daya

Just as you finish your dinner, you hear it. The soft pitter-patter of rain. It starts off gently, tapping the leaves of your hanging baskets and flowers in a pleasant rhythm. But then a loud boom rings out, and the windows rattle from a strong gust of wind.

You can't help but blink at it as you settle onto your couch, flicking your TV on. It wouldn't be surprising if you lost power here in a bit. You tried to brush the thought off, and continue watching your show. But you're interrupted when there's a knock at the door.

It's one that makes the comfortable, cozy feeling you had disappear in a second flat. Your blood runs cold as ice as the patterning of the fingers rapping on your door slinks through your mind. You hate that you know the pattern. You hate the way your stomach churns at your dinner, now rolling and unsettled.

Then it comes again a few seconds later.

Three short taps in quick succession, a momentary pause, then two slower taps, and then three more taps in a swing beat. There is only one other person on the planet who knows that knocking pattern.

Court.

A lump sits heavy in the back of your throat as your heart beats faster and your breathing grows quiet and shallow. You sit up from the couch, your fingers starting to tremble as another gust of wind blows through. The house groans with effort but you pay it no attention.

You don't know why you are going to the door.

Flashes of nights crying hit the front of your mind. Tears soaking your pillowcase. Your throat raw and hoarse from sobbing. The tightness in your chest when his words replayed through your mind.

I can't do whatever this is anymore.

You were only ever a good fuck and a soft landing.

Don't you get it? I could never love you.

The harshness of them makes you pause, the angry spatter of rain on your metal roofing only growing louder. It deafens your thoughts for a moment, leaving you with the memories of heartbroken feelings.

Then you hear a muffled voice. One you haven't heard in a long time.

"Y/n, I know you're in there," the gruff male voice rings out over the sound of the rain. There's a slight pause, and then he calls out, "Your car is in the driveway."

The last of his words gets slightly drowned out by the rain, and your feet force you forward to hear more of it. Your brain is screaming to stop and run. But there's a part of you, no bigger than the pinhead of a needle, that pushes you forward. Right now, you resent that part of you.

Your steps grow wobbly as your knees both threaten to give in and lock up. You come to a halt by your front door, your hand hovering in the air over the handle. Why is he here? What does he want? Why now, after all this time?

That pinhead-sized part of you makes your fingers come to a rest on the door handle and catch on the release. You timidly pull the door open and the fresh scent of petrichor floods your nose as the raw sound of rainfall hits your ears.

You don't know where to look when the door swings open to reveal the man you hadn't seen in over a year. Your gaze settles on the tan concrete of your front porch, small puddles of water pooling on the other side of your thatched doormat.

Then you see boots. Dark brown leather shiny with water and smudged with dirt. Maybe that one line that runs a little redder than others isn't just dirt. Then as your eyes drift up, you see black tactical pants stacked neatly around sturdy calves.

Slowly, your gaze trails upwards to a set of thighs that once made your stomach flip and your body tremble. There's no telling how many times you sat on his lap, singing his name. As far as you can see, the pockets and holster attachments lining the thick muscles are empty.

The material around his hips is held up by an indistinct black belt cinched tight around his trim waist. As always. For once, there's no gun on his hip. There's not even a blade sticking out of his tactical pants that you can see. As far as you can tell, he's unarmed.

Your eyes continue upwards.

Well, maybe not completely unarmed. Court's wearing a black t-shirt, showing off his thick biceps and forearms laced with hard-earned muscle. The jagged scars and dark tattoos on his arms are familiar, and they make your throat dry up and your eyes continue on their path towards his face.

And when they eventually get there?

You swear your heart stops beating.

The whole world seems to freeze in place. Even the rain drops crashing against your roof deafen. For a moment, it's just you and it's just him and the rest of the world is on pause.

He still has that goatee you always loved. Kept clean and neat. His angled jaw is set and the muscle there flexes once. Your eyes search for bruising on his cheekbones or the telltale signs of a black eye.

There are none.

Instead, you find a stormy gaze reminiscent of the sky overheard tracking yours, damp blonde locks hanging over his forehead and plastered to his skin. It's clear now that he walked here. In the rain. To see you.

