MDNI

You were leaning against your dark-green pickup truck, ready to head to the airport. Even in a baggy Mighty Crabjoys top and black ripped shorts, you were still the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

You were trying to fight the tears that were daring to fall. Your hand was resting on her right cheek as she sobbed, leaning into your warmth. There’s a slight crack in your voice.

“It’s not like I’m not saying goodbye forever.”

She hiccups, “Then why does it feel like it?”

You bite down on your lip, leaning your head against her shoulder. A part of you already doesn’t want to leave. And her soft cries are not helping you.

Despite school not officially starting until mid-October, you wanted to get there a few months early and have a comfortable life before the chaos started.

And you wanted to enjoy parts of the city—maybe take a day trip to London or Swindon, just in case your upcoming schooling experience tried to ruin England for you completely.

You had offered to take Clark with you, secretly taking on an extra shift at your job to make more money for an extra ticket, which is ironic considering that she could fly there in under forty minutes.

When you eventually told her, you didn’t get the overly excited reaction you had dreamed of for months. Instead, your gleeful expression was met with hesitation—an almost crestfallen, forced smile.

You lifted your head off her shoulder and wiped away a tear from her cheek. You huffed a smile that didn’t really reach your eyes. “You can always come visit me, y’know. It’ll only take you a few minutes to get there.”

She stays quiet for only a second, but it feels like a lifetime. Her gaze is directed toward the ground. You want her to look at you, but you understand why she doesn’t.

Clark mumbles, “That doesn’t make it easier.”

You went still. Your failed attempt to lighten the situation quickly faded into something more solemn.

You have a theory that if you say anything more, you’ll only push the double-edged sword further into both of your hearts. Plus, there isn’t much else to say.

You’ve already said your goodbyes, and you’ve been saying your I love yous all night long. You even gave her your new phone number.

You slip a finger underneath Clark’s chin to finally get her to look at you before cupping her face. You let her gaze into your eyes. You stand on tiptoes to press a soft kiss to her forehead, then each of her cheeks, and finally her lips.

This wasn’t something new to either of you. You’ve been doing this since you were seven years old, after you saw your parents do it on a rough morning.

Later, when you asked your mother why she did that with your father, she told you, “Because that’s how people who love each other say it without words.”

So when you repeated your mother’s words to Clark, and she let you show it to her, it became a childhood tradition that bled into your teenage years.

You could have sworn that when you pressed your lips to hers, a muffled, whimpering sob escaped her. And as you pulled away, you felt her chase after your lips.

Reluctantly, your hands slowly dropped from her face, and you turned away. Clark watched you turn to your truck and never let you go again.

She watched you get into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and start the car after fastening your seatbelt.

Against her will, she watched you drive away, waving to her as you did, until your figure grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

After a few minutes of staring out in the distance, Clark walked back into her house, where Ma Kent was standing in the living room, watching you two from the window. She moved closer, holding out her arms to her heartbroken daughter.

Clark immediately fell into her, wrapping herself around her mother, sobbing into her shoulder.

Ma cradled the back of her head, gently rocking her in place while shushing her. “I know, my sweet girl… I know.”

Shy of a decade later, you continued to haunt Clark. She remembers all of it, every moment with you, but she can only clearly see your dejected expression before you left.

She regretted not going with you to England as soon as your parents called Ma and Pa Kent to inform them that you had finally landed, particularly when she overheard your mother saying that you were already asking how she was doing.

At first, staying in touch had been easy.

Every Friday afternoon, or late evening for you, you’d call her from your cottage. Other times, while walking through the crowded Oxford streets, Clark could barely picture herself on your way to a pub with friends from your new life.

She listened to you excitedly babble about your professors, laughing at how they pronounced certain words. You told her about all the novels you read and the way England’s rain somehow felt different—much more magical compared to the rain in Kansas. Possibly you were just romanticizing it.

And Clark would hide her melancholy behind a mask of pride for you. She was happy for you, there was no doubt about that. But God, she ached for you to someday return home.

When you marveled at how gigantic your new city felt, she’d relate—telling you she was still adjusting to Metropolis herself and worried about the world’s reaction to Superwoman. She’d send updates on Ma and Pa Kent, including pictures of the suit Martha was making for her.

For a while, it was working for both of you. Maybe Clark’s fear of losing you was just overthinking.

But life started to move too quickly.

Once your coursework intensified and you got a job at a little bookstore, you’d come home too drained of energy to shower, let alone call Clark.

And her life turned hectic as well, too fast even for the soon-to-be Superwoman to keep up with. Between studying for her journalism degree and her internship at the Daily Planet, she was battling the same exhaustion you had.

Sometimes when she’d miss your calls by mere minutes and reach your voicemail, she’d picture you fast asleep in your bed. Weeks started slipping by, but you both still tried. Voicemails soon turned into rushed one-sentence text messages.

“Miss you.”

“Sorry, busy week.”

“Call you soon.”

Even those became too difficult to keep up with regularly. After nearly half a year apart, your messages slowly stopped coming.

Clark convinced herself it made sense—that you two had just gotten so busy, become adults with too many responsibilities. But it didn’t hurt her any less.

She checked her voicemail box almost daily, because maybe your name would reappear, along with your eager and warm voice that always sounded so happy to talk with her.

Yet nothing ever came.

She learned to live without you, vowing to never let the memories of you slip through her fingers. But in the midst of becoming a journalist—something she would have enjoyed celebrating with you, even from an ocean away—and her duties as Superwoman, she discovered it was too easy to.

When she miraculously found the time, she tried to date, which, unfortunately for her, was the only time she thought of you.

The women she went out with were lovely, of course. They were kind. Patient. Understanding.

As she allowed herself to kiss them, and hold them while she spent the night, she wished against all hope that something inside her would finally settle into place.

But nothing ever made her feel as alive as those innocent and chaste kisses from your childhood.

During nights like that when you haunted her the most, she wondered whether somewhere in your busy life in Oxford, you still thought about her. Or if you had managed to do what she never could.

Move on.

Early one afternoon, a quick lunch break spiraled into a full-blown rampage against Metropolis.

Sirens and fleeing civilians wailed beneath her as she spun against the wind, trying to avoid Ultrawoman’s violent heat vision.

Floating chaos pressed in from all sides as Hawkgirl screeched past, mace raised, ready to pounce on the creatures Luthor had brought along.

Green Lantern hovered nearby, forming a construct of an emerald hammer before slamming it into the side of the chimera’s skull, sending it crashing through several cars and food trucks along the sidewalk.

Clark slowed in her flight as Terrific’s T-Spheres zipped past her head.

“Hey! Take it easy on the—”

Ultrawoman grabbed her cape and hurled herself across the sky. The city melted into streaks of steel and neon, glinting off billboards and windows.

Right as Clark neared an enormous digital billboard, she planted her boots forward. The force rattled through her bones. As she stabilized herself, she instinctively glanced up at the billboard she was about to crash into.

At ten stories tall, divinely illuminated against the bustling city below, was you.

It was you standing in the center of a runway stage. Soft pink spotlights reflected off your theatrical corseted bodysuit, with what could only be your face across the front. Around your waist was a halo of ivory ruffles, shaped like flower petals.

Black fishnets blended perfectly with your lace-up boots with turquoise ribbons. To accentuate the look, you paired it with a light, luminous, full-coverage base and glittering blue eyeshadow.

Beneath the stage, women sat in matching suits, cigars hanging from their mouths, watching you in pure disbelief and awe—almost like she was.

Massive white letters flashed above your head:

“SHE’LL GET YOUR GIRLFRIEND TO COME…”

Next to your feet in smaller letters: “to her show in Metropolis!”

She blinked again. There was no way this was you.

The last time she had seen you, you were leaving her behind in your pickup truck.

Now you looked like—

As the city noise dissolved into static around her, people below had already begun noticing. Reporters, cameramen, and civilians alike tilted their phones upward, filming Superwoman gazing at your billboard like she’d witnessed God herself descend onto Earth.

Just like all those countless times throughout her childhood, Clark couldn’t help but become transfixed by you, completely forgetting where she was.

Another explosion erupted somewhere downtown.

“Superwoman, we need you over here!”

Green Lantern was hovering a fraction below her, head craned up, screaming at her.

Clark’s face burned red as she struggled to pull herself back into the fight.

By the time she returned to the Daily Planet, your billboard still hadn’t left her mind.

Not when she landed and greeted the children waiting for her, or when she went back to the Justice Gang’s headquarters to debrief.

Not even while she was changing back into her clothes, fumbling with her tie.

Clark wasn’t sure what surprised her more—your coming to Metropolis like she had wanted all those years ago, or the fact that you were now apparently a famous singer.

When she stepped off the elevator, the newsroom was crowded as usual. The newscaster’s voice from the television cut through the chatter as she headed for her desk.

“The Justice Gang handled most of today’s attack, especially after Superwoman was briefly distracted by a billboard featuring the pop sensation—”

Clark nearly tripped over her chair, eyes snapping to the television. There, it displayed her gawking at your billboard like an idiot.

The headline read:

“Woman of Steel Caught Starstruck.”

Jimmy laughed near the coffee machine while Lois shook her head, smiling. Clark ignored them and opened her computer.

Her fingers hovered before she began typing. The search results cascaded onto the screen seconds later.

