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Taggie has never understood humans.
She may have grown up around them, loved as best she could by her family, but there is a fundamental difference that she just can’t put her finger on. It’s always been there, lurking under her skin like an itch that will never go away.
Maybe it started in elementary school, when the words on pages swum before her eyes, markedly different from her classmates. She got shuffled to the guidance counsellor, who performed test after test before diagnosing her with dyslexia. Pamphlet in hand, she trudged home to her parents with tears in her eyes.
“I don’t want to be different,” she wept, cheeks pink from the hitching breaths she took. “I want to read like everyone else.”
Kneeling by her, her father told her something she would never forget. “O’Hara’s aren’t like everyone else. We do better, we work harder. It’s who we are.”
The words echo through her mind as she unlocks her apartment door, another day's worth of job rejections certainly waiting in her email inbox. Working overnight at a twenty-four hour diner isn’t her dream job, but it pays the bills while she pitches herself to every newspaper in the city.
Plus, she’s good at it. She can balance trays of food with ease when the restaurant floods with drunk club goers, never worrying about spilling drinks or dropping food. The tips are nice, when the odd customer decides to leave their change for her, and she gets a free meal that she has the freedom to make herself.
There are worse things in life, she reminds herself. Settling into her couch, she opens her phone, prepared to scroll through more rejections and spam messages from bots. The neighbours above her are arguing again, their words sharp and targeted. Taggie tunes them out, listening just in case things escalate, when she reads the subject line.
Open Photographer Position - Interview
She can’t control her excitement as she opens the email, words she never thought she would read written in clear text on the screen.
Miss O’Hara,
We would like to invite you for a preliminary interview at The Daily Planet for a Junior Staff Photographer position on November 15. Please bring your portfolio and a list of references.
Sincerely,
Lizzie Vereker
Chief People Officer
Squealing, she kicks her feet, summoning Gertrude from wherever she was hiding. “Sorry girl,” Taggie whispered, glee barely contained. Two days, she had two days to put her portfolio together and prepare for the interview of a lifetime.
Her celebration is interrupted by the alarm on her phone, accompanied by a text from her sister.
Caitlin: Code Blue two blocks south
Caitlin: Sending coordinates now
“Really? I just got home,” she mumbles, pulling her hair out of her ponytail. “Alright, see you in a bit Gertrude.”
Shedding her clothes, she pulls open the balcony doors and lets herself go. The running leap that she takes off of her balcony never gets old, hooting with joy as she flies through the sky.
Taggie’s never really understood humans, because she’s never been one.
ᯓ★
Shifting nervously between her feet, Taggie tries not to freak out as she waits outside the Editor-in-Chief’s office. When she had been invited to interview, she assumed it would be with Human Resources, maybe a low-level reporter. Not the Editor-In-Chief, known for quick judgements and snide remarks. The man had four Pulitzer’s, more than Taggie’s father had.
The receptionist, a pretty girl named Jen, smiled at her. “He’s not as bad as people think.”
All she can do is nod in response, not trusting herself to get through a sentence without stammering. She can do this. He’s just a man, and she’s—well, she’s not one hundred percent sure what she is. One of the great mysteries of her life is where she came from, before she ended up in her parent’s backyard in Dublin.
Before she can worry over her portfolio, overthinking the choices she made for the thousandth time, the office door opens. “Good luck,” Jen whispers as she passes, giving her a thumbs up before turning back to her computer.
He’s just a man, Taggie reminds herself, walking into the office with her head held high. “Good morning, Mr. Campbell-Black,” she greets, only slightly tripping over her own feet as she takes him in.
It’s unfair for someone so talented to also be that good looking, in her opinion. She’d known he was handsome, had seen his photo on the cover of gossip magazines as often as his articles graced his own front page, but in person he is magnetic. It’s his eyes, she thinks, the blue-green colour drawing people in with an intensity that could pry a confession from a priest.
“Agatha, is it?” He looks up from his papers briefly, giving her a once over that leaves her feeling shivery. “Pass me your portfolio.”
“Taggie,” she corrects. “I go by Taggie.” Handing him the leather-bound binder, a gift from her father when she first started showing a serious interest in photography, she takes a seat, watching as he flips through the pages. His face is hard to read, impassive as he looks closely at each individual photo.
“Your composition is good, very clean. I like the use of light in this one.” He states each of his opinions like they are a fact, leaving her no choice but to nod along with his words.
Mr. Campbell-Black reaches across his desk, grabbing a newspaper from the rather large pile and tossing it to her. “That cover photo, what would you change about it?”
Staring down at the headline, MP FOUND GUILTY OF CHARITY EMBEZZLEMENT, she immediately knows how she would have captured the image. “The focus is on Stratton leaving the courthouse,” she starts, eyes flicking up to gauge his reaction. His face remains blank, waiting for her to continue. “But there were huge crowds, people who wanted to see him pay. I would’ve captured that, with Stratton still in the photo but out of focus. Give the narrative back to the people.”
When she looks back up at him, his face has pulled into a smirk. “Exactly what I would have done as well.” Her face heats at the praise, blush certainly colouring her cheeks. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. “Staff photographers work on individual assignments, though we tend to pair you up with reporters based on availability. I’ll have you start with Seb, he’s working on a piece regarding a potential rail strike. He’s usually in the bullpen around this time, Jen will point him out to you.”
“A-are you offering me the job?”
Standing from his desk, Mr. Campbell-Black offers her a hand. “Welcome to the Daily Planet, Taggie.”
She shakes his hand, taking care not to grip too tightly. She always forgets her strength when she’s excited, almost shattering her headmaster's hand when she graduated from school. “Thank you, sir. Excited to be here.”
Turning to leave, she stops when he calls her name. “O’Hara…where have I heard that before?”
Scuffing her shoe on the floor, Taggie avoids looking at him. “You’ve probably heard of my father. Declan O’Hara.”
Sneaking a glance, she watches as understanding dawns on his face. “Right, of course. Declan, good man. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Of all the hardships in her life, losing her father was the worst. Not only because of the pain of watching the family fall apart without him, but because it was the one thing she didn’t have power over. Cancer couldn’t be stopped with super speed or strength. She didn’t even catch it with x-ray vision until it was too late: tumors riddling his lungs, immediately declared stage four by his doctors.
It had hit her mother–Maud, she thinks, the title of ‘mum’ formally rescinded when Declan died–the hardest, a spiral of grief and anger combining into a horrible depression. Taggie had tried her best to support everyone, making sure Caitlin got to school and Patrick actually went to his scheduled therapy sessions. But Maud rejected everything Taggie offered, snarling at her at every turn.
She pushes the thoughts away, not wanting to make a horrible impression on her new coworkers by crying about her dead dad and distant mother. She follows Jen around the office, introducing herself to the reporters in the bullpen and the other staff scattered around the floor. Seb, the reporter that Mr. Campbell-Black had mentioned, is like a golden retriever come to life. With fluffy hair and a bright smile, she can tell that he is a ‘friendly’, as her dad called them. The type of reporter who can make friends with anyone, pulling the story out with a few pointed questions and trustworthy looks.
“They’re the best to go on the road with,” Declan had always said, “but don’t let them fool you. They’ll sell your secrets for a good story.”
By the time she’s made her rounds of the office, learning what feels like a hundred different names and faces, Mr. Campbell-Black’s office door is shut, lights off. “He always sneaks out,” Seb murmurs. “Never stays behind to mingle with the common folk, typical Tory.”
She’s about to laugh, to make a joke about Tories and working that her father told her years ago, when her phone buzzes insistently in her pocket. At the same time, Breaking News flashes across the screens hung on the wall.
Cameron Cook’s pretty face fills the screen. “This just in, a hostage situation has been confirmed at the National Bank of England on Threadneedle Street. Reports are saying that three staff members are being held on the third floor, along with two members of the public. Among them is Rupert Campbell-Black, owner and editor-in-chief of The Daily Planet.”
Gasps fill the room, everyone looking around as if waiting for direction. Seb is the first to move, racing for his desk with verve. “I’m getting the story up on the website,” he calls out. “Everything is alleged for now, but we should have the scoop.”
Phone vibrating steadily in her pocket, Taggie knows that this chaos is exactly what she needs to escape. “I’m going to the bank,” she tells Seb, hauling her work bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll get a couple shots, send them to you on the go.”
“Thanks O’Hara,” he mumbled, already distracted by the beginnings of his article. Slipping out relatively unnoticed, she pulls her phone from her pocket, clicking ‘Answer’ furiously.
“I’m aware of the situation,” she hisses, the voice on the other line chuckling in her ear.
“You can never be too sure,” her sister laughs, “you London girls always have so much going on.”
Ducking into a stairwell, Taggie drops her belongings to the floor. “My boss is one of the hostages,” she moans, kicking off her sensible shoes. “It’s literally my first day, I’m changing in a stairwell.”
“No cameras, right?”
“Obviously, Cait. This isn’t my first rodeo.” Phone wedged between her shoulder and ear, she tries to shuffle out of her button up blouse and cardigan without making too much noise. When Caitlin reminds her that it is in fact her third rodeo, she curses down the phone at her. “You’re not helpful!”
Admittedly, her plan for saving a group of hostages is weak. She hasn’t thought very far past ‘get into the bank,’ which is shaky at best. As she flies across the city, taking sharp turns around corners to push the limits of her speed, she thinks about what her father would say.
One person at a time, pumpkin, one foot in front of the other.
They were the same words he whispered on her first day of preschool, clutching nervously at his pant leg when he dropped her off. The same thing he told her when she came home from field hockey practice, embarrassed that she didn’t know anyone.
“One person at a time,” she mumbles, landing on the bank’s roof and peering over the edge to see what lay beneath. The front of the building was surrounded by police cars, with news vans parked only slightly behind them. A crowd had gathered beyond the barricade, everyone clamouring for a glimpse of what was happening inside.
There was no time to waste. Sprinting to the only door on the rooftop, Taggie yanked on the handle, pulling the door fully off its hinges. “Fuck,” she muttered, taking the stairs two at a time until she reached the third floor landing. Focusing on what was beyond the wall, she could make out five bodies, all of them gathered on the floor with hands tied behind their backs. The hostage-taker must have wandered to the other side of the floor, their body fading as she pushed her xray vision further.
Hand on the doorknob, she turns it slowly, opening the door with gentle presses that prevent any noise from being made. Approaching the group with quiet footsteps, she raises a finger to her lips, the universal symbol for be quiet.
Her boss doesn’t take the command well. “What are you doing here,” he hisses, eyes darting to the corner where the gunman must have turned. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“I’m rescuing you,” she insists, helping a woman in a pencil skirt up and untying her arms. “I’ve cleared a path to the roof, I can fly you down from there.”
“You can fly?” The other man asks, pushing up onto his feet and letting the woman untie his wrists. “Is this a prank?”
