Alof Glider

It filled him with a sense of superiority. He’d earned his place here among the higher born — he’d proven himself worthy. He was different from the filth he came from. He must be. If not, then why would all these scars along his thighs exist? He’d painstakingly ripped into them with every failure, using them as motivation and passing them off as scars from sparring. This arena he was in was tangible proof of his pride. The mud that speckled across his boots would be a bygone era once he managed to complete this final task. 

Becoming a prince’s royal guard. The prince. Beloved by all, his eyes were said to be able to bewitch anyone; his voice a soothing melody that could calm the wildest beast. That prince. Edmund swallowed his anxieties as he peeked at the tall towers of the castle. It was a daunting piece of architecture, painstakingly built with intricate details most could only dream of seeing. He’s heard that there were sculptures in there that were so lifelike, they hadn’t been carved at all. Instead, they ensconced these mighty beasts in a hardening solution, which is why they were always mid-snarl or poised in a pose of attack. 

He’d once heard tales of the banquet table being so long it could stretch down the length of a city’s walkway. Goblets filled to the brim, sloshing with rich and heady wine, while all sorts of meats were served alongside it. Venison, boar, aurochs, fat rabbits, fatter chickens. Edmund’s stomach roared, and he shook his head, hardening his expression as he focused on tightening the leather straps of his armour. 

The others around him seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps they were from other academies; they didn’t look much older than him. The ones that did kept to themselves in another corner, scoffing derisively at them with the minute shake of their heads. These kids, he imagines them thinking, they don’t have what it takes to protect a royal. 

Edmund stood, rolling his shoulders testily while he held his helmet under his arm. Ensuring he could actually move around as freely as possible. He didn’t have the luxury of having a squire, not yet. One squire, a boy with olive-toned skin and shimmery black eyes, rushes through the flaps of their quarters carrying polished armour in his arms that made so much noise with every hurried step that the boy was cringing into his own neck. Edmund hears the murmurs of the servants who walk past, ladies dressed plainly but obviously cared for. 

“It’s a shame the prince isn’t a fan of women; he’s such a looker,” she spoke like the village girls Edmund had met on his nightly endeavours of sneaking into the pub. Bright-eyed, nearly squealing, as they discussed how handsome the knights from the academy up the mountains were. Edmund found them as amusing as one would find an overly affectionate pub cat. Purring against your legs and flopping over to show off their furry bellies, pawing into the air with their tails curling and sweeping across the floor.

’He likes men?’ Edmund tilted his head at the information, brows raising slightly. He supposed it was a good thing the royal family weren’t discriminating. 

An announcer shouts, informing the participants and the honoured guests that the event will begin soon. Edmund ducks under the flaps and squints at the sunrays that reflected off another knight’s armour. 

“Fucking hell.”

You weren’t in the best of moods this morning. That much was evident in your slouched figure and deep frown drawn on your face. “It’s an era of peace,” your tone remained gentle despite your reluctance to upheave yourself from your plush bed. “It’s entirely unnecessary for such an event. What fun would I have watching Ser’s attempt to impale each other with an elongated club whilst they’re sat on horses.” 

Your servants stifle their chuckles. Barely. But their muffled noises of joy cause a grin to tug on the corner of your lips. They coax you from your bed, ushering you to the bronze soaking tub that sat across from the large arches of your room that overlooked the city below. The wind tried to mend your mood, causing the sheer white curtains to float gracefully and the steam dancing over the surface of the water to swirl as if delighted to greet you. 

“I’m sure it must bring you some joy, Your Highness,” Alice folded your night shirt over her arm, averting her gaze as you stepped into the tub. The water sloshes but doesn’t spill over the rim. Further proof of how devoted your servants already were. You trusted them with your life, why would you need a stranger to stand out in front of your door every night so callously? You were comfortable enough with the Kingsguard. 

“Seeing knights fight for you,” Selene chimes in. “I’d be fanning myself just thinking about it.”

”You two are naughty,” they laugh along with you. 

“Truthfully, I feel as though Ser Gwent is just fine —“

”Ser Gwent fell off his horse last week, Your Highness.” Alice plucked your hand out and placed it on the rim, gently wiping you down. 

“Well, yes, but he’s walking just fine. He still holds his sword with a proud stature,” you said like a child convincing their older siblings that their tattered childhood toy was completely fine. 

“Ser Gwent thought that he saw a boar during the hunting party,” Selene leaned in with her brows sloped in concern, “It was a fat hound dog.” 

“Alright! Point made!” 

It was exhausting to constantly smile. Lifting your cheeks just enough to show a sliver of teeth, but making sure your gums weren’t showing, and ensuring you didn’t look insane or dead-eyed. Being a prince had a tremendous amount of perks, especially as the youngest. But that didn’t mean you could completely escape royal duties or procedures. Like this horrendously tight outfit you were wearing — as beautiful as the fabric was and how gorgeous the detailing was, you’d much prefer to wear something looser. The garden was singing siren songs to you, and you had to restrain yourself from running into her arms with a good book so you could enjoy the breeze and sun. 

Instead, here you were. Seated in the stands, your posture is as perfect as your closed-lip smile that you generously send to the familiar faces of high lords, dukes, duchesses and their respective children. The scent of horse shit and iron made your nose crinkle. Your father clears his throat, so you fix your expression with a scrunch of your nose instead.

”It’s abhorrent how you cast Ser Gwent aside so quickly,” You whisper to him.

”He’s been guarding our family for years,” he replied calmly.

”Exactly,” you give him a pointed expression. “Where is our loyalty?”

“Son. I was a boy when he became a part of the Royal Guard. At this point, he’s been begging to be speared by a sword.”

”Father!” You scold him, disbelieving of his smug expression. “He taught me and my brothers how to hold a sword.”

”Yes, just as he did to me,” he said in a guiding tone that came off as condescending just as it had been humorous.

The jousting began. The knights in their gloriously shining armour parade and trot in front of your stand. Tipping their heads, eyes shining in hope, and you do that practised smile again. Alice had told you they’d hope to curry favour from you, maybe a flower, or perhaps a wreath of flowers. Ser Gwent had never asked for flowers from you; he preferred the desserts you’d sneak up for him instead after dinner. He’d always been fond of the chewy bread doused with syrup. 

The knights came and went. Horses neighed, nickered, and bucked. Wood splintered, armour dented, blood splattering and mixing with the mud. It was all so very boring for you. Your siblings had their own jousting events; you’d been to them countless times before. You never quite got the appeal. The knights were skilled, you’d give them that, but they were entirely too haughty. With their toddling squires that they’d kick away and their rowdy horses whose coats were almost as pristine as your mane. You felt your shoulders aching, so you subtly stretched your back to ease the tension. The squirming catches your father’s eyes. He places his bearded chin in his palm and mutters to you; 

“None of them are interesting to you?”

”They’re well trained, Father,” he cocks a brow. 

“Gods, I thought a few of them were decent. The one with the silver mare, he’s got impressive strength, doesn’t he?”

”Hm, he also thwacked his squire’s head with his helmet when the boy didn’t get to his side in time.”Your father’s face twisted in displeasure. 

Then, a horse rides up to your stand. A few of the ladies nearby gasp, bringing their hands to their lips as they fanned themselves, and you level your gaze down to the knight before you. 

He had his helmet held by his side, revealing his dark curls and honeyed skin. This knight smiled — no, smirked — at you as if he was sizing you up. Your face warped into confusion as his head tipped up at you, revealing more details of his visage. Freckles dusted across the high points of his face, his downturned lashes brushing against his skin with every blink, and his lips full with the corners curled into a feline grin. 

“My Prince!” his voice diminished your intrigue. It was pitched, as though he was struggling to keep his voice from wavering, to call out for you. The accent that paired with your name tells you that he’s from the eastern villages. Flowery and smooth, but ear-grating, paired with such a weak voice. He flourishes into a bow, and you incline your head. Your father chortles into his fist, and the ladies all go back to whispering, this time about his humiliation instead of adoration. The knight falters, but he guides his horse back to its place. 

“My Prince.”

This voice held itself with authority. A steady tone that could easily command a room full of people, it makes you curious about who it belonged to. 

He had no helmet. Not under his arm, nor between his legs. His armour was not polished, the animal-hide straps having veins of white from years of use, but the knight who wore it was a curious one. He had dark skin, his hair was cropped like a soldier's, and his eyes were such a deep shade of brown that under the light they almost appeared a deep burgundy. He had high cheekbones, making his cheeks appear hollow, and his eyes were slanted with monolids that made him appear intimidating. 

He bows his head, no flourish, no extravagance. 

“I humbly ask for your favour; it would be a great honour to win with your blessing.” He had a rough accent, not unrefined, but clipped at certain points. This knight was from the South, and he had the most beautiful eyes you’d ever seen. You imagine your father’s brows reaching his crown as you stand up. 

“You’re so certain that with my blessing, you will win, Ser…”

”Edmund, Your Highness.”

You place your hands on the bannister, and Edmund feels his heart jump to his throat. You were a thing of beauty, just as the rumours had said. Your facial harmony was unlike anything he’d seen before — village girls, whores, haughty high-borns who wanted to feel dirty lying with a lowly knight like him — simply couldn’t compare to you. Were all royals like this? With eyes that held his attention, making him detest every blink simply because he wanted to see more details. 

Your lips part, and you say his name.

”Ser Edmund.” His horse shifts underneath him, sensing him tensing most likely. 

“If I give you my favour, will you win this tourney for me?”

”Yes, Your Highness.”

You scan his face, and he’s suddenly conscious of how he holds himself. He tries not to squirm. 

“Don’t disappoint me.” A servant motions for him to lift his lance, and he does. You give him a wreath of flowers. 

“Ser Edmund.”

”Of course, Your Highness.”

Alice and Selene exchange glances. You didn’t have to look to know that; you could hear their giddy whispers and feel a flare of heat rush to your face. You pressed the back of your hand there, just as Edmund turned his horse to get back into place. 

“Going for the runt of the litter, I see.”

”Father,” you chastised. “You said these knights had gone through several trials, some were even recommended. He’s no runt.”

”He’s a nobody,” Selene smoothly added from your right side. Neither you nor your father blinks, listening to her as she speaks. “He comes from an academy up in the mountains, best of the best over there. He was the last to arrive at the trials, but he managed to impress a few of the facilitators. Ser Gwent said his swordsmanship was exceptional."

“It’s concerning how much you know,” your father murmurs. Selene bows her head humbly. 

The knights get into position. Edmund wore no helmet, but the wreath of flowers at the end of his lance drew more attention than his bare face. You hadn’t been indifferent to the previous knights, but you hadn’t given them any flowers either. The knight from the East narrows his eyes, his horse clawing at the mud as he glares at Edmund. 

He was a prick. Ever since he set foot into the makeshift camp, he’d been a judgmental little bitch. Edmund didn’t speak a lot, but his facial expressions were irritating enough. It didn’t need to be said; it was obvious that he thought he was infinitely better than everyone. A flag swings down between them, and both men charge at each other. 

Tourneys were fast. It was the rush of excitement that made it a thrill to watch. But watching Edmund on his horse made your heart race for an entirely different reason — his face of concentration made you think about those romance novels in the palace library, or those moments when your servants would coo about how dashing men looked whilst working. 

He skillfully avoided his opponent’s lance, as though expecting him to be aiming for his chest with an almost murderous intent, whilst his lance hit him right on his shoulder. It causes his armour to concave, and his lance to shatter, but the force of Edmund’s strength causes him to fly off his horse and face-first into the mud. Edmund reigned his horse back, victoriously holding his lance and releasing a long breath. 

Cheers erupted around them. Some yelled in disbelief while the drunker lords yelped in laughter as the fallen knight slipped on the mud, yelling at the servants attempting to help him up.

In the chaos, Edmund makes his way to you on his horse. He allows his eyes to fill with mirth, and when you look down at him again, he gives you a closed-lip smile. There were scratches on his face, most likely the splintered wood from the broken lance, and your brows sloped in minute concern. 

“Well done, Ser Edmund.”

Edmund’s horse tossed its head back as he tensed once again. 

The tourney had sealed his fate. His ticket to a better life was now as tangible and real as the weight of his new armour on him. Ser Gwent had given him slaps on his back, welcoming him into the royal guards like a proud father, and Edmund resigned to his fate of being treated like a boy. His hair was ruffled, and his older comrades all poured more mead into his cup as they celebrated him into their ranks. They teased him about his time in the academy, wondering if he wandered down to the local pubs and laughing when he smiled. 

It felt amusing that these hardened knights were no different from the boys at his school. 

Now, with his new gear and fancy shoulder cape, Edmund stood by your bedroom door with Ser Gwent. 

And they stood.

And they stood.

And they stood.

Edmund shifts in his spot just as Ser Gwent begins to snore. He couldn’t believe the sight before him. The man had his eyes fully closed, and he was still standing there. Edmund blinks, takes a step forward, then waves his hand in front of Ser Gwent’s face. His bushy moustache trembles as he inhales, but he doesn’t stir. The door behind him opens, and you laugh as Edmund flinches. 

“Your Highness —“ he sputters, bowing quickly and causing his head to pulse in pain. Reprimanding him for last night's endeavours. 

“Your servants aren’t here yet. Shall I fetch them for you?” 

“No, no. I was just curious how you'd react to Ser Gwent. He tried to make a good impression for you; he stayed awake far longer than he usually does.” 

“He…he does this often?” Edmund gets a snore in response. You smile, leaning against the wooden doors casually as you nod your head. 

“He’s old. But he’s too stubborn to admit it.” You step out from your room, dressed in nothing but a luxurious robe, and Edmund’s eyes widen. ”Come with me, Ser Edmund.”

”Your Highness, shouldn’t you get dressed?” You snort at the question. “Everyone’s hungover or still drunk from last night, and I’m not that indecent.” 

You turn, and he nearly trips from the unexpected stop. You tilt your head up at him, your bare feet taking a step back as you open your arms. Your robe brushed along the floors with every step you took, and the slit between that revealed bare skin. His eyes climbed up your calves, to your knees, and when they reached the white sleeping shirt you’re dressed in, he glanced away. 

“Am I?” 

“Your Highness…”

Edmund learns quickly that you were sheltered. Not in a comical way, where you didn’t even know what the birds and the bees were. But rather, you were kept away from it all. Something about purity and modesty, royal expectations and the like. As if Edmund hadn’t seen young lords in the rooms of brothels before. Even if they had merely been Little Lords — as Ser Gwent calls them — it made no sense to him how your virtue in bed correlated to your being. 

This all culminates in your naivete about how desirable you were. Everyone else in the castle had seen you grow up; they doted on you like a nanny or an older sibling. So you pranced around in your robes early in the mornings, sneaking past the snoring knight by your door and making your way to the library. Edmund tried not to let his eyes linger too long on your bare skin — those delectable legs, that untainted neck, the way your collarbones tempted him to look — and for the most part, it was easy. You made conversation with him, rambling about this or that with a chipperness he’d never seen someone have so early in the day. 

What could a prince bemoan about in his world? Edmund would be happy too if he were you. 

But then, in the library or in the garden, when you settled down with your book, it was pure torture. You lean on the chairs, then prop the book up on your legs. The robes wouldn’t hide much then; they slid down your thighs like silk, and Edmund swore you were doing this on purpose. Your night shirt would ride up, the plush of your ass peeking out under the already sheer material. 

Edmund would keep his back to you. Listen to your breathing, the pages turning, the huffs of amusement you’d make as you immersed yourself in the books. Sometimes you’d talk to him, explain how stupid some of the characters were, or how boring the book was. Edmund would reply in turn, but never turn his head. 

“Have you always been sullen?”

”Sullen?”

You close the book, and he hears your clothes rustling as you move. 

“You keep your gaze away from me, and you’re so quiet most of the time,” you sniff in what Edmund assumes is an indignant act. Then, he hears you stand up, and he turns to ensure you remain in the library. He regrets it almost instantly. You’d left your robe over the back of the chair, and Edmund felt like a starved lion, and you were a piece of steak dripping with blood dangled in front of him. He chastised himself by shaking his head, resolutely keeping his head forward. 

“I thought you’d provide more conversation compared to Ser Gwent.”

“...Ser Gwent follows you to the library?”

He hears you place the book back onto the shelf. It must’ve been boring, or perhaps you weren’t in the mood. You make a humming noise, your footsteps keeping him informed of how far away you are. 

“Whenever he’d wake up, he’d accompany me.”

“And you…Would you be in your robe?”

You pop out behind him, silent as a mouse, and Edmund turns his head away again. 

“Does my robe offend you that much?” Your voice lifts at the end as you chuckle. Edmund gulps thickly, the grip on the hilt of his sword tightening as you stand firmly before him. You notice his white knuckled grip and take a step forward to cup your hand over his own.

“Your Highness,” he strains out, gently pulling your hand away from his. “You must know what you’re doing.”

You blink owlishly up at him. 

“What…what am I doing?”

Killing him is what you’re doing. He places his hands on your shoulders, squeezes, and takes a deep breath. 

“You’ll catch a cold walking around barefoot in your night shirt and robe, Your Highness.” 

You’re stiff underneath him. He can feel it. He can see it. He can see almost everything, and he shouldn’t be seeing it. But a part of him is filled with a wicked desire to look and commit the details of a royal’s body to his memory. It befuddles him — nothing about you was godly or supernatural. You had a torso like his, arms, legs, fingers. The whole set. You were both human. 

But Edmund knew that social status separated you so much that you might have been from two different worlds. Two different species, even. 

So, he looks. He sees your nipples under your shirt, how your chest rises and falls with each breath. Your waist, stomach, and hips, and when he notices the trail of pubic hair, he inhales sharply and lets you go as though touching you burned him. 

“We should head back to your quarters, your servants will be there soon —”

“Am I…” 

Your voice causes everything to go quiet around you. For a long moment, Edmund swears he couldn’t breathe as he waited for you to speak. 

***

To say Lex was mad would be a gross understatement. 

He was livid.

All his carefully laid plans, efforts now in vain, cast aside like scraps, while they lord Superman around as the beacon of hope and all things good.

Landing him in Belle Reve with nothing but anger like a fire that refused to die, only waiting to be stoked.

Lying back on the cold concrete slab he was forced to call a bed, hands clasped tight, jaw clenched.

“Psst…”

And to make matters worse, there’s you.

“Psst… Lex…”

An infernal nuisance.

He closes his eyes slowly, deliberately, hoping you’d just leave him alone. For weeks, you’ve been pestering him, asking questions, making comments, acting far too comfortable around a convicted genius.

“You awake?”

Hopping off your bunk, you pad up to him, stopping just short of his bed.

“Lex?”

He exhales through his nose, irritation simmering. “…What,” he mutters at last, eyes still shut, “do you want now?”

“To talk. Can’t sleep.”

“I don’t want—” he starts.

You sit down on his bed, ignoring his annoyed protests. Nudging his legs aside like you were entitled to the space, and turning to him like you were two kids at a sleepover. “Even after all these weeks, I can’t believe I’m here with you. You’re a titan of industry, a mind generations ahead of everyone else. And I remember seeing you on the front page of magazines, doing press conferences on TV, and now you’re here in the flesh.”

And of course, the thing you want to talk about is him.

Hell has nothing on this, he thinks, nothing on the torture of being trapped in this box with his biggest fanboy, armed with admiration and absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

“I hope the judge reconsiders your case. Two hundred and sixty-five years is a tad excessive if you ask me. The dimensional rift barely even left a dent in Metropolis.”

You pat him on the shoulder like you’re his buddy, far too familiar for Lex's liking. “Though on the bright side, we got to meet, right? Seriously, it’s an honour.”

“Are you done?”

“…well, I was thinking maybe,” you say, twiddling your fingers, all coy. He knew exactly what was coming next. You had been pestering him about it since the second week he got here. He'll never understand your audacity.

“Spit it out.”

“Maybe I could sleep next to you tonight. Cuddling has sooo many benefits.”

“Like?” Lex counters, eyebrow raised. He genuinely looks amused for once, if only faintly; one thing he did like about your presence was getting to fuck with you. Like a harmless distraction, a stress toy that he could bully whenever he pleased.

“Uh… it feels good?”

“Get off my bed.”

You pout, another night, another rejection.

“Yes, Lex.”

***

“Catching up on reading?”

Lex remains quiet when you bother him yet again. He rarely placates you, refusing to reward the habit, and yet you persist.

He's not sure if you genuinely can’t read a room or if you’re just too stupid to see how he feels.

Either way, you have the annoyingly persistent and loyal instincts of a golden retriever, forever bounding up to him with optimism and smiles… even when kicked.

You sit next to him without permission yet again. “Is it good?”

He finally cracks one eye open, gaze sliding to you with open disdain. “It’s tolerable,” he says flatly, snapping the book shut just enough to mark his place. “Unlike the company.”

You hesitate, sheepishly rubbing the back of your neck as you back away, “I’m sorry. On the outside, I’d never get the chance to speak to a genius.”

“Really? You had me completely fooled.”

You huff out a shy laugh, flustered now, trying to formulate your thoughts. Lex can see the imbalance as clear as day; he is everything you aren’t. Intelligent, rich, powerful; to Lex, it’s only natural you’d gravitate to him like a moth to a flame. Doesn’t make it any less annoying.

“I’m just saying that I could take advantage of the situation, you know, pick your brain.”

Lex lays his books down with a loud sigh.

“If you’re going to pitch another one of your stupid ideas—”

“No, no, I learned my lesson. I know I’m not that smart, I’ll leave thinking to the thinkers.”

“Good boy,” he replies absentmindedly, reaching for his book. Though out of the corner of his eye, he sees you. Suddenly, all kinds of keyed up and tense. 

Fingers curled into your trousers as you look at him with wide eyes, almost pleading.

He takes the book in hand, eyes glossing over the words on the page, so acutely aware of how you’re looking at him.

The air has shifted, something charged, tight, and dangerous.

He flicks to the next page a little too quickly, lifting his eyes off the pages to see you looking back at him.

Hungry.

That's the only way he could describe that look in your eyes. 

It almost made him laugh, how easy you are to read. So fucking simple that even the faintest hint of praise, you're begging for him with doe eyes.

You'd take anything he gave you, good or bad. If he kissed you, he knows you'd worship the ground he walks on. If he slapped you, he bet you'd fall to your knees begging him to do it again.

“Lex? You're uh…”

Lex follows his gaze to see him looking at the tent in his trousers.

Now it was his turn to be unsettled.

Lex doesn’t even want to entertain the thought that he’d be into the likes of you. His partners were always of a certain calibre, beautiful at the very least if not smart enough to keep up. 

And although you are beautiful, he’d never seriously consider it... right? 

You were in prison right next to him for grand larceny, of all things.

Threatening some big-shot bank executives, and stealing from the rich like some kind of Robin Hood, if Robin Hood didn’t give to the poor and only himself.

How could he go from supermodels to this?

“I can help you out,” you offer weakly, “Only if you want.”

He pauses, considering his options. He's seen you working out in the yard, efficient, disciplined, stronger than most of the inmates. You're not bad looking, just painfully earnest. And frightfully dumb.

If he weren't so brilliant, he'd be worried about catching it.

He looks you over and realises this might just be the best he's going to get.

“Fine.”

You don't need to be told twice, practically scrambling off the bed to kneel in front of him.

Lex shifts to the edge of the bed, his strong thighs bracketing you between him. 

From the way you're staring up at him, basically panting, it's safe to assume that you like the view.

Lex pulls down his trousers and underwear enough for his cock to flop out. You marvel at him, hungry as ever, as you lean in closer.

This is all you've been wanting for weeks, for him to use you for whatever he desired.

To be the one he comes to when he needs to feel good. 

You've never felt so lucky.

Face to face with his hard cock, you reach up tentatively, hand hovering close enough to feel the heat radiating from it. 

“Can I?”

“It's what you're down there for, right?” he says as if it's obvious. 

“R-right, I…sorry,” you stutter. Licking your lips, you take his cock in your hand, heart racing when it twitches.

Never once breaking eye contact, you lean in and lick from the base of his dick to the top. Slow and sensual like you're making a show of it.

You wrap your lips around the head and sink down, taking as much as you can in your mouth. 

You stay consistent, going up and down and hollowing out your cheeks on the way up.  

“Is this all you can do?” he scoffs. “Deeper. At this rate, I'll never finish.”

You don't mind it when he’s mean. Lex thinks it might even make you work harder.

So you listen to his demands, taking him so deep it makes you gag. He can tell you're struggling, but the way you're deepthroating him in spite of that was nothing short of sycophantic.

“That's it.”

Blinking up at him through your eyelashes, eyes flickering each time you gag. But you don’t look away. The moment you stop gagging, your eyes are back on him. 

It does wonders for his ego.

He doesn't warn you he's about to cum, just letting the climax hit him. A soft groan leaves his lips as he empties his cum down your throat, his grip tightening on your head.

You take it all willingly, swallowing it diligently as you keep your eyes on him—on every twitch, every reaction as he rides out his orgasm.

He peels you off of him, much to your chagrin. You'd be perfectly happy being his cock warmer all night long. Your lips stretched wide around his girth for hours at a time, as you fight to get used to swallowing around him, completely unable to do anything but wait.  

Sounds like a dream. 

Wiping the excess off your mouth with the back of your hand, you ask, “Can I sleep in your bunk? I wanna be close to you.”

“No.”

He casts his eyes to the floor next to him. “You can sleep there if you wish.”

In a flash, you've gathered your beddings and laid them on the floor.

“Thank you,” you whisper, to which you get Lex rolling over, his back now facing you, in response.

***

Prison was the last place to be soft in, but here you were, all too happy to act as his little assistant. Since he allowed you to suck him off, you had been even more accommodating than usual, if that was even possible, helping him with whatever he needed, running errands, keeping watch, offering favours he never asked for.

Sometimes, sleeping on the floor multiple times a week just to be closer to him.

You didn't need any convincing to fuck him. It was one comment, off-handed, and you were so happy for the opportunity to finally sink your cock inside of him. 

“Are you always this loud?” Lex admonishes, as another strangled mewl leaves your lips.

“I'm—I’m sorry. You're just…”

You trail off, eyes fluttering as you sink deeper into his tight hole. “So fucking tight.”

Arms braced around his frame, as you slowly move your hips.

“Been thinking about this for weeks, about you…”

Leaning in slowly, hesitantly, like you might change your mind at the last second.

“No kissing,” he demands, grabbing your face firmly, fingers splayed along your jaw, stopping you just short. 

That's one line he wouldn't cross just yet, can't have you getting too comfortable. This is nothing more than stress relief; you needed to know that. 

“U-understood.”

You reapply your efforts into fucking him, slowly building up the pace. Each time you rock your hips, a contented sigh leaves Lex’s lips.

Letting go of your face, he relaxes his head against the pillow, eyebrows scrunched up in pleasure as you hit his prostate just right. The sound of your hips colliding in a steady rhythm echoes in the cell. 

“Just like that,” he moans, raising his hips to angle you deeper inside of him. 

The relief was just what he needed. Something, or rather someone, to take out his frustrations on.

You press your body against his, softly begging against his skin, “Please, please…”

He knew you'd be needy, but he wasn't expecting you to be this needy.

You're whimpering and huffing in his ear; anyone would think you were the one getting fucked.

“Lex, I…” you whine, “So close, so close, fuck…”

“Don’t you dare.”

His voice is final. One wrong motive and he might just kill you.

“But Lex—”

“If you stop moving your hips, I’ll never let you touch me again.”

The thought of never being able to have this again motivates you. Holding onto his things, you thrust into him with renewed vigour, hoping you can get him to cum before you do. 

“That's it, keep going.”

You moan in response, your head in the clouds. Every time you move, it's like you're being pulled under, his warm hole massaging any sense out of your brain.

Your fingers dig in deeper as you feel yourself getting close again, and you don't know how much longer you can stave it off.

“Want to be good for me, don't you?”

“I do, I do, you know I do.”

You sound like you're on the verge of tears, biting your lip almost hard enough to bleed. All this pent-up energy makes you feel light and tingly, and even the smallest thing would set you off.

“My good little sycophant,” he rasps, briefly cupping your face with his hand. That was enough to push you over the edge.

You rest your head in the crook of his neck, whispering apologies like you know you're bound to disappoint him. It does nothing to save you, as just seconds later, you're finishing, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

“F-fuck, I really—I’m gonna—”

With a shudder, you collapse against him, filling him up. Rope after rope of cum spilling into him as you cry out for him.

Lex is pissed for a number of reasons. The fact that you came inside of him, early and with the loudest moans he's ever heard. 

As you're coming down from a blinding orgasm, body still shivering, you feel a hand wrap around your throat.

“You don't know how to listen, do you?’

You start to sputter out excuse after excuse, but he's not listening. Lex doesn't tolerate excuses; he only wants results.

“Keep moving your hips.”

“W-what? I can't keep going, it's—I’m too sensitive.”

Lex squeezes down on his throat, stopping your breath short. Your head was still a little hazy from the orgasm, so this was making you feel completely weightless. 

Everything outside of his hole pulsing around your spent cock and his hand heavy on your throat was completely gone.

“Move.”

Doing as you're told, you start moving, fighting back tears. The pressure as you're milked for all your worth leaves you breathless.

In an act of mercy, he releases your throat as you slowly start to pick up the pace again.

“You're done when I say you're done. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lex.”

NOAH STOOD half in, half out of the doorway, one hand still on the knob, the other clutching a roll of spare programs he'd clearly come to drop. His expression moved in a visible sequence—puzzlement at the closed door, then recognition, then a clean, white shock that drained the color from his face. Anger arrived last, not volcanic but focused: the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders squared as if bracing for weather.

No one spoke for a beat too long. The parlor clock ticked once. Behind Noah, the coordinator's voice floated down the hall—"Groomsmen, two minutes to places"—bright, oblivious.

"Noah," you said, your voice coming out thin and wrong.

He blinked, as if making sure the scene didn't rearrange itself when he looked again. "I was... bringing these," he said finally, and lifted the programs a fraction, as if proof of an errand could reset the room. His gaze slid between you and Clark, taking in the distance you hadn't had time to manufacture: your rumpled lapel, the crushed edge of a white petal at Clark's jacket, the heat still painting both your mouths. He swallowed. "What is this?"

Clark stepped forward before you could dig for an answer, hands open, empty. "My fault," he said, low and even, the tone he used when taking responsibility in print. "I—"

Noah's eyes cut to him, sharp. "Don't do that. Don't make it tidy for me."

You felt something crumble at the base of your sternum. "Noah," you tried again, softer. "I'm—"

"—sorry?" he supplied, and the word wasn't cruel so much as exhausted. His gaze came back to you and stayed, and in it you saw the whole of your morning reflected: steam curling in a hotel bathroom, cedar on your skin, a lie that had sounded laminate even to your own ears. "How long?"

"Not like this," you said, uselessly. "Today isn't—this isn't—"

"Today is your sister's wedding," he said, and his voice steadied on the fact. "And you're in a room with her fiancé." The last word landed like a drop of ink in water, blooming dark.

Clark's jaw worked once. "You don't deserve to find out like this," he said, and the truth of it flickered and hurt.

From the hall: "Final call—let's go, gentlemen!"

The timing was obscene. You flinched. Noah noticed; of course he did. He inhaled, slow, like a man making a choice in real time.

"This conversation isn't over," he said, and set the programs on the console with a precision that made your throat close. He stepped back into the corridor, giving you space that felt like punishment and mercy in the same breath. At the threshold he paused. "Do your job," he added—to you, not unkindly. Then to Clark, without looking at him: "Do the right thing."

He left the door open when he went. The bustle of the wedding rushed back in—shoe leather on marble, the faint tuning of strings, Jimmy's laugh ricocheting off a wall. You stood in the current of it, breathing like you'd run, Clark three feet away and farther than he'd ever been.

You reached up and straightened his boutonnière because your hands needed a harmless task, because you didn't know what else to do. His eyes were wrecked and steady both.

"I'm sorry," he said, and it landed differently than when you'd thought the word yourself—he meant it like a vow, not a solvent.

You nodded once, because you couldn't manage language, and stepped sideways into the hallway's flow. You caught up to Noah, grabbing his sleeve before he could disappear into the current of tuxedos and flowers and steered him down a side corridor—past a stack of folded chairs, through a service door that exhaled cold air, and out onto the river terrace. The morning had sharpened; the wind off the water smelled like metal and rain. Inside, the quartet ran a last phrase; out here, the city's noise took over—buses sighing, a gull complaining, the distant thud of a runner's shoes on the promenade.

"No," he said, yanking his arm free but not walking away. "Right here. Say whatever you think you're going to say right here."

You opened your mouth. He beat you to it.

"I walked in with programs," he said, voice low and shaking. "And I saw you with my own eyes—hands on each other, lips, her fiancé." He laughed once, humorless. "Do you hear how insane that sentence is? On Lois's wedding day?"

"I know," you said, uselessly. "I know."

"How long?" His eyebrows lifted, the question a blade. "And don't give me a calendar. Give me truth."

You swallowed. "It... started months ago. Not this—" You gestured back toward the building like you could point at a specific sin. "Feelings. Confusion. We kept... stepping over lines."

"Stepping," Noah repeated, a bitter taste on the word. The wind lifted his hair off his forehead; he didn't smooth it down. "Are you in love with him?"

Silence widened between you until the river could fit inside it. "I don't know what to call it," you said, because that was the only piece that felt honest. "I know it's wrong. I know I should have shut it down sooner."

He stared at you like he was trying to line your face up with the version of you he trusted. "And last night?" he asked softly, and that softness scared you more than the anger. "You weren't in your bed."

You had rehearsed the lie, and it still tasted like foil. "I fell asleep in Clark's room after we finished groomsmen stuff," you said. "It was late. There was planning. We were exhausted and—"

"—and you kissed him this morning," he said over you, the softness gone. "In a room with white flowers and a clock you were ignoring. You can't 'exhausted' your way out of that."