Underneath your name were endless pictures of you sprawled across the stage, dressed in grandiose outfits, holding hairbrush-style microphones.

Fashion magazine covers showed you smoking in a trashy wedding dress, posed in a staged handcuffed moment with an older woman, the feature declaring you the future of pop as your album “Naked in Metropolis” broke streaming records.

Exclusive interviews detailed your growing up queer in a religious household, along with announcements of your upcoming world tour dates.

She clicked on your official website, and your album appeared for purchase on CD.

The cover alone made her short-circuit.

You were poised atop the roof of a yellow taxi in the middle of a busy intersection, wearing a sheer nude dress. Your childhood Miss Smallville pageant crown sat crookedly on your head as you held a sequined bouquet while neon advertisements glowed behind you.

“Kent?”

Lois’ voice barely registered.

Her eyes remained on the screen.

“Earth to Smallville.”

“Hm?” Clark replied on autopilot.

Lois leaned against her desk, eyeing her monitor suspiciously.

“Thinking about buying something?”

She swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

A week had passed when your album came into the mail.

Clark had bought the collector’s edition, with a glossy Polaroid for each song and a lyric scribbled by you.

The first photo in the stack showed you in a grassy field wearing her old Smallville High Crows football shirt, paired with a white ruffle skirt. She always wondered where that went.

Her taste leaned toward punk rock, but she had a soft spot for pop music—or maybe just for you.

She refused to tell anyone she knew you—actually, that she’d grown up with you. Not Lois. Not Jimmy.

She had an inkling that even with the most convincing explanation, they’d think she’d gone a little crazy.

How was she supposed to explain that she used to climb through a celebrity’s bedroom window whenever a thunderstorm got too loud without sounding stalker-ish?

Clark found herself watching your performances and rereading interviews for reasons she didn’t want to psychoanalyze.

Eventually, she hit her breaking point and called home.

Pa sounded amused. “Don’t ya remember the voice on that girl?”

Meanwhile, Ma was pleased, telling Clark she’d seen the now-viral clip of her floating in front of your billboard but hadn’t realized it was you.

She suggested Clark message you on one of those “computer pages,” like you didn’t have a social media manager who’d probably ignore her like just another fan.

Clark didn’t correct her. Just said, “Sure, Ma. I’ll try that.”

In the days that followed, she arrived at work late—hair windswept, shirt askew.

She felt nervous anticipation riding up the elevator, when Lois texted:

“Hey, Smallville. Perry wants you in his office whenever you get here. Good luck.”

Standing in Perry’s office was awkward—especially when you’re six feet four in a room with low ceilings.

“Close the door,” he ordered politely, gesturing with his cigar. “I’ve got something for you.”

Clark obeyed, sinking into the chair across from him.

“Cat called out sick today—something about a cold. She’s fine, just mostly disappointed she’s gonna miss her big interview this afternoon.”

He set the cigar back between his lips.

“Which brings me to you, Kent.”

Clark’s stomach dropped. “It does?”

“I know your focus is Superwoman and city politics, but everybody else is booked… and you wrapped your piece early.”

“I can take notes, sir—”

“No. You’re doing it.”

“Excuse me?”

Perry slid a folder across the desk. “Got nobody else, kid. Good chance to push your comfort zone.”

She opened it carefully. “Who will I be interviewing?”

Perry said your name like it meant nothing. “You know that pop star Superwoman was staring at last week.”

Clark froze, staring at your photo between Cat’s handwriting and press notes.

“The interview’s at a hotel suite—name’s in there somewhere. Press is set. Stick to Cat’s—”

She was going to interview you.

By the time it was over, Jimmy noticed her leaving—clutching the file like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

“Hey, Kent. You okay?”

Clark didn’t answer.

About an hour before the interview, she called Ma and Pa from the bus, hoping they would calm her nerves. Ma was overly excited, as if fate was telling her the two of you were meant to find your way back.

As Clark reached to hang up, Pa encouraged her to buy you flowers.

“Kinda like you did on her first day of kindergarten—you picked a daisy from the school garden for her?”

Clark stopped at a shop on the way.

Now she stood outside the suite door, the bouquet held a little too tightly.

Your publicist greeted her and guided her through a side room.

“Just wait here,” she said, reaching for the flowers.

But Clark held onto them. “I’d rather give them to her myself, if that’s okay.”

She nodded with a faint smirk. “Of course, ma’am.”

The door closed.

The white, minimalist aesthetic of the room, which smelled of sterile air and citrus, made her hyper-aware of everything—her breathing, her hands, how her lanky frame was too big for the chair, and the utter silence she was swallowed by.

She rehearsed nothing. Thought of nothing. It was completely unprofessional of her. That was worse.

When the door finally opened and you stepped in wearing a dark pink suit with a mini sequin skirt, Clark stood up and forgot how to breathe. Again.

You hadn’t looked at her yet, thanking your publicist as she closed the door behind you, sealing the room back into that uncomfortable silence.

Then you faced her, your hands clasped in front of you. You were already smiling. Your eyes stayed on hers as you lowered yourself onto the couch across from her.

Your tone curved into something knowing. “Are those for me?”

“Yes—yes, I—” she mumbled, offering them, watching your reaction so intensely she almost forgot to sit down.

Your eyes lit up, and you lifted them to your face. “Daisies, my favorite.”

She bobbed her head, fidgeting with her hands, not knowing where to put them.

You glanced up at her. “You remembered.”

Clark shrugged, finding herself smiling too. “How could I not?”

A beat passed before you cleared your throat.

“My publicist told me somebody was replacing Cat for this interview earlier today,” you explained, setting the flowers beside you.

Clark blinked. “You were?”

“Yeah… she gave me your name and said you were mostly known for your coverage of Superwoman.”

She winced.

“To be fair, even with those glasses, you wouldn’t be able to fool me.”

Clark straightened, opening her notebook to Cat’s questions, copied into neat bullet points. She had never felt so unsteady for an interview.

“Okay,” Clark coughed lightly, clicking her pen. “First question.”

You nodded. “Go ahead.”

“What made you decide to come to Metropolis for your world tour?”

You exhaled. “Well, it seemed fitting since my album is named after it…”

“It’s broken many streaming records globally.” Her eyes flicked up. “How do you feel about that? Are you… happy?”

“Uh, yeah, of course. But shocked is probably a better word. I never thought my album would get this big. It was a small project made with a friend after a night of karaoke.”

Clark glanced up. “Really?”

You replied. “Yes… I attended Oxford University. I originally wanted to become a literature professor…you know that.”

“Is that why your performances are so theatrical? Because of your education and love of literature?”

You beamed. “Yes, actually. I enjoy putting those references into my work. It’s a homage to my favorite novels…”

“I know you’ve mentioned this in other interviews—”

You tilted your head. “I have? Reading up on me now?”

She fumbled. “I read a bit this morning… wanted to do some research on you.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“B-but your song Kryptonite Lover is number one on the charts. What was the inspiration behind it?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

“It’s about someone from my childhood who made me feel completely off balance. Every time I was around her, my body would go haywire. Like she had some sort of power over me.”

“But the title came from a segment I saw about Superwoman on the news. I thought it fit.”

It was a lie. Both of you knew that.

“Speaking of Superwoman… What was your response to her reaction to your billboard?”

A sense of amusement flickered over your face.

“You’re not the first person to ask me that. I guess kryptonite isn’t her only weakness.”

Clark’s grip tightened on her pen.

“I hope the sexual innuendo didn’t distract her too much. Especially with how she stared at it…”

“Last question,” she murmured. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

“Still performing. Still writing. Hopefully still surprising people.”

“And not being something a person watches from far away.”

Clark nodded.

She closed the notebook and stood too fast.

“I should go,” she declared.

You stood as well. “You don’t have to rush, Clark.”

“I, uh, have to go. Perry… My boss is strict on time.”

You pouted. “Oh, okay.”

Clark had nearly made it to the door when you asked her something.

“Actually… would you want to do something sometime? Outside of an interview?”

Clark blinked. “Oh.”

You were glowing.

“Oh,” she repeated, before adding, “Yes. I mean—yes. Yeah. Definitely.”

“How about tonight?”

“Tonight?”

Clark regretted opening her mouth. “Yes—no—I mean it doesn’t have to be tonight.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m just busy for the next week or so. I’ve got interviews, appearances, rehearsals… My publicist has me scheduled down to the minute. But I’m staying in Metropolis for a while. What about… two Saturdays from now?”

“Sure.”

Then Clark remembered: Jimmy’s birthday party.

Her joy ebbed. “Well…”

“I have a birthday party to attend…”

“People still do those?”

“Yeah, apparently.”

You snorted. “I can do a birthday party.”

She choked.

“Are you sure?”

“I want to meet your friends.”

“My friends?”

“Is that not what they are?”

She closed her eyes.

“Right,” she said weakly.

Clark looked at you, the flowers, the door, and back. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay… do you want my number? A more updated one?”

“Oh uh, yes please.”

“So she’s bringing a girl?” Steve asked as he stirred the sauce in the pot on the stove, glancing over his shoulder at Lois.

She shrugged, leaning against his kitchen island, sipping from her wine glass. “Miracles do happen.”

Steve scoffed. “To the woman who always drops everything? Does the date even have a name?”

Lois looked at him, though she was suspicious too. “No, she wouldn’t say… but be nice.”

