are shaking. The woman doesn't look up from her arm.

Even hunched over in pain, it's clear the woman is beautiful. Important, even, considering how she's dressed. She's dressed like she's en route to lead a business conference, her tight black skirt and matching blazer scream business professional. Though the effects are tampered a bit by the splattering of blood that’s dripped down her white blouse. Kara wonders how old she is to be dressed like that. She must be older to look like that. At nearly nineteen, Kara has never had anything more than a graduation to dress nicely for, and even then she wore her stained dress pants. This woman - her soulmate - must be much older than her, which feels strange to think. She looks Kara's age, maybe even younger. If not for how clearly tailored to her body her clothes are, she'd almost look like she was playing dress up.

Kara feels self-conscious then, sharply aware of how she must look to her soulmate. As smart as it felt to come to the airport in pajamas for her all-night flight, standing in rubber duck pajama pants while trying to have a conversation with her goddess of a soulmate did little for Kara's confidence.

When Kara’s eyes finally track back up to her face, she finds sharp green ones staring back. They're the prettiest eyes she's ever seen, and they don't seem interested in looking away. That's fine with her - she's more than content to stare right back.

It's only the soft plop of blood hitting tile that draws her attention back to her crime, and she can see the way the woman's hands have become covered in blood. "Oh gosh, here - let me…” Kara fumbles in her backpack for a moment with no clear plan. All she knows is she has to do something to fix this. She fumbles about before pulling out a clean t-shirt. “Here. For the-” She holds it out to the girl and gestures at her own face. Slowly, like she’s scared Kara might grab her or something, the woman takes the offered shirt. She wipes the blood from her face and hands, dabbing beneath her nose. The bleeding seems to have stopped, at least, and the shirt helps contain what's escaped. Watching a stranger wipe blood on her high school band t-shirt shouldn’t thrill Kara as much as it does, and yet.

Kara laughs again, the sound nervous and high-pitched, before taking a step towards her. Her soulmate’s eyes go wide, tracking her movements, and Kara's heart clenches when she steps away. The rapid race of her soulmate's heart beats into Kara's ear - she can literally hear her fear. She holds her hands up in surrender, stepping back to where she’d been before. The last thing she wants is for her to be afraid. “Does it hurt?” she asks, and her soulmate shakes her head no. “That’s good. That’s good. I- uh." She has nothing more to say, and her soulmate's certainly not contributing. Kara’s palms are sweating. She hasn’t sweat since she was thirteen, but one look from this person has her rubbing her hands on her pajama pants like a middle schooler at a dance.

The woman finishes wiping up and lets her arms fall, blessing Kara with her first real look at her face. Bloodied and skittish, she’s beautiful in a way Kara can hardly comprehend, in a way she could never imagine. Kara's pretty sure she's blushing now for some reason, and she has to flex her toes to be sure she’s still touching the ground. “My name’s Kara,” she says, and then gestures over her shoulder. “That’s my sister Alex. We’re flying home for winter break. Midvale - Midvale is home for us. Where- where are you flying to?”

The woman stares and stares, and Kara's starting to panic thinking she'd given her soulmate a head injury that's muted her somehow, when at last the woman speaks just barely above a whisper.

“Home,” she says. It feels like her heart might burst just from hearing that one stilted word. Kara wants to hear a thousand more, wants to hear nothing else for the rest of her life.

“That’s awesome. W-where’s home for you?” The woman's lip trembles as she opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and then throws the t-shirt at Kara’s face.

Kara fumbles catching it, distracted by the shock and gross factor of having a blood-soaked shirt hurled at her face, and it takes her far too many precious seconds to realize her soulmate is gone. Bewildered, Kara looks around before just catching sight of her vanishing around the corner, high heels and racing heart clattering away. She looks at Alex. Alex waves at her, frantic. “Go!” Alex yells, and Kara takes off.

Pretending to be a human has never been harder than it is while chasing after her soulmate. Normal human pace - especially what's acceptable at an airport - is not fast enough for this, not when the woman has already gotten so far ahead. Kara must look ridiculous, bursting into sprints only to trip suddenly into a walk over and over again, her ears locked on to the thudding heartbeat and faint whispers of her soulmate mumbling, “crap crap crap crap,” ahead.