You rubbed your hand over your face hard enough to sting. "I'm not trying to crawl out of it," you said. "I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry. I'm—" You stopped before the word turned into something you used like a rag and not a promise. "I hurt you. I broke our line. I'm not going to stand here and make it sound smaller."

He blew out a breath that smoked in the cool air. His next question came quiet and precise: "Did you sleep with him?"

Everything in you wanted to either confess until there was nothing left or run until you couldn't hear the music. You did neither. You clung to the one choice that felt like it wouldn't set the whole day on fire.

"No," you said, and kept your eyes on his, because looking away would tell on you. "We kissed. And I should never have let it get that far."

He closed his eyes briefly, the relief that flickered there so quick it hurt, followed by suspicion, then something that looked a lot like grief. "Okay," he said, and it sounded like a compromise he didn't believe in yet. "Okay."

He paced two steps toward the railing and back, hands on his hips, head tipping up like he was asking the gray sky for a ruling. "Do you plan on telling Lois?" he asked finally.

"Yes," you said. "But not today. I won't wreck her wedding. After—when there's room to do it right." Your throat went tight around the next promise. "And I'm done. With this. With—him. I told him so before you walked in."

Noah's jaw worked; you watched him file that away, skeptical but listening. "Here are my terms," he said after a beat, the lawyer in him returning to the room. "We get through today without a scene. You don't get caught alone with him again. You don't choose to be alone with him again. And after the reception, you and I sit down somewhere without strings and you tell me everything I ask, without spin."

You nodded, the relief and the shame landing in the same place. "Okay."

"And if I find out you lied to me again," he added, not cruel, just factual, "we're done. Not 'let's take a beat.' Done."

You swallowed. "Okay," you said again, because there wasn't anything else to say that mattered.

For a long moment the two of you just stood there, the river pushing past, the music inside beginning to knit itself into order. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked at you like you were a complicated case he might still take.

"I love you," he said, and the way he said it—steel-lined, not performative—made your eyes burn. "That's why I'm not blowing the doors off this place. But don't ask me to pretend I'm not furious."

"I won't," you said. "You're allowed to be mad. You're allowed to walk away later."

He nodded once, decisive. Then he stepped in, straightened your lapel with a quick, impersonal tug, and reached behind your neck to fix the line of your collar—the kind of ordinary care that hurt more than shouting. "There," he said. "You look like a man who can get through an hour without setting a match to his life."

"Thank you," you managed.

He turned toward the door, paused with his hand on the handle. "One more thing," he said without looking back. "If you don't tell her, I will. Not today. But I won't be your accomplice."

"I understand," you said, and meant it.

Inside, the coordinator's headset voice rose to a bright command: "Places, please!" The quartet answered with the first true notes of the processional. You and Noah slipped back through the service door into warm light and the smell of peonies. He peeled off toward Lucy and the bustle of bridesmaids. You headed for the groomsmen, every step a reminder of the line you'd failed and the one you meant to keep now, even if it cost you.

The day kept moving. You set your shoulders, inhaled roses and responsibility, and got everyone where they needed to be.

The ballroom settled into a hush that felt like velvet. Chairs aligned in perfect rows, white petals scattered down the aisle like a trail of small moons, candles held their breath in glass cylinders. The quartet slid from tuning into melody, and the air shifted—expectant, ceremonial. You took your place with the other groomsmen, shoulders squared, fingers worrying the seam of your glove until you made them stop.

Across the room, Clark found you. It was nothing—half a second, a reflex—but his eyes caught yours like a hook. Blue, steady, knowing. Heat pricked your collar. You snapped your gaze away so fast you almost felt it physically, fastening your attention to the double doors at the back of the hall as though you could weld yourself to the moment and nothing else.

The doors opened.

Your father stepped out first, his arm offered with that old-school dignity he reserves for occasions that matter. Lois took it, and the room pulled in a collective breath. The dress you'd only half seen on a hanger resolved into a living thing: silk crepe skimming and then pooling, a square neckline framing the fine architecture of her collarbones, a spine of covered buttons marching into a soft, cathedral train. The veil was water and light. In her hands, white garden roses and ranunculus gathered like a small, private storm. But it was her face that undid you—lit from within, smile caught somewhere between bravado and tears, eyes locked on a future only she could see. Your father's jaw was tight the way it gets when the world is too big for words. He didn't look at the crowd, only forward, as if delivering something precious.

The aisle felt longer watching them walk it. The quartet's strings braided around the shuffle of fabric and the tap of your father's shoes. An aunt sniffled unapologetically. Someone's cufflink pinged softly against a chair. You tried to memorize everything—how the flowers leaned toward the light, how the late morning sun found the brass in the sconces, how your sister's bouquet trembled when she laughed at something your father said without moving his mouth. You kept your face neutral and your hands still. You did not look for Clark again. You didn't need to; you could feel the exact spot in the room where he stood, the way a compass feels north.

The ceremony began and your mind buckled under its own static. Words rose and fell—scripture, a line of poetry Lois had chosen, laughter when the pastor mispronounced the florist's name, the low, dangerous thud of your own heartbeat in your ears. You drifted. You saw Noah two rows back on the aisle, profile carved in concentration, jaw set. You thought about Polaroids in your inside pocket, about a terrace and cold air, about promises you owed and promises you meant to keep. The world narrowed to sensation: the weight of your boutonnière, the itch of a starched collar, the warm tide of peony and jasmine from the arch.

"...rings," the pastor said somewhere far away, and the room came in and out of focus—Jimmy producing the bands like a conjurer, your father's hand briefly covering his mouth as if steadying himself, Lois's fingers trembling just enough that Clark covered them with both of his. You blinked, and the next minutes slid by like frames in a projector: vows spoken cleanly, voices catching in the right places, a ripple of laughter when Lucy sniffled too loudly and then doubled down.

"And now," the pastor said, his voice landing with the gentle finality of a gavel, "by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife."

Reality snapped sharp as glass. Applause burst like a sudden summer rain. Clark bent to Lois, and the kiss—simple, sure, their foreheads touching after—tied the room into one warm knot. You clapped until your palms stung. You kept your eyes on your sister's smile, on your father's shoulders dropping with relief, on Lucy's triumphant grin through tears. The quartet swelled into recessional, the doors opened to light, and you exhaled a breath you hadn't noticed you were holding, anchoring yourself to the one truth that mattered in that moment: your sister had just gotten everything she came here for.

THE RECEPTION moved like a film on fast-forward—sharp flashes of light and sound with whole minutes missing between them.

You remember the doors opening to a swell of applause, Lois and Clark framed in confetti and café lights. You remember the ballroom turned inside out: tables dressed in white linen and mercury glass, a champagne tower glinting like a small city, place cards marching in tidy rows. A small chalkboard at the bar announced the signature drinks—The Byline (rye, orange peel, bitters) and Lane's Lemon (vodka, lemon, elderflower)—and you made the mistake of pointing at the first before your jacket even found the back of your chair.

The first Byline burned in a way that felt righteous. The second softened the edges of the room. By the third you'd stopped tasting citrus and started chasing quiet.

You kept moving because stillness was a trap. You checked on the band's set list. You adjusted a listing centerpiece. You helped your father pin his boutonnière back into place after a hug dislodged it. You steered an aunt to her seat with the diplomacy of a UN envoy. All of it with a glass in your hand, condensation slick against your fingers, the weight familiar and busy.

When Lois and Clark did their first dance—her hand at his shoulder, his palm at the small of her back, that private smile between them that made the room feel like a witness—you applauded on cue and drained the rest of your glass. Noah stood two tables over, tie immaculate, laughing at something Lucy said, and when he glanced your way, you gave him a nod that meant schedule's tight and please don't look too closely. The nod he returned meant I see you and we're not done.

Speeches blurred. Your father surprised everyone by being brief and tender; Lucy made the room cry and then saved it with a punchline. When it was your turn you stayed safely at the surface—Lois teaching you to be brave, Clark loving her in a way the whole city could see. The words sounded like they belonged to a better version of you. The applause after felt like rain on glass.

Between courses you found the bar again. The bartender learned your shorthand and stopped asking questions. Rye slid into rye, and somewhere in there a cousin convinced you a shot of something clear would "reset the palate." It didn't. It just turned the volume down on your thoughts: Clark's hand finding Lois's waist as if it had always known the way; Noah's jaw set in that careful, controlled way that meant he was angrier than he let on; the Polaroids heavy as guilt in your inside pocket. The lies you'd told and the ones you'd bitten back. The ache of wanting and the weight of choosing. You tried to drown one with the other.

It didn't work. It never does. The room just got blurrier.

You danced because the band was too good not to—the old hits and the Motown deep cuts that make even the stubborn sway. You let Lucy spin you like you were kids. You let your father show you a two-step that shouldn't have survived the 80s. You avoided the spot on the floor where Lois and Clark were a halo of joy and heat. You ducked the camera every time the photographer swung near, suddenly allergic to evidence.

At one point you were in the bathroom, palms braced against cool marble, the peppermint sting of hotel water on your face. Your tie was crooked; your eyes were brighter than they should've been. In the mirror you looked like a man who'd been running in place. A groomsman came in and clapped you on the back—"hell of a party, coach"—and you laughed like you meant it.

Later, you stood alone on the terrace for a minute that could've been ten. The river moved like a dark muscle; the city hummed its indifferent lullaby. You thought about leaving—calling a car, letting the night swallow you, rewriting yourself as someone who never made the complicated choice. But you didn't. Running has a short half-life; it's just hiding stretched to fit a day.

Inside, dessert arrived—lemon chiffon in perfect squares that tasted like last night's laughter. Lois fed Clark a bite and he made a face like it was the first cake he'd ever eaten. The room cheered. You held your fork like a prop and kept your eyes on your plate.

When the last song wound down and the lights lifted to a gentler brightness, you watched as the married couple made their getaway look like a movie—Lois in a white wrap and sneakers, Clark in his suit jacket with the tie tugged loose, a "JUST MARRIED" sign bouncing on twine at the back of the car. Someone handed out sparklers; someone else passed little vials of bubbles. The driveway glowed with café lights strung from tree to tree, and for a few bright minutes everybody became a chorus of cheers and camera flashes.

You took your place along the path, sparkler hissing in your hand, smile set the way you'd practiced. Lois hugged her bouquet to her chest and kissed your cheek on the run. "I love you," she said, eyes bright and endless. "Text me when you're home." You nodded and said you would, because some promises are simple.

Clark rounded the trunk to the driver's side and, for one suspended second, paused. He found you across the shiver of light and noise like a compass finding north. The crowd blurred. The bubbles and sparks and shout-laughs faded to a soft rush in your ears. He lifted his hand in a small wave that didn't look like much to anyone else. You raised yours back, palm open, and the tiny movement felt like a conversation. His mouth tipped—gratitude, apology, something you didn't dare name—then he dropped his gaze to the pavement like a man remembering where he belonged.

Lois slid into the passenger seat with a happy squeal. Clark got behind the wheel. The car idled, exhaust curling white in the cool night, tin cans clacking a thin percussion against the asphalt. He looked up once more—quick, private, enough—and you looked away first, because you had to.

The engine revved. The crowd whooped. The car rolled forward through the tunnel of light and congratulations, sparklers sketching bright arcs in the dark. You waved with everyone else until the taillights stitched red down the drive and turned the corner, shrinking to nothing.

Then the sound poured back in—the last fizz of sparklers, the slap of hands, Lucy demanding everybody line up for one more chaotic photo. You set the spent wire in a sand bucket and stepped backward out of the circle, your throat tight in a way no drink could soften. The night air hit your face cool and honest. You blinked hard once, then again, and felt a tear break and trace a clean line along your cheek.

The feelings were real. That was the problem, not the solution. You folded them up anyway—neat, mean, necessary—and pushed them down where they couldn't run your feet for you. Hands in your pockets, you turned from the laughter and the lingering flash of cameras, walked past the last puddle of light at the edge of the driveway, and kept going until the noise thinned to nothing but your own breath.

THE RIDE BACK to the hotel was mercifully quiet. The driver's radio hummed low, some soft jazz station fuzzing in and out, and Noah sat beside you with his arms folded, his profile carved tight against the blur of city lights. You didn't try to fill the silence—didn't dare. By the time the shuttle pulled under the portico and the doorman swung open the glass door, it felt like you'd carried the weight of two different weddings in your chest.

Upstairs, your keycard buzzed green before Noah's. You stepped into the room first, the faint smell of cedar soap and pressed linen waiting. The suit bag you'd hung earlier was still by the closet; the bedspread was undisturbed, its corners sharp as if the day hadn't happened. You went straight to your suitcase. The zipper rasped open loud in the stillness, and you began folding clothes with mechanical care—shirts into squares, trousers into long neat lines. If everything was ready to go in the morning, you told yourself, there'd be no reason for conversation then.

But Noah came in behind you, later by a few minutes, his pace heavy but measured. He dropped his garment bag onto the second chair, shrugged out of his jacket, and let it rest across the back without smoothing it down. His silence was its own verdict.

"Packing early?" he asked, voice low, not sharp.

"So it's easier tomorrow," you said, keeping your eyes on the shirt you were folding.

The quiet stretched until it became something unbearable. Then Noah's voice came again, soft but exacting. "When did this start?"

Your hands froze. The shirt hung loose between your fingers.

He waited.

You set the fabric into the suitcase and pressed it flat with your palm. "The first time I met him properly," you said, your throat thick. "At the restaurant. Lois wanted me at dinner. I was late. Dad was annoyed. And then Clark was there—shaking my hand, looking at me like..." You trailed off, shook your head. "Like he already knew me."

Noah stood still by the desk, his reflection doubled in the black of the window. "And after that?"

You inhaled slowly. "Sunday dinner at Dad's. Lois, Lucy, Clark—everyone was there. Clark and I were sent downstairs to the bar for a bottle." You forced the words out evenly. "We kissed. Just a kiss. We knew it was wrong. We stopped. Then we started again. We couldn't seem to help it."

Noah's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt.

You kept going, because stopping now felt crueler. "Another time, it happened in my room. Another, in the kitchen while everyone else was upstairs. Small moments that got bigger every time. We told ourselves it wouldn't happen again, and then it did." You swallowed hard, leaving a canyon between the truth you'd spoken and the truth you refused to. Not the rest. Not the way he bent you over the counter, not the way you let him inside you. That would break everything beyond repair.

"I tried to put distance between us after that," you continued, your voice smaller now. "When I went back to school, I barely came home. I didn't answer calls. I thought if I stayed away, it would die off. And for months, it worked. Until Lois called me about the wedding and Clark asked me to stand with him as a groomsman."

Noah turned finally, leaning against the desk, his arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, somewhere between exhaustion and steel. "And you said yes."

"I said yes," you admitted, staring down at your half-packed suitcase. "And that's when the distance collapsed. The feelings didn't vanish. The chemistry didn't vanish. And I didn't stop it."

The zipper trembled in your hand. You shut the case halfway, as if closing the words inside might keep them from spreading further. "That's the truth," you finished, your voice quieter. "Not all of it. But enough."

The silence that followed was thick with all the things you hadn't said—and all the things he still wanted to ask.

Noah stood there, arms crossed against his chest, the soft lamplight carving his features into hard planes. He had listened to every word you'd said without interrupting, but now the silence broke, and his voice was sharper than it had been all night—measured, but edged like glass.

"What was the point?" he asked, each word slow and heavy. "What was the point of asking me to come along if you knew you were just going to run right back into him?"

The question landed like a blow, because it wasn't loud, it wasn't cruel—it was honest. His eyes were on you, searching, cutting past every neat explanation you'd given and aiming straight at the wound.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. Your hands lingered on the half-zipped suitcase, knuckles white against the handle. Finally, you forced yourself to turn and face him. "I brought you because..." Your voice faltered, then steadied. "Because I wanted you there. I wanted my family to meet you, Noah. I wanted them to see you. I wanted Clark to see you."

His laugh was short and bitter. "So I was a prop? A shield?"

"No," you said quickly, stepping toward him, but he didn't move. "Not a prop. You're not a placeholder. You're you. I wanted you there because you matter to me. Because I thought if I had you beside me, it would drown out everything else."

Noah shook his head, running a hand down his face as though trying to wipe away the weight of the evening. "But it didn't. Did it? You still kissed him. You still—" He cut himself off, pacing a step away, his voice thick with restraint. "Do you realize how humiliating it is? To walk in and find you like that? On the same weekend you asked me to stand next to you in front of your family?"

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "I didn't bring you here to humiliate you. I swear to God, that wasn't it." You pushed the suitcase closed and let it drop onto the stand, as if freeing your hands might help you find the words. "I thought bringing you would keep me grounded. That it would stop whatever... whatever this is with him. But I was wrong. And you have every right to be furious."

His gaze snapped back to yours, a storm of anger and pain. "Then tell me—what does it say about us, about me, if I wasn't enough to keep you from him?"

The question gutted you. You reached for him, but he didn't let you close the distance. "Noah, it's not about being enough. You are. You always have been. This thing with Clark—" You exhaled, breaking eye contact for the first time. "It's not rational. It's not fair. It's a pull I don't even understand, and I hate myself for not shutting it down sooner."

Noah's voice cracked just slightly, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. "Then why should I stay, if you can't promise me you'll stop running into him—even when I'm standing right there?"

The room went still, the weight of his words hanging between you like judgment. The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence, and you realized the truth: there was no easy answer, no excuse that could erase what he'd seen. Only a choice—his, yours, both of yours—about whether this was where it ended, or if there was still something left worth fighting for.

TWO YEARS slid by in a rhythm made of excuses.

At first you measured them in semesters—syllabi, midterms, finals—then in workloads and deadlines that stacked like bricks until they felt like a wall between you and your family. When anyone asked why you weren't home, the script came easy: lab meets late / my editor moved up my due date / I picked up an extra shift / I'm on a grant / we're short-staffed. You said it so often it stopped sounding like a lie and started sounding like a job title.

You didn't see your family in all that time—especially not Lois and Clark. Messages took the place of presence. You sent polite, well-timed texts that said proud of you, break a leg, tell Dad happy birthday, and dodged FaceTimes with a little "sorry, in class!" banner you kept on speed-send. The family group chat became something you read on mute, thumb hovering over the "❤️" reaction button before dropping a safe thumbs-up instead. Photos came through—Lucy under café lights with a new haircut, your father grinning next to a plate of ribs, Lois beaming in a newsroom snapshot, Clark at her shoulder—and you learned how to scroll past their faces without letting your chest cave in.

You lied when you promised you'd tell her.

You tried to make good on it once, right after they came back from the honeymoon. You remember standing outside their apartment with a small envelope in your pocket—a gift card to the old bookstore Lois loved and a note you'd drafted and redrafted until the paper went soft at the folds. You knocked. She opened. Sunburned shoulders, jet-lagged eyes, happy in a way that made the hallway feel too bright. She pulled you into a hug that smelled like coconut and salt and the shampoo you both stole from your father's house when you were kids.

"Tell me everything," she said, and poured tea, and showed you photos—dizzy-blue water, a little square table with two cappuccinos, Clark smiling at her like there was no point in looking anywhere else. Your mouth went desert-dry. You cleared your throat and reached for the envelope.

That was when she said, without a trace of performance, "I keep thinking: how lucky am I?"

You folded the envelope back into your pocket so fast the corner bit your palm. You taught yourself to say the safe thing. "You are," you managed. "You both are." You left fifteen minutes later with the card still in your coat and a rehearsed We'll do a proper dinner soon you never scheduled.

After that, the telling got harder. You drafted emails and parked them in your drafts like small, coiled animals. You opened your notes app and poured out whole confessions in the white glare of midnight, only to wake up and delete them with the kind of surgical speed that felt like survival. You even dialed once—watched the dots pulse on calling... until voicemail picked up and Lois's voice did the thing it does, turning your name into home. You hung up before the beep.

Life kept moving without your permission. You graduated and moved apartments; you learned the names of two baristas who knew your order; you bought a better mattress because your back told you to. There were a couple of almost-relationships and one date that felt promising until the check arrived and the waiter asked, "Are you Clark Kent's brother-in-law? My mom loves his column," and you smiled and said something practiced while the heat crawled up your neck and the promise drained out of the evening.

Every so often, Metropolis reminded you of the other orbit. You'd pass a newsstand and see a byline you didn't read anymore. You'd catch Lois on a panel in a lobby TV and mute it, watching her hands talk for her while your own fisted in your pockets. Holidays were the worst. You told yourself it was better not to come than to show up and make a mess of your face in the driveway. You sent gifts by courier and called your father early, when he was puttering and no one else was awake to patch you into the group call.

You worked. You ran along the river until your lungs burned enough to quiet you. You learned which trains were emptiest at which hours, which bar stools let you be alone in public. You got very good at being busy, at arranging your days so tightly there was no room for the kind of thought that cracked you open.

On the worst nights—thin ones, when the city felt like a stranger—you let yourself replay the kitchen light, the sound of a timer, a hotel room that smelled like cedar and citrus, and you told yourself it was a story you'd outgrow, like a book you loved at nineteen and winced at ten years later. On better nights you believed it.

What you didn't do was tell her. You started to after the honeymoon. You stopped. And every day after made it easier to say tomorrow and harder to mean it.

THE RIVER path was all pale gold and cool breath, the kind of morning that makes the city feel half-finished. You'd gone out shirtless, earbuds jammed in, sweat already slicking your shoulders, the bass line stitching your stride into something automatic—inhale two, exhale two, feet drumming the asphalt. A gull heckled the water. Somewhere behind you a cyclist rang a bell. You were losing yourself in the steady, thoughtless burn when—

"BOO."

You flinched hard enough to skid, windmilling an arm to keep from eating pavement. One earbud popped free. You spun, heart kicking your ribs.

Lois and Lucy stood grinning like criminals who'd just pulled off a heist, coffee cups in hand, oversized sunglasses not hiding the satisfaction at nearly ending your cardio career. Lucy was in leggings and a cropped hoodie, hair up, looking far too pleased with herself. Lois wore a loose, soft dress the color of a robin's egg, one hand resting on the unmistakable curve of her belly.

"Jesus," you panted, yanking the other earbud out. "You two trying to collect life insurance?"

Lucy sipped her coffee primly. "Consider it the ghost fee. Since you've been haunting us instead of visiting."

Lois's smile was gentler but aimed just as true. "We were starting to think you'd moved to a witness protection program." She tipped her chin toward your chest, then your face. "You look good. And hard to catch."

You took them in properly then, your gaze snagging on the swell under Lois's palm. Six months—maybe seven? The dress hung beautifully, but there was no hiding how the fabric curved, no missing the way she stood now, hips set in that protective way. Something in your stomach pitched.

"How—" Your voice cracked and you cleared it. "How far along?"

"Twenty-seven weeks on Tuesday," Lois said, unspooling the number like a ribbon. Pride softened the edges of her eyes. "We were going to tell you... well, months ago. But you've been busy." The last words weren't an accusation so much as a gently folded fact.

Guilt hit you like an undertow. You dragged a forearm across your forehead, catching sweat, and tried for a smile that didn't wobble. "You look... radiant. Really. I'm—" You started to say sorry and swallowed it, because sorry used up air and didn't change clocks. "I'm happy for you."

The wind off the river lifted the hem of Lois's dress. She laid both palms over the bump as if smoothing the fabric would soothe the baby underneath. "We need to catch up," she said simply. "No schedule excuses, no 'deadline moved up.' Come to dinner. Our place. This week. I will accept exactly one answer."

Lucy leaned in with the kind of grin that always got you grounded when you were kids. "We even made it idiot-proof: tomorrow night. I've already blocked your calendar with Dad, who, by the way, says he refuses to FaceTime his own son from three miles away."

You huffed a laugh despite the knot in your chest. "You hacked my calendar?"

"I socially engineered it," Lucy corrected, smug. "Like a woman of culture."

Lois squeezed your forearm. "Please come. Clark's on grill duty if the weather holds, and even if it doesn't he's convinced he can do magic with a cast-iron pan. We'll eat, and you can feel a foot take out your ribs from the inside if you're lucky.

At Clark's name, something in you tightened, then loosened in the same breath when the baby shifted under Lois's hands. The shape of the life she was carrying filled the space between your fears and what you owed.

You nodded, the motion small at first and then firmer. "Okay. Tomorrow."

Lucy raised her coffee in a toast. "Look at that. Growth."

Lois's relief was almost visible. "Text me if you want anything specific. Otherwise I'm making the potatoes you like because the baby has my carb agenda."

"Must be genetic," you said, and the old ease passed between you for a flicker.

A jogger in neon threaded around your small triangle of reunion; the river kept moving. Lois checked her watch. "We've got a doctor's appointment in twenty. Will you walk us to the corner or are you mid–runner's high?"

You fell into step without answering, matching their slower pace, the morning suddenly louder—geese complaining on the water, a bus kneeling at the stop, the soft squeak of Lois's flats. Lucy told a story about a barista who spelled her name "Loosey" and claimed it was a vibe; Lois rolled her eyes and then stopped mid-sentence, pressing your hand to her belly. A soft thump kissed your palm from the inside.

"Hey there," you whispered, the word catching unexpectedly. Lois watched your face, something warm and satisfied settling in her features, as if letting you feel the proof might anchor you to the present.

At the corner, they peeled off—Lucy with a two-finger salute, Lois with a hug that smelled like clean cotton and lemon hand cream. "Tomorrow," she said against your shoulder. "No disappearing act."

"Tomorrow," you promised, and this time it felt like more than a word you offered to buy yourself time.

You stood there a moment longer after they crossed, earbuds hanging loose, lungs working, the river path stretching out like a decision. The bass line in your pocket kept thumping politely. You tucked one earbud back in, not to drown anything out, but to set a pace. Then you turned back the way you'd come, running not from, but toward—dinner, the door you should've walked through two years ago, and whatever came after.

CLARK HIT the back porch with the last of the sunset on his shoulders, the sky along the river still pinking at the edges like a cooling burn. He came in the way he always did after a long day—keys in the lock, grocery tote on his wrist, the faint scent of ozone and rain clinging to his shirt no matter how carefully he'd flown. His body carried two kinds of fatigue: the newsroom's hunched hours and the city's heavier asks. He set both down with the bag on the kitchen counter.

"Clark?" Lois called from the living room.

"Yeah," he answered, loosening his tie. "Brought citrus and those tiny cucumbers you pretend aren't a personality."

Lucy snorted. "He sees you."

He rounded the doorway and stopped, smiling before he knew he was. Lois and Lucy had colonized the couch like queens of the small realm, feet tucked under throw blankets, a half-finished bowl of popcorn between them. Lois wore a soft blue dress and the glow that had nothing to do with lamps; one hand rested on the broad curve of her belly, now impossible to pretend was anything but what it was. Lucy had her hair up and her phone down, which meant she'd decided the real entertainment was in the room.

He kissed Lois first, a press to her temple that made the baby shift under his palm. "Hey, you," he murmured to both of them. "How'd the appointment go?"

"Textbook," Lois said, and her smile slipped into that private softness that undid him. "And we ran into a ghost on the river path."

Lucy wagged her brows. "A very shirtless, very startled ghost."

Clark blinked, heartbeat changing its metronome. "You saw—?"

"Your brother-in-law," Lois said gently, not making him say the name. "We invited him to dinner tomorrow. No excuses, no calendar tricks. He said yes."

The room stayed exactly the same; his insides didn't. He kept his smile where it belonged—steady, warm, no tells—and nodded. "Good." He meant it and it still tugged. "That's... good."

He carried the tote back to the kitchen like a man doing normal things on a normal Thursday—limes into a bowl, cucumbers into the crisper, the grill tongs set out because he'd promised the baby he'd learn to make potatoes exactly the way Lois liked them. The house hummed its small domestic noises—dishwasher sighing, neighbor's radio two houses over, Lucy rustling the popcorn for the salty bits at the bottom. Underneath it, the city's long chord threaded through the walls. He could hear all of it if he let himself, and he'd learned not to—not the way that took and kept.

It would be a lie to pretend he hadn't seen you in two years. As Clark, he hadn't. As Superman, the city offered him a thousand ways to fail at pretending: a laugh rising from a coffee line on 8th; the staccato of your footfalls along the river before sunrise; your voice dropping to that low, careful register you used with your father when he wouldn't admit he was tired. Sounds travel differently to him; some arrive uninvited. He learned to turn away faster. He didn't always make it in time. None of it counted. None of it was enough.

You had fallen out of his daily life like a star dropping below a horizon. It was supposed to make everything simpler—clean lines, clean choices, no corners. He built a life around that simplicity: columns filed on time; stories that put corrupt men on the back foot; grocery lists that remembered Lois's cravings before she asked; a crib assembled with an instruction manual he read twice anyway. Husband. Friend. Hope with sleeves rolled. The work made sense. The city asked. He answered.

And still, sometimes, the absence howled.

"Don't burn the marinade," Lois called, amusement curling the words.

Clark looked down. He'd grated half a lemon into the mixing bowl and forgotten to stop. "On it," he said, and put his hands to a useful task: garlic, oil, that little punch of coriander Lois liked but wouldn't admit to. Lucy wandered in and stole a cucumber slice; he swatted her hand with a dish towel and she yelped like he'd wounded her pride.

"So." Lucy leaned on the counter, eyes bright. "You okay about dinner?"

"I'm okay," he said, truth adjacent. "It'll be good."

Lois slid in beside her sister, hip to hip, and set her hand over his forearm. "We miss him," she said simply. "And you... you get faraway sometimes when his name comes up."

He could have lied to either of them, but not both, not standing in their kitchen with lemon on his fingers and a baby rolling under his wife's palm. "I get faraway about a lot of things," he said, and let the softness in. "But I'm glad he's coming."

Lois searched his face the way she read copy—fast and deep. Whatever she found, she filed without marking it up. She kissed his cheek, under his eye where the last of the day liked to linger, and wandered back to the couch, humming a song he couldn't place. Lucy pilfered one more cucumber and followed.

Clark finished the marinade and covered the bowl, wiped the counter until the lemon oil flashed clean, and set tomorrow in motion with small, decent tasks: charcoal in a tidy stack on the back porch; the good plates pulled from the high cabinet; a bottle of something crisp set on its side in the fridge. Through the kitchen window the yard leaned into evening—laundry line still, sky deepening, the maple throwing shadows like long fingers.

He leaned on the sink and let himself think your name once, quiet as a prayer, then put it away the way he'd taught himself to: not denied, just carefully stored. Tomorrow he would be what he owed—host, friend, husband—without slipping. He would listen to your ordinary answers and give you his and keep the distance both of you had learned the hard way. He would mean it.

Out in the living room, Lois laughed at something silly on Lucy's phone, and the sound lit the house from the inside. Clark turned off the kitchen light, washed the lemon from his hands, and crossed back to them, the small weight in his chest shifting into something he knew how to carry. Hope, at home, is often no more than this: a plan for dinner, a promise kept, a door opened tomorrow without letting the past blow it off its hinges.

YOU HIT the front steps at 6:59 with a bakery box tucked under your arm, the cardboard still cool from the shop and perfumed with lemon and sugar. The house looked like a postcard in early evening—brick warmed to honey by the sinking sun, a maple throwing lacework shadows across the walk, wind chimes making a small, considerate sound above the porch. Through the front windows you could see lamplight and the easy, domestic flicker of a TV on mute.

You smoothed your shirt out of pure nerves—clean white tee under a soft, slate cardigan, dark jeans, the good sneakers you reserve for being presentable without trying—and pressed the bell.

The lock turned. The door swung open on Clark.

He wasn't in a suit tonight. A heather-gray henley hugged his shoulders, sleeves shoved to his forearms; dark jeans sat easy on his hips; there was a smudge of charcoal at the edge of his wrist like he'd just stepped in from the grill. His hair was a little damp, pushed back by fingers that had clearly been busy. He smelled like cedar soap and lemon marinade with a thread of fresh air, as if he always carried a porch around with him.

For half a beat neither of you spoke. You took each other in like you were both trying to catch up to the last two years in a glance: the way he'd filled out a touch broader, the laugh lines that had deepened at the corners of his eyes; the way you'd cut your hair shorter, the steadier set of your shoulders, the newer watch at your wrist. His gaze flicked—shoes to face and back again—lingering a fraction too long at your throat where the cardigan parted. Yours snagged on small, impossible details: the pale glint of his wedding band, a faint nick along his knuckle, the slope of his collarbone under soft cotton.

"Hey," he said finally, and the word came out warm, like it had been waiting all afternoon to be used on you. "You made it."

"I brought a lemon cake," you managed, lifting the box like proof of good intentions. "Figured I'd bribe my way in."

The corner of his mouth tipped. "You never needed a bribe." He reached for the box, careful, and his fingers slid under yours for a second longer than the handoff required. Heat shot up your arm, ridiculous and immediate. All the carefully packed-away feelings you'd spent two years filing under old business jolted awake like they'd just been napping.

Before you could decide what to do with your hands, he made the decision for you. Clark set the cake safely on the little entry table, then closed the space between you and folded you into a hug.

It wasn't the quick, clap-on-the-back kind people trade in doorways. It was full—arms around your shoulders, his chest solid and warm, his breath ruffling your hair as he exhaled. You felt the slow thud of his heartbeat where your cheek brushed his sternum; he smelled like the kitchen and the evening and the particular clean that was just him. Your own arms came up almost on instinct, palms flattening between his shoulder blades. The hug lasted one heartbeat past polite, then two, and when he eased back his hands stayed on your upper arms as if making sure you were actually there.

"Hi," he said again, softer this time, like the word meant something different at this range.

"Hi," you echoed, equally useless and equally true.

From deeper in the house came the bright clatter of dishes and Lois's voice calling, "Is that my lemon cake carrier? Get it in here before I eat the box." The spell loosened. Clark's hands fell away, though his smile didn't.

"Come on," he said, scooping up the cake with one hand and gesturing you inside with the other. The entry gave way to a hallway hung with photos—Lois laughing mid-sentence; the two of them under a paper banner at a baby shower; a blurry shot of feet in the surf. The house smelled like roast chicken, rosemary, and something buttery on the stove. Somewhere, a timer ticked down.