He pointed the wooden spoon at her. “I’m sorry, Lo, but I bet you a hundred bucks that this mysterious girl isn’t real.”

Lois rolled her eyes. “Fine, but I bet you that whatever you’re making is burning.”

Steve swore, yanking the oven door open. “For fuck’s sake, what is going on in there?”

As if the night couldn’t get worse for him, his doorbell rang. He headed for the door, still cussing under his breath.

He opened the door without properly looking at you or Clark.

“Come on in. Vague food crisis.”

And he was gone.

The past week with you had been constant. Despite your frenetic schedule, you had both been sending text messages at all hours.

You’d send her pictures of cafés you stopped at, studio theaters before interviews, snapshots from hotel rooms, outfits your stylist picked out—but you wanted another opinion on. Even sneak in photos of yourself in a skimpy sundress or bikini, things your stylist didn’t pick.

And sometimes at night, you’d call her as you lay in bed, exhausted. She’d tell you to sleep.

You’d protest with a yawn. “But I miss you… I wanted to hear your voice.”

Clark never quite knew what to do with that.

Somewhere between rehearsals and fieldwork, you’d ask what Jimmy’s interests were, framing it as what he’d want for his birthday.

After joking that his main interest was women, Clark told you he was into video games and photography. Now you were standing next to her holding a gift bag with a vintage camera and a multiplayer video game.

You glanced at Clark, silently questioning her choice in friends from behind your sunglasses and blonde wig.

She snorted.

“Still think this is necessary?” she asked.

“Don’t think so… nobody seemed to recognize me… but I’ll keep the wig on.”

“Why?”

You shrugged, taking off the sunglasses and placing them in your purse. “Because I spent too much money on it.”

Clark followed you inside, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

You followed the sound of Steve’s panicked cooking into the living room, Clark right behind you.

When you entered the kitchen, Lois looked up and set her wine glass down.

“Hey… sorry. Steve’s dinner is proving more complicated than expected.”

Clark glanced toward the kitchen. “He’s cooking?”

“Don’t ask.”

Lois turned her attention to you as Clark settled beside you, resting a hand on the small of your back. She held out her hand, furrowing her brow.

“Sorry… has anyone ever told you you’re the spitting image of—”

“Lois,” Clark interrupted.

“This is…”

Lois cleared her throat.

“Right.”

Steve emerged momentarily, a dish towel over his shoulder.

“Okay. Crisis over.”

Clark guided you forward.

“Steve.”

The man grinned, finally getting a good look at you.

“Hello—”

Realizing who was in front of him, his brain short-circuited.

“Have some wine.”

You quirked a lip. “Thank you.”

The doorbell rang again, and Steve excused himself.

You turned to Clark, unsure what to do.

She looked smug, setting your gift bags down. “Need me to pour you a glass?”

Jimmy’s voice echoed as he entered. “I hope that’s not the food you’re planning to feed us, Steve.”

He stepped in, not with a date, but with Cat instead. Steve was right behind them.

Jimmy noticed you first and waved.

“Hi there!”

“Now where’s my promised Tiki drink?”

You cracked up, burying your face into Clark’s shoulder. Cat recognized you immediately, extending her hand.

“Wasn’t I supposed to interview you?”

You answered. “Yeah, you were… Clark told me you had a cold. Are you feeling better?”

Cat remarked, “Yeah, I am. Thanks… I guess Clark did a better job than I.”

Dinner, in some way, happened.

Steve’s steak au poivre was overcooked and terrible, but no one seemed to care.

You sat next to Clark, mostly quiet, watching her with her coworkers.

At one point, you took off your wig, feeling more comfortable. Clark studied you, adoring how easily you fit back into her life.

Seeing how smitten she was, Cat and Lois asked how she’d “charmed” you, unaware of your history.

You and Clark exchanged a look before you started telling stories about little Clark.

Everyone was floored.

Jimmy hit her shoulder. “Dude! You grew up with a celebrity and didn’t tell us?”

Clark scoffed, face red. “I thought you’d think I was crazy.”

Lois added, “Yeah… but you still should’ve told us!”

After dinner, you tried to help with the dishes, but Steve stopped you.

“No, you go sit. I can do this.”

“I want to help… please, Stevie…”

He didn’t budge. “I gave you a shitty dinner and you want to help me?”

You huffed, grinning.

Steve shook his head. “Y’know, Clark does the same thing. What is it with you two?”

“We’re from the Midwest.”

When it was time to open the gifts, Jimmy hugged you tightly after opening yours.

“I hope you like them.”

“Like them? I love them!”

Clark watched from a few feet away, something soft in her expression.

You shrugged. “Happy birthday.”

Jimmy lit up. “Clark, your date’s awesome!”

She wore a self-satisfied look, making eye contact with you. “Yeah. She is.”

After you two left and stood in front of the nearby elevator, a collective scream erupted from inside. You both paused before you nudged her.

“They always do that when you leave?”

Clark rolled her eyes playfully.

“I forgot how mean you were.”

“No, you didn’t.”

The cool Metropolis breeze felt as comforting as having your arm loosely around Clark’s while you walked aimlessly through the streets.

She kept a steady pace, enjoying the silence between you two, until she suddenly slowed down.

Curious, you looked up and saw a park on the corner under dim lighting. You smiled to yourself.

“You like this place, don’t you?”

Clark nodded, resembling her five-year-old self.

“Yeah… it was one of my favorite places when I moved. I even made friends with an old man who played chess.”

You chuckled, moving to the locked gate and shaking it lightly. “Of course you did.”

She hesitated, already worrying about what you were about to do. “What are you doing?”

You placed your right foot on the gate and pulled yourself up. Clark’s eyes widened as she figured it out, rushing after you and whisper-yelling like she was scolding a child.

“Hey, no! Get back here! This is illegal!”

You were already halfway up the fence. “Why? I wanna see this favorite park of yours.”

She groaned, “How about tomorrow? First thing in the morning… I’ll take you back here.”

You leaned with a shit-eating grin. “Why? I’m already here… inside.”

Clark stared at you through the iron fencing, before climbing. You laughed as you stepped into the hidden park.

“Come on, Superwoman.”

She huffed, not-so-gracefully landing on the grass.

She stood, glaring at the fence—realized you were gone and panic set in. Clark called your name, looking around.

Moments later, she found you on a bench under a tree. The same maroon bench she used to sit on when she first came to Metropolis. The same bench where she used to eat ice cream with the old man and watch mothers play with their children.

Now you were sitting there, head tilted up at the night sky.

She walked up to you. “I spent one night with you and turned into a criminal… again.”

You were watching the stars as she sat beside you, feeling proud of yourself.

“Nobody forced you to follow me here.”

Clark huffed. “Last time you said that, you stole a pumpkin from your church’s garden.”

You looked at her, scoffing. “Please, that was not a pumpkin. Don’t you remember how tiny it was? I was doing them a favor.”

“And you didn’t do anything besides watch me. I’m the one who took it home. At best, you were an accessory to theft.”

She smirked. “Mhm, yeah… what did you name it again?”

You grinned. “Bartholomew.”

After a few seconds of silence, you blurted, “Do you remember that kissing thing we used to do?”

A faint blush rose to her neck.

“Yeah.”

Your eyes lingered on the way her shoulders hunched slightly—something she always did when she was embarrassed. You bit your bottom lip, hesitating for half a second before giving in.

You leaned in. Your lips landed on her forehead, her right cheek, then the other—and before she could process it, you kissed her.

Clark didn’t move. But when she did, years of restraint unraveled all at once. It was seeing you at your pageants and on senior prom night and losing you for seven years.

She cupped your face urgently, fingertips pressing into your cheeks. For all her usual gentleness, the kiss was anything but—urgent, all breath and teeth.

You gasped, trying to keep up, overwhelmed by how desperate she was for you.

Clark’s grip didn’t loosen. Each second pulled the kiss deeper, harder—like neither of you wanted to stop.

When you finally broke away for air, she followed slightly before stopping, resting her forehead against yours, hand still at your neck, thumb moving slowly.

You blinked, breathless, a little dizzy.

“I’ve wanted to do that since we were kids,” she admitted softly.

Your breath was uneven. “That’s a long time to build up poor decision-making choices.”

Clark, without hesitation, gave you a quick peck.

“You’re impossible.”

Your assistant would’ve killed you if she knew you were standing in the middle of Clark’s apartment as she flicked the light on.

You were supposed to have your driver drop you off four or six blocks away to potentially avoid any lingering paparazzi outside your hotel building before texting her that you made it there safely.

But how could you when the woman you’ve been pining after for years just kissed you as the world might end? You hoped she’d understand.

As you took off your sunglasses, your gaze drifted around Clark’s living room and kitchen area, still carrying the aftertaste of the white wine she barely had, and the minty gum she chewed to fix the poor aftermath of Steve’s dinner.

The space was a modern minimalist setup with only one lounge chair and a television set, very different from her childhood bedroom, which you remember.

Even though you had your oversized blazer on, you were still cold. The lack of clutter makes you want to step in and decorate it with all of your fanciful furnishings—maybe even paint those awful blue kitchen cabinets and make it somewhere she would like to stay longer.

What catches you first is the view of the Metropolis skyline from the massive windows. Your heels click against the slightly worn hardwood floors, the sound swallowed by the quiet.

