alexandritte

The phone rang for a couple of beats, shrill in his ear until you picked up with a soft, ‘hey.’

‘Hey baby,’ he greeted, turning away from Sam, who was sitting on the other side of the room pretending he wasn’t listening. Dean cleared his throat, ‘so, um… bad news.’

‘What is it?’ you asked softly.

‘Case is gonna run a little longer than I thought. We were hoping to have it boxed off yesterday, but no such luck,’ he said.

‘Oh. That sucks,’ you said.

‘Yeah, but we’re trying. Be home as soon as I can,’ he promised.

‘Okay,’ you said quietly. Dean could hear it, the usual disappointment you pretended not to feel because you never wanted him to feel guilty. But there was something else behind it. Something he couldn’t quite pick out.

‘You okay, honey?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. Fine.’

Dean shifted, glancing at Sam who looked away again, though he could see the tug at the corner of his mouth that he got when Dean was being sweet. Dean rolled his eyes but pressed on, you were more important.

‘C’mon sweetheart,’ he said gently. You sounded hesitant, and then you let out a heavy sigh.

‘Oh Dean… I’ve just had such a bad day,’ you whimpered.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah, and I just thought it’d be fine because you’d be getting in soon and I could forget about it,’ you said. He could hear the tears mounting, the way they did whenever you got overwhelmed. He hated it. With him, frustration bubbled out in a flash of anger. With you, it came out in tears that broke his heart clean in two. Because whatever it was, he wanted to, needed to fix. And right now he couldn’t do that from God knows how many miles away.

‘Hey c’mon it’s alright,’ he coaxed softly, ‘don’t cry sweetheart.’

‘I’m sorry,’ you sniffed.

‘Don’t be,’ he dismissed, ‘anything I can do right now?’

‘No, I’ll be fine,’ you said, trying to steady your voice.

‘You sure?’ he asked sounding dubious. You shifted, and he heard the hesitation, ‘what is it?’

‘It’s just that…’

‘What, baby?’

‘Dean, I want you,’ you admitted quietly.

‘Well, I’ll be home as soon as I can-’

‘No honey,’ you said, ‘I want you.’

‘Oh.’

He heard you shift, could see the blush that no doubt spread across your cheeks. The needy way you pressed your thighs together whenever he made you wait longer than you both could bear. Granted, he was usually the one to initiate. He could never get enough of you. But sometimes, times like this when he was busy, you weren’t exactly forgotten but neglected.

And it was worse when you were blue or tired or just overwhelmed. You needed him there. To be engulfed by him, wrapped in his arms, tears kissed away until you had no thoughts but Dean.

‘Well, I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ he vowed, ‘promise.’

‘I know you will,’ you sniffed, ‘I love you.’

‘Love you too sweetheart,’ he said, before clicking the phone off.

Sam had thankfully checked out of listening once he’d realised Dean’s sweetness was no longer mockable and there was actual need behind it, but he looked up once the phone clicked off and found his brother pointing at him sternly.

‘You better figure this out,’ he said, threat in his eyes, ‘because I’m going home tonight.’

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The room was quiet when Dean entered. A far cry from the chaos of the vamp nest they’d taken down just hours earlier, and a world away from the rumble of the Impala, where he’d blasted Motörhead for the last hundred miles to stay awake behind the wheel. Now there was nothing.

Well not nothing. He heard Sam moving down the hall toward his room. He could hear the hum of the bunker, that odd vibration thing you hated but he’d become accustomed to and could drown out. And then there was your breathing.

Soft and rhythmic where you’d fallen asleep curled up against the big comfy armchair you’d insisted on buying for the library so you could sit on him when you wanted to snuggle up and read something. Another thing Sam had mocked with a glance.

Dean bent down, ignoring his protesting bad knee as he held onto the arm with one hand whilst he nudged his knuckles against your jaw. Your eyelashes fluttered, your brows knitting together until you saw him. Then a smile came beaming onto your face as he murmured, ‘hi honey.’

‘You’re back,’ you smiled.

‘Couldn’t leave ya hanging, could i?’ he mused. As you sat up, he stood and stretched, then the dance the two of you had done a thousand times before played out. You rose up and he shuffled onto the seat, pulling you back onto his lap, your back against his chest, face turned to his as he wrapped his arms around you and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

‘How are you baby?’ he asked quietly.

‘Fine,’ you said.

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. Tuckered myself out crying,’ you admitted meekly.

‘Oh sweetheart,’ Dean sighed, ‘got yourself all worked up, huh?’

His hand moved lower dancing up under the old shirt of his you’d been wearing because it smelled like him. His large fingers splayed against the soft skin of your stomach, resting just above the waistband of your underwear.

‘Thought you weren’t gonna be back yet,’ you murmured.

‘Got you all sad again?’ he asked. You nodded.

‘Should’ve known I’d come back for my girl,’ he murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw as his hand inched a little lower. But he didn’t go under, he moved over, fingers rubbing against the cotton of your panties and finding them damp with want.

‘You really missed me, huh, sweetheart?’

‘Always do,’ you said. You could feel him hard against your ass and he hissed softly when you shifted against him, your pussy already clenching around nothing.

‘You wanna tell me what happened?’ he asked, his voice low, ‘want me to make it better?’

You nodded.

‘Words, sweetheart,’ he reminded gently.

‘Please Dean,’ you whispered.

‘That’s my girl,’ he said, kissing your temple. It never failed to amaze you the ease in which he could do it. He moved your panties aside with a finger, teasing it through your lips and groaning at just how needy you were for him before he moved you slightly, adjusting himself until he was out, cock pressed against your bare pussy, sliding through your slick for a second before he sunk himself inside.

‘Dean,’ you whimpered, turning into him, letting him keep you full as his hand returned between your legs. He didn’t move. He never did when it was like this. It wasn’t about him.

‘C’mon sweetheart, tell me what happened,’ he murmured.

‘I don’t…’ you mumbled, overwhelmed by the feeling of him.

‘Can’t make it better if I don’t know, can I?’ he reasoned, circling his finger softly over your clit, holding back a groan as your walls tightened around him.

‘Okay,’ you mumbled, resting your head on his shoulder, ‘first was breakfast. When I got up, we’d run out of milk.’

‘So you didn’t eat anything huh?’ he asked. You could hear the frown in his voice. You knew you should, that he’d worry if you told him no, but you also knew he’d know you were lying if you said yes.

‘No,’ you muttered. Dean nodded, not saying anything.

‘So then I had to go to the market when I’d planned to do laundry,’ you said, whimpering when Dean sped up a little, callous fingertips rough against you.

‘M’sorry I wasn’t here. I would’ve gone for ya,’ he murmured.

‘I know,’ you said, ‘and then my car was out of gas.’

Another detour. Another deviation to the plan. Another thing forgotten as Dean place a scolding pat on you pussy.

‘Told ya to keep it topped up,’ he said, the endless reminders he’d tried to give you because he knew how it ruined your day forgotten again.

‘I know. I just forgot.’

‘Don’t worry sweetheart. Next time I leave, I’ll add it to my list for checkin’. Keep some gas cans in the garage so you don’t have to go outta your way,’ he promised.

‘Thank you,’ you murmured.

‘And then?’ he asked softly, nudging deeper inside you.

‘Then?’ you asked, your head fuzzy from how good Dean felt inside you, nudging against that spot every time he shifted a little. You loved him like this. No demands. No wants. Just ease. Grounding until you couldn’t think of anything else but him.

‘I know my girl’s particular,’ he started, ‘but she’s made of strong stuff. Must be more to it than that.’

‘I…’

‘Yeah?’

‘I got shouted at.’

Dean stilled completely, pulling back slightly so he could see your face. He could see tears glistening in your eyes at the memory, ‘you what?’

‘By some guy…at the store. I was all flustered after the morning and I parked in the wrong spot and when I came out-’

‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Dean,’ you said, cupping his jaw which had tightened. His eyes flaring with anger. He softened as he looked at you, ‘it doesn’t matter.’

Dean looked like he didn’t believe that.

‘You’re here. It’s better now,’ you promised, pressing your forehead against his and capturing his lips softly before rolling your hips against his. A low moan escaped you.

‘Yeah? Making you feel good sweetheart?’

‘Mm,’ you nodded.

‘Take what you need baby,’ he murmured. His fingers moved faster then, moving with the rhythm of your hips. His other hand was everywhere, palming at every inch skin flesh he could get to as his lips attacked your neck. You lay against him as the need that had been burning inside you all day finally found its release, melting away under his weight and touch.

‘Dean,’ you whimpered.

‘That’s it baby. M’here, I got you.’

You buried your face in his neck as your moans got loud enough to echo, stupid brick and wood everywhere. Dean just poured soft praise over you, telling you how good you were doing, how good you felt on his cock, how he was there, always would be whenever you needed him. It was enough to make you cry again, soft tears buried against the warm skin of his neck as you came around him, pulsing around his cock and soaking into his jeans.

When you were done, he didn’t say anything. He just moved your hair off your face and kissed the dampness on your cheeks away.

‘You okay baby?’ he murmured softly. You nodded. Too weak to say anything. Too exhausted from the day to think about anything else.

‘Let’s get you to bed,’ he said. Again you didn’t know how he did it but with effortless ease, he adjusted your clothes enough to cover you, gathered you up in his arms, and carried you down the hall to your room. Your bad day long forgotten.

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supernatural/dean tags

The ghost had been a routine job. Nothing special. A standard salt-and-burn in an old library that had been converted to a museum before being abandoned entirely. The kind of hunt that should have taken two hours tops, with maybe a stop for pie on the way back to the motel.

Dean Winchester should have been paying attention.

But he wasn't.

Because you were standing three feet away from him, backlit by the dusty amber glow filtering through the grime-caked windows, and you were reloading your gun.

Not just any gun. The gun. The one that had haunted his dreams for the better part of a decade. The massive Colt Python with the six-inch barrel that looked like it had been custom-made for your hand. The one that had a kick that would break a lesser hunter's wrist, but you wielded like it was an extension of your arm. The one that was bigger than his. Longer. Heavier.

The one he'd been obsessed with since he was eighteen years old.

Your brow was furrowed in concentration, muscles in your forearms flexing as you worked the cylinder open, your fingers moving with practiced efficiency. You were breathing hard from the exertion of the hunt, your chest rising and falling beneath the torn flannel you'd thrown on that morning, and there was a sheen of sweat on your collarbones that caught the light in a way that made Dean's mouth go dry.

His fingers tightened on his own gun—a standard-issue model, perfectly serviceable, completely unremarkable—and he watched as you slid fresh rounds into the cylinder with a soft click-click-click that sounded obscene in the quiet of the library.

Her gun is bigger than yours.

The thought surfaced unbidden, the way it always did when he watched you handle that beautiful, deadly piece of machinery. And just like always, his brain took it somewhere it shouldn't. Somewhere dark and hot and wrong.

Her dick is bigger than yours, and she doesn't even have one.

Dean swallowed hard, his jeans suddenly feeling tighter than they'd been thirty seconds ago. He should look away. Should focus on the job. Should stop staring at the way your fingers wrapped around the grip of that monster like you were holding something precious, something intimate.

But he couldn't.

He'd been eighteen when John brought you home. Eighteen and already a hunter, already hardened by a life that had stolen his mother and his childhood, already shouldering more weight than any teenager should have to carry. And then you'd walked into the motel room like you owned the place, all sharp edges and harder eyes, and Dean had felt something shift in his chest.

You were twenty-four. Older. Wiser. A veteran in a way he wasn't, with a body count that would make grown men weep and a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Your father had been John's best friend, had died on a hunt that should have been routine, and John had taken you in with the same gruff practicality he applied to everything. Another set of hands. Another gun. Another soldier to help protect his boys.

But Dean hadn't seen you as just another soldier.

He'd seen the way you moved, fluid and deadly. The way you never hesitated, never flinched, never second-guessed. The way you'd step in front of a werewolf's claws or a demon's attack without a moment's thought, because someone had to protect Sammy, and apparently that someone was going to be you.

And he'd seen your gun.

The first time he'd seen you pull it, he'd actually laughed. It was so big. So excessive. The kind of weapon that someone bought to compensate for something, except you didn't have anything to compensate for. You were already the most lethal thing in any room you entered.

But then you'd started firing, and Dean's laughter had died in his throat.

You were perfect. Every shot hit its mark. Every demon, every monster, every threat that came within your sights was eliminated with brutal efficiency. You moved like you were born with that gun in your hand, like it was part of you, like you could do more damage with it than most hunters could with an arsenal.

And somehow, impossibly, watching you work had made something click in Dean's brain.

Her gun is bigger than yours.

The thought had made him feel weird. Wrong. Like he was thinking something he shouldn't be thinking. But he couldn't shake it, because it wasn't just about the gun anymore. It was about you. About the way you took care of them, protected them, kept them safe. About the way you never hesitated to put yourself in danger for them. About the way you stitched yourself up after a hunt without asking for help, gritting your teeth through the pain while Dean watched from the doorway, his heart pounding for reasons he couldn't articulate.

And yeah. Maybe there was something about the size of your weapon that made him feel something he couldn't quite name. Something that made his stomach flip and his throat tighten and his stupid traitorous body respond in ways he didn't want to acknowledge.

"Dean!"

You snapped his name across the library, and Dean jerked back to the present just in time to see the ghost materialize directly infront of him.

"fucking hell—" He raised his gun, but he was too slow, too distracted, and the ghost slammed into him with a force that sent him flying sideways. He hit a bookshelf hard, the ancient wood splintering under the impact, and then everything went white for a moment as his head connected with something solid.

The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, surrounded by scattered books and broken shelving, and his ears were ringing like crazy. His head throbbed, a dull ache that radiated from his temple down to his jaw, and he could taste copper on his tongue.

Nice one, asshole. he thought bitterly. Got so caught up staring at her that you forgot to watch your six. Real smooth.

"-the hell were you thinking?!"

Your voice cut through the ringing, sharp and furious. Dean blinked, trying to focus, and found you standing over him. Your gun was still in your hand, barrel pointed at the floor, and your eyes were blazing with a fury that made his stomach drop.

"I—" He tried to sit up, but your boot pressed against his chest, pinning him back down.

"Did I tell you to move?" Your voice was ice. "Did I tell you to do anything besides lie there and think about what you did wrong?"

Dean's mouth went dry. He stared up at you, at the way the anger twisted your features into something fierce and terrifying, and he felt that familiar heat curl in his gut. The same heat that always flared up when you got like this—mad, protective, ready to tear someone apart for being stupid enough to put themselves in danger.

"You had one job, Winchester." You leaned down, close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in your irises. "One. Job. And you couldn't even manage that without getting yourself concussed because you were too busy daydreaming?"

"wasn't daydreaming." The protest was weak, even to his own ears.

"No?" Your laugh was sharp, humorless. "Then what were you doing? Because I saw you, Dean. I saw you standing there like a fucking statue while that thing was creeping up on you. And I saw where you were looking." You lifted your gun, the barrel swinging around to press against the underside of his chin. "You were looking at this, weren't you?"

Dean's breath caught in his throat. The metal was cold against his skin, a shock of temperature that made him shiver. He should be scared. He should be pushing you away, telling you to knock it off, trying to defuse the situation with a joke.

Instead, all he could do was stare up at you with wide eyes and let you watch as his pupils blew wide.

"Wasn't it?" You pressed the barrel harder, tilting his head up. "Were you staring at my gun like a good little soldier, Dean?"

He should deny it. He should lie through his teeth and pray you believed him.

"Yes." The word came out cracked, broken, and Dean felt his cheeks flush with shame even as his body responded to the admission.

Your expression shifted. The anger didn't disappear, but something else crept in behind it. Something darker. Something that made Dean's heart stutter in his chest.

You lifted the gun, tapping the barrel against his temple with just enough force to make him wince. Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to get his attention.

"Say that again," you murmured, and Dean could hear the note of dark satisfaction in your voice. "I want to hear you say it."

"I was staring at your gun." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I couldn't stop looking at it. At you. At—"

"At me." You laughed, soft and dangerous. "What, are you imagining I'm some sort of substitute for what you actually want? A big, strong older woman to protect you from the big, bad monsters?"

Dean shook his head frantically, then winced at the pain that lanced through his skull. "No. No, that's not—"

"Then what is it?" You moved the barrel down, trailing it along his jaw. "Because I've been watching you, Winchester. I've seen the way you look at this gun. I've seen the way your breathing changes when I handle it. I've seen the way your little soldier friend down here" you tapped the barrel against the growing bulge in his jeans, and Dean bit back a whimper "perks up whenever I mention it."

"You know about that?"

"Of course I know about that, boy." You laughed, and there was no humor in it. "I've known for years. Did you think I didn't notice? Did you think I didn't see the way you'd watch me reload? The way you'd find excuses to stand behind me when I was cleaning it? The way you'd stare at the barrel like you wanted it inside you?"

Dean's brain short-circuited. Every dirty fantasy he'd ever had, every shameful thought he'd ever suppressed, came rushing back in a tidal wave that left him breathless.

"Please." he whispered, hating how needy he sounded. Hating how much he meant it.

"Please what?" You tilted your head, the picture of false innocence. "Please let you worship my gun? Please put it in your mouth? Fuck you with it?"

"Yes." The word was punched out of him. "God, yes. Please. I'll be good. I'll be so fucking good. Just—please."

Your eyes sparked with something that looked almost like satisfaction. You removed your boot from his chest, stepping back, and Dean immediately missed the weight of it.

"Get up," you ordered. "On your knees."

He scrambled to obey, ignoring the way the movement made his head spin. His knees hit the dusty floor, and he looked up at you, trying to read your expression. Trying to figure out what you were going to do next.

"Look at you." Your voice was soft, almost fond, and that was somehow more terrifying than the anger had been. "So eager. So willing. Did you think I didn't notice the way you'd follow me around like a puppy? The way you'd do anything I asked just to get a scrap of approval?"

Dean didn't answer. He couldn't. Your hand was fisting in his hair, tilting his head back so he had no choice but to meet your eyes.

"Where's Sam?" he managed.

"Back at the Impala." You smiled, and it was sharp as broken glass. "I told him we'd be along in a bit. That I needed to have a little chat with you about the day's performance." Your grip tightened in his hair. "He knows better than to interfere."

Dean nodded as much as he could with your hand in his hair. "Good. That's good."

"Is it?" You laughed. "Is it good that your little brother knows not to interrupt me when I'm disciplining you? Or is it good because now I have you all to myself?"

"Both." His voice cracked. "Both."

"Greedy boy." You released his hair, and Dean swayed forward, caught off-balance. "You know, I thought you were just a little obsessed. A harmless crush. But then I realized you were imagining this." You lifted your gun, trailing it down his cheek. "Imagining me putting this in your mouth. Imagining me using it on you. Imagining me treating you like the desperate, needy thing you are."

Dean's breath hitched. "I-"

"You were, weren't you?" You pressed the barrel against his lower lip. "Open."

He opened his mouth without a second thought.

"That's it." You slid the barrel past his lips, and Dean's eyes fluttered closed at the sensation. The metal was cold and tasted of gun oil and something metallic, something that made his head spin. "Such a good boy. Doing exactly what I tell you."

He moaned around the barrel, the sound reverberating through his skull. His hands gripped his own thighs, holding himself still as you slowly moved the gun deeper.

"Look at you." Your voice was a low, pleased rumble. "Taking it so well. Like you were born for this. Like you've been dreaming of this exact moment for years."

Dean had. God, he had. Every night, in the quiet dark of the motel rooms, he'd closed his eyes and imagined this. Imagined your hands on him, your gun in his mouth, your voice in his ears telling him what a good boy he was.

The barrel hit the back of his throat, and he gagged slightly, but you didn't pull back.

"Breathe through it," you ordered. "You can take more. I know you can."

He forced himself to relax, to open his throat, and felt the barrel slide deeper. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, but he didn't pull away. He didn't want to.

"Good." You pulled the gun out slowly, letting him gasp for air, then pushed it back in. "Again. Show me how much you want this."

He did. He let you fuck his throat with your gun, taking it deeper and deeper each time, saliva dripping down his chin as you worked it in and out. His hips were twitching involuntarily, desperate for friction, and he had to physically restrain himself from touching his aching cock.

"Look at you," you murmured, watching him with hooded eyes. "So desperate. So needy. You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

Dean nodded frantically around the barrel, his eyes rolling back in his head as you pushed it down his throat one last time.

You withdrew the gun slowly, letting it slide across his tongue before it pulled free with a wet pop. Dean gasped, chest heaving, and looked up at you with watery eyes.

"Please," he begged. "Please, I need-"

"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips. "You need someone to take control, don't you? Someone to put you in your place. Someone to remind you that you're nothing but a desperate little thing who'll do anything for a taste of power."

"Yes," he sobbed. "Yes, please, I'll be so good. I'll be so fucking good, jus-"

"Oh, you'll be good." You smiled, and there was something cruel in it. Something hungry. "I know you will. Because if you're not..." You pressed the barrel to his forehead, and Dean shivered violently. "..I'll just have to find another use for this."

He jerked in his spot, knowing what that meant. You’d put a bullet through his skull, whatever, he didn't care. All he knew was that you were looking at him like he was something precious, something yours, and he'd do anything to keep that look in your eyes.

"Take off your pants," you ordered. "And your underwear. I want to see what I’m working with."

Dean fumbled with his jeans, his fingers clumsy and shaking. He managed to get them down around his thighs, and then his boxers were gone too, his cock springing free and bobbing painfully in the cool air.

You laughed. "Oh, Dean. All that for me?"