Kara’s thankful they’re in an airport, at least. Her soulmate can’t just run outside, and Kara is fine embracing the romcom trope of following her love onto the plane. Her soulmate stops moving ahead and Kara speeds up, nearly wiping out twice tripping over luggage and small children. Her heart is in her throat as she clears the corner her soulmate is behind and pushes her way into the door she's passed through. All the wind knocks out of her lungs then when she sees her again. The woman looks up at her in shock, as if she didn't think Kara would chase her. As if Kara would just let her go. With a visible gulp, her soulmate flees around a corner and disappears out of sight. Kara manages a single step forward before a body blocks her way, and she looks up to see a massive security guard staring down at her.

“Membership card, please.”

Kara tries to peer around him. He steps in her way, cutting her vision off. Her soulmate led her into some private place you can't just walk into, she realizes, glancing around at the sleek appearance and exclusive atmosphere. “I- uh, left my card in my other bag,” she says, gesturing back over her shoulder. She can hear her soulmate’s breathing and it's all she can focus on. She’s right there. Just out of sight. Kara is so close. “I’m afraid you need your card to enter the fly lounge,” he says sternly. He starts pushing gently at her, trying to nudge her back out of the sliding glass door she’s come in. Kara almost forgets to let him move her. “I- I’m sorry, someone I need to talk to just went in there and I-” She stops in the doorway, hand firm on the wall. She can hear the way the guard huffs against her solid pressure. She’s not acting very human right now and she knows it.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, ma’am," he says, pushing more forcefully against her. Forceful enough that she knows she has to move even as all her instincts war against it. “Can- can I buy a membership? Like a day pass or something?”

The guard looks over at the front desk, making eye contact with a woman who looks like she would rather watch Kara be flayed alive than allowed another step inside.

“A day membership is $189 plus tax,” she whines out in a nasally voice, tone making clear she already knows Kara won’t be affording that. Which is accurate. Kara barely has enough to buy a meal.

Looks like her soulmate is rich, then.

The man nudges her back again and a flash of panic echoes through her chest. For a moment, she envisions herself throwing him out the open door, tossing aside anything or anyone that tries to keep her from her future. But she’s already scared her soulmate enough for one day, so she smiles with forced bashfulness and allows herself to be walked back out of the lounge.

The frosted glass door marked High Flyers Club Lounge shuts her out mockingly. But it’s fine! Eventually her soulmate’s flight time will be here and she’ll have no choice but to come out and face her. Kara just has to be patient. (Kara hates being patient.)

She takes a seat against the wall across from the lounge entrance. Her glasses rest low on her nose as she stares her soulmate, soaking in every inch of her as she paces in the luxurious lounge. Her heart is racing, she seems on the edge of a panic attack, and Kara wants desperately to be in there with her talking her down. But she can’t, so she’s left to watch – at least until the girl steps into the private restroom. She stops watching after that. Instead, she settles down to listen to the comforting beat of her soulmate’s heart, closer now than it’s ever been.

Her mind wanders as she waits, mentally reviewing every moment of their interaction. Considering where she failed, where she succeeded. Making lists about what to say to her next. She never got her name, for one thing, and she still doesn’t know where her home is. There’s so much for her to learn.

Her mental meandering is so consuming that it takes her a bit to realize the heartbeat has moved farther away. At first she thinks her soulmate is just moving around the club, but no- she’s moving away from the airport. A quick glance through walls shows her that her soulmate isn’t in the club anymore. The heartbeat is elevating, she realizes, and Kara runs to the glass wall just in time to see the plane - small, private, with an apparent access point from within the lounge – take off.

Horror and confusion overwhelm her, bringing tears to her eyes. This doesn't make sense. Why would she just leave without saying a word? Why would her soulmate do that? It's almost unbearable, the pain of it. She doesn’t know how long she stands there, face pressed to the glass, listening as the heartbeat grows quieter and quieter before vanishing all together.

Kara learns a lot about grief after that.