She knew it would be hard to believe, but there was no time for a full explanation. Hovering off the ground, she lets herself float midair, taking in the shocked faces of each hostage. “Can we go now,” she asks, gesturing towards the door.
The group is inclined to believe her after that, running up the stairs until they reach the roof. While they move, she asks Rupert for a brief on the situation.
“Only one gunman, two weapons. Handguns. He fired two warning shots into the wall, but other than that left us alone.” His explanation is to the point, a true journalist’s response. One of the bank staff interrupts, turning back to look at them.
“That’s not true, the guy tackled you to the floor. Hurt his shoulder,” the woman offers, weathering Rupert’s glare with one of her own.
Brushing the concern off, he continues up the stairs. “I’ll live, now keep moving!”
By the time they reach the roof, two of the women heaving deep breaths from exertion. “I’ll take them down first, get them to a medic. Unless you need to go for your shoulder, sir?”
Mr. Campbell-Black shakes his head. “Get them to safety first, we’ll be fine.”
Thankfully emergency services have a medic station set up, though they are clearly not expecting a woman in a red cape to drop anyone off. With the first hostage held in a bridal carry in her arms, Taggie clears her throat, drawing their attention. “Hi, she needs oxygen, I think. The others are on the roof, I’ll bring them down shortly.”
“Um, what the fuck.” The paramedic looks startled, but begins readying an oxygen machine nonetheless. Gesturing to a stretcher, he helps Taggie lower the woman down and begins checking her vitals.
Confident that she is in good hands, Taggie flies back up to the rooftop and repeats the process of flying each hostage down. They all let her lift them up, thanking her effusively for coming for them.
“It’s what anyone would do,” she tells each of them, making sure that they all start receiving medical care before flying off again. The last one on the rooftop is Mr. Campbell-Black, having insisted that he was fine and could wait. By the time she returns for him, he’s leaning casually on the wall of the roof, scrolling through his phone.
“Sources say the gunman has been apprehended,” he informs her, not looking up from his phone. “In police custody, he confessed to everything.”
Nodding, she walks to stand beside him, looking out at the city. “Good. Will you let me take you for medical treatment now?”
He scoffs, giving her a sideways look. “I’m fine. Don’t you have kittens in a tree to rescue?”
“I think you are the kitten in this scenario, Mr. Campbell-Black.”
A slight grin pulls at his mouth, as if he can’t control it. “Fair enough. I really am fine though.”
He’s not, she can see where his shoulder has dislocated with a quick flash of x-ray. “That’s not the first time you’ve dislocated that shoulder, is it? Looks like a repeat injury to me. I’ll feel better if you get it looked at.”
Turning towards her fully, he gives her a pointed look. “I’ll get it checked out,” he starts, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “If you do something for me in exchange.”
Eyebrows raised, she indulges her curiosity. “What do you want?”
Lighting a cigarette, he takes a drag. “I want an exclusive interview with you. Front page, with the super…girl. How old are you?”
“Old enough,” she shoots back, weighing the request in her head. “I have some rules.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” he murmurs, cigarette held between his lips as he types on his phone. “What are they?”
“Only you. I don’t want a whole camera crew, or a big production. One-on-one.” She pauses, watching as he nods along to her request. “I’ll come tomorrow night. You get half an hour.”
He counters with forty-five minutes at nine the next night, which she agrees to. Shaking hands for the second time that day, she offers to fly him down to the paramedic tent, which he staunchly refuses.
“Today has been enough of a whirlwind, I don’t need a photo of myself being carried down like a princess on the news.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he starts making his way to the stairs. “See you tomorrow, super girl.”
Laughing, she waves him off. “Get home safe, kitten!”
ᯓ★
Stepping out of the elevator the next day, Taggie has no idea what to expect. After she flew home, she called her siblings and confessed what had happened with Rupert.
Her brother had been less than impressed, flatly reminding her that there was very little chance that her boss, a world renowned reporter, would be fooled by her simple glasses disguise.
“It’s not just glasses,” she argued, pouting into her phone. “I also do my hair differently. It fools men all the time.”
“Not all men,” Patrick mumbled.
“You’re right,” Taggie sighed, pushing her apartment door open and kneeling to pet Gertrude. “It wouldn’t have fooled dad.”
Their conversation had devolved into bickering after that, Patrick arguing that he was not like other men until Caitlin reminded him that he once spent an entire afternoon convinced that she was Taggie, all because she had put on a pair of glasses without lenses.
Of all the scenarios she imagined for her second day of work, coming face to face with a photo of herself on the front page of the paper was not among them.
Seb greets her with a wave, calling her over. “First day on the job and your photo is on the cover, not a bad start!”
“M-my photo,” she stutters, reaching for a copy of the paper from a nearby desk. Sure enough, she’s on the front cover, soaring past the camera in a flash of blue and red. Her nerves are on fire, staring down at the picture until Seb nudges her.
“Your first photography credit, feels good right?” And it’s there in black and white, Photograph by Taggie O’Hara, underneath the cover image. Relief floods through her, thanking every god she can think of that she had packed a tripod in her camera bag yesterday.
Putting the paper down, she laughs, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “Feels great. I might have to get this framed.”
“I would.” His voice cuts through the chaos of the bullpen, Mr. Campbell-Black striding towards her with a bottle of champagne in hand. His shoulder, the one he refused to have looked at by the medics, is strapped in a sling, two champagne flutes dangling in his hand. “Congratulations, Miss O’Hara.”
“T-thank you, Mr. Campbell-Black,” she murmurs, head down in hopes that he doesn’t look too closely at her. “How is your arm? I mean–the entire ordeal must have been awful, but you’re in a sling, and that’s never a good thing.”
Her mother had always said that men hate women who rambled, preferring those who were seen and not heard. If her boss’ face is any indication, Maud owed her many apologies. He’s smiling, putting the two flutes down on a nearby desk.
“Please, call me Rupert.” Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Seb exchange a look with one of the other reporters, a pretty girl named Daysee that had showed her the secret stash of tampons in the women’s bathroom the day before. Her gut clenches, realizing that this is probably an honour not often bestowed on brand new staff photographers.
Swallowing her fear, she nods. “Okay, Rupert. How is your arm?”
His laugh is soft, the lines around his eyes winking as he chuckles. “I knew you would be a good fit, tenacious thing you are. My arm is fine, thank you. But we’re not here to talk about that.”
He turns to the gathered group, grin wide on her face. “We’re here to talk about Supergirl. Yesterday, I secured an exclusive interview with the woman herself. Our competitors are already a day behind this news cycle. By the time they are speculating who she is, we’ll already have Supergirl, in her own words, on our cover.”
Whoops and cheers fill the air, everyone vibrating at the prospect of such a juicy story. “To The Daily Planet,” Rupert yells, passing the bottle of champagne to Gerald, who pops it open with a grin. “And to Supergirl!”
One of the champagne flutes is pressed into her hand. “To your first cover,” Rupert murmurs, pouring the sparkling wine into the flute with a grin. “I’m sure there will be many more. You have a bright future ahead, Taggie.”
“Th-thank you,” she stutters, sipping from her flute and wishing alcohol had any effect on her. “I’m just glad everyone is safe.”
Rupert moves on after that, passing out champagne in plastic cups to the other reporters and staff in the bullpen. They all thank him, but none are given the go ahead to call him by his given name. Her hunch is confirmed when she hears two girls whispering at the edge of the group.
“The last person he told to call him Rupert was Nathalie, remember? Now look where she is.” The voice is unfamiliar, likely one of the reporters who had been out on a job the day before.
“On assignment in Finland for eight months, poor girl,” the other sighs. She thinks it’s Sarah Price, the Lifestyle reporter who left a cloud of hairspray in her wake wherever she went. “I give this girl a month before she’s sent to the annex with his other castoffs.”
“Please, a little church mouse like her? She’ll be on the streets begging for a new job in a week. Unless she’s really good on her knees.”
“Deirdre!” Sarah laughs, “you’re so naughty.”
Taggie forces herself to tune out their conversation after that. She’s not an idiot, she knows that men like Rupert have power over everyone, especially promising young women in their industry. But she has worked her ass off to get to where she is. I’m a good photographer and I deserve this job, she reminds herself, willing the blush in her cheeks to fade before someone notices.
She doesn’t know how she gets through the work day. Going through every meeting on auto-pilot, nodding her head and agreeing to everything mentioned to her. She’s pretty sure she somehow got roped into joining the party planning committee, based on the emails flowing into her inbox about someone named Hector’s upcoming birthday. The nerves in her stomach keep her from focusing on anything other than the interview that night. Caitlin reminds her kindly over text that she can just not show up, but they both know she won’t.
Too polite for her own good, her sister often calls her. It’s what makes Taggie a good superhero, in her opinion, the fact that no emergency is too small. What might seem like a minor issue to one person could be the thing that breaks someone else, so she does it all. Rescuing a kitten from a tree can be just as important as stopping a bank robbery. She may not make headlines with her friendly neighbourhood heroics, but they matter to her.
She doesn’t bother going home, staying late in the bullpen editing photos until well after everyone else has left for the day. Changing in the stairwell, clothes from that day stashed in her work bag, she sneaks out of the building and flies a lap around the neighbourhood.
No matter how many laps she does, she’s still early. Leaning back on the edge of the balcony, she waits for Rupert to emerge. She knows the floor is empty, can see his lone silhouette through the walls, gathering papers and placing them in his desk drawer. It doesn’t escape her that he might be nervous about the interview as well. Supergirl is still a mystery, but he’s seen her powers in action. Maybe he thinks the wrong question will have her using him for laser vision target practice. She’s giggling at the thought when he steps outside, hair unruly compared to the start of the day.
“Something funny, angel?” Taggie’s heart stops at the nickname, meeting his eyes with her mouth agape.
“W-what did you call me?”
“Angel. My daughter thought of it, actually. I called my kids when I got home yesterday, I didn't want them to find out from the telly but you know how the news is. She was full of questions about the angel who saved me.” He shrugs, pulling his suit jacket off and beginning to roll up his shirt sleeves. “I think it fits. Do you not like it?”
Logically, she knows this is on the record. Reporters like Rupert are almost never off the record, but something about him screams you can trust me. “Someone I’m close with–was close with–called me that once.”
Nodding slowly, he looks at her with a soft smile. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, Supergirl. Or do you have a given name you prefer?”
“Supergirl is fine.” Pushing off the wall, she takes a step closer to him. “And you? Do you prefer Rupert or kitten?”
He takes a seat on a wicker chair, one long leg crossed over the other. Smirking, he presses ‘record’ on his phone. “Rupert, if you don’t mind. Though I don’t necessarily object to kitten, let’s save that for our personal time.”
The tone of their conversation shifts then, Rupert fully entering reporter mode. If she wasn’t the subject, Taggie would be in awe of the presence he holds. His tone is inquisitive but not commanding, listening to each word she says with genuine interest. None of his questions are particularly hard-hitting, which she is grateful for.