Court doesn't say anything as you regard him. He had had a plan of what to say to you. But now that he sees you in front of him? Every word in every language he knows dissipates from his mind.

You're gorgeous.

Well, he knows that. That's never been a doubt in his mind. But seeing you now? Over a year later? Simultaneously everything and nothing has changed. Your hair is a little longer than the last time he saw you, but it's still that pretty shade of (color). Your eyes still shine in that mesmerizing way that reminds him of looking at nature's beauty. You're stunning.

And yet he walked away from you then. And he has never forgiven himself since.

"What are you doing here?" you breathe out, your fingers tightening on the door handle. Your voice is not nearly as strong or sharp as you would like. But it's full of hurt. Your brows furrow and you shuffle on your feet. "Why are you here?" The sound of rain nearly drowns out your voice.

Court parts his lips and then takes a deep breath. He blows it out slowly and clenches his hands into fists at his sides. He hasn't heard your voice... in so long. He nearly forgot just how it can make him unravel and come undone. "I came here to apologize to you," he confesses quietly in the rough, rich voice you loved. Admit it, you tell yourself, Seeing him. It's not all in the past, is it?

You don't need to answer yourself. The tears that begin pricking at your eyes speak a thousand words.

"That's too little, too late," you almost hiss out as you move to close the door on him. Before you can, though, Court shoves his boot between the door and the frame. "Y/n, wait, please," he urges, his voice a little louder this time. It's easier to hear over the rain pounding against the roof of your front porch.

Fire dances in your eyes as you tug the door back open and harshly jam your finger into his chest. "Wait?" you snarl. "Did you, Court Gentry, just tell me to wait?" You step towards him and snap, "I waited for you for over a year! Remember that? How you left me, crying my eyes out because I was nothing more than a 'good fuck'?!"

You use both hands to shove Court away from your front door. He only moves a step back. You are both fully aware he let you do that. He's taken shoves worse than that and never moved an inch.

Those tears stinging at your eyes now sit on your lash line, waiting to be released. Court's face is solemn and his eyes down cast. It's the closest to remorseful you've ever seen on him.

"Do you remember?" you prompt him, your voice full of venom and hurt. He doesn't reply. "Do you remember?!" you shout this time, punching at the doorframe. Court's eyes remain down turned as he murmurs, "I do. That's why I'm here. To apologize and explain."

"You lost that right a long time ago," you chuckle humorlessly and roll your eyes. "Have a good fucking night, Court." You move to close the door again. He doesn't even try to shove his boot in it again.

But just before the door can swing shut, he rushes, "They knew about you."

You pause, despite the steam practically shooting from your ears and the tears now rolling down your cheeks. You pause. And you listen to the man who shattered your heart.

Court's eyes watch the parted door and he takes a breath and shuffles, clenching and unclenching his knuckles. Taking out high profile targets is easier than this. How he wishes he could fix this with a couple of punches and a bullet in someone's brain.

"They knew about you," he repeats, his voice softer. "Sidorenko. The guy I was taking contracts from. He learned about you through an informant."

Your stomach rolls. You very well know what Court does for work. He spared you the gory details, but you knew enough to be considered viable intel. And, you were close with the Gray Man. Neither you nor Court ever put an official label on it, but the two of you shared I love you's. That's not just a hookup. That's not just a good fuck.

You were truly, madly, and deeply in love with him.

You still are.

Court waits for you to say something. Anything. You don't. So he continues because now that he's started talking, he doesn't want to stop. He wants you to hear him out. He wants you to listen to him. He wants you to believe him. He's fully aware he doesn't deserve that. He's lucky you opened the door. And he doesn't believe in luck.

"They were planning on using you as leverage," he whispers, his voice growing thicker. It's hard to hear the words with the crash of thunder overhead. Still, you don't move from where you stand inside. Silent sobs wrack your body and you have to lift your free hand to cover your mouth to stifle the sounds.

If there's one thing Court did while the two of you were together - he kept you safe. That was his priority. Everything else was a bonus. So to hear that you would have potentially compromised him... It changes everything.