Standing in front of it, you glance down to the street instinctively for any sign of cameras. One thing you’ve learned in your rapid rise to fame is that you are never quite invisible enough.

Clark comes up behind you, looking out the window as well.

“Don’t worry, nobody followed us,” she reassures you.

You shake your head, breaking yourself out of it. “Sorry, force of habit…”

Clark speaks without any bite—just warmth, like she’s not shocked by anything you do anymore. “Yeah. I know.”

You glance around again, this time letting yourself actually take it in.

“It’s very barren here, by the way. I’m kind of surprised…”

“It’s practical,” she defends herself.

“It’s lackluster.”

She lets out a dry chuckle.

A pause before you speak, your tone softening into genuine observation.

“You could bring someone… to brighten it up. Get you an actual couch instead of whatever that thing is.”

You gesture to the couch, earning a look.

“You wouldn’t want to move in here,” she states after a beat, a little more serious now. “I’m barely here.”

You laugh, shrugging as you continue. “Yeah, ‘cause it looks like this.”

Clark exhales through her nose, barely masking her snort.

“Don’t you have a house… or three somewhere? What about that Oxford cottage?”

You force a laugh, exhaling as you look back out the window.

“I don’t… In between the concerts, and filming, and everything else… I’ve been living out of hotels.”

A pause.

“My parents sold the cottage anyway. After they found out about Naked in Metropolis.”

That gets a flustered reaction out of Clark, her expression shifting. It wasn’t that surprising to her, considering how little Ma and Pa had to tell her about you after talking to your parents.

You add, “It’d be nice to actually have somewhere that feels like it’s mine again. Once everything dies down… adopt a pet or something…”

She leans in closer, nodding along, her breath near your neck, focused on you.

“That’d be nice.”

You nod, almost shy. “Yeah…”

Neither of you says anything for a moment, letting the space between you gradually shrink. Clark’s eyes drop to your mouth again before she leans in.

This kiss isn’t like the one in the park. It’s slower and deeper, like you’ve been doing it for decades—in a way you have.

She turns you around and presses you against the window, mouth tracing the contours of yours. As your hands cup her face, hers slip around your waist, pulling you in.

You break away just to gasp, tilting your head to get a better angle. Clark follows you, acting like you might disappear again, earning a small whimper from you.

To ensure you won’t, she slips one arm under your thighs, the other steady at your back, lifting you with an ease that feels almost unfair.

You squeal softly, arms looping around her shoulders.

“Clark—”

“Bedroom,” she says simply, already moving with you, like it was the most natural decision in the world.

Clark laid you on her bed, stripping you from your clothes while covering your neck with kisses. Your blazer and heels were flung somewhere across her room. Her calloused hands trailed down your bare spine as your blouse followed suit.

You exhaled shakily when her thumb ring pressed against your flesh.

“F-fuck, Clark..”

She inclined her head, teeth nipping at the skin above your lacy bra. “You taste better than I imagined.”

Her ragged confession shouldn’t startle you, considering what she’s done and said in the past few hours, but the thought of Clark—the woman you once grew up with—having dreamed of something like this is incredibly intoxicating.

A sharp breath escaped you as she began mouthing at your nipple through the fabric. When you tried to buck your hips, her palms roughly pinning them down.

“You fantasize about that?”

She mumbled, “Ever since I saw you in that yellow sundress in senior year.”

Your face felt hot, almost burning, yet you still let out a teasing comment. “Seriously? God…you’re such a little freak..”

Clark bit your nipple fleetingly while she moved her left hand to your thigh before slapping lightly.

“Says the woman who sent me pictures of herself in scanty clothes while I was working.”

Your lower body jolted, grazing her clothed crotch—making her whimper. You shuddered, glaring in jest.

“Shut up, you liked it.”

She whimpered, her mind betraying her as she thought about the pictures. In between kisses along your midriff, her low voice reverberates across your skin.

“Almost came in my boxers on the spot..”

You longed to act arrogant, maybe taunt her, but the way her long fingers traveled to the buttons of your colorful trousers, effortlessly undoing them, left you winded. Clark peeled them down slowly, continuing to kiss any exposed skin she could find.

Once they were off and settled in between her thighs, the scent of your heady scent overwhelmed her greatly. It filled her nostrils. She’s been breathing it in since dinner, when she noticed your heartbeat spiking after she put her hand on your back.

Her hands tightened on your flesh as she spread you wider, placing your legs over her shoulders. You started gulping air when she pressed a kiss to the inner part of your thigh.

Clark inched closer to your soaked panties, proceeding to kiss your skin. Before you could register it, her teeth grazed them, then pulled them down. You were stunned into silence, totally spellbound.

You were wrong. She wasn’t a freak, she was an enigma.

As if your body had a mind of its own, your hips lifted. This time, she let you. The cascade down your legs was painful in the most pleasant way possible.

When she slid back up to the apex of your thighs, she moaned out loudly. The panoramic view of your folds already glistening with desire was ethereal to her.

You almost smirked with superiority, “Like what you see baby?”

Clark released a hushed groan, replying with a long lick to your cunt. She dragged her tongue over your slick entrance to your throbbing clit. Even if she wasn’t trying to, she was using it to etch her name into you.

Her moans dissolved into you, as if you were rich crème brûlée and were the one actually being pleasured. Your back bowed off her bed, grinding your clit against her nose.

She picked up on the movement, shifting her focus before circling it with her tongue. A deep, guttural sound broke from you, delving your hand into her curls.

“Shit, Clark…. So good..”

She mumbled against your cunt, sending vibrations through your body. “I know, baby… how do you think I feel? She tastes so sweet..”

You cried out when she commenced sucking on your clit like it was rock candy. She even coaxed two of her fingers into your tight hole, thrusting them in and out.

You threw your head as your vision was starting to go white. Your physique was seizing, but she didn't stop. Her mouth kept sucking on your clit as her fingers remained pumping.

“Oh, God… I’m gonna.. Baby, I’m gonna—”

Your orgasm was torn from you violently. Your hips jerked, your thighs clamping around his head like a vise. Incoherent whispers of begs and curses muffled into her pillow.

After a few minutes of slowing down, drinking up the last drops of your cum, Clark eventually pulled away. She wiped her mouth, licking her fingers, smirking at you.

But as she leaned back on her knees, you couldn’t help but notice a certain damp patch on her jeans. Upon realizing what it was, you giggled.

Her smarminess faltered as she glanced down at it.

“Did you come while eating me out?”

She nodded bashfully, unable to defend herself.

You cooed at her, “Aw, poor baby. Come here…”

Clark leaned in as you cupped her face, kissing you softly. You sighed into her mouth at the residual flavor of your cum. You eased her out of all her clothes, letting you straddle her frame.

She swallows her soft groans, transfixed at how your cunt feels against hers. Clark fails to think straight. All she can focus on is you on top of her, wearing nothing but that lacy bra.

You move your hips in small circles, running your hands down her muscled chest. She shivers, gasping out. You hum gently while squeezing her breasts.

“Oh, my strong girl… You can take it… I know you can.”

Her clit hooks onto yours, making her whimper under her breath. “Good golly…”

You chuckle softly, being right there with her.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She nods as you quicken the pace, needing to see what she looks like when she comes undone properly. Her hands spasmed against your waist, breathing heavily.

Similar to how she dragged her tongue against your cunt, you rubbed your folds together—creating the perfect friction. Soon, both of your orgasms crash over you like a tidal wave.

Clark never knew sex could feel so heavenly. She looks up at the ceiling, calling out in delight as if receiving divine absolution.

You eventually collapsed next to her, cum dripping down your inner thighs. You groggily turned your head toward her and booped her nose, feeling far too drunk off her. She scoffs, catching your finger in her hand before kissing it.

Further into the night, while Clark was helping you put on an old shirt of hers and taking care of you, you were just staring up at her with a toothy grin.

“I always loved you, y’know?”

She cradles your face, glowing. “Me too…”

Clark then leans in to kiss you again.

Before dragging your feet over there, you kept your gaze fixed on her, hoping to catch her attention. But every time her head turned slightly in your direction, a waiter would block your sight with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.

She had cleaned up unfairly well in her stupid navy suit that stretched over the broad shoulders you often dug your fingernails into. The sharply tailored slacks made her look taller, if that was even possible.

Her chunky black frames shone beneath the lights as she smiled broadly at politicians and socialites, shaking their hands and listening as they boasted about their latest investments and charity work.

Her large hands with those silver rings pressed against your skin in a way you could still feel whenever she gripped your jaw to kiss you.

And her laugh, the one that made the corners of her eyes crinkle and your stomach tighten when you remembered how she sounded when you had her pinned beneath you—

“Can I buy you another?”

You blinked hard, your head jerking slightly as you pulled yourself out of those thoughts, curious where that meek, annoyingly confident voice had come from.

Beside you was a man of average height and striking blue eyes that fell short compared to hers. His smile didn’t immediately give you that sense of caution, but instead tried to convince you that you’d say yes even before he asked.

Your brain, which had just been filled with gentle reveries, was now completely blank. You were never good at dealing with this sort of thing.

“Oh—no, thank you. I’m good. Got a long drive home.”

A lie. A rather obvious one at that.