Where are you from? When did you discover you had powers? Are there others like you? She can tell that her answers are disappointing, but she tells him the truth. She grew up in Dublin, discovered her powers at the tender age of eight, and has no clue why she has them. Her family developed theories over the years, from radiation exposure to genetic modification, but nothing has ever stuck.
“I’m sorry,” she tells Rupert, turning to stare out at the city. “I know you were probably hoping for a better scoop, but the truth is even I don’t have the answers.”
He’s still for a moment, pressing pause on his phone before coming to stand with her. Leaning against the edge of the balcony, he taps his fingers idly on the ledge. “I understand. A good reporter knows when to push and when to stop. I still have enough for a fluff piece, if you don’t mind that.” Watching as she nods in approval, he grins. “I do have one last question, if you’re up for it. Completely off the record.”
Knowing who Rupert is and the reputation that follows him around, she anticipates something lewd. Does she wear underwear under the suit, or something equally inane. But she still agrees, figuring if he goes a step too far she can always freeze his feet in retaliation.
The actual question leaves her gasping for air, panicked beyond belief.
“How old were you when Declan O’Hara died?”
She could fly away, take to the sky and leave him alone on the balcony. She could quit her job and move to the countryside, where no one would know the name O’Hara. She thinks of Patrick, who warned her against doing the interview in the first place. God, she hated proving her brother right. He would be insufferable if this came out.
Weighing her options, she takes a leap. “I was sixteen,” she admits, eyes downcast. “Depending on who you ask, it was my fault.
“I highly doubt you have the power to give people cancer,” Rupert murmurs. “Tell me about it.”
The whole story spills out of her: how his health declined over time, but he refused to see a doctor until a flash of her xray vision caught sight of a growth on his throat. How she had pushed him to get it checked out, only for the diagnosis to be terminal cancer and six months to live.
“He made it eight months,” she shares, drawing invisible shapes on the ground with the toe of her boot. “He wanted to prove the doctors wrong, show them that he was a fighter.”
Rupert continues to surprise her, turning to her with soft eyes. “I always admired his work,” he shares, “even if it didn’t align with my personal views. He was a bulldog, I was sad to hear of his passing.”
Laughing lightly, Taggie can’t help but share what her dad thought of Rupert. “He fucking hated you. Called you a Tory prick, but he admitted you had talent. Always read us your stories around the table.”
He chuckles, running his free hand through his hair. “How did you know,” she blurts out, disturbing the peaceful moment. She needs to know, especially if it means her chance for a private life is ruined.
Rupert gives her a wry look. “Taggie, I’m an investigative reporter. I would’ve had to give my Pulitzer’s back if I hadn’t noticed.” Quietly, he continues. “Your hands are the same. The glasses and hair, they change enough. Could fool the average bear. But your hands…”
He rests his hand on the ledge, centimetres from where hers are poised.
“I g-guess I didn’t think enough about my hands. Is it the nail polish?” Glancing down at her nails, lacquered in a pale pink that she thought was nondescript enough, she frowns.
“No, no. It’s the lack of calluses. I only noticed–well, like I said. I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know. But your secret is safe with me.”
The breath she was holding leaves her slowly, relief flooding her body. “Thank you,” she murmurs, smiling softly at him. “That means a lot. It won’t interfere with my work, I promise.”
Something in him shifts as he stands tall, stuffing his hand into his pocket. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Both of you,” he says with a wink. “If you happen to give exclusive interviews to the Daily Planet only, I’ll be a happy man.”
“Sure thing, kitten,” she winks back, the cape and suit giving her a playful confidence that she would otherwise hide from her boss. Shooting into the air, she gives him a wave before shooting across the sky.
Flying home, she stops twice: once to help a tourist with directions and once to pick up shawarma for dinner. Confessing your secret identity works up an appetite, apparently. The kind man behind the counter tries to give it to her for free, remembering that she helped his mother carry groceries into their flat the week before. She tries to convince him not too, but sees that he fills the container to the brim for her.
“Have a good night,” she calls out, giddy with the thought that maybe humanity isn’t that bad. There are glimmers everywhere, only to be seen if you keep your eyes out. She hopes that her actions are that for someone, a reminder that people are good and kind.
ᯓ★
Despite her boss knowing her biggest secret, life remains relatively normal. She continues to work assignments, getting to know the other reporters in the bullpen better with each work day. She goes out for after-work drinks, pretending that the tequila shots Daysee hands her have any impact on her metabolism. Even Rupert is normal, handing out assignments and complimenting her work when he passes by her desk. He isn’t overly friendly, which keeps the vultures away for the most part.
Sarah and Deirdre corner her in the bathroom one day, asking about her relationship with him.
“We just want you to be careful,” they croon, fake politeness dripping from their mouths. “A pretty young thing like you would get eaten up by a man like him.”
“We’ve seen it happen before, with Nathalie. She hooked up with him for months until she got too clingy and he sent her on assignment to Denmark,” Deirdre says seriously, as if a long-term assignment was the end of the world.
She can’t help but laugh. “I know, I edit all of her photos. She’s in Finland actually. I think her story will be wonderful.” Taggie had a Zoom call with the infamous Nathalie the day prior, to learn more about her long-haul story on Sami reindeer herding and work through some photo edits together. Nothing about the woman screamed I’ve been banished here, in her opinion.
Caitlin tells her that they are just jealous when she recounts the conversation later that night. “They’re threatened by you! You’re the hottest bitch in that office, of course they want to make you feel small. It’s classic animal kingdom behaviour.”
She can’t help but snort. “I think they’d piss on him if they could, to mark their territory.”
“Ooh, you should run with that. Spread a rumour they have a piss kink. Not that kink-shaming is cool, but if they’re being bitches to you then I say do it.”
In the end, she doesn’t spread any rumours. She doesn’t even mention the interactions to Rupert, knowing that he would simply brush them off as petty jealousy as well. He’s too busy anyways, running the paper and gallivanting across the city with the rich and famous. Taggie doesn’t see much of him truly, until his boat starts sinking in the Thames.
It isn’t his boat, but he is on it, the bullpen whispers, gearing up for another night of breaking news about their fearless leader. Slinking from the office, she snags her camera and makes a break for the scene.
Police and fire are spread across the docks, clearly working on a rescue plan. Knowing that they will likely take at least thirty minutes more to even begin retrieving the yacht, she makes her way to the ship deck immediately. The gathered guests are huddled together, about twenty in total, with one head sticking out above the rest.
“Supergirl!” A little girl with blonde hair calls, waving from Rupert’s arms as she lands on the boat. “I knew you would come!”
Relief floods Rupert’s face, cradling the girl closer as he approaches Taggie. “Thank god,” he murmurs, cupping his hand over his daughter’s ear. “I need you to get her out of here. Please, as a personal favour, get her to safety.”
Nodding, she reaches for the girl who climbs easily into her arms. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Tabitha Campbell-Black,” she grins, fingers tangling in the edge of Taggie’s cape. “And you are Supergirl! I’ve seen you in Daddy’s paper!”
Rupert runs a fond hand over Tabitha’s head. “Supergirl is going to take you to land now, ok? She’s going to stay with you while we wait for the boat to come in. Be good for her, she’ll tell me if you aren’t.”
The girl's lip wobbles. “What about you, daddy? I don’t want to leave you on the boat.”
Taggie is equally unsure of the plan, the rushing water starting to lick the sides of the boat higher and higher. “I agree, Rupert, I can come back for everyone.”
Devastation crosses his face. “Please, just focus on Tabitha. I will be fine. I promise.”
Cradling Tabitha carefully, she rises into the air. “This might feel a little funny, but I’m going to fly over to those police cars. Let me know if you start to feel sick.”
Her little head nods, tucked into the crook of her neck. Keeping her pace steady, Taggie flies back across the river, feeling Tabitha’s heart beat against her chest. Once they land, her little breaths are coming in puffs and Taggie can taste the salt in the air from her tears. “It’s ok, honey,” she coos, stroking her hair with gentle fingers. “Your daddy’s going to be okay. He’s very brave, you know.”
“I want him here with me,” Tabitha cries, runny nose wiping on Taggie’s shoulder. “Can you go get him?”
Looking around, the police have still not made any progress. The water unit hasn’t even arrived, leaving a pit in her stomach. Her eye catches on the Daily Planet van, where Seb is working with the live news crew to get footage of the boat. “Hey! Daily Planet,” she calls, taking off in a run with Tabitha in her arms. She makes it to them in a few strides, garnering the group's full attention. “I need you to watch her—this is Tabitha, Rupert Campbell-Black’s daughter.”
“I know you,” Tabitha squeals, pointing at Seb. “You’re the reporter who keeps lollies in his desk!”
Looking at Seb, who nods and takes the girl from Taggie’s arms, she feels confident in her decision. Turning to leave, Cameron Cook pops her head out of the van, looking gorgeous as ever.
“Supergirl! What’s your plan?” Cameron calls out to her, gesturing for the cameraman to capture her.
“I’m going to push in the boat, before it can sink any further,” she answers, flying off before any more questions can be asked, like will that actually work?
She knows she has the strength. She had tested it extensively in her youth, tossing a rundown car around in the fields bordering their home outside of Dublin while her siblings cheered her on. But none of her rescues have been this public, this defiant of police action.
Her father’s voice runs through her head, his last words to her before he passed. You were put here, in our backyard, for a reason. You’re going to do wonderful things, mo chuisle. Our little angel.
Landing back on the deck, she catches the attention of the passengers. “Everyone, go to the, uh, starboard rail! I’m pushing the ship in myself.”
Rupert rushes up to her, face pale with worry. “Where is Tabitha?”
“She’s with Seb, she wouldn’t stop crying that I needed to rescue you. I promise, she’s safe.” His shoulders slump in relief, eyes soft as he murmurs thank you.
“I’ll get everyone where you need them, you go save the day, Supergirl.”
Saving the day is easier said than done. The yacht has started to sink, waves hitting the side and battering her until she’s soaked to the bone. She can barely feel it, too motivated to get this damn boat to the shore. Pushing with all her might, she works against the resistance of the water to move the yacht towards the shore and feels tears of frustration trail down her cheeks.
“Almost there Ta–Supergirl,” Rupert calls down, head popping over the railing above. His words are just enough to get her through the last few kilometres. When she feels the resistance of the seawall, she lets herself slump against the side of the boat, head resting on the cold metal.
She did it. She’s exhausted, soaking wet and ready for a warm bath, but she rescued the whole group. Taggie considers sneaking away, but the thought of Tabitha still waiting for her dad, stuck with the Daily Planet crew, has her flying to the young girl immediately.
Landing just out of sight of the camera’s, she opens her arms for Tabitha immediately. “Time to go find your dad,” she murmurs, letting the little girl climb into her embrace like a koala. “We’re gonna fly again, you ready?”
Her little head nods, resting against Taggie’s shoulder as they take to the sky. “Thank you for saving him, Supergirl,” she mumbles, words only caught by Taggie’s super hearing. “I think you might be an angel.”