"So," he continues, stepping once closer to the door, "I did what I thought was best at the time. I pulled back. I thought leaving you here, without me would keep you safe. If they saw I wasn't with you, then they would think you didn't mean anything to me."

Court pauses and flattens his hand against the door. "When you really have meant everything."

Silence laced with raindrops rings out. It's loud. Thick. Uncomfortable. Court holds his breath, waiting for you to say something. Anything.

You do not reply.

Court swallows hard and his eyes snap closed in frustration with himself. He knew it was a long shot. But he's normally pretty capable of those. This one, however. He's not sure he ever really stood a chance.

Wordlessly, he draws back from the door and his hand swings down to his side, clenching into a fist. Then, he steps away from the door and turns on his heel. You can hear the sound of his boots dejectedly padding down your front porch before the footsteps are washed away.

You could not reply to Court. Not when you were choking back sobs with tears flowing like a river down your cheeks and dripping onto the floor. Only when he's gone and you know it do you do something.

You rip the door open.

A quick glance around the front porch through blurry vision tells you he didn't bother sticking around. Further down the winding lane to your driveway and making his way towards the main road, you spot his figure. A dark dot in the midst of the thunderstorm.

You step out onto your porch in just your bare feet and shut the door behind you. Then, with your arms wrapped around your body, you duck your head, and you run.

Your legs carry you as fast at they cane, slapping down against the wet pavement. Raindrops catch on your hair and sweater immediately, dampening your frame in a few measly seconds. You can't find your voice to call for him. To shout. To make him turn around and keep talking.

Instead, you chase after Court's retreating figure. But you gain on him. He's walking pretty briskly - which you can't blame him for - but he's not running. That would be hard to keep up with.

At first, Court thinks it's just the raining growing harder. He's been lost in his head for the few moments it's been walking away from your house. He's not operational, but maybe he should be acting like it. Someone could be tracking his ass right now and he wouldn't know any better.

He allows himself this moment to grieve, though. He had hope. It was small and fleeting, but its presence was there. The best thing he can do is acknowledge it, give it the sliver of time it deserves, and then get his ass back in gear.

That's why he thinks it's just the storm brewing and thunder rolling more prominently. But then his mind locks onto the rhythm of it and realizes it's not even. And for whatever reason, he looks over his shoulder, blinking through the pouring rain.

You unwrap your arms from around yourself and crash into his chest at full force. He doesn't stumble this time. Your hands, trembling and cold, find Court's face to cradle as you reach up onto your toes. Without giving him a chance, you pull his head down to yours until your mouth crashes against his.

It all happens so fast, but Court's used to conditions like this.

His arms slither around your waist in a second. One around the base of your spine to hold you flush against him, the other finding the back of your head to slide his fingers through the damp locks. His fingers tighten and he uses his grip on your to tilt your head as he kisses you back with everything he's got.

Court's beard tickles your face as your lips slot passionately against his. This kiss is messy. Sloppy. Unpracticed. At the same time, it's warm. It's rich. It's everything you've missed about him. If you try hard enough, you can taste remnants of that Watermelon Wave gum he loves so much, combined with the sweetness that is Court.

The rain pours down on the two of you without relenting. It's close, biting at your skin, sliding down your face. Yet Court is warm and solid underneath your touch, anchoring you here in the moment with him. He tils his head to deepen the kiss, and it draws one of his favorite noises from you - a soft moan that says more than words.

You're his.

2: The House Party

The second time he wants to kiss you feels like something straight from a movie. People keep insisting to him that the social side of college is just as important as the academic side but Ryland isn't convinced. He was roped into going to a frat party by his freshman roommate and he's still called 'Vominator' in some of the social circles he frequents.

He almost says no to the house party on the spot on reflex. It's another study group, this time in a coffee shop on campus when someone mentions a friend of a friend is hosting a house party and everyone is invited. They go through the group and he's barely paying attention to anyone's answers until it's your turn.

"Sounds fun." Your smile is soft but genuine and your friends all echo similar sentiments. Then all the attention falls on him.