You toed off your shoes, lined them neatly by the bench, and followed him toward the light, the warmth of the hug still pressed into your skin like a remembered sun.

The clatter of serving spoons, the soft hush of a baby monitor on the counter that Lois swore she didn't need yet but liked as "practice." The kitchen table had graduated from weeknight duty to company-ready: a linen runner down the center, a glass bowl of peonies Lois claimed were "last-minute," and mismatched plates that made Lucy declare the whole thing "charm-forward."

Your father rose the second you stepped in, his chair legs scraping back with emphasis. He gave you a once-over that started at your shoes and ended at your hair, the famous paternal inventory you hadn't had to pass in a while.

"So," he said, hands on hips, "the prodigal manages an appearance. What is it—two years? Eleven months? Thirty-seven excuses?" The words were stern; the relief in his eyes wasn't.

You smiled, sheepish, leaning into the kiss he planted on your temple. "A robust portfolio of excuses," you conceded. "Thin on merit."

"Mhmm." He squeezed the back of your neck once—affection disguised as correction—then steered you toward a chair. "Sit before the food gets cold. You can be chastised on a full stomach."

Lois appeared with a platter like a magician with the final reveal. "We have roast chicken with lemon and rosemary, potatoes that our resident grill master swears are 'scientifically crisp,' and a salad Lucy insisted needed three cheeses."

"It did," Lucy said, spearing a cube and popping it into her mouth. She tugged you into a hug that smelled like her perfume and the kitchen. "Hi, stranger. We're pretending not to be mad at you until after dessert."

"Appreciated," you said, entirely too grateful for the terms.

Clark followed with a pan still snapping faintly, the sleeves of his henley pushed to his forearms, the charcoal smudge gone now. He slid the potatoes onto the platter and set the skillet aside. His smile when he met your eyes was steady, friendly, careful. "You made good time," he said. "Cake already secured?"

"Safe and accounted for," you said, glancing toward the box near the coffee maker. "Guarded by your terrifying dogless security system."

He grinned. "Motion-sensing lemon lust."

Once everyone was seated—Lois with one palm resting absently on the easy swell of her belly, Lucy opposite her with a napkin already spattered like a Jackson Pollock, your father at the head as if it had never been otherwise—the room settled into a rhythm you recognized with a jolt of relief. Clark carved; Lois poured; your father told you to take more salad; Lucy stole a potato off your plate with the reflexes of a cat burglar.

"So," Lois said, once the first round of plates had quieted the room. "Catch us up on you. And don't say 'work is busy' like it's a personality."

You laughed, set your fork down, and gave them the thing you should've given them years ago: the simple shape of your days. "I took the position at the Center for Justice Reform at Metropolis U," you began. "Research and field work—mostly recidivism risk and diversion programs. I get to teach a section on behavioral analysis for the grad students, which makes me feel ancient in the best way. And I consult two days a week with the juvenile court—risk assessments, victimology, that kind of thing. It's messy sometimes, but it... lines up with what I studied. It feels useful."

Your father's chin tipped in a rare, sober approval. "Work worth doing," he said.

"It is," Lois echoed, eyes bright. "We brag about you to people who don't deserve the story."

Lucy pointed her fork like a baton. "And his name is on an article in the M.U. Law Review," she added. "He will not tell you that, but I read it and wrote 'icon' in the margins like a teenage fan."

You tried to wave it off; your ears warmed anyway. "Co-authored," you said. "Mostly footnotes and headaches."

"You always were weirdly good at footnotes," Clark said, amusement tucked into the edge of the compliment.

Conversation braided itself around food. Your father wanted to know if you still ran the river path ("Gulls don't respect schedules," you said). Lois demanded you feel the baby kick again ("He does cardio just to spite me"). Lucy launched into a rant about an art director who believed in fonts "with emotional arcs." Clark asked gentle, reporterly questions that made you feel seen without being cornered.

Somewhere between seconds on salad and Clark's proud unveiling of the "scientifically crisp" potatoes, his tone shifted just a hair. "And Noah?" he asked, quiet enough that it didn't knock the table off balance, but direct enough that it didn't pretend.

You took a sip of water you didn't really need, then set the glass down. "There's no me and Noah," you said, meeting Lois's eyes first, then Clark's, then your father's. "Hasn't been for quite a while."

Lois's hand found yours on the table, squeezing once. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it without making it a centerpiece. "He seemed kind."

"He is," you said. "It just... wasn't right. Not to string it out. For either of us." You left the rest unsaid, because tonight was for bridges, not autopsies.

Your father harrumphed in his way that contained both sympathy and advice. "Some things have seasons," he said. "Doesn't make the harvest a failure."

Lucy, mercifully, changed the angle. "Okay but also: are you dating? Do I need to set you up with a ceramicist named Xan who wears overalls and makes bowls that change lives?"

"Please don't," you said, laughing, the knot in your chest loosening. "I'm... fine. Work and sleep and eating real vegetables."

"Speaking of," Clark cut in, sliding you another spoonful of the evil-good potatoes. "Scientific evidence suggests these count as a vegetable."

"Barely," Lois said, popping one and failing to hide her delight.

Dinner fell back into its small, forgiving music—stories, seconds, the scrape of cutlery, Clark's hand ghosting to Lois's shoulder when she winced and then laughed, "Just a kick, don't call anyone." You let them soak you in the way families do after a long absence: too many questions, too many jokes, too many offers to send you home with leftovers. You let your father's mild chastising land and soften; you let Lucy's razzing untie the last knots. You ate until you were full, talked until your voice lost its edge, and, when the plates were cleared and the lemon cake unboxed, you let yourself believe that this was a door you were allowed to walk back through—carefully, honestly, one dinner at a time.

THE BACKYARD had settled into that soft, late-evening hush that makes every small sound feel intimate. The grill on the patio clicked as it cooled; a citronella candle shouldered out the last of the mosquitoes with a thin, lemony smoke. Beyond the fence, Metropolis murmured—distant siren, a commuter train whispering over the viaduct, a neighbor's TV leaking a laugh track into the dark. String lights stitched a warm halo over the lawn, and the maple leaves traded secrets in a faint breeze.

Clark nudged the screen door open with his shoulder and came out carrying two glasses of iced tea beaded with condensation. He wore that gray henley from earlier, sleeves pushed to his forearms, a faint clean scent of soap and charcoal still clinging to him. He passed you a glass, then dropped into the Adirondack chair beside yours, knees pointed toward you like he didn't know how to sit any other way than fully present.

"Start over," he said, easy. "The Gotham thing. You were saying?"

You took a swallow—cold, sweet, unhelpful—and traced a fingertip through the ring it left on the armrest. "There's an opening at the Gotham Center for Juvenile Justice. Half research, half in-court assessments. It's... bigger, messier. The work overlaps with what I'm doing at the Met U center, just with more direct diversion programs. I'd still teach—one seminar, maybe—and partner with their public defender's office."

Clark tipped his head. "That sounds like you. Hard problems, real leverage."

"It terrifies me," you admitted, and then shrugged. "Which probably means I should do it."

He smiled at that, a quiet curve that said I know you. The silence that followed was gentle, the kind that invites you to keep talking. You could have. You didn't. He glanced toward the kitchen—Lois and Lucy's voices a soft clatter inside—then back at you. The steadiness in his eyes shifted a notch.

"I'm glad you're here," he said. "I'm glad you told us about Gotham. But there's one thing I keep circling, and if I don't ask it will just... keep circling."

You knew before he said it.

"What happened with Noah after the wedding?" His voice stayed low, the words careful. "After he saw us. And why the two years of... not just distance. Disappearance."

You set your glass down. The condensation ring looked like a small eclipse. "He pulled me outside," you said. "By the river, behind the venue. He was furious—he had every right to be. He asked how long, what it was, whether I loved you." You exhaled through your nose, heat biting behind your eyes at the memory. "I told him we'd kissed. I didn't... I couldn't go past that. Not that day. He laid down terms to get through the ceremony without blowing it up. After, he wanted the whole truth. We tried to have that conversation. We tried to keep dating, to see if anger could cool into something livable."

"And?" Clark asked, though you could hear he already knew the shape of and.

"And it couldn't," you said. "He deserved someone who wasn't building scaffolding around a feeling for somebody else—somebody off-limits. We ended it. Cleanly, as clean as you can end something after that."

You rubbed your palms on your jeans, the cotton gone cool in the night air. "As for the disappearing... some of it was cowardice. I told myself it was protecting Lois, protecting you, protecting me. But mostly? I didn't trust myself not to keep... slipping. I'd rather everyone think I was busy than risk being in a room and wrecking it again." You stared at the fence slats until your vision doubled them. "I was going to tell Lois. I even wrote it down. I stood in your hallway with the note in my pocket and watched her show me honeymoon pictures and talk about how lucky she felt. I folded the paper back up. I chose the wrong thing because it was easier in the moment."

Clark sat with that. He didn't fill the space with absolutions. The string lights hummed. Somewhere inside, a cabinet door clicked shut; the baby monitor on the counter purred softly.

"I'm sorry," he said finally—not performative; simple. "For my part in all of it. I keep trying to decide if sorry is supposed to be a promise or a bandage, and I think it has to be both." He scrubbed a thumb along the sweating side of his glass. "Noah didn't deserve the morning he got. Lois didn't deserve to have to live anywhere near this. You didn't deserve to carry it alone for two years." He swallowed, a small, visible effort. "I missed you. I told myself missing you was the price of being decent. Most days that was true. Some days it was also... just missing you."

You looked at him then. The lights threw small, warm constellations across his cheekbones. He didn't look away.

"I kept tabs on you," he admitted, barely above a whisper, a confession shared with the night. "Not the way I shouldn't—that stopped. But in the ordinary ways. Asking your dad if you were sleeping. Reading when your name showed up in a symposium program. Hoping you were... okay. It didn't feel like enough. It felt like the only thing that was fair."

You let that settle, a stone finally reaching the bottom of a deep pool. "I'm okay," you said. "Better now that I stopped pretending avoidance is virtue. Gotham's as much about the work as it is about making a new pattern that isn't just 'don't show up.'"

He nodded once, something like relief easing his shoulders. "If you go," he said, "I'll be proud of you from here. If you stay, I'll be proud of you from here. Either way—" He caught himself, chose his next words with care. "Either way, I want to be your family in ways that don't pull us back into the worst versions of us."

You huffed a small laugh. "Guardrails."

"Guardrails," he agreed. "Group settings. No doors that click shut. If either of us feels the floor tilt, say so out loud and step back. I won't... listen for you. Not in the ways that steal from anyone." He lifted his glass, not quite a toast. "Lois first."

"Always," you said, surprised at how steady it felt on your tongue. "And me doing the grown-up thing I should've done two years ago: tell her the truth. Not tonight. But soon. With care."

Something like gratitude crossed his face—complicated, bright. "If you want me there, I will be," he said. "If you don't, I'll be down the hall, keeping dinner warm."

You smiled, small, honest. "Down the hall sounds right."

The screen door creaked; Lois's silhouette filled the frame, one hand on the jamb, the other curved under her belly. "You two going to flirt with the fence all night or come inside for cake?"

"Coming," Clark called, the word soft with affection. He stood and offered you a hand without thinking; you took it, and he used it only to lever you up, nothing more. The touch lasted exactly as long as it needed to. No longer.

On your way in, he paused and tilted his head toward the kitchen. "We're good?" he asked—not asking for absolution; asking for alignment.

"We're trying," you said. "That's better than disappearing."

He held the door for you, and the warm square of kitchen light swallowed the backyard. Inside, the house smelled like lemon and sugar. Your father was already angling for the corner piece; Lucy was threatening to put the baby's name to a vote; Lois had two forks and a look that said family meeting adjourned. You took your seat, the night air still on your skin, and let the small clatter of dessert do what it could: sweeten what had been hard, and make room for what had to come next.

THE SHIFT didn't happen with a speech; it happened with Saturdays.

Once the air was cleared and the worst of the guilt finally had somewhere to live besides your ribs, you started showing up again—on purpose. Coffee with your dad on Sundays after his walk. Midweek texts in the family chat that weren't just emoji reactions. A standing invite to drop by Lois and Clark's "anytime after 5, bring an appetite." The house began to recognize your knock.

Lois weaponized your return immediately. "If you're going to loiter," she said, brandishing a paint fan deck like a general with a battle map, "you're going to have opinions." That's how you and Clark ended up in the future nursery on a breezy afternoon, barefoot on a drop cloth, rolling a soft sage green over spackle-sanded walls while Motown crackled from a little speaker in the window. The room smelled like clean plaster and lemon cleaner and the faintest whisper of baby lotion from a basket someone had gifted too early.

Guardrails were there, intentionally invisible and absolutely real: door open, playlist loud enough to drown out silence, Lois floating in and out with snacks and commentary ("Tighter W's on your roller strokes, Michelangelo"), Lucy arriving in the last hour to hang framed prints and roast you for being "too symmetrical." You and Clark worked in companionable rhythm—he cut in along the ceiling with the steadiness of a surgeon; you rolled broad lanes below, trading the tray and the roller without brushing fingers because that was one of the quiet rules you'd both chosen.

The errands became their own ritual. A hardware-store run for anchors and a stud finder turned into a lesson in the arcana of wall types: lath and plaster versus drywall, Clark patiently tapping and listening and then handing you the drill with an exaggerated flourish. "Your turn, Professor." A trip to the reuse center produced a weathered bookshelf you sanded together on the back porch, careful with the edges so tiny hands wouldn't find splinters. Lucy painted the back panel a riotous pattern of tiny stars; your father dropped off a clamp light "because your sister will read until dawn if you let her."

As the weeks slid forward, the room began to collect small, ordinary magic: a mobile of paper cranes you strung on fishing line and Clark balanced by eye until they turned with the slightest breath; a rocking chair you assembled with only three wrong bolts and one triumphant "aha"; a basket of board books Lois swore were "nonnegotiable canon"—Corduroy, The Snowy Day, a chewed-up copy of Goodnight Moon your father claimed was yours. You installed the baby monitor while Clark read the manual out loud in a faux-broadcaster baritone; Lois filmed it, cackling, and sent the video to Lucy with the caption: two geniuses, one camera.

Conversations stayed in the bright places and the true ones. You talked Gotham—interviews, the kind of cases you'd see, where you might live if you went. Clark asked questions like a reporter and a friend: not to trap you, but to help you hear yourself. Sometimes he told you about a column that refused to land; sometimes he told you about a fire he'd pulled three people from without ever saying how he'd gotten there so fast. Lois would appear in the doorway and slide into the talk as if she'd been there the whole time, one hand absently smoothing the small planet of her belly while she argued for blackout curtains and against anything "with faces that stare at you in the dark."

There were near-misses, the kind of tiny tilts that used to turn into slides. A laugh that lingered a hair too long; a pause when you both reached for the same screw; a silence that could have opened into something else if you'd let it. You didn't. One of you would step back, or Lois would call from the kitchen, or Lucy would crash through the door with bubble wrap and chaos. You learned to notice the angle and right it without drama. It started to feel like a skill rather than a battle.

On the night the crib went up, the four of you stood back and admired the straightness of the rails as if you'd raised a barn. Lois pressed your hand to her belly and the baby thumped—a solid little hello. Your father, who had come by "just to drop off a level," found himself measuring the rug instead, and stayed long enough to declare the room "fit for a human."

When you left that night, the nursery smelled faintly of wood glue and lavender. The string lights Clark had rigged under the bookshelf threw a soft, golden wash across the room. You paused in the doorway and looked at what you had all built together: something sturdy, soft-edged, ready. Clark came to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder but not touching. "Looks good," he said, and the words meant the room and the work and the way you were learning to be in the same frame without falling out of it.

"Yeah," you said. "It does."

You turned off the light and pulled the door softly to, leaving it an inch ajar—another guardrail, another promise kept.

The evening had unfolded with a deceptive slowness, stretching far beyond what you'd anticipated when you first arrived at Lois and Clark's house. The dinner had been a warm, chaotic affair—platters of herb-crusted roasted chicken, creamy mashed potatoes flecked with black pepper, and tender green beans glistening with butter passed around the table amid bursts of laughter and playful arguments over who got the last dinner roll.

The clink of wine glasses and the hum of overlapping voices filled the dining room, the air rich with the savory aroma of the meal and the faint sweetness of a candle burning on the sideboard. After dessert—homemade lemon bars dusted with powdered sugar that melted on your tongue—the group drifted to the living room, trading plates for steaming mugs of coffee. The conversation lingered, weaving through old family stories, teasing jabs, and quiet moments of shared history.

Lucy suggested a movie to cap the night. The television flickered on, casting a soft blue glow across the room as a low-key drama began to play, its dialogue barely audible over the rustle of blankets and the occasional chuckle. Lois had nestled into the couch, her head resting on Clark's lap, her dark hair spilling across his thigh. A knitted throw blanket draped over her, rising gently with the curve of her pregnant belly. Her breathing deepened as sleep took her, her face softened in the dim light, lips slightly parted.

Lucy was the first to leave, leaning down to press a tender kiss to Lois's forehead, her voice light but warm as she tossed you a "don't be a stranger" before slipping out the front door. Her boots crunched on the gravel driveway, the sound fading into the crisp autumn night. Your father followed soon after, still muttering about the city's erratic traffic patterns as Clark walked him out, their voices a low murmur under the starlit sky.

By the time Clark returned, the house had settled into a hushed calm. The movie's credits rolled silently, the room bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp. You were sprawled on the couch, your body heavy with the weight of the long day, your eyelids drooping as sleep tugged at the edges of your consciousness. You stood, stretching your stiff shoulders, and reached for your jacket slung over the armrest, the leather cool against your fingers. The rustle of fabric stirred Lois, who blinked awake, her voice thick with sleep as she propped herself up on one elbow, her hand instinctively smoothing the swell of her belly.

"Don't even think about it," she mumbled, her tone firm despite the grogginess. "You're not driving across the city this late. Guest room's clean. Sheets are fresh. Stay."

Clark stepped back into the room just then, rubbing the back of his neck in that familiar, slightly awkward way that always seemed to betray a quiet thoughtfulness. His flannel shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a sliver of collarbone, and his dark hair was slightly mussed, curling at the ends from the long evening.

"She's right," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying that calm certainty that made arguing with him feel pointless. "Roads'll be empty, sure, but tired driving's still bad driving. Just crash here."

You opened your mouth to protest, a reflex born of stubborn pride and a need to maintain boundaries. But the truth was undeniable: your limbs felt like lead, your eyes gritty from hours of conversation and laughter, and the thought of navigating the city's labyrinthine streets at this hour was exhausting.

"Alright," you conceded, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you met Lois's triumphant gaze. "But only because you've got me cornered with those damn lemon bars and your relentless hospitality."

Lois smirked, satisfied, and pushed herself up from the couch, her movements slow and deliberate, the weight of her pregnancy evident in the careful way she moved.

"Guest room's at the end of the hall," she said, her slippers scuffing softly against the polished hardwood floor as she shuffled toward their bedroom. "Towels are in the linen closet if you need 'em. Goodnight."

Clark lingered for a moment, his eyes meeting yours in a quiet, fleeting exchange that carried the weight of years—shared history, unspoken moments, and lines carefully drawn. He offered a small, almost shy smile before following Lois down the hall, his footsteps steady and unhurried.

You made your way to the guest room, your overnight bag slung over your shoulder, the straps digging slightly into your skin. The room was simple but inviting: a queen-sized bed with crisp white sheets that smelled faintly of lavender detergent, a sturdy wooden chair in the corner, and a small window letting in slivers of moonlight that danced across the hardwood floor. You dropped your bag on the chair, kicked off your shoes, and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to change out of your jeans and sweater.

Sleep came swiftly, pulling you under like a tide.

Sometime after 2 a.m., you woke with a start, your body jolted awake by an urgent, twisting pressure in your lower abdomen—the kind that demanded immediate attention. The house was cloaked in a heavy stillness, the silence alive with small, subtle sounds: the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the faint creak of century-old floorboards as you shifted your weight, the distant tick of a clock somewhere down the hall.

Barefoot, your toes cold against the hardwood, you padded out of the guest room, rubbing sleep from your eyes. The hallway was dimly lit by a plug-in nightlight, its warm glow casting soft shadows as you navigated by memory toward the bathroom.

The bathroom door was closed but not latched, a thin sliver of pale light spilling from the gap beneath. Half-asleep, your mind fogged with exhaustion, you pushed the door open without a second thought.

And then you froze, your breath catching in your throat.

Inside, Clark stood at the toilet, his broad frame bathed in the silvery glow of moonlight pouring through the frosted window above the sink. He wore a fitted white T-shirt that hugged the planes of his shoulders and chest, the fabric stretched taut across his back, hinting at the strength beneath. His plaid pajama pants hung low on his hips, the elastic waistband sagging just enough to reveal the smooth dip of his lower back and the faint shadow of muscle beneath his skin. One hand was braced against the tiled wall, fingers splayed wide, anchoring him as his body leaned slightly forward. The other hand was wrapped around his erect cock, thick and flushed, moving in slow, deliberate strokes. Each motion was measured, controlled, his fingers sliding from base to tip with a rhythm that spoke of both urgency and restraint. A low, guttural sound escaped his throat—a muffled groan, raw and private, barely audible but heavy with need. His head was tipped forward, dark hair falling messily over his forehead, curling slightly at the nape of his neck. His shoulders rose and fell with each uneven breath, the muscles in his arm flexing with every stroke.

The air in the room was warm, thick, charged with the scent of him—clean soap from an earlier shower, the faint salt of sweat, and a deeper, muskier note that hit you like a physical force, making your chest tighten and your pulse spike. The moonlight carved out every detail of his body: the taut curve of his biceps, the ripple of his forearm, the subtle shift of his hips as he rocked slightly into his hand. His lips parted, and though the words were too soft to catch, he was murmuring something to himself, the sound intimate, almost reverent, like a prayer meant for no one else. His thumb brushed over the tip of his cock, slick with precum, and he let out another low sound, his head tilting back slightly, eyes half-closed in concentration.

You stood rooted in the doorway, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure it would give you away. Heat flooded your body, a visceral rush that pooled low in your belly, dragging up memories you'd fought to keep buried—nights years ago, stolen moments in dark corners, the press of his hands, the weight of his body, the way his breath had felt against your skin. But this was different. This was the line you'd sworn never to cross again, no matter how much your body burned with the memory of him, no matter how the sight of him now—vulnerable, exposed, lost in his own pleasure—threatened to unravel every promise you'd made to yourself.

You knew you should move—step back, pull the door shut, erase the image before it etched itself into your mind forever. But for one dangerous, fleeting moment, your body betrayed you, rooted to the spot, caught between the pull of desire and the sharp, searing knowledge of what crossing that threshold would mean.

You spun on your heel, your bare feet slapping too loudly against the cool, polished hardwood of the hallway, the sound jarring in the silent house. Your lips moved, muttering half-formed apologies to no one—maybe to yourself, maybe to the air—as you hurried back toward the guest room, desperate to bury the image of Clark, the raw sound of his pleasure, deep in the vault where you'd locked away every other near-slip, every dangerous moment that had ever passed between you.

You were halfway down the hall, the guest room door in sight, when the faint creak of hinges stopped you cold. The bathroom door had opened behind you, the sliver of moonlight widening as it spilled into the hallway.

"Wait," Clark's voice called, low and measured, not sharp or commanding but steady enough to halt your retreat. It wasn't a plea, but it carried a weight that pinned your feet to the floor.

You froze, your body half-turned, your gaze fixed on the long shadow his frame cast across the hardwood, stretching toward you in the pale, silvery light. Your breath caught, shallow and uneven, as you fought the urge to keep moving, to flee back to the safety of the guest room. Slowly, reluctantly, you pivoted, your eyes tracing the floorboards—worn and smooth underfoot—before daring to lift them to meet his. Clark stood in the bathroom doorway, one hand gripping the frame, his knuckles pale against the dark wood. His pajama pants still hung low on his hips, the waistband sagging to reveal the faint line of his hipbone, a detail that felt dangerously intimate in the quiet of the night. His face was a complicated mosaic—half-caught, half-resigned, with no trace of the embarrassment you'd expected. Instead, his eyes were steady, searching yours with a quiet intensity that made your stomach twist.

"Come in," he said softly, his voice almost a request, threaded with a hesitation that suggested he wasn't entirely sure he should be making it.

Every nerve in your body screamed to refuse, to turn and walk away, to let the guest room door and a locked handle erase this moment. But your legs betrayed you, hesitating, rooted to the spot as if caught in some invisible pull. The air felt thick, charged with the weight of what had just happened, what was still happening. You swallowed hard, your throat dry, and took a tentative step toward the bathroom, your bare feet silent now, deliberate. Clark didn't move closer, didn't reach for you, just held the doorframe like it was an anchor keeping him from crossing a line he wasn't sure he could uncross.

"I know what you saw," he said, his voice rough, not from shame but from the raw edge of disuse, like he hadn't spoken in hours. "And I'm not proud of it." He paused, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. "But I need you to understand something." His eyes flicked downward briefly, a fleeting glance at the floor before they steadied on yours again, unwavering.

"Lois... she's been incredible. Strong. Brave. Carrying this baby, dealing with everything that comes with it—morning sickness, exhaustion, moods that swing so fast it's like whiplash. None of it's her fault, and I'd never blame her for it. But in that department..." His voice dropped, softer now, almost confessional. "It's been months. Longer than I thought I could handle. She's needed space, and I've given it. She needs comfort, not pressure, and I've tried to be what she needs. But that doesn't erase what I feel when I'm alone, when the house is quiet, and it's just me and... this."

The honesty landed like a stone in your chest, heavy and unyielding. It wasn't an excuse; it was a confession, raw and unguarded, and that made it so much worse. The words peeled back layers you'd both spent years building, exposing the fragile, dangerous truth beneath. The air between you felt electric, thick with the scent of him—clean soap, the faint salt of sweat, and that deeper, muskier note that still lingered from what you'd walked in on. It clung to the back of your throat, making it hard to breathe.

"I wasn't... I wasn't going to say anything," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper, catching on the edges of the thick night air. "I was walking away."

Your hands fidgeted at your sides, fingers twisting together as you fought to keep your composure, to keep the memories at bay—the kitchen counter years ago, the hotel room, the weight of his hands on your skin, the way his breath had hitched when you'd whispered his name.

"I know," Clark said, softer now, his voice like a low tide pulling back. "You were going to bury it, just like you've buried everything else between us." He let out a slow, heavy breath, his chest rising under the thin cotton of his shirt, the fabric shifting slightly over the curve of his chest. "But I can't keep pretending I don't think about you. Especially not when you're right here, in my house, sleeping down the hall."

The words hit like a physical blow, sharp and precise, ripping open the careful stitches you'd sewn over the past. You could still feel the cool edge of the counter against your thighs, the way his fingers had curled into your hips, the low growl in his throat when he'd pressed himself closer. It was all there, alive and pulsing in the space between you.

Clark leaned against the doorframe, his body still, deliberate, not crossing the invisible line that separated you. His eyes, though, held no such restraint—they traced your face, lingering on your lips for a fraction too long before meeting your gaze again.

"I shouldn't have asked you to come in," he said, his voice quieter now, laced with a regret that felt more like longing than remorse. "But I needed you to hear it from me. Not as some dirty secret, not as something to shove away. Just... the truth."

The night held its breath, the air thick with heat and restraint, the hum of the house a faint backdrop to the tension coiling between you. For a long, suspended moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was a living thing, thick and pulsing, until a small, disbelieving laugh slipped past your lips—half nervous, half a desperate attempt to break the tension that threatened to consume you.

Your hand flew to your mouth, fingers trembling slightly as you tried to stifle the sound, your shoulders shaking with a single, involuntary shudder before you regained control. The laugh felt like a fragile shield, a way to keep the moment from swallowing you whole.

Clark tilted his head, his brows knitting together in a faint frown, a crease forming between them that only deepened the intensity of his gaze. "What?" he asked, his voice low, rough, laced with a curiosity that carried an undercurrent of something darker, something that made your skin prickle.

You dropped your hand, a wry smile tugging at your lips, though your heart was still racing, your body acutely aware of the scant distance between you.

"I just..." You shook your head, the smile faltering as the absurdity of the situation collided with the raw heat simmering in the air. "I can't believe I walked in on Clark Kent—sweet, buttoned-up, choir-boy Clark Kent—jerking off in the middle of the night."

The words came out shaky, edged with a nervous humor that felt like a lifeline, but the image of him—his hand wrapped around his thick, flushed cock, stroking with deliberate, restrained need—flashed vivid and unbidden in your mind, sending a fresh wave of heat curling through you.

"If people only knew..." you added, your voice softer, almost a whisper, as another quiet laugh escaped, though it did nothing to ease the tightness in your chest.

For the first time, a flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, the corners twitching upward, but his eyes remained dark, molten, locked on yours with an intensity that made the air feel thinner. He pushed off the doorframe, his movements slow, deliberate, and folded his arms across his chest, the motion pulling his T-shirt tighter, accentuating the hard curve of his biceps, the broad expanse of his chest. His gaze didn't waver, and the spark in his eyes wasn't playful—it was raw, unguarded, a challenge that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You of all people," he said, his voice low and deliberate, each word a slow burn, "should know I'm not as innocent as they think."

The words struck like a match in a room soaked with gasoline, igniting a fire that roared through your veins. Your breath hitched, the heat in your stomach twisting tighter, spreading lower, a pulsing ache that rooted you to the spot. The memories came unbidden, vivid and relentless.

Clark didn't look away, didn't retreat into the safety of shyness or excuses. His eyes held yours, dark and piercing, a silent dare to deny what he'd said, to pretend you didn't feel the same pull, to act as if the memory of him—buried deep inside you, his breath hot against your neck, his hands bruising your thighs—wasn't as vivid for you as it was for him. His chest rose and fell, shifting with each breath, and you couldn't help but notice the faint outline of his still-hard cock against the fabric of his pajama pants, a reminder of what you'd interrupted, what he hadn't finished. The sight sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively, your body betraying the restraint you were trying so hard to hold onto.

"I don't usually..." he started, his voice low, even, almost clinical, as if he were trying to strip the moment of its heat with raw, unadorned honesty. He paused, exhaling sharply through his nose, the sound heavy in the quiet hallway, his chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

"When it gets to be too much, I'll use the living room. Everyone's asleep, lights down low, the couch is... private enough." His eyes flicked to yours, steady and unflinching, a dark intensity in them that made your stomach twist. "But with you here tonight—"

His voice caught, just for a moment, before he pressed on, his gaze holding yours like a tether. "With you under the same roof, I couldn't. It didn't feel right. So I came in here. Shut the door. Less chance of you ever knowing."

The words landed like a stone in your chest, heavy and unyielding, each syllable threaded with a weight that was both confession and restraint. He wasn't embarrassed—not in the way most men would've been, their faces flushed with shame at being caught. Instead, there was a quiet dignity in his admission, a respect woven into the raw honesty, as if he were trying to honor you even in the midst of something so messy, so human.

You blinked, trying to ground yourself, and let out a dry, shaky laugh, shaking your head as you raked a hand through your hair, your fingers catching in the strands.

"Clark..." you started, your voice softer than you meant it to be, "this is your house. Your rules. You don't need to explain yourself to me."

The words were deliberate, a careful attempt to rebuild the boundaries you'd both spent years reinforcing, to keep the moment from spiraling into something neither of you could take back.

You took a step back, your bare feet silent against the cool hardwood, the tension in your body loosening slightly as you found a safer line to stand on.

"I was only up because I needed the bathroom," you said, your tone light, almost teasing, though your heart was still pounding, your skin still tingling with the memory of what you'd seen.

"I'll head back to bed. You—" You gestured vaguely toward the half-open bathroom door, toward the quiet admission still hanging in the air, your hand trembling slightly as you tried to keep your voice steady. "You can... continue with whatever plan you had."

The words were deliberate, a reminder to both of you that you weren't here to judge, to police, or to blur the lines you'd both fought so hard to redraw. But even as you spoke, your eyes betrayed you, lingering for a fraction too long on the broad line of his shoulders, the way the hallway light caught the faint halo of his dark hair, curling messily at the nape of his neck.

The heat in your chest hadn't faded, and the memory of him—his hand wrapped around himself, stroking with deliberate need, his low groan echoing in the small space—flashed unbidden in your mind, sending a fresh wave of warmth through you.

For a moment, Clark just studied you, his arms still folded across his chest, the muscles in his forearms flexing subtly as he held himself in check. His jaw was tight, a flicker of something unnameable—regret, longing, restraint—passing across his face. His eyes, dark and searching, traced yours, as if looking for something you weren't ready to give voice to. Then, slowly, he gave a small nod, a quiet acknowledgment of the space you'd offered, the respect you'd returned to him. It was a gesture that felt like both a thank you and a surrender, a recognition of the fragile boundary you were both trying to maintain.

"Goodnight," you said, softer now, your voice barely above a whisper as you forced your eyes away from him, away from the way the light carved out the angles of his face, the faint flush across his cheekbones, the tension in his body that mirrored your own.

You turned, your bare feet padding silently against the hardwood as you made your way back toward the guest room.

YOU HAD barely eased the guest room door shut behind you, the soft click of the latch echoing faintly in the stillness, when the tension that had coiled tight in the hallway began to loosen, if only slightly. The room was cool, the air carrying the subtle soothing scent of lavender as you slid beneath them.

The cotton was crisp against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat still simmering in your chest, and you pressed your face into the pillow, exhaling deeply, willing your body to release the weight of the moment—the awkwardness of stumbling into Clark's private act, the heavy press of old history that tightened like a band around your ribs.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push it all down, to let the quiet of the guest room and the steady rhythm of your breathing erase the charge still humming through you.

Just as your pulse began to slow, your breaths evening out into something resembling calm, a soft knock broke the silence—two gentle taps against the wooden door, not urgent, not loud, but hesitant, as if the person on the other side wasn't entirely sure they should be there.