Pressing a kiss to the girl's hair, she scans the crowd for Rupert. He’s on the edge of the group, clearly frantic and looking for them. Flying down slowly, she lands in front of him and is immediately pulled into his arms.
“Thank god,” he exhales, hand cupping his daughter’s face. His other arm is around Taggie’s waist, a sensation she is firmly ignoring for the foreseeable future. “Tabby, are you alright darling?”
“Supergirl saved me,” the little girl shares, yawning as she finishes the sentence. “Can we go home now, please?”
Rupert pulls Tabitha into his arms with ease, somehow disentangling her from Taggie without disturbing her too much. “Yeah, we’re gonna go home now baby. Can you say thank you to Supergirl?”
“Thank you Supergirl,” she mumbles sleepily, head tucking into her father’s neck. Over her head, Rupert mouths a ‘thank you,’ his eyes soft as he looks down at the girl in his arms. They turn to walk away, Tabitha waving softly until she fully falls asleep.
The flight back to her apartment takes longer than normal, her energy almost entirely drained from the rescue mission. By the time she makes it home, she barely has the strength to pull off her suit and crawl into bed. She’s on the soft edge of sleep when her phone buzzes, an unknown number calling her.
“Hello,” she grunts, reaching blindly for the switch on her bedside lamp. A soft chuckle comes through the phone.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?” Rupert’s voice is soft, so at odds with the tone he usually has at work. She can almost picture him, hair mussed and shirt unbuttoned as he calls her.
“You did, but it’s fine. How did you get this number? How is Tabitha?”
“She’s perfect. Fell asleep before we even reached the car, but woke up long enough to tell me that she wants to be Supergirl when she grows up. She’s a big fan of yours.” A beat passes. “I asked Lizzie in HR for your number.
“That is definitely violating some kind of ethics code,” she laughs. “I’d be happy to pass on the mantle, but it’s a lot less glamorous than she thinks.”
At the foot of the bed, Gertrude grumbles and spins in place, trying to find the perfect spot to fall asleep. “Does she have any backup plans?”
“Showjumping champion, I believe. And if that doesn’t pan out, fashion designer. She’s got big dreams.” Taggie can easily picture it, the little girl already had confidence that shined in every conversation.
“What about your son, Marcus, right? Does he have any superhero aspirations?”
Laughing lightly, Rupert continues. “Only if you believe piano playing is a superpower. Which I do, because I’m basically tone deaf. He just wants to make music, in any capacity.”
“They’re lucky to have you,” she blurts out, not thinking about the consequences of her words. “A supportive parent makes all the difference.”
“I agree. I was lucky to be born into the role I have, the least I can do is allow my children to chase their dreams.”
“You’re a good dad,” Taggie murmurs, rolling onto her side and putting the phone on speaker. Her eyes start to slip closed, the sound of his breathing steady in the quiet of her room.
She’s slipping into unconsciousness when his voice breaks through. “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he murmurs lowly. “About not knowing where you come from. I want to help, look into it a bit.”
“It’s not that important,” she sighs, tickled that he even thought of her. “I’ve tried so many times, but it always leads to a dead end.”
“Let me try, I have the resources. It won’t be in the paper at all, I just want to do this for you.” His tone is borderline begging, and her resolve melts. She can’t remember the last time someone ask to do something for her, frankly.
“Okay,” she agrees, blinking sleepily and reaching a hand out to stroke Gertrude’s fur. “See you tomorrow.”
She’s almost certain she dreams up his response. “You are remarkable,” his voice murmurs. “Sweet dreams, angel.”
When her alarm goes off at seven the next morning, she’s feeling optimistic about the day ahead. The cheery attitude she woke up with fades however when she looks at her phone.
15 missed calls. 89 unread texts, most of them from the O’Hara family group chat. The most concerning is the Breaking News banner that the Corinium News app has pushed to her home screen.
BREAKING: Daily Planet Editor-in-Chief Rupert Campbell-Black Dating Infamous Supergirl?
“Shit, shit, fucking shit,” Taggie groans, throwing herself out of bed and into her closet. Work is likely in shambles, she knows the bullpen will be absolutely buzzing with fury that they didn’t get the exclusive on this. Not that it’s a real story, but she knows reporters. They can throw ‘alleged’ on anything and get away with lies.
When her phone chimes with another text message, she considers throwing it out her window. Only the reminder that she has almost paid it off and is so close to a lower phone bill keeps her from tossing it.
Don’t freak out. Going on Cameron’s show this AM to clear the air. See you at the office. -R
The fact that Rupert isn’t losing his mind gives her reason to relax. After all, it’s his reputation on the line too. Not that he has ever been hurt by being linked to gorgeous women in the past.
Slowing down, she gets ready for the day as she normally does. Makes a cup of tea, feeds the dog, and reviews her work email. She pointedly ignores the texts from her family, knowing it will be a combination of Caitlin asking about his dick and Patrick scolding her for getting involved with her boss. Neither of them would be correct, but arguing with her siblings is a headache waiting to happen. At least, she assumes so. She’s never had a headache before, one of the perks of whatever power runs through her veins.
By the time she reaches the office, making her way quietly to her desk, The Cameron Cook Show has begun and is broadcast across the wall of screens.
“Good morning, I’m Cameron Cook,” the woman smiles, perfectly coiffed as always. Taggie isn’t sure she’s ever seen her with a hair out of place. “Today I am joined by a good friend of the show, Mr. Rupert Campbell-Black.”
The studio audience cheers, growing louder as Rupert waves and grins at them. “Thank you for having me on such short notice, Cameron.”
“Now, Mr. Campbell-Black, you made the news this morning. I know it’s not the first time rumours have circulated about your love life, but you wanted to clear the air yourself, is that correct?”
“Please, we’re all friends here, call me Rupert.” His smile is blinding, but something behind it is stiff. “This morning, an article was published by our friends at Corinium Daily that alleged a relationship between myself and Supergirl. This was based on a photo of the two of us and my daughter, Tabitha.”
Cameron nods, a professional at looking engaged with her guests. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Seb roll his eyes.
“The truth is Cam—can I call you Cam? Yesterday, Tabitha and I were present on the yacht that began capsizing in the Thames. I asked Supergirl to take my daughter to safety first, as the only child present at the scene. The photo was taken when we were reunited. I think I speak for all parents when I say that the relief of seeing your child clearly unharmed after a traumatic event is overpowering. I embraced Supergirl as well as my daughter, overcome with gratitude that we were all safe.”
The crowd begins clapping at that, clearly sold on Rupert’s statement. His eyes are suspiciously glassy, leaving Taggie wondering if he could fake cry.
“Unfortunately,” he continues, “Corinium used the photos to promote a false narrative, rather than focus on the accident and what could have been an unspeakable tragedy had Supergirl not shown up.”
“Do you believe this was a malicious act on their part?” Cameron’s voice is inquisitive, clearly trying to goad him into a good sound bite.
Rupert swallows, before smiling again. “I would never assume how another company would choose to run their news room, but I would be naive to think that they aren’t jealous that Supergirl has chosen The Daily Planet as her outlet of choice. I’m just grateful that she continues to show up for the people of London.”
“Of course. Once again, we thank Supergirl for her service to our community,” Cameron murmurs, reaching to pat Rupert’s hand. “As a reminder, the Daily Planet is currently doubling all donations made to the Red Cross fund for restoration of the harbour. We'll be back with more breaking news after this break.”
From across the room, she can hear Daysee murmur how sweet a father Rupert was. Sarah and Deirdre seemed to agree, sighing over his teary statement.
“All right, back to work,” Seb scowls, sliding into his desk chair moodily. “Having a sob story doesn’t make him any less of a prick.”
Taggie just nods, trying to keep herself out of the radar lest one of the other reporters notice the similarities between herself and Supergirl. Pulling out her phone, she braves the unread text messages from her siblings for the first time.
Caitlin: AGATHA O’HARA
Caitlin: are you sleeping with your boss????
Caitlin: you little slut!!!!!
Caitlin: how big is his dick??? 8========>
Patrick: Jesus Caitlin
Patrick: Taggie, this looks bad. Saving him twice in a short time span. He could start to recognize you.
Caitlin: oh so she should have let him and his kid drown?
Caitlin: ur taking kill the rich to a whole new level
Their argument goes on for almost a hundred messages, back and forth on the merits of Taggie letting her boss die. The only thing that interrupts them is a notification.
Maud O’Hara left the group chat.
She isn’t shocked, but it still hurts. Maud was still her mother, even if she formally rejected the title years ago. Taggie doesn’t let herself wonder if she still talks to Cait and Paddy, if they visit her in Ireland for holidays. The invitations will never be extended to her again, she thinks sadly, an outsider in her own family.
Before she can really start to feel sorry for herself, Rupert strides through the bullpen. “O’Hara, my office,” he barks, not sparing a second to look back at her. Scrambling to her feet, she follows him, firmly ignoring the whispers that grow behind her back.
Gesturing for her to pass him, Taggie settles into the chair opposite his desk, listening as he shuts the door firmly behind him. The glass windows are thankfully all frosted, keeping their conversation relatively private.
“How are you doing,” he asks quietly, sitting at his desk and reaching into the top drawer. He pulls out a bottle of paracetamol, popping two pills into his hand and swallowing them dry.
“I-I’m fine,” she stutters, fingers playing idly with the hem of her blouse. “How are you? How is Tabitha?”
The sigh he lets out ages him, betraying the stress of the situation. “Tabby is thrilled to be staying home today. Figured she didn’t need paparazzi following her around the playground asking what she thought of her new supermummy.”
“God, that’s horrible, I’m sorry.” Rupert’s head tilts at her response, as if he can’t believe what he’s heard.
“Do you often apologize for things that aren’t your fault? None of this is on you, Taggie.”
Her first instinct is to apologize again. He’s right, fundamentally, but taking the blame was always her survival instinct. It’s how she kept the peace at home, torn between the loud personalities of her family. After her father died, it was only right to take the blame Maud hurled at her and softly apologize whenever it seemed appropriate.
“Thank you for saying that,” is what comes out. It’s not an apology, but an acknowledgement. She wasn’t guilty, she wasn’t in the wrong. She was just stuck in the same horrible situation he was.
“Tab made you a card,” Rupert murmurs, picking up a white envelope dotted with hand drawn hearts. The writing on the front, carefully printed in big letters, reads Suprgirl. “She wouldn’t let me read it, said it was for girls only.”
Their fingers brush as she takes the card from him, a zing of electricity rushing through her at the touch. Carefully tearing open the envelope, the card shows two stick figures holding hands, both with long blonde hair. She assumes the figure with the red dress is her—it may be her cape, she thinks, remembering the reverent way Tabitha had pet the soft material—and the slightly smaller figure has a horse standing beside her.
“Beautiful work,” she tells Rupert, watching as he smiles slightly. “The use of colour is inspired, you may have an artist on your hands.”