"What about you Ryland?" Rejection is on the tip of his tongue when he makes the mistake of looking in your direction. He dares to think the expression on your face is one of hope.

"Sure, why not."

So now he's stood in a stranger's kitchen with a red solo cup filled with…something alcoholic. He's not sure what's actually in it and he doesn't think anyone else does but no one seems to care much. People certainly keep returning back to the kitchen for more of it. He spotted you early into the night, surrounded by friends and dancing to the beat like it's second nature.

He's toying with the idea of sneaking out and climbing over the back fence when he realises he hasn't seen you for a while. He stretches to try and spot you then drops back down when he realises you're walking straight towards him. You give a little wave, settling near him.

"Hey Ryland."

"Hey." He leans back trying to look casual but then grimaces when his back makes contact with a cup of mystery punch and knocks it over. He bolts up with a yelp.

He hopes you can't see him blushing because of how dim it is.

"Are you having a good time?" He shrugs then realises that's rude. You came over to talk to him, he should at least try and make conversation.

"This isn't really my scene." You nod.

"Me neither."

"Really?" He wants to believe you but doesn't. You looked totally at ease in the centre of the room dancing with friends and strangers alike. He wishes you would dance with him.

"With the right people it's okay. The punch certainly helps." He takes a sip of his cup then winces as the burn hits his throat. You laugh at him, more teasing than malicious, then lean closer to him. "Do you want to dance?"

He can't dance.

"Sure." You take him by the hand, drinks forgotten on the counter top, and weave through the thrum of people until you're almost in the centre of the room. As if sensing his apprehension, you take it slow; keeping your hands entwined as you encourage him into a series of easy moves.

It bugs him that he starts having fun.

When the music changes to something softer his heart stops. You don't let go of his hand, moving closer to him as you lead him into swaying gently to the music. The way his heart is hammering in his chest he's surprised you can't hear it.

He could just lean forward and kiss you. It would be so easy. Just like in the movies.

He doesn't.

The moment is broken by a cacophony of people shouting your name. One of your friends pulls you away and you throw him an apology he can barely hear as the music changes to something much louder and you're pulled away from him.

He leaves not long after.

Coward.

3: His Apartment

The third time he wants to kiss you in when he knows he's in too deep. Study sessions at the flat become a semi-frequent diary filler for the two of you after the house party. You're now friends rather than just acquaintances and small talk turns into something more. The two of you are on similar wavelengths most of the time, conversation flows easier with every extra minute you spend together.

You'd come over under the guise of needing help with your earth systems paper but when you'd arrived you'd pulled a Star Wars box set out from behind your back, insisting the two of you had been working so hard lately you deserved a night off. That's how you end up on the couch, movie paused in the background as you discuss the skewed politics of the Republic. You go silent for a few moments.

"It's late, I should get going." You shift slightly, joints popping quietly from the movement. A glance at his watch shows that it's nearly 1am. When did it get so late?

"You can stay, if you want. Like you said it's late, I'd feel bad making you go home alone at this time." The words slip out before he even thinks about it. His mind fills instantly with domestic thoughts of you in his apartment and he knows they'll never leave his head again. You mull it over for a few moments.

"I don't know."

"No pressure! Just that you're already here." He wants to dig himself a hole in the ground and have someone bury him. He's coming on too strong.

"If it's not too much trouble." Or maybe he's not.

"You know it's not." You blink slowly at him, a sleepy smile blossoming on your face as you stretch your arms.

"Can I borrow some clothes?" His brain short circuits.

"Sure." He jumps up before he can think about it too much, dashing into his room and grabbing an assortment of clothes so you have a few options. He hands them over to you with a soft smile which you reciprocate as you get up to get changed.

You come out of the bathroom wearing one of his science pun shirts and he thinks he's going to die on the spot.

He insists you take his bed, he'd feel terrible having a guest sleep on his lumpy sofa whilst he got to enjoy sleeping on a real bed. You try to protest but you're clearly tired and you give in after a few more pushes, throwing another thank you and a good night over your shoulder before closing the door behind you.

He lies on the couch and tries to sleep. His brain doesn't go quiet until nearly 5am.