"Fuck you," he managed weakly. "You know what you do to me."

"I know." You knelt in front of him, close enough that your breath ghosted over his straining erection. "I know exactly what I do to you. But do you know what you do to me?"

Dean shook his head helplessly.

"I've wanted this for so long." Your voice was soft, almost confiding. "Wanted to see you like this. Broken. Desperate. Begging for it. You always try so hard to be the tough one, the protector, but underneath it all..." You reached out, fingertips brushing the head of his cock. "Underneath it all, you just want someone to take care of you. Someone to put you in your place."

"I—" His voice broke on a sob. "Yes. Yes, please. Please, I need it. I need you."

"I know you do." You withdrew your hand, and Dean whimpered at the loss. "But you're not getting what you want until you earn it. You understand?"

He nodded frantically.

"Good." You pressed your gun to his stomach, trailing it down slowly, deliberately, until the barrel was resting against the base of his dick. "Now, I want you to tell me what you want me to do. In detail. And if I like what I hear, maybe I'll give it to you."

Dean could barely think through the haze of desire that had clouded his brain. But he tried. God, he tried.

"I want you to fuck me with it," he gasped. "I want you to put it inside me and fuck me until I can't remember my own name. I want you to remind me who I belong to. I want you to make me feel it for days."

Your eyes darkened. "And who do you belong to?"

"You." The word came out on a choked sob. "I belong to you. I've always belonged to you."

"Damn right you have." You moved the barrel down, pressing it against the tight ring of muscle that was clenched with anticipation. "And you know what I'm going to do now?"

Dean shook his head frantically.

"I'm going to give you exactly what you want." You pressed the barrel against his entrance, and Dean felt the cool metal slide against his skin. "I'm going to fuck you with my gun. I'm going to remind you that you're mine. And then, when I'm done, I'm going to put you back together and tell you what a good boy you were."

"Please," he begged. "Please, just do it. I can't take it anymore. I'll go crazy."

"Shh." You pressed a kiss to his forehead, and the tenderness of the gesture was almost enough to undo him. "I've got you. Just relax for me, okay? Let me take care of you."

He nodded, trying to relax his muscles as you maneuvered him from his knees down on his stomach, kneeling behind him as you pressed the barrel against him more firmly. The metal was cold and smooth, and he bit his lip as you applied gentle pressure.

"Breathe with me," you murmured. "In and out. Don't fight it."

He did as you said, forcing himself to breathe through the sensation as you slowly pushed the barrel inside him. It was cold and unyielding, and he felt his muscles protest at the intrusion even as he surrendered to it.

"That's it," you cooed. "That's my good boy. Taking it so well for me."

The barrel was thick and long, and Dean felt himself stretching around it as you pushed it deeper. It was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, and it was perfect.

"More," he begged. "Please, I need more."

"Greedy thing." But you obliged, pushing the gun deeper until the hilt was resting against his skin. "How does it feel?"

"S’fucking amazing." He was panting, his eyes wild. "So good. Please, please move."

You did. You started thrusting the gun in and out of him, slow and deliberate at first, then faster. Dean moeaned, high and reedy, his hands scrabbling for purchase on the dirty floor as you fucked him with your weapon.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Your voice was low, rough. "This is what you've been dreaming about. My gun inside you. My hand on your back. My voice in your ear telling you what a good boy you are."

"Yes," he sobbed. "Yes, yes, please, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm all yours."

"Damn right you are." You thrust the gun deeper, hitting something inside him that made him see stars. "You're going to come for me, aren't you? Just like this. Just from my gun inside you."

He nodded frantically, his cock aching and untouched, and he felt the pleasure building inside him like a wave.

"Do it," you ordered. "Come for me. Show me what a good boy you can be."

And Dean did.

He came with a broken cry, his body arching off the floor as pleasure ripped through him. His cock jerked and spilled over his stomach, and he was barely aware of the sounds he was making as you worked him through it, slowly and gently.

"Shh," you murmured. "I've got you. That's my good boy."

When he finally came back to himself, he was slumped on the floor, trembling and spent. You had withdrawn the gun, and he felt empty and bereft.

"Look at me." You were kneeling beside him now, your hand stroking his hair. "Look at me, Dean."

He forced his eyes open, meeting your gaze.

"I'm going to take you back to the Impala," you said softly. "I’m going to clean you up at the motel. And then I'm going to hold you. Understand?"

He nodded, unable to speak.

"Good." You smiled, and this time there was nothing cruel about it. "That's my good boy. You did so well for me."

Dean felt tears prick at his eyes again, but this time they were from relief. You wanted to take care of him, and were going to wether he wanted it or not if the command in your voice was to speak.

And for the first time in his life, he let himself be taken care of.

“Oh, Fuck!” You yelled as your back hit the wall.

You feel like a giant gave you a fat pat on the back as the contact with the wall makes the air inside your lungs knock out of your mouth.

“Fff—Fucking Super..ssshit.” You struggled to mumble out as you wiped the blood seeping from the corners of your mouth with a thumb.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” He spoke as he walked towards your limp body, his tone getting impatient the more you threw those insults that specifically irritated him, “And stop calling me— Supershit..It’s very disrespectful.”

Just as he finishes his sentence, you lunge at him. Your arms wrapping around his neck in what seems to be an attempted, and very awkward, headlock.

You both don’t really remember when this became a routine. All the immature roughhousing in a dark alleyway, or a quiet parking lot near a McDonald’s, or right now; In an abandoned building with so much debris you could die from that alone.

Every night since these past few weeks, he’d hear a crime being committed by you from across the frickin’ city and show up to beat your ass.

But, he’d never throw you to jail—he only says he will, in the name of justice and stuff—but he doesn’t.

This time he seriously rolled his eyes in annoyance when he saw you attempting to burn the house of, who you said, was some conservative white dude who pissed you off.

Well, you didn’t even get to explain before Superman lunged at you.

Like, what the fuck? Sure your actions aren't very ethical, but you didn’t exactly do anything wrong! You’re just fighting fire with fire.

Now you find yourself back here another night, fighting Superman.

Clark sighs, grabbing your arm around his neck to break free. Unexpectedly, you twist and fall back—pulling him along with you as you put him in a chokehold, with his back against your chest as your arms wrapped around his neck.

He coughs, “Oh— Gosh.”

You smirk at his struggle, tightening your grip while his hands repeatedly tapped your arms, trying to tap out.

“Pftt. I’m not letting you go until you admit defeat.” You whispered in his ear—your low, silky voice being the only thing Superman hears despite having exceptional hearing beyond human capabilities.

“C’mon, Supershit. Say it.” You urged him as the arm you have wrapped around his neck pulls forward, choking him even more.

“Say. It.”

Superman closes his eyes, shakily breathing in—looking almost euphoric. Just as he opens his eyes again, a sleazy smile creeps upon his bruised, and fucked face as his head slightly turns to the side, facing you. He huffs out a cocky laugh, making you frown.

“The hell are you laughing ab—“; before you had the chance to finish your sentence, you felt a warm and gushy liquid splash onto your face.

You grunt in disgust, harshly pushing him somewhere to the side as your hands find your face—wiping the liquid frantically.

“Why the fuck would you spit your nasty blood on my face, you fucking loser?!” You yelled, hands rubbing your eyes as you felt the sting on one of your pupils.

What pissed you off the most—was that you couldn’t tell which eye was the one that was hurting.

Not even a second later, you felt him blast off. Your hands leave your eyes, squinting as you watch him fly away. You huff out angrily—stomping on the chalk-like texture of pieces of broken drywall—as you yelled profanities at him.

Clark grins at the words leaving your mouth that were aimed for him only, looking back down to catch a glimpse of your tiny looking figure down below before accelerating towards the moonlight.

Monday rolls in and you feel like you could die. Literally die.

You hear the repetitive jingle of the weird bells this coffee shop still has on their doors as you watch the barista fumble a can of whipped cream while trying to make someone’s drink look cute. You tap your feet impatiently, humming to a song as your eyes dug into the back of another barista’s skull.

You’ve been waiting for a latte for what seems like the past 10 minutes.

It has been 2 nights since your fight with Superman, and you still feel miserable. Your toe feels as if it’s bent the other way, and you could genuinely die.

Just then; two drinks, looking entirely the same, are placed on the pick-up counter. The barista calls out your name as well as some guy’s—Clark—without clarifying whose cup is whose. Before you could ask, she goes right back to take in more orders.

“Shit day.” You mumbled under your breath as you turned the cups over to see hand writing so unreadable, doctors would want to wear that barista’s skin due to envy.

You decided to just taste test, hoping the owner of the other cup wouldn’t see. Doesn’t matter if they did anyway. Just as you were about to take a sip—

“You?” You hear a male voice behind you, and woah.

“You—You’re holding my.. uh, order. I meant.” He corrected himself, pushing his glasses up almost nervously.

He’s cute. Definitely.

Probably six foot something, really muscular for a dorky looking dude, and also— very nervous..

“Oh, sorry.” You said, squinting really hard to look at the handwriting on the cup, “..Clark?”

His head shot up, wondering if you figured out it was him—the one and only Clark Kent who also fucked you up just two nights ago in your altercation with him as Superman.

Clark thinks he lost his shit probably the moment he stepped into the cafe; From the countless nights of having to fight you, Clark is super sure he can recognise the way your heart beats when you’re panicked or when you’re about to lunge at him.

He probably remembers the way you breathe in a little sharper when you’re bleeding, or the rumble in your throat when you give him a dry, humourless, laugh.

What he did not anticipate was his ability to remember all of that when you guys weren’t fighting—and he’s pretty sure you recognise him too.

“Are y’gunna take it?” You spoke, hand reaching out for him to grab the coffee from you.

You didn’t recognise him?

“Sorry— Uh. Yeah, thanks.” He said.

During the split second his fingers brushed against yours, he noticed the deep red and blues of the bruises plastered just above where the neckline of your shirt starts. He probably should be a little gentler next time, he thinks.

“No wife?” You casually ask, taking him aback as he sipped his coffee.

He coughs up the sip he was taking, “W—What?”

You smiled at how flustered he was, “No ring on your finger.. no hair tie on your wrist. I suppose you’re single?” You spoke as your fingers lightly wrapped around his wrist.

Wow, your hands are really soft.

This shouldn’t be Clark’s primary thought—but he’s just so used to the same hands throwing him punches— that he’s a little wrapped around how soft your hands feel when they’re not intentionally trying to hurt him.

“I’ll take that as a yes.. Clark.”

And gosh. The way his name rolls off your tongue in that silky voice when you’re not calling him Supershit?

You took a random pen from the counter, writing down a series of numbers on his cup. “Call me, okay?” You smile at him, eyeing his coffee cup, before turning—intentionally making sure your shoulder grazes his chest as you walk away.

He couldn’t help but take in the soft, gentle, flower-like smell of your shampoo. You smelled clean, and dangerous at the same time.

And your smile? Coming from the same mouth that would usually snarl at him before you ran off after committing another crime? That small curve of the corner of your lips could kill him. Definitely.

“Oh, gosh.” He breathed out as you finally left the cafe, not even realising he held his breath. He shut his eyes, shaking his head before rushing to The Daily Planet.

You winced as you made your way up the fire escape stairs, gripping the handles as you looked into the window of each room as you made your way up.

It was a late Tuesday night, and you had just finished giving (mostly getting) a beat down after having to intervene in a gang robbery—despite having stolen a few snacks from the 7/11 close by just a few minutes prior.

Nevertheless, you couldn’t bear seeing a bunch of innocent, elderly people being held at gun point; So you intervened, forgetting that despite wearing a mask that only covers the top half of your face, and a skin tight black leather suit, you were still human.

And humans aren’t immune to bullets.. especially when the human’s idea of a disguise suit is a black, long sleeved leather top with shorts so short—all you needed to do was put on a pair of leggings underneath—and you’d recreate Superman’s suit.

Now, your boot’s heel kicks open the window of the person you came here for—the cutie from the cafe.

Clark.

You slung your leg over the window, making your way into his apartment. Your heeled boots stepped on the glass pieces from the window you had broken, making a mental note to apologise or leave a note.

He wasn’t home yet though, so you took the liberty to explore his place. His place was very dark, a little bit messy with some clothes on the floor.

You sighed, slumping on his couch before wincing due to the wound you got from the graze of a bullet.

Your cheekbones were bruised, and there were a few cuts on your upper lip. You feel like there’s a bunch of rocks pushing against your ribs, and the pungent smell of blood from the bullet graze pisses you off.

Just as you lean your head back to slump on the couch—the dim, yellow-orange overhead lights in the kitchen click open, making you yelp in surprise.

Clark also yelps in surprise by the sound of your voice, “Wha—Why r’y here?”

“God, you scared me!” You exclaimed, cutting him off. You think he probably doesn’t recognise you with your mask on, so you untie the string under your hair, pulling your mask off. “It’s me. From the coffee shop.”

Clark does not know what to do. Yeah, of course it’s you. His super hearing clarified that already when he was taking the elevator to his floor, and heard that familiar pace of your heartbeat as you breathed in and out.

He thought you were here to fight Superman; that you had somehow found out where he lived. But no.

You were here for Clark. For him.

“Your place was close.” You say, answering his question when he doesn’t say anything.

Clark stops in his thoughts. “How do you know where I live?”

You pressed your lips together. “Skills I learned.. from connections.”

“Connections?”

“Yeaaaah. Well— from my brother.”

“Your brother?”

“Bruce.. Wayne.”

BRUCE WAYNE?

That Bruce Wayne who is a billionaire, who is also Batman, who is also someone Clark knows very much?!

Bruce Wayne’s sister is flirting with him?

That very much explains how you are (somewhat) capable of lasting so long in a fight with him—Superman.

You held a sarcastic smile before speaking, “Yeaaaah. Kinda figured out your address.” You paused, “I didn’t know you were a little farm boy.” You teased.

Clark’s mouth is slightly agape as he watches you, shutting it quickly when he realises how stupid he probably looked. “Yeah, I— uh, grew up in Kansas.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He pushes up his glasses.

“You didn’t call me.” You spoke again, your legs crossing as you leaned against the couch.

He was standing in front of you, and God, did he look good.

A white button up with black dress pants, crooked glasses, and a curly piece of hair falling neatly by his forehead while the rest settled in all sorts of directions.

“Since yesterday morning; Y’haven’t called.” You continue—your voice, almost as low as a whisper, makes Clark gulp.

Yeah, because you are also the very same woman I fight every other night.

“Work— I was busy with work.” He answers, his voice cracking. Your eyes dropped, eyeing him from head to toe before coming back up to meet his eyes.

“Would you have called.. anytime soon?” You say.

Your voice only seems to gravitate him towards you as he takes a small step forward by the sound of you, close enough that your feet could nudge just below his knee.

Clark stammers, “Y—Yeah. Maybe.” He says, trying to be casual.

Your eyebrows knit together and curved, having a pitiful look as your eyes stayed on his. It was the same look you’d give him—as Superman—when you were going say something that would start to get his blood boiling.

It was mocking.

It was kinda hot, actually.

Golly.

He wonders if you really didn't know he was Superman, or if you were actually just interested in Clark. His heart skips a beat a little when he thinks of the latter.

“Maybe?” You repeated in faux confusion—almost mockery—as your eyebrows stayed knit together, looking at him through your lashes.

He tries to look away, but accidentally looks down at where your cleavage was.

Golly.

Your eyes were still on him—except your right foot is moving up his leg to his lower thigh and he thinks he could combust.

Your foot nudges his thigh, signaling that you are anticipating an answer. His breath shudders and he nods his head, “I mean, I guess.. I would have—“ Your foot moves higher, and he gulps, “..I would call you.”

Clark lets out a sigh that could also very much also be a whimper when your heeled boots meet his clothed erection.

In all honesty, Clark was so distracted and overwhelmed by you filling all of his senses that he hadn’t even taken to notice how much tighter his pants had felt since he saw you— and also how evident it was.

You huffed out a small laugh, your heel hooking on the waistband of his pants, pulling him down to face you.

Clark’s knees hit the ground, his chest settling between your parted thighs while you stay seated on the couch. Your face is just a few inches away—the pointed toe cap of your boots still pressed against him, applying just enough pressure for him.

“I’m injured, that’s why I came.” Your voice drops into a whisper, and you stop teasing. You glance away for a second before your hand reaches for the side of his face, “I just thought seeing you would.. make me feel better.”

Your lips drop to his cheek, pressing a feather-light kiss on it, “I miss you. And I'm sad you didn’t call.” You say as your lips leave his cheek, your breath grazing against his ear.

Clark shudders, one of his hands reaching to grip your thighs unconsciously.

The fact that the quickened heartbeat he’s hearing right now is actually his and not yours also makes him a little scared.

“Oh, Gosh.” He gasps when your foot rubs against his erection again; This time, rubbing in slow circles instead of nudging him here and there.

Clark is pretty sure he’s going to lose some face the next time you fight him as Superman; considering how this interaction with you will never, ever, allow him to focus in a fight against you ever again.

He does make a mental note to himself to stop you after another slow rub from your foot, or maybe he’ll let you do it just one more time—scratch that.

The way you make him feel in his head does not help his case. And he’s now sure that he doesn’t want you to stop, either—like, ever.

And if anyone had a sight like you on their couch in front of them, they wouldn’t want it to stop too—Clark thinks.

Your foot stops rubbing in circles and instead traces his length from top to bottom while you place a soft peck on his lips.

Before you could pull away, Clark places a firm grip on your hips, pulling you forward again into a proper kiss.

Your foot keeps tracing, and rubbing, and tracing, and rubbing. And Golly, your lips are so soft but you’re kissing him so feverishly.

Clark whimpers. And whimpers, and whimpers, and whimpers—until his hands move to your shoulder and jaw to ground himself while he pulls away from your lips, his head falling to the crook of your neck.

He shudders, his hips bucking against your foot involuntarily, and you gasp with a laugh, mockingly, “Did you jus—“

He whines in embarrassment to stop you from asking and you laugh, peeling his face from your neck.

Both your hands cup his cheeks, “Call me next time.” You spoke before placing a kiss on his nose. Then, you push his face away, getting up from the couch and making your way to the window.

“Wait, my window—“

You gave him a nervous chuckle that was purely insincere considering you weren’t all that sorry about the window.

“So sorry— about this. I was hoping I could distract you from that.” You say. “If I didn’t distract you enough, I hope I at least made up for it?” You continued with a cheeky grin.

Before Clark could answer, you hop onto the fire escape stairs through the window, leaving Clark alone with his thoughts. And God, did he have a lot.

“Augh— Oh God! Shi—“ You exclaim when you land face first on the concrete floors of a parking lot in front of an abandoned mall, making you roll on the ground before your forehead hits the rough floor. “Ow—!”

Your chest heaves as you hyperventilate from how far you had run—only to get your feet entangled by a few plastic bags when you tried to look up to see where he flew to.

It was dark—maybe around 2 in the morning—and the only crime you committed was stealing another item from that 7/11. But of course. The manager of the store had to have given Supes’ a free chocolate bar or something once; and before you knew it, he was chasing you.

You contemplate on whether you should keep doing routine crimes at night, or just settle to do them during the day time where Superman is usually busy dealing with other things.

Because God, why was he so free at 2am? Oh shit, he doesn’t need sleep; You groan at the thought.

“Golly! Are you okay?” You hear his irritating voice.

In a matter of seconds, the same man chasing you rushes down to place a hand on your shoulder. Superman holds you, helping you get up while your eyebrows furrowed.

“What’s..up with you today?” You say, pushing his hand off your shoulder before taking a step back in case he lunges at you. But he doesn’t. And that confuses you.

Clark doesn’t say anything and just looks at you. He had his usual face on, but you can see the micro-expressions he couldn’t contain— and it was telling you he was.. guilty? or.. nervous? or.. whatever!

“You would usually pull me by my leg to throw me in a jail cell—or lunge at me.” You speak again as you observe him before deciding to take a step forward, still keeping your guard up.

You leaned in close enough to whisper by his ear, “You look nervous today, Big Blue.”

His breath shudders and you can hear it. Before you can say anything else, he blasts off.

You scoffed—preparing to yell some profanities at him, thinking he left, before you felt a hand around your ankle, “Woa—! B’careful, Super-fucker!”

His hand held you by your left ankle as he flew around the city of Metropolis, holding you upside down. You tried protesting by kicking your free leg at him, making his lips curl into a cheeky grin as his eyes looked down at you.

Just then, you pull out a small ball-looking thing from your back pocket and throw it at his chest.

The second the ball had made contact with him—gas exploded everywhere, making him crash onto the flat roof of a random building.

You both rolled over on the roof before the impact allowed you to stop, yet his five fingers were still wrapped around your ankle.

“Let— go!” You spoke while on your back, propping your elbow on the concrete roof before using your other leg to attempt to kick his face.

Clark was on his stomach, his face right by your knee as he kept his grip on your ankle. He looked up to meet your eyes as his other arm was placed on top your hip to halter any movements or—tantrums, as he called it.

He doesn’t look away from your eyes so you glared and frowned at him, lips instinctively twitching into a snarl.

“I’m not going to let you go, but I won’t turn you in,” He says, “—If you agree to return the item you stole.”

You groan, your leg attempting to kick up like those seven year olds who throw tantrums on the floor. He snickers a little before wiping the smile off his face when you frown.

“I only took a tiny bag of chips— I just needed a late night snack, dude!” You explained as your hands tried to pry away the hold of his left arm that caged your hips.

“It’s not good to steal.” He grunts, attempting to keep you still as you continuously squirmed weirdly underneath him to break free.