Yet the man pressed on while leaning against the bar. “Sure about that? Couldn’t you just have someone take you home?”

His smug tone made you want to hurl onto his shoes. Instead, you gave him another forced smile that hurt.

“I brought my own car and… I’m not particularly good with strangers.”

Another lie. Or not really a lie at all. You did bring your car, if you counted your fuck buddy insisting on driving you home. You weren’t the best person to talk to strangers, especially ones whose unwanted interest in you made your skin crawl.

He grinned, no longer bothering to hide it. “Oh, yeah? Well, my name is Richard… Not strangers anymore, eh? Can I get you that drink now?”

You huffed humorlessly, subtly mocking his cockiness as you slowly stepped away and put your hands behind your back.

Since Richard—or “Dick,” apparently—was going to stay a little longer than expected, you quickly slipped off the ring on your middle finger. A small piece you had once bought at a thrift store, it had always resembled a wedding band to you, despite its faint pink tinge.

You brought your left arm back out so he would see it. But he didn’t seem to have the same type of social awareness that most of the journalists surrounding you had.

You raised your hand marginally, shakily splaying your fingers to indicate the oblivious, clueless creature.

“Look, I’m really flattered that you….”

For Christ’s sake, you can’t even finish the sentence.

“But I’m marri—”

Familiar hands grabbed your waist, pulling you into the body behind them.

“Hey, there’s my girl,” Clark murmured against your cheek before kissing it softly.

Your breath faltered similarly to how Richard’s expression short-circuited.

Clark hadn’t even looked at him yet, too occupied with tightly securing her arms around your hips. To the untrained observer like Richard, she seemed like she belonged there.

You became overwhelmed by the warmth of your so-called bedmate’s chest. You swore you could feel her bare skin against your spine.

She kissed your cheek again before glancing over at the man. She had the same friendly smile from earlier, but now it had an undertone of terrifying confidence.

She held out her hand to him. “Hi, I’m Clark Kent… her wife.”

Richard stared at her for a moment too long, marveling at the muscular woman towering over him. He then shook it cautiously.

Your supposed wife nodded as she returned to peppering kisses against your jaw, not really listening to him. You instinctively leaned back into Clark, just letting your neck tilt to the side—mostly out of habit.

Clark noticed. She brought her strong hands up to rest against your stomach, gently rubbing it in slow circles as her lips grazed against your earlobe, making sure you were the only one who heard her:

“Not now, baby.”

Richard apologized once more, stumbling over his words.

“I—I thought she was alone…”

Clark shook her head, falsely reassuring him. “And went for it… yeah, I get it.”

She angled her head, taking in your heavy breathing and racing heartbeat. The intense eye contact made you desperately want to strip out of your dress.

She smirked, speaking in a hymnal tone. “I don’t know what I did in a past life to deserve her.”

Despite losing the nerve to speak a minute before and your breathless state, you managed to whisper, unable to look away.

“Don’t be such a sap.”

Clark let out her first genuine laugh of the night, briefly peering at Richard, who was walking away defeated.

Her grip didn’t loosen.

She pretended to think about it. “Hm… I don’t know. I think I could make an argument for it.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Yeah, a bad one.”

She lifted her head just enough to look at you like she’d already won the mock argument. “Does that mean you wanna leave early?”

“And tell Perry what? That we got sick from the food we haven’t had yet?”

Her mouth twitched. “Possibly… I mean, in a way, I do need to take care of my tired, aching wife…”

You scoffed, forcing yourself to deflect. “That was just for show, Clark.”

She hummed against your flesh, nipping at it. “Must have fooled me.”

Once you returned to your apartment, you found yourself struggling to slip your key into the keyhole, since Clark stood behind you, her hand teasingly resting on your lower back.

It had been like that on the way home too. Clark is driving with that same hand on your thigh. Every time she turned a corner, you’d feel a light squeeze while the only sound in the car was the static from the radio.

When you got inside and discarded your heels in your living room, she followed you into the kitchen as you searched for your wine.

Before you could find something, Clark grew impatient and grabbed your neck, turning you around, pulling you into a needy kiss.

Despite her urgency at first, her mouth was soft—of course it was. It was Clark.

She tilted her head.

She smirked into the kiss as you melted back into it—harder. A muffled hum escaped her.

Not breaking the kiss, her hands traveled down your waist to your thighs as she effortlessly picked you up. Your legs instinctively wrapped around her waist as your arms slid around her neck.

Clark carried you to your bedroom, nudging the door open with her foot while holding you against her. Her lips wandered to your neck, nipping at it as she did at the gala. She began muttering.

“My darling girl… always so pretty, huh?”

A sickening heat surged through you as you were placed on your bed. She hovered over you, foolishly smiling at your dazed look. Her kisses continued down your upper arm, pushing the strap of your dress down.

“No wonder somebody else wanted you.”

You gasped, indulging in how her territorial words caused goose flesh to break out, and your legs to go limp. She caught it, glancing at you with half-lidded eyes, still dragging her lips down your skin.

“But you’re mine, aren’t you?”

You nodded violently, whimpering out before you could stop it, “Yes, sir.”

Clark paused for half a second before chuckling against your skin. “Sir?”

She moved away, only to lean back over you again.

You arched your back, squirming under her. “I—Clark…”

She shook her head, kissing you sweetly. “No, it’s cute… I like it.”

Clark looked pleased, enjoying your flusteredness. She dotted light pecks on both of your cheeks.

“Guess I have to start being more of a gentleman for my new wife now, huh?”

You cough out, continuing to act defiant. “Fuck, Clark… I was lying to save my ass.”

She nodded. “True… but I bet you were definitely thinking about me.”

“I was no—”

She cut off your defense by crashing her lips against yours.

“Stop fighting it.”

So you obeyed. You let her take off your dress and underwear antagonizingly. You watched her lie down beside you, shifting into place.

You took the hand she was offering to you, seeing how she was smirking at your pubic hair having the same shape as her alter ego’s chest plate. Clark guided you gently onto her face, your dripping cunt hovering over her mouth.

After lowering yourself, your body jolted as she lightly kissed your clit. Her face was utterly buried into you, dragging her tongue across your slit. You slip your fingers into her black curls while she inhales your musky scent.

She explores your core as if she doesn’t already know it like the back of her hand, making your nerves feel overstimulated. You whimper, thrashing your head back.

Clark moans, sending vibrations through you. Her grip on your thighs tightened, trying to get you to grind against her face. She moves her tongue inside of you while watching you with those damn ocean eyes.

She’s turning you into a sobbing mess. You ride her face shamelessly, chasing your orgasm. Her nose rests perfectly against your clit, the friction making you tremble.

The coil that’s brewing deep in your stomach tightens before it eventually snaps. Your hips jerk forward as she continues to devour you. Every lick, every slow curl of her tongue draws out more of your cum, spilling down her chin.

“S-shit, Clark… I can’t—”

She retracts her tongue from inside your aching hole, circling it instead. Your juices continued flowing into her mouth. Clark mumbles against your slick folds.

“Can’t help myself, baby…my wife’s pussy just tastes so good.”

Your thighs involuntarily clamped around her face. She makes out with your clit for a moment longer until it gets too much for you.

Clark helps you move off her drenched face. You’re still catching your breath when she sits up, smirking as she leans in to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself.

She leans against your forehead after she pulls away, absently grabbing a pillow from behind.

“Is it in the same place?”

Warmth crept up your face as you lifted your hips so she could put it under your waist. “Yeah, it is.”

Clark reaches over to your nightstand and opens the last drawer. She pulls out the double-sided dildo. You watched intensely, drooling already onto your bedsheets.

With the straps of the harness adjusted securely, she held out her hand under your chin, raising her eyebrows.

Knowing what she needed, you complied and spat into her palm. She then wrapped her hand around both shafts, coating them completely.

When they both sank into your soaked cunts, Clark shuddered as her head fell into your neck. She always forgot how worked up she got while pleasing you.

Your back arched up into her while her hands came down to your hips to hold you still.

“Sweetheart… don’t do that unless you want me to—”

Despite her firm grip, you bucked your hips to tease her. “Sorry, sir..”

She exhales a laugh against your neck. “You really don’t make this easy, do you?”

You shake your head, feeling the silicone slowly inching into you. You breathe deeply, “No.”

Clark attempts to ignore how her cunt throbs around it, mentally promising to make you cum first again.

As she thrust in and out, she swallowed your sounds with her mouth and silenced hers.

She loses her words for a second against your lips, “G-Golly, she’s sucking me in.”

A small whine was pulled from you, matching her energy. Your fingernails dragged down her back, marks that would heal in the morning sun.

“Oh, Clark…That’s it, right there..”

You tilt your pelvis upward to push the toy deeper into her, seeking out her release as well. Dazed by lust, you babble out praises to her.

“God, it feels so good… You fuck me so well… I love you so much.”

As both of you realize what you just blurted out, your body stills. Dread floods through your veins, expecting a gentle, awkward rejection.

But instead, Clark quickens the pace. She shifts again, her composure faltering as she does. "Yeah? You love me?"

You acknowledge her with a choked moan, “Y-yes, I do. Always did...”

She whimpered, kissing you again—this time more passionately, as if she were finally releasing something she’d been holding onto forever.

“Gosh, I’ve been waiting to hear you say that… I love you too, honey.”