Your heart lurched, a fresh wave of adrenaline spiking through you, because you knew, without a doubt, who it was. You pushed yourself upright, the sheets sliding down to pool at your waist, your bare legs prickling in the cool air as you blinked into the dimness of the room. The only light came from the faint sliver of moonlight seeping through the window and the soft glow of the hallway nightlight creeping under the door, casting long, gentle shadows across the hardwood floor.

You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your feet brushing the smooth, cool wood as you stood, your loose sweater shifting against your skin, the hem grazing your thighs. You crossed the room in a few quiet steps, your hand pausing on the doorknob, the metal cool under your palm as you steadied yourself.

When you opened the door, Clark stood there, half-shadowed by the weak, amber glow of the hallway light. His expression wasn't guilty, not exactly—it was searching, careful, his blue eyes catching the light as they met yours, holding a question he hadn't yet voiced. It was the look of someone who had turned this moment over in his mind a hundred times in the span of minutes, weighing every word, every consequence.

"Sorry," he said immediately, his voice hushed, barely above a whisper, careful not to carry down the hallway where Lois slept. "I didn't mean to wake you. I just... I needed to ask something."

You leaned against the doorframe, your shoulder brushing the smooth wood, your arms crossing loosely over your chest as you waited, your pulse drumming steady and high, a rhythm that echoed in your ears.

Your bare feet shifted slightly on the hardwood, the coolness grounding you as you met his gaze, trying to keep your expression neutral, though your body betrayed you with the slight flush creeping up your neck.

Clark's throat worked, the muscles in his neck flexing as he swallowed, his jaw tightening briefly before he spoke again.

"Would it be wrong," he asked, his voice low, deliberate, each word measured as if he were stepping carefully across a minefield, "if I asked you to join me in the living room?"

He didn't look away, didn't soften the question with a smile or a deflection. His tone carried the weight of restraint, of someone standing at the edge of a line he knew was dangerous to cross, his eyes searching yours for an answer he wasn't sure he wanted to hear. The question hung between you, raw and unadorned, but beneath it was another, unspoken one, pulsing in the silence: Do you want this too? Do we dare?

The space between you seemed to shrink, the hallway light casting a soft halo around his silhouette, highlighting the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, as if fighting the urge to reach out.

The quiet hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic tick of the baby monitor were the only other sounds in the house, a faint backdrop to the weight of the moment, as if the entire space was holding its breath, waiting to see what you would do. Your heart pounded, your skin prickling with the awareness of how close he stood, how easy it would be to close the distance, to let the pull of memory and desire unravel the careful boundaries you'd both spent years building.

"Clark..." you started, your voice hushed to match his, barely above a whisper, careful not to carry down the hall where Lois slept. You tried to keep it steady, to anchor yourself in logic, but a faint hesitation crept into the end of your words, betraying the part of you that wasn't entirely convinced by your own refusal. "That might not be such a good idea."

He gave a small nod, his lips pressing into a thin line, as if he'd anticipated your resistance but wasn't ready to let it end there. Instead of retreating, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, the motion slow and deliberate, his body tilting just enough to close a fraction of the distance between you.

"I know how it sounds," he said quietly, his voice low and measured, each word chosen with care, addressing the unspoken implication that his invitation could be mistaken for something more—a request for intimacy, for the kind of connection that had once burned between you. "But I'm not asking for... that." His tone softened, deliberate in every syllable, as if he were laying out a promise he intended to keep. "I'll behave. I promise."

Your brow furrowed, a mix of skepticism and curiosity, but before you could respond, he pressed on, his voice dipping even lower, a rough edge to it that sent a shiver down your spine.

"I just..." He glanced down the hall toward the living room, his eyes lingering on the shadowed doorway for a moment before returning to you, steady and unyielding. "I don't want to sit out there by myself tonight. I'd rather have your company, if you're not too tired. We don't even have to talk if you don't want to. We can just... sit. Watch whatever's on—some late-night rerun, static, doesn't matter. Play cards. Anything."

He gave the faintest shrug, his broad shoulders lifting slightly, the motion meant to seem casual but unable to hide the weight behind it—the quiet plea woven into his words. "I'll take whatever you're comfortable giving."

The words hung in the quiet, raw and sincere, stripped of any pretense. They were a naked request for companionship, for a closeness that didn't demand bodies colliding but sought something simpler, more human—a way to quiet the noise in his head, to share the weight of the night with someone who understood him in ways others didn't. The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, the way he'd laid himself bare, not hiding the vulnerability of needing you there, even if just to sit in silence.

YOU TOOK Clark at his word—company, nothing more—and the two of you drifted toward the living room, moving with the cautious, silent steps of conspirators. Your bare feet whispered against the cool hardwood, the faint creak of the floorboards barely audible in the stillness of the house. The living room was cloaked in near-darkness, illuminated only by the soft, golden pool of light spilling from a small table lamp in the corner, its warm glow catching the edges of the furniture—the worn leather armrests of the sofa, the smooth grain of the coffee table. The blue wink of the baby monitor's light pulsed faintly on the kitchen counter, a quiet reminder of Lois sleeping down the hall, her presence a tether grounding the moment. Clark moved with purpose, retrieving two ceramic mugs from the kitchen, their handles chipped from years of use, and set them on coasters with a faint clink. The chamomile tea steamed gently, its floral scent mingling with the lingering warmth of the house, a subtle counterpoint to the tension still humming in your chest.

You claimed one end of the plush, navy-blue sofa, tucking your legs beneath you, the soft fabric of your loose sweater brushing against your thighs as you adjusted. The remote was cool in your hand, its buttons worn smooth from use, and you gripped it like a lifeline, grounding yourself in the familiar ritual of choosing a movie.

"Ground rules," you said, your voice firm but edged with a playful lilt, a deliberate attempt to keep the moment light. "Door stays open, volume low, and you're not allowed to make fun of my comfort movies." You arched a brow, meeting his gaze, daring him to challenge you.

Clark stood at the opposite end of the sofa, his broad frame silhouetted against the lamplight. He lifted his palms in a gesture of surrender, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes—dark and steady—held a weight that made your pulse quicken.

"Scout's honor," he said, his voice low, warm, with just a hint of amusement. "What are we watching?"

You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you scrolled through the streaming menu, the blue light of the television flickering across your face.

"The Twilight saga," you declared with dangerous solemnity, your finger hovering over the play button. "All of it."

He blinked, his brows lifting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. "All... five?"

"And the extended baseball scene," you added, your voice deadpan, though the corners of your mouth twitched with suppressed laughter.

Clark let out a quiet laugh, the sound low and rich, catching himself mid-breath as he nodded, his expression settling into one of mock-serious resolve, like a man accepting a daunting but sacred mission.

He lowered himself onto the opposite end of the sofa, careful to leave a deliberate expanse of space between you—a neutral territory marked by a throw pillow with a faded geometric pattern and a neatly folded wool blanket draped over the backrest. The distance felt like a silent agreement, a boundary both of you were determined to respect, though the air still thrummed with an unspoken awareness.

The opening credits of Twilight washed the room in a moody Pacific Northwest blue, the haunting notes of the soundtrack curling through the air, all misty forests and melancholic piano. You relaxed almost instantly, the tension that had knotted your shoulders all evening dissolving under the familiar rhythm of the film.

This was muscle memory for you: the cadence of the scenes, the way the muted greens and grays of the color grading soothed your pulse, the quiet ache of a story that insisted love could be messy, inconvenient, and still fiercely true. You sank deeper into the sofa, your legs tucked under you, your fingers brushing the soft edge of the throw pillow as you let the movie pull you under.

Clark watched the screen, but his gaze kept drifting to you, subtle and unguarded, as if he couldn't help it. He didn't mean to stare; it was just that you were there, alive in a way the flickering images on the TV could never be. He noticed the way you mouthed certain lines without realizing, your lips moving silently to Bella's awkward dialogue, as if the words were etched into you.

He caught the quick, conspiratorial glance you shot him before the cafeteria scene, your eyes glinting with a playful spark, like you were sharing a private joke with a thousand fictional teenagers. He saw how your expression softened, your eyes brightening when Bella and Edward's first look sparked across the screen, a moment of quiet longing that seemed to resonate deep in your chest. And when the camera lingered too long on a fragile, vulnerable moment, he noticed your hand drift to the edge of the blanket, fingers curling into the wool as if anchoring yourself against the ache of it.

"You've seen these a few times," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, careful not to break the spell of the movie or the fragile balance between you.

"Dozens," you admitted, your tone light but honest, your eyes still fixed on the screen. "They remind me to believe in love despite... everything."

The words slipped out before you could catch them, raw and unguarded, and you felt a flush creep up your neck, though you didn't look at him.

Clark was quiet for a moment, parsing your words, his fingers wrapped loosely around his mug, the chamomile tea long since gone cold. Onscreen, the tension between Bella and Edward hummed, all stolen glances and unspoken promises. You leaned forward, your voice losing its self-consciousness as you launched into an explanation of the coven politics, your hands sketching invisible constellations in the air—fingers tracing arcs as you described the Volturi's power plays, the dynamics of loyalty and betrayal.

You had opinions about the soundtrack too, your voice growing animated as you explained how a certain guitar line, wistful and layered, made a scene feel like rain on bare skin, like the ache of wanting something you couldn't quite name. Clark listened, his questions coming at just the right moments—reporter-curious, thoughtful, never puncturing the spell you were weaving.

"Why that choice?" he'd ask, or "What makes this work for you?" His tone wasn't probing the movies; it was probing you, learning the contours of your thoughts, the way you saw the world through this flawed, glittering story.

By the time the vampire baseball scene roared onto the screen, all thunder and kinetic energy, you were fully alive, sitting up cross-legged, your elbow propped on the throw pillow between you, your eyes lit with unrestrained enthusiasm.

"Okay, this is camp and also peak cinema," you whispered, your voice hushed but brimming with excitement, as if you were sharing a secret. "Watch the way they move to the thunder. And the code under it—family, rules, restraint."

You gestured toward the screen, your fingers brushing the air, your body leaning slightly closer to the neutral space between you, the pillow a flimsy barrier.

Clark watched, his eyes flicking between the screen—the lightning, the crack of bat to ball, the supernatural grace of the Cullens—and your reflection in the glass of the TV: your face open, shining, unguarded, alight with a passion that made something in his chest tug hard.

Restraint had been his native language for years, a discipline carved into his bones, but hope—hope was his other language, the one that whispered of possibilities he'd sworn he wouldn't chase. Tonight, sitting here with you, both felt like talismans he clutched tightly, warding off the pull of something he couldn't name but could feel in every glance, every shared breath.

As New Moon bled into Eclipse, you declared yourself firmly Team "healthy boundaries," your voice half-laughing but earnest, though you confessed in a quieter moment that you still melted at the idea of two people choosing each other again and again, even when it hurt. You talked about Bella's stubbornness, how it read to you not as recklessness but as an argument that love could be a discipline, not just a flood—a choice to hold fast against the chaos.

Clark sipped his cooling tea, the mug cradled in his hands, and let your words settle over him, your faith in a flawed story sharpening his own into focus. Devotion, danger, self-control, vows—these were not theoretical to him. They were the tectonic plates of his life, shifting beneath the surface, and hearing you speak of them with such unguarded conviction made his own feel closer, more tangible.

Between films, he rose quietly, his movements careful not to disturb the moment, and refilled a glass pitcher with water, the faint clink of ice against glass breaking the silence. He returned with a small bowl of green grapes, their skins taut and glistening, and the last two lemon bars, their powdered sugar dusting catching the lamplight. He set them on the coffee table, within reach but not closer than the neutral pillow, a deliberate choice to maintain the fragile boundary between you.

When he noticed your bare feet curling against the cool air, he draped the wool blanket over them, the gesture so subtle you barely registered it, though the warmth of the fabric sent a quiet shiver through you. When you caught him looking—his eyes lingering on the curve of your smile, the way your hands moved when you talked—he deflected with a quick joke about the world's sparkliest vampires, his voice light but his gaze still warm.

You launched into a mock-lecture on authorial intent, your tone teasing but passionate, and he accepted it with a hand over his heart, his lips twitching into a smile that felt like a shared secret in the quiet, lamplit room.

THE HOUSE had softened into a hush by the time you queued up Breaking Dawn: Part 1, its edges blurred by the late hour, the world beyond the living room fading into a quiet cocoon. The screen flickered to life, the opening credits washing the room in a blinding white light and grays that seemed to pull the tension from your shoulders.

Your body responded to the film as it always did, a ritual so familiar it felt like slipping into well-worn clothes. Your shoulders unhitched, your breath evened out, and a quiet, stubborn hope you could never quite extinguish rose to the surface, warming your chest. You sank deeper into the sofa, your legs tucked beneath you, the soft fabric of your loose sweater brushing against your thighs, the hem swaying slightly as you adjusted.

Clark started out watching the screen, his eyes tracking the montage of wedding preparations—an invitation flying out of Jacob's hand, the delicate script curling in the light. By the time the camera found the forest chapel—a corridor of towering trees, their branches heavy with moss, white chairs flanked by lush ferns, a ribbon of soft white petals stitched down the aisle like a promise—his gaze had shifted.

You didn't notice at first, too caught up in the scene, leaning forward with your elbows propped on your knees, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as you told him about the production design you loved: how the chapel's natural frame made the world narrow to two people, even with a crowd of witnesses.

Clark humored you with a soft smile, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to crinkle the skin around his eyes, and asked a question or two—reporter-curious, his tone warm and attentive, genuinely listening as you described the way the ferns seemed to lean in, the way the light filtered through the trees like a vow of its own.

Then the first piano notes of "Turning Page" threaded through the room—bare, measured, a melody that felt like it arrived from a memory rather than the speakers—and your throat caught, a familiar ache blooming in your chest.

You'd watched this scene more times than you could count, its pacing embedded under your skin like a heartbeat: the glimpse of Bella's delicate white shoes peeking from beneath her gown, the tilt of Edward's chin as he waited at the altar, the long, deliberate hold on the aisle as if the film itself were teaching patience, reverence.

Your eyes softened, your lips parting slightly as the music gathered strings beneath the piano, adding depth, like an extra breath drawn in a quiet moment. You murmured something about how the sequence believed in vows without mocking them, your voice low and earnest, and then you let yourself fall silent, as you always did here, letting the moment carry you.

Across the cushion-length divide, Clark set his mug down on the coffee table with a faint clink, the movement so careful it was as if he feared even the ceramic might disrupt the fragile spell of the room. He didn't lean toward the TV; he leaned—fractionally, unconsciously—toward you, his body shifting just enough to tilt the air between you.

You felt it before you saw it, a prickle along your arms like the shift in weather before a storm breaks. The corner of your vision caught details that didn't belong to the movie: the small flex of a muscle at his jaw, the way it tightened and released; the glint of the lamplight catching the edge of his wedding band as his right thumb worried the pad of his left hand, a nervous habit that betrayed the calm he wore; the steady rise and fall of his chest, shirt shifting with each breath, hinting at the strength beneath. When the camera cut to Bella at the end of the aisle, the melody swelling with a cascade of strings, you felt his stare like a physical touch, a warm weight settling on your shoulder.

You tore your gaze from the screen, your breath catching as you found him watching you. Not greedy, not hungry, but utterly, devastatingly present, his blue eyes soft and unyielding, holding yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart stutter.

"What?" you breathed, a half-laugh slipping out, a flimsy shield against the ridiculousness of the moment, against the rules you'd both set, the open door, the vows you both carried. The score swelled, all piano and strings, a melody that could make you believe in anything.

He didn't answer, his silence louder than words, as if the truth was too heavy to speak in this house, with Lois sleeping down the hall. Onscreen, Edward was mesmerized at the sight of Bella coming down the aisle, the white fabric of dress look like a sigh, soft and deliberate. The strings joined the piano, a gentle brush of sound that felt like it was stitching the moment together.

In the small, suspended space between those notes and the swelling crescendo that always followed, Clark moved, crossing the neutral divide in a single, fluid motion so careful it felt like a prayer. The throw pillow shifted slightly, the blanket rustling as he closed the distance.

His hand found your jaw—not your mouth, not your neck, but the delicate curve of your jaw, his fingers warm and steady, as if asking a question his words couldn't form. His touch was light, reverent, the calluses on his fingertips brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath hitch.

For a heartbeat, you didn't move, your body caught in the space between instinct and choice. Then your chin tipped—permission or gravity, you'd argue with yourself later—and his mouth found yours at the exact moment Edward's found Bella's onscreen, the timing so precise it felt scripted, fated.

The kiss wasn't built to steal breath; it gave you yours back, a gentle press of lips that felt like remembering every version of you he'd ever known. His mouth was warm, soft, tasting faintly of chamomile and the sharp tang of citrus from the lemon bars, a combination that grounded the moment in something achingly real.

The TV's cool flicker painted the backs of your eyelids silver, the piano notes of "Turning Page" keeping time with the small, stuttering gasps of your lungs. Somewhere in the fog of it, you had the surreal sensation of white petals falling—onscreen, yes, drifting through branches and catching in Bella's hair, but also in your chest, a soft, soundless cascade, the kind of inner weather that comes when you tell yourself a truth and stop fighting it.

Your hand moved of its own accord, finding the front of his T-shirt, the cotton warm and smooth, softened by countless washings, the faint nap catching under your fingertips. Your fingers curled lightly into the fabric, as if it had always belonged there, anchoring you to him. He didn't deepen the kiss, didn't press for more; he held it exactly where it was, a fragile line he refused to cross, his lips moving with a care that spoke of restraint, of knowing how easily this could unravel.

His thumb stroked once along your cheekbone, a slow, deliberate brush that sent a shiver through you, and for that long, suspended moment, the world contracted: no hallway, no house, no years of choices or vows; just the taste of him, the quiet weight of his palm, the melody stitching the room to itself.

The song moved through its middle, the strings swelling then pulling back, as if even the arrangement understood the need for restraint.

Clark breathed against your mouth—a small, involuntary sound, half-groan, half-sigh—and your body answered it, a low ache blooming deep in your core, a pull that had little to do with the past and everything to do with being seen, chosen, in this single, impossible minute.

Onscreen, the minister's voice murmured words you both knew by heart, vows about forever and fidelity, words that carried weight because you understood their cost, their promise.

You parted first—or maybe he did—a fraction of an inch at a time, the way you separate two pieces of glass that have fused too closely, afraid they might shatter if moved too quickly. His hand lingered on your cheek until the last possible second, then dropped to the cushion between you, resting there like a promise laid down gently rather than snatched back.

You both turned to the TV in the same breath, as if the moment had been choreographed, directed by some unseen hand that knew how to keep you on the right side of the line.

Applause blossomed from the speakers—onscreen guests cheering in the forest, petals tossed into the air, catching the light. In the living room, there was no sound but the faint hum of the baby monitor and the high, slightly embarrassed thump of your hearts finding their rhythm again.

You swallowed, the taste of lemon and chamomile lingering on your lips, mingled with something that felt like relief and terror intertwined, a fragile alchemy of truth and restraint.

Clark didn't say "I'm sorry." He didn't say "I shouldn't have." He stayed very still, his eyes fixed on the screen he hadn't watched, the forest chapel fading into the reception scene. The final piano figures of "Turning Page" descended, soft and measured, like careful steps back to solid ground. When he finally spoke, his voice was a thread pulled through a needle's eye, precise and quiet.

"That... wasn't fair," he said, as much to himself as to you. "And it was also true. Both things."

You stared at your hands, folded in your lap, steady despite the tremor you felt beneath your skin. You surprised yourself with the calm in your voice, no bravado, just honesty.

"I know." Your mouth quirked, not quite a smile, a flicker of acknowledgment. "The movie brings out the worst kind of faith in me."

"The best kind," he countered, almost reflexively, his voice soft but certain. Then he cleared his throat, like a man waking from a dream, and without looking away from the screen, he reached for the throw pillow, setting it back between you—not as a wall, but as a boundary you both could honor, a tangible reminder of the line you'd just brushed against.

Onscreen, the camera pulled back, swallowing the couple into the forest, light filtering through the trees in impossible, golden shafts. In the living room, the lamplight pooled as it had before, unremarkable and kind, casting soft shadows across the coffee table, the empty mugs, the bowl of grapes still untouched.

You shifted your feet under the blanket, the wool warm against your skin as the room's chill settled in. Clark leaned back into his corner of the sofa, his fingers wrapping loosely around his mug, though the tea had long gone cold. The house exhaled, the faint creak of floorboards settling, the baby monitor's light blinking steadily in the distance.

The film kept moving, carrying Bella and Edward into their next chapter through scenes you'd memorized over countless viewings, their dialogue a soft hum in the background, but your mind was anchored elsewhere—trapped in the echo of "Turning Page," the piano notes still resonating in your chest, synced to the moment Clark's lips had pressed against yours as Bella and Edward sealed their vows onscreen. The memory of that kiss lingered like a live wire, sparking and humming, impossible to ignore.

You shifted beneath the blanket, its weight warm but not enough to settle the restless energy coursing through you. Your focus was fractured, your pulse hammering with the weight of what had just happened. The forbidden edge of it burned like static in your veins, a low, electric hum that refused to fade. You could still feel the ghost of Clark's lips on yours, soft and deliberate, the memory of his hand cradling your jaw—warm, steady, calluses brushing your skin—lingered like a brand, searing itself into your senses.

Finally, you exhaled, a shaky breath that broke the silence, the words spilling out before you could swallow them back.

"We can't just... pretend that didn't happen," you murmured, your voice low, barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile quiet of the house, might wake Lois.

"Clark, that kiss—it's not just a slip. It's everything I've tried to bury coming back. I have feelings for you. I never stopped."

You turned to him, your eyes locking onto his, even though a part of you wanted to look anywhere else—out the window at the dark, starless night. But his gaze held you, and the admission felt like tearing open a wound, raw and aching.

"And if we let ourselves keep doing this, it's just the same cycle starting all over again. The same danger, the same guilt, the same—"

Clark had been watching you the entire time, his profile sharp against the TV's pale light, the glow catching the tense line of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows. When you said "feelings," something flickered across his face—a layered, fleeting expression, relief and longing tangled with a quiet sorrow, like light refracting through glass. He didn't flinch, didn't try to deflect or excuse it away, just held your gaze with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

"You think this is just a cycle," he said, his voice quiet but steady, each word measured, as if he were laying them down like stones to build something solid. "But I don't see it that way."

Before you could argue, he moved, his motion fluid and deliberate, the throw pillow with its faded geometric pattern nudged aside as if it were no more substantial than air. His hand found yours, warm and grounding, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist, his thumb brushing the pulse point where your heart betrayed you, beating too fast. The touch pulled your focus from the spiral of guilt tightening in your chest, anchoring you to the moment, to him.

He leaned in, close enough that you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the subtle tremor of restraint running through him, the way his dark hair curled messily at the nape of his neck. The scent of him—clean soap, the faint salt of sweat, and that deeper, muskier note from earlier—filled the small space between you, stirring a heat low in your belly that you were desperate to ignore.

"I kissed you," he said, the words a confession, not an apology, his voice low and rough, carrying the weight of truth. "Because it's real. Because I can't keep pretending it's not. I don't care if it's wrong, or complicated, or forbidden. It's ours. And I..."

His voice cracked, just a hairline fracture, before he steadied it, his eyes never leaving yours. "I want it."

And then he closed the space again, his lips finding yours with a purpose that stole the air from your lungs. This time, it wasn't the careful, testing kiss of the wedding scene, soft and reverent like a question. This was deeper, heavier, a surge of years of silence and buried want bleeding through in one unguarded motion. His free hand slid up, fingers brushing your cheek, then curling around the back of your neck, his touch firm but tender, anchoring you to him as if he were afraid you might slip away.

His lips moved against yours with a hunger that felt like it had been held back for too long, molding to yours with a warmth and sincerity that made your chest ache. The movie played on, forgotten, the score swelling with strings and piano, as if it had been written for this moment, for the way his breath mingled with yours, for the way his fingers tightened slightly at the nape of your neck, grounding you in the reality of him.

You should've pulled back. You knew that, the knowledge sharp and insistent at the edges of your mind, whispering of Lois, of vows, of the open door down the hall. But the moment Clark's lips pressed to yours again, every carefully constructed wall you'd built over the last two years shattered like fragile glass under the unrelenting strike of a hammer, the cracks spiderwebbing out in an instant, irreparable and complete. The initial contact was a spark that ignited everything you'd suppressed—the warmth of his mouth, soft yet insistent, molding against yours with a familiarity that made your breath hitch. You accepted him without a second's hesitation, your lips parting instinctively, inviting him deeper, letting yourself ravish the taste you'd fought so hard to erase from your memory. There it was, Clark—warm and intoxicating, his breath was hot against your tongue, a rush of air that carried the subtle salt of his skin, and beneath it all, that familiar, impossible sweetness, a unique essence that was purely him, something you'd hated to admit you'd missed more than you'd ever missed anyone, a craving that had haunted your quieter moments like a ghost.

Your hands moved on their own, fisting into the soft, worn fabric of his shirt, the cotton warm from his body heat, the faint nap of the material catching under your fingernails as you tugged him closer. The pull was urgent, needy, a demand for more contact, more proof that this was real—that he was here, solid and present, choosing you in this stolen, dangerous moment despite everything. The shirt stretched taut across his chest, the seams straining slightly under your grip, and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms, echoing your own racing pulse.

Clark responded without a word, his body mirroring your urgency; one large hand braced at the small of your back, his fingers splaying wide across the curve of your spine, pressing through the thin fabric of your loose sweater, the warmth of his touch seeping into your skin like sunlight. His other hand slid up, slow and deliberate, tracing the line of your jaw before cradling it fully, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear, as if he were committing every angle, every contour of you to memory, his touch both tender and possessive.

In one fluid, effortless motion, he guided you across the sofa, the cushions dipping under your combined weight, the faint rustle of the wool blanket shifting beneath you. You moved with him, your body following his lead until you were straddling him, your knees braced on either side of his strong thighs, the pajama pants soft against your bare skin where your sweater rode up.

His body was solid beneath you, unyielding yet welcoming—the hard planes of his chest pressing against yours, his hips shifting slightly to accommodate you, the faint outline of his arousal evident even through the layers of fabric, a reminder of the vulnerability you'd walked in on earlier.

His chest rose and fell in rhythm with yours, each breath a shared exchange, as if the act of kissing you both stole and restored his air in the same instant. He pulled you in tighter, his arms circling your waist with a hunger he'd long restrained, the muscles in his forearms flexing as he held you close, his grip firm but not bruising, as though letting go was an unthinkable betrayal.

The kiss grew hotter, messier, evolving from that initial confession into something raw and unrestrained—your teeth grazing his lower lip, a gentle nip that drew a low, involuntary sound from his throat, a rumble that vibrated against your mouth and sent your pulse thundering in your ears. His tongue slid against yours, warm and exploratory, tasting you with a deliberate slowness that built the heat between you, each stroke sending sparks cascading down your spine. You clung to him, your fingers curling at the nape of his neck, dragging through the messy curls of his dark hair, the strands soft and slightly damp from the night's earlier tension, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made him shudder faintly beneath you.

Desperation fueled every movement, a need to close the last slivers of space between you, to erase the years of denial and distance with the press of bodies and breaths.

The forgotten movie flickered on in the background, its pale blue glow casting shifting shadows across the living room—the only world you could feel was the one you and Clark were tangled in, two people pressed together like the universe itself had been holding this moment back for far too long, denying you both until the pressure became unbearable.

Each kiss was a confession, a vow, a surrender—his lips capturing yours again and again, soft then firm, exploring the curve of your upper lip, the seam where your mouths met, the way your breaths mingled in hot, ragged exchanges.

You moaned his name, "Clark," the sound spilling from your lips, low and breathless, a plea and a surrender as his kisses burned a trail across your skin. His lips had moved from your mouth to your neck, then lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive hollow of your collarbone, each one a deliberate act of worship that sent shivers cascading down your spine.

The faint rasp of his stubble grazed your skin, a delicious friction that heightened every sensation, and his breath was warm, humid, layered with the deeper, musky warmth of his skin. The pressure of his kisses was unrelenting, each one lingering longer than the last, his tongue flicking out to taste the pulse point at the base of your throat, drawing a soft gasp from you that echoed in the quiet room.

Your body surrendered to his touch, every nerve alight, your muscles softening as you leaned into him, letting him guide you deeper into the moment.

His hands roamed with purpose, sliding from the small of your back to your ass, his fingers splaying wide as he squeezed, the pressure firm and possessive, sending a jolt of heat through you. The thin fabric of your jeans did little to dull the sensation of his hands, callused from years of quiet strength, gripping you with a hunger that felt like it had been held back for far too long.

He guided you closer, pulling your hips forward in a slow, deliberate motion, your body shifting in his lap until your hard dick pressed against the taut plane of his stomach, the friction sending a sharp, electric pulse through you. The contact was maddening, the heat of him seeping through the layers of fabric—your jeans, his T-shirt—his muscles tensing beneath you as he felt you against him, a low, rumbling sound escaping his throat, vibrating against your skin where his lips still lingered.

Your fingers curled tighter, pulling at the material, and you arched into him, your chest pressed flush against his, the heat of his skin radiating through the thin cotton, grounding you even as it set your nerves ablaze. Your hips shifted again, instinctively, the hard length of you rubbing against his stomach, the pressure drawing another soft moan from your lips, the sound swallowed by the quiet intensity of the room.

Clark's hands tightened on your ass, his fingers digging into the denim, guiding your movements with a subtle but undeniable control, each squeeze sending a fresh wave of heat curling through you. His lips moved back up your neck, slow and deliberate, kissing along the curve of your jaw before finding your mouth again, the kiss deeper now, hungrier, his tongue sliding against yours with a warmth and urgency that made your head spin.

His breath hitched, a low, involuntary groan rumbling in his chest as you pressed yourself closer, the friction of your arousal against his stomach sparking a shared heat that felt like it could consume you both. His hand at your neck slid into your hair, fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently to tilt your head, giving him better access to deepen the kiss, his lips molding to yours with a need that felt like a confession of all the nights he'd spent wanting this, wanting you.

The kisses slowed, a momentary pause in the fevered rhythm as your hands, driven by an unspoken need, slipped beneath the hem of Clark's shirt. The fabric was soft and warm, worn smooth by countless washings, and it clung to the hard planes of his chest, catching slightly as your fingers brushed against his skin.

The heat of him radiated through the cotton, a quiet promise of the strength beneath, and your palms flattened against his abdomen, feeling the taut muscle there, the faint ridges of his abs contracting under your touch. His breath hitched, a soft, involuntary sound that vibrated against your lips, and his kisses faltered for a moment, his mouth hovering just above yours, warm and unsteady, as he surrendered to the sensation of your hands exploring him.

You slid your hands higher, tracing the contours of his body—the smooth dip of his lower ribs, the broad expanse of his chest, the subtle flex of his pectorals as he shifted beneath you. The shirt bunched under your wrists, the fabric stretching as you pushed it upward, your fingers grazing the faint line of hair trailing down from his navel, a detail that sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you.

Clark lifted his arms, a silent agreement, and you guided the shirt over his head, the motion fluid but deliberate, the cotton catching briefly on his shoulders before you tugged it free. It fell to the side, pooling on the sofa beside the tangled wool blanket, its faded geometric pattern barely visible in the dim glow of the table lamp.

His body was revealed in the soft, golden light of the living room, the cool blue flicker of the forgotten movie casting shifting shadows across his skin. Clark's torso was a study in quiet strength—broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, muscles defined but not ostentatious, the kind of power that came from years of restraint rather than show. The lamplight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, highlighting the smooth curve of his pectorals, the subtle rise and fall of his chest with each uneven breath.

His skin was warm, a faint flush spreading across his chest, and you could see the steady pulse at the base of his throat, a rhythm that echoed the frantic beat of your own heart. The faint scattering of dark hair across his chest trailed downward, disappearing beneath the sagging waistband of his plaid pajama pants, which hung low on his hips, revealing the sharp, tantalizing curve of his hipbones.

Your hands lingered on his bare skin, fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders, the warmth of him grounding you even as it set your nerves ablaze. His eyes, dark and molten, held yours, a quiet intensity in them that made your breath catch, and his lips—still slightly parted, still glistening from the kisses—curved into a faint, almost shy smile, as if he were both vulnerable and certain in this moment.

Clark's hands roamed with purpose—one splayed at the small of your back, fingers dipping beneath the hem of your loose sweater to brush the bare skin there, the touch electric; the other sliding down to your hips, fingers curling into the waistband of your jeans.

His touch was deliberate but impatient, his fingers fumbling slightly with the button of your jeans, the denim pulling taut as he worked to undo it. He tugged gently at first, then with more urgency, his lips found yours, his breath hitching as he murmured your name against your mouth, the sound raw and desperate.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your lips tingling, your chest heaving as you met his gaze. His eyes were dark, molten, filled with a need that mirrored your own, but the reality of the moment crashed in, sharp and insistent.

"Clark," you whispered, your voice low and unsteady, barely audible over the faint hum of the TV, "we're in the living room."

Your words were a half-hearted protest, a nod to the open door down the hall, the baby monitor's blinking light, the sleeping house that could wake at any moment. Your hands rested on his bare shoulders, fingers digging slightly into the warm muscle, grounding yourself against the pull of him.

Clark's hands stilled on your hips, his fingers still hooked in the waistband of your jeans, but his expression didn't waver. His jaw tightened, a muscle flexing briefly, and his eyes held yours with an intensity that made your pulse thunder in your ears.

"I don't care," he said, his voice low, rough, a confession that carried no shame, only truth. "I want you. Right here. Right now."

The words were a vow, unapologetic and raw, and the way he said them—his voice steady despite the tremor of restraint running through him—sent a shiver down your spine.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, his stubble rasping against your skin as he murmured, "I'm prepared to fuck you right in the middle of this living room."