“How do you know I’m not super broke and can’t afford it and have to steal for a living?” You retorted.

“Because you’re Bru—“ He stops midway, looking away for a half second before meeting your eyes again, “You’re— You’ve got a.. bruutally amazing style. Not cheap, for sure.” He nods at his own words.

“I could’ve stolen it.”

He ignores you and attempts to adjust before you feel his elbow digging into your stomach, making you yelp.

“Hey— Ow, that hurts!”

“Oh gee, I'm so sorry about that!” He panics as that same arm soothingly rubs the part he had nudged.

You were taken aback. His fingers pressed slow circles against your stomach, as if he had completely forgotten who you were and what he was supposed to be doing.

“Stop— stop doing that, Supercreep.” You say, in a lower voice, as you pushed him off of you.

This time, he doesn’t attempt to hold you down as you get up. He stands up and looks away for a second to recollect himself. However, when he did look back, you were already lunging at him.

Your force throws the both of you off the roof and he flies up while your body envelopes him from the back, both your arms wrapped around his neck to choke him.

Clark couldn’t help but take in the scent of you. He noticed you put on a different type of perfume when you have your suit and mask on. It was stronger; like instead of the rose you’d smell like during the day, you smelled like the thorns of that same rose during the night.

Before he could get lost in his thoughts, he accelerates back down to the ground.

The sudden drop in direction made the chokehold you had on him falter, so he takes that chance to grab you by the arm to get you off his back. You yelped, feeling yourself fling sideways— thinking he dropped you, before you felt his arm around your waist.

By then, you gained a view of the alleyway he was probably going to land on. Your fist nudges his face sideways, throwing a punch.

“Hey—!” He exclaims, grabbing the fist that was throwing punches at him.

Your left cheek is met with the ground before you could throw an insult. You lay on your stomach with your arms raised by your head as one of Superman’s hands wrap around the back of your neck, holding you down to the ground as he had one knee in between your thighs and the other propped up on the ground by your left hip.

You squirm in that weird, wiggly way again before your eyebrows grow furrowed in confusion and amusement.

You froze for a moment.

“..Is your…boner pressing up against me, right now?” You say, feeling his chest against your back and a subtle erection poking your lower back.

You hear him stammer at your question, and you really wish you could see his face right now. You hear the leg he had propped up by your left hip falter as he now kneels behind you.

“Holyyy shit, you are!” You laughed, like this was the highlight of your night.

“Y—You’re evil.” He groans before tightening his grip on the back of your neck, pushing your head further onto the ground as you teasingly giggled at his reaction, half of your lower lip being bitten by your upper teeth in a cruel smile.

“Did I do that?” You asked, squirming against his erection. He lets out a breath, his head falling by your neck. “D’ya reckon I could help?” Your neck slightly twists, and before you could even try to look back at him, you feel his grip tighten again—warning you.

“C’mon Big Blue.. Why don’t you show me how big you really are?” You tease, a low rumble escaping your throat as you let out a laugh that was strained due to the hold he had on your neck.

Clark releases his grip and blasts off immediately and you groan at the release of pressure.

You prop your hands on the ground to push you up on you back before turning to take a look at him accelerating through the night sky, still giggling.

The bullpen of the Daily Planet was filled with noise; keyboard smacking, phones ringing off the hook, and Perry shouting across the room about a front-page deadline.

Clark was hunched over his desk, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to properly focus on a report about city infrastructure or something. His glasses were halfway down the bridge of his nose, and a few loose curls draped over his forehead.

But despite his attempt to stay focused on work, all he could think about was you.

His brain was playing the last two nights in a relentless loop; How his apartment lingered with the smell of you. How pretty you looked sitting on his couch. How he could still feel the ghost of your touch. How soft your lips were. How gentle your hands were.

But also how differently your eyes landed on him when you thought you were fighting a different guy—Superman. How you laughed mockingly. How you snarled at him. How rough you were. How you touched him.

How he spent hours trying to get rid of the thought of you—in a very unconventional way.

Jimmy spoke, “Hey. Apparently, there’s a girl waiting fo..”

Jimmy’s voice completely drowned in Clark’s mind because just then, his super-hearing catches on to the elevator door opening and a certain rhythm of footsteps, the sound of heels clicking. The very heels that you’d worn during that fight last night.. as well as the other night.

Then came that familiar sound of a beating heart. Calmer than he’d remember from last night, but there was no doubt it belonged to you.

Still, Clark froze. His hands hovered over the keyboard, as his eyes were extremely alert, looking around for you. He could smell you.

No, it couldn’t be.

He slowly turned his head, and there you were; walking past rows of desks with a brown paper bag from a local deli in one hand and two iced coffees in the other.

You stood in front of his desk, placing the paper bag on his desk. “Woah. Man, who is she?” Jimmy whispered as he eyed the girl in front of Clark.

Unlike last night where you wore your signature leather-black suit with a little cleavage, this time you wore an airy blouse with a loose, silky skirt. Your hair was pulled into a messy half-up half-down, and you would’ve perfectly looked like the embodiment of innocence if you didn’t have that mischievous glint in your eyes.

You and Clark had a little bit of a staring contest in the moments where Clark’s brain was too fried, at the sight of you, to function.

Your lips curved into a dry, teasing smile, “Hey, Kansas.”

Good golly.

It was the same tone you used when you irritated him by calling him Supershit or another variant of that—but why was Clark not irritated this time? It sounded no different but it still made him feel so weird, a muffled whine slipped out of his throat because of how scared he was.

“You— ..What are you doing here?” He asked to which you smiled.

“I’m.. actually sorry about that window— I bought you something in hopes that you’d forgive me.” Pure casualness. Your voice was so casual, Clark was even more scared. You were just so casual.

You bite your lip, chewing on the skin before continuing, “But if it’s not enough, I don’t mind paying for the damages I caused.”

Clark cleared his throat, “..You don’t have to,”

I forgot about it the moment you flashed me a smile. I didn’t even mind, anyway.

“I’m not mad, either.”

But Gosh. I am so, so, so scared.

You smiled at his words. “Thanks Kansas. Well, I’ll see you around okay?” You say as your index finger poked the tip of his nose before pushing his crooked glasses up for him. Your eyes smiled with your lips, because of course you just had to have the type of smile that could turn his brain into mush.

“Enjoy your food! —Oh, and call me if you miss me!” You yelled as you made your way to the elevator.

Jimmy slid his chair towards Clark’s. “Who was that? Is she single?” Jimmy asked as he looked at your walking figure. Clark cleared his throat, “She’s.. we just get coffee from the same place, Jimmy.” Clark says before nudging Jimmy away.

Good gosh.

It’s been weeks.

He would interact with you as Clark Kent during the day at the same coffee shop, or sometimes even a date. He’s counted, and there’s only been three dates over the span of three weeks. It’s definitely not enough, and he will keep that in mind.

But at night, when you don’t end up staying over with Clark Kent—which you rarely did, anyway—he would interact with you as Superman. The crimes you were committing wasn’t even his reason to come and fight you anymore—it’s just, if you won’t visit Clark Kent, then Superman will visit you.

He can’t stop it. You’ve fully occupied his mind, and you didn’t even kiss Clark again after that night. He felt selfish. He wanted more—whether he was Clark or Superman to you.

Every now and then, he’d find himself bucking his hips into his hands at the thought of you. Either after a fight, or after seeing you during the day.

He sometimes never even thinks about you inappropriately, his body just reacts, and he especially hates when it reacts while he’s fighting you.

The sight of you straddling him, gripping his jaw before throwing another punch. Or, the sight of you under him with your face pressed against the cracked floors as he pushed you against it. Or, when he gets a view of your tits pressed against the wall.

Good Gosh.

He’s accidentally used his X-Ray vision on you one time, accidentally getting a peak of what was under your clothes. After he wipes away the reminder of his guilt, he’s sure he’ll spend his whole life trying to apologise, even if you weren’t aware of what he did.

Now, it was ten in the evening. Superman had just finished dealing with a creature created from a science experiment gone wrong. He was tired, through and through.

But he knows. He knows he won’t be able to resist drowning out the noises he hears just in case you decide to commit a crime. He also knows he won’t be able to resist flying towards your direction if he even so hears you yelling at a dog—he’d say that, that is a crime in itself, just to have an excuse to see you.

So, he flies to his apartment—getting inside through his bedroom window to make sure that creature didn’t scruff him up too badly for when he sees you tonight as Superman.

He closes the window behind him when he lands in his bedroom, making his way out the bedroom door and into his living room.

The city lights from his windows illuminated his living room and kitchen. It was especially dark tonight, but he didn’t bother turning on the lights as he anticipated having to go to you soon.

Clark makes his way to the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice, unscrewing it, then chugging it.

“Who knew?” It was your voice. Clark turned around, only to see your figure sitting up from the couch.

Darn him. How did he not detect you? And, oh dear, he’s got his Superman suit on and no hypno-glasses.

“I was here for Clark, but apparently; International superhero, Superman, and the Daily Planet’s journalist, Clark Kent.. apparently live together?” Your voice was dripping from how fake your confusion sounded.

Clark turns his head, avoiding your gaze, as if the damage wasn’t already done.

You stood up from the couch, humming, “Are they brothers?—Or lovers?” Mockery was the only word that could be used to describe your tone, “Or are they... the same person?” He could hear you behind him, the only thing distancing the two of you was his kitchen counter.

“It’s— I..” Clark turns to meet your gaze and stammers, and you actually do give him time to explain—except he doesn’t, and you scoff.

“Was it fun? Was seeing me being so vulnerable with Clark Kent fun? When you knew it was the same guy I’d fight with by nightfall?”

No more mockery. You were hurt. Emotionally.

“No..” He whines, “I’m so— so, so, sorry. I didn’t mean to—“ Clark breathes, hurriedly making his way to you as you turned your back at him to have some distance, as well as ground yourself.

You feel Clark nearing you and you turn around, “I hate you, Supershit—Clark Kent. Whoever the hell you are.” You spoke as your index finger harshly pokes at his chest.

Clark whines, his eyebrows knitting together in distress at your tone. Just as you were about to walk off, hitting his shoulder with yours, you feel him pull you by the arm and into a back hug.

You sighed in impatience. Clark takes in a deep breath, inhaling your scent. Tonight you haven't worn any perfume but he still nudges his face into the crook of your neck as both his arms wrap around your waist, entrapping your whole body in his hold.

“I was going to tell you. I swear.” He mumbles into your neck and you weren’t sure if he cried and a tear of his had fallen by your neck, or if you were hallucinating. “I just.. I didn’t know how.”

You shiver when his breath grazes your neck, feeling his forehead drop on the slope on your shoulder, “You could recognise me from how my heart beats?” You changed the topic.

You push his head away, turning around to face him as both your hands cupped his cheeks to wipe a tear, “I used a biomechanical patch that emits low frequency.. which drowns out the sound of my heartbeat.”

Clark doesn’t say anything; your gadget being the least of his worries.

“Courtesy of WayneTech.” You said, “I am very flattered you could recognise me from my heartbeat alone, Superman.”

Your hand drops to his shoulder, giving him a pat before speaking, “But God, you fooled me with just glasses?”

“Hyp—Hypo-glasses.. They’re designed to make people not recognise me with them on.” His hands find your hips, grounding himself, “Please take the— the patch thing off.”

“You wanna hear me?” You spoke in a low tone, the calm, intimidating one with a hint of dry humour,

“Y’like hearing me?”

Clark’s gaze on you falters and he looks away. You snickered in mockery, your hands pushing away the hands he had placed on your hips. God, he looked just like a dejected little puppy.

“You played a fool of me, Superfuck. I don’t like it.” You say, shaking your head as your eyes stayed on his. “You really did shock me, though. So, ten outta ten on that.”

“Please, let me make it up to you.”

“How?”

Clark goes silent for a moment, and you are sure that’s all the answers you need. You give him the opportunity—the chance—to fix things up, but he goes silent. And that’s all the confirmation you need.

You remove the WayneTech patch from your wrist, crushing the fragile technology before it falls onto the ground. And you could physically see Clark exhale at the sound of your heartbeat.

It was slow; slower than any pace he had ever heard from you. You were calm, and that was enough to break his heart.

“I think I would’ve been a little less upset if you at least tried to make me feel like less of a fool.” You say, “But it’s obvious you don’t know what to do, and you just hope apologising will fix it.”

His lips twitch, almost into a frown. You place a lingering kiss on his cheek before walking out of the door.

27 unread messages from Kansas cutie

4:02 AM

Kansas Cutie: What I did was so stupid, I’m so sorry

Kansas Cutie: Please don’t ignore mw

Kansas Cutie: I’ll do anything

Kansas Cutie: I’ll be whoever you want me to be

Kansas Cutie: Pkease call me

It’s been nearly a week and Clark hasn’t heard any sign of you. Not at the coffee shop, or at night, or anywhere in Metropolis, for that matter. And he thinks he might die.

You would get messages from him during random times of the day, but would never be bothered enough to block him because you weren’t exactly mad. You just felt betrayed? Fooled? Whatever it was, it wasn’t a positive feeling.

That’s how you find yourself sitting at the bar, staring intently at the bartender who looks somewhat like Clark. He is cute, but the small smile he gives you every time he hands you another drink shows that he’s obviously not interested, just friendly.

Clark was really friendly, too. But he was also interested. Like, a lot.

You think you should probably stop. Your mind is hazy and clouded, and you’re so drunk to the point where men would try to hit on you then quickly leave due to how unattractively you were slurring out words.

But the bartender. He’d glance at you to make sure no guy overstepped any boundaries and your heart would flutter, but he seriously just felt too friendly.

“—Claark. You look.. a loooot like my Cl—Clarrkiee.” You hicupped, your index finger pointing at the bartender just as he slides you another drink before stopping midway.

He laughs. Oh, God. “Even your— laugh is the frickin’ same!” You gasped before falling into a fit of hicupped giggles.

You tried to reach out for the drink, your head laying on top of the arm you placed underneath for support. The bartender looks at you, tilting his head, before pulling the drink back.

“Heeeyyy! That’s mine.” You frowned, lifting your head up from the counter.

He laughs again, “Miss, I think you should stop drinking. You’ve been here for hours, I don’t know if I could even legally continue serving you drinks.”

You pout and dramatically sigh. “You are so like Claark.” You spoke, propping your elbows up as your chin rested on your hands. “But he loves—or loved.. me. I don’t know.” You end your sentence with a pout and another hiccup.

The bartender smiles at you as he cleans a cup; but just as your eyes threaten to flutter shut, he decides to reach out for the phone you had slammed on the counter earlier.

It was still on, opened to Clark’s texts from this morning.

11:28 PM

You: clark?

Kansas Cutie: Yes? Hello? Call me please

Kansas Cutie: Please call me

You: could u pick her up?

You: lemme send u the link

You: she’s real messed up for you bro

Kansas Cutie: Who is this?

Kansas Cutie: Is she okay? Hello??

You: Google.maps//location-link

After five minutes or so, give or take, you open your eyes to see a meaty man with pajama pants, a white tee with a comic book character, and glasses.

“Claarkkkie!” You exclaimed with joy before your face dropped again, “Bastard.” You mumble, frowning as your face slumps down onto the bar counter, your right cheek being squished.

“How many have you had to drink?” Clark spoke, his hands pushing a strand of hair behind your ears.

“Beyond human capabilities, probably. She’s been here since we opened.” The bartender spoke before making eye contact with Clark, observing him. “Hey! She’s right, we do look somewhat alike.”

Clark feels a little pang at his heart at the thought of you possibly having flirted with the bartender, but he gives a small, pursed smile before holding you by the arm to lift you up. One of your arms wraps around his neck, as the other one is held up by him—guiding you as you walk.

“Treat her right, man.” Clark hears the bartender yell as he walks out of the bar. You look up at Clark and giggle when his eyebrows frown at what the guy said.

By the morning, you find yourself comfortably wrapped in a duvet with a soft pillow under your head. Your body had turned to the side as you slept, giving you a view of the city through the windows.

The sun was especially bright and warm today. You, however, felt the total opposite of bright and warm.

But, you’re out of that skin tight skirt from last night, and you’re in comfy clothes. You also don’t feel that uncomfortable feeling of your mascara being messily dried up around your eyes. Hell, you might actually be feeling bright and warm today.

Only if the hangover doesn’t hit you yet.

You groggily rubbed your eyes, sighing as your hand raised in the air to stretch.

Just then, you felt an arm wrapped tighter around your belly as you shifted. And, you felt someone’s nose nuzzle deeper into the crook of your neck, breathing you in before sighing.

“What the fuck.” You whispered to yourself. You mentally give yourself a slap in the face, assuming you let some guy take you home last night.

And oh, God. Could you have been drunk enough to have sex with whoever it was? No way! You have clothes on right now.

You purse your lips, lifting the duvet to double check if you had clothes on.

You did.. except the shirt on you wasn’t yours and you were in your underwear instead of your skirt. Shiit.

“It’s the weekend.. Sleep in.” A low voice spoke from behind you. Oh, fuck. That’s Clark.

Did you have sex with Clark last night?

You took a second to think;

“Nooooo, Superman— Put me. down!” You hiccuped.

You felt your body slump over a couch, “Golly. What should I do..” You heard Clark’s voice speak from above you.

“You should—“ You giggled, “Should.. kiss me. Heh.” You couldn’t contain your giggles.

You pulled Clark by his arm, making him fall towards you—his arm caging you so that he wouldn’t fall face first into you. “Kiss me, please?” You asked, looking at him through your lashes with a pout.

“I— You’re drunk.”

Shit. He wouldn’t have fucked you while you were drunk, right?

You tried to slither out of his hold, but his grip on your waist only tightens. His other hand slithers underneath your head, giving you support.

You turned to face Clark. “Superman doesn’t need sleep..” You mumbled, as you nudged his face out of your neck with your palms. His eyes were still closed, and you took the liberty to observe his features.

Your palms cup his cheeks as you tried to lean in to kiss him. He moves his head away anyways, making you pout again.

“I can’t take advantage of you while you’re.. drunk,” He whispered—almost whining, as if it was also killing him to not be able to kiss you.

“But I want you to kiss mee.” You frowned, theatrically pouting your lips as your eyebrows scrunched.

He sighs, sitting down on the couch next to you and turning your shoulder so you could face him. Clark opens his mouth and hesitates, taking a while before speaking, “If I do what you want, w—will you forgive me?”

“Mmhm.” You nodded, climbing onto him before you even finished.

“Wait, are you completely sure you wanna do this?”

“Drunk wordsss are.. sober thoug—thoughts, Clarkie. Yeah.” You spoke, nodding at your own words as you straddled him.

Clark gulps, blushing at the nickname you had called him. He pushes his glasses up before helping you reposition yourself; Your hands find his face, taking off his glasses— then your arms wrap around his neck, thumb caressing his nape.

You lean in, pausing to take a look at his eyes before placing your lips on him.

“Good gosh.” He sighed. A very, very content sigh leaves him and his arms fully hug your waist, pulling you in impossibly close.

You part for a second, your hands coming to grip his shoulder, before leaning in again. Clark’s head tilt to capture your lips, his lips moving incredibly slow as you nudge yourself closer to him.

Clark unwraps his hand around your waist, letting one hand roam around your back while the other holds your hip down, grounding you.

The both of you part, and your thumb caresses his lower lip. Clark grabs your wrist and places a kiss by the flesh near your thumb.

“Can I be your boyfrie—?”

You nod before smashing your lips onto him again.

That’s all you could remember. Shit.

“Clark, get off me, dude.” You spoke, your palm pressing his chest to push him away. Clark whines and opens his eyes, looking at you.

You sat up on the bed and contemplated for a moment. “Look— whatever I said or did last night.. Forget about it, okay? I didn’t mean anyth—“

“You said drunk words are sober thoughts.” He says, pushing the duvet off of him as he groggily gets up too.

You almost forgot that he’s also that Superman that you dislike so much. But his hair is so much like Clark and he looks at you like how Clark would—not how Superman would.

You pursed your lips, and he continues, “I don’t want us to break up.”

You mentally rolled your eyes at his ridiculousness, setting your feet on the ground as you got off his bed. “We’re not together, Clark. I was drunk!” You exclaimed, walking out of his bedroom in his T-Shirt and your panties.

He quickly follows behind you. “Also, did you strip me out of my clothes last night?” You spoke, your eyebrows furrowing. Obviously he did—you weren’t in your clothes from last night—but you asked anyway. “Also—I didn’t wear a bra when I was out last night. Did you look, you perv?!”

“I didn’t look, I swear!” He says, trailing behind you as walked around the living room—trying to find your clothes. “I mean I did.. but only for a little bit— It was to help you put my shirt on!” He spoke.

You turned around, stopping dead in your tracks. You hesitated for a moment before asking, “We didn’t have sex, right?” You voiced dropped, genuinely asking.

“No —I swear.” Clark says, and your furrowed eyebrows deepen, looking at him suspiciously, “We didn’t! But you did ask for a kiss, so I complied.” He says, looking away for the last part.

You turned around again, back facing him as you rubbed your forehead to calm yourself.

You hear Clark shuffling behind you, and feel his arms around your waist. He stuffs his head by your neck, not bothering to move your hair away as he breaths you in. Boy, does he like doing that.

“I don’t want us to break up.” He mumbles in the crook of your neck.

“I didn’t— God, Clark.” You sighed as your head leaned back against his in frustration.

“Drunk words are sober thoughts.” He mumbles.

You clicked your tongue, pushing him away and turning to face him. “Stop using my words against me.” You say, poking his chest harshly as he grins.