Shock stole your breath as the familiar sense of tightening within your gut became unmistakable. You could tell Clark was getting close too by the way she was rambling.

“Wish I could come into you… make you mine and get you pregnant.. so close...”

That was new.

But it fed the fire that was about to erupt.

And when it did, the coil snapped so beautifully that it felt all-consuming. Clark followed suit, collapsing onto you. Too overwhelmed herself to even ride it out.

In time, she rolled off you and fell back onto the bed. The room grew silent, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing every few moments.

Then she turned her head toward you and spoke softly.

The sight before you would have been rare- if you hadn't lived where you did. Sorority girls partied hard and often suffered harder. You knew better than anybody that a smashed window was often the result of mixing spirits, and throwing up was usually just dehydration met with a further lack of water.

So, no; the heaving blonde before you didn't stun you because of the mess she was currently making on your carpet. No- what stunned you was the horrific get-up she was wearing; all bright red and bright blue with a terrifically comical yellow belt to match.

Except for her boots. You quite liked her boots.

You didn't let go of the polish. She threw up some more. Eventually, you stumbled into the kitchen to grab a glass of water and an advil.

"That won't work on me." was the first thing she said when you nudged both things forward. Your eyebrow raised.

"The water or the advil?"

"Both."

"Huh."

You'd waited for her to stop vomiting first, eyes scanning her body for any cuts and bruises. Surprisingly, you couldn't see any- no matter how much your eyes narrowed and you walked around her in cautious circles.

Eventually, she stopped heaving long enough to tell you she was fine- alongside a half-hearted apology and an even more lackluster promise to clean your carpet and fix your window.

"Don't worry about it," you'd shrugged, watching as she downed the glass in two gulps. "They probably won't even notice."

She'd asked you who they were. You said, your sisters. She asked how many you had, and you laughed, and you informed her that they weren't your actually sisters, not really; that's just what you called each other at Delta Nui.

"Delta what?" puzzled, she looked at you, "Are you in a cult?"

"Are you?" you quizzed back, pointing at the prominent 'S' badge on her chest.

She smirked then, holding out her clean hand for you to shake. You took it albeit reluctantly, your firm grip matching hers.

"I like you," she'd told you, lips curved in a way that looked both dangerous and comforting at the same time. "I'm Kara."

You told her your name, finalised the shake. And everything after that was history; leading up to now, five years later, both of you stumbling through the hallway of a penthouse apartment you've personally only ever been to a handful of times. Giggling, shushing the other, knocking into random things that teeter but never fall. Her arm is looped around your neck, yours on her waist, as you both try to navigate the darkness of the apartment.

"I think he keeps his food in that box over there," Kara slurs, mouth slack, head probably a lot hazier than yours due to the fact that while you stuck to vodka crans, she'd moved onto heavier mixes that only her outer-space biology could take. You dipped your tongue in it once. Kara had to take you to the interdimensional ER straight after.

You hold back a laugh, eyes finally landing on the direction of her finger, "You mean, the fridge?"

She shrugs, hoists herself up onto a stool.

It was only supposed to be a few celebratory drinks. You’d snagged your first "real" job in the heart of the city, reporting for a paper Metropolis actually paid attention to and Kara had insisted on celebrating, and naturally, the drinks were on her.

It wasn’t meant to spiral like this. But with your best friend, nothing ever stayed small for long.

Over the years, you've learnt a lot about the girl you call your best friend. She's not human- she's Kryptonian, Martian being politically incorrect and frankly quite rude. She likes metal music. She can annihilate an entire family-sized serving of chocolate pecan pie- and she did so once, sitting in a roof-top convertible on Mars before driving into a group of actual martians.

She likes animals. Loves them. So much so, that for Kara's birthday a couple years back, you got her a dog; an awfully behaved, no boundaries, and absolutely no recall whatsoever type mutt- yet she fell in love with him faster than you could call the space zoo authorities for a refund.

"What should we call him?"

"Uh... Kryptodog."

She'd narrowed her eyes, "Too long."

"But that's what he is!"

"Come on, journalist. You're supposed to be good at this creative stuff."

And thus, Krypto was born.

You also learnt that Kara- parentless, off the rails and completely, utterly insane Kara Danvers- had a cousin.

"He's a total geek," she'd said dismissively, holding a flayed hand out for you to paint as she blew distractedly at the other one, "he works at some magazine, book place, whatever, in the city. I think they still print newspapers, something like that. Ever heard of it?"

You'd nodded, though at the time, you hadn't really been paying too much attention, regardless of your own major being in Journalism and Reporting. It probably would have done you some good to tune in for a beat or two.

It had just been one of those nights; chick flicks on repeat and discarded popcorn kernels littering both your bedsheets and the floor. You always loved those nights in with Kara. It reminded you that no matter where she was in the world- no matter what threats she drank her way around and exploding disco-balls she threw at unsuspecting aliens- she'd always come back home. Safe.

"Anyway, I miss my dog. Do you think we could get him off Kal-el tomorrow at some point?"

"Who?"

"Sorry. Clark."

"From his place or that spiky ice castle in the middle of nowhere?"

She'd laughed, "The fortress, probably. I can fly us?"

Though you'd visibly cringed, you nodded anyway. "Sure."

"You're the best."

Of course, Kara had decided to make a quick stop on some red-sun planet on the way, despite her promises of being designated flyer. You just hung on, waiting for the moments to pass by and hoping the sky was clear of both birds and planes the rest of the way.

You had no idea what to expect.

Obviously, you'd been to the fortress before- briefly. Kara mentioned one time that Clark liked to keep loose change in random pockets of his penthouse in case he needed them, and she'd been banking on him doing the same at the Fortress (there was an unsettled score between her and a casino regular at Metropolis Bets). Unsurprisingly, you helped her. And unsurprisingly, you both came away with a good forty dollars between you.

"He'll never know." she'd winked. You didn't doubt her.

But what greeted you when you both came to pick up Krypto wasn't what you'd expected at all.

"He's nerdy. He wears these glasses that change his face, and he writes a lot, and I think he's dating someone called Louise. He has post-it notes that remind him to tie his shoes before he gets up. Oh, and he keeps a jar of peanut butter on his desk. For emergencies, he says. Freak."

What were you supposed to think?

Don't judge a book by it's cover- that rule, you'd always lived by. But when the book had been written so clearly by somebody else- little anecdotes and pieces of information right there for you to just piece together- what was a girl to do?

You expected a mess. A blabbering, head-down, sorry Kara, Krypto's here Kara, anything else Kara mess of a man that couldn't look anybody in the eye for too long. Tall, like she'd told you, but defeated in a way that made him look smaller.

But when you got to the fortress, there was nobody there of that description. Just Clark; tall, yes- but also broad, impossibly beautiful, chiselled jaw and square shouldered.

Kara said he wore glasses around people he didn't know, but you'd never actually seen him with them on. Somehow, you didn't think they'd make much of a difference. Only a complete fool would be able to look past those simple black frames and not see the god underneath.

"Dude!" Kara groaned, eyes icy as she glared at the man being tended to by about half a dozen robots. You trailed in after, one of Kara's puffer coats engulfing your frame, as you tried to make sense of the sight before you. "Why did you move the door?!"

"I didn't move the door," he had a deep voice, one that felt like a warm audible blanket amidst the bite of the cold around you.

"Where's my dog?"

All of a sudden, a blur of red, white and blue came barrelling towards you both. He knocked Kara down first; a fluffy force met with contagious giggling that had you clamping a hand over your mouth.

Then, Krypto turned on you.

"No, no, boy. Down!" Kara grabbed his collar before he could lunge, though you'd bent down anyway to give him some well-deserved scratches behind his ear. "You'll kill her, silly boy."

"Kill her? Bit dramatic." Clark noted.

You couldn't help but notice that his attention had shifted now; away from Kara and Krypto, from the robot checking his bicep.

Now, it was on you. Out of confusion or interest, you didn't know, but it made you feel a certain way regardless of which one.

"Not really," Kara folded her arms. "She's human. And Krypto's a menace."

"You said it." Clark shrugged. But his eyes hadn't left yours, and you took note of the sparkle behind them when he raised his hand in a small wave, parted his lips again and said, "Hi, I'm Clark,"

You smiled back, ignoring the red-hot feeling creeping up your cheeks. Your heart began to beat in a way so unlike itself, Kara's head snapped towards you as you said your name back, "Nice to meet you, Clark."

"Hope you're keeping her out of trouble," he quipped playfully. "She can be a bit of a handful."

"Okay, rude." Kara frowned.

"It's all I do." you replied then, shooting her a playful wink.

Thud, thud, thud.

"Okay," Kara then said slowly, turning her body to face yours. You knew immediately what was coming just by the tone of her voice alone.

You blinked back at the accusatory look on her face.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Why do you sound like that?"

"Sound like what?" you asked, bewildered.

She nodded towards your chest, skeptical.

"I can hear you, you know,"

"Hear what?" at this point, you thought that feigning dumb would probably produce the best outcome.

She lowered her voice then, knowing exactly what you were trying to do, "Either you're really cold, or you're totally crushing on my cousin right now." thankfully, her now narrowed brows stayed fully concealed from Clark's vision. "I really hope you're just one degree away from hypnothermala."