You emerge from his room in the morning, rubbing sleep out of your eyes, muttering a sleepy good morning in his direction. He says it back, stretching the sleep out of his muscles and shifting so there's room for you on the couch.

"Coffee?"

"I can make it." He's halfway up when you shake your head at him.

"Ryland, you already let me stay over, please let me make you a coffee." So he does. You know just how he likes it without even asking. It's a small thing but it matters.

You sit down next to him, coffees in hand, and it hits him all at once that this could be his life. He could just lean over, kiss you, and maybe you'd stay forever. He'd wake up to you like this every day for the rest of his life if he could.

He doesn't move. Just watches you as you take the first sips of your coffee.

4: The Cinema

The fourth time he wants to kiss you is when it starts to get annoying. He's such a coward, he could just lean over and do it. It almost feels like it would be easier to do it here, under the cover of darkness where it's basically impossible to have a conversation about it because people would complain that you're ruining the movie.

You bought him tickets to watch Star Trek (the original one!) at the local independent cinema as a surprise. He's a little bit ashamed to say that he cried. It's a film that means a lot to him. He mentioned it to you once right at the beginning of your friendship and it means so much that you remembered such a tiny detail. There isn't even an occasion, you just saw it was on and arranged it.

The theatre is full of fellow nerds, some are even dressed in costume, and the energy in the room is electric. It's inspiring seeing so many couples milling around as well. That could be you and him some day!

You picked good seats, right in the centre of the room, so he has a perfect view of the screen. It's too bad that he's spent an embarrassing percentage of the film watching you out of the corner of his eye instead.

Your hand is resting on the arm chair, occasionally dipping into the box of popcorn the two of you are sharing. Occasionally your elbow brushes against his and it hits him all at once how close the two of you are. There's so many opportunities for him to make a move, any move, that the situation allows for. He could leave his hand in the popcorn a little bit too long in the hopes that he can entwine it with yours, he could rest his arm next to yours in the hopes you'll shift against him, he could lean his head towards you to rest it closer to your headrest. Endless possibilities and he's not indulging any of them.

You lean over to him, waiting for him to turn and face you, then make a funny comment. He snorts with laughter, leaning back against his headrest a little bit too quickly. His glasses catch on one side of his head and the force knocks them forward slightly, leaving them askew on his face. You're both laughing quietly now, even if Ryland's is more embarrassed than anything. He moves to shift them back to their proper place but you beat him to it.

"Let me." You catch his hand with yours, waiting for him to return it to his lap.

You adjust his glasses, smiling as he scrunches his face to make sure they're sitting at the right point on his nose. You're so close to his face that he can hear you breathing. That makes him sound like a creep. You breath nicely.

That's probably an even creepier thought. He casts it aside.

"Excuse me, sorry!" A voice from over his shoulder pulls him away from you. It's just someone wanting to squeeze past to go to the bathroom but it unsettles him as he leans away from you, adjusting so the person can get past without accidentally kicking one of you. When he finally dares to look back at you, your attention is back on the movie. Even when the person comes back, Ryland can't settle. The moment doesn't feel right anymore.

He'll just have to keep waiting.

5: The Restaurant

The fifth time he wants to kiss you feels slightly less pathetic since it happens when he's on a date with you. It definitely feels like this is a socially acceptable situation to want to kiss you.

It at least means that maybe you want to kiss him back.

Hopefully.

It'd be pretty bad going on a date with someone you don't want to kiss. You're not like that.

Dinner is going well. It doesn't feel weird which he worried it would (because of him, not because of you) and it's been fun. You'd picked a nice, mid-range restaurant so neither of you have to pretend to be something that you're not or spend too much money on it. You share a starter, get an alcoholic drink, and talk.

It feels like it could be the beginning of everything.

He hasn't felt this way about anyone for a long time, and he was so much younger the first time that it doesn't feel right to compare. He thinks about you all the time; wondering what you're doing, who you're with, if you're ever thinking about him.

It's already gotten to the point that he's been writing love letters. That's how the two of you ended up here in the first place. It felt safer to word vomit all over some paper rather than to your face then he went and left them somewhere you could see them. A good thing came of it but next time he's definitely going to burn the pages once he's done with them.