His hands find your hips. “But you’re not mad anymore, right? You.. forgive me?” Clark speaks. “We’re not gonna break up?”

You turn your head away, rolling your eyes at the fact that you were actually considering not to do it. You suck in a sharp breath as you turn your head to face him again.

“I’m not mad at you anymore, no. But we’re not..” You pause, sighing, “We’re not compatible, Clark. You’re literally Superman—“

“I’m also Clark.” He cuts you off as his thumbs rub slow, soothing, circles by your hips, “I want this with you. I want you.”

You go quiet for a moment and Clark is already mentally preparing a speech to convince you.

He doesn’t have the chance to say another word when you practically jump on him—your arms wrapping around his neck as your lips find his.

You nudge him closer, pulling his neck forward as you kiss him. Clark hugs your waist, lifting you off the ground, and your legs wrap around his hips as he walks somewhere random—his back hitting the wall, sounding an “Oof—“ into the kiss.

He turns around, making you rest your back against said wall as his head tilts sideways to give you more access into the kiss. You get off him, your feet finding the ground as he cages you between the walls.

One of your legs moves up, making him hold one of your thighs up while the other stays on the ground. You use that opportunity to grind against him, making him break the kiss—shuddering as his forehead rests on your shoulder.

Your palms find his cheeks, lifting him off your forehead. “For the record, I want you too.” You mumble hesitantly and Clark lights up at your words.

Your palm pushes his head away to the side as you get embarrassed by your own words. You part from Clark, walking away.

“Wait, noo.. Where are you goin—“

He sees you making your way back to the bedroom and doesn’t finish his sentence. “Don’t make me say it.” He hears you say as you open the door, walking in. Clark trails behind you, a cheeky smile plastered on his face.

Clark doesn’t see you upon walking in, but hears you behind him— trying to ‘attack’ him. “Shit—!” You yelp when he turns around and grabs you, carrying you, just as you were about to lunge. Your hands find his shoulder while his hands support the legs you had wrapped around his waist.

“Oh yeah. Super-hearing.” You mumble to yourself as he walks to his bed. He sits down by the edge, having you straddle him.

Clark’s hand places a loose strand behind your ear before leaning in to kiss you. You instinctively wrap your arms around his neck as you rocked against him. Your pebbled nipples graze his chest and you let out a shuddered breath against his ear when you pull away.

You feel his subtle hard-on and are surprised by his length. You laughed at his reaction, kissing and continuing to rock against him as he tightens his grip around you—pulling you even closer.

However, you stop smiling when you feel him growing underneath you. “You’re a grower?” You ask, pulling away from his lips.

He tries chasing your lips, but you palm his chest, stopping him. He nods shyly at your question.

“How big are you, soft?” Clark gets more flustered by your question, looking away for a second.

“8 inches.. I think.” He answers in a quiet voice. You are visibly taken aback.

“Shit..” You let out before even realising and you feel Clark looking at you like a dejected puppy, thinking he scared you off or something. “It—It’s not a problem. I just.. Well I mean you’re big, and a grower.”

Clark’s hand caresses your hair, “We don’t have to.. you know.”

You shake your head, your eyebrows furrow. “No, I want to.. Unless you don’t—“

“I do! I— do..”

You snort before leaning in again. You take his hands that were resting on your hips and guide him under your shirt. His lips falter for a second, but your persistent lips ground his.

You grind against his erection, and you’re pretty sure your underwear is soaked in arousal. Clark’s hands are guided by yours to cup your breasts. Clark’s breath hitches at the flesh under his palm before he thumbs your pebbled nipple in slow, satisfying circles.

You break the kiss and you suck in a breath at the sensation, your mouth shaped into an O as you grind down a little harder onto him.

He peppers kisses from your jaw to your neck before you hastily take the shirt on your body off. Clark helps you, and revels at the sight of your body.

“You—You’re.. Wow.”

His hands cup your breasts, pushing the two flesh together as he kisses them. Clark’s tongue glides along your nipples before pressing open mouth kisses from your neck back down, releasing him from his grip.

As he continues to trail kisses over your neck, you randomly ask him, “Have you ever improperly used your X-Ray vision on me?”

Clark is flushed, and he stops midway. “..Well..”

“Clark!” You yelled in an accusing tone as your palm slapped his chest.

“It was never on purpose! I swear..” You eye him at his words and he stares back with a nervous, goofy smile.

You mumble a curse word under your breath as your hands reach out for the hem of his shirt, lifting it off. You unconsciously bite your lip at the sight of him, and sigh.

He grins before leaning in to kiss you, his lips trailing from your lips, down to your jaw, then your neck. He kept sucking by your neck, as if to leave a mark.

While Clark worked on your neck, your hand sneaks to the waistband of his pajama pants—sliding under them to give him a proper stroke.

Clark bites your neck when he feels your hand stroke him halfway. “Gosh— I’m so sorry.” He apologised, licking and kissing the spot he bit.

You giggle, almost evilly, as you continue to stroke him. He stops sucking, and his head drops to your shoulder, his chest heaving as his arm hugs your waist.

Clark feels your thumb trace the slit of his tip and he moans. You snicker again as you teased him—your hand around his length tightens, but you don’t move properly to give him the pleasure he needs.

His head leaves your shoulder, coming up to face you. His hand finds yours, removing your hand from underneath his pants.

He flips you over, caging you with his arms before pressing kisses down to your chest. You sigh, your hands caressing his curly hair as he makes his way down.

Clark takes a second by your chest, placing kisses by your heart as his super hearing focuses on the slow, calm rhythm of your heart beat.

Everything feels so intimate, especially to him. All he can hear is you. Your breathing, your heartbeat, the rush of your blood, and the way you breathe so lowly. And you smell, so, so, so good to him.

He feels like his Kryptonian instincts are not so far from those of a dog. He can’t stop taking in the way you smell—perfume or not.

“Supershit...” You tease him with the nickname breathlessly when you feel his index finger and middle finger move your underwear to the side, gathering your arousal with his fingers before moving to your clit—rubbing slow circles.

His ears are red. He looks up and places a kiss on your stomach before traces kisses by your inner thighs. He moves off the bed, kneeling by the edge of it as your legs prop on his shoulders—your back on the bed.

He kisses your thighs, “Good gosh— you’re..” Kiss. “..so, so..” Kiss. “..so incredible.” Kiss. “..so perfect.” Kiss.

Clark’s fingers move to the waistband of your underwear, pulling it off when you nod. Your breath shudders when you feel your arousal sticking onto the fabric of your underwear.

Clark places a kiss by your opening, then your clit. You let out breathy moans as he sucks on your clit—your hand tugging on his hair.

His middle and ring finger probes your opening and your hips twitch, grinding onto his fingers. He cheekily smiles at your want and continues sucking on your clit, one of his fingers pushing inside while your hands push his head towards your heat.

You grind against his nose when he slides in another finger; pulling out completely before nudging it deep inside you. You feel Clark’s hand exploring your insides, and he curls his fingers.

Even as quiet as you were, Clark could hear even the slightest twitch in your breathing. His finger leaves you almost completely before pushing back in, curling by that spot again. This time, a small whimper leaves your throat and Clark smiles, proud of himself.

His tongue rubs steady circles against your clit while his freehand pushes down on your lower stomach, making you squirm. He feels you tighten around his fingers at the pressure.

His hand keeps applying pressure as his tongue and his fingers work on you. The pressure he applies on your lower stomach is perfect, and you start moaning— occasionally whimpering when you bite your index finger’s knuckle.

“Clark—“ A broken moan escapes you to tell him you’re close.

But Clark knows. Of course, he does. He’s hearing the most obscene noises thanks to his power; of how wet you are inside, of how his fingers make squelching noises, the way your heartbeat intensifies. How loud you are to him compared to how much you’re actually letting out.

His mouth leaves your clit, stopping his sucking just to kiss it. “Gosh. You’re perfect to me.. Everything— Every single thing about you.” You hear him whisper, his breath grazing your clit.

You grind against his fingers, as well as the air that surrounds your clit. His mouth finds your clit again, and he mentally thanks his Kryptonian blood—for the ability to hold his breath for so long. Because Gosh, could his face stay stuffed here forever.

Oh, thanks to the super hearing, too.

You whine, and he can tell you’re so close.

He doesn’t relent. Instead, he fastens his pace. His fingers leave you almost empty before filling you again. Clark’s hand is heavier on your lower stomach now and you squirm underneath him, the hold you have on his hair, tightening.

His fingers bury deep inside you, and you let out a broken moan as you come. Your hips twitch against his hold as his fingers keep working in and out of you, faster than before.

Your head is thrown back while your freehand covers your eyes at the overwhelming feeling. When the hand he has on your stomach pulls away and presses even harder, you feel something gush out of you. Your thighs quiver before feeling something wet drip down them.

“Oh, fuck. Did I just.. fucking squirt?” You moaned, still catching your breath at the lingering sensation of your orgasm.

Clark goes quiet, almost still, and you think you’ve scared him off. You mentally laugh at the thought of him being taken aback as you squirt all over his stupid face.

You look down when he takes a little too long to answer. You see him transfixed on the sight of you, but he notices that you noticed him and quickly looks away.

You snort, struggling to sit up. Your hand leaves his hair and cups his chin to make him look up at you. “We're you X-Ray visioning me, Supershit?” You teased with a laugh.

He avoids your gaze, his hand pulling yours away by your wrist. “Don’t call me.. that.”

You laugh when you see blush creeping down his neck. You wipe off your arousal on his chin and around his mouth.

Clark gets up, and you pull him to you by his waistband, getting him to hover over your body as you move backwards. Your back hits the bed frame, as well as some pillows, and Clark reluctantly removes his pants after the comment you made about his dick.

You breathe in at the sight of him. Your hand reaches to give him a full stroke while he hovers over you. “You’re big.” You whispered, “Is this one of the reasons they call you Big Blue?”

Clark sighs at the sensation of your hands around him, his head falls as he twitches against your hold. “Stop.. being mean.” He says and you let out an airy laugh.

“I’m serious, Big Blue. It’s a compliment, I swear.” You say, an arm around his neck to pull him into a kiss. He sighs into the kiss as your other hand continues stroking him.

You pull away for a second, “Wait, didn’t you get a hard-on during one of our fights after I gave you a foot job as Clark Kent?”

Clark is taken aback by your sudden question. He bites his lip, looking suspicious and you laugh the millionth time this morning. “Don’t talk about that.” He whispers as he leans in.

He holds you by your wrist as his lips move against yours, before releasing his grip to let you move on top of him.

He sits up against the bed frame as you straddle him, your hand finding his erection. Your thumb circles the slit of his tip and he whines. You let go and hover over his length, giving him a teasing smile. He grips your hips, urging you to stop the teasing.

You give him a peck, cupping his jaw, before sinking down. You let out broken gasps at how much his length splits while Clark sucks in a sharp breath.

“F—Fffuck! Clark—“ You moan as he unintentionally pushes you down fully. Your hands grip his hair by the nape of his neck as you moan against his ear.

“O—Oh, gosh. I’m so sorry..” Clark apologises, his hands leave your hips and caresses your back up and down soothingly.

Your hips buck against his, and you part from his neck. You grind down, your clit rubbing against his lower abdomen. Your eyebrows knit together as your upper teeth bites down on your lower lip.

Clark looks at the lewd sight of you as you struggle on his cock, making him involuntarily buck up into you.

You moan—and it doesn’t help the fact he’s trying to be gentle.

“Sup—er shit—“ You whined under your breath and Clark’s eyebrows pulled together at your words, looking like a sad puppy.

“S—stop..” He frowns.

You suck in a deep breath as you move, feeling his hand slide up and down your back to support your figure. His other hand caresses your head before travelling to your jaw, pulling you into a kiss as you move up halfway along his length.

“God.. Clark. I should’ve— opted on.. missionary…” You joke, but Clark huffs with an amused smile that you still had such a mouth while struggling to take him.

And with that mouth, he’s sure you can take more. Clark flips you over, hooking your legs with his arms as he slams into you.

“Fuuck— Oh my God!” You yelled as Clark repeatedly rams into you. You think you might die halfway through, but with the little bit of energy you had, you looked down—only to see that he doesn’t even pull out fully before slamming back in—and you’re already dying under him.

Is this him being gentle?

You mentally curse yourself for forgiving this Kryptonian giant, and your head turns sideways—letting out breathy moans—as your hands fall by your head.

“Pl—Please..” Clark moans, his fingers cupping your jaw as he penetrates you, “Look at me.. Please?”

You turn your head to look at him. To think you were the only one struggling was a serious joke. When you did look at Clark properly, his chest was heaving. His mouth fell open and his eyebrows knit together in distraught.

But Clark Kent is the top ten happiest man on Earth right now. He’s completely engulfed by your entire being—completely infatuated with everything you are.

His lips travel to your tits, a hand cupping them as he sucked on the flesh. He studies your reaction as he gently nibbles on your nipples.

You tighten around him and he moans, his head falling to your shoulders, “Clark— you’re too…I’m gonna gonna—!”

“I know.. It’s okay. Gosh— Just..”

He looks down at your face, unable to contain the feeling of wanting to bury his lips into yours. He kisses you and picks up his pace, feeling your hips buck.

Clark’s abdomen continuously rubs against your clit with every thrust, and his elbow cages the sides of your head as he gently caresses your hair.

He hears your stuttering breathing against his ear, and thrusts deep inside of you; Hips bucking as he focuses on the erratic beat of your heart.

“Oh—! Mm’Clark.. Fuck, fuck, fuck—“

Just then, your legs wrap around him and you tighten around his length, locking him deep inside as you come. Your back arches, and one of his hands instinctively holds your back to support you. He penetrates you slowly through your orgasm.

He can’t help but stare at your belly, seeing the way you wrap around him so good through his X-Ray vision. He cums at the sight, his mouth falling open, “Good Gosh.. baby..”, Clark breathes, “Do you see that?”

One of his hands comes to push down on your belly, reveling at the sight. You squeeze around him again, squirming at the overstimulation. Clark feels your hand nudging his face—as if weakly trying to slap him—and he smiles.

“Stop using.. your stupid power, frickin’ perv…” You mumble and he leans in to kiss you.

You wince at the feeling of him pulling out. You feel his hand guide yours, placing it just around his neck and you sigh into the kiss.

You pull him in impossibly close, feeling his hands fall onto your waist. Clark sits you up, and you break the kiss.

The sunlight shining into the bedroom settles on him—you can’t help but adore the way he looks when your fingertips brush a curl that falls onto his forehead, to the side.

Clark holds your wrist, encouraging you. He leans into your touch; eventually leaning to kiss you again.

“I love you.” He whispers into the kiss, and you’re taken aback. You whisper his name, but your voice is drowned out when he kisses you again.

You feel Clark’s fingertips trace your spine as you pull him deeper into the kiss.

Clark begs for you to stay another night, but you tell him you think you both should slow down.

Clark almost cries at that, so you mentally roll your eyes and agree.

It’s already eleven at night, and neither of you are home yet. Clark was busy with Superhero stuff, while you got bored—so you roamed around the city for stuff to do.

By 12, you climbed in through his living room window and yelped at the sight of him—still in his Superman suit—sitting on the couch in the dark. “Dude, put a frickin’ light on!”

Clark doesn’t say anything and he stands up. He pulls out a video from the news of you running from a bank robbery, the news calling you some weird given nickname. He sizes you up, and you chuckle with faux nervousness. “That’s not me.”

He sighs and lifts you off your feet, his head buried into the crook of your neck as he breathes you in. “Baby— You’ve got t’stop doing that.”

“But that’s literally not me?”

“They gave you a nickname.”

“Alledgedly me.” You raised your eyebrows, titling your head.

Clark releases you, placing you on his kitchen counter. He unties your mask, taking it off, before his eyes involuntarily drop down to the little bit of cleavage your black suit exposes. And you notice.

Your fingers brush his hair away, “A little distracted, Big Blue?” You spoke—just above a whisper. Your hands trail down to his chest, tracing the ‘S’ on his chest before tracing the subtle outline of his abs.

Clark’s breath hitches and he reaches out, grabbing your wrist. You look up at him through your lashes and smirk.

Eventually, you feel yourself pressed against one of his walls—Clark’s chest against your back while his hips buck into you through your clothing as your breathing stutters.

His hands roam around your stomach, and you reach out for him from behind. You turn and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss.

You jump and Clark catches you, your legs wrap around his waist while your fingers trace the fabric of his cape. Your other hand pulls his neck in closer and you feel the both of you lift off the ground.

Slowly, Clark flies from the living room to his bedroom. A grunt leaves your mouth when he drops you on the bed.

He hovered over you and you placed a hand on his chest, tracing the ‘S’. “God, this suit irritates me.”

Clark is genuinely offended, “Hey— I thought it looks great.” He retorts.

“My suit looks great. But I have too many bad memories with this ‘S’ on your chest, Big Blue.” You say as you poke his chest.

He chuckles and takes hold of your wrist, “Your suit does look good.” He peppers kisses from your wrist to the little bit of cleavage your suit exposes—just above the zipper of your suit. “And.. we can always make new memories with my suit.”

He kisses your knuckles and sits up, while you look at him amusedly. Your hand rests under your hands as he gets up, turns away, and dramatically turns back to you.

Clark’s cape swooshes theatrically, “Hey! I’m Superman. And you, miss, are?” His hands reach out, in expectation to shake yours.

You laugh, sitting to humour him. “I am.. someone who loves your suit.” You mock, trailing your fingers up the bicep visible through his sleeve.

Clark groans and falls onto you, making sure to not settle his whole body weight against your smaller figure, as his head buries in the crook of your neck. “Gosh.. You make this so hard.” He mumbles.

You grin, and it’s almost like he could sense it. “Not— like that.. I mean, yes, but— I.. Gosh.”

“Wow.” Your voice is fauxly amused, “That’s dirty, Superman.” You whisper.

You hear a low whine from him, telling you to quit teasing. Your back arches and his hand slithers underneath, hugging you. Clark breathes you in, fully content, while you—despite Clark not putting his full weight on you—felt suffocated by the sheer size of him.

“What’s your thing with sniffing me?” You asked as your fingertips roam around his back, tracing his cape. “Also how hard is it to get this suit off? It looks skin tight.” You casually asked, genuinely serious.

He doesn’t answer. Instead you feel his tongue on your neck before you feel his erection. “It’s not that hard to.. take the suit off.”

You breathed out a sound almost like laughter, and you felt him subtly rut into your leather shorts. “Sorry— You just smell.. really good.”

“I think it’s the.. same perfume I wore when Superman accidentally got a boner in the middle of a fight.” You say, pretending to think deeply.

Clark narrows his eyes, annoyed. But, not really.

He parts from your neck and you feel him staring at your chest before his hand moves to unzip your leather top, halfway before stopping to reveal just enough of your tits.

Clark’s head falls to your chest, breathing in once more, before sucking on an erect nipple. You sigh, grinding yourself against his abdomen.

He turns you over, laying you down on your stomach as he trails kisses around the little bit of skin the ends of your shirt exposes.

“Golly.” He mumbles when his face meets the black leather shorts that he never really noticed were this short. Your ass is lifted up in the air when his hands fumble to the button of your shorts.

“Supes’— Chill.” You speak when you feel his arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer to feel his boner against you.

“Sorry..” He mumbles, pulling off your shorts and trailing kisses up your thighs as his fingers tug on the waistband on your underwear, “It’s just— I can smell you. Gosh— I can hear your heartbeat too, and it’s driving me crazy.”

You feel his nose probing your entrance before you hear shuffling behind you.

Before you could register, you feel his tip gather the slickness of your arousal and you moan. Your right cheek is squished against the pillows while your hands gather the fabric of his bedsheets— and your ass instinctively grinds against the sensation.

Your suit’s top is still on, and for some reason, Clark just won’t take it off.

Clark’s palm settles on your waist, and you feel him push in. He bottoms out and your hands grip the sheets—your mouth dropping into a wide O as your eyes squeezed shut.

You feel Clark rut impatiently into you before his other hand moves the splayed hair around the back of your neck to the side. His chest is pressed against you and you feel him kiss around the back of your neck as he thrusts into you.

He slows his pace and steadies himself, his hand intertwining with yours from the back as he slips almost completely out—leaving only the tip inside of you—before pushing back in slow and slamming in deep just as he bottoms out.

“Augh—Mmpf, fucking Super.. Shit!..” You moan.

Clark kisses the side of your cheek that isn’t squished against the pillows, his mouth moves just below your ears as he continues peppering kisses.

“That” Thrust. “..gosh darn..” Thrust. “..mouth” Thrust. “of—“ Thrust. “—yours..” Thrust.

His pace gets brutal the more you moan. But Clark is sure no one would be able to control themselves with a sight like this below them.

Broken moans leave your mouth, and Clark leaves your neck. Your top eventually rides up from the back due to Clark’s thrusts—exposing your back back to him.

“Golly.. Y’don wear— a bra under this?” He grunts as his intertwined fingers leave yours to trace the spine of your back.

“Clark—Mmph—“ Your moans are muffled into the pillows when you feel his chilly fingertips run up and down your back.

You feel his hands trail to the flesh that bounced in rhythm with his thrusts. Clark cups your (partially) clothed tits, his index finger circling your nipples.

You squeeze around him and the hand he has around your stomach tightens, pulling you forward and backwards to match his pace. Clark hisses, “Baby—“

“Clarkie— I’m gonna..” You moan, and Clark fastens his pace before you could finish your sentence, “Fuck—! Fuck, fuck fuck.” You moan into the pillow, gripping the sheets as he drives into you.