Inside, the message is clear, if a little misspelled.
Dear Suprgirl,
Thank you for rezcuing my daddy. I love him a lot. The boat was scary but you made me feel safe. Do you like ponies? I like your hair.
Love,
Tabitha Campbell-Black
Chuckling, she folds the card again, pressing it to her chest. “This is very sweet. Can I write back to her? Or would that be too much. I know with the news and everything, you might want to distance yourself. But I would like to. Write to her, that is.”
“That would be wonderful,” Rupert breathes, eyes soft. “I might be parent of the year if I come home with a letter from Supergirl.”
“I’ll bring it for you tomorrow. Not really safe to write it with all of them around.” She gestures broadly at the bullpen outside, filled to the brim with reporters equally hungry for a scoop.
“Good instincts,” Rupert laughs, “I wouldn’t trust them to not read it over your shoulder. I’d trust you though.”
Heat fills her face, a blush spreading that she has no control over. “Because I’m, you know, her.”
“No, not because of her. Because you are Taggie and I think you’re a good person.”
A knock sounds at the door, Cameron Cook popping her head into the office. “Rupert, what the fuck was that ‘Cam’ shit,” she asks, walking in and crossing her arms across her chest. “Don’t try to make me look soft for your little agenda.”
“Cameron, this is Taggie O’Hara, staff photographer,” Rupert says cheerily, gesturing between the two of them. “Taggie, this is Cameron Cook. She has too many accolades to list.”
“Nice to meet you,” Taggie murmurs, standing quickly and sending the chair flying back towards the door. “Sorry, fuck, I’ll just, uh, be going now.”
Dashing through the door, she can hear Cameron chuckle as she leaves. “That was fucking weird. You just hiring any nepo-baby these days?”
“She’s a good kid Cameron, a good photographer. She’s going places.”
ᯓ★
The meeting invitation Rupert puts on her Google calendar the next week has her panicked. Her first thought is that she’s being fired, let go for poor performance. It’s not logical. She’s gotten positive feedback from everyone she’s worked with so far save Deirdre, who has nothing positive to say about anyone.
By the time the meeting rolls around, she has sweat through the back of her blouse. Shrugging on the Daily Planet-branded Patagonia vest, in hopes that it covers her nervous sweat, she walks to Rupert’s office and knocks firmly on the door.
“Come in,” he calls, looking up from his computer with a soft smile when she steps through the door. “Hey Tag.”
“Hey,” Taggie responds, sliding into his desk chair. “What can I do for you?”
Shutting the laptop, he sighs. “I’ve got a couple leads out, but not much is coming up in regards to our, ah, research project. So I was wondering, did Declan have anything? Any files, records he kept? Baby photos?”
The question is loaded, one that she is reluctant to answer. “Honestly,” she starts, picking at the fraying edge of her blouse. “He might. But I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been back—been home—in years.”
“How long,” Rupert asks quietly, letting his palm rest face up on the desk. When she continues to hesitate, he wiggles his fingers at her. You can hold my hand if you need to, his eyes say.
She lets herself place her hand near his, pinky brushing his thumb. “I left the day I turned eighteen. I was…I was asked to leave.”
“Oh, Tag,” he whispers, face crestfallen. “I’m sorry.”
Sniffling, she wipes a tear out from under her eye. “Do you often apologize for things that aren’t your fault?”
It makes him laugh, which makes her laugh in turn. “I think we should go,” she continues “I think…I think I need the closure. At the very least.”
Nodding, he takes her hand and squeezes. “I’ll get it sorted. Let’s go to Ireland.”
ᯓ★
The door to her father’s office has been shut for years. She used to go in and dust it regularly, preserving his piles of papers and bottles of whiskey like a museum of who he used to be. Her mother had finally put an end to it, screeching that she needed to leave the damn room alone, that he was never coming back.
They can barely get the heavy wooden door open, twisting the doorknob futilely until Taggie gives in and heats it softly. It does the trick, swinging open with a thwick that echoes through the empty room.
“I’ll give you a moment,” Rupert whispers, stepping back and inspecting the framed photos on the walls. She lets herself walk into the room, emotion overwhelming her immediately.
“Oh, da,” she sniffles, watching as dust floats through the air. “I could really use you right now.”
Unfortunately for her, Maud is due back any minute and her father’s filing cabinets are stuffed to the brim. Calling Rupert in, she points him to the two cabinets on the far side of the room. “Look through those, he refused to sort anything alphabetically so we’re going in blind. Anything that says Taggie o-or Agatha, pull out.”
They work in quiet synchronicity, thumbing through folders and loose papers. A file labeled March 14, 2005 draws her eye, a big ‘T’ scribbled on the edge. She pulls it from the cabinet, tossing it to the floor. She can see Rupert has a pile of his own, mouth set in a frown as he goes through the drawers.
Minutes pass quietly, until they hear the slam of the front door. “Fuck,” Rupert mutters, moving quickly through the files. “Looks like we’re out of time, angel.”
When her mother appears in the doorway, her breath catches in her throat. “Mum,” Taggie breathes, taking in the sight of her only living parent. She’s as beautiful as always, long red hair falling around her face. Even with her anger, features twisted unhappily, she longs to run into her arms.
“The fuck are you doing here,” Maud scowls. Rupert looks up from the filing cabinet at the sound of her voice, quietly gathering all of the files they had pulled out and stuffing them in his briefcase. “I told you I didn’t want you to come back here.”
“That’s your daughter,” Rupert murmurs, looking incredulously at the O’Hara matriarch. “How can you say that to her?”
“That is not my daughter,” Maud screeches, hand slapping the wall, an outlet for the anger slowly rising within her. “She is a curse, that is what she is. She killed my husband!”
The room fills with white noise, heavy breathing echoing in the air. It takes a moment for Taggie to realize that those are her breaths, a panic response she hasn’t felt in years. “Please, I didn’t, you know I didn’t. I loved him.” Her voice cracks uncontrollably. “It wasn’t my fault.”
They’ve had this argument for years, starting on the day that Declan was lowered into the ground. She knows that Maud won’t budge, won’t see her side. Her siblings had brushed it off, saying it was a side effect of grief, but based on the way she is glaring at Taggie now, she thinks maybe it was always something more.
“It wasn’t your fault,” her mother’s tone turns mocking, stepping into the room with a cat-like grace. “Like it wasn’t your fault that Patrick broke his arm when he was thirteen?”
Shame floods her gut, the memory of dropping her brother after he dared her to fly him across the creek in their backyard ringing through her mind. “That was an accident.”
“Everything was an accident with you. Nothing was ever precious Taggie’s fault. But here you are, standing in my fucking house, going through my dead husband’s things. It should have been you that died.”
Don’t cry, she tells herself, clenching her jaw in an attempt to control her emotions. Don’t let her see you cry. Behind her, Rupert has his bag slung across one shoulder, stepping softly towards her and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “I think we should leave, before you say anything else you might regret.”
Maud stares at him, her gaze assessing as she takes in their closeness. “The only regret I have,” she starts, eyes cold as she looks at Taggie, “is not telling my husband to dump her in the river when he found her.”
“Enough,” Rupert growls, curling his arm so that Taggie can bury her face in his chest. She’s never heard Maud talk like that before, despite the many arguments they’d had. To hear that the woman who raised her wishes that she had died has Taggie choking down sobs. “Don’t ever speak to her like that again. Taggie is remarkable, she works twice as hard as the average person and complains half as much. You would be lucky to call yourself her mother.”
“I hope her cunt is worth the trouble she’ll bring you,” she states simply, turning on her heel and walking out of the office.
A sob breaks through, tears coming freely after that. Gathering her into his arms, Rupert cups the back of her head and presses it to his chest. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. You didn’t deserve that. She was wrong, you hear me? She was wrong.”
“Can we leave,” she whimpers, hand fisting in his jacket. “I just want to leave, please.” A kiss is pressed to her head, a gentle whisper of lips that causes her to sniffle more.
He guides her out of the house, arm slung around her shoulder with her body still turned towards him. All she can do is move on autopilot, settling into the passenger seat of Rupert’s rental car and staring out the window. His hand crosses her vision, pulling the seatbelt across her body. “Need to keep you safe,” he mutters, turning the car on and pulling away from the O’Hara house. She doesn’t look back, knowing that she will likely never step foot through the door ever again.
As they move through the countryside, the landscape a solid swath of farmland, she asks him to pull over. Wiping the tears from her face, she throws open the car door and flies to an empty plot, cleared of any cows or crops. Only when she is fully certain that she is alone does she let out a scream, eyes uncontrollably letting out heat. The ground around her is scorched when she is done, panting at the exertion.
In the distance, she can see Rupert, standing outside the car. He gives her a nod, an acknowledgement that he understands. She needed to let go, safely, and the fact that he understood that was, well, it was hot.
Returning to the car, she slides into the seat and immediately reaches for the radio. Beyonce is playing, and, with a quick look at Rupert, she turns it up. “I love this song,” she mumbles, humming along.
“Supergirl is a Beyoncé fan? That might be my next scoop.” His voice is teasing as he pulls his sunglasses over his eyes. “BABY IT’S YOU!”
The laugh that comes out of her is ugly, a cackle that ends with a snort. “You’re the one I want, you’re the one I need!”
Their flight isn’t scheduled until the next afternoon, their plans of staying at the O’Hara house now scrapped thanks to Maud’s, well, thanks to Maud. A quick search on Google reveals there is an inn about thirty kilometres away, and when she calls to inquire about rooms they kindly put two on hold for them, courtesy of Rupert’s black American Express card.
What’s waiting for them when they arrive is much different.
“We asked for two rooms,” she insists, watching as the front desk person scrolls through their reservation. “I can pull up the confirmation email, it says two.”
“I’m sorry, Miss O’Hara,” the concierge says placatingly. “There must have been a mix up in our system. We only have the one room available, with one queen bed and a garden view.”
“Is there anywhere else nearby that might have availability?” She doesn’t want to beg, but the idea of sharing a room with Rupert, sharing a bed with him, is too intimate. Especially after the day they’ve had, the way he held her as she cried. She just wants a quiet evening to curl up in a bathtub and process her day.
Shaking her head sadly, the concierge gives her a soft smile. “We’re the only hotel for two hours, in any direction. I can offer you a credit for room service?”
“We’ll take the room,” Rupert murmurs, hand coming to rest on her shoulder. “Thank you, we’ll place a room service order shortly.”
He leads her away from the desk, arm secure around her shoulders. “I’m ordering the most expensive thing on the menu,” she pouts, still put off by the abrupt change in their plans.
“Lobster and steak for us both, darling. How bad can it be?”
They end up going overboard with dinner, lobster and steak paired with a thick stew and Irish soda bread. Every bite has her moaning, the taste of home lingering on her tongue. While she loves her life in London, the space she has carved out for herself in the big city, there is something about Ireland that she will always miss.