The bluntness of his words hit like a spark, igniting the heat already coiled tight in your core. His hands moved again, more confident now, tugging at the zipper of your jeans, the metal teeth parting with a soft rasp that echoed in the quiet room.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of your hips as he pushed the denim down, the fabric catching briefly on your thighs before you shifted to help him, your movements instinctive, driven by the same hunger that burned in his eyes.

Your hard arousal was evident, straining against the confines of your underwear, and as the jeans slid lower, Clark's hand grazed you there, a deliberate, fleeting touch that drew a low groan from your throat, the sound swallowed by the press of his lips against your neck.

The emotions crashed over you both—longing sharpened by absence, regret twisted with relief, a fierce, unspoken love that had never truly faded, now exploding in touches and gasps that left no room for pretense.

Your hands, trembling slightly with the weight of the moment, snuck downward, fingers brushing the sagging waistband of his pajama pants, the elastic soft and worn under your touch. The fabric was warm from his body, and as your palm slid beneath it, grazing the coarse trail of hair leading lower, you felt the heat of him, the hardness waiting.

Clark's breath hitched sharply, a low groan rumbling in his throat as your fingers wrapped around his dick—thick, hot, and pulsing in your grasp, the velvety skin smooth over the rigid length, a bead of precum already slicking the tip.

He shifted beneath you, his thighs tensing under your knees, and with a hurried, urgent motion, he lowered his pajama pants just enough to allow full access, pushing the plaid fabric down to mid-thigh. The pants bunched there, exposing him completely—the flushed shaft curving slightly upward, veins prominent along its length, the head glistening in the dim lamplight, his balls heavy and drawn tight beneath.

The sight of him, vulnerable and aroused, sent a fresh wave of heat curling through you, your own arousal straining against the remnants of your jeans, the friction maddening as you ground subtly against his thigh.

Clark's eyes locked on yours, dark and hooded, filled with that same intense emotion—a mix of desperation and devotion that made your chest ache. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the denim, guiding you closer as if he couldn't bear even an inch of space.

Your lips found his again, crashing together in a kiss that was all fire and surrender, your mouth opening to him immediately, tongues tangling in a wet. The kiss was messy, urgent, your teeth grazing his lower lip as you poured everything into it—the missed years, the unspoken aches, the forbidden truth now laid bare.

Your hand worked on his dick in rhythm with the kiss, fingers wrapping firmly around the thick girth, stroking from base to tip with a slow, deliberate twist at the head, spreading the slick precum down the shaft to ease the glide.

Clark groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, his hips bucking faintly upward into your grip, seeking more friction, more pressure. Your thumb circled the sensitive ridge beneath the head, teasing the slit where another bead of precum welled up, and he shuddered beneath you, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, holding you to the kiss as if afraid you'd vanish.

The sofa creaked with each subtle movement, the cushions dipping under your knees as you straddled him, your sweater riding higher, exposing more skin to the cool air and his wandering touches.

His dick throbbed in your hand, hot and heavy, the veins pulsing under your fingers as you pumped him faster, matching the escalating rhythm of your kisses—deep, devouring, lips swollen and breaths ragged. The emotions surged between you, intense and overwhelming: the joy of reconnection, the pain of what you'd lost, the reckless abandon of finally giving in.

Clark's tongue delved deeper, exploring your mouth with a possessiveness that made your core clench, his groans growing louder, muffled against your lips, as your hand twisted and stroked, milking him with a skill born of memory and renewed desire.

Though halfway through the rhythmic stroking of Clark's dick—he broke the kiss with a sharp, ragged inhale. His lips, swollen and glistening from the fervent exchange, pulled away from yours, leaving a cool void where the warmth of his mouth had been. His eyes locked onto yours for a fleeting second, a storm of emotions swirling there—hunger, longing, a flicker of the guilt you both ignored in this moment.

With a gentle but insistent push, Clark guided you back against the sofa, his large hands—warm and callused—pressing against your shoulders, easing you down until your back met the soft, slightly rumpled cushions. He hovered over you for a moment, his plaid pajama pants still bunched low on his thighs, his hard dick jutting free, flushed and slick from your earlier attentions, bobbing slightly with his movements.

He leaned down, capturing your lips again in a brief, searing kiss—soft at first, his tongue flicking out to trace your lower lip before he pulled away. His mouth trailed lower, hot and deliberate, brushing the salty skin of your jaw, then settling on your neck. He sucked gently at the sensitive curve there, his stubble rasping roughly against your flesh like fine-grain sandpaper, the wet heat of his lips and the faint metallic tang of his breath sending sparks skittering down your spine.

The love bites came next—small, insistent nips followed by the warm suction of his mouth, marking you with faint red blooms that throbbed warmly under his attention, each one a claim accompanied by the soft, wet sounds of his kisses and your quickening breaths, a reminder of the dormant fire now raging.

His breath was hot and uneven against your throat, carrying the subtle, musky scent of his arousal, a low groan rumbling from his chest as he worked, the vibration humming through your skin like a bass note in the quiet room.

He moved lower, his hands pushing up the hem of your loose sweater, the fabric whispering against your torso as it bunched under your arms, exposing your chest to the cool draft of the room and the warmth of his gaze.

The air felt crisp against your heated skin, raising, and Clark's lips found your nipples—first one, then the other—his tongue circling the sensitive peak with slow, deliberate swirls, the wet, velvety texture of it dragging over the hardened bud, tasting faintly of your skin's saltiness.

He sucked gently, the pull creating a delicious ache that shot straight to your core, teeth grazing the peak with a light scrape that sent electric tingles radiating outward, the sensation blending pleasure and a hint of pain.

You moaned out his name—"Clark"—the sound low and broken, spilling from your lips unbidden, echoing faintly in the quiet room amid the faint, wet smacks of his mouth and the distant murmur of the TV. Your fingers threaded into his dark, messy curls, tugging lightly to anchor yourself, feeling the soft, slightly damp strands slip through your grasp as you arched into him, the sofa cushions yielding softly beneath your back.

His lips trailed down your stomach, hot kisses pressed against the taut, sensitive skin, his stubble scraping lightly like a teasing rasp, leaving faint red trails that tingled in the cool air. His breath fanned warm and humid over your navel, carrying the scent of chamomile and his own arousal, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating from his throat as he nuzzled lower.

He paused at the waistband of your briefs, his fingers hooking into the elastic with a deliberate tug, the fabric snapping softly against your skin as he pulled them free, the cool rush of air hitting your exposed arousal like a shock. The briefs slid down your hips, catching briefly on your thighs before he tossed them aside with a faint rustle to join the discarded Clark's shirt on the floor, the hardwood cool beneath where they landed.

Your hard dick sprang free, flushed and aching, the sensitive skin prickling in the room's draft, a bead of precum glistening at the tip and catching the lamplight.

Clark's eyes met yours for a moment—dark, intent, filled with that same intense emotion—before he lowered his head, settling between your spread thighs, his broad shoulders nudging them wider, the sofa creaking under the shift.

His breath ghosted hot and teasing over your length first, a warm exhale that made you twitch in anticipation, the musky scent of your arousal filling the air between you. Then his mouth enveloped your dick in one smooth, enveloping motion, the wet heat of it overwhelming—like velvet wrapped in fire—his lips sealing around the shaft with a soft, suctioning pressure that drew a sharp gasp from your throat.

The taste of you seemed to spur him on; his tongue swirled over the sensitive head, lapping at the salty precum with broad, flat strokes, the slick texture rough and smooth in turns, exploring the ridge beneath with a flick that sent jolts of pleasure shooting up your spine.

The sensation was electric, a wet, slurping heat that built with every bob of his head, his stubble grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and balls, adding a rough, prickling contrast to the silky slide of his mouth. He hummed around you, the vibration a deep, rumbling buzz that resonated through your core, making your hips buck upward instinctively into the tight, warm cavern of his mouth, the faint taste of salt and skin on his tongue as he took you deeper.

His hand wrapped around the base, fingers warm and firm, stroking in tandem with his sucks—slow pulls that created a delicious friction, the wet sounds of his efforts filling the room, mingling with your ragged moans and the distant swell of the movie's score.

You had no idea Clark possessed this skill, no clue he was that good at it—the revelation hit you like a wave crashing over your senses, leaving you reeling in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. As his mouth worked on you, the wet heat enveloping your dick in a rhythm that was both precise and instinctive, your mind fractured between the physical ecstasy and the swirling questions bubbling up unbidden.

His tongue swirled with expert finesse, tracing the sensitive ridge beneath the head with a flat, broad stroke that sent electric tingles radiating outward, the slick texture rough and silky in turns, tasting the salty bead of precum that welled up anew with each teasing flick.

The suction was perfect—not too tight, but firm enough to create a delicious pull that made your hips buck involuntarily, the soft, slurping sounds of his efforts filling the dim living room, mingling with your ragged moans.

His stubble rasped against the tender skin of your inner thighs, a prickling contrast that heightened every sensation, the faint scrape like fine sandpaper against your heated flesh, while his breath fanned hot and humid over your length, carrying the subtle, musky scent of arousal that blended with the room's lingering notes of chamomile from the cold tea on the coffee table.

Clark hummed around you, the deep vibration rumbling through your shaft like a bass note thrumming in your core, resonating in your balls and making your toes curl against the tangled wool blanket bunched at the sofa's edge.

His free hand cupped your balls gently, fingers warm and callused, rolling them with a tender pressure that bordered on teasing, the skin there tightening under his touch, slick with a faint sheen of sweat that made his palm glide smoothly.

Where the hell did he learn this? The thought flashed through your mind, sharp and insistent amid the haze of pleasure, your body arching off the couch cushions as he took you deeper, the back of his throat relaxing to accommodate your length, the tight, wet heat contracting around you in a way that drew a guttural groan from your lips.

Was it something he'd picked up in those quiet years apart, in stolen moments you didn't want to imagine? Or was it instinct, honed by the same quiet intensity he brought to everything—his reporting, his restraint, his hidden depths?

You almost had to ask, the words forming on your tongue even as another swirl of his tongue—wet and insistent, lapping at the underside with a flick that made stars burst behind your eyelids—stole your breath and silenced the question.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours then, a flicker of knowing amusement in them as if he sensed your wonder, his cheeks hollowing with another deep suck that pulled at your very core, the salty taste of you on his lips, the vibration of his own muffled hum sending fresh waves of ecstasy crashing through you.

The golden pool of the table lamp highlighting the sheen of saliva glistening on his lips as he pulled back briefly for air, the faint, wet pop echoing softly before he dove down again.

MEANWHILE, Lois Lane-Kent stirred in the king-sized bed, the crisp white sheets tangled around her legs like a half-hearted embrace. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft red 3:17 a.m., its numbers casting a faint crimson hue across the pregnancy pillow propped against her side. Her bladder pressed insistently, a common midnight intruder in her sixth month, but that wasn't what woke her fully.

It was the emptiness beside her—the cool dip in the mattress where Clark should have been, his body heat a familiar anchor on nights when the baby kicked restlessly or her mind wandered to deadlines and dangers. She reached out instinctively, her hand, her palm sliding over the smooth cotton sheet, finding only lingering warmth, as if he'd slipped away minutes ago.

"Clark?" she murmured, her voice thick with sleep, sitting up slowly and rubbing the swell of her belly, the baby shifting in response like a quiet echo.

The room was dim, moonlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains, painting silver stripes across the hardwood floor and the scattered clothes from earlier—her maternity nightgown draped over the chair, Clark's flannel shirt folded neatly on the dresser.

No answer came, just the faint hum of the house: the refrigerator's low drone from the kitchen, the occasional creak of old wood settling.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floorboards, a slight wince at the chill that sent a shiver up her spine. Pregnant and restless, she figured he'd gone for water or to check the baby monitor—ever the protector, even in the small hours.

Padding down the hallway on silent feet, her hand trailing the wall for balance, Lois rubbed her eyes, the faint scent of lavender detergent from the guest room sheets lingering in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of lemon bars from dinner.

The house felt oddly alive, a subtle vibration she couldn't place, like a distant murmur or the low hum of the TV left on. She approached the living room archway, the open door spilling a mix of golden lamplight and the cool blue flicker of the television screen, the volume muted but the soundtrack's strings faintly audible, swelling dramatically.

She froze in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat like a sharp intake of icy air.

There, on the navy-blue sofa—the one they'd picked out together for family movie nights—was Clark, her husband, the father of her unborn child, positioned between the legs of... you. Her little brother. The one who'd stayed for dinner and crashed in the guest room. The sight hit her like a punch to the gut, a visceral twist that made her hand fly to her mouth, stifling a gasp that tasted of bile and betrayal.

Clark's broad, bare back was to her, muscles flexing under the lamplight's glow, his dark hair tousled and catching the TV's blue hue. He was shirtless, pajama pants pushed low, his head buried between your thighs, moving with a rhythmic intimacy that left no room for misinterpretation.

The wet, slurping sounds—soft but unmistakable in the quiet room—cut through the air, mingling with the faint hum of the movie and the distant pulse of the baby monitor on the kitchen counter. Your body was arched on the cushions, sweater rucked up, briefs discarded in a heap on the floor beside the tangled wool blanket, your hard dick disappearing into Clark's mouth with each bob of his head.

Your hands—God, your hands—were threaded through his hair, fingers curling into the messy curls, tugging gently as you guided him, your moans spilling out low and broken:

"Clark... oh, God, Clark..."

The name—her husband's name—echoed in her ears like a dagger, raw and pleading, laced with pleasure that twisted Lois's stomach into knots. She could see the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your chest heaved under the bunched sweater, your thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders. The air carried the heavy, musky scent of arousal, salt and sex overpowering the faint chamomile from the mugs on the coffee table, the untouched grapes glistening innocently nearby.

Lois's heart pounded, a roaring in her ears that drowned out the TV's dialogue, her hand pressing harder against her mouth to stifle the sob rising in her throat.

The baby kicked sharply, as if sensing her turmoil, a painful reminder of the life they'd built—the vows, the family, the trust now shattered on the living room floor.

Clark's hands gripped your hips, steadying you, his own arousal evident in the strain of his pants, and the sight burned into her mind: the man she'd married, the hero the world adored, lost in this forbidden act.

Tears blurred her vision, hot and stinging, her free hand clutching her belly as she backed away silently, the floorboards creaking faintly under her weight.

he’s standing across the room now, his laughter spilling into the air like something bright, something alive. you hate how easily it comes out of him, that sound you once earned so effortlessly. now it belongs to someone else.

her.

she’s beside him, smiling, the kind of smile that says she knows he’s hers. you can see it in the way her fingers graze his sleeve, in the way his eyes soften when he looks at her.

you can feel it-- the burn under your ribs. it’s jealousy, sure. but also grief, because he used to look at you like that.

“hey.” you flinch when you hear his voice, turning to see him looking at you with that easy familiarity that once melted you. “didn’t think you’d come,” he says, smiling.

you want to say something light, something casual-- but your throat feels tight, "yeah. i wanted to see you.” he laughs. “guess you’ve seen enough now, huh?” you don’t respond, instead, eyes dart to her, then back to him.

he notices,

and you notice how his smile falters.

you force one back onto your face. “she’s.. pretty.” he nods, almost sheepishly. “she is.” the way he says it, soft, protective, it’s enough to make your heart twist. you smile wider, but it feels wrong. your jaw aches with it.

later that night, you stand in front of the mirror, staring at your reflection. your face looks calm, too calm. but your eyes-- your eyes give it away.

you mutter to yourself, “she doesn’t deserve him.” it’s almost funny how easy that lie sounds when you say it out loud. if you had some sort of power, you think, you’d make her disappear. just like that-- gone.

he wouldn’t even remember her name. he’d only remember you, and then finally, he'll come crawling back to you. you’d be his comfort again, his safe place, his only choice.

the next few days, you start appearing everywhere he does. not intentionally, you tell yourself. coincidence, yeah..

except, you start dressing differently-- in that leather jacket he once said looked good on you. you even started wearing the scent he liked, the same that smelled awfully close to desperation.

when you talk to him, your words are slow, familiar, like you’re coaxing an old rhythm back to life. sometimes, for a moment, it feels like it’s working, his laugh comes out softer when it’s directed at you.

but then he looks at her again, and you can see it in his eyes-- that invisible string tying him to her.

you hate it. you hate her.

the night it all unravels, you’re in his apartment since he invited you over, said he wanted to talk, but you knew the truth, you knew what it would be before he even said it. that gentle tone, that pitiful rehearsed kindness

“i think.. maybe we shouldn’t.. you know... see each other as much.” you stare at him, blank. “you mean-- at all?” he sighs. “i don’t want to hurt you.”

"then don’t.”

the silence after that is unbearable.

you feel it, that burning heat rising from your chest to your throat. you laugh quietly, shaking your head. “you used to say you’d always need me," he looks away, he just fucking looks away. “people change.”

and that’s when you stop smiling, because something in your head clicks-- or maybe breaks.

you take a slow step forward, "we spent so many nights together, does it all mean nothin'?" a huff left your lips, "answer me!" he doesn't. you watch as he furrow his brows, a mixture of surprise and confusion in his eyes,

"she doesn't know you like i do,” you whisper, yet he stays quiet, his shoulders tense. you keep moving until you’re close enough to touch him, hand hovers near his arm. you could grab him, could pull him close, wanting to make him remember what it felt like to be wanted like this

instead, you just say softly, “we can still fix this-- i.. i can fix everything.”

he frowns, puzzled, maybe even afraid, you smile. “all i need is a little more time.”

he doesn't listen to you, why was he so hard? he tries to step back, but you’re already too close. your hand trembles, not from fear but from restraint.

because the image flashes in your mind again-- her annoying face, infuriating laugh, her filthy hand on his shoulder. you want to rip it all out, erase every trace of her from his life.

you could do it. you would do it.

if only you had some sort of power.

but you don’t. so instead, you let him go.

for now.

your outburst made him completely block you away from his life, never wanting to see you again-- oh how cruel was he. with a heavy heart, you went for help, you needed it. you didn't want to wag your tail for him again.

but, love, you realized, didn’t fade. it fermented, and you were drunk on it. a man starved, that was what you became-- not better, never better without him.

he’s standing by the window when you first see him again, after those excruciating months of being away. the party buzzes around you, full of laughter, glass, and meaningless noise-- but all of it dulls when your dark gaze find him.

you can tell immediately he’s changed.

he’s calmer now, a little softer around the edges. she must’ve taught him how to breathe again, then you see her hand touch his forearm, a familiar feeling knotted up in your heart. you smile. it’s polite. but it tastes disgusting.

you let the moment stretch, watching the way he leans toward her, how easily his mouth curves when she says his name. you can read his body language better than he can. you always could.

he’s still in love.

you move closer-- not enough to interrupt, but enough to remind him that you still exist, that he could never get rid of you. you call his name once, softly, a contrast to the fierce way you once did in the past.

he looks up, and that small flicker in his expression-- that startled, almost guilty flicker, it’s worth everything. he does not walk over, it was as if he was glued to that wrench of a woman who narrowed her gaze at you. fuck u ho.

so you obviously take the initiative, you walk over, all warmth and nerves, playing the part of a changed man, "hey man," you grinned, offering a hand as he hesitantly grabbed it,

so naïve. it was almost cute.

"[name].." he called out cautiously, he was testing how the once sour name now tasted on his tongue, taking his hand back, "how.. are you now?" he asks, as if something was wrong with you to begin with-- god forbid a man falls in love.

"oh better than ever," you lied. "i was such a dick for actin' that way," a snicker left your lips, giving the woman next to him a brief look, smile widening, "i still didn't quite catch your name yet,"

the woman's breath hitched, surprised you even acknowledged her, the therapy must have paid off, she thought before lowering her guard, her grip on the mans bicep loosening as she gave you a slight nod, "catherine.." she muttered, earning a hum from you

"you're a beautiful lady, catherine," sugarcoating your words yet again, it covered the dark gaze you shot towards the curly head woman who gave you a smile.

he finally buts in, a laugh leaving his lips, rubbing the back of his neck. “it’s been a while,” you nod, “not that long.” oh gosh it was long. three months and 3 days. that's how long you were kept away from him.

he doesn’t remember that.

eventually, you start running into him more often after that, like you did before, the same tactic, not by accident, but he doesn’t have to know that. a coffee shop here. a bookstore there, you never make it seem deliberate-- you just know his schedule, his habits, the places he still finds comfort

every time you see him, he relaxes a little more. you know exactly what to say, how to sound-- casual, friendly, harmless, you wanted to make him believe that you've changed, that you're no longer smitten by him, no longer possessive.

and yet, there’s always that one moment, right before you leave, when you let your hand brush his hips, or your voice drop a little too soft, something that lingers, something that makes him look at you longer than he should.

it’s working

he's believing, trusting you, all over again

and you don’t need to rush it, that’s the thing about control-- it’s better when it’s quiet.

slowly, you start texting again, then calling, he tells you about his life, his plans, about catherine. but you don't interrupt, no, never, you were his sweet friend, how could you ever do such a thing?

you listen, you smile when he mentions her, you even say you’re happy for him. you say it like a friend would.

but your mind is somewhere else entirely-- replaying the nights he spent in your arms, the way he used to reach for you first thing in the morning, the way his voice used to drop when he whispered your name, the way you two claimed you were "just friends,", before it all went downhill.

you can’t stand the thought of her hearing it now.

so you change the topic before you spiral, making sure he doesn't notice. you talk about something light, something nostalgic, he follows, he laughs and that sound fills the room like it used to.

you sit there quietly, smiling, hiding your victory behind calm eyes.

the possessiveness isn’t loud. it doesn’t shout or beg like it did before, you learned how to tame it, to just make it sit in your chest, patient and poisonous, whispering, he was mine first.

you know he misses pieces of you, even if he won’t admit it. the way his eyes linger on your mouth when you speak, or how he still listens too closely when you say his name-- it’s all there, buried under the surface

she might have him now, but you still live in his head

you’re the ghost that never left.

because you know how people work, you know that love fades, that comfort dulls, that curiosity kills.

you’re not jealous anymore

you’re patient.

and when her laughter starts to sound the same every day, when her perfume stops surprising him, you’ll be there. the magic isn’t in powers you wished you had, it’s in timing.

you walk home that night beneath orange streetlights, you hate the color-- it reminds you of him, but for once, you don’t look away, because you know you’ll have him again.

not through tricks or force.

If anyone else knew that Winnie was coming home today, the bus stop would have been more filled, luckily, this return was unannounced, only Augustine knew about this. 

"AUGGIE!!!" Winnie ran out of the bus, carrying his pillow and his blanket in one hand, his hair disheveled and headphones on his shoulders. The blonde nearly stumbles as he exits the vehicle, clumsy as he embraces his best friend. 

Augustine rolled his eyes and returned the embrace, sighing as he squeezed the other boy tighter in his arms, the paper he was holding up now crumpled on the ground, abandoned.

"Damn, how long was your trip? You look cozy."

"Well... just a few hours, I crossed states after all!"

The brown-haired boy pulled away and held Winnie's shoulders, eye twitching, "And coming here with your parents wasn't a better option?"

"Nope!" Winnie simply smiled, "I wanted to try traveling on a bus, alone..." he paused for dramatic effect, "Like in the movies!"

The brunette scoffed and shook his head, "Of course you did..." 

From Winnie's earphones, a song caught Augustine's attention. He furrows his brows. 

"Were you listening to... Sleep Tolken?"

"Yeah? One of my new friends introduced me to it and I got reeeaaally int—"

Augustine could only stare in horror. His Winnie? Sweet ol' Winnie? The golden boy Winnie? Listening to Sleep Tolken? Next he's gonna say that he listens to My Chemical Romance.

"Are you okay?" Augustine asks, a worried expression on his face, "You know you can talk to me, right? I'm here for you if you need to talk, Winnie."

The blonde looked confused as he raised a brow, "Uh... yeah? I know that."

Augustine looked confused, his mind trying to figure out if he was really talking to the same person, the loud drums and guitars of Sleep Tolken still playing from Winnie's headphones making him all the more confused.

Winnie snickered, hugging his pillow to his side tighter, "What? Is me listening to Slepp Tolken taking you off guard this much?"

"Yes!" Augustine shook his friend's shoulders, to which the blonde burst into full-on laughter.

The brown-haired male let out a deep and loud sigh, head bowed as he held Winnie at arm's length. "Let's just get you to my place. Mom's been excited to see you again. She basically redecorated my room so you'd feel at home."

"Awww... what about you? Did you miss me?" The blondie wiggled his eyebrows, leaning his face close to Augustine's.

"Shut up..." he sighed, though the smile on his face gave him away, "I missed you lots, Winnie."

Winnie's heart skipped a beat at the admission, the softening of his Auggie's voice was... odd but pleasant to hear.

Augustine pulled away fully and put his hands in his pockets, turning to look at the bus again, "Where's your stuff?"

The blonde was brought back to reality as he remembered he still had a ton of stuff to carry to Augustine's place. He scratched his neck with his free hand and chuckled, "Right, let's get my things!"

The two spent the rest of the afternoon carrying Winnie's luggage home; luckily, he had packed most of his things into one big suitcase. Augustine dragged the large suitcase while Winnie carried the two smaller bags he had for his toiletries, all enough to stay the whole summer. The journey there was pretty peaceful. Winnie talked Augustine's ear off with the things he hadn't already told him about through text or call.

At Augustine's home, Winnie looked around. The place stayed relatively the same from the last time he had visited, except maybe for a few decorations rearranged and such. He took his shoes off as Augustine did and followed him as he made a beeline for his room. He was probably avoiding his mom, Winnie thought to himself.

He chuckled internally and entered Augustine's room. It really was redecorated—there was an inflatable mattress on the floor, covered with a bedsheet and duvet, these, along with the other beddings were in his signature blues and whites in his old room. Augustine was taken away.

"Woah... your mom did all this?"

Augustine chuckled and shrugged his shoulders, "With my help of course. Hey, I'll just leave your luggage here, feel free to unpack."

The blonde nodded, putting his bags, pillow, and blanket down on his bed. "Oh! I almost forgot!"

Augustine let out a curious hum, watching as his friend scurried to open his large suitcase, laying it down and unzipping it. It was like a treasure chest as it opened, sadly, it didn't have any gold. What Winnie pulled from it, though, was a cute bear onesie. Once more, Augustine was left in shock as he looked at the two items.

"Winnie..."

The blonde looked excited, staring at the brunette as he waited for his response, "Well...?"

"This is for me?" Augustine felt his cheeks warm up, as if nicked by the cold of winter.

"Mhm!" Winnie put the onesie down and then pulled out a matching elk onesie, "Got myself one too!" He laughed playfully.

Augustine let out a breath, shaking his head as a sappy smile tugged on his lips insistently. He lowered his head and crossed his arms. "It's a stupid gift..."

Winnie opened his mouth to respond, but the brunette stopped him, "Thanks, Winnie, I love it."

The blonde huffed fondly and smiled as well, "No problem, Auggie."

Tonight, you were staying up far later than usual, and just like you had been doing for the past few hours of staying awake, you got up to pour yourself yet another cup of cheap coffee from the teacher's lounge nearby. It was one of the many things you liked about the location of your office; it was near a good source of caffeine, even if it tasted like shit.  

When you returned to your office, you found Shu once again at your chair, napping away while he wore his earphones. You had grown used to his sudden appearances, but it still continued to inconvenience you either way. You groaned internally. Just what you needed on a busy Tuesday night. You put your cup of freshly-poured coffee atop your coaster and nudged Shu's shoulder repeatedly. 

"Get out of my office, Mr. Sakamaki. I don't have time for this."

He didn't wake up immediately. You pursed your lips and leaned against your desk. Now, what were you supposed to do? You had a desk full of schoolwork to check and paperwork to finish. An annoyed sigh slipped past your lips as you glanced at the boy once more. There he was again, looking as angelic as ever. It was as if he were untouchable, born from a wealthy and powerful vampire that had the whole school under his thumb. 

You clench your jaw at the reminder of his privilege. It irked you, really, how much Shu could get away with just about anything. Your eyes fell on the rest of Shu’s figure, only to find just how indecent he was presenting himself. Dressed only in his dress shirt. The uniform's black jacket and his signature beige sweater were nowhere to be seen. Not to mention, he had too many buttons undone than usual, far too many to be considered decent, he was blatantly exposing his pale skin to you so much that you could see a hint of his nipple peaking just under his shirt. 

You sighed and pushed off from your desk, looming over the blonde. It was tempting to reach down and feel the vampire’s skin. Would it feel cold? Would he react? 

Shaking your head, you tried to wake him up again, shaking Shu’s shoulder. “Mr. Sakamaki.”

Nothing.

Your grip on his shoulder tightens. It would be so easy to just tug his shirt off, pop a few buttons off in the process—hell, would he even react? Your hand pulled away, moving to slip under his dress shirt, his skin felt cold against you.

Slowly, you tugged at it, exposing Shu’s shoulder. You bit your lip, caressing the exposed skin. When Shu had no reactions, you released a deep sigh.

”Fuck it.”

You picked Shu up and laid him down on your desk, uncaring of the many papers that were stacked atop it. Slowly, you undid the rest of Shu's buttons, pushing his shirt fully open to expose his whole torso.

Damn.

The blonde remained asleep while your hands began to caress his cold skin. He felt almost porcelain, like a toy made for your pleasure. Without a second thought, your hands trailed down to the happy trail at his lower abdomen, following down to his trousers. Shu's pants were already unbuttoned and unzipped.

Oh?

A scoff left your lips as you tugged Shu's bottoms off, along with his underwear, just enough so his semi-hard on was on display for you. You smirked, reaching to caress his tip with your index finger. It twitches under your digit, revealing just how eager it was. 

You huffed and managed to flip Shu around so he was lying on his back instead, somehow still asleep, after which you pulled down his trousers and underwear the rest of the way, exposing his firm ass. You spank it, watching as it clenches. Shu had tensed, ass jutting backward as if asking for more.

The boy's body seemed to be revealing far more than he would ever admit out loud. You loved that about him.

With a hum, you pulled apart Shu's asscheeks to reveal his twitching pucker. It was slightly stressed due to its frequent use—you weren't average-sized after all, he could barely take it halfway before he was complaining and begging you to pull out. Your smirk widened, you could feel your pants grow tighter as you got even harder at the sight of this well-loved asspussy. You pressed your clothed erection against him and reached your hand to Shu's mouth.

Slowly, you eased the blonde's mouth open and pressed two fingers inside, lathering it in Shu's saliva. The boy doesn't even react as you do this. Hell. Maybe he really was asleep, that thought turned you on even more. 

You groan when you feel Shu's tongue moving against your two digits, coating them further with his spit. The blonde drools over your paper. You can't seem to care. Pulling your fingers from his mouth, you press them against the blonde's entrance, tracing Shu's pucker as you watch it twitch, clenching, wanting to be penetrated. 

Then, you slipped both fingers in.

You can hear his breath stutter as your long fingers reach within his depths. Around your fingers, his walls hungrily massaged them, trying to suck them in further uselessly. You set a steady pace, thrusting your fingers in and out. With a mocking laugh, you curl your finger into Shu's prostate—then he slipped out a moan, weak and muffled as his face pressed against the papers below him. 

"Damn... I just fucked you last week, how did you get so tight again?" You groan and finger him faster.

You spread your fingers out to open Shu up even more, humming as his hips instinctively try to reciprocate, moving against your digits with each thrust inside.

Sadly. Fingering always seemed to bore you. You much preferred fucking the vamp open without any prep.

You slipped your fingers out and finally freed your cock from your tight jeans, pressing it against Shu's saliva-coated hole. Gripping the vampire's hips tightly, you shove yourself all the way in, groaning at the tightness. He doesn’t even flinch as you stretch him out abruptly. No matter how many times you fuck this ass, it still feels just as tight.

You didn’t even give Shu time to adjust as you started thrusting. It wasn't like he could complain anyways, he was asleep after all. Completely defenseless.

Breaths turn shaky as your office echoes the lewd sounds of squelching, skin slapping against each other, and the hushed sounds of pleasure coming from the unconscious Shu. 

“Mnhh!— ahh…” 

Shu was growing louder as you continued thrusting, your cock reaching further and further in, forcibly making a home in Shu's velvety hole. He felt so good, your hips couldn't stop moving. It surprised you just how he was able to keep sleeping while taking a cock your size so well. You spank Shu and begin setting a faster pace.

"Fuck—this hole feels so damn good... perfect..." you groan against Shu's ear as you hold the blonde closer, burying your face in Shu's neck while you continue to fuck him. He pants softly under you, mouth falling open as you prop one leg onto the desk, angling differently so you could reach every part of his slutty hole. 

You pull away from Shu's neck and snap your hips against his ass harshly. The blonde whimpers, his face contorting in pleasure as he presses his head against the papers below him. 

You chuckle under your breath and pull out completely, before Shu could even let out a whine, you flipped the him around so he was lying on his back. His eyes clenched shut, though you could see him begin to stir already. You grab his legs and lift them until his chest, sliding your cock back in as you set a faster pace. You didn't care if the blonde was awake or pretending to sleep anymore, his hole felt far too good. Shu's cock remains standing, useless between you and his stomachs, wetting your blouse with precum.  

"Ah!... Ah! Mh….!" Shu grew more vocal, brows furrowing—this was the only time you ever got to hear him speak so freely.

He was so pretty under you, face messy with tears, and drooling from the pleasure of having his ass pounded by your fat cock. He clenches around you, bringing you closer to your own release. His hole clenches harder around you, a familiar habit that indicates his nearing climax. His head turns to the side as his legs tense.

You watch as Shu's eyebrows furrow upward, squirming even more. Just then, Shu reaches his peak, his cock spurts cum all over you two, covering both of your stomachs with thick, sticky cream and ruining your blouse. 

The feeling of his hole twitching around you, coupled with the blonde's squirming brought you closer and closer to your imminent release. You lean down and press your lips against his before you start pounding Shu's hole even harder.

“Fuck!—Shu..."