Clark’s hand grabs hold of the back of your neck as he thrusts, holding your head against the pillow. The sight of your top rolling upwards and the way the flesh of your ass ripples with every thrust is killing him. If he looked for too long, he would’ve come the second he penetrated you.

He grunts, keeping his eyes on the visible part of your face—as well as the quickened beat of your heart as you neared your orgasm. His eyes involuntarily trail to the way you suck his length in and out, strings of arousal connecting your bodies.

His eyebrows knit in distraught at the sight, his mouth hanging open as he moans. Clark slows his pace to focus on how much you suck him in before he hears your whines.

“Faster—pleasee, Cl—llark..”

He huffs out a breathless laugh and quickens his thrusts, leaving your mouth to shape out an O as incoherent moans leave your throat.

Just then, your hips roll back when he thrusts inside and you cum—gripping the bedsheets as he continues thrusting slowly, but deeply through your orgasm.

You whine when his head drops down to your neck, his hands roaming to your chest. He breathes you in and mutters what could’ve been a swear word and spills into you.

You breathlessly giggle when he swears. And he knows you’re gonna tease him for that later.

But right now, he can hear your pulse, quickening again; you getting worked up again when his cum fills you up through his deep thrusts.

He feels you squeeze around him again, and sees the mix of the arousal you both had released, dripping down your thighs as his thrusts grow sloppy, eventually stopping.

You let out a low whimper, and gasp when he pulls out. Clark keeps your ass up by holding your hips— breathing in at the sight of his cum, and some of yours, dripping slowly out of your hole and onto your thighs.

He wets his lip but halts any movement when you grunt, “I can feel you staring, perv.”

You get out of his grasp, falling back onto your back with an, “Oof—“

He still had his suit on, the very visible ‘S’ on his chest—besides his pants, which were off, obviously. Thank God anyway, you would’ve bursted out laughing if he tried to fuck you with that little red underwear looking thing still on.

You feel Clark kissing from the side of your thigh all the way up to your hips, and your hand caresses his hair. “For the record..” You say when he comes up to kiss your neck, “..I love you, too.”

Clark parts from your neck and stares at you. Before you could hear a word from him, you feel him—growing hard against the side of your left thigh.

“Oh— Clark!” You exclaim, pushing his face away with your palm in disgust. “I was trying to be romantic.”

Clark pulls you into a kiss, “Noo, it is romantic! I’m sorry— I couldn’t control it!” He says as he pulls you on top of him.

“Does the ‘S’ on your chest stand for Sex?” You ask, poking his chest. Clark doesn’t say anything, eyeing your figure like a perv again.

His fingers take hold of your zipper, and fully unzips your top, a cheeky smile plastered on his face as he does so.

You toed off your shoes at the little welcome mat, setting them in a neat row next to Clark’s shiny dress shoes. Everything had become two, and that thought warmed you. Two pairs of dress shoes, two toothbrushes, two coats on the rack. Having a roommate made everything better, you thought. You stepped deeper into the flat, your tights making you slide across the wooden floor. Around the corner was Clark, tower slung over his shoulder, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, glasses foggy. “Hi!” You exclaim, sitting down at the island counter. Two plates were already lined up there, two mismatched cups side by side. He gave you a dimpled smile, one he kept hidden from the world and reserved for only 3 things: his parents, you, and his weird, weird dog, Krypto, that kept leaving and reappearing. You stopped questioning it.

“How was work?” He asked, stirring the pasta before attending to his chicken; it was starting to burn at the edges. You shrugged; it hadn’t been bad or good, just long and boring. You were an editor at the Daily Planet. You two hadn’t ever crossed paths before, working on completely different floors. Sure, he’d seen you in the break room, but even then, he didn’t really see you. “Editing papers is so boring sometimes. Your work is so alive, and some people on your floor struggle with that,” you comment. Clark nods at the compliment, putting the chicken on the cutting board. “Struggle with making it alive?” Clark always asked questions; he liked to hear you talk and watch your hands move as you explained something. 

“Like, had some interesting words, make you visualize the story instead of just explaining it. When you're writing for the paper, you can’t be boring and irrelevant. You have to be bold, creative!” You explained, pulling the hair tie from your ponytail, your hair cascading down your shoulders. He watched, paying attention more to your hair than what he was cutting. Luckily, you weren’t paying attention as the knife met his finger in a swift slice, leaving no damage behind. 

He hadn’t mentioned the whole Superman thing yet, not that he didn’t trust you. Clark just needed to make sure he could really trust you.

Clark wasn’t in love with you, but you caught his breath sometimes; he saw the sparkle in your eye, and he couldn’t help but relish the fact that sometimes that look was directed towards him. It was incredible. “Yeah, I get it. We have a lot of people that haven’t found their voices yet; it’ll come. Perry doesn’t hire just anybody,” Clark explains. He always found the good in people and advocated for them like they were his to protect. You just shook your head, a smile spreading across your lips. 

“You have too much hope for this world.” The taunt made him laugh and shrug his shoulders. He scooped pasta onto your plate. Your favorite noodle shape covered in a thick, creamy sauce. Clark could do it all. “Do not…” He grumbled under his breath, dishing his own plate. He clicked the stove off before moving to sit at the island beside you. Dinner was light on conversation, too busy eating what Clark made—all of it melted in your mouth, and you knew it was Ma Kent’s recipe. 

You hadn’t been to Smallville, but in the 5 months that Clark had moved in, you’d grown accustomed to them and Martha’s home cooking that was nearly to die for. She sent him with a little box of her recipes, and you were so grateful because you’d never tasted anything better. 

Five months ago, dinners had been almost silent. Clark would quietly eat whatever either of you cooked, thank you for the meal or for sitting with him, then disappear into his room, a novel tucked under his arm or a work project on his laptop. Mornings weren’t much different. Instead of knocking on the bathroom door or calling you from your room, he’d leave pastries beside little handwritten notes, the scrawl uniquely his own.

So you invited him to movie nights on the couch, board games, and eventually he warmed up. His humor was dry but charming—how didn’t he have a girlfriend? You knew about him and Lois Lane, a thing of the past, but he didn’t talk about girls much at all. 

“This is really good, Clark…” you mumbled, cutting up the chicken. He looked over at you and gave a thankful smile, wiping his hand on the napkin in his lap, always so proper. “After dinner… Were still on to play a game?” Clark asked, eyes hopeful.

 It was Thursday, your established game night. After dinner and the kitchen was clean, you’d play board games until all of the city's lights were out, your bottle of wine was getting low, and your body grew sleepy. 

You nod quickly, always excited. Growing up, you played games every night at dinner; all of your past roommates had been subject to a game night many times. “Yeah, what game tonight?” He pretends to think for a minute, knowing he had been waiting for this since last Thursday. “A few options: Battleship, Monopoly, or Risk.” He used his hands for the ideas, keeping tally with his fingers on the games he listed. Monopoly was the obvious choice, considering it was one of your favorites and got you both the most fired up.

“Duh, Monopoly,” you replied, getting up to start cleaning the kitchen. Clark was a clean cooker; the counters were wiped down, all dishes were in the sink, soaking and ready to be washed. All you had to do was put the leftovers in a container and wash the dishes, and you weren’t complaining. He laughed, shaking his head. “I should’ve guessed my other options didn’t stand a chance. I’ll take out the trash,” he offered, taking the last few bites of his plate while watching you scoop the leftovers into the little tupperware with a pink lid. “You sure? I can do it perfectly fine.” Clark just nodded, getting up swiftly, pulling the trash from under the sink and tying the bag. He swung it over his shoulder and walked out, whistling lightly to himself. 

The night was then spent head to head; you sat across the coffee table from each other as Monopoly went on. The carpet was soft beneath your bodies, and the sound of laughter bubbled from the apartment until nearly 11. Once you triumphed in a second game of Monopoly, you jumped across at him, teasingly trying to poke at his sides for fun. He started to laugh, “Shouldn’t I be doing this? I’m the loser and seek my revenge!” Clark swiftly tugged you closer, tickling you, your head thrown back in laughter. You smelt like your perfume with a tint of some kind of earth abundance; when his hands stopped tickling you just sat against his chest, looking each other in the eye. This was normal for you. To Clark? It was different; he didn’t think he could ever get used to it. 

Your cheeks relaxed as you came down from your laughter, getting up and starting to clean up the game. “Thank you for a very well-played game, sir,” you tease, holding out a hand. Clark took it and shook firmly. “I will remember this for next time. I’ll pick a game I’m actually good at.” Clark usually lost, but he always beat you in Chess and, surprisingly, the board game Life. 

The next day at work, he sat in his office chair, his keyboard clicking away rapidly as he wrote an article. Lois and Jimmy were huddled over Jimmy’s pictures. A notification from Clark’s phone, he looked down, noticing your name light up across the screen. “We have to try this, Clark!” it read. He clicked on the video attached—a dessert recipe of a treat he hadn’t had in years. The smile on his face never faded, and Clark quickly typed back, “Scrolling at work? What would your supervisor have to say about this?” before hearting the video. When he looked up, Lois and Jimmy were staring at him. 

“What?” He asked.

“Who were you just texting?” Lois asked first, walking over and attempting to get a glance at his phone. Clark hit it from her, swiveling in his chair. “Why do you ask?” Clark’s tone was suspicious as Jimmy wheeled over, eyebrow raised. “Do you have a secret girlfriend, dude? Why were you smiling at your phone like that?” Lois nodded along with Jimmy, arms crossed as she leaned on Clark’s cubicle. “No… It was just my roommate. She wanted to try to make this dessert and—” Jimmy cut you off. “Just your roommate? Are you sleeping with her?” He asked. Clark furrowed his brow and shook his head. “You like her?” Lois added, eyebrow cocked. 

His phone lit up again, your name next to the little kissy face cat emoji, and his cheeks warmed. “No, she’s just my friend. It’s like she’s my best friend,” both of them frowned. “She isn’t replacing you guys! She just matters to me as much as you guys do, nothing more,” Clark defended, knowing that his bright red ears weren’t helping. 

He didn’t like you like that… He didn’t think. 

“It’s okay to like someone, Clark. You deserve to be happy,” Lois said first, before returning to her desk. When she left, Jimmy lowered his voice. “It’s okay; she’s gone! You can tell me if you're banging her now.” Clark shook his head. “Banging? Are you 16? And you know I don’t do that stuff…” Jimmy gave a disappointed huff.

“Lois is right, you know?” Jimmy then rolled back to his desk, typing out an email. 

Clark shook his head to himself; his friends got crazy ideas sometimes. He looked down at his phone to see you sent an emoji in reply. So he just tucked his phone away and went back to working, the conversation at the forefront of his mind now. 

You deserve to be happy. 

Not with something so valuable, gambling away your friendship just for a silly crush. After lunch break, he pushed it away and worked effortlessly.

Friday nights were free rein; you usually watched a TV show or a movie while snacking. Sometimes he joined you, sometimes he sat on the porch and read instead. He texted you saying he’d be out with friends; in reality, he was out on patrol. Lex Luthor had more scandals; bigger anomalies and monsters were being released into the city, but to distract him from what?

The elevator dinged open to your floor; his hair was messed up, it was late, and his work suit was ruffled. He looked like he had been out with someone more than a friend, and that bothered him. He didn’t want you to think that he was sleeping with someone. Clark didn’t know why, but he just didn’t. 

He turned his key in the lock and slipped inside. Your movie was playing, and he expected you to peek your head up and say hi as you always did. When it was silent, he slipped his shoes off, set down his bag, and walked to the couch. 

You were fast asleep, your soft breathing coming through your lips that were slightly parted. Your hair was messy; you had kicked the blanket off half of your body. Clark couldn’t help but smile to himself, his hand going down to touch a strand of your hair. It just felt right, nice and soft in his fingers. 

Carefully, he picked you up, holding you like a baby. The blanket dragged with him as your grip on it refused to let up. A small groan of complaint as you nuzzled deeper into his chest. Clark nearly bumped into the wall, too distracted by watching you. 

He had watched Lois too, the way she breathed at night, her small twitches—you were so human it was hard for him to look away.

Clark pulled back the covers and set you in bed, tugging them up to your chin. “Clark?” you croaked out, turning onto your side. “Yeah?” his voice was deep, trying to be quiet and gentle. His heartbeat in his ears, piqued with curiosity. “Goodnight,” you mumbled, and his heart slowed. “Goodnight, honey.” He stepped out of the room carefully, spending the next few hours staring at the ceiling, turmoil in his head. 

Work wasn’t there—nothing that Lex Luthor had done, but what Jimmy and Lois had said. Were you just a roommate, or was his doting devotion to you something more than friendship?

Time passed quickly with your busy schedules; you had editing and friends, he had Superman and articles. Outside of that, you two were inseparable. You always asked for advice, and Clark always gave it happily. 

“Clark?” You asked, swinging the door to his room open unannounced, making him jump. He had only been reading, but it still scared him. “Sorry. What should I wear?” Clark took you in, leaning in his doorway, wearing his shirt that he’d been looking for for a month now and underwear. He wasn’t filthy; he could handle it just fine, just something that had been hard to get used to. The first time you did it, after he had been living with you for 3 months, he hadn’t been able to look you in the eye. 

“Hey! I’ve been looking for that!” Clark complains, sitting up in his bed. You roll your eyes. “Tough luck, Clark. It strains against your muscles anyway; give it a break. Now what should I wear for my date?” You started holding up different dresses and then a more casual jeans option with a million shirts he thought were all very pretty. You noticed his muscles in his shirt?

“Date?” he asked, catching the clothes that you were tossing at him. The word ‘date’ hung between you both; he swallowed his strange disappointment and helped you anyway. You nodded like it was obvious. You talked about getting a boyfriend a lot, saying it would be nice. He noticed that you had dating apps downloaded, and he pitied that idea. Clark wanted you to get asked out extravagantly; you deserved something romantic. “Yeah, a guy on this dating app. He’s an accountant and likes to run with his dog.” Clark’s brows furrowed. “You don’t like to run, and you don’t like dogs,” he reminded you. You just shrugged. He helped you pick the outfit regardless, something slightly nice since it was a dinner date. You pulled the jeans on right in front of him, his eyes watching helplessly. 

He needed this to stop; he couldn’t hold back his reactions anymore. Clark shifted uncomfortably as the lump in his pants started to increase, his thick comforter luckily covering it. You walked out to change into a nice sweater and heels next. You looked incredible; your hair was perfect, and your lips were so sweet. 

Gosh, he could treat you better than any of those other losers. “Golly, you look great,” Clark commented with a small smile. You gave him a grin, and he melted into his bed. When the front door finally clicked shut behind you, he let out a pent-up groan. How could you not know what you do to him? The fancy red underwear you wore flashed in his mind, wondering how many other guys that same pair had worked on. 

Shamefully, Clark was reaching into his pants, nursing his thick cock that dripped with pre-cum. Soon he was thrusting into his fist, biting his lip to hold back the needy whines that kept dying in his throat. It didn’t take him long to finish, right there in his pants, but he was embarrassed afterwards. Some pervert he was, jerking off to his roommate…

That was the first time he noticed his undeniable attraction to you, when the means of friendship started to bend as he contemplated what you really meant to him, if you were just pretty or something much more than he’d want to admit. 

He was in bed, his laptop playing an old movie because he didn’t want to sit on the couch; it felt too far, and maybe just maybe… he didn’t want to run into you tonight and hear about that date. Not just yet; his heart couldn’t take it.

 The door clicked open, and he perked up. Clark called your name, pausing the movie to get up and greet you. He heard a sniffle, and his door creaked open. In your hand were your heels, dropping them on his floor. Then he saw your face, the mascara staining your cheeks, fat tears rolling down your face; your sleeve was damp from wiping your face. 

“Sweetheart, what happened?” he asked, concern flooding his tone. You’d never come home this distraught before, nothing that ice cream couldn’t fix—but tonight, your silence was loud as you climbed onto his bed, into his lap, and wrapped your arms around his middle. You pressed into his chest; you’d never done this before. 

He assumed you didn’t quite trust him, but now he felt the quiet trust. Clark figured his secretiveness drove a wedge between whatever relationship was blooming now.

Yet, you squeezed him as your body wracked with tears. 

Clark tried to sit up, but you mumbled, “Please stay with me, Clark.” The plea in your voice made him tug the covers over you and hold you closer in his big arms. “Okay,” he whispered into your hair. It wasn’t long before you’d fallen asleep, still in your jeans and sweater, make-up rubbing off on his shirt. Not that he minded, his head clouded with ideas of what that guy could have possibly said to you. After fading in and out of sleep all night, getting strong whiffs of your natural scent, the sun finally peeked through the curtains, not fazing you even a little bit. He knew that you could sleep through anything, and for a long time. 

When you finally woke on his chest, the sun stripping you of peace and the dark. You took a deep inhale, the smell of leftover cologne, ink, and a unique musk; the warm body under you caught you off guard. “Morning…” Clark rasped under you, his eyes on your face already. Then it all came flooding back. The date, drinking too much, and eventually crashing on Clark’s chest in a moment of desperation and loneliness. You liked Clark more than you wanted to admit, more than friendly. He was always there for you, and he held onto secrets well. You knew you could always trust him, that he’d never judge you, despite seeing the grimace he swallows every time you say the word ‘date’ around him (He wasn’t as good at hiding it as he thought).

Your head ached. “So bright.” Your nose nuzzled into his armpit, shielding yourself from the sun. He shifted to get up, and the small sound of complaint made him freeze before he continued. The curtains swept shut, the sun being shut out, and he shuffled to the kitchen. The coffee grinder started up, pans and bowls clinking as he worked.

You sank into his bed, bigger than yours and smelt like him. His comforter was heavy, and the ache in your head wouldn’t settle. Clark came in with a plate of pancakes, coffee beside it with the perfect amount of cream. “Hangover cure, I think.” Clark hadn’t been drunk before (he literally couldn’t, but he wouldn’t get into that), so he just copied what he'd seen in college. “You think?” you asked, sitting up with a raised eyebrow. 

You had never been more grateful for Clark until now, the syrupy pancakes in front of you sponging up the stuff in your system and giving you a small boost. “I’ve never been drunk. Are you going to tell me what happened last night?” he asked, curious, a sad furrow in his brow.

The sadness wasn’t fake. He was upset that someone had done this, and suddenly he found himself thinking again about how he could do much better than the average man. Clark was doting, had a big heart, and cared about you more than anyone in Metropolis. To see your spirit crushed like this was devastating. 

“It was all messy, Clark. I was too tipsy, and he was too. He wanted to go back to his place, and then this girl showed up… and it turned out that was his girlfriend, and that I was just gonna be a side thing!” you complained, shovelling another bite in your mouth. He sat on the edge of the bed, listening. His eyes went to the pancake on your fork and you. You offered him a bite, which he took gratefully, climbing into bed beside you to put an arm around you. 

He hesitated, his tongue wetting his lips before speaking. “Sorry. Men are terrible. Maybe you should delete the dating apps; there are plenty of fish out there.” You shrug, melting into his side. “You're a man,” you state. He shrugs and looks into your eyes with the sweet sparkle it always had. “I don’t claim to be even half decent.” You scoff, “You're crazy. You're miles past decent.” 

His eyes lit up with something unfamiliar, the compliment sinking into his skin—like he’d been waiting to hear it. Clark took in the way the dark room cloaked your face, how you chewed slowly and packed it away in your cheeks, making him smile. The smile made your heart flutter, and he heard it. 

Weeks passed, and you found yourself missing the warmth of his arms, where you could pretend for a moment that he was more than a friend. 

Clark missed it too, the soft noises of sleep you made that made him tense beneath you. This is when he realized his love for you ran deeper than he thought. Every waking moment, you plagued his mind when he saw a pretty bouquet or an idea online. 

Of course, he kept it under wraps, not wanting to scare you away. You seemed to bounce back quickly from the whole incident; the next day you were back to joking like it was nothing. All the turmoil halted to a stop. Almost.

“Clark? Wanna go on a run with me?” you asked, already dressed in your shorts and t-shirt. Your headphones were around your neck, and he could hear the music blasting from them. “A run? Since when do you run?” he asked. He got up from bed, grabbing his shorts from his closet. “Since today! And I know that somehow you are freakishly strong, even though I’ve never seen you pick up a weight before, so you promise not to outrun me and make me look weak?” A laugh rumbled from deep in his chest as he shook his head. “I promise,” he reassured, waiting for you to leave so he could change. “Sorry, forgot you’re all closed off and private,” you said, leaving the room while humming off-key. He emerged from his room, glasses down, perched on his nose, wired earbuds hanging from his shorts pocket, and a t-shirt. One with some pop band that you had thrifted for him. 

‘You need more casual shirts to wear, Clark!’ you had insisted, before coming home with 3 bags full of shirts for him to pick from. You donated back the ones he hated. 

“You're gonna run with your glasses?” you asked, stepping forward to grab them from his face. Clark jumped, quickly guiding your hand away. “Yes, I don’t have contacts, remember?” he gave a guilty smile, making you suspicious, but you shrugged and went for the door. 

His pace was steady, his Kryptonian genes keeping his breath even, making him look unaffected. You, however, were not the same. Your breathing was heavy, your heartbeat pumping through your chest, and your pace staggered after the first half a mile. He kept up with you perfectly, and you tried to ignore how easy he made it look. The streets were busy for a run; you occasionally had to yell an apology as you kept trotting on. Once a mile from home, you stopped to catch your breath. He gave you a big grin, showing no signs of fatigue. “How the hell are you not winded?” 