“This is the best bread I’ve ever had,” Rupert murmurs, sponging up the last bits of his stew with the crust. “What do you people put in this?”
“Coke,” she tells him, watching as his eyes widen. “Why do you think it’s called soda bread?”
For a split second, he looks like he believes her. But then he grins, a wry thing that has her shifting in her seat and rubbing her thighs together. “You must think you’re so funny, trying to pull one over on a foreigner.”
“You’re a reporter,” she laughs, balling up a napkin and tossing it at him. “You didn’t even think to question me!”
“Well, forgive me for trusting a pretty girl.” His voice is low, eyes dark. Fuck. She’s so incredibly fucked. How is she supposed to survive a night with him when he looks at her like that. Something is building between them, a slow burn that has rapidly started taking on speed as they spend more and more time together. If she doesn’t put space between them now, she fears what may happen when they do collide.
Pushing her chair back, she stands, awkwardly shifting on her feet. “I’m gonna—do you mind if I shower?”
“Go ahead,” Rupert murmurs, still staring at her with those eyes. “I’ll get this cleaned up.”
Muttering a quiet thank you, she gathers her overnight bag, dashing into the bathroom so quickly that the door accidentally slams shut. She gives herself twenty minutes, to shower and collect herself. “He is your boss,” she scowls, looking at herself in the mirror. “Don’t be stupid.”
Staring in the mirror, her reflection is unfamiliar to her. It’s the same face she’s seen for twenty years, yet somehow different. Her hair is still blonde, eyes still blue. She just looks settled. Maybe it’s a good thing, growing up and finding your place in the world, even if it means leaving things behind. Leaving Ireland and the memories of her childhood for better things, late night flights through the city and the feeling of seeing her photographs in newsprint.
Showering quickly, she pulls on the only pyjamas she packed. Her past self had been optimistic about having access to her old closet, filled with warm quilts and worn pyjama bottoms. Now she’s stuck with a single oversized t-shirt, emblazoned with the Battersea Animal Shelter logo and ‘Volunteer’ printed across the back. It’s better than nothing, but as she steps into the common room, she feels vulnerable to Rupert’s heated gaze.
“Hi,” she murmured, pulling the shirt down over her thighs. Rupert pats the bed beside him, gesturing to the pillow wall he created. “I thought you might want your own space.”
“Why,” Taggie asks, fingers combing through the tangled ends of her hair. She should have washed it, in retrospect, but didn’t want to deal with the sensory nightmare that was wet hair dripping down her shirt. “Do you bite?”
“Only if you want me to,” he says, reclining back against the headboard. He’d undressed while she showered, bare chested with only a pair of flannel pants hiding him from her view. She feels a bit delirious, the heightened emotions of the visit to her mother finally catching up with her as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed, tossing the pillows to the floor one by one.
His groan echoes through the room, his hand coming up to bite his knuckle as she crawls onto the bed beside him, lying on her side. “Tag,” he murmurs, his hooded gaze fixed on her face. “You’re a little temptress, aren’t you?”
She’s never been called a temptress before, never even seen herself as particularly sexy. Her brother’s friends had always seen her as one of the boys, roughing around with them in overalls and hand-me-down shirts. It had been hard to shed that image in a small town, but London had proven even more difficult with finance bros lurking around every corner.
Her experience isn’t completely nil, a few fumbling moments with schoolmates a fond memory. But none of them compare to Rupert, with his confidence and kind eyes. Rupert, who sees her better than anyone else she’s ever met.
Rupert, her boss. “We shouldn’t,” she mutters, dragging her eyes away from his almost bare form. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”
“I thought,” he starts, positioning himself so that he can stretch out alongside her, “that you weren’t going to apologize for things that aren’t your fault anymore.” His hand cups her hip, stroking softly through her shirt. “You aren’t the only one who wants this.”
She can hear his heartbeat, the steadiest she has heard in a long time. Nosing at her ear, he moves his hand up to her waist, holding firmly. “You’re allowed to want, Taggie. Even Supergirl can have desire, can long to be taken care of. Can I take care of you?”
Words have often escaped her. It’s one of the reasons why she was partial to photography; the ability to capture a moment in a single perfect shot. But in this moment, gazing at Rupert, feeling the heat from his gaze, she knows exactly what she wants to say.
“Please,” Taggie whispers. He wastes no time, pulling her face into his hands and capturing her in a filthy kiss. She responds with enthusiasm, one hand reaching to tangle in his hair while the other fists the sheets beneath them.
“You’re so sweet,” Rupert murmurs against her lips, breaking the kiss so that he can press soft bites into her neck. “Sweetest girl, I’m going to take such good care of you. Tell me what you like, Taggie, how can I make it good?”
Her brain short circuits at his words, the tone of his voice causing heat to curl in her stomach. She takes a moment to make sure it isn’t actual heat, that she is in total control of her powers. ‘I, um. I’m not really sure.” He nips at her collarbone, causing her to keen. “I’m not really…I don’t do this very often.”
“We’ll have to make up for lost time then,” he grunts, sliding a hand under her shirt and toying with the edge of her panties. “Get you all caught up. Learn what makes you feel good. Can’t wait to find out with you.”
He’s so warm, heat radiating from his bare torso. She wants to feel him, skin-to-skin with no barriers. Wiggling her shirt over her head, she tosses it to the ground, relishing in the rub of her body against his. He’s hard where she’s soft, chest hair coarse compared to the silk of her skin. Every new sensation has her gasping, climbing higher into bliss.
“Rupert,” she whimpers, feeling his breath shudder against her throat. “Can you, um, would you—”
“Whatever you want,” he pants, shuffling lower to get his mouth on her chest. “Here, angel? You want me here?”
Nodding in response, she thanks god that he has the experience to guide her properly. The feeling of his mouth on her nipple, suckling softly before pinching the other with his fingers, has her choking on a moan.
“Let it out, Tag. You don’t have to be quiet with me. I want to hear everything.” His voice is husky, still licking and kissing across her chest to give the other breast attention. “So fucking perfect.”
In her past experiences, the handful of them, she could never quite relax. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, or her mouth. Each moan and whimper was performative, squeaked out as she worked to keep her powers under control. They always flared during stress, and apparently during sex.
With Rupert, she feels human. There are no flashes of xray vision as he works his hand into her underwear, fingers drawing circles around her clit. Her sonic hearing fades as he grunts into her ear, murmuring how soft her pussy is and how delicious she must taste, his words the only sounds that register.
The only time she remembers that she isn’t human is when she literally floats her way to orgasm, hovering over the bed as he pulls pleasure from her. “Fuck,” she cries out, hands grasping at the air as she finally comes. “Right there, please, oh fuck Rupert.”
The aftershocks fade slowly, her body lowering until she’s pressed into the mattress. When her eyes cracked open, heavily lidded from the rush of pleasure, Rupert is staring at her like she’s performed a miracle.
“That was stunning,” he murmurs, licking her essence from his fingers slowly. “Angelic, truly. Well done, Tag.”
She’s not done yet, skin scorching as she looks at him. “Pants off,” she demands, grinning as he shucks his pyjamas and underwear in one go. “Wanna see you."
If he notices her mouth water at the sight of his cock, thick and proud between his thighs, he doesn’t mention it. “How do you want me, darling?”
Biting at her lip, she hesitates a little. It’s never been this good before, but she doesn’t want to scare him off with her request. Thankfully he leans over her, swiping his thumb along her bottom lip until she unclenches her jaw. “Tell me. I want you to feel good. I’m taking care of you, remember?”
“I—” she bites back the words, looking up at him shyly. “I want to feel small. Human. Can you do that?”
A lesser man might laugh, might argue that isn’t it unfeminist for Supergirl to be submissive? But he isn’t that imaginary man, he’s real and here and frankly, a little bit perfect. “Of course,” he murmurs, hand rubbing soothing circles on her thigh. “Turn over, sweetheart.”
Flipping onto her stomach, she lets him adjust her limbs to his liking. Her legs fold under her, kneeling on the bed, with her chest pressed to the duvet and arms stretched forward. Carefully he positions himself behind her, folding himself over her back.
The heat of his chest against her back already has her keening. “That’s it, good girl,” his voice rumbles in her ear, hands coming to rest on her hips. “You feel so much, don’t you? Need to lose the control every now and then. I’ll help you, I’ll always help with that.”
The first push of his cock inside her is heavenly, her head emptying of any and all thoughts. The only thing she can think is RupertRupertRupert, his name falling from her lips like a prayer.
Like a call and response, he moans her name like a song. “Taggie, angel,” his breaths puff onto the back of her neck, arms extending so that he can twine their fingers together. “Christ, you feel like heaven. My little angel.”
Slipping his hand under her belly he easily finds her clit, slippery and hot under his fingers. Dragging each finger across her clit slowly, letting the callouses linger on her delicate skin and smear her slick across each digit, she can’t help but mewl in response. Every pass of fingers over her clit had her rocking back into him, a gentle rhythm that he matched easily.
Each of his thrusts has her stomach tightening, anticipation and pleasure racing to bring her to a peak. She wants to know if he feels it, feels how right they are together, but his voice in her ear answers the question without the need for her to speak.
Gorgeous girl, I’ve never felt something as perfect as you, perfect as us. Gonna make you come, fucking dripping down my cock. Fill you with my cum, just to lick it all out of you. God, you’re stunning, angel girl, can’t believe you’re mine.
Each word brings her closer to the brink, breath hitching with every hard thrust. Suddenly the angle changes, his cock hitting just so against her front wall, and pleasure crests harder than ever before.
“Ru-rupert,” she cries, face burying in the duvet as the sensation rises, rises, rises. “I’m gonna, fuck, gonna come.”
She’s almost there, her orgasm within reach but just out of her grasp, when she feels his hand softly grip her chin. Pulling her backwards, he slants his mouth over hers and gives her a bruising kiss. “Let go, Tag,” he murmurs against her mouth, hips pounding into hers insistently. “Come on, angel, come for me.”
Eyes squeezed shut, pleasure overcomes her to the point that the only word she can say is his name. She almost doesn’t register that he comes as well, warmth spreading through her core as he buries his head in her neck. “Fuck,” his voice mumbles, skin tacky where they press together. When he goes to pull away, she moans quietly, not wanting to separate just yet.
“Let me get you comfy,” Rupert murmurs, moving them both so they are curled on their sides. Neither of them speak, choosing instead to bask in the bubble they’ve created. She falls asleep like that, tucked under his arm with his soft breaths puffing against her neck.
It should feel awkward, she thinks as she wakes up, Rupert’s heavy arm banded across her waist. Shame should be flooding her at the realization that she fucked her boss, after spending time crying in his arms over her broken family. Instead, all she feels is a sense of calm as she floats into consciousness. Behind her, she can tell Rupert is waking up when his heartbeat picks up speed.
“Good morning,” she whispers, wiggling back into the warmth of his body. The arm around her waist tightens in response, a messy kiss landing on her cheek.