She knew a lot already – far more than any one person should ever know – but that grief carried a different weight. The loss of her people wasn't a choice by them. They didn't want to die. The loss of her soulmate is its own beast, sharp and cruel in her heart, because this time the person she mourns chose to abandon her. Her soulmate chose to leave. She saw Kara that morning and decided that one look was enough, that Kara wasn't worth any more of her time. She left her there with nothing but a bloody t-shirt and a thousand questions. Kara never even learned her name.

She goes through the stages – she feels her anger burning out in her eyes, feels the sorrow take hold. She denies it, she bargains with everyone, anyone. She calls the Flyer’s Club, tries calling the FAA. She tracks flight logs and makes cold calls and still finds nothing at all. She writes about it on soulmate websites and Medium articles, casting a wide net so that someday when – if, her mind reminds her. if if if - her soulmate ever looks she’ll be able to find her.

Time dulls the sharpness, though, and the years shift that rejected feeling into a more muted anger. Kara doesn't care about the love lost. She doesn't care if the person is her other half. All she cares about is the anger. Finding her feels more like a hunt than a quest for love – she’s got a lot to say to the other woman when they finally meet again. She just wants one more meeting, that’s all. Just enough time to tell her exactly where she can go. Kara doesn’t need a soulmate, after all. Her life is full of love and joy and adventure, and she doesn’t need another person to complete her. She graduates college with a degree in English, minor in Journalism – her attempts to track down her soulmate really ignite the journalistic bug in her, and with Clark’s constant encouragement it feels inevitable. She moves to a big city despite her small-town fears and she gets a job almost no one survives. Kara is thriving.

It almost shocks her, then, the way her heart trips over itself when she sees her again.

They’re watching the trial, her and Alex, and Alex is halfway through a lecture on how she’d always known Lex Luthor was evil by the way he wore his pants – (“Good guys don’t wear their pants that high, Kara, it’s common sense.”) – when Kara's nerves jolt like a lightning bolt has rushed through her. Her gasp is so sharp Alex screams almost in sympathy.

“What? What is it?” Alex yells at her, looking around for some danger lurking nearby. Kara tumbles to the floor practically crawling to the television screen. Someone new has taken the stand, someone she'd recognize anywhere.

“Alex,” she says, jamming her finger against the somewhat grainy image projected on her television. “It's her.” “What!” “My soulmate!" Kara knows it like she knows herself, even after all this time. She looks different. Six years of struggle sit clear in her hard gaze, her mouth twisted into solemn resignation. She looks almost casual on the stand, sitting comfortably despite the eyes of the world on her. Like it's just a regular conversation. Like she’s not about to help send her brother to prison for life. “Lena Luthor, sister of the defendant” reads the helpful banner beneath her grim face. Even after everything, Kara is struck by her. She's breathtaking. Kara kind of hates her for it. “Hold on, that’s- you barely even saw her when you met! You don’t know for sure.” Alex sounds desperate, which is fair. The younger sister of the man who tried to kill Superman is certainly not an ideal soulmate for someone like Kara, but it doesn't matter. It's her. “I’m sure,” she says, and feels the truth of it deep in her bones.

A giggle hits her then that's so inappropriate for the moment it makes her feel crazy, but she can't help it. As Lena Luthor begins to explain the piles of evidence she’s gathered against her brother, Kara giggles away. She feels almost drunk on it, smug and satisfied. “Found you,” she says, almost like a taunt. She drags her finger over the screen, feeling the static of her ancient television biting back at her as she caresses Lena Luthor's face. The anger that’s long settled inside of her seems to reignite with every charged word Lena speaks against her brother, with every glance she makes at the camera. She can feel Alex’s nervous energy behind her but she doesn’t care. The politics of this, the implications - none of it matters to Kara. What matters is she has a name, and she has a general location. She's so close she can practically taste it. “See you soon, soulmate,” Kara whispers, and for a second it feels almost like Lena is staring right back.

#Hey man here's a soulmate au that burst out of my brain and demanded to exist #this will probably end up on ao3 but I want to write another chapter at least before that #also this follows my standard formula that I love but rarely see in soulmate aus #where one (or ideally both) of them are like HEY ACTUALLY NO THANKS and try like hell to deny the deep and inevitable drag of destiny #mine #supercorp

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