"Hypothermia." you corrected, but the whispers had already been exchanged and you had already willed the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Not that it would have mattered much, anyway- you knew that being Kryptonian came with perks human beings were just too simple to understand. Superhearing- unfortunately- being one of them. It often meant non-consensual listening to the littlest sounds your body would make- a slight rumble, an irregular skip of the organ in your chest.

Kara would laugh and say she was just looking out for you, but you personally didn't find it as funny.

Your theory was further proven right by the way a small smirk played on Clark's lips, his gaze falling to the floor.

You gritted your teeth. You wanted to die. You'd chew Kara out about this in death, you figured. You'd haunt her until she couldn't take it anymore and flew around the Earth to reverse time, back to the moments before completely and utterly humiliating you in front of her hot, older cousin. Then, you'd make her bring you back to life for a much-deserved re-do.

Eventually, she just shrugged, shaking the thought out of her head as quickly as it came.

She gave Krypto another fuss, and you didn't dare look in Clark's direction again as she came back up.

"Ready?" she asked. You nodded. She smiled.

"Thanks for watching him, bitch." she then called behind her, looping her arm through yours before resuming her stumble out of the newly-made entrance.

Krypto trailed behind the pair of you, tongue wagging in sync.

"See you around, Clark," you said awkwardly, your wave accompanied by a wince that you hoped conveyed, I am so sorry for her.

You heard a small exhale come from the man, a sound of amusement that threatened to both collapse your lungs and jellify your legs.

"You know where to find me."

That, was two years ago.

And in those two years, you learnt two things; one, that not every Kryptonian was like Kara, and two; that there was a massive, undeniable possibility that Clark Joseph Kent would be the best boyfriend to ever grace this planet to whomever gets so be so lucky.

Not that you’d thought about it. Obviously not. It was just… a theory. A harmless little hypothesis built from a thousand tiny moments- each having solid, irrefutable evidence you tried very, very hard not to notice.

It was all in the little things. The notes he left whenever you ended up crashing at his place for the night- which was happening more and more, you realised- along with breakfast waiting on the counter for when you woke up. The perfect cup of coffee, and even differing pieces of dessert for both of you, their boxes marked with a sticky note in his neat handwriting and a smiley face with a nose.

For your trip to... wherever :-) - CK it would say.

You bite your lip now, the alcohol settling heavily in your head. You already know that when you open Clark’s fridge, you’ll find two little confections inside- each in its own neat box, each labeled, each perfectly suited to the two of you.

"I hope it's cake." Kara slurs. You laugh a little, opening the fridge and almost melting at the sight of two pastry boxes inside.

Neither of you had told him you were coming. How could you have known this is where you’d end up tonight, when barely two hours ago you were playing Hennessy hopscotch on Saturn’s rings?

Yet, Clark had been prepared; just as you expected, and just as you hoped. A dark, rich chocolate cake for Kara; red velvet for you. With extra cream cheese frosting and those little curls of white chocolate that you like.

"Oh, I do love that son of a bitch sometimes," Kara breathes, and as you slot her slice in front of her, the focus on her face is otherworldly. You watch as she holds up her fork, prongs slathered in chocolate frosting. "To new jobs and a shitload of money!"

You grin, holding your own pinkish fork up to meet hers, "To new jobs, and a shitload of money."

You eat your cakes in a comfortable silence, only letting your thoughts slip out in half-mumbled mutterings about tomorrow, frosting sticking faintly to your fingers.

"Are you nervous?"

"Yes. Very,"

"Don't be. Remember, they're all just human,"

"Kara." you deadpanned, "I'm human."

"Yeah, but you're one of the good ones."

Amidst your conversation, your let your eyes drift around Clark's penthouse-partly out of curiosity, but also because this is probably the first time you’ve been here sober.

It looks different at night. Now, you can see it through fresh eyes, no longer washed out by the brazen morning light. The space is minimalistic and sensible, the floor to ceiling window facing the city made entirely of shatterproof glass.

A table he built on a rainy afternoon sits pressed against the other wall connected to it, a fancy record player resting on top alongside a pair of light dumbbells you’re pretty sure are more decorative than practical. You snort lightly, tearing your eyes away to focus on your half-eaten dessert.

If Kara can hear how your heart is pounding in your eardrums, she doesn't let on. Instead, she finishes her food with a yawn and a stretch. Then, she tells you she's gonna go crash in the spare room and to join her when you're ready.

"But if my snoring's keeping you up, take Clark's bed," she yawns, and you have to swallow down the choke threatening to come out, "He won't mind, and you've got a full day tomorrow. He'll probably just take the couch."

Truthfully, you don't want to think about sweet Clark Kent waking up the next morning with both a sore neck and resentment, so you tell her you'll join her after washing up.

Kara disappears down the hall with a slight, sleepy stumble, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the apartment.

"Wake me up before you leave!" is the last thing she says to you, before the bedroom door slams shut and you're left to your own thoughts.

The room feels bigger without her in it, more foreign, as if the silence can finally stretch its limbs.

You let out a breath and gather the dishes, trying not to think too hard about her casual Clark won’t mind comment. It's stupid, so stupid, but you can't help it; just thinking his name sends a traitorous flutter down your spine.

The warm spray from the sink hits your hands, and suddenly washing up feels like the safest thing in the world; something mindless, grounded. Something that definitely does not involve the sparkling fog of Clark Joseph Kent smiling at you, sending a wink your way, pressing you up against his penthouse window and making you moan in a way that he has to stifle with one big, burly hand-

You scrub gently at the dessert plate, trying not to replay the reel of little moments that flash behind your eyes.

He's done a lot for you; far more than necessary to the average person. But you knew from Kara that Clark had been raised with a certain, effervescent farmboy charm that he carried through with him to the city; always thoughtful, always sweet. Sometimes a little too much, but who were you to complain?

There was the morning you’d woken up in Clark’s spare room with the hangover from hell, head pounding so violently you thought the sun itself was inside your skull. And there, at the foot of the bed, were your clothes; freshly pressed, neatly folded, smoothed with the kind of care most people reserved for sacred things.

You blinked at them for a full minute before realising you were wearing an oversized The Mighty Crabjoys shirt, clean of Tequila spillage, soft and worn and unmistakably his. You had absolutely no memory of putting it on. And when you’d asked Kara, she’d shrugged and said, "Not me." leaving only one possible culprit.

The idea of Clark, big and gentle and absurdly shy, wordlessly draping the shirt over you while he looked away like you were something delicate- well, needless to say, it stayed with you far longer than the hangover did.

Then, there was the night you’d knocked out cold on his sofa, too tired to pretend you were 'just resting your eyes'. You’d woken up to a blanket tucked up to your shoulders and a pillow carefully propped beneath your head, angled just right like someone had studied the shape of your neck and moulded what was needed to fit it.

You never heard him do it. You never saw him. But you knew.

And the next morning, when you murmured a thank you, Clark had gone pink to the tips of his ears, a soft Don't mention it falling from his lips before he shot you a wink you couldn't read.

Little things. Harmless things. Things he probably didn’t even register doing.

But they lived in you anyway, taking up space in the corners of your mind that you swore you'd keep under lock and key. They tucked themselves between your ribs, soft as bruises and twice as dangerous.

You rinse another plate, face warming. You force yourself to focus harder on the bubbles, but your brain doesn't listen.

Instead, it brings up every memory of Clark leaning in close- too close. The way his curls fall into his eyes when he first wakes up, and how those baby-blue eyes look at you through the contrast of his dark lashes; both accompanied by that gorgeous, dimpled smile. The gentle bump of his shoulder against yours- playful, warm, effortless.

You shake your head, set another dish in the drying rack, and sigh. "Get a grip," you mumble to yourself over the running water.

You turn to grab the next plate, trying to focus on the warm water and the steady rhythm of washing. It should be grounding, but of course your brain has other plans.

It drifts back to him, and you're left replaying past memories in obsession.

You don't realise how much time actually passes, but you've cleared all the dishes in the sink and then some.

It's only when a soft rush of air brushes your cheek, and your pulse skips, that you finally move.

You spin around quickly, the shift in the room different, now- and it's immediate, the way your heart flips.

"Sorry," a voice says, genuinely apologetic despite not having anything to say sorry for, "It's me! It's just me,"

Clark.

He’s hovering just inside the floor-to-ceiling window, one hand resting lightly on the frame, cape settling behind him like it’s barely even there. The city lights catch the jagged edges of his face, haloing him in soft gold.

His eyes meet yours, and his mouth quirks into that crooked, slightly cheeky, masked by something bashful smile that always leaves you breathless.

"Hey," he says softly, voice warm and a little embarrassed. "Didn’t mean to sneak up on you."

"N-No, it's fine!" you manage, voice higher than needed, "Don't worry. I was just..."

You fumble with the last plate in your hands, cheeks instantly flaming, and he takes a small step closer, careful not to crowd you. There’s a little twinkle in his eye, the kind that says he knows exactly what he’s doing, but he’s still adorably shy about it.

"You’re washing up?" he asks, teasing but gentle, as if you being here doing ordinary dishes is somehow the most amusing thing he’s ever seen.

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady. "Yeah… sorry. Got distracted," you mumble, blinking at him. "Kara's here too, by the way. She's in the other room."

Clark chuckles, soft and light, and it wraps around you like a warm blanket. "I figured. Wherever you are, she goes," he says, "And you didn't have to do that, but thank you. I appreciate it."