“I haven’t slept that well in years,” her bedmate grunts, his face pushing into the crook of her neck. “You truly are super.”
His hand travels up her body, stopping to cup her breast through the sheet. “So soft,” Rupert murmurs, dropping kisses up her neck leisurely. “Think we’ve got time for a round before we need to hit the road. Unless you’d rather get breakfast, whatever you want.”
What she wants is to stay in bed with him, tucked away from the world for the foreseeable future. She wants to let him wrap her in his arms, secure and safe. Before she can tell him that, that she thinks despite his lack of xray vision he is the first person to truly see her, that she has feelings for him that tug at her heart dangerously, her stomach growls. Loudly.
“Breakfast it is,” he laughs, smacking a kiss against her cheek as he rises from the bed. “C’mon, up you get. Need to keep my hero fed.”
It isn’t until they’re sitting on the plane (private, because Rupert was convinced flying commercial on the way to Ireland had given him a rash), that she realizes what they’ve done.
“Lizzie has a form for us to fill out,” Rupert tells her, looking through emails on his phone. “You know, standard stuff. Relationship declaration so that no one can accuse me of giving you special treatment.”
The sip of water she had taken chokes her, sputtering after his casual use of the word relationship. “What?”
“I’ll still give you special treatment, obviously. You’re the best staff photographer we have, I’m not going to waste the good assignments on Lavinia or Kevin.” Looking up at her, his brow furrows. “You alright, love?”
“R-relationship? You want to…to tell people?” Stuttering over the words has her eyes watering, embarrassed that she can’t keep it together in front of him.
“Oh, Tag,” he murmurs, putting his phone down. “C’mere.” His arms open wide, beckoning her into his embrace. She goes easily, curling into his lap like a kitten. “Am I moving too fast, angel? You can tell me, I won’t be mad. I was just, well, ecstatic. Couldn’t keep it in when Lizzie asked me how the trip was going.”
Sniffling, she rests her head on his chest, the thump-thump-thump of his heart loud in her ears. With anyone else it would be annoying, the constant echo of heartbeats in her head, but Rupert is different. Each beat is a reminder that he is alive, that she is his. His heart is hers alone.
“I-I guess I just thought you would want to keep it quiet,” she mumbles, hands twisting together. “I don’t know, it’s stupid—”
“It’s not stupid. You’re not stupid.” He doesn’t know how badly she needed to hear that. The ghost of Maud was still in her ear, calling her an idiot girl for believing that a man like Rupert could have feelings for her. “I like you Taggie,” he tells her, words plain. “Like-like, as Tabitha would put it. I want to be with you, exclusively. How does that sound?”
“I want to be with you too,” she confessed, looking up at him with a small smile. “What will Tabitha say, when you tell her you like-like someone?”
Laughing, he wraps an arm more securely around her waist, inadvertently pulling her closer. “She’ll be furious, at first. She’s quite possessive. But once she meets you, the real you, she’s going to adore you. Probably more than she likes Supergirl, if I’m being honest.”
“That’s impossible,” she scoffs, head resting on his shoulder. “Supergirl is way cooler than plain old Taggie.”
“No she’s not.” His voice is serious, gaze fixed on her face. “I mean it. Supergirl is part of you, a wonderful part of you. But Taggie, the photographer and dog-lover, who drinks coffee with far too much milk and snores when she sleeps, she is the real hero.”
Words escape her at that, so she chooses instead to pull him into a bruising kiss. His lips part for her immediately, letting her take control until they are both panting. “I don’t snore,” she grumbles, forehead pressed to Rupert’s as their breathing evens out.
“You certainly do. I have the video footage to prove it.”
They happily sign Lizzie’s form, an official declaration of interpersonal workplace relationship. The head of HR sends Rupert a lovely text, acknowledging receipt of the form and advising him to not fuck this up. “Taggie is a dear girl,” he reads, tickling her side as he goes. “If you ruin it, I’ll leak the photos from last years Christmas party.”
“What happened at the Christmas party,” she asks, giggling as he tickles her side. It must have been bad, considering the rare blush that colours his cheeks. “Please, tell me! You know my secret!”
“That’s because mine is much, much worse, angel. Trust me.”
And she does, curling up in his lap for the remainder of the flight, even managing to fall asleep. She wakes in his arms, being carried down the plane stairs. “Are we home,” she asks quietly, covering her mouth as she yawns widely.
“Just getting in the car now,” Rupert murmurs, voice rumbling through his chest and reverberating against her skin. “Does Sydney have your address?”
She hesitates, gripping the placket of his shirt. “Can I go home with you,” she asks quietly, not quite ready to say goodbye to her, well, they didn’t put a name on it. Her Rupert.
Looking up at him, his eyes have gone soft and hooded in the dark night. “Always, darling.” His voice drips with an emotion she cannot name, one that makes her heart warm in her chest. “Let’s go home.”
ᯓ★
One night at his apartment turns into two, though he begs for a third. She leaves only to pick up Gertrude, bringing her beloved dog back to meet his pack. He has dogs everywhere, a delightful discovery when they got home from Ireland. Rupert had taken the time to introduce her to each one, all of them politely shaking paws with her. She had laughed, telling him that Gertrude was more likely to bite his hand than shake a paw.
She doesn’t sleep over every night, often too exhausted from work and hero duties to fly over to his Mayfair apartment. On those nights, he calls when she gets home and chats quietly with her until she falls asleep. Their routine is perfect, in her opinion, giving them space to build their relationship without the prying eyes of their colleagues. Taggie had been firm that they needed to arrive separately to work, knowing that the moment they arrived together the gossip mill would start churning.
Crawling out of bed, a month to the day after their trip to Ireland, she hears Rupert sigh behind her, pulling the pillow she was using into his arms to cuddle. She smiles at the sight, this imposing man who secretly had a caramel-soft centre. Pulling on his robe, navy terrycloth with the ties wrapped twice around her waist, she quietly leaves the room, xray vision trained on the floor to pick up on any spots where she might cause the floorboards to squeak and wake the pack of dogs.
Stepping into the kitchen, she starts fiddling with his stupidly complicated coffee machine, knowing that Rupert will be desperate for a cup before they head into the office. When she finally gets the thing going, a steady stream of coffee pouring into her chosen mug, she hears a voice behind her.
“Good morning.”
Whipping around, she notices the boy sitting at the kitchen table. He’s got a stack of books beside him and his backpack is still strapped to his back, as if he was waiting for his next instructions. The curl of his hair is familiar, the shape of his eyes a twin to the man she left sleeping upstairs.
“Hi,” she breathes, stepping away from the counter. “You must be Marcus.”
He nods, smile playing at his lips. “Yup. And you’re Supergirl!”
Freezing, she forces out a laugh. “No, I’m uh, I’m Taggie. I work with your dad.”
“Ok,” Marcus shrugs, pushing his chair away from the table. “But you’re also Supergirl. I’ve seen you on tv, and in the newspaper.” His gaze is serious, too serious for someone so young. “I’m not an idiot.”
She’s at a crossroads, one she didn’t anticipate in a million years. A day into her relationship with Rupert and she’s already faced with the dilemma of sharing her secret identity with his son, who he doesn’t even know is at the house.
Letting out a deep breath, she looks at the boy. “You can’t tell your sister,” she tells him, watching as his eyes light up. “It has to be our secret, only a few people can know.”
“Why? Does dad know? Do you have a nemesis? What are your powers?”
“It’s too early for the inquisition, Marcus,” Rupert grumbles, walking into the room. He presses a kiss to her cheek as he passes, making a beeline for the coffee machine. Taking a sip from the mug Taggie had prepared, he let out a soft groan. “Nice to see you by the way, son.”
“Hi dad! I was just talking to Su—uh, your friend. She’s very nice.” His little faces blanches as he almost calls her Supergirl, clearly panicked about his near slip-up.
“It’s ok kid, I know all of Taggie’s secrets,” Rupert winks, relief flooding Marcus’ face.
“Cool,” he breathes, staring at his father like he holds the secrets of the universe. “No school today, by the way. Mum said she emailed you.”
Rupert barks out a laugh, sipping his coffee. “Those go right to spam and she knows it. You wanna tag along to the Planet today?” Marcus looks thrilled at the prospect, almost vibrating with excitement as he packs his books into his bag.
She excuses herself from the kitchen then, sprinting up the stairs to get dressed. Fuck, of course she met Rupert’s other child while half-naked after a sleepover. Cursing herself under her breath, she pulls her clothes from her overnight bag and dresses quickly.
“Tag,” she hears Rupert breath, leaning against the door frame. “I’m sorry about that, darling, I had no idea he would be here.”
“God, he must think I’m a slag,” she whines, struggling to pull her belt through the loops of her trousers. She tugs too harshly, accidentally tearing the belt in two. “Oh god dammit!”
A calloused hand cups her cheek, thumb stroking softly over her cheekbone. “Take a deep breath,” Rupert instructs, other hand gently pulling the belt out from her trousers. “There you go, hold it for four seconds. I’m counting.” Holding the breath, her mind goes a bit fuzzy, the only thing she can focus on being his hand on her face and his fingertips brushing her jaw.
“Exhale,” he coos, pressing a kiss to her forehead. She does feel better, head clearer. “Let me go get you a new belt,” Rupert murmurs, stalking into his closet. “Brown or black?”
“Brown please.” When he emerges, two belts in hand, he holds them up for her consideration. The gesture makes her melt inside, the small act of letting her choose touching. She still grabs one at random, not willing to ask what the difference between the slightly different leathers is. Price, she assumes, fingering the fine brand on the tail of the belt.
Tossing the other one onto his bed, Rupert gives her a dirty grin. “We can play with the other one later,” he suggests, an idea that has Taggie increasingly intrigued.
By the time they make it to the office it’s well after nine and the bullpen is packed. She swears every reporter in the city is watching as they exit the elevator, Marcus happily sandwiched by Rupert and Taggie as he chatters about what he was learning in his piano lessons. “I’ve moved on to Bach, and Wolfie says that he thinks I could be playing Badinerie by next year!
She can’t focus on Marcus, too overwhelmed by the whispers that are whipping around the room.
“I bet they set up that trip to have the company pay for their vacation. Did they even go to Ireland?”
“Going on vacation with the boss and coming in to work with his kid? God, she’ll be knocked up in no time.”
The worst are the ones that disparage her work, snide remarks that she isn’t that talented and is keeping the job solely because of what she does on her knees. Seb laughs at that one, which feels like a stab in the gut. He was one of the only reporters who hadn’t gossiped about her, something she could no longer say. Who knows what he said when she was gone.
Waving good bye to Marcus, who gives her a big smile, she takes a seat at her desk and immediately gets to work. Slipping her headphones over her ears, she pretends that the noise cancellation is effective and tells herself she can cry as soon as she gets home.