“I ran in high school. Guess I never lost it,” Clark lied, hoping it went over your head and it was never to be brought up again. He didn’t talk about his high school experience much; he had been too busy trying to control the lasers burning the back of his eyes to want to talk about it. “You’re terrible…” You groaned, picking back up into a run towards home again. He chased after you. You called behind you, “First one home gets to shower first and doesn’t have to make dinner!” Clark watched as you collided into another person, losing your balance. 

Clark chuckled, watching you scurry up and start to run again. “Hope you have a good recipe in mind,” he teased. Ultimately, he let you win. It was only fair, considering he had superhuman strength. So you triumphed and went inside victorious, making sure to rub it in. “You were sooo sure, weren’t you, Clark?” you teased, a proud grin on your face. He just shook his head, happy that you were happy. “You're not a very humble winner; go take a shower!” Clark needed to think of dinner ideas anyway.

You did, the music from your speaker flowing out. It was a random spouting of songs, but ones he ultimately enjoyed, considering you had reshaped his music taste since he’d moved in. He hummed along to the ones he knew, and noted the ones he didn’t to ask you about later.

Pasta bubbled in the pot as he stirred up a sauce, loud noises filling up the kitchen and masking the sound of the bathroom. When he swore he heard you leave, he padded off to the bathroom. The negatives of having a roommate who doesn’t know your Superman is that he has to wear his glasses 24/7. And it’s really annoying when they fog up, or his telescopic vision picks up on the little fingerprint smudges, ultimately distracting him.

Clark swung the door open, grabbing his small cloth from the top drawer. “Clark?” He heard your voice. “Is that you?” His eyes darted over to the steaming shower, your outline through the shower curtain making his blood run cold. “Oh my… golly! I thought you were out; I really needed to clean my glasses—sorry!”

You mentioned him not needing to worry about it, but still, he shut the door quickly behind him, grimacing as he hustled back to the kitchen. You’d think he would have noticed the sound of the shower, but his brain was caught up in the moment. Now dinner would be awkward—God, had he ruined everything?

 Panicked hadn’t settled over you, because you left the door cracked on purpose. How much could your sweet roommate take? Did it take open doors to bring on something more than friends, because walking around in your underwear hadn’t worked.

You strolled out in sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt—also his—your hair taken care of and dripping down your back. Both of you picked not to mention this mishap, as it meant little to you, and far too much to poor Clark. 

“Mind stirring the sauce while I take my shower?” he asked, eyes on the sauce and looking for an excuse not to meet yours. “All you have to do is stir and then in five minutes at the oregano, salt—” you give him a small grin. “Pepper, chilli pepper flakes, sugar. I know, Clark,” you finished for him. Shooing him aside and stirring the tomato sauce around in the pan as he hustled off to the shower. 

He showered much quicker than you, scrubbing his back nicely and making sure his curls weren’t matted. You had spent an hour helping him detangle his curls, and scolded him about it ever since. You helped him pick out products on his phone, cuddling up to his side as you explained them, before helping him scrunch them in.

Clark came out in similar attire, gray sweatpants and an old t-shirt from college that squeezed his biceps mercilessly. What he didn’t know was that you loved those sweatpants more than a friend or roommate ever should. That they made his big thighs look tastier, and the fabric wasn’t shy on showing off his muscles—or his very cute butt.

“Welcome back, my arms are tired of stirring,” you say, passing him the wooden spatula. “You know you don’t have to stir the whole time, right?” He asked, eyebrow raised as he took over. His tongue darted out to taste the sauce on the spatula, its flavour evolving so far. 

You admired his glasses low on his nose, a little crooked even, the sweatpants lower on his hips and that easy grin on his face that showed his approval. “I told you I knew what I was doing,” you prided, plopping onto the couch. 

“How many more runs do you plan to drag me on?” he asked curiously as you flipped through channels. 

You thought for a moment before sighing. “Another one right now sounds like hell, so maybe you’ll get lucky, Smallville.” Clark just shrugged; it wasn’t any challenge to him. Though he realized now he should’ve pretended to be more winded. 

His secret was starting to slip as he felt his attraction growing, as he felt the bond shifting.

“It’s okay, I like growing roots into the floor like a potato anyways,” he teased, a laugh slipping from his lips. The sweet sound was nearly ecstasy to your heart. You didn’t know what was happening, but sometimes you couldn’t resist gushing over him.

People at work had started to notice too. While waiting for copies to print, you found yourself smiling as you texted Clark. “Who’s the guy or gal?” your work friend asked, wiggling his eyebrows in jest. “He is just my roommate, nothing more or less.” Your tongue was sharp the first time it came up, like you were trying to deny feelings that you were hiding from even yourself. “Sure, girl. Sure.”

You flicked to the news channel, weather reports, threats of snow in Metropolis. Yeah, right. “Very funny, Clark,” you tease, grinning as you stand up again to watch over his shoulder. You started to talk over the news, your arm occasionally brushing his as he stirred in the cheese. 

“I don’t think this is a two-person job, honey,” he admits, eyes going down to yours for the first time since his accident. You looked up at him with those begging eyes, except tonight they weren’t begging. Full of an emotion he couldn’t place. Your hand was on his arm, making the hairs on the back of his neck nearly stand up straight.

He swallowed hard, his eyes moving back to the sauce. “Soon, do you wanna watch this movie with me?” you ask, stepping back as he suggested. Your legs were sore anyway, and sinking into the couch sounded better than being alone in your bed. 

Being alone meant more time to contemplate these weird feelings. Why did your stomach drop when Clark Kent entered a room? Or when he flashed you a dimpled smile?

“Sure, after dinner. What movie?” Clark pushed his glasses up his nose, listening to you settle onto the couch again and channel surf. You gave an intelligible grunt, one that led him nowhere, so he shrugged.

Dinner was served and over before he knew it. 

How he got here, he was unsure.

You had helped clean the dishes while he took care of some last-minute article stuff, then he sat on the couch waiting for you. Tugging the blanket off the back of the couch, pulling it over himself. Clark wasn’t cold, but it was a trick he picked up from his parents on looking more ‘human’. Or at least that’s what he told himself. 

Sometimes he was hoping to feel more human than he was. 

You slid in a DVD… Was it Star Wars? He couldn’t even remember; he was so in tune to how you slid under the blanket with him casually. How your heart wasn’t beating out of his chest while his was. 

“Clark?” you asked, looking back at him. Clark was smooshed into the corner of the L-shaped couch, you close by, half your body resting on the cushion, your back to him. “Yeah?” He perked up, ready to accommodate anything you needed.

“Can you rub my back?” you asked, eyes full of pleading. “Or scratch it? I’ll do your back!” It was something you found comfort in since you were young. Clark hesitates before nodding, unsure how to initiate this. He’d never scratched anybody’s back, let alone a girl he liked.

It wasn’t long before he was lying on his back, you sprawled on his chest like that terrible date night. The pads of his fingers ran up and down your back under the fabric of your shirt. The Star Wars movie continued to roll on. Your breathing was light, and the small stutters of your breath as he carefully set a rhythm.

Suddenly, it wasn’t about awkward, steamy shower encounters; it was about the softness of your skin and the light thump of your heart. 

When the credits started to roll, Clark didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he closed his eyes, drifting off with you on his chest. 

Ultimately, the beginning of your friends-with-almost-benefits relationship began. When your bed was cold, or a nightmare was plaguing you repeatedly, you found yourself climbing into Clark’s bed. He took you under his arm like it was nothing, like this was normal.

Sometimes you cried about the dreams, and he’d coaxed the tears away, holding you until you fell asleep. The next morning, he’d be out of bed already like nothing happened, breakfast pastry on the table and him already long gone for work.

He tried to think of it as normal, for his own sanity—but Jimmy Olsen was never any help. 

“She sleeps in your bed?” he asked, setting his coffee down and leaning forward in his office chair. “Well, only when she’s had a bad nightmare… or just feels lonely, I don’t mind.” Jimmy looks at Clark like he’s insane. “Oh yeah? And do you kiss her when she says, ‘Oh, Clark! I just need you sooo bad!’ or what?” Jimmy’s mockery made Clark’s brows furrow. 

Lois came in, setting a paper on Clark’s desk, cocking an eyebrow. “Jimmy isn’t very quiet, unfortunately. You know, most people don’t sleep in the same bed as their roommates. Especially when they have a room of their own,” she said, pouring sugar into her coffee at the coffee station.

“You guys are both blowing this out of proportion!” Clark exclaimed, throwing his hands up, then down into his lap again. “She just needs someone… a friend! That’s okay!” Jimmy laughed, shaking his head. “Just admit you love her, you fool! Who knows the relationship stuff you could be missing out on right now because you’re being too friendly. Imagine all the dates and sex you could be having.”

Clark shakes his head, tossing a pad of sticky notes at Jimmy. “It’s not all about sex, Jim. Plus, if I admit… that I love her, then I can’t let her sleep in my bed. It’d be too much. I can be a friend for as long as I need to be!”

As the words left his mouth, he knew he was making a mistake. Clark knew you wanted something more in someone, and that he’d be perfect for that role.

He understood you better than anyone; he knew how you liked your pancakes, and that laundry day was on Wednesdays, like a midweek refresh was what you needed. Clark knew that you preferred juices over Soda, and that you liked hot baths over showers. He knew you best by now.

So he kept letting you sneak into his bed, and it went from a once a week thing to every other night, and he loved it. 

You enjoyed it too, the way he held you to his chest was comforting, like you were his whole world in that moment. And you were. 

The feelings between you both lingered. There was always push, pull. You’d mention a cute guy, and Clark would lose hope. He would mention Lois Lane and suddenly you felt silly. 

All of it was swept under the rug.

Clark came home ridiculously late, hair messy, glasses crooked and you immediately knew something had happened. He had been saving Metropolis—of course, you didn’t know that though.

Instead you just made him some boxed mac and cheese, vegetables on the side and rubbed his shoulders without any questions. That’s what Clark appreciated. You trusted him, you didn’t feel the need to pry. All it was, was “Busy day?” He had smiled, shrugging. “Something like that.”

“Your shoulders are so tense from all the slouching you do…” you grumbled, trying to dig your thumbs intot he meat of his shoulders. It was a difficult task, considering he was a man of steel. But he appreciated the effort. “Can’t scare people off with my height now, can I?” he quipped quickly, the paper open as he crunched on a carrot. 

You shrugged, giving up and polling down at the chair right next to him. His curl was on his forehead, the rest of his hair smoothed back compared to this morning. You had stopped questioning it, considering he usually came home like that. “You aren’t abnormally tall, I don’t know why you act like you are. Wouldn’t kill you to walk with your shoulders high, once in a while. You know, girls like confidence!” You advised.

Clark laughed. “Do they? Because you keep going out with some not-so-confident dudes and end up picking up the pieces…” He leaned back in his chair, a carrot stick in his hand, his eyes watching over yours. “First of all, rude. Second, that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate confident guys.”

You gave him a grin, reaching out to fix his curl. Clark let it happen, his cheeks flushing. “Sorry, just saying.” He stood up, bringing his plate to the sink. The cuffs of the wrists on his work shirt were damp as he started to wash the dish. His shoulders rolled back and neck a little straighter. 

Confidence. 

You noticed his straighter posture and smiled to yourself watching him pad off to his room to change. And you definitely made sure to admire his butt in those work pants on the way. He was so cute, and he hid it all under those baggy clothes. Poor thing.

This love for him was starting to bubble up in your gut. Especially, when people kept pointing it out. 

The other day you had come home from work, groceries in hand and the old woman across the hall came out. “Excuse me, dear… Is your boyfriend home? I need his help switching out my fire alarm batteries. It won’t stop beeping!” her voice was weathered with age and her skin was wrinkled. 

“Oh… he’s not my boyfriend! He mentioned being able to hear it, though.” You pause, setting your groceries down right outside the apartment door. Clark had been hearing it for 2 days now, the high screech really bugging his super hearing, and you hadn’t heard it even once. “Let me help, do you have a step ladder?” you asked.

So there you were, the apartment door open as you balanced on an old chair from the 1960’s, easily. It creaked under you as you stretched your arms up and started to unscrew the beeping fire alarm. It was loud and shrill, and you could see how annoying it could be.

As you switched the batteries you lost footing on the old stool, and somehow, Clark happened to be coming home, running to catch you just in time. He held you to his chest, almost like Superman or something. “Oh there your boyfriend is! Glad you’re okay, dear.” Both of you froze as he put you down. “Not her boyfriend, ma’am,” he told her again, switching it himself, considering he was 6’4”. The woman sent him home with many cookies, and too much lemonade in your stomachs. 

She was a nice woman, but she liked to talk. “Gosh, I always leave her house weighing 10 more pounds than I came in as,” you mumbled, packing the groceries away. A small laugh escaped Clark as he shook his head. “She’s just lonely, needs somebody to feed.” 

“Well, if you enjoy being this full then you can have some of my treats next time were there.” Clark shrugs. The perks of being Kryptonian is that he ate for the taste, all of the food burned off within minutes due to the sun’s energy.

“You know, it’s funny she called me your boyfriend,” Clark comments, his eyes searching yours for a hint of liking to that idea. He heard your heart rate flutter, then watched you shrug. “I already told her we weren’t dating, she’s just forgetful.” He didn’t let his smirk fade, despite being disappointed by that answers. Though he didn’t know what he had expected, it wasn’t like you were going to confess your love outwardly. 

Clark nods. “I guess that’s true.”

Though he felt the hot feeling pang in his stomach at the idea of being your boyfriend… of you showing him off and kissing him in front of people. An dream so much closer than he thinks, but it felt so far away.

You watched his smile falter and felt your gut wrench. He was so off and on, too shy to tell you what he was thinking in that pretty head of his. What was behind those glasses? And why wouldn’t he just admit it?

Maybe because you hadn’t either. 

Clark hadn’t realized just how much he missed having you in his bed until you went out of town for the weekend, a ‘girls trip with so much drinking, and lounging by the pool’ as you had said. He stayed up late working, and the covers beside him were empty. There was no sign of that familiar lump, where your face was buried into his favorite pillow, hair sticking out at many angles. 

Now it was empty, and he was able to use his favorite pillow for himself. Except, it didn’t feel like his pillow anymore. It used to smell like curl cream and now it smelt like your fancy shampoo that he wasn’t allowed to touch, that he definitely still used anyways. The 2-in-1 man’s shampoo and conditioner combo he had brought from single living wasn’t satisfying, it didn’t make his hair nice.

And in the bathroom, when he was brushing his teeth, the buzz of his toothbrush filled the room. But you weren’t beside him, yours buzzing loudly as you scrubbed your gums and lectured him on flossing. 

“You have to, Clark! It’s like… not putting syrup on your pancakes!” you’d insisted, then both of  you flossed together in the big mirror.

You were the major influence of his life. All his habits had been slowly changed to yours, and yours had adapted to his. You both read the paper, drank coffee, and ate the same pastries in his bed nearly every morning, unless one of you needed to be in the office early for some reason. 

That was the longest weekend of his life. Not having you around might as well have been torture. How could he do these routines without you? He only knew how to do them with you now. Clark’s heart ached to have more of you—to be more than your roommate, more than your best friend.

He wanted to be the cute roommate he oversaw your friends texting him about. The one that was over bearing and so sweet that you ‘have to snatch him up before someone else does’. He had definitely tried to push the texts about his butt out of his mind. 

“I’m homeee!” you announce excitedly, putting your backpack on the floor as you slid your shoes off, looking around for Clark. He was waiting for you on the couch. He set his coffee down, his paper, but not fast enough.

You threw yourself over the back of the couch and landed flat on his chest, wrapping him in a bear hug. He quickly recovered from being winded, giving you a tight squeeze. “How was it? You do look tanner…” he commented, knowing that girls liked it when guys noticed things about them. At least that’s what Ma had taught him. 

“Thank you for noticing, it was so good. I still have a headache but me and my friends got to catch up so much, and having no work was like… the best thing ever!” you explained excitedly, sitting up, your legs on either side of his legs. Your hands moved as you talked about the things you saw and the nice rental house you had already showed him ten times. “Though I will say, my bed being empty was a change,” you giggled, standing up to stretch your legs. You opened the porch doors, filled with energy.

He sat up, following behind you as you started to unpack. “I’m glad you noticed too, I was feeling lonely in my bed too,” Clark practically squeaks, his ears flushing red as he admitted it. “My friends teased me the whole time.” Clark almost asked but you made sure to explain.

“What, you can’t sleep without a big puppy dog in your bed?” your friend teased, after asking about the sleeping arrangements. You rolled your eyes. “You guys are just jealous that I have a very handsome roommate cuddling me at night, and you don’t.” Another friend chimed in, a grin spreading across her face. “He cuddles? I thought it was just a same bed thing.” You gave a nod, suddenly feeling prideful to share this. Almost like he was your boyfriend, even though he really wasn’t.

Clark pouts. “I’m not a puppy dog… and I’m not big per se…” he defends, sitting on your bed as you tossed stuff into the now over-flowing hamper in the corner of your room. “You are big, Clark. You’re ripped and cast a shadow over people. And you cuddle like a puppy… all nuzzled up into me like you're protecting me.” You watched his cheeks heat and get up to leave from embarrassment. “Stop! It’s cute! Just sit down.” He sat back down quickly—like any doting puppy dog would do.

When night rolled around again, he poked his head into the bathroom, your mouth foaming with toothpaste and your hair pulled back, lotion spread into your skin making it shiny. “Goodnight…” he said, giving a soft smile. You spit into the sink. “Where do you think your going? It’s Monday night!” 

Monday’s were for movies, just to get the lazy lull of that day to roll off your shoulders. “Isn’t it late for a movie, it’s ten.” He cocked an eyebrow, coming back into the doorframe, crossing his arms and leaning on it. Clark was just wearing a white t-shirt and sweatpants, nothing irregular, but right now he was the apple of your eye. So perfect… so Clark right now. The little guilty grin on his face that you could just smooch off his face.

You quickly shook that thought from your head, just shrugging. “I guess your right, I can’t party forever. You didn’t get used to an empty bed right?” the tease made him grin, his face melting into pure happiness. And you couldn’t believe those dimples were reserved for you. “How could I?” he asked. He watched you half-heartedly put away your headband, rinsing your mouth under the faucet quickly.

Then you were jumping into his arms, him carrying you like a princess. You deserved to be treated like a princess in his eyes.

It wasn’t long before you were pressed into his side, talking nonsense as you used his bicep for a pillow. Clark listened to your voice get slower and your words start to scatter, until you were sleeping.

Lois’s words played again: You deserve to be happy.

And so he allowed it, he allowed himself to melt into you. Hug you like he meant it, discard his glasses and press his nose to your cheek. Sleeping in minutes.

This is where he was supposed to be—holding his roommate/best friend crush to him close and allow it to be something more, if it was what she wanted.

And you wanted it. 

The next day, Clark dragged his feet when he came home. He wasnt lively, he just smiled and nodded at your stories. You thought maybe he was mad at you, or the cuddling had been too much.

Clark couldn’t reveal that he was drained from work and being Superman, that Lex luthor had sent out the Hammer of Boravia to nearly kill him in front of half of Metropolis. It certainly was a hit to the ego, and to let it roll of his shoulders was difficult.

After dinner he took a hot shower, buried himself under his covers and stared at the ceiling. When sleep wouldn’t come—well… He found himself with his hands stroking his cock, slow strokes that made him spring into action. 

Clark hated resorting to this but sometimes it was just what he needed. And it never took long. 

You were walking by his room, thinking about coming in to ask his what’s wrong. The door was shut—unusual for Clark—so you reached out to knock. Before you could knock you heard a small groan tear from his lips. His breathing heavy on the other side. 

Slowly you opened the door. You shouldn’t be in here, not while he was pleasuring himself, but you were still turning the door handle and stepping inside. You watched him jump, his eyes going big and his heart nearly jumping out of his chest. “Oh my god! I am so sorry, I should’ve locked the door. I can move out like—” he panicked, pulling his hand from his pants and sitting up.

“Clark… calm down,” you cut him off, stopping his worry train before it could start. You watched him settle, eyes full of curiosity as you kept coming closer. His breathing was still heavy, a lump in his sweatpants now. You crawled up next to him on his bed. You pressed your forehead to his, your heart beat in your ears. “Let me help you relax?” you asked.

Clark’s heart nearly exploded, were you offering to help him? He didn’t think he could take it, he literally hasn’t felt a woman’s touch in over a year, he’d be a mess under your hands. “O… Okay,” he whispers, watching you gently tug his sweatpants down.

“Lift your hips for me, sweetheart?” your voice was quiet, soft like the moment. He lifted his hips, his underwear coming down with. His meaty thighs were in front of you, spread just enough. His cock was hard between you both, flopping on his stomach and leaking at the head with precum. “You don’t have to do this…” His voice was flooded with plea, and you shushed him. 

You wanted to do this. He had spent many nights taking care of you drunk, making you dinner, entertaining you silly movies without so much of a grunt. You wanted to help him relax, feel seen and loved. Because you did love him, a lot.

You stroked up and down his shaft, your other hand up his shirt and running down his muscles. Your steady rhythm stopped to tug off his shirt, followed by the unbuttoning of the flannel clad on your body. He bucked up into your hand with a whine at the sigh, his hand going out to run the pads of his fingers down the soft skin of your shoulder and collarbones. 

“That’s it, Clark. Tell me how you like it,” you cooed. Nuzzled into his side, jerking him off. The smell of your perfume and the feeling of your hand blinding all of his senses. “Just like that… Please, don’t stop…” he begged, another whimper falling from his lips.