You groan loudly and once more bury your face in Shu’s neck, thrusting into him impossibly faster. You sink your teeth into Shu’s cold flesh and slam in as deep as you can before you filled him up with your hot cum. 

Shu’s eyes finally snapped open, staring up at you with wide eyes, “H- Wha…?”

You smirk and slowly pull out, “Pick somewhere else to sleep next time, yeah?”

The rain-slicked streets of Tokyo reflected the neon like broken mirrors as you pulled up, tires hissing softly against the asphalt. The engine ticked down, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to hush around you. Your car, old but stubborn, sat in the lot like a fragile reminder of debts you couldn’t pay—the one thing you hadn’t sold to scrape by. Tonight, it felt heavier than ever, as if the weight of every overdue bill had settled on the hood. You rested your hands on the steering wheel, letting your fingertips trace the worn leather, listening to the drizzle tap against the roof. The sharp tang of the wet road mixed with alcohol filled your nostrils, and every siren in the distance sounded like a countdown, a pulse echoing your own racing heartbeat.

This wasn’t about the car.

The garage was tucked behind a narrow alley, smoke curling from the stairwell like lazy fingers, bass thumping through the walls in uneven pulses that seemed to vibrate through your chest. Men lingered near the entrance, leaning against walls, cigarette tips glowing like tiny threats. Their eyes swept over you, sharp, assessing. For a moment, your stomach clenched—you could almost hear the knife-edged judgment in their silence—but they let you pass. Just like that, your presence was permitted, though nothing about this place felt welcoming.

Inside, the room was chaos made flesh. Voices clashed with the bass, laughter sharp and biting, and the air was thick with the smell of sweat, smoke, and beer. You could taste it, bitter on your tongue, the way it clung to your clothes as soon as you stepped in. Money flickered between hands, bills and coins glinting in the dim light, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. The fights—always the fights—drew the crowd like moths to flame. The energy was dangerous and intoxicating; it scraped along your nerves in a way that made your chest tighten.

You edged forward, careful not to bump into a man juggling three bottles of sake. He scowled at the interruption but didn’t stop. You caught glimpses of the ring—if you could call it that—a taped square on the oil-stained floor, its edges curling with age, crowd pressing close, elbows and shoulders shoving past each other in a chaotic rhythm. One fighter was already winded, sweat streaked across his face, a trickle of blood sliding down his lip. Every swing he threw was sloppy and desperate, betraying the exhaustion gnawing at him.

And then there was the other.

Tall. Buzz cut. Broad shoulders that spoke of discipline, not raw strength alone. The kind of body that was honed like a weapon, each muscle coiled and ready to strike. He didn’t fidget, didn’t bounce on his feet. He just stood there, calm, solid, almost bored. His gaze swept the crowd with a quiet, measured precision. Waiting. You couldn’t tell if he was studying his opponent or the audience, but either way, he radiated a presence that made people subconsciously step back.

The crowd chanted a name you didn’t recognise. Or maybe you hadn’t been paying attention, lost in the haze of cigarette smoke and the metallic taste of… something in the air. You felt it—the way the energy pulsed from him, drawing attention without him even trying.

The fight ended before you realised how fast it had escalated. A lazy hook came toward him, wild and careless, and he sidestepped like it was nothing, fluid and precise. His counter was faster than instinct, one sharp cross that landed cleanly against the other fighter’s jaw. The sound was like a crack of thunder, and the room erupted.

People screamed, bills and coins flew between hands, and men shoved each other to claim their winnings. You should have been searching for the boss, calculating how to settle your debt before things got ugly, but your gaze kept snapping back. There was something about him that demanded it. He didn’t raise his arms in victory. Didn’t grin. Didn’t acknowledge the roar of the crowd that seemed to pulse around him like a living thing. He just stepped back, shoulders straight, chest rising and falling like he’d done nothing worth noticing.

The contrast was intoxicating. Chaos whirled around him, but he remained a calm, immovable force. You felt your pulse spike, a jolt that had nothing to do with the fight itself. You should have looked away. You shouldn’t have cared. But there was a gravity there—something dangerous, something that whispered trouble and temptation all at once.

The subtle curl of his lip when he exhaled, the way his fists relaxed without losing the promise of power—it was magnetic. And somewhere deep in your chest, you recognised it, even if you couldn’t name it.

∘₊✧

You finally found him—the boss—leaning back against the rail at the far end of the room, encircled by an orbit of men that radiated loyalty and threat in equal measure. The air around them was thick, smoke curling lazily from cigarettes, mingling with the sweat and alcohol that clung to everyone else. He wore a tailored suit that seemed to absorb the dim light, its lines sharp, almost surgical. Nothing about him was casual; every gesture was controlled, precise, from the way he tapped the ash from his cigarette to the way he adjusted his cufflinks without breaking the rhythm of the laughter spilling from his mouth.

His eyes, dark and calculating, flicked from amused to dangerous in less than a heartbeat, and you felt the subtle vibration of attention in the room. Around him, his men lounged like predators, their suits wrinkled from the heat of the crowd but still carrying an air of authority. Knuckles toyed with knives or coins, the occasional click or scrape echoing like a whispered threat. Their presence wasn’t just intimidation; it was choreography, a dance of menace and loyalty.

“You’re late,” he said finally, his voice low, smooth, cutting through the noise like a blade. He didn’t glance at you—his attention was still partially caught by a woman leaning close to whisper something in his ear.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” you muttered, jaw tight, stomach knotting despite yourself.

He flicked his lighter with a practised motion, the flame catching the shadows just right, casting the sharp angles of his face into relief. “Mm. Here, still in debt. Lucky for you, I like gamblers. They make things… interesting.” His grin was slow, predatory, stretching just enough to make your skin crawl and tingle all at once.

“I’ll get it back,” you said, voice clipped, hiding the nervous thrum of fear and adrenaline that had spiked when you saw him.

“You’d better,” he murmured, leaning forward just slightly, enough to let his gaze slide to your pocket. The car keys had been carelessly sticking out, and instinctively, your fingers curled around them. “Or maybe I start taking collateral.”

The warning wasn’t subtle. You felt it dig under your skin, and your pulse kicked up.

He chuckled without looking, a low sound that didn’t reach his eyes. There was amusement there, yes, but underneath it was a certainty that he already knew the answer, and that he’d decided the punishment if you failed. Every inch of him screamed control, a quiet, terrifying confidence that made the hair on your neck stand on end.

“You really think you can just waltz in and—what, plead?” he said, voice dropping into a sharp rasp. His words were casual, but the undertone was a whip crack across your nerves. “I’ve seen people like you. They dig their holes deeper with every excuse.”

“I… I just need more time,” you managed, trying not to let your voice shake. You couldn’t afford to look weak here, not in front of him or his crew.

“Time is negotiable,” he said, leaning back, dragging smoke through his teeth before letting it curl up into the air. “But your debts? They’re… less flexible.” His eyes scanned your face like he was memorising weakness, calculating the exact moment he could exploit it. “Lucky for you, I have a fondness for gamblers. And desperation. Makes life… lively.”

You forced a laugh, dry and humourless. “I’ll make it right. You’ll see.”

His gaze sharpened. “Make it right, huh?” There was a pause, deliberate, like a predator savouring the moment before the hunt. “Don’t make me remind you what happens when promises aren’t kept. That car of yours…” His eyes flicked again to your pocket, then to the gleam of metal under the flickering neon. “…it’s tempting. Be careful with temptation.”

Something inside you clenched at that, the unspoken threat lingering. But beneath the fear, beneath the tension, there was the strange, dangerous draw of it—the way he could command a room with half a glance, how his presence felt like a physical weight pressing against you. He wasn’t just a boss. He was a storm, and you were standing in the eye.

“I’ll… take care of it,” you said, voice low. “No collateral. No trouble.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering, then smiled—slow, sharp, and dangerous. “We’ll see. I like seeing people sweat before they break. Makes the moment sweeter.” Smoke drifted from his mouth, twisting like a question in the thick, hot air. Then he shifted, his men moving instinctively with him, and without another word, the moment passed, leaving you with the taste of fear—and something sharper—burning in your mouth.

∘₊✧

You edged away from the boss, heat crawling along your spine, and slipped toward the bar. The crowd had thinned to a low murmur, the bass fading behind sticky laughter and the occasional clink of a bottle. The corner you found smelled of stale beer and cigarette ash, air thick and warm, the kind that clings to your clothes and hair. You ordered the cheapest beer they had—flat, lukewarm—but the taste grounded you, kept your thoughts from spiralling into debts and threats that lingered in the shadows.

You reached for your wallet. Nothing. Not a single yen. Your stomach twisted sharply, a familiar pang of panic pressing at your chest. Shit. You were completely broke.

A voice cut through the haze, low and rough, teasing in a way that made your pulse spike: “Looks like you’re short.”

You looked up, and there he was. Close enough that the heat from his body seemed to press against your skin. Sweat clung to him, highlighting the taut lines of his arms and chest, veins dark beneath the damp skin. His hand rested casually on the bar, the other holding a glass of water. His movements were calm, controlled—but the danger in him was unmistakable.

“I can cover it,” he said, sliding a crisp note across the counter toward you, his eyes dark and unreadable, but glinting with amusement.

Your mouth went dry. “What—how—”

He leaned just a little closer, grin lazy and predatory. “Call it a favour,” he said, voice low, teasing, with that sharp edge that made your insides coil. “Don’t worry about it.”

You stayed frozen for a second, stunned, the note still in front of you. He smirked, tilting his head, amusement sparking in those impossibly sharp eyes. “You always leave your wallet at home?”

“Something like that,” you muttered, cheeks burning. Your pride screamed, but what could you do? He’d already saved you. “I don’t… normally—”

“Don’t normally need saving,” he finished for you, voice low, teasing. There it was again—that grin, sharp and dangerous, like he knew exactly how to make you feel off-balance.

You blinked, trying to pin down where you’d seen him before. He was familiar somehow—maybe in passing, maybe in some dimly recalled memory—but the certainty refused to come. “I… I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere,” you admitted, voice careful.

He chuckled,  the kind of sound that made the hair on your neck prickle. “Hah, nope. Not me. I’m just the guy standing here, paying for your beer.” The smirk lingered, pulling your eyes to him. There was a deliberate weight to him, something magnetic and frustrating, almost unnerving.

You managed a weak chuckle, trying to regain composure. “Right. Just… a stranger with impeccable timing.”

“Name’s Kenji,” he said smoothly, extending a hand, just close enough for your fingers to brush when you shook it. The contact sparked something you didn’t quite want to analyse. “And I think you owe me an explanation.”

“I…?” You paused, still fumbling with your empty purse, “Nothing I can pay you back with.”

He leaned slightly closer, the warmth radiating off him, low enough that only you could feel it, teasing without touching. “No, I mean about why you’re here. You’ve got a gym, right?”

You blinked, caught off-guard. “Yeah… I train people sometimes. Why?”

“That’s interesting,” he murmured, eyes glinting with curiosity. “I want training. Real training. You train me. Simple.”

You raised an eyebrow, sceptical. “You want me to… train you?”

“Yes.” His smirk deepened, eyes scanning you like a challenge. “I’ve been… watching. I think I could learn a lot. From you.”

Something in the way he said it—so casual, so assured—made your chest tighten. There was no flattery, no hesitation. Just pure confidence. You found yourself studying him in turn: broad shoulders, tight stance, the faint sheen of sweat from the fight. He looked like he could crush most people, and yet… he was here, looking to you.

“I don’t usually train strangers,” you said, tone clipped, trying to keep things professional. “Especially not ones who pick fights for fun.”

He leaned back slightly, hands in his pockets, grin teasing, mischievous. “Call me crazy, but I like learning from people who can kick my ass. Keeps things… interesting.”

You tried not to swallow too hard. “And you just showed up, expecting me to take you seriously?”

“I’m betting on you,” he replied simply, eyes sharp, confident. And then, softening slightly, almost conspiratorial, “Besides… I have a feeling you might enjoy watching me struggle.”

You blinked, caught by the flirtation in his tone. “And if I don’t?”

He shrugged lazily, that damn smirk curling. “Then I’ll make sure you do.”

The conversation hung there, thick with tension. His gaze lingered, assessing your next words.  You felt it in your chest, a pull you couldn’t name, a spark that made you aware of every line of your body, every defensive thought you had. He wasn’t just a fighter; he was chaos in human form—and somehow, he’d made you the centre of it.

“I train people for results,” you said finally, regaining a fraction of composure. “Not for fun. And definitely not for… whatever this is.”

He grinned, a flash of teeth, wicked and unapologetic. “Good. That’s exactly the kind of teacher I like. Someone who doesn’t make it easy.”

For a moment, the crowd, the bar, even the rain outside, faded. All you saw was him, and all he seemed to see was you.

He leaned in just enough that you caught the edge of his breath, damp and warm. “This place is a dump,” he said, almost lazily, eyes flicking over the crowd before cutting back to you. “Come on. You don’t belong in here anyway.”

It wasn’t a question. He brushed past, and you followed, your pulse ticking faster with every step toward the exit.

Outside, the night swallowed you both—rain-slick streets, neon smeared across puddles, the muffled roar of the garage fading behind. Kenji walked like he owned the ground, shoulders loose, head tilted as if the whole city bent around him. Every so often, his hand brushed yours, careless but deliberate, and every time it sent heat crawling up your spine.

“Thought I told you not to worry about the money,” he said after a beat, voice dropping low enough that it felt meant only for you. Then, with a crooked grin: “You can pay me back in other ways.”

You barked out a laugh, nervous and sharp. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

His eyes dragged over you, slow and steady. “You’ll figure it out.”

By the time you reached your car, the weight of it pressed down—rain plastered your clothes to your skin, dripping off your jaw, but none of it mattered. Not when Kenji was already on his knees, ripping your belt open like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse.

Your back slammed the hood of your car with a metallic thud, fingers scrabbling for grip on the slick metal as he yanked your pants just low enough to free your cock. The cold air barely kissed your skin before his mouth swallowed you whole.

“Fuck—Kenji—” you hissed, voice cracking as the heat of his throat closed tight around you. There was no hesitation in what he was doing—just a messy, hungry choke as he shoved himself down to the base.

He gagged loudly, spit foaming and spilling past his lips, sliding down your length to drip off your balls. He didn’t give a fuck. He wanted it sloppy. He wanted you sloppy. When he dragged back, it was with a filthy slurp, spit snapping between your cock and his swollen lips before he forced himself down again, harder, deeper, choking until his throat bulged.

Your hand flew to the back of his head, palm spread against the slick heat of his skull, dragging him closer even as your hips bucked forward. “Holy fuck—look at you.” And you did look—eyes watering, jaw unhinged, spit smeared across his chin, drooling down his neck to stain the front of his shirt. He moaned around your cock like it was his favourite thing in the world, the vibration rolling through your shaft until your knees nearly gave out.

The wetter it got, the nastier he got. Every time he surfaced for air, he spat, thick and heavy on the head, let it drip down his tongue like he was feeding it to himself, then swallowed you again, sloppy and greedy. His tongue curled under the shaft on every pull, like he wanted to taste every vein, every twitch, every drop.

“Fuck, you’re insane,” you groaned, thrusting now, shallow at first, then deeper, using your grip on his hair to fuck his throat. He let you, gagging, nose grinding into your stomach, throat working around you. Rain slicked both of you down, but his spit was everywhere, pooling on your balls, sliding between your thighs, dripping off his chin onto his chest, where it stained dark against his shirt.

When you looked down, your cock glistened with it—spit dripping off the tip, smeared shiny along his swollen lips. He glanced up through wet lashes, eyes glassy, and stuck out his tongue, showing you the mess before shoving it back down like he needed more.

“Take it—fuck, that’s it—take it,” you panted, hips snapping forward helplessly. He gagged, drool stringing from his mouth to the hood beneath you, mixing with rain in thick puddles. The obscene slurp of every thrust echoed off the lot.

You were close, too close, body taut, every nerve on fire. “Kenji—shit, I’m gonna—” The warning broke, strangled, but he didn’t let up. He shoved himself deeper, choking himself raw, spit and tears and cum dripping all over his face.

You came with a wrecked groan, spilling down his throat. He swallowed it all in messy, noisy gulps, sucking like he could drink you dry. Even when your hips jerked back from the overstimulation, he stayed on you, tongue lapping at the twitching head, milking every drop until you shoved at his shoulders, gasping, trembling.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was ruined. Chin glistening, spit and cum smeared across his lips, a thick string of it dangling from his tongue before he sucked it back in, grinning around the taste.

“Better than begging,” he rasped, voice hoarse, throat wrecked. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then licked it clean, slow and deliberate, making sure you watched.

Then he stood, casual like he hadn’t just throatfucked himself half-unconscious in the middle of a rain-slicked parking lot. “Training starts tomorrow,” he said, smirk sharp and filthy, like he’d already won.

You were left slumped against the hood, soaked and twitching, staring at the spit puddles he left behind—and knowing he wasn’t nearly finished with you.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3

Tim Drake dropped the bag of chips on his bed, cursing under his breath after realizing he tossed the can of Zesti along with it. If he was lucky, the diabetic, fizzy stuff inside wouldn’t explode in his face once he opened it. But as he soon found out, this wasn’t his lucky day whatsoever. He should’ve realized it sooner, truthfully, but he had spent the entirety of yesterday night cooped inside the cave in hopes of finding anything interesting to do given that Cass and Steph stole this week’s job from him—they had a timetable for a reason. But it wasn’t like anyone in this family cared for it unless it was convenient. So now he was stuck half-asleep and with carvings.

The only mildly interesting thing that happened yesterday was that Jason dragged in their drunken brother while he was intoxicated on something himself. It had been funny in the moment, but when Bruce called everyone to the living room in the morning, the humorous side of yesterday quickly wore off. And after an extremely awkward… it couldn’t be called a talk. His brother barely spoke. It had been more like an awkward stare down amongst everyone. He almost felt bad for his brother.

Almost.

The whole thing was a joke. His brother smoked? Big deal. Everyone but Duke and Damian—and he had doubts on the former—had their periods of addiction for a year at minimum. Tim himself smoked socially if it meant getting information more easily. He shared a cheap cigarette with his brother the day before at the mall! Not to mention, since Jason and Tim made up, the two of them along with Dick liked to hotbox whatever shoebox Jason was living in at the moment. And that definitely wasn’t a secret; Bruce didn’t approve, neither did Alfred, but it wasn’t a big deal.

All that to say, Bruce’s panic and grief felt unnecessary.

The whole rant his brother almost puked at the Iceberg lounge though? Now that was a topic. On the bright side, it inadvertently reinforced Bruce’s playboy persona. For his son—his eldest blood son—to be as much of a drunk as the people in Gotham thought Bruce was? It was like getting a crit hit in one of Tim’s videogames without building for it! A jackpot. The things he said, however… they were damning.

For starters, the fact that Damian—a child— had access to real swords painted a horrible picture. Bruce may be known as a playboy but he had also built the reputation of a surprisingly good father, which brought Tim to the next issue: his brother said that Bruce didn’t care. That none of them did. Which was true, of course, but if the Wayne name lived on truths, the entire manor would be nothing but dust by now. And for his brother to admit considering suicide, even if hypothetically, was the nail in the coffin. It showed that things had been like that for long enough that his brother had gone mad.

A PR disaster. How fun.

Tim rolled his eyes. This must be his karma for that time he put cameras in the bathrooms of Titans Tower. Still, it shouldn’t be hard to fix—his brother was a drunkard, and based on what little Tim managed to find in his phone, he recorded a lot from the times he went out partying. Trashing whatever credibility people assigned him would be easy.

Just then, as Tim jumped onto his bed, his phone rang. There on the screen the name Bernard Dowd flickered into view—well, not really his name. Bernard was named ‘<3ernard’, but that wasn’t important—and with a small, sleepy sigh, Tim answered the call.

“Yes. I am alive.” Tiim said.

“Aw, shucks! I already bought the flowers for your funeral.” Bernard whined. “It’d be an open casket!”

“Nope.”

Bernard Dowd was Tim Drake’s boyfriend, going for a year and a half of kisses and secret meetings, and a few rooftop rendezvous Tim wasn’t necessarily proud of. They met in middle school and it took some time before they actually began dating. At first Tim had only proposed a first date to make Conner Kent jealous, but he soon fell for the blond—sometimes red-head. It seemed to depend on his mood oddly enough—and the rest was history.

Putting the call on speaker, Tim began idly scrolling through social media, searching for videos of his brother making a fool of himself—if he didn’t find any, then he’d just turn on his pc to look through everything he downloaded from his brother’s phone.

“I came here to complain, Timboo.” Bernard said, most likely fidgeting with his computer setup based on the sounds. “When were you gonna tell me that you had another brother?!”

“Huh? You mean Duke?” Tim asked absentmindedly. So far, he had only found different angles of the same video from the news, plus a bunch of people claiming to have met his brother.

“Duke? Who’s Duke?” His boyfriend most likely stood up straight just to put on that sarcastic voice. “‘Course I’m not talking about Duke, I met him already—-twice. He panicked the second time because he was in the middle of putting on his suit.” Tim imagined Bernard blinking. “Yellow is not his color—you know which one I’m talking about! The one on the news!”

Tim raised his eyebrows in mild, feigned surprise as if Bernard could see him. “You didn’t know about—” he said his brother’s name. “—-? He’s been here longer than Jason. Only for like a year-ish, though. He’s younger than him in age, I think.” With those eyebags he might as well retire already, but Bernard would scold Tim if he said that out loud.

“I’ve never seen him.” Bernard said. “Not anytime I visit. Not in pictures—didn’t even know his name, man.” He sighed. “I think I saw him once or twice before transferring, though. He’s friends with Sasha Kozlov, right?”

“Yep.” Tim emphasized the P. “Sorry, babe. I thought you knew everyone.”

Truth be told, Tim didn’t really care about whether Bernard met his brother or not—it was inconsequential. And based on how his brother acted, it wouldn’t help at all. Bernard was Tim’s boyfriend, therefore it stood to reason that his brother wouldn’t open up to him enough for Tim to get extra information to… control his existence. Unless his brother was drunk…

Tim filed that under ‘Try as a last resort’ in his brain.

“Don’t say sorry if you don’t mean it.” Bernard interjected his stream of consciousness. “I—I’m just gonna ask. Is it true? What he said in the video.”

Is he ignored? Did someone in the house truly stab him? Was he as suicidal as it seemed? All those questions were left implicit, and Tim wished he didn’t have to answer them—he could lie. He really could. But Bernard was one of the very few people who could not only pick up on his deceit, but also call him out on it on the spot… and he did promise that there’d be no more secrets. But he didn’t want Bernard’s opinion on him to take a hit.

“You don’t have to answer, man.” Bernard added as if he could read Tim’s mind from such a distance. “I’m just… worried? Curious?” He must’ve sat on his gaming chair. “I’ve never met him, but everyone in your family is just so close that it’s hard to imagine anyone suffering like that. But if it is true, then you better make up for it.”

Tim considered himself a… monster, to put it lightly. He’s stalked people obsessively since he was six, could barely connect emotionally with people without an incentive for an excuse—-he lied, manipulated, and cried as long as it meant he could get something out of it… but he was still human. He hurt, he laughed, he fell in love and so much more. And by God had he been trying to be a better human being for so long, but nothing seemed to work.

Only Bernard, Conner, and his family could ground him enough that Tim was able to get in touch with his emotions. But in moments like these, where a new, catastrophic variable had fallen onto the his life, turning a normal game of chessboard into Alice Chess by merely existing? It was harder to be sane. To be normal. If he didn’t get this under his control quickly, then he’d fall apart. And God forbid he used the Joker’s gas again just to feel human again… the first time didn’t end up well. He still remembered Bernard’s tears.

All this to say: If his brother had been a nobody, a new classmate or a friend of a friend, Tim wouldn’t have to care. At worst he’d do a background check. But this was his brother, Bruce’s first blood son, someone who Dick Grayson and Damian Wayne had taken a sudden interest in. Tim couldn’t afford to slack off.

“Yeah. It’s true.” Tim admitted, his fingers suddenly stopping from scrolling through social media for a second. Tim might as well give his boyfriend an explanation now—having to give it in person would be… grueling. “Duke, Steph, and I played a prank on Damian, and he obviously went nuts. Chased us with a sword through the house and everything.” He explained. “To get away, I pushed him towards Damian—I thought Damian would pull the sword away or something. I just wanted to buy us time.”

“Jesus Christ." Tim could hear the horror in Bernard’s voice. “Did you apologize?” Tim said yes. “Did you mean it?”

He didn’t mean it… but why didn’t he? Tim Drake was the Red Robin. A hero. He cared for the safety of strangers on the daily, he battled rogues and criminals for justice’s sake, and he spent entire nights trying to solve cases just so Gotham would be a little safer.

Just why did he not feel sorry for the fact that he almost killed his brother?

Tim tried to rationalize it.

He didn’t consider him to be his brother. Not really. From the moment he put a foot inside the manor, he simply acknowledged him as some sort of housemate. Someone he’d see every now and then. But he cared for strangers, so that couldn’t be it.

But then, why did he not consider him family? He acknowledged Duke as his brother, and he had just joined the family, so Tim thought of Damian instead—Bruce’s only other blood son—he was… in Tim’s most honest opinion, hilarious. Always so broody and dignified as if he hadn’t tried to kill Tim a thousand times in the past. But what were the differences between Damian and him?

Age, but that was obvious. Attitude, but Tim was friends with other people who weren’t too different from his brother. Sense of style? That definitely could be it if Tim was feeling particularly pretentious. Skills? Well, Damian could throw a mean punch—

Tim felt his eyes widen. Was that it? Was the reason for him to not truly consider him his brother the fact that he wasn’t part of the family—the real family. Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, the Robins, Spoiler, Batgirl, The Signal, and Oracle.

“Tim.” Bernard spoke up, saving Tim from going on a week-long thinking spree. “I can hear you thinking from here. You okay?”

It was always like this with Tim. His mind could fixate on a problem and not let go, desperately digging with bare fingers through bloody sand for a sense of control—not over the world around him, but over himself. Over who he was and how he interacted with the world around him. Him, him and only him. It was a bad habit, most likely born from the years of neglect his own parents had so graciously provided.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Tim blinked himself out of his own thoughts. “I was doing some introspection,” he said with humor. “My psychologist said it’s good for me. My psychiatrist, too, and don’t get me started on my therapist.”

He had begun to get psychological help after the Joker Jr. incident. Turns out, there was a lot more to unpack aside from the Joker thing. Who would’ve thought?

“Small steps.” His boyfriend encouraged him with a tinge of banter. “But, uh, how’s he doing? Your brother, I mean.”

Tim finally opened the bag of chips, needing to distract himself with something—his mind now too busy to keep scrolling through social media. “He’s alright,” probably. “Dad scolded him this morning. I think Dick’s with him.” But Tim knew Bernard wasn’t asking just on the family side. “Besides that? Not sure, I… I don't really know him.”

It was embarrassing to admit. Not because his brother was, well, family. But because Tim always knew. He had to know.

“We went out yesterday, though," Tim tried. “We got some smoothies at Creamy Dream—we’re not going there, by the way. The smoothies suck. They taste like Joker Venom.” Tim gagged lightly. “I, uhh, met his friends and everything. We shared a smoke.”

“So—”

“Okay, fine! I didn’t do it out of the goodness of my heart.” Tim sighed. No matter what, he couldn’t hide things from Bernard. “I just… you know. I have to know what his deal is.”

“I think that video has all the answers you need, Tim.” Bernard must’ve massaged the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Listen, if you don’t like him, that’s fine. But he’s still your brother—you can’t just throw the guy a bone so you can fucking manipulate him to your liking!” He raised his voice lightly. “It’s messed up and you know it, man.”

Of course it was. Of course Tim knew, but that didn’t mean he didn’t consider it necessary.

“What do you want me to do?!” Tim sat up on his bed. “You know I can’t just… let this go! He’s a wild card, Bernard! He already has me trying to figure out how to fix the mess he made by being a goddamn drunkard!” Tim’s breath ragged. “Say he finds out Dad is Batman—yeah, he doesn’t fucking know—you think he’s not gonna spill it if he gets drunk enough?!”

“Hey! This isn’t about your Bat-Business, and you know it.” Bernard battled. “Which, by the way, it’s really messed up that he doesn’t know his own dad and siblings are vigilantes—this is about you wanting to keep everything inside a mold because you’re too afraid to let things happen.” He huffed. “I don’t want to be mean, but you almost killed him! And based on what I gathered, you ignored him for as long as you’ve been there even though he’s gone through the same shit you did before you became Robin.” Bernard sighed. “I’m sorry, Tim. I—”

Bernard was right… His brother did basically go through the same shit, didn’t he? Tim thought back to the burnt paper scarps Dick had thrown on him—he did try to recover what had been written, but the Batcomputer’s AI could only do so much. It could only guess or copy stuff from the terabyte-sized data base it had. It was, frankly, useless—and based on what little he read…

His brother lived horribly. Bruce ignored him, maybe despised him from the moment he set foot on the manor. Dick abandoned him as soon as Jason entered the picture—and just what did Tim do when he arrived? Nothing.

Humans were monkeys. Beasts. All the brain cared for was keeping you alive until your natural time was due—tribalism may have been Tim’s downfall. The need to stay inside the group no matter what for survival. And he did remember, he always remembered. When he arrived, he noticed that no one cared for his brother, how everyone addressed him as nothing more than a zero on the left, a footnote in Burce’s future obituary. And a younger him simply rolled with that—if nobody cared for his brother, then why should he? He didn’t matter for his spot in the group, therefore he was irrelevant.

“Tim?! Hey! You’re okay?” Bernard asked upon hearing Tim gag.

“Yeah! Sorry.” Tim blinked. “Don’t mix Piggies and Zesti. Ever.”

It was ironic. Cruel, even. How Tim ignored, even disregarded what basically amounted to himself just because everyone else did—-but what did it matter? His brother was already an adult. It was only a matter of time before he moved out like Dick and Jason did. And once he was out of the manor, Tim doubted he’d even try contacting any of them whatsoever. So Tim pushed down those useless thoughts, and chuckled.

“Zesti Zero, to be specific.” He grinned.

“The energy drink?” Bernard asked. “Is it good? I wanna try it before boxing practice.”

Tim shrugged as if Bernard was in front of him, popping a chip into his mouth before loudly munching. Tim enjoyed how munching down chips made his teeth feel. “It’s alright,” he gulped down a little bit of his drink. “It gives you a mean rush, but you’re better off using sparkling water—hydrate or diedrate, babe.”

Bernard chuckled, not because he found it funny, but because he found Tim to be adorable. “Noted,” he hummed. “By the way, do you think I should join fall’s tournaments?” Bernard must’ve been walking out of his room. Tim could tell based on the number of steps he could hear and how their sound changed depending on where Bernard was. “Coach’s been bothering me about it since last month, and honestly? He’s doing a pretty job in convincing me.”

“But…?” Tim asked, focusing back on scrolling through social media in looks of any evidence that his brother was, in fact, an unreliable drunkard who couldn’t be trusted.

“But…” Tim heard his boyfriend opening a cabinet from the kitchen, taking out what he assumed to be a pack of cookies before opening it swiftly and loudly. “I don’t know, Tim. Fighting random thugs with you every couple of months—we’ll be circling back to that, by the way—-is one thing. Competing for my school and, potentially, the state is a whole different thing.”

More varying angles of the same speech his brother had given yesterday, some complaints from people who claimed to have lended him money only to be never paid back—seriously, would Tim have to boot up his PC to find what he wanted? Were people truly this useless?

Tim sighed, “So you’re okay with risking your life, but you draw the line at competing?” He mused. “Baby, you never fail to surprise me.”

“Yes I do.”

“Well,” Tim chuckled. “Okay! Maybe you never surprise me. But that’s a compliment! Means I care enough to know everything there is to know about you.” Tim munched on yet another chip. “For example, you main Trove on Gotham Moon Knights just because he reminds you of me—and you commissioned a drawing of him back in last year’s Thanksgiving.”

“Wow, you’re really a romantic.” Bernard joked. “Still… awkward and odd as it was—we’re also circling back to that later—thanks for the encouragement.”

“Anytime.”

After a short pause, with both of them staying on call in comfortable silence—with Tim munching on chips and drinking Zesti as he kept scrolling, while Bernard walked back to his room while eating cookies—Bernard spoke again. “I’m guessing tomorrow’s not happening?” He asked. “I mean, with everything going on with your brother…”

Tim quickly interjected. “No, no! You can come tomorrow no problem.” No way he’d let his boyfriend miss this visit. They only saw each other—for a long amount of time—every few weeks. The fact that Tim’s older brother delivered a PR disaster into the family’s hands would not impede this meeting. “My brother’s probably staying in his room anyway…” he lied. “Plus, you could meet him tomorrow.”

“You sure?” His boyfriend asked with naked doubt. “I mean—”

“It’s fine, babe.” Tim reassured. His reasoning was this: To keep his boyfriend happy, he’d have to introduce his older brother sooner or later. And given that his brother would most likely stay inside for now—if not, Tim could make puppy eyes to convince him—then it was naturally the perfect chance. And once Bernard realized that his brother wasn’t worth the trouble, Tim could rest with a tinge of peace. “He’s fine,” Tim lied. “And since he thinks we’re bonding—”

“Tim!”

“Since we’re bonding,” Tim corrected himself. “He’ll totally be down to meeting you.” His brother would most likely feign interest… see, Duke had told Tim about the accidental meeting he had with their brother, not any details but enough for Tim to assume that his brother had only given him a chance thanks to Duke’s lack of self-control. And frankly, it was obvious that his brother could barely handle their mere existence. But he was trying, and that fact would help appease Tim’s boyfriend. “So, tomorrow morning. Deal?”

Tim suddenly spotted an interesting post—another mildly different angle of his brother’s speech. But the caption read ‘Chudai! More in profile’. So, Tim curiously, if deviously, entered into the stranger’s profile.