"It's no problem, really." you tell him, when really, all you want to say is, It's the least I can do. At this point, we're your unofficial roommates that don't pay any rent and eat all your food, but you keep your mouth shut.

"Had a good night?" he asks you then, before flopping down on the armchair closest to the window and kicking his boots off. You walk around the partition, facing him fully now.

"It was... okay."

"Not the best, I take it," Clark all but smirks, elbows resting on his knees as he looks at you. "It's past midnight and you're still up."

"What? I've had a great night!" you fold your arms defensively.

"So great, that all of that liquor's already wearing off," he chuckles, shaking his head as you narrow your eyes. "Can feel your blood rushing steadier than usual."

"You know, you cousins really need to stop paying so much attention to my body. Is this what you do with all the human people you meet?"

"Only the ones that matter," Clark jokes, and you know he probably doesn't mean it the way it sounds, but still, another shiver attacks the base of your spine. "How's Kara?"

"Drunk."

"Did she like the cake?"

"Didn't even need to soap the plate. She licked it clean," you joke.

Clark chuckles lightly, and when he pauses, his look focuses shyly on you, "Did you?"

"Red velvet, white chocolate and vanilla cream cheese," you place a hand on your chest, clutching it playfully as you grin at him, "Perfect combination. I loved it, Clark. Thank you."

He looks pleased with himself, truly. Like a puppy being given his first treat after performing some elaborate trick. You can't help but notice how boyish he looks under this light now; regardless of the suit clinging perfectly to every curve of his muscular frame.

"It's alright. Thought you might need it for your big day tomorrow," he says softly, and there's something in his eye that you can't quite make out. "You start at 9, right? How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay, I guess," a slight shrug lifts your shoulders, "I'm nervous, more than anything. It's been a while since I've worked at a paper,"

"You're going to be just fine," Clark smiles at you, and your stomach's immediately in the danger zone for an exceptional number of flips done in under one minute. "You're a smart girl, Kara's shown me your work. They're gonna to love you."

You blush, gaze falling to the floor as you busy yourself with the sight of your socked feet. A comfortable silence settles between you, one lost in the buzz of the city outside.

Eventually, Clark stands up, stretches the stress of the night from his limbs. He gives you yet another small, award-winning smile as he makes his way to the hall.

"I'm heading off to bed, but..." he starts, "Are you and Kara coming back here tomorrow? After work?"

"Probably. If that's okay," you rush, "She'll probably still be asleep by the time I finish, so..."

"Yeah, of course. No problem," Clark tells you kindly, "You can tell me all about it then too, maybe. I'll make some cocoa. Or get more cake, depending on how it goes."

You laugh; a light, little sound that makes his smile stretch just that bit wider.

"Sure thing, Clark."

He chuckles, nods his head and bids you a soft goodnight. By the time you hear his bedroom door shut, your heart feels ready to burst out of your chest at any moment.

You scrub your hands one last time, desperately, the water running over your skin like it might somehow wash Clark Kent out of your mind entirely.

Unfortunately, it doesn't work.

No amount of tossing or turning can help the thoughts from running rampant in your head. He's the last thing on your mind when you fall asleep, and the first thing you think of at 7:30am in the morning when the vapid hammering of your phone's alarm clock finally goes off.

Kara groans, flayed hand shooting out and slamming against nothing but the bedside table.

You manage to grapple your phone off the side, pressing buttons every five minutes to ward off the incessant noise. Your mind fades in and out of reality, eyes fluttering shut, reopening before you can even claim it as rest.

Regardless, it rings. And rings. And rings.

It's relentless, unstoppable. It jolts you awake far too many times for you not to have memorised it by heart.

"Turn that off, oh my god." Kara groans, her entire head buried under a mountain of pillows. "I'm begging you."

So, you do.

With every ounce of strength you can possibly muster, you brave a single open eye toward the brightly-lit screen in your hand.

And a petrified gasps leaves your mouth.

8:48am.

"Shit!" you yell, practically jumping out of the covers. They land on the floor in a heap and for a second, you feel bad for the girl sleeping soundly beside you; but you can't dwell on it. Your legs propel you towards the door before your mind can even catch up.

The entire morning is a blur. You shower quickly; brushing your teeth and shaving your legs in record time. You've barely buttoned more than four buttons on your blouse before you're racing down Clark's apartment complex, a string of complex curses tumbling from your lips as you skip a couple steps and almost break a leg.

You hail a cab, terrified of the subway's delay. The taxi driver says something you fake-laugh to, and you hand him a note that's no doubt far too much, but it's all you have and you refuse to wait for change.

"Good luck, miss!" he calls after you, and you shoot him a thankful smile that's soon swallowed by a rush hour crowd.

Your chest is hurting, heart a permanent sped-up metronome in your chest. You have no time to gawk in awe at the building before you as you rush inside, shoulders slamming against the revolving doors in a way that forces the people in the other side to stumble.

"Sorry, sorry!" you mouthe, but you don't even stop then.

You take the elevator right to the very top, feet tapping impatiently on the floor. You fix your top, re-apply the mattified gloss on your lips. Your hair's probably a mess, and you've definitely forgotten something important back at the apartment, but you can't think too long or too hard about it.

Today, you decided, is going to be your day.

You glance at your phone. 9:13am. The elevator doors part just as your shoulders slump, and for the first time since you woke up, you take a slow, careful step inside.

It's busy. Incredibly so. Bodies pass each other in frenzied waves, and papers are flitted around more than words are even exchanged. There's a smell of coffee and ink in the air; the sound of printers and voices filling the otherwise daunting void that is, the bullpen.

You keep walking forward, mesmerised by it all.

Someone barks your name. Someone loud, and important, who introduces himself with a name you recognise and a hand shake that's firm. But you don't dwell on him, either; not even as you mumble apologies about being late and it never happening again.

He simply guides you to the middle of the floor, to a desk littered in post-it notes and rewrites and red-penned assignments and...

A jar of peanut butter?

"Take a seat, kid," the man huffs, shaking his head as he checks his watch. "I swear, the only journalist willing to take you on is going to be even later than you. That's not a nasty habit you pick up here, or we'll be having words. You hear me?"

You nod, obediently. Maybe, you think, if you sit still enough, he'll leave you alone.

So naturally, you sit and watch. A man and a woman bicker opposite you, lost in their own conversation about a deadline due last week and a byline missing a letter.

"Jimmy, you're annoying me,"

"You're annoying me! I told you, the prints won't be ready 'til tomorrow. Have some patience, Lois."

It's a lot. You expected it, actually maybe even looked forward to it; but now that you're here, right smack-dab in the middle of it all, you can't help but feel overwhelmed.

You're a smart girl.

You wonder what Clark would say now, if he could see you. Frozen in fear and unable to look away from the people who actually looked like they belonged.

They're gonna love you.

There's a clatter coming from the pair in front of you.

A woman with bouncy hair and thick-rimmed glasses walks past, high heels clicking against the shiny floor.

"Hello, sweetheart." she smiles at you. You can barely nod back.

Absentmindedly, your fingers fiddle with each other, darting this way and that, as well as with the different knick-knacks on the random table your new boss put you on.

"Ah, there he is! Finally."

"Sorry, Perry."

The words float somewhere behind you, swallowed by the rest of the noise. Phones ring. Keys clack. Someone is arguing about a draft that should have been finished yesterday, and you have a feeling it's those same two again.

It’s a hurricane of sound, and you’re stuck right in the centre, trying not to get swept under.

Your new boss- Perry- says something; sharp and quick, important to him but static to you, but you can’t make any of it out. Your heart is too loud in your ears.

You drop your gaze to the desk in front of you, clinging to it like an anchor. The clutter is almost comforting. Almost. A discarded post-it, half ripped, sits in the paper basket next to your foot, Send half of paycheck to Ma & Pa.

"She’s a little skittish," Perry comments. "Figure you can calm her down. God knows Lois can’t."

You exhale shakily. At least the person who sits here seems nice enough. Messy, but with a heart, hopefully soft around the edges.

Hopefully, they'll go easy on you.

A hand taps your shoulder, putting your thoughts on abrupt pause.

"Up, kid. Come say hello."

You jolt to your feet too fast, knee slamming against the desk.

Papers explode off the table, skidding across the floor in frantic little bursts. One even lands on your shoe. Something metal spins out, rattling loudly enough to make a few people glance over before losing interest in you entirely.

You drop into a crouch, mortified. Great. Perfect. First day and you’re already a human earthquake.

"I'll leave you both to it." Perry grumbles. "Try not to break anything."

Your fingers close around the fallen object- a nameplate, cool and weighty- and you rush to set it back where it belongs. No attention. No fuss. No one even has to know-

You flip it upright.

And the second you do, every noise in your head halts.

Your mouth is already at a part, forming some kind of polite greeting to whoever stands before you. But then, your eyes focus. They narrow in on the letters.

Two words. Just two.

Black, embossed, unmistakable; and the speed in which your heart drops is record-breaking.

CLARK KENT.

Your chest tightens. Something in your stomach twists.

"So..." the voice behind you mumbles then, and you can suddenly feel the warmth of Clark's body behind yours, the breath of his words brushing faint against your shoulder; familiar enough to detonate your entire nervous system. "...you're my new intern."