The sounds were so perfect, something you’d never heard before. Clark wasn’t scared to be vulnerable with you, and that made you adore him more. He looked up at your face, feeling your hand. His lips found your neck, collarbone, where ever he could reach from this angle.

He needed to show how much he appreciated this, how real this was for him. That all his feelings were out there now. “Thank you… Just a little faster, honey,” he pleaded, burying his face into you as you sped up. Pre-cum was leaking from the tip, rubbing on your hand. 

The sight of him, happy trail leading to his pretty cock, throbbing as he trusted into your hand helplessly. His abs were starting to gleam with sweat, and he squirmed under you. He threw his head back as you squeezed his cock, giving him pressure to buck into helplessly. “Cum for me?” you asked.

And your wish was his command, he was a mess under you. His load shooting and draining his balls. The sticky globs landing on his abs, running down your fingers, and getting stuck to his hairy trail. “That’s it… Oh, you’re such a good boy,” you reassure, his panting heavy.

“Thank you…” he repeats like a vice, kissing your shoulder and sitting up slowly. Pressing a kiss to your lips. Not too long or too deep, just right.

You helped clean him up, making small jokes, ones that caused sleepy laughs and tired grins. “I like you, Clark. A little more than a roommate…” you admit, his face nuzzling back into the soft, pillowly heaven into between the valley of your breasts.

“Me too…” his words are muffled by your chest, your hands stroking and tugging gently at his matted curls. A little neglected after a long days work. You had a feeling more nights were to come being spent like this.

But tonight would be spent like you guys were almost something, a quiet burden being lifted off both your shoulders. 

Your eyelids flutter.

“Stop making this weird.” Half asleep still, you’re aware of his monstrous presence lurking in your peripheral vision.

He chuckles, the sound low and throaty. Cold fingers reach out and paw at your exposed toes. You yelp loudly and retract them under the covers.

“Please.” His rough voice sounds stronger now, but it still slurs oddly. You open one eye, not sure what he’s asking permission for.

Ghost isn’t sure either to be honest and Si has no idea. So he lays his weight next to you on the bed, hoping he’ll start saying another word soon.

You rest in silence for a minute. It’s heavy with the weight of what happened last night.

Still it helped. You’re not as rabidly aroused for the moment. But it’s unlocked a dangerous precedent, shifted the way things are between you.

It’s fucking sick. But then, who’s left to judge you?

Absolutely no one.

Ghost huffs to get your attention.

“What?”

Those blank eyes stare at you, trying to tell you something.

“Don’t wanna talk about it.” You itch a scab on your almost healed ankle. Ghost slaps your hand angrily.

He grunts and his mouth tries to form a word. But his jaw is so ruined, you can’t read his lips. Frustrated, he tries blinking in a careful sequence.

“Are you having a seizure?” You ask him seriously, looking mildly concerned.

Ghost closes his eyes twice for no, even though he’s fuming that you don’t know basic morse code.

You sit up on an elbow and face him.

“Please don’t make me talk to you about it, when you can’t reply. It’s not a conversation I want to have with myself.”

He absolutely glares at you, colourless eyes narrowed, growling with irritation. You’re making excuses, well he’ll fucking show you.

Rising to his feet abruptly, he stomps heavily out of the room, making the picture frames rattle. You watch him go, wondering how it’s possible you’ve managed to hurt a dead man’s feelings.

Ghost searches just about every drawer in the house. He’s looking for something very particular, turning over the contents of cupboards with rough fingers. Then he finds it in the kitchen.

A needle and thick thread.

He settles himself in front of the small mirror in the bathroom and removes his mask. Fuck he looks awful, he knew it was bad under there, but it’s enough to even frighten him.

White eyes framed by the hollowest sockets, blue shadows under them. Sunken cheeks and skin so transparent, he can see the stagnant blueish veins spreading underneath. He doesn’t need a skull mask anymore, he practically is one.

He examines his jaw clinically, seeing whether the bone is exposed enough that he can tie it together. It won’t be a permanent fix, but it’s better than nothing. So he gets to work.

Ghost has stitched plenty of wounds in his life. His nose has been broken enough times that it no longer sits straight on his face.

Half an hour later you feel you should try and make friends. Unsteadily you hobble around the house looking for him, ankle still sore.

Out of one upended box, you pull a little notepad. It’s blank, so you decide to keep it, like a captains log chronicling your strange life now.

Then you hear him enter the room behind you.

“Look what I found! Hey listen, I’m sorry—”

Your voice stutters to a halt.

There he stands, all six foot whatever of pure undead menace. There’s a neat patchwork of stitches along one side of his face, holding his jawline more firmly in place.

He looks like Frankensteins monster, but it’s vaguely endearing. Ghost grunts, then mouths a word with very obvious effort, pointing at you grimly.

“Talk.”

Well shit.

“I don’t know what to say! This entire situation is bizarre!” You wail at him, sinking into a nearby armchair.

He folds his arms over his chest and huffs disapprovingly at your statement. Then he mouths something else slowly.

“Enjoy it?” He tilts his head slightly to indicate it’s a question.

Looking at the floor, you nod. Yes you did enjoy it. But that isn’t the point.

“That doesn’t make it right Ghost.”

A cold finger tips your chin upwards to his face. His lips spell out two more words slowly, working so hard his eyes look like they’re burning in his mask.

“Feels right.”

@ashy-kit @cutiecusp @deadmarygolds @redbleedingrose @dustycrusty09 @darkangel4121 @cmbghost @silly-norman @sigrid666 @pxssygxblin @spicyspicyliving @itsyaboinoah @misshugs @blush-haze @kolpvii @sobbingnshtting @murder-hobo @nexthyperfix @chinaza444 @contractedcriteria @soapsmohawk-16 @just-a-sewer-goblin

You’re vaguely embarrassed about your clinginess. After all, Ghost has it worse. He’s dead and you’re still alive, what have you got to complain about realistically.

His white, clouded eyes alight on your smiling face, watching the happiness in your gaze as you take in his small gift. God it just makes him wild, how vividly perfect you are, all bright cheer and warm smiles.

Si’s voice coughs in his head, encouraging him to respond normally. Or as normally as possible.

So he grunts, spreading his long fingers over the table top, in what he hopes is a casual gesture.

You start to look through the cupboards. Most of it is out of date, but you manage to find a tin of beans hidden away in a dark corner.

Beans are not your favourite, but it is what it is.

Ghost watches you eating them out of the can with a spoon. You’ll need supplies, if you’re going to stay here. He huffs to get your attention, then stands up.

“Where are you going?” You ask him, through a mouth full of sickly tomato sauce.

Ghost tilts his head, like he wants to ask you to stop being so nosey, then trudges out at his odd rolling pace.

“When you get back you need a bath!” You shout at him, watching his departing shoulders roll with indignation.

After almost an entire day to yourself, you start to get restless. You feel slightly exposed without Ghost at your side, even though he doesn’t talk. You’ve been through so much together in the short time since you met.

When he finally rocks up, looking like a packhorse with various scrounged items of long life food and materials, you fight the urge to give him a hug.

There’s an odd moment between you, where you get halfway to flinging your arms around him and he awkwardly drifts closer. Then you pretend you were just going to help him with the goods.

Ghost presents you with a box of English teabags, like they’re a treasure, then settles down to look at an ancient map. It’s so old, the corners are yellow, he’s obviously stolen it from a picture frame somewhere.

Later, you wake to find the bed empty.

You’re dripping with slick, cunt aching. Since your nasty bite, it’s happened almost every night.

You’ve been having rabid dreams. Mainly centring around the man who’s now become central to your life. Even in your sleeping mind he’s cold, but it doesn’t scare you.

Quite the opposite.

Ghost sticks to you so closely most of the time, you might not get another chance in the near future.

Carefully, you move your shorts down and slip one hand under your panties. God it feels good, slow fingers massaging your swollen clit, cream leaking over your thighs.

You arch slightly off the bed, squirming under your own touch. Your knees drift apart, allowing more access, as you dip into your honeyed centre.

A tiny moan escapes your lips.

Ghost, in the woods behind the house, hears it.

Suddenly he’s out of control entirely, almost as badly as when he first turned. Every sinew is crying out, a clamouring chorus of want.

So much desire it’s painful, raking through his nearly empty veins and crippling any coherent thought.

Saliva starts to drop onto his tactical vest, fuelled by the smell of your dripping sex carried on the evening air.

Si’s voice is lost under the sound of your fingers touching that hot core. Without hesitation, his feet are carrying him back to the house, and there’s no way on earth he can stop them.

It’s carnal, his need to touch you, feel your wetness on his blue tinged fingers. His limp jaw lets groans and growls sputter freely from his throat.

He’s up the stairs and standing in your doorway in seconds. The heady smell of you is so potent, it feels like it’s scorching his icy skin.

You’re spread out so pretty, glistening as your hands work furiously.

Ghost’s shadow falls over the bed, utterly transfixed by the sight of you pleasuring yourself.

“Get out!” You shout at him, closing your legs and wriggling backwards. Your cheeks are glowing with embarrassment, as you chuck pillows at his frozen form.

But Ghost lets out a snarl unlike anything you’ve ever heard before, wrenching your knees apart and inhaling, like he’s taking his first breath after almost drowning.

His empty lungs expand with the scent of you. You try and kick him in the face, but he’s way too quick. Dragging your struggling form close to him.

“Stop it!” You whine, as the friction of the sheets beneath you rubs against your leaking pussy.

Eyes glassy, he holds you tight, jaw moving violently.

“Please!” The word is half formed, dry and hard forced out of his drooling mouth, not helped by his fractured face.

It’s frighteningly coherent though, a plea. His body is pulsing with electricity and you can feel it zapping against your skin. Something, very deep inside you, calls out to him on an unfamiliar level.

You stop struggling. Each of you just staring at the other.

“Please.” He begs again. “Please!”

He looks feral, more inhuman than ever, snow coloured eyes wild. But you don’t care. Your brain right now only wants one thing.

Him.

Heart pounding violently, you spread your legs.

Ghost, Si and the virus, all force him onto his knees in front of you, hands pressed into the mattress as his tongue darts out.

He starts to lap at you, drinking your nectar with savage energy. You squirm and writhe, as his chilled breath sends you hurtling towards an orgasm.

A cool drink on a hot day, his mouth calms the raging ache you’ve been dealing with for days.

Simon can’t remember the last time he ate pussy, but there’s no way on earth it was like this. It satisfies him, in a way that nothing else can or ever will. Even the tang of blood loses its lustre in comparison to your sweet surrender.

You’re panting, hands moving to his head to touch some part of him and ground yourself. Messily he circles your bud, flicking and kissing it until you can barely see straight.

As your fingertips caress his scalp, Ghost moans throatily, like he’s never felt anything like it. So you do it again, until the vibration of his voice snaps the tight coil building in your stomach.

When you cry out under his broken mouth, you gush. It’s like the most potent drug. Ghosts fingers drag through your folds, making you gasp with the chilling sensation of his pulseless digits.

“Please.” He slurs over and over again between your legs, revelling in the fact he can say a word. His broad tongue moves inside you, a stream of spit and your first release making the bed covers damp.

Ghosts hands press your own around his face, willing you to keep touching him. So soft and gentle, you feel the harsh line of what must have once been a strong jaw.

Feet resting on his back, he pulls more orgasms from your trembling body, inhaling them and savouring every whimper leaving your mouth.

He only stops eating you out, when you start to sob in earnest. So overstimulated it’s painful. The sound of your weeping, is like a brisk slap in the face.

Gradually Si’s voice starts battling through the lustful roar of the virus.

Shit.

You’ve both crossed a line, that can never be stepped back from.

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“Hurts!” You’re howling as the cloth makes another sweep. Crossly, you try and snatch your leg away, but he grabs your foot and growls fiercely.

It’s been two days since you broke your fever. Both of you are absolutely exhausted, waiting uneasily for the virus to take command of your system.

But other than the painful bite, you feel almost normal. Like nothing happened. Immunity? Or were you just lucky?

Ghost now spends all his time close at hand, and that’s not up for debate or discussion.

Anyway it’s hard to argue with someone who doesn’t talk back, but gives you the (literal) shit eating look of death in response.

You still smell sweet to him, but the virus has sensed the change in your DNA, he doesn’t need to suppress the urge to feast on you. But it’s now acting out in new and more unpredictable ways.

In short, it keeps shouting at him to breed you, make you round with little monsters. It clouds his senses sometimes, until it becomes increasingly difficult to hear Si’s rational arguments that it would be wrong on every level.

He’s sure you’d be disgusted if you knew about it. The way he almost aches sometimes, when you look up at him under your lashes.

Ghost finishes cleaning your injury and then examines it closely. It looks okay, like it’s healing. His gloved hand lingers on your flesh just a little bit too long.

Then he grunts at you to signify his work is done. Gingerly you try and put weight on your ankle, but it shakes violently, muscles still weakened and bruised.

“I think we’ll be here for another day. Unless you want to carry me around like a backpack?”

Ghost nods and jerks one thumb towards the door. You should both keep moving, but silently he’s relishing the thought of your body pressed up against him like it was on the bridge...

That’s where his mind often takes him, in the quiet corners of the night while you sleep. How your thighs felt under his grip. The way your face rubbed into the valley between his shoulders when you were scared.

Off you both go, Ghost carrying you firmly as your legs wrap around his waist. It’s like clinging to a statue, the wind blowing through your hair as you wriggle to try and get comfortable.

As he trudges along, you talk at him. Airing your theories about escaping un-death. But neither of you really have any answers and Ghost’s grunts become sparse as your ideas taper off.

Eventually you make it to a house, sat in the middle of rolling fields. It looks deserted, windows sad and blank. A tyre swing, hanging from a large oak tree in the front yard, moves depressingly in the wind.

The creak of the rope is almost the only sound, apart from the gentle swish of tall grass.

Ghost sets you down, then moves off to check it out. He’s never letting you go into a building alone again. If you thought he was a guard dog before, Ghost will show you just how tenacious he can be.

His gait is still stiff, muscles unwilling to move without the promise of flesh at the end of the action, but he’s able to control his finer motor skills now.

It’s because of you.

That much he’s sure of. More often then Si would like to admit, he feels the phantom pangs of adoration stirring where his heart used to beat. His misty eyes seek out the comfort of your bright ones regularly, the humanity in them filling him to the brim with silent longing.

You’d never love him in return though. Why would you? The minute any survivors enter your life, you’ll want to be with them. Living, breathing people.

Finding all the rooms empty, your friend comes to collect you.

His frosted gaze fixes on the swell of your cleavage in the ripped shirt you’re wearing. Si’s voice sharply tells him to pull it together, while saliva gathers at the base of his tongue.

He won’t let you walk anywhere, insisting on carrying you around like a little kid.

“I can make it to the bathroom!” You sigh, following several irritating hours of being ferried about. Ghost is treating you like a baby bird with a broken wing, gentle manhandling whenever you shift slightly next to him.

He mumbles incoherently, looking grumpy, but let’s you hobble off. Ghost can’t get enough of touching you and the events of the last week, have provided the perfect excuse.

Still, he might have lost you that night. Or would he have gained you as an eternal companion? Ghost can’t tell which is the lesser of two evils.

When you gaze at yourself in the clouded mirror for the first time in weeks, it’s a shock to the system.

You look like you’ve been through hell, greasy roots, chapped lips and hollowed eyes. One hand reaches out to turn the tap, out of habit, even though you know there won’t be water.

Then you jump violently as droplets hit your fingers.

After a deeply unpleasant but required cold bath, you limp downstairs. Ghost has lit several candles and in their flickering light, he looks softer, less unnerving.

“There’s water coming out of the taps!” You inform him happily.

He just nods, having scoped out the fact there’s a natural spring running under the place already. It’s a long formed habit, looking for water sources whenever he’s somewhere remote.

“Reckon we should stay for a bit?”

You get a steady blink in agreement. As you sit down, he tugs your foot onto his lap, inspecting your ankle. He doesn’t need to look at it again, but you let him.

“Can I ask you something?”

Ghost eyes you solemnly. Then blinks once.

“Before all this, did you have someone waiting at home for you?”

Your voice holds a large amount of curiosity, mixed with something else unfamiliar to Si.

Slowly he shakes his head, fluttering his eyes for no, briefly thinking of his team. They must know what’s happened to him by now, or they’ve guessed.

“That’s a shame.” You tell him quietly, playing with the toggles on his vest. Then he squeezes your heel lightly, tilting his head and returning the question with the inclination.

“My family. I hope they’re okay.”

Ghost watches your bottom lip start to tremble. He spends most of his time reading your expressions, knowing when something is wrong, and basking in the look on your face when it’s right.

In an entirely human gesture, he pulls you towards his chest. Thick arms wrapping around your body, as you seek comfort in him.

You don’t complain that he’s cold.

Or that he’s still dirty. Covered in the muck of travelling and Bambi’s essence.

You just let him hold you. Because it feels safe, like you were meant to be there.

Ghost puts you to bed, but you cling onto him all night long. He tries to ignore the way your body heat lights him up, but it’s irresistible. The virus roars at him, all those copies of the infection you could make together.

Instead, he places damp, clumsy kisses on your skin while you sleep. Si’s deep voice hums in approval inside him, while Ghost agrees with a reverberating groan.

Lucid dreams fill your heart that night. Footsteps trace the steps to your distant family home, but you’re not visiting alone.

Ghost is at your shoulder, hand interlaced with your own.

@ashy-kit @cutiecusp @deadmarygolds @redbleedingrose @dustycrusty09 @darkangel4121 @smexysarah @cmbghost @silly-norman @sigrid666 @pxssygxblin @spicyspicyliving @itsyaboinoah

You’re hunting for supplies, rifling through the cars abandoned on the narrow road. Ghost is eyeing the horizon watchfully, looking for any signs of movement that could potentially signal a threat.

“Do you want this?” You ask him, holding out a small handgun you’ve found in a glovebox.

He moves over and takes the weapon, inspecting it. On cocking the chamber to check whether it’s loaded, he huffs. There’s only one bullet left.

You peer around his shoulder, looking at it too. The proximity of your body to his makes him groan involuntarily, as his mouth waters.

Milky eyes meet yours and you smile at him. If his heart was still beating, it would definitely be pounding in his chest right about now.

He watches the pulse jumping in your delicate throat, then tries to sniff discreetly, so you won’t get freaked out.

“Don’t! I can hear you! Do I smell tasty?” You bat him on the arm, eyes wide.

You do and Si would like to eat you, but only partially in the way you’re imagining. He’s still a man after all, under all the rabid infection and frigid flesh.

Instead he shakes his head jerkily, blinking for no.

Si wants to talk so badly, to say anything. He’s been trying to speak for weeks, but he’s gradually becoming resigned to the fact it isn’t going to happen.

Then you’re gone, meandering your way down towards an empty convenience store. Ghost watches, then trails after you, slipping the gun into an empty holster on his side.

One bullet could come in handy.

Clouds skid across the spring sky, bathing Ghost alternately in shade and blazing bright sunshine. Rain is coming though, he can feel it gathering in the humid air. There’s dampness condensing on the freezing skin at the nape of his neck.

You slip inside the darkened shop, picking your way over broken glass and smashed shelves. Something absolutely reeks in here, then you realise that the freezers all contain rotting food.

Nose wrinkled you continue looking for useful stuff, stepping around the counter. Idly you stare at the cash register, robbed of it’s contents, like money was going to save anyone from this reality.

Out of nowhere, beyond your line of sight in the dimness, something grabs your ankle.

Ghost hears your yell of surprise, head whipping around with a nasty crack. In seconds he’s in there, finding you collapsing, backed against the wall while a corpse lies at your feet.

He looks from your knife wedged in it’s head, to the blood now staining your jeans. The voice of Si groans, but Ghost remains silent, crouching down beside you and pulling your trouser leg up.

There’s a deep bite mark there, oozing, already causing the veins around it to turn a fierce red.

“I fucked up.” You whimper at him. A fine layer of sweat breaks over your face, lips almost as pale as his are.

One gloved hand takes yours. Si wants to tell you it’s okay. It will all be okay.

You look down at the bite, then at the gun on his belt, reaching for it without hesitation.

Ghost lets out a low hiss and bats you off. He can’t face watching you put a bullet between your eyes with trembling fingers.

He just can’t.

“Please. I don’t want to turn.” You beg him, tears now tracking down your face.

Those blank eyes blink twice at you in quick succession, refusing your request. Ignoring your continued pleas, he scoops you up easily, carrying you through the deserted streets.

Si wants to find somewhere quiet for you. Ghost just needs you to be in his arms.

Eventually he forces open the door of a house, set back slightly off the road, one frigid shoulder used as a battering ram. He knows you don’t have long left, a few hours if that, until you become like him.

You’re panting, pupils dilating as the virus storms through your system. Every nerve feels like it’s crawling out of the surface of your skin, body alight with the presence of something foreign and unwanted.

There’s a dusty bed in an upstairs room. Gently he puts you down and then begins to check the rest of the place out. It’s empty, full of cobwebs. So he barricades the door shut, hoping nothing tries to follow you both in.

Your eyes are closed, but you feel him settle on the covers next to you. The frame creaks under his weight.

“I’m scared.” You tell him quietly, tears still dripping out as your ankle throbs.

Ghost murmurs incoherently, trying to make it sound reassuring.

“Does it hurt like this for long?”

One eyelid opens enough to see him shaking his head. Ghost rests his face next to yours, joints popping nauseatingly as he does it. You wipe a bit of drool off his chin.

“Will you do it? End it?” Your gaze is steady, even as your chest rises and falls rapidly. “Please Ghost. As my friend?”