“Deal,” Bernard sighed. “Just don’t pressure him, alright? You already have to make up for years of ignoring him. Don’t add anything else to your tab.”

Tim only had to scroll for a second before he hit the jackpot. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tim found a video, only four-ish views and zero likes or dislikes, recorded in a shitty phone that warped the colors from blue to orange if you stared intently enough. There, right in the center of the shot, stood his brother. A freshly lit cigarette sitting in his left hand, between his index and middle finger—the music was loud, and though the sound quality was awful, Tim could easily make out the rhythm…

You stood there. The arm that held your cigarette raised so your hand stood right next to your head, while your free hand clutched lightly, seductively, the waistband. So loosely yet securely that you could easily pull your jeans down. The wifebeater—so uncharacteristically simple for you—you wore was so tight and short that it fearlessly let your pelvis show. So skinny that anyone ignorant enough, could mistake your malnutrition for abs.

As you took a drag from your cigarette, and the music swelled, your waist—God, it moved oddly. Ritualistically, almost. In circles that were accentuated by the waistband of your jeans and the way your ‘muscles’ stretched and recoiled, with you slowly and rhythmically spinning so slowly, as if trying to summon a god who’d breed you with the wrong type of love.

The video cut but the music stayed. In this new shot, you were on your knees, staring up at the camera with feigned innocence through your eyelashes. Your lips half-parted and your tongue barely peeking out in such a pathetic, tempting manner. And right in front of you, holding the camera with nothing but horrible intentions in his heart, stood a man. Full with a beer gut, with his pants undone and only a pair of boxers covering his shame. But shamelessly, drunkenly, you got closer—-pushing your nose against his groin and sinning as if you had gone through your entire life breathing dust.

The video cut again, much to Tim’s… relief? Back to his brother dancing as if possessed. Tossing his head left and right as both arms raised up like he’d try to reach the ceiling. But whoever edited the video may have had a penchant for horror, as edited-in lights flickered through the screen as transition for a new shot—his brother, so close to the camera, with tears pooling down his cheeks as all his fingers scratched down his own cheeks in desperation. Pupils blown wide as if a pool of darkness, and with red sclera that could’ve easily suggested imminent death.

The video cut again—

You, staring up right into your abuser’s eyes with nothing short of feigned adoration as your lips curled around the man’s erect dick—nine inches, maybe—-skillfully deepthroating him as if you had been born for this. With your tongue swirling around the head of his cock and your cheeks hollowing out for suction. But you didn’t like this—it was obvious to Tim—-even though the sounds made would signal that you gave nothing short of a sloppy, drooly, ecstatic blowjob, your eyes didn’t lie. You hated this, but like a whore, you kept going, with drool and pre falling down the edges of your lips, until your entire face was covered in white, sticky cum. Until the man you were servicing was moaning breathlessly, holding you by the nape and pushing you down forcefully onto his cock, not caring if you gagged or teared up. And heavens, the sheer hatred in your eyes—not quite at the man,, but at yourself—was so raw… pupils shrunk until they were barely noticeable, jaw so tense it might just break, and tears so heavy they’d burn you as if you were a witch in Oz.

Wayne Whore, Tim read, finally looking at the video’s caption.

The video may have been downloaded, but any trace of it on the internet was swiftly erased by Tim. Not because he cared for his brother’s privacy. Rather, he cared for the Wayne’s image. Bruce may be known as a playboy, but not a single sex tape had been leaked onto the web… this didn’t mean Tim wouldn’t use it as blackmail in the future, however.

“Tim!” Bernard called. “You okay?”

Tim blinked once, twice—enough times to pull himself away from what he had just witnessed. “Yeah,“ he nodded, more to himself than anyone. “What were you saying?”

The next day, too early in the morning for his insomniac liking, Tim woke up. Today, Tim had to get presentable for Bernard’s sake. He couldn’t just stay all grimy and sweaty from yesterday’s night patrol—though he wished he could just from sheer sleepiness—and since he’d try to introduce Bernard to his brother, Tim had to look clean and eager. That way, his brother may infantilize him enough to garner pity, securing Bernard’s future peace.

So he shaved what little stubble he grew, dressed up in his most casual clothes, and practiced nervousness in front of the mirror. Once he was done, Tim couldn’t help but walk out of his room in favor of heading to the living room—if he had plans, he simply couldn’t sit idly in his room, lest he felt anxious.

Bernard arrived soon after, dressed casually in a shirt and a pair of jeans that accentuated everything Tim found physically attractive of him—thighs, god so sweetly thick. Biceps straining against the fabric of the short-sleeve Bernard wore, and tight enough that he could faintly make out his boyfriend’s abs. Had they been alone, Tim would have Bernard pinned down onto the damn floor in no time.

His brother was currently, and frankly oddly, sitting in the dining room. Tim had briefly seen him on the way to the entrance, and though his brother did head to the kitchen, Tim suspected he’d go right back to the dining room in no time. So when Tim opened the door for Bernard, he couldn’t help but grin.

“Babe,” Tim began with a mild blush. “You’re right on time~.” A lie they both silently acknowledged.

“‘Course I am,” Bernard grinned, half an hour late. “Not even Killer Croc can make me late.”

Tim’s brother must be back in the dining room by now, at least based on the faint screech of a chair being dragged backwards. So after making some meaningless small talk with his boyfriend, Tim led Bernard to the dining room by the hand.

But upon arriving, Tim found himself feeling… strange.

There, sitting on one of the chairs closest to the entrance was his brother. Dressed salaciously in a tight-fitting black tanktop, layered under a blue zip-up hoodie that only seemed to accentuate how gaunt his body truly was. With a baggy pair of long denim shorts, colorful socks that seemed to only be there for a humorous huff, and a dirty pair of shoes that had seen way too much in a short period of time.

He sat there, with his legs casually wide open, giving enough space to fit anyone in the family in between. His arm leisurely crossed over his chest, while the other one was slightly raised so he could keep scrolling through his phone—but none of that was the grating part, no. The part that made Tim’s back sweat unnaturally was just what his brother was doing.

Under messy, colorful hair, his brother’s face sat neutral. Eyes flickering over the screen of his too-bright phone.Unshowered most likely, he must’ve put on those clothes for decency’s sake, while his mouth… Jesus, Tim took in a deep breath inwardly. Deep between his brother’s lips, pinkish and melting over the corners of his mouth—the light liquid rollling down to his chin and through his neck before he wiped it off—sat a strawberry popsicle shaped as a cylinder.

Tim could see it, faintly and through the older’s cheeks, how his brother’s tongue swirled around the frosty delicacy expertly. He shouldn’t have cared, at all. Tim had seen all of his siblings enjoy popsicles a thousand times before—but with that video still fresh in his mind, Tim could only imagine the worst.

After a beat of silence, Tim called his brother’s name. “Hey,” he nodded at his brother, falling back to acting coy and shy as an attempt to mellow his brother out. As if trying to get something out of him. “Are you, uh, busy?”

His brother looked up with a blink, glancing at Tim and Bernard a couple of times—-maybe four times before his eyes seemed to settle on Tim’s face, yet, his pupils seemed unfocused. His mind truly and only locked onto Tim and Bernard’s locked hands. “... Nope,” his brother shrugged after using his free hand to pull out the popsicle that had been stuck between his shiny lips. “Just…” he glanced at Bernard again. “Seein’ what kind of shit people say about me.” He feigned laughter. “Turns out I’m either thirty or twenty. Sasha—-a friend—is making fun of me for it.”

“That’s the internet for you,” Tim chuckled awkwardly. “Anyway. I… wanted to introduce someone to you.”

His brother stared for half a second, eyeing Bernard up and down as he put his phone down onto the table. With his newly freed arm going to casually rest on the armrest. “Hello… Someone.” He greeted with  a smirk. “I’m Else. Nice to meet you.” He joked.

Whatever bug had bitten his brother must’ve been sent by the Riddler, because God, Tim preferred him to be nervous and jumpy.

“Pleasure’s mine, Else.” Bernard grinned.

Tim reigned in a sigh. “This is Bernard,” he gestured at his boyfriend with his free hand. “He’s my… boyfriend.”

His brother blinked… letting the silence linger for a moment before his eyebrows shot up in barely-disguised surprise “You’re gay?” He asked.

“Bisexual.” Tim corrected.

His brother, maybe involuntarily, twitched his head faintly to the side and raised an eyebrow as if saying silently, "Same thing.” But still, he turned to Bernard politely. “Nice to meet you,” he greeted properly with a grin, leaning against the table with both his arms before giving the popsicle that sat in his hand a playful lick. “I swear I know you—” he raised his free arm gently, chasking his fingers towards Bernard but truly only doing it for himself. “You’re, uh… conspiracy guy! From Gotham Middle, right?”

Tim knew his brother had seen Bernard before. If only because he had recently tried to do memory of any and all times he had seen his brother around the manor. So whatever act his brother was putting on, it was for the sake of politeness-

“Yeah.” Bernard nodded. “You were on the basketball team, right?”

His brother smirked. “Fuck yeah I was—” he coughed, catching himself. “I’m raccoon guy,” he declared with too much pride. “Bernard, right? Sorry, I’m terrible with names. Faces too, sometimes.” He tilted closer, squinting playfully with eyes so sinful they’d send a nun into a comma. “Though yours? Kinda hard to forget. Feels like I saw you all over school back then.”

Tim blinked.

Did his brother just flirt with Bernard?

“I was on the welcoming committee,” Bernard shrugged. “We had transfer students every week—had to show off the gym while you guys were training.” Suddenly, Bernard let go of Tim’s hand in favor of crossing his arms with a grin. “Gotta say, you weren’t half bad.”

His brother laughed—a rough, maybe velvety sound that echoed across the room. Eyes locking onto Bernard as if they had known each other for their entire life. “If the coach didn’t kick me out, I would’ve put Gotham Middle back on the map.” He said proudly before speaking with humor. “I’d join Gotham High’s team, but my grandma fucked up her knee—haven’t been the same since.”

Tim couldn’t stop his teeth from biting down his tongue. This, whatever his brother was doing, felt way out of line. Bernard was Tim’s boyfriend—and just the day before yesterday they had begun talking! He had no right flirting with Bernard… and just why did Bernard reciprocate?! Tim’s brother was built like a ghost. Gaunt, with bloated joints and visible veins, eyes sunken under dark circles and with a voice too tough for someone his age.

Was it the way he sucked on the popsicle? How his lips wrapped around the milky ice in such a sinful manner, licking the melted ice that pooled down his fingers on accident before muttering a meek apology.

Bernard chuckled, “I think you still got it. Just gotta put in the work, man.”

Tim’s brother shook his head, “Nah. My lifestyle doesn’t allow it.” He took a bite from the popsicle, staring up and them both in mild surprise before speaking again. “Sorry, you guys want one? Alfred got them yesterday. There’s strawberry, mango, banana—-even cola, though that one gave me a tummy ache. Don’t recommend.” He chuckled.

This was an awful idea, Tim realized. Bringing his doe-eyed, boxing hunk of a boyfriend to meet the wild, whorish drunk playboy card that was his older brother. With his stitched-up clothes and inviting eyes. Tim should’ve waited until he had complete and absolute control over him, but there was no going back now. His boyfriend would predictably jump in at the chance to eat something sweet—

“Well, I mean… if you insist.” Bernard feigned poshness. “I’ll have the mango, please.”

And so, Tim would have to play along.

“Cola for me,” Tim strained a smile.

“Coming right up!” His brother said with a smirk, standing up from his chair before limping—was he injured? Tim couldn’t remember. But either way, his brother was doing an awful job at hiding it—towards the kitchen.

The gears inside Tim’s head began to work. Bernard met Tim’s brother already, so that should placate Bernard for about a month—long enough for Tim to get his brother on the shortest leash he could manage. So as soon as his brother came back with the stupid popsicles, Tim would bid goodbye, and—

“I wanted to be friends with him back in middle school.” Bernard admitted with a faint, chaste blush. “Looking back, it was for gay reasons—” Tim stared at him in horror. “Listen! He was my guilty pleasure for a month. But then he sneaked in a rabid raccoon into Metropolis’ locker room during the finals, and I lost all interest.”

“You had a crush on him?!” Tim’s brother? So skinny and gaunt that he might just drop dead tomorrow, with a sleazy smirk that could easily rival the Penguin’s. That guy? Tim couldn’t believe it. He thought that he was Bernard’s type, not some drunk who liked racing his own family while putting civilians in danger.

“He was pretty good at basketball.” Bernard countered with humor. “You didn’t miss anything. Relax.”

That was it. The second his brother came back, Tim would drag Bernard away back to his room, and then they’d have sex for at least an hour so Bernard would forget anything and everything about Tim’s brother—but why did he feel threatened by him? His brother was deep into the lowest bracket of people that society acknowledged as useless. Tim was a thousand times better than him in every possible way—and he was a vigilante, so that mild aspect of a light forbidden relationship should be enough to satisfy any and all of Bernard’s kinks.

His brother came back soon after, seeming to have either finished or stored the popsicle he had been eating in favor of having both his hands free. “Mango,” he gave one of the popsicles to Bernard. “And Cola. Good luck with that one.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Timboo here doesn’t die.” Bernard joked.

His brother blinked after a minimal beat of silence, eyes flickering from the window to Tim and Bernard in a show of hesitation—-and dear lord, had Tim’s brother always been this tall? Both Tim and Bernard had to look up at him, craning up their necks to stare up at the ridiculous beanpost that his brother was. With his long, limb fingers going to rest inside the pockets of his shorts. “Well,” He began casually. “See you around. Have a nice day.”

Before Tim could breath a sigh of relief, and just as his brother began limping away, Bernard called his name.

“Hey! Uh…” Bernard’s eyes flickered towards Tim for a second. “I have a party tomorrow—” Tim’s breath hitched inwardly. This was just what he needed, for his sentimental boyfriend to try and meddle with the rocky relationship Tim had with his brother. “The Burn, you know the deal.”

“Yeah. Last year was Mary’s turn, right? From Aquinas,” his brother hummed. “It was awful. Someone mixed a shit ton of vodka with tequila and god knows what else.”

Among Gotham’s student population—mostly the upper-class kids in high school and college—there was a peculiar tradition. On the night before any state-sanctioned vacation ended, one school or university was chosen to host a send-off. From that school’s alumni, a raffle decided who would bankroll and organize the entire thing. The result was always the same: some sort of gala practice, mostly frat party, and a whole lot of puking. The only thing Tim enjoyed about the entire thing was that each school tried to show-off as best they could. Tribalism in its purest form, really.

The name came from back in the 1920’s, Tim believed. Apparently the sixth Burn held was so awful that an entire school was shut down thanks to lawsuits.

Someone did end up burnt, but still.

“Thank GodI wasn’t there, then.” Bernard chuckled lowly. “Anyway, I was wondering if you’d come? It’s BYOB after eleven.” He explained.

Tim could do nothing but pray that his brother would notice how he was staring at him—nothing but pleading in his eyes that said “Please don’t.” God, if Tim didn’t love Bernard so much, he would’ve already made sure his entire future was ruined just for putting him through so much grief.

Telling himself to think positively, and using the slight moment of hesitation from his brother, Tim tried to make a list. If his brother did go to Bernard’s for The Burn, then Tim could have an easier chance understanding him—with the alcohol and everything, his brother was bound to let something useful slip up. Enough for Tim to hold onto and use as leverage for both control and understanding, because without understanding he couldn’t control anything. Furthermore, Tim could play it up to convince Bernard that he and his brother were getting along just fine. That reconciliation was so close they could feel it on their skin, thus keeping Bernard happy and away from doing anything as stupid as this again. And finally, Tim could record his brother doing or saying something so catastrophic that his entire credibility washed down the drain, giving an opening for Bruce to claim that Tim’s brother was nothing but a bumbling, drunk idiot who couldn’t tell left from right on his best days, and then lie and say that they were getting him the help he needs or whatever.

There were some upsides, but still, Tim hated Bernard in these moments.

“Sure,” his brother said. “I’m not getting there before eleven, though. So choose: Vodka, Koul, Bud, or Tequila?” He grinned.

“Surprise me.” Bernard grinned back, getting his number before texting him the location.

Tim didn't like going to parties. Not really… All the noise and the smells and the drinks—it was hell on earth in his eyes. Bernard wasn’t a fan either, but every now and then he liked getting shitfaced like any other teenager their age, and in those days, Tim would tag along just to make sure Bernard didn’t get himself killed. Plus drinking made Tim’s attacks more prone to happen if he was particularly stressed, and as far as it seemed, tomorrow would be nothing short of stressful.

His brother would probably bring that friend of his, the short girl with the pixie—the day they had gone to the mall, they seemed to have a silent understanding between each other that Tim had only seen in the closest people… plus, from what little he skimmed on his  brother’s phone, he had more than half a million texts with that girl. Many of them included going out together as far as he read.

So, the next day during the evening, Tim pondered what he’d use.

He had to seem eager and innocent, someone who cared oh so much for the love of his estranged brother. But at the same time, he had to look like Tim Drake-Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne and former skater boy. Plus hot enough so Bernard wouldn’t look at anyone else, let alone Tim’s brother. But as he began picking up his outfit, he managed to hear some sort of tumbling from one of the rooms outside… which was odd, since all of them were masterfully soundproofed.

Tim froze, eyes locked vaguely on the floor behind him as he tried to figure out where the sun was coming froom—-

“Fuck!” Someone groaned and Tim parroted. It was his brother, the one that had currently become the horror of his existence. God was he loud. He must be picking what he’d use, too.

His brother’s outfits may be nothing short of awful, but they were always carefully constructed. If his brother had better taste, he could at least surpass Dick in terms of fashion… which didn’t mean much, but it’d be something. It was surprising that Dick  had survived this long without a stylist.

The fact that his brother was fixing himself made sense to Tim, at least—why he was doing it so early when he said he’d get there late was beyond him—-from what little he’d seen of him in a social setting, Tim could guess that the way people reacted to him was incredibly important. And his unloyal gang of thugs was miles away from the people who attended The Burn. See, these parties may be school-wide, but you did need some significant social capital to get inside.

Now, did Tim have to ask Duke to take on his patrol shift tonight so he could have fun? Yes. But in his defense, Duke would be kicked out of the party by the attendees in the blink of an eye. He didn’t have enough social capital yet, so he wouldn’t be able to take care of Bernard, nor get info out of their brother.

After getting ready, Tim chose to go straight to Bernard’s, and since his parents didn’t let him have parties in the house, he rented  a large cabin a mile outside the city, near a surprisingly clean lake—for Gotham standards, anyway—and as far as Bernard had told him, they allowed parties. Teenage parties, mostly, but for legal reasons it had only been implied.

This meant that the party could get as crazy as possible, which to Tim’s surprise, that was something Bernard wanted. It seemed that he had taken a more conventionally social approach at his new high school.

“Have fun, Master Tim.” Alfred said softly from the driver’s seat, looking back at Tim through the rearview mirror with a ghosting smile. “Please, make sure that he is safe.” He must mean Bernard, Tim thought.

“Sure, I’ll keep him out of trouble.”

Upon getting out of the car, Tim took a brief look at the cabin Bernard chose. The cabin wasn’t the rough-hewn, drafty kind you’d expect from the word “woods”. Rather, it was wealth’s version of rustic—warm pine walls polished to a shine, heavy beams overhead, broad windows that thanks to the lights inside gave view to an equally put-together interior, and a steep, slate-gray roof that could easily swallow any rain, with some metallic chairs and wooden tables lacing the outskirts of the cabin. Upon stepping inside, Tim could see that Bernard had rearranged the furniture a little, with the couches pushed to the walls to leave some room for dancing, chairs hidden somewhere so no one would break them, and the entirety of the kitchen’s appliances removed for safety, only leaving a fridge full of booze, ice, and soda. Bernard didn’t have to worry about nobody showing up, after all, this would be this year’s Burn. And with last year’s catastrophic performance from Aquinas High School, a lot more people would be coming…

The obviously new walls and patched-up fireplace made it obvious to Tim that this place have been fixed some time ago, so Bernard probably didn’t have to worry too much about damages to the property. Perks of living in Gotham.

After helping Bernard set everything up so no sink would be broken, Tim took in a deep sigh, praying that this night wouldn’t be too crazy.

Pity that good didn’t listen to his prayers.

By eleven thirty, the place was packed to the brim with people drunk out of their asses. The orange lights that had been illuminating the cabin had been turned off in favor of a set of neon lights and lasers that one of Bernard’s new friends had brought. With some cigarettes and long forgotten vapes strewn on the wooden floors, music blasting so loud that even the drunkards outside could hear it clearly.

That’s when his brother decided to show up.

Dressed to what he must thought to be the nines, golden jewelry adorning his neck, ears, wrists and fingers, and pants low enough that they let his underwear peek out in such a whorish manner. And Tim couldn’t help but wonder: was that what Bernard liked? Did he enjoy whores with such familiar, appealing features? Tim pushed those thoughts deep into his mind. No use for them right now.

His brother was accompanied by that girl, Sasha. Dressed in tiny, black denim shorts laced in a spiky but cutesy belt, that didn't leave much for the imagination, with a starry, stringless top in black and white that made Tim wonder how it stayed secured above her chest. Complete with long socks that matched her top in concept and worn sneakers that had been glued back together in a hurry. All in all, Tim’s brother and Sasha didn’t match at all, but that wasn’t what surprised him, no. The way people reacted to his brother surprised him—upon noticing him, people began flocking around him like vultures to a corpse. Starting meaningless, loud talks that even Tim could somewhat make out amidst the too-loud music.

His brother seemed somewhat surprised, if confused, at the whole thing. At least his eyes did, because otherwise he did a masterful job at concealing it behind a wide, charming grin and a charming voice. Greeting people, laughing to stupid jokes, the works. Either, his brother was really popular, or the Iceberg Lounge fiasco gave him a shit ton of social capital amongst Gotham’s student body—it’d explain the odd dirty look Tim had so far.

With the help of Sasha, his brother managed to walk away from the crowd unharmed, and in a show of hatred from the universe, the both of them walked all the way towards Tim and Bernard, right by the kitchen. 

“Eleven something,” Sasha mumbled to Tim’s brother after glancing down at her cheap watch. “Thought we weren’t making it out from Sophie’s. God I hate that place—we’re not going there again.”

“Shut up, Sophie’s awesome.” His brother retorted before finally standing in front of Tim and Bernard, an easy, if a little stiff grin curving up his lips. “Hello, lovebirds—” his eyes flickered as if unsure he said the right thing. “We brought booze.” He pulled out a bottle of tequila and a bottle of rum from Sasha’s purse. “We were gonna bring ice, but the Pilots beat us to it.”

“Pilots?” Bernard asked.

“Local Joke, don’t worry.” Tim’s brother shook his head. “I see a lot of drinks on the coolers and the fridge, so we’ll hide these until one in the morning.”

“That’s when everyone starts singing sad songs on the couch.” Sasha piped in with a sigh.

“Either the party ends there, or it’s just a little rest before it picks back up again.” Tim’s brother explained. “But based on the energy right now?” He looked down at Bernard. “I think you’re having a nice Burn. Gotta say, haven’t seen one like this since Weissman’s.”

Sasha nodded. “He means to say that this whole thing will last until tomorrow morning,” she blinked. “We’ll help with the clean up—”

Tim’s brother looked down at her in barely concealed horror, but with nothing but a glance, he looked back at Bernard and Tim with a strained smile. “Yeah! Sure, I… I’ll go get a drink.”

At least Sasha seemed to have Tim’s brother in a tight-ish leash. Maybe Tim should ask for tips.

Thirty minutes later, and the place was as packed as before. Some people had left, but many more had arrived, full with bottles and cans of booze, snacks and pizzas and even tacos—-god the tacos were an awful idea. Tim and Bernard would have those things later, don’t want anyone puking or shitting on the floor. All in all, everything was within the parameters Tim had expected.

His brother, meanwhile? He was dancing. Right in the middle of the living room, surrounded by a couple dozen people dancing to the rhythm without a care in the world—-they were dancing like normal people, but his brother was doing something else.

This was Tim's chance to see his brother in his natural environment. Surrounded by the stink of weed and booze, cocaine littering the counters and people sleeping on the couches, and based on the video he had seen, he expected some weird shit.

But seeing him in person was something else entirely. His brother stood there, legs slightly apart so a girl fit between them so close they could grind against each other, his arms circling the girl’s waist  while his hands weld onto them so tightly that Tim saw the girl blush. Head titled downwards slightly, not to see the girl more clearly, but to tempt her, staring at her through his eyelashes—lips parted ever so slightly as if he wished nothing but to kiss her, but not too parted so it’d seem awkward. His movements focused on his pelvis and facial expressions, making sure the girl between his arms felt adored, whispering sweet nothings into her ear…

A couple feet away, stood Sasha. Tim only cared for her because she seemed to be his brother’s closest friend. Compared to Tim’s brother, she was far more… bouncy. Jumping from side to side to the rhythm with a happy smile on her lips, dancing not for show, but for herself. How someone like her and someone like his brother became friends was beyond Tim, but c’est la vie. And yet, even though there was a sea of people between them, Tim noticed something—their eyes. None of them were truly focusing on what their pupils were seeing, rather, they were focusing on the general direction the other was. It vaguely reminded Tim of how his family—never his brother’s—looked at things during a mission. Always making sure the others were safe, even through walls.

Still… the way Tim’s brother moved pulled people—him—in. Like an incubus ready to snatch Tim’s spot in the family away, draining his soul until the last drop of ego rolled down the edges of his lips like the cum he swallowed in that video.

After an hour, Tim’s brother had gone outside, sitting with a bunch of former Gotham Middle alumni. Bernard—a somewhat drunk one—-and Tim joined them soon after.

“—And then he goes, ‘Look at me, baby,’” Tim’s brother stood up from the plastic chair, purposefully shaking his hips in circles awkwardly. “‘I got the moves! See?’” Everyone listening in, besides Tim, laughed. “That guy was weird as hell.” Tim’s brother said after sitting back down. “But God, he knew how to mix a drink.”

Someone chuckled, “Did you fuck him?”

Tim’s brother made a face on impulse, something between bafflement and disgust. “‘Course not! I’m not gay, dude.” He shrugged. “Unless it’s Marvin we’re talking about,” they laughed.

Tim blinked. Was his brother closeted? Was he ashamed of the fact he liked to suck dick? This was odd. His brother had seemed so sexually liberated, flirting and kissing girls freely during the night, letting himself be recorded while gagging on cum, accepting the fact that Tim had a boyfriend without issue—and the fact that he flirted with Bernard.

That fact still grated Tim. Even now, Bernard stared at Tim’s brother with stars in his eyes and a grin on his lips. All the while his brother stared down at nothing with a chuckle before looking back up at no one in particular, letting the moment sit for a second to try, and succeed, in getting more laughs.

Once everyone but Tim and his brother left to get more drinks, Tim stared at his brother for a minute.

Truth be told, he was a little drunk and stressed from having to manage the crowd of neanderthals present, so he’d blame his behavior on the alcohol. Not any lingering insecurity he had from being Jason’s “replacement.”

“Hey!” Tim began, far more confrontational than he had intended. “Stop flirting with my boyfriend.”

His brother looked up at him, a frown full of confusion downing on his features. “I’m not flirting with him, man. I’m not gay.”

The nerve, Tim thought. He had seen the way his brother stared at Bernard, so lustfully and tempting. Moving his body like a stripper so Bernard would notice him—talking to him with an easy, charming grin that seemed to pull everyone in even when it was just some sick act.

Before Tim could retort, someone came to pull his brother away. A former teammate of his, from his basketball days, Tim heard. Making it a begrudging note to drag Bernard with him, and after grabbing him by the hand, Tim led him back outside the cabin. There, in a tiny spot free of trees, a bunch of people had gathered. Most stood by the edges, while ten people—including Tim’s brother—stood inside the crowd with a basketball someone must’’ve brought. And in opposite trees, the neandertals had tied two trash cans at a reasonable height, with two guys stuck to the trees like koalas to retrieve the ball.

“Don’t fuck it up!” Sasha cheered for Tim’s brother from the sidelines.

Once the teams were decided, the match began. His brother’s team held a bunch of strangers he didn't seem to know, while the entirety of the opposite team was brother’s middle school team. As far as Tim saw, they wanted to see if his brother still had it—skill. He doubted it, really. It had been quite a while since middle school, and based on his brother’s vices, he probably wouldn’t last long.

To Tim’s surprise, however, his brother wasn’t half bad. Rusty, for sure, but after a few minutes of playing, he seemed to get back into it… and he seemed happy. Genuinely so. Drunk down to hell for sure, but his eyes sparkled with something Tim had never seen in him, dribbling the basketball on the ground with a grin, chuckling when one of his opponents fell for a faint, and cheering after scoring a dunk… and the more he saw his brother playing, Tim began getting this strange feeling on his stomach.

Whenever he scored, his brother didn’t turn to look at Tim—his brother since before Jason came back to the manor—-rather, he turned towards Sasha with a cheeky grin while showing her his middle finger. It was odd, really. The way Tim felt his stomach churn at the sight… Why would he feel like this? He had never acknowledged his brother as, well, his brother. So why the sudden annoyance at him paying attention to someone else?

Thankfully, those thoughts were pushed aside when Tim turned to look at Bernard. He seemed, at least in his eyes, enamoured. Staring with hearts in his eyes as Tim’s brother cheered loudly after the opposite team scored some points, only to laugh when he realized that his team lost.

After that, an hour or so later, a lot of people left, or fell asleep in odd places. But his brother and Sasha stayed, along a couple of drunks—former Gotham Middle alumni—and soon, they were sitting on the kitchen table, with a small speaker blasting more subdued music than before.

“I don’t know,” Tim’s brother spoke. “I mean, Minnie was trying too hard back then. We never really connected, you know?”

“C’mon, man!” Someone chuckled. “I saw you two smooching behind the school. She was madly in love.”

His brother laughed, “Her name’s Minerva. You think I’d date her?” He shook his head. “Fuck off.”

By now, Tim did have a couple of drinks down his throat. From stress, really. But since the ambiance was far more subdued than before, he could at least calm down a little. The party was dying down fast, but it wouldn’t quite end now, no. Soon, someone pulled out a small, color-coded roulette from God knows where. A drinking game, they said.

A usual drinking roulette with a twist—each drink would have a set number of points. Whiskey 30 points, Vodka 27, beer 24, and so on. Whoever had more points by the end of the round, had the right to force some other player to either do a dare or tell a truth. Tim, at first, didn’t want to participate… but with any luck, he could get some information out of his brother, or even Sasha.

The game started. On the first round, some nobody got the most points.

“Measle!” She called.

“It’s Maisel…”

She shushed him. “Truth! Back in eighth grade, did you fuck Kim?”

The guy blushed. “It was a one time thing! I swear.”

In the second round, Bernard won. Turning to some guy on the table, he asked: “Remember Mrs. Lee?”

“Come on!” The guy groaned. “She’s my aunt!”

“I’m just asking! Did she really sell drugs behind the school?”

Tim’s brother chimed in. “Oh, she sure did.” He chuckled. “No Mary Jane, let me tell ya! Only the strongest shit.”

“Man!”

“I’m just saying!” He shrugged. “I heard she dated this guy from CA. Her provider and sneaky link. Smith or something.”

Sasha nodded. “He’s my uncle’s friend. I can confirm.” She took out two cigarettes from her purse. One for her, and the other for Tim’s brother.  “They got married, I think.” Tim’s brother used a cheap lighter to light up the cigarette, and soon, everyone had one between their fingers.

Third round, and someone asked another truth. But Tim’s brother quickly interjected before the fourth round started.

“Alright, just hold on!” He slurred. “Stop asking for truths! The whole point of this shit is the dares!”

“Nobody’s doing them.” Someone said.

“I’ll do them.” He claimed. “Papa didn’t raise no pussy.”

Fourth round, and the first dare was delivered.

“Wayne,” someone called his name. “I dare you to kiss Bernard.”

Tim’s eyes shot up.

“Dude! He’s my brother’s boyfriend. I can’t do that.” At least his brother had some sense of respect.

The guy rolled his eyes. “Fine. Then I dare you to kiss Sasha.”

His brother chuckled, turning to look at Sasha with a smile. She sighed, leaning in until their lips met—a chaste kiss. Nothing as intense as Tim assumed.

Seventh round, and another dare was dished out. Innocently, a girl asked to see just how close Tim’s brother and Sasha were, with someone else making them dance to a random song.

They stood up, walking to a more open space in the kitchen—standing with their backs facing the other’s to make sure they wouldn’t easily guess what the other would do. And when the song began, it was like magic—-they danced in almost the exact same way. With mirroring moves that accentuated their gender, yet so coordinated that Tim briefly wondered if one of them was a telepath… but unlike his brother’s previous dance, this one seemed more natural. He seemed to enjoy it. Simple, casual moves that their bodies executed so easily.

By the end of the eleventh round, most of everyone were passed out on their chairs or the floor. Only Tim and his brother sat awake…

It was the alcohol, Tim would later reason. Because what he said next was so out of character for him. Driven by anger and jealousy from seeing Bernard chuckle to every single one of the jokes Tim’s brother said.

“I hate you…” Tim said.

“What?”

“I hate you.” Tim repeated, seeing his brother frown in confusion. “You just—” he shouldn’t have drinked, Tim realized as his mouth ran wild. “You almost die and suddenly everyone’s paying attention to you! Dick’s gone crazy, Duke is sulking, Bruce is grieving for God knows what, and Damian is sulking!” he pointed at his brother. “Whatever you’re doing has to stop!”

His brother stammered. “Is this about Bernard?” He asked with bafflement. “‘Cause if it is, trust me, I have no interest in him—-” he blinked drunkenly. “He’s not my type—I’m not gay, dude!”

Tim, on impulse, took out his phone. Scrolling right onto his gallery’s hidden before playing the video of his brother sucking cock, sliding the device towards his brother. “Sure you’re not.” He scoffed. “Seems like your throat disagrees, huh?”