It’s one of the worst work days to date, made worse by a four-alarm fire that breaks out at an apartment building. She spends hours on the scene, sweeping the building multiple times to rescue not only tenants but their pets, their medications, and their heirlooms. At some point the fire chief tries to wave her back, yelling that she can stop, but she just pushes harder. By the time the building collapses, she’s exhausted, but no longer cares about the petty gossip from the office. She just saved dozens of people and rescued their most precious artifacts. She’s a god damn hero. The words of a few people fall from her mind as she talks to the now displaced residents, holding their hands as they cry and doling out hugs to those needing comfort.
Instead of going home, she flies right to Rupert’s apartment, landing on the balcony still buzzing with adrenaline. Thankfully he’s still awake, sipping scotch on the couch with the news playing quietly. His glasses are slipping down his nose slightly, the sight making Taggie squeeze her thighs together.
“Hey kitten,” she murmurs, leaning against the balcony door. He looks up at the sound of her voice, grin spreading across his face.
“Supergirl,” he drawls, reaching for the remote and muting the tv. “To what do I owe this honour?”
“I was in the neighbourhood,” she shrugs, stepping further into the room. “Saved a few dozen people, thought I would check in on my favourite damsel.”
“I’m not a damsel!” He’s pouting now, lower lip sticking out petulantly. “I have just happened to be at the scene of several crimes. I’m a victim.”
The laugh escapes before she can respond, giggling as she climbs into his lap. “Of course,” she coos, hands coming up to cup his cheeks. “Luckily I’ve been there. To save you.”
“Lucky me,” Rupert sighs, hands grasping her waist as he goes in for a kiss. It’s filthy right off the bat, tongues and teeth clashing messily. She can feel her arousal building quickly, wiggling in his lap as they exchange messy kisses. “You worked up, baby?”
She whines, nodding enthusiastically. “I have—fuck, that’s good—lotta energy still. Adrenaline.”
“Poor little duck,” he murmurs against her lips, licking into her mouth again. When he pulls away, he has a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “You know, I’ve never thanked you for saving me. It’s a bit overdue. Can I show you my appreciation now?”
Whatever his plan is, she’s on board. He stands them up, guiding her onto her hands and knees on the couch. “M’still dressed,” she whines, wiggling impatiently. “Do you need help w-with removing the suit?”
“Suit’s staying on,” he grunts, fisting her cape in his hand and moving it out of the way. She can feel the heavy fabric drape over the back of the couch, grounding her slightly. “Let me show Supergirl how much we appreciate her.”
The skirt of her suit is flipped up, cold air hitting the sides of her ass where her trunks don’t cover the skin. She thinks those will be off next, pulled down and thrown somewhere for her to find in the morning, but Rupert is full of surprises. His mouth presses to her through the fabric, mouthing messily at her cunt.
“Fuck,” she gasps, back arching at the feeling. “Oh god, that’s so. So good.”
He groans in response, suckling through the spandex. The pressure is just barely there, the tight material muffling the sensation, but her clit throbs in anticipation. “You’re so messy, darling,” he groans, fingers ghosting over the gusset of her bottoms. “Can feel you dripping through these little panties.”
“They’re not panties,” she groans, pushing back into his fingers. “Trunks. Like cheerleaders wear.”
“We can play that game too, if you want. Cheerleader and teacher. Mm, sounds delicious.”
The idea makes her laugh, which quickly becomes a groan and his mouth returns to her pussy. “You’re f-full of ideas, aren’t you?”
“Mmhmm. And soon you’ll be full of me.”
One of his thick fingers hooks in the gusset of her trunks, and the thought of finally being bare has her keening. “Please,” she whines, desperate for more stimulation. “More.”
His hand smacks down on her ass, half covered and half bare. “Don’t be greedy,” he grunts, fully pulling the crotch of her trunks aside. “You’ll take what I give you.”
Then his mouth is on her and her mind empties, all thoughts drowned out by the sensation of him licking her cunt sloppily. He’s everywhere, surrounding her through all of her senses. Voice in her ear, moaning about how sweet she tastes. His hands on her skin, spreading her ass cheeks and holding her briefs aside so that he can get his mouth on her. The taste of his sweat in the air, getting equally worked up as he gives her pleasure.
“Fucking perfect,” he murmurs, lips and tongue pressed to her pussy as he speaks. “Isn’t that good, precious girl, little pussy getting devoured as a treat for your hard work. Just need someone to take care of you. That’s what I’m here for.”
She wants to beg, to plead with him for more and more and more, but words are failing her. All she can manage are feeble moans and mewls that escape with each breath she takes.
Suddenly, he pulls away, hand dragging her briefs down and leaving her fully bare. “Need to be inside you,” he groans, quickly unzipping his own trousers and pulling his cock out. The sight is delicious, his hand lazily pumping over his length. “How do you want it, Tag?”
“I want to ride you,” she says, watching as his grin turns feline. He takes a seat on the couch, moving her into his lap with very little effort.
“Only one rule darling,” he murmurs, hand falling to the small of her back. “You need to hold your skirt up for me, daddy wants to see.”
His words have her trembling, pleasure flooding her veins. Fuck, it was like he could read her mind, the word always on the tip of her tongue the last few times they fucked. Nodding obediently, she takes the front of her skirt in hand and holds it against her stomach, giving Rupert the perfect view as she sinks down onto him. “Oh, fuck,” she groans, slowly sliding down until he’s bottomed out within her. “It’s so big.”
Huffing out a laugh, Rupert presses a biting kiss to her neck. “You’re just incredibly tight,” he croons, rocking his hips up into hers. “Every single time, I’ll never get used to it.”
He’s right, she thinks, slowly starting to lift and lower on his cock. Every time feels like the first, discovering new ways to make each other feel good. She’ll never get used to it, the thick drag of his cock through her as she rides him. “Made for this,” she pants, rhythm building as her thighs start to burn. “Made for you.”
Their pace is frantic, racing each other to the finale of their pleasure. Taggie drags her free hand down his back, certain that she’ll leave scratches in his skin, something he loves to see the next day. His arm moves, hand gently holding her throat as he begins to thrust up into her, chasing his orgasm.
“Are you close,” he groans, fingers flexing against her skin. “Touch your clit, angel, show me how you like it.”
Her fingers find her clit easily and she presses two to the sensitive bud, moving in slow circles. The stimulation has her moaning, ah-ah’s that grow faster as she climbs higher towards her orgasm. “Rupert,” she mewls, face pushing forward for a kiss. “Please, daddy.”
Shifting on her knees slightly, she finds a new angle, one that has Rupert hitting her g-spot with every thrust. Within seconds she’s coming, fluid gushing onto his lap as the pressure forces him out of her. “I’m so sorry,” Taggie whines, hiding her face in his neck. “Oh god, I’ve never done that before.”
His face is anything but angry. “Gorgeous,” he mutters, fingers sliding over her dripping pussy and moaning as he feels the mess she made. “That was stunning, baby, so perfect.”
“But you didn’t come,” she remarks, eying him for any signs of disappointment. “Can I, do you still want to?”
“I won’t last long,” he warns, letting her take hold of his cock and lower back onto him. He hisses at the pressure, everything more sensitive after her orgasm. “Fucking hell, not going to last long at all.”
She tangles one of her hands in his hair, grip firm on the unruly curls. The other cups his cheek, pulling him close for a kiss. “Please come in me,” she mumbles, licking at his lips as he thrusts into her. “I want your cum, keep it safe. Wanna still be wet in the morning so you can slide in before work. Please, I’ve been so good, let me have it, daddy.”
His hips stutter as he comes, face buried in her neck. His glasses pinch against her skin, but she can’t find it in her to care, not when she’s got him buried so deep within her that separating feels like removing half of her soul. “Perfect girl,” he murmurs, kissing the crook of her neck. “Want me to run you a bath?”
It’s her guilty pleasure and he knows it. He keeps epsom salt under the sink for her, lavender scented because it’s her favourite, and always has a stash of clean loofahs so that she can scrub off the grime of the city. She never asked for any of it, but he did it anyways. She loves him, she thinks, hand still tangled in his hair. “Yes, please. Will you join me?”
“Nothing would make me happier, angel.” His voice is soft, soothing in her ear. It’s the sound that she wants to fall asleep to, the first thing she wants to hear in the morning. “C’mon, I’ll carry you.”
ᯓ★
Life keeps moving forward. Her reputation as Supergirl continues to grow, to the point that she develops an actual relationship with the emergency services teams in London. They give her a burner phone, so that they can contact her whenever they need her help. No one pushes for her to reveal her identity to them, happy to refer to her as ‘Supergirl’ when she arrives at a scene.
She and Rupert sit down with Marcus one evening, reminding him how important it is that Taggie’s identity as Supergirl is kept quiet. The boy takes the responsibility very seriously, going so far as to shush his sister when she wonders aloud who the woman in the cape could be.
(When they ask how he knew, he gave them a look that has Rupert fearing for his inevitable teenage attitude. “Dad, glasses aren’t that good a disguise.” With some help from Rupert’s friend in tech, they upgrade her glasses to include some fancy technology that changes the shape of her face ever slightly. No one else questions Taggie’s resemblance to the superhero after that.)
At The Daily Planet, her relationship with Rupert eventually fades from interest when the other staff figure out that they are frankly, quite boring. Aside from arriving together in the morning and leaving together at night, they spend almost no time together around their colleagues. The exception is the odd time that Rupert wants her opinion on the page layout for big issues, especially when they feature her alter-ego.
It’s why she fears something is wrong when he sends her to work ahead of him, asking her to get setup in his office. She assumes he has a sensitive piece he wants her to look over, but usually they work on those in the bullpen, brainstorming with the other reporters. Taking a seat behind his desk, kicking her feet up playfully, she waits for him to show up.
He’s windswept when he arrives, eyes a bit wild. “Are you okay, Rupert? You look like Marcus when he ate half of that pie last weekend.”
“I’m perfect, angel. I just picked up a surprise for you.” Her interest is immediately piqued. Rupert loves surprises, from surprising her with dinner reservations at restaurants she wants to try to extravagant gifts, jewels from his family collection that he insists will look better on her than rotting away in the dark bank vault. Rarely do these surprises happen at work, however.
Smiling widely, he comes around the desk and kneels down in front of her. “I fear I’ve lied to you a bit. Remember when I stayed late last Thursday, for the board meeting?” She nods, watching as his grin grows a little manic. “There was no board meeting. I was on a conference call with a couple of our reporters at the Daily Planet office in the states.”
“Oh, okay. Were you interviewing them for something? Are you sending me on an international assignment?”
“Not quite. You see, I found some things in your father's files that matched an incident in Kansas a few decades ago.” The door opens, a tall man with dark hair stepping in. He’s vaguely familiar, his eyes twinkling with something she can’t quite but her finger on.
“Hey Taggie. I’m Clark. I think we have some things in common. Wanna chat outside?”
Turns out, dyslexia doesn’t impact Kryptonian letters at all.