Si can’t refuse your sweet voice. So he nods his head, even though internally he’s howling. It’s a very human feeling, grief, and it’s one he’s met before, more than once.

Tentatively, watching you, he pulls his glove off and places one palm on your chest just over your racing heart. The feel of it makes him light headed, giddy almost.

So warm. Like sunlight on his skin. You shudder at the chill of it on your fevered body.

Rain starts to patter on the windowpane, fat drops creating plinking noises that echo around the room.

You’re not crying anymore, just staring at his white hand moving up and down with the rhythm of your rapid breathing. Slowly, you drift into unconsciousness, while your guardian looks on helplessly.

Ghost watches you convulse, his mind at war.

Si tells him that he’s got to use that last bullet on you, stick to his word. But the less than noble part of his brain, doesn’t think he can stand being without you.

The virus is changing, not only is he more autonomous than he has been in months, but he’s growing increasingly ravenous.

Not for blood, but with the desire to seek out your affection, touches and soft looks. Maybe if you turned, you wouldn’t mind him stroking you often?

Vacantly, his stare moves to the wall, lost in rushing thoughts. Everything is running unchecked now in his head, the smell of your body dulled and no longer distracting, as the infection takes hold.

The rainstorm hammers outside, flooding the streets with water. There’s a drip coming from the roof, he can hear it making the floorboards wet.

So Ghost doesn’t immediately notice, when your breathing slows and your pulse starts to drop. Naturally your heart begins to try and adjust to the sudden lowering of your blood pressure.

Night has fallen by the time he looks back at you, darkness soft and inky, pressing around your body curled against his.

Hazily you open your eyes, blinking at him.

But they aren’t white.

Masterlist right here

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@deadmarygolds @pxssygxblin

Nudging a rock with your toe, you glance around your shoulder uneasily.

The nearest bridge is swarming with the undead. Too many even for Ghost to frighten off. It’s the only crossing point for miles and the longer you stay still, the more at risk you are of encountering problems.

Every morning, you wake up with Ghost next to you. He’s abandoned almost all pretence of keeping a respectable distance, but you’re used to those pale eyes gazing at you now.

You barely even start when he pokes you with a cold finger, or you feel his chilled breath on the back of your neck.

In truth, Ghost watches you most of the time. His favourite occupation is lying next to you, while you’re tucked up in your sleeping bag. Especially in that perfect period just after you fall asleep.

You always look so peaceful, not minding that sometimes he places a hand on your arm or cheek, to feel the warmth radiating from your body. A few times, he’s felt the pulse beating steadily within your wrist, enjoying the vibrant hammer of it against your skin.

He’s thinking hard at the moment, brows bent inwards with concentration. Sometimes you forget he’s made from the same rabid material as the other corpses. They aimlessly trail from place to place, whereas he seems more man than death everyday.

Purposefully, Ghost grunts. He bends down and scoops up a massive fistful of mud. Then, with no warning whatsoever, he dumps it onto your head.

“What the fuck!” You sputter, grit filling your mouth.

He laughs croakily, then goes in for another attack.

“Stop it! You’re an animal!” You shout, wriggling as he starts slapping dirt on you, like he’s plastering a wall.

Even as you try and get away, one firm hand drags you closer to him. It’s impossible to escape, he’s so strong, rubbing muck over every inch of you.

You consider punching him in the face, but you doubt that would make much difference. He’s on a mission, wheezing as he decorates you.

Eventually he releases his grip, so you stagger away, glaring at him. Ghost stands back admiring his handiwork, then he leans in and sniffs.

You still smell vaguely enticing. He needs something else to cover it.

“Dickhead!” You snap, trying to wipe your eyes. He slaps your hand away, then begins to tug off his vest, still covered in dry deers blood.

He slips it over your head, as you suppress a gag. Ghost inhales once more, nodding approvingly. Your scent has been satisfactorily replaced with his own.

“If you weren’t dead already, I’d do it for you.” You tell him crossly, almost heaving at the thought of the bacteria now pressed against your skin. “Stop laughing!”

But Ghost can’t stop. It leaks out of him, after such a long stretch of forced silence.

After you threaten him several more times, he finally gets a hold of himself. He points to the bridge in the distance, then to you and himself.

Comprehension starts to dawn on you.

“Okay.” You nod, fear bubbling in the pit of your stomach. But there’s no other way across. It’s this or swim and you don’t fancy your chances against that current.

Ghost starts to pull you towards him, bending slightly and putting your arms around his neck. It’s a good job you smell vile, because otherwise the proximity of your body to his, would make thinking straight a challenge.

He hoists you onto his back easily. It’s not comfortable, jutting along with his uneasy gait beneath you. You cling on, watching the bridge get nearer and nearer.

You pass several infected. They don’t even look at Ghost, circling vacantly. More and more start to appear, all preoccupied with their own endless existences, not noticing you.

You’re holding your breath as Ghost treks through a thicker section of them, heading up onto the bridge. Anxiously, you clutch him a little tighter.

Still nothing.

Their faces are all sunken, skull like. Some are covered in blood, others look unnervingly normal, until they turn and you see those milky eyes.

When you get to the midway point, an aggressive looking monster watches you both move by. Then it begins to lumber towards you.

Fuck.

It smells the air hopefully, eyes blank and hungry. Ghost squares up to it, letting out a low hiss. But it’s not deterred, approaching mindlessly.

You can’t watch, burying your face into his muscled back, hiding from the sight of it. A hushed whimper leaves your lips. That thing could tear you apart and you’d rather not see doom approaching.

Ghost snarls, reaching down to squeeze your legs reassuringly. Si is urging him forwards, telling him to run if necessary, get you out of there as quickly as he can.

Heeding the warning, the creature turns away at the last moment, deciding it’s not worth investigating something that sounds so feral.

Together you plod off the bridge and onto safe land. But he doesn’t put you down, not until there’s as much distance as possible under his feet.

What feels like hours later, he places you on the soft floor of a small barn. Your tired body feels like lead, eyes drooping.

“Your back is harder than a virgin’s dick at the thought of a honeymoon.” You tease sleepily, making him let out another rough bark of mirth.

Heavily, you remove his vest. It doesn’t smell so bad now. Or maybe you’re just used to it. Who knows.

There’s a small water butt just outside, you spotted it on your way in.

“Gonna wash.” You tell him with a yawn. “Don’t peek.”

Ghost huffs, frosted eyes blinking once in acknowledgment. Si’s softer voice thanks fuck that his plan worked, that you’re safe. He rests against the creaking wooden wall, watching the moonlight rise over the sky.

Your smaller form is wrapped in a blanket, hair wet as you lay out your clothes to dry. Ghost can’t help but be drawn to it, your figure outlined against the dusk. He can see you shivering, even from here.

Before he died, Si always ran hot, sleeping under the thinnest layers so he didn’t roast alive. Now he would give pretty much anything on earth, to cuddle up with you and warm your sleeping body with his.

In the middle of the night, you grab his hand as you talk in your dreams. Si wonders what you’re seeing?

If fate had bought you together while he was whole, would you have given him the time of day? Necessity is clearly why you keep him around now, but say you’d met him in another timeline…

So many questions he can’t articulate. Would you both have shared these small, tender moments? Would the old Simon Riley have been this happy simply to hold your hand?

He used to struggle with intimacy, feeling unworthy of it.

Simon never really had significant others when he was alive. He was married to his job. Also, after the endless assaults inflicted on him by Roba amongst others, he found physical touch difficult.

Sometimes he craved it. Other times the thought of being close to someone, made him feel sick. He’d had one night stands, but he didn’t let many people get closer than that.

It’s different with you though, he’s different.

Tags: @cutiecusp

Masterlist for this series

But Ghost enjoys your chatter, the human part of his brain purrs at the sound of your voice. The undead bit remains restless though, he has to snack while you’re asleep, doing anything he can to keep the hunger at bay.

Dead animals mainly, there aren’t any survivors left to pick off round here. He doesn’t like to imagine what you might do, if you saw him eating raw meat greedily, blood and saliva dripping down his throat.

Ghost would rather you didn’t see him like that actually. Feral and rabid.

You sit down on a tree stump, wiping sweat off your brow.

“Wish I knew your name. I need something to call you.”

Ghost gazes at you blankly, pale eyes just watching.

“Skull face seems a bit obvious.” You concede, eyeing the mask he still hasn’t taken off. “You’ve got a UK flag on your gear, maybe I should call you Brit?”

The voice of Si sniggers in his echoing brain. From somewhere inside that muscled chest, he lets out a grunt.

You stare at him, it’s the first vaguely intelligible noise he’s made around you. Or at least the first sound you can interpret. Normally it’s gurgling or strained huffs.

“Did you just agree?” Your voice is shrill. “You want me to call you Brit?”

Ghost just looks at you again. One gloved hand clenches, then releases. It’s impossible to read his expression, mask and white gaze not giving anything away.

“No? Yes? Make that noise again if it’s a yes.”

He stays stonily silent. Then something odd happens. The part of him that still remains Si and isn’t consumed by the virus, fights for dominance. With a Herculean effort it seems, he beats a palm against the little pocket on his vest.

You eye him, then you shrug. This situation can’t possibly get any odder, so you might as well keep living it. Moving slightly closer, you examine his pocket.

Looking up, you see his pallor, the way his teeth look ashy white in their bluish gums. But there’s something in his milky eyes, a fierce determination that’s crystallised behind the opaque lenses.

Ghost lets out a tiny sigh. There’s no air in his lungs to expel, but he wants to communicate with you so badly.

When he was alive, he was a man of few words. Now, he wishes he could have at least some of them back, to use again for you.

Carefully you open his pocket. Inside are dog tags, the metal flashing as it catches the light.

“Simon Ghost Riley?” You smile at him.

The exertion of his small voluntary action has exhausted him. But he forces a low grunt from his mouth again, before Si recedes back under the weight of the virus.

You place the tags around your neck.

“Come on then Ghost, we’ve got ground to cover.”

As night begins to fall, you manage to locate an empty stone outhouse with a reasonably sturdy door. It’s the best you can do. There’s some stuff inside you can use to barricade yourself in at least.

Picking through the random tools and crap, you look up to see Ghost hunched in the doorframe. It looks like he’s keeping watch, your endless sentry, unblinking and chilling to behold.

It’s not rational to trust him. But you do. Inexplicably, you’re sure that whatever is going on in his subjugated mind, isn’t going to hurt you.

Unrolling your sleeping pad, you try and select a comfy piece of concrete. You wait for him to leave, as usual, before you settle in. But he doesn’t shift an inch.

“Need to shut the door now Ghost. See you in the morning.”

Slowly, he moves his head on a stiff neck and looks at you colourlessly. He’s so fucking stubborn, even dead, planting two booted feet firmly on the floor.

“Go on!” You encourage him, like he’s a badly behaved puppy who won’t go outside. “Stop being a ratbag!”

He lets out a huff, then grimly makes his way over to a corner. Obstinately he parks himself against the wall, misty eyes now staring out of the small window.

The panes of glass are dirty, but the virus has made his senses sharper. Useful in tracking the living, but now they keep you safe from the other monsters that roam the night.

Si knows he is a monster too, but surely the fact that he’s able to acknowledge that counts for something. Sets him apart from the others?

He doesn’t look like he wants to move. But you raise your voice and try again.

“Ghost! Please can you leave and let me sleep?”

There’s a tiny jerk, just a small hitch of his chin. It’s probably old nerves firing, but it sure as hell looks like he just shook his head.

Maybe it can’t hurt, after all if he disappeared in the night you’d be lost without him. So you lock yourself and your undead friend inside.

Sleep comes quickly, brought on by the miles you’ve put underneath your feet as you look for any sign of life.

Simon doesn’t rest. Obviously he doesn’t need to. He watches the evening blend seamlessly into the early dawn outside the window. Back when he first signed up, he used to do guard duty all the time, enjoying the peace and quiet of life before the world woke up.

It’s no different now. He likes the way the birdsong fills his sensitive ears. Every snap of a twig is registered and even the wind whistling under the door is peaceful.

You shiver slightly, tugging your sleeping bag up in the draught.

So warm and soft. Still alive, you can feel the cold. The virus howls for him to move closer, seek out that sweet body heat you possess. But Si reins it in.

He’ll scare you if he gets too near. Also, Simon doesn’t usually act without permission, a habit formed from years of service.

Simon had people touch him without permission in his former life, and the consequences of that were very nearly his undoing.

Instead he just watches, haunts you. Living up to his name. A tangible spectre.

Human Si would have loved the sight of you in his dog tags. The steel sitting close to your heart.

Even now, he’s fighting so hard to get some measure of control back over his body. Wanting to do more than just follow you around like a stray dog. Growling at any other infected individual that dares to come near you.

In death, Ghosts presence is just as commanding as it was in life. You told him yesterday he was the king of the zombies, after he warned off a particularly venomous looking corpse.

The chuckle inside his head at that statement, almost felt like it might burst out of his broken mouth.

Si has faced his own mortality so many times. Now he’s the reanimated incarnation of it.

There was a fleeting part of him, that wondered if he should try and turn you, so you could live out the remainder of eternity together.

But he just couldn’t resign you to that. Simon isn’t a selfish person, not in life and not in undeath.

Still, it’s getting easier to access the parts of his consciousness that are unaffected by the virus. Since he met you, the voice of Si has become louder.

There’s a glimmering hope inside him, that even if you both manage to locate civilisation in whatever form, you’ll let him stay with you.

You’ve come on leaps and bounds in a few weeks. Now you’ve let him watch you sleep, when you’re at your most vulnerable.

That’s a level of trust that would have had the old Si grinning from ear to ear. But as his face doesn’t seem capable of that anymore, he contents himself with humming instead.

You wake to the sound of Ghost, mumbling a croaky tune, the sound strained through a voice box that hasn’t been heard since he died.

It sounds a lot like Three Lions. So you sleepily sing footballs coming home, until a flicker of life flashes across his wasted face.

Masterlist for this series is here

It’s the strangest sensation, being trapped in his own body. The vague consciousness he still possesses, is now enslaved to a drive to consume everything in it’s path.

But Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley has always been tough. Even through everything life has thrown at him, he’s remained stoic. He’ll be fucked if this virus shit gets the better of him.

Carefully you squeeze out a sponge on his head, making his short blonde hair dark with water. He’s filthy, covered in blood, gore and mud. There’s absolutely no way he’s coming under your roof, smelling like death itself.

Because you can’t be parted from him now. Not since he found you, cowering in the ruins of a military base, surrounded by hungry demons itching to rip you apart.

Ghost snarled so ferociously at the corpses circling you, he sounded almost human.

This is it, you thought, watching him closing in on you while the others faded from sight. But instead of chowing greedily on your hot flesh, the giant just stared down at you.

Even when you cautiously stood up, legs trembling, he didn’t move. Ghost just gazed on with a strange familiarity.

Then he followed you home, the lost soul that he is. He always felt slightly rudderless in life, that was partly why he enjoyed being a soldier, but now he’s found a new purpose.

Looking after you.

At first you were completely unnerved, and you kept trying to shoo him away. He was so utterly menacing, trailing behind you, the undead soldier covered in crimson and darker stains you’d rather not know the origin of.

Unbidden however, he kept you safe, frightening off any dangerous creatures in your path with his indomitable presence. The more you moved into the darkness, the closer he got, like a bodyguard.

It didn’t take long for you to realise he could understand you, even if he couldn’t reply. Ghost huffed lightly when you shouted at him to fuck off and his eyes crinkled, like he wanted to smile.

It’s been so lonely since the outbreak took hold. You were travelling with work when it happened, alone in a foreign country as city after city fell. Desperately, you tried to get home as your companions died or turned around you. Then there was no one. Just you and your wits.

Given that he’s had plenty of opportunities to eat you alive, you made the decision to let him into the little cottage you’ve been using as a base.

At worst, he’ll kill or turn you, and your solitude will be over. At best, he could help you to stay alive.

Ghost doesn’t care why you’ve allowed him into your sanctuary, as long as you stay close to him.

So, with a creak of joints, he folds his long legs into the tub and lets you try to make him presentable. Ghost represses the urge to snap at you, when you gently rub the congealed blood from his cold white flesh.

He’s beyond pale, almost blue, frozen in time because blood no longer pumps through the veins spanning his body.

“Better!” You tell him happily. Ghost lets out a haughty gurgle in response.

“Hop out. I need to wash your clothes now.”

He glares at you like you’re an idiot, broken jaw hanging slack.

“Don’t look at me like that! I let you keep your boxers on.”

You’ve gathered up his gross tactical gear, along with some laundry powder scavenged from a long departed neighbours empty house.

He looked so concerned when you started to undress him. One freezing hand grabbing your wrist with surprising strength for a dead man.

When you attempted to encourage him to give you his briefs, he growled like a mutt, clouded gaze narrowing. So you let him keep them on, deciding it probably wasn’t worth losing your life over.

With freakish agility only one of the infected could display, he stands tall and exits the bath. Water drips all over the floor as you pat him dry calmly. Ghost shakes his head slightly, which makes the stagnant fluid in his spine crack. You wince at the sound.

It feels strange to have someone else touching him after so long. Not bad, just different. Your eyes move over his scarred torso, taking in the marks that decorate his bloodless skin.

There’s a deep wound on his neck, teeth marks, flesh ragged with angry burgundy streaks surrounding it. That must have been how he got turned.

Ghost lets out another low gurgle when you try and lift up his mask, batting away your hand. He doesn’t want you to see him, worried the sight of his sunken features will frighten you.

“Am I going to have to muzzle you? Or are you going to behave.”

Somewhere, deep in the human part of his brain still functioning, a voice that used to be Simon’s laughs. It quite likes the idea of you putting a muzzle and a leash on him. Or trying to anyway.

For the time being, you put him in a flowery dressing gown, located inside an upstairs cupboard. The disgust radiating from him at that is almost visible in the air.

Ghost stands perfectly still, while your fingers brush against his colourless skin, now almost translucent in the dark.

Unable to help himself, drool starts to collect in the corner of his mouth. It forms one long string of liquid, leaking over his chin. You wipe it up carefully with a cuff.

He sniffs, the thrumming pulse in your neck spreading your scent around him, his enhanced smell picking up on the notes in it. Your own personal perfume is yummy.

Ghost huffs, suppressing the viruses calls to taste you, find out whether your flesh is as delicious. It’s surprisingly easy to ignore his base impulses around you, even through the clamouring infection clouding his personality.

You look up into his face warily.

“Don’t do that.”

He groans in response, which isn’t exactly reassuring, even if he wants to tell you he’d never act on it. Unsure what else to do, you back away.

It’s weird. You know it’s so weird.

But still, the thought of having another body that doesn’t outwardly seem to want to kill you, is comforting.

You lock the door to the bedroom when you sleep, leaving him loitering in the dark hallway, a strange guard dog made of mutated flesh and sinew. Just as a precaution, you don’t think you could fight him off if he did decide you were a snack.

When you wake up, you wonder if it was all a fever dream. Then you hear a loud creak from the floorboards downstairs.

Ghost is waiting for you, almost exactly where you left him.

Masterlist to this series is right here

To Clark’s credit, there’s something about seeing your sweet little self up at that hour, the little bags under your eyes; your soft, noodle-like arms trying to wave at him; and god, that little slur in your voice, where you almost sound drunk, but it’s something more sugary sweet, meek, innocent and gentle, and he loves it. He wishes he could just bottle up the sound.

He’ll go shower, clean himself up. Sometimes he takes his time with it, because a long day doesn’t always just take a minute to fade away. But he’ll always end up right next to you, under those lush covers, holding you so close to his chest. You always wait for him, so patient, snuggling into him.

The best nights, though, are the ones where you can’t seem to just turn your brain off and fall asleep. When you just need a little coaxing, and a little loving on.

You tend to get really aroused at night, some nights more than others. Sometimes he can smell it on you, because it’s so potent. He loves that smell. It’s like rain over jasmine. Maybe it’s out of routine, because you’ve come to expect him to come home late and give you some sugar, and he’s inadvertently got you trained like a little love bunny.

“Clark?” you’ll say meekly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t fall asleep, Clark.”

He’ll smirk into your back, knowing that was coming. “Oh yeah, sleepy girl? Why don’t you just try?”

“Oh, but Clark…” you’ll pout, shifting to face him. “I really can’t sleep.”

“Oh, honey,” he’ll tut, giving you a baby-blue eyed look drenched in mock-pity. “Do you need me to get you down?”

You’ll bite your lip, and that’s enough confirmation for him.

Soon enough he’ll be stretching you out on his fingers, cooing about what a sweet girl you are until your body succumbs to the stimulating sensation. It never takes much—usually your imagination’s gotten you to the precipice, and he merely has to take you over the edge.

He likes to tease you then. “That was a big one, huh. Maybe it’s time for bed..?”

“Nooo,” you’ll pout, and then register his stupid smirk. “Why are you so mean to me?”

“I know, I know. I’m so mean, sweetness. Just terrible, huh,” he’ll play along, lining up with your wet, welcoming entrance.

“Yeah—yeahhhhhhhh,” your protest’ll fade into a delicious moan, one he swallows with his lips because fuck. You’re just too cute.

“You like that, honey? Being so full of me? Bet you’re not even thinking straight, huh, sleepy girl. Just taking whatever I have to give. Good girl,” he’ll say, spurring you on, making you feel just so damn good—

Needless to say, the second orgasm usually gets you down, syrupy and dopey with a lovestruck “I love you Clark” as you drift off to the comfort of him cleaning you up and tucking in, whispering back “I love you.”