His brother stared at the video. Blinking once, then twice in quick succession, seeming to sober up in half a second as his face paled. “Where did you get this?” He asked as he stared up at Tim, his voice turning cold and dangerous. “Who gave this to you?”

Tim shook his head for a second, but before he could answer, his brother dashed from the opposite side of the table right to Tim’s side, pushing Tim out of his seat with his forearm until his back hit the wall. “Give me a name.”

Tim scoffed. “Found it on social media, slut.” He was drunk, jealous, with anger and discomfort that he didn’t quite know where it came from. “Not gay my ass. You choked on that dick like a fucking whore—”

Suddenly, Tim’s brother punched him. Right in that spot between the eye and the ear, where anyone would become disoriented if hit hard enough—-but Tim wasn’t just anyone. No. He was the Red Robin, so before his brother could punch him again, Tim ducked in a small twirl as he kicked his brother on the face with his heel.

Then his brother tried to hit him again…

And again.

And again. And every time, Tim easily countered before the hit could land, and slowly, Tim realized—-internalized—something.

The reason why Tim didn’t see him as family, was because he wasn’t a Bat. He had never been Robin, was never trained by Bruce, never had an encounter with the Joker. Everytime Tim kicked or punched him, his brother would take a second before lunging again…

Shit… Tim was an asshole, wasn’t he?

Before his brother could stand back up again, Tim began laughing.

“What the…”

It wasn’t a pretty laugh. Not a Wayne laugh… It was ugly, loud, and disturbing. Like nails scratching a chalkboard. Tim had to kneel down on the floor, holding his stomach desperately so he may stop. Of course he’d have an attack now, after truly realizing just how awfully he had treated his… brother until now. Ignoring him, manipulating him, insulting him and downloading videos that shouldn’t exist.

Tim shouldn’t be part of the family, he thought. His ego may be high, but deep down, he truly felt like a replacement of Jason—that was the whole reason as to why he became Robin. Bruce had been so damaged and deranged after Jason’s death. He needed a Robin. And Tim, neglected Tim, ignored by his parents for years on end just like him, had been too eager to take up the mantle…

Maybe if he hadn’t arrived, his brother would’ve never faced death.

“Hey…” He suddenly spoke, kneeling in front of Tim as he pushed a trash can under Tim’s face. “Look at me.”

Tim looked up, mouth agape in deranged laughter. He had no chance to close it before his brother pushed his fingers deep into Tim’s throat until he puked. And yet, his brother didn’t seem to mind the vomit on his fingers. Too busy rubbing Tim’s back, making sure the can stayed in place so no vile would stain the floor. And he kept going, until Tim vomited exactly three times—through his mouth and even his nose. Cleaning Tim’s nostrils with a napkin so he could breath.

“Just breathe,” he said. “You want some water? You have one of those Serious pills?”

“I’m fine…” Tim breathed out. He didn’t need an antidote. “I’m sorry.”

A beat of silence. “Don’t worry.” His brother chuckled without humor. “I had a friend back in the day. Joey. He had a run-in with the Joker, and… you know.” He sighed. “Had to learn how to handle his attacks.”

“What happened?” Tim couldn’t help but ask.

His brother blinked, nose bleeding lightly from the beating Tim had given him. “He, uh… he’s in a better place.” He nodded to himself. “Gone too soon… I miss him, to be honest. I wish I could’ve done more.” He chuckled sadly. “Maybe if I wasn’t such an asshole, he’d be here with us still.”

Maybe Dick hadn’t gone insane, Tim thought.

Soon, he’d truly try to reconnect—no, just connect—-with his brother. He only prayed his brother would forgive him for his sins. All of them. And maybe, he could give him the chance to become a Bat, just so he could truly be part of the family.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<3

A/N: Oof, if you expected this: where the fuck should I go to meet my soulmate?

Did you like the chapter? Did you not? Comment your thoughts so you can either destroy or feed my ego (either way, it helps in different ways) and motivate me to write more.

Now that my creative psyshcosis is over, the intermission will come! Mainly to give you (the few readers) a small emotional break with something far more lighthearted! So if you're looking for something like that, make sure to read the Glitter! Intermission and then the one that will be posted for the chapter drought.

Anyway, onto this chapter... and the one that precedes it:

Originally, the chapter "Ride or Die" was meant to be the protagonists' crashout, however, as I kept writing I realized that it came way too soon and way too unnaturally... so I deleted the whole thing and began from scratch. It was a pain, but I think it was worth it.

This chapter, though? First, it was meant to be divided in two. But I realized that the second half's content was too little for a full chapter, so I stitched them together (It's my belief that a chapter is as long as it needs to be. Don't want to bother extending it to what I'd consider an unnecesary level or the opposite, though I do need to eventually let chapters sit around for a week or so for later editing) and here it is! Tim's descent into madness.

I'd like honest thoughts on his arc so far, please! Your critiques and thoughts would help a lot in delivering Jason's future arc, plus they'd help improve my writing for future fics and chapters (especially the GDA Mark fic, that one is a whole topic on its own.)

Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope you guys can tune in for future chapters!

There are two major events in your life that you believe were for the best. The first is gaining your powers, and the second is being shipped off to boarding school. 

You’re aware that your family did this to prevent you from finding out their ‘secret’ as per Evelyn’s suggestion. Evelyn. You absolutely despise her; she comes in as a spy and just imitates you, and your family goes on to accept her with open arms. She strived to replace you. Replace you… Could you even say that? That she replaced you? To be replaced would insinuate that you had a place to begin with. You never held a place in this family. You’ve never even held a solid conversation with anyone other than Alfred, and during your last days at the manor before boarding school, you began to distance yourself from him. The vision of him not believing you creating a wedge between you two. It concerned him, but he thought it was you being anxious about the change.

That was totally incorrect; you were excited for the change. Bruce should’ve sent you away sooner. You are thriving here. You’ve already made some friends and you’re a part of the physics club, debate team, student council, and theatre club. You love it here. Although when the lights go out and curfew is set, you start your patrol rounds. It’s a pretty manageable schedule. Due to your powers, sleep isn’t something you need a lot of. You can sleep for three hours and feel peachy afterwards; it’s water that you need most. 

Your powers, where do you even begin? You’re not entirely sure what type of powers you have. You know that you possess telekinesis, telepathy, ergokinesis, technopathy, and a very limited chronokinesis that has recently made an appearance. You’ve come to realise that although you have these wonderful powers, you’ll never have a painless head ever again. You get constant migraines, and that’s why you drink so much water. Excessive use of your powers leads to increased strain on your brain, but with training, you can prevent these pains from coming so soon. 

Being Atomic has been eventful. Especially with the position you’re currently in. Army crawling through a dirty vent, eavesdropping on a crime boss’ conversation at midnight. Now, you could’ve simply manipulated light and photons to make yourself invisible and be in the room with them, or heck even project an illusion that you weren’t there, but you had a feeling that they had motion sensors in there, and if you were to disable them, it would cause a commotion, preventing you from getting the information you need. You know they don’t have them in the vents, and you’re being incredibly quiet, cleaning as you go. You’re by the opening of one of the vents. This is an old building, but the security system they’re using is top-notch high-end stuff. This is a meeting spot, but for whom? You listen in as the baritone voice booms below you. 

“What the hell do you mean the ship got blown up?!” the man yells out in rage. You recognise that voice. That’s Homer Verone. A malignant tumour that had been killing your city. Making her ill with corruption and injustice. You thought he had died, at least that’s what the news had claimed, but alas, it seemed to be a ploy, but…for what? He isn’t running from someone, is he? 

“Sir, I don’t know what happened. Th- They told me that Atomic-” The stuttering henchman paused to duck as a seething Verone flung a chair at him and growled. You remember that. You had gotten a lead that there would be a smuggle ship going through the port. You arrived and made it go boom. You managed to clean the waters, thankfully. You did it to see whose feathers it would ruffle.

“Atomic?! ATOMIC!? How many times have I told you to get RID of that meddling piece of shit? Huh? HUH?!” Verone raged on. Yeah, you and him go way back. You busted his trafficking ring four years ago, and all his other rings. He’s marked you as enemy number one, going as far as to put a bounty on your head, but it's never worked. You’re too slippery, too skilled. You’ve absorbed the knowledge of all those skilled assassins, though, so it’s practically educational at this point. 

You look down the vent and see him. From where you’re positioned, he looks small, almost non-lethal. Quite misleading, in your opinion. Homer Verone is everything but non-lethal. He reminds you of a wild cane corso that has achieved peak insanity.  Homer has pitch black hair, which he keeps slicked back with gel. He looms over others with his tall, bulky frame. He’s a veteran. You know he is, he hates the sound of bombs and hates that camouflage colour. He also constantly compares his crime-lording present to his soldier past. His face is littered with small scars from over the years, with a scar that starts from his ear to the corner of his lip, truly stealing the show. His eyes are a dark brown, hardened from decades of crime, war, hardships and violence.

Five months ago, Homer Verone was supposedly involved in a hotel bombing resulting in the loss of his own life. His funeral took place the week after; all his henchfolk attended. It seemed like the end of an era. You had a feeling, though. You didn’t feel Verone die. You’ve read his mind before, creating a tether. When he supposedly died, that tether was supposed to break, but you still felt him. Like a thread linking you two. He didn’t die, and you knew Verone. Verone wasn’t a coward, sure, he’d run away from the law, but he wouldn’t go through these lengths to achieve it. 

When you saw one of his trusted henchfolk while patrolling, you knew you had to follow him. That led you to here, the dusty vents of an “abandoned” safehouse. 

You put two fingers to your temple and close your eyes.

“What are you running from, Verone?” You search his mind, and there’s a meeting with a cloaked figure in a mask. 

“You have two months.” The figure states in a monotone voice. You feel Verone’s fear engulf him instantaneously. You search his mind for more. Apparently, it's a drug war, but it seems more than that. You get nothing. Who is that cloaked figure?

Your eyes snap back open, faintly glowing. Something’s telling you that this is more than some drug war. You’ve seen Verone be calm while being shot at, remain apathetic while being bombed, keep an indifferent demeanour when crime bosses threatened him and started wars with him. There’s more to this. You will find out, and you will find out who that cloaked figure is.

You decide that’s enough patrolling, it’s been a slow night anyway, and you got the confirmation that Verone’s alive. 

You need to feel some sort of rush; tomorrow is the last day of school before spring break. You won’t be doing much, maybe helping with some lab clean-up or hanging with a friend. Teleporting to the nearest high building, you sprint towards the edge, do a front flip and jump off. 

“YAHOOOO!” you scream as giddy laughter escapes you while you perform a sequence of somersaults and teleport to your room mid-free fall. The feeling is spectacular as you see the burst of blues and violets surround you in stripes for the few seconds you fall through space before you land on your bed. You change out of your suit and into pyjamas. God, you love a good adrenaline rush. 

As you sit down on your bed thinking about Verone, your gaze drifts around your room, and you notice something under your door. It’s an envelope, you pick it up and see that it's a letter from Evelyn.

“What the hell does she want?”

You opened the letter. You read it. God, you felt sick. Why?!

Dear Y/N, 

Heyy!! I hope you’re doing okay at that smart school or whatever it's called. We know you have break coming up and gosh you are SO LUCKY, you get break two days earlier than us. I miss you and was hoping you’d come back home for the break. We miss you, especially Alfred. Please come over. We’re picking you up in two days.

Who does this two-faced broad think she is?? You already had plans for the break. You were going to stay with some close friends. Man, you can’t have shit in this house, you weren’t even in said house. You really hate this family. You stared at the envelope and saw that there were pictures inside. What did you do in your past life to warrant this? Seriously, you need to know. Were you a criminal? A corrupt politician? A terrible spouse? An unethical businessman? You picked up the pictures, which were held together by a rubber band. There were pictures of Evelyn and the family. Christmas, Birthdays, Hangouts. You let out a frustrating sigh, then raise the pictures using your telekinesis. You stare at them for a moment, almost as if you’re examining them, and you rotate them for a few moments, then you close your eyes for what seems like hours and open them to let out an optic beam of blue heat energy. The pictures turn to nothing. The ashes fall to the ground. You stare at the remains, the pure disgust in your eyes evident, and teleport the ashes outside. You take the letter and repeat the same process. 

“That was quite cathartic, I must say,” You chirp with enthusiasm, after your mini burning session. You did put a barrier around yourself so that the fire alarm wouldn’t start up. You go back to the warm comfort of your bed and lie down. Before you know it, you’re out like a light.

You woke up to the annoying sound of your alarm clock and started getting ready for the day, since it was the last day of school, classes were cancelled. You picked out an outfit. Read a book, looked at some cases, meditated and practiced your chronokinesis. It was soon 1 pm. You weren’t really planning on doing much; maybe you should hang out with a friend. Yeah, that doesn’t sound too bad. Right on cue, your door knocks. You sense him instantly. Alexander Galanis. Head of the school paper, Captain of the photography club and your best friend.

His father is some major oil tycoon who has helicopter parenting tendencies. You and he met when you first joined Newton Academy. He was assigned as your welcome “buddy”. Both of you shared a love for comics, video games, books, superheroes, and so much more. It wasn’t hard to click with him.

“Guess who’s interview with Atomic landed them an internship at the Daily Planet?” Did you also mention the fact that he was one of the few people who knew your secret identity? How he found out was completely by pure luck. You were reckless and used your telekinesis while your door was unlocked. He walked into your dorm and saw it, and well, he pieced it together. The fact that you went to bed early, had constant headaches, and always seemed to be “out” at the same time that Atomic was seen. 

“That’s great, man. Glad I was able to help!” You laughed as he practically skipped alongside you. You two made it to the common room, and there was a crowd around the TV. 

“Whatever you’re all watching can’t be that good…” You muttered to the mob. 

“Uhm, look at this.” A voice from the group exclaimed as the group made way for you and Xander. 

You gasped at the sight before you. Central Park. It’s burning. 

“What the hell am I looking at?” 

“A masked guy came in and started burning everything. The fire can’t be extinguished; it’s been burning for hours.” The guy beside you, who you recognise as Daniel, explains with a fearful tone.

Alexander clears his throat and gives you a knowing look. “Y/N, didn’t you say you needed to pack today for your trip back to Gotham?”

“Yes, I did say that, actually. I should probably start now so I don’t stress about it tonight or something.” You briskly walk out of the common room and into your room. You teleport to the scene, also changed into your hero suit. You stare at the raging flames with weariness. The accelerant for this is new. You have never smelled this scent before. You sense some people still in the park; you teleport them to safety. Through all this, there is one thought echoing in your mind.

“Who the hell did this?”

You sensed someone, but you couldn’t see them. You activated your energy vision, and sure enough, there’s your guy. His silhouette just screamed ominous villain; he stood with the flames as if he were one with them. He didn’t have a build that significant, not like Verone’s; in fact, you could tell he was on the smaller side, his height making him appear more lanky than intimidating. He wore a cloak and his hands were behind his back, as if he were waiting for your arrival. Yet he exuded an emanation of pure, unadulterated evil. It felt like being in the presence of the Joker, but no, the Joker didn’t possess this man’s cold nonchalance. He also wasn’t nearly as quiet; it disturbed you. 

He was burning down a landmark and treating it as if it were a normal occurrence, like he was out mowing his lawn and not committing an act of terrorism against your city.

“Who are you?!” You shouted while you swiftly got to work on extracting the oxygen from the fire.  If you could deprive the flames of oxygen, they would die out. He simply stared at you. You used your telekinesis to restrain him.

“You don’t have to worry about who I am, Atomic” Yeah, this was freaking you out, you decided to go into his mind.

“Let’s see who this guy really-”

“URGH AHHHH” You clutched your head and felt your knees buckle.

“I told you. You. Don’t. Have. To. Worry. About. Who I am.”

“What you need to worry about is…The Bridge and The City,” The tone he was using was making you greatly uneasy. 

“The same illustrious fire you just gazed upon is going to reappear in those same places after I set off this bomb. Now,  the bridge is where those little ruffians ran off to. I know it is. I told them to go there. Then we have the city, I just put the bombs. It’s my fault. Unless you can save them…Let’s see your skills and perhaps….your…morality” You stared at him, the fear present in your eyes. What is this guy’s reason for this?

You suddenly heard two booms.

That doesn’t sound good.

The sound of screams piercing your eardrums. That all too familiar metallic scent. Blood.

You instantly teleported the kids somewhere safe, the large number of them causing that familiar feeling of strain again. You teleported to the city and instantly tried to deprive the flames of oxygen while teleporting civilians. You had it all under control until you saw multiple cloaked figures creating falling debris. You saw a woman about to perish, and you created a barrier to shield you both. Your eyes glowed, but your senses dulled. You were straining. You looked at the woman and started molecular reconstructing her. She isn’t going home with these bruises. She was barely breathing, but she uttered a sentence.

“My…son..save…my…son”

You focused your telepathy and hearing, and you heard a kid. You looked behind you, and as there was debris falling, you noticed the child; he couldn't be any older than ten. Just then, the cloaked devils threw bigger chunks of debris. You strengthened your shield while making sure this woman stays alive, but god, it felt as if your brain was being split open and squeezed. You saw the debris fall, and it tried going near him, then one came too close. You’re doing molecular reconstruction,  strengthening a barrier, all while teleporting civilians and still reeling from the stunt Mr Spooks pulled back there. 

You would severely harm yourself if you did anything more brash. You decide to hang on for a while longer. The world begins to spin around you. You still focus, you look at the debris falling, and flex your fingers. The debris stops midair. 

“It actually worked.” You think weakly, as you turn the block into thin air with the flick of a wrist.

You’re losing consciousness. The world is slowly becoming bedecked with little black specks as you sway. You hear voices, and the next thing you know, you’re being hauled over someone’s shoulder. 

“You’re alright, kid” You know that voice. You know you’re in safe hands, so you let yourself pass out. 

When you wake up, you see that you’re out of your hero suit, have a blanket on you with an ice pack on your head and have two children staring down at you with the cheekiest grins known to man. You let your lips curl into a smile. Funny how even when you managed to escape the clutches of death, your spirits can still be lifted at the sight of your favourite people. 

A family. One that you loved.

A family that looks out for one another. A family that is there for one another. A family that cares for one another. A family that is attentive to one another. A family that loves one another, and it was greatly evident that this family loved you.

The Fantastic Four was your family.

“SHE’S AWAKE!!” the children yelled in unison with relief. Val and Franklin Richards were like the little siblings you’ve dreamt of. You helped them train their powers, babysat, took them out to your favourite food joints, played pretend with them, had to scour for them in huge supermarkets and gave them advice.

You sat up and stretched while they hugged you.

“Aw shucks, guys, were you worried about little old me?” You chuckled at the sight of them. You were already fully healed, but god, your head was killing you. 

Val hugged you again. While Franklin playfully glared at you. “Little old you nearly became little gone you," he stated with slight fear in his gaze. You ruffled his hair. “I’m not leaving this world anytime soon, Lin. I promise” 

Just then, you heard footsteps and saw them. Sue, Reed, Ben, and Johnny.

“You’re awake.” Sue gasped as she handed you a bottle of water and put a hand on your forehead. You smiled as you twisted the cap and gulped down the cool beverage. Mmm lemon. You sighed as you got up. 

“You should stay for dinner, kiddo. We’re having your favourite. We can even talk about what plans we have set for your break,” Reed went on with a warm smile. 

You then remembered your, well, change in plans.

“Yeah, about that…”

“You’re kidding me”, Johnny sighed, his voice filled with dread after hearing your explanation.

“Trust me, if I were, you’d all be laughing. They want me home, and it’s non-negotiable. You rubbed your eyes; the headache was subsiding, but the pain was still more painful than usual. 

“I will stay for dinner, though. I’m not missing out on Sue’s cooking for packing.” 

After the dinner, you teleported back to your dorm and set out for the common room. You saw Alexander and the rest of the housemates. Their eyes were puffy and red, and a lot of them were crying.

“What’s the matter?” you questioned Alexander with concern. He wasn’t crying, but his expression was solemn. He looked at you with relief prevalent in his eyes.

“They think that Atomic might be dead,, He answered. You clenched your jaw and turned to see the news. Sure enough, it was you being carried by Thing while practically limp. You looked lifeless.

You stared at Alexander and left the room with him following in tow. Both of you made it to your dorm, you locked it with your mind, and stared at Alexander for what seemed like hours before he spoke

“You did great out there, you know? There were no casualties, and due to you healing the civilians, the injuries weren’t too major either. You should be proud of yourself.”

“It wasn’t my doing; had it not been for the Fantastic Four, I would’ve died, and so would've two others.” You sat down on your bed and put your head in your hands.

“That guy, the one in a cloak, I don’t know if you saw him on the news, but he was so, so evil, Xander.” You continued

“What’s his deal? Did you manage to look into his mind?” He inquired with worry in his eyes.

“That’s the thing, I don’t know, but he seems to have some form of immunity against my telepathy. When I went into his mind, I felt the most powerful stinging sensation in my head. It lingered for hours.” You rambled on while staring at your hands.

“That’s insane?? How? Is he a telepath, too?”

“I..I don’t know Xander. Whoever he is, he’s dangerous.” You messed with a small ball of energy, swirling it around your fingers before making it dissipate. 

You and Xander talked for hours until curfew approached. You said your goodbyes and hugged each other.

You were currently in the lobby waiting for your family, or well, Alfred, to pick you up from the academy. Xander was with you, waiting for his father to arrive. You heard voices and saw the approaching figure of Camila Rossi. Your academic rival, you won’t say that you hate each other, she doesn’t go out of her way to treat you awfully, but she isn’t nice to you either. She had puffy eyes.

“You’re still sad about Atomic? It’s not even confirmed that she’s dead.” Xander stared at her, his eyes displaying amusement. He seemed to find it so hilarious that your rival was your biggest fan, too.

“Shut it, Galanis. I’ll feel whatever I damn please.” She retorted with a sniff

“Why do you love Atomic so much anyway? You brink on parasocial with her.” He questioned.

“Because she’s a beacon of hope! She’s a symbol of heroism and vigilantism for me, okay?! She isn’t just some random hero that swoops in and saves the day, no, she’s an inspiration, she’s what all teenagers should strive to be!” She went on, her face turning red.

“So..all teens should be superpowered crime-fighting acrobats…?” Xander trailed off with a slight smirk. You rolled your eyes. What the hell, Xander? He loved doing this, loved riling up Camila for the sake of it, that is, if she wasn’t doing it to him. This is the norm.

You elbowed him. “Maybe we shouldn’t poke fun at someone who may be grieving their idol-” You started.

“Hush it, Wayne.” Welp, you tried.

“You wanna know what all teens should be? They should be considerate, compassionate, disciplined and empathetic. Do YOU know the drive it takes to wake up every day, live a normal life and do things like saving others? Do you know the special type of person you have to be to even dedicate your life to that?? It’s different when you’re some grown-up in a suit, but Atomic isn’t. She’s missing out on her teenage life and youth to save others? Isn’t that amazing? How selfless can one be to make such a sacrifice? How golden can your heart be? To risk your life every day for strangers, expecting nothing in return! You don’t have to be a superpowered crime-fighting acrobat to be a hero and create change. You could be compassionate, selfless, empathetic, and generous. That’s what Atomic stands for. That’s what we should strive to become every day, from the moment we open our eyes first thing in the morning to the moment we close them for rest at night, until we open them again, hoping we do better than we did the previous day.” She finished as she had tears rolling down her face, her eyes staring at Xander and you with determination and sadness.

“Camila, come here..” She walked towards you, and you embraced her. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just, she’s my hero and I just want her to be okay.” You held her as she wept into your shoulder. 

“She will, I promise you she will.” You rubbed her back. There was a car honk outside, and Xander stood up.

“That’s my ride..Camila, I’m so sorry...” he apologised with genuine regret and awkwardness. He did not know she felt that passionately about you, or, more so, Atomic.

“Shut it, Galanis.”

“Okay.” He walked out quickly, while some guards went to pick up his luggage.

You saw a familiar black town car outside as well. With Alfred in there.

You pulled away as Camila sniffled a bit more.

“My ride is here too. Call me if you need to talk. I know you have my number and email.” You laid your hand on her shoulder before walking away and meeting Alfred outside while the guards brought your luggage.

“Master Y/N, it’s been so long. My dear, you’ve grown!” He exclaimed with fondness as he opened the car door for you.

“Nice to see you too, Alfred.” You got in with a smile.

The drive back to the manor was quiet and long. You found yourself engrossed in a comic the whole time. The art style was spectacular, yeah, you were definitely using the poses for references later. Before you knew it, you were in front of Wayne Manor.

You do not miss this place. The daunting gothic structure has not changed, the intense fog surrounds it. You feel like you’re in the beginning of a John Craven movie. This is horror. Meeting people you dislike is scarier than facing anything. You let out a chuckle at your joke and walk towards the front door.

It opens, and lo and behold. She’s at the door, staring at you with the fakest smile known to man. Evelyn.

“Oh my god! You’re back,” she leans in for a hug, which prompts you to back away.

“I don’t like hugs.” 

“Oh, you’re so silly!” You walk past her and try to make a beeline for your room.

You see Damian there. He stares at you with disdain. Oh no, not this again.

“Well, would you look at that, the family’s embarrassment has come over.” He says with the widest grin you’ve seen. This kid actually takes joy in trying to hurt you; it’s so strange, and he’s supposed to be Robin, the light to Batman’s darkness? Please. 

You ignore him and keep walking. That does not deter the monstrous brat.

“You know, I am Father’s legacy, his heir, his true child.” You roll your eyes. Why is he acting as if you even want the old bat’s legacy? You have your own, and you would rather continue your real father’s legacy. You keep walking. He keeps talking..

“You can avoid it as long as you want. So long as you know your place, your pathetic stepfather and harlot of a mother are nothing, and it seems that you’ve acquired that trait.” That makes you stop dead in your tracks. What did he just call your parents? Perhaps your enhanced hearing didn’t catch his clear tone. You slowly turn your head.

“Repeat that.” You order. 

“What? Are you deaf? I said that your pathetic stepfather and harlot are nothing. Just like you.”

The visceral rage that consumes your person and clouds your mind leads to you wanting, no, needing to teach this brat a lesson. One he shall not forget.

“That’s what I thought you said.”

“Wel-” Damian doesn’t get to finish that hateful sentence, because you’re already moving. Fast. He doesn’t even register it. You sprint towards him, grab him by his throat and pin him to the wall. The impact knocking the air out of him. You lift him to eye level. 

“I don’t know what lobotomy you underwent as an infant to ever believe that I would want Bruce’s stupid legacy or that it is okay to speak to someone like that. Do you know who my stepfather was? Regis Reindorf, one of the greatest businessmen and engineers to have ever lived. He came from nothing, he built himself up with nothing but his brain, his faith and his determination. Your daddy dearest was born into the very thing my “pathetic” stepfather forged for himself. The difference between him and Bruce is clear. My father worked for what he got and was actually skilled in his field. His company still runs laps around Wayne Enterprises. Bruce plays CEO when we know it’s Lucius who deals with all the matters, and everything special about him was handed to him. Just like you, and the pathetic part about it is that you’re proud of it and think I want it. I’d rather have the legacy of a hardworking, noble and honourable man over a wino partying sleaze any day. Next is my mother. I won’t say much about her, but I will say this. The only reason why I’m in this godforsaken prison disguised as a “home” is because she died. Yours dropped you off here and never came back, and she was no harlot. Who’s nothing now, brat?” You sneer at him with anger. You were careful to not reveal the fact that you knew about the double life. He’s stunned. This is probably the most expressive he’s seen you, and why is your grip so strong? 

You drop him and walk off, seething.

This was gonna be a long break.

●You and Angel have known each other since the two of you were in kindergarten. At first, the two of you didn’t like each other, but during the third grade, the two of you slowly became friends. It got to the point where everyone at school knew about your friendship.

●The two of you would go over each other’s houses and play different games. Most of it consisted of old school video games or card games where the two of you made up your own rules. It would get rather hectic at times, with the cards being thrown around the room. But those game nights were unforgettable to the two of you.

●Middle school was mostly the same. Everyone knew that the two of you were each other's BFF, and you still went over each other’s homes. This time the two of you got the privilege to travel around the city on your bikes.

●It was all going great, but then Angel started to engage in illegal activity. You didn’t know about it until one day he invited you out. You thought it was another regular hangout on your bikes.

Angel opened the short gate to your home, and walked through your front yard. Your front yard was filled with a mixture of brown and green grass and your bike propped up by the gate. He skipped up the steps and quickly knocked on the metal black door. It didn’t take long for you to come and open up the door.

“C’mon, remember I’m gonna take you somewhere,” Angel told you before going down the steps.

“Alright, wait,” you closed the door and went over to your own bike that was laying in the front yard. The two of you picked up your bikes and left your home.

The two of you biked throughout the neighborhood. The sun was burning, and you regretted not putting on some sun screen, but you told yourself it would all be worth it. Angel was going to show you an awesome hangout spot, after all.

The two of you made it to a house. You were rather disappointed since you were expecting something cooler, than a house that mostly looks like your own.

The house on the outside looked… okay. Sure, the chain linked fence was broken in some areas, the grass was neglected and dead, the door looked worn down, the windows had accumulated a heavy layer of dust, but it was passable.

You trusted that Angel knew what he was doing.

He knocked on the door, but in a specific pattern. They had a secret code to get in? That’s pretty cool! 

The two of you stood outside for a few seconds before the door opened, but then it stopped. You were met with someone’s eye. They looked you up and down before unlatching the lock on the flimsy door and letting the two of you in.

”Angel!” A man yelled out before getting up from the couch and walking over to him. He draped his arm over your friend and brought him close to his cheat. The two of them exchanged greetings with each other. Until the older man looked over to you. You started to feel nervous because as they talked you took notice of all the adults and the state of the house, and it started to set off alarms in your mind.

A few of the men walked sluggishly and stumbled around the house. The women were close to being nude, and some were in a few of the men’s laps. The sight made you uncomfortable.

The outside of the house looked better than the inside. The inside of the house was worse for wear. Holes decorated the walls, there were bottles of alcohol laid across the floor, food was piled up around the house, and the furniture's leather was slowly peeling off.

Then your heart stopped.

You noticed something sticking out of the waistband of one of the men. You were surprised you didn’t notice it until now. The object that caught your attention was a gun. It was a handgun. You didn’t know the model of it, but it was a real gun.

How did Angel get involved with these people?

●On your way back from the hangout, you argued with Angel. You didn’t want him hanging around with those adults. He refused to listen to you, and left you by yourself.

●The two of you separated from each other. A friendship that could’ve lasted forever was now nothing. People quickly took notice of the two of you no longer being side by side with one another.

●Well, how did you take the separation? You didn’t take it all that well. You saw Angel as your only true friend, so being without him made you feel isolated.

●How did Angel take it? He was more pissed than anything. He was mad that you tried to change his mind. He chose this life, so what about it?

●High school came around and both of you kept a distance from one another. It even seemed as if others forgot how close the two of you were. But neither of you forgot.

●The two of you became associated in different cliques. Angel was associated with the students who have bad grades, skip class, take drugs, fight, participate in gang activity - and anything else negative. You didn’t have a clique, instead opting to hangout with different groups since your welcoming, helpful attitude drew people to you. 

●Over the course of high school, Angel got an idea. At this point, it was well known on and off the campus that he was a gang leader. Starting his gang and quickly recruiting students into it.

●This gave Angel an idea. An idea that would bring you over to his side.

●He started to send out his gang to recruit you

●Angel is the one to break the silence between the two of you. He does his best to recruit you into his gang. Except, he didn’t take into account your new personality.

The sun started to set, and you were the only one around on the street. You walked along the sidewalk with the intent to go home and sleep. You had to stay after school for a club activity, but you didn’t mind.

Your faint footsteps were drowned out by the sound of cars passing by, other people walking, dogs barking, birds chirping, and the flickering of street lights. All these sounds carried the image of a noisy neighborhood.

You stood by a curb, waiting for the light to change so you could walk to the other side of the street. When the green figure popped up on the screen you started to walk, but someone tugged on the back of your collar. It made you stop.

”Do you think you’re too good for us, (L/N)?” 

The harsh voice catches your attention, and you look over to see one of the members of Angel’s gang. At this point, they weren’t a clique anymore, but an actual neighborhood gang. They called themselves the Gilded Angels. They even had a color that is associated with them. Their colors being white, blue, and gold.

The people who approached you wore white clothing, indicating that they were of the lowest ranking.

”Maybe. Why do you care? Let me guess, Angel sent you, didn’t he?” You asked with a harsh tone, as you watched the red hand appear, now you had to wait for your chance again.

The guy stuffs his hands into his pockets, “Yeah, he did.”

Another person steps up, “Why do you have to make this so hard, (L/N)? It’s so easy to join us! Our leader just wants you to join!” He sounded more persuasive, but not by much.

The light turns green, and you walk off. Not giving them a verbal answer, but rather a silent one.

●Your lax attitude towards his gang was surprising to say the least. Angel thought you would be squirming from the sight of them walking up to you.

●But the constant harassment of Angel sending out his gang eventually got to you. You switched schools during your senior year, and left to a neighboring school. Angel wanted to go looking for you, but that neighborhood didn’t belong to his gang, so he decided to let it go, for now that is.

●Eventually Angel’s gang gained control of more territory around the city. Not to mention his gang wasn’t a small neighborhood gang anymore. They became notorious over the years. Drive-bys, money laundering, drug dealings, group fights, and robberies were all connected to them.

●This caused Angel to become an illusive figure within the city and even across the nation. He kept his whereabouts a secret with only a few knowing where he is located. 

●After years of not seeing each other, a few of his veteran members told him that they spotted you around the neighborhood. Angel had to see it to believe it, and asked for a picture of you.

”It’s really him,” Angel mumbled under his breath as he took in the sight of you. Angel was under the assumption that you left for another state or city, so why are you walking around the neighborhood?