Hypothesis: his brain stops functioning rationally (or maybe at all) when you're involved.

It's a theory he thinks is worth rigorous testing, no matter how mortifying it gets.

There's a gentle lull somewhere after your mains but before you've ordered your desserts. The drinks have warmed up both up and Ryland really wants to kiss you. Again. It feels like the whole night has been building up to it and he's ready. More than ready. He's wanted this for weeks, months at this point. He can't go more than three sentences without looking at your lips, it would be so easy to just lean forward and kiss you. There's no way you haven't noticed, he's never been very good at being subtle with regards to anything.

You place your hand down on the table and he dares himself to be brave for once as he reaches over to place his on top of yours. When you touch it's like electricity runs through him as all his nerve ending are alight.

This is it, this is the moment when you become more then friends.

Then, then, the waiter comes over, asking if you want another refill of your drinks or a dessert or something, Ryland can't even say what the poor man is there for. The moment is broken and the haze settling between you dissipates. He pulls his hand away and you retract yours slowly, take another sip of your drink. You finish up dinner and, whilst nothing has changed, the tension between the two of you has gone. The drive back to his apartment isn't tense, but there's no spark in the air like there was in the taxi on the way there. It's yet another opportunity that he's let pass him by.

Damn it.

+1: The Club

Ryland doesn't get jealous. He doesn't. If it looks like he does, it's just because a trick of the light, or maybe he's having a bad day. Of course, it's never a bad day before someone interacts with you in a way that sets his teeth on edge because he's been with you. It's always completely unrelated even it never happens when he's with other people.

So no, he doesn't get jealous.

You're still in the 'will they, won't they' phase much to his chagrin and he's once again forced against his will to partake in the social interaction college is supposedly all about. The house party was one thing. A club is a huge step up from that, in the worst way possible. He's pretty sure the music they're playing doesn't contain a single lyric, it's just a sequence of heavy bass and noises that make his head feel weird.

You can tell he's not comfortable and keep saying it's okay if he wants to leave but he wants to do this, wants to be here, for you. He can almost convincingly grin and bear it. It's something of a mercy when you both finish your drinks and he has an excuse to get off the dance floor. Your friends are all around you so he's sure you'll be fine for the five minutes he's gone to fetch another round.

The bar is impossibly busy, and he tries his best to keep an eye on where you are whilst he's waiting to be served. Everything seems like it's going fine until someone he doesn't recognise approaches you.

He can barely make out the stranger's face but he can make out yours. Your expression starts off polite but it falls away pretty quickly.

He's walking back over to you before he's even ordered the drinks.

Screw it.

You spot him walking towards you and smile at him but it doesn't slow his pace. He moves through the people like a man on a mission and doesn't even hesitate to capture your lips in a kiss as soon as he's close enough to you. To your credit, you don't even seem surprised; tangling your fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and pulling him closer. The stranger makes a comment, something neither of you hear clearly, before he skulks away, disappearing into the crowd.

Now that he's actually kissing you, Ryland doesn't want to stop. If he didn't need oxygen to survive he wouldn't stop. But he does, and so do you, so it comes to an end. You rest your forehead against him. He's quite proud of the fact you seem out of breath.

"Sorry." You pull back as you process his word. Confusion and hurt flash through your eyes. Your chest fills with panic.

"Why're you sorry?"

"Cause now I've messed things up between us."

"Ry, how have you messed things up?" You take his hand in yours, squeezing tightly to ground him.

"Cause I acted all impulsively and I had no right to do that and I didn't even ask you!" He's panicking and the word vomit is happening without him being able to stop it. He might actually vomit soon as well. He really doesn’t need to remind people of his nickname.

"Ry, you don't have to ask me if you want to kiss me."

"You're okay with it?!" You laugh in his face but your face is too full of joy for him to think you're mocking him.

"Ry, I've wanted you to do that for weeks. I thought I was misreading some signals after you didn't at the restaurant."

"Oh thank god." He pulls your close, laughter bubbling in his chest. “Can I do it again?”

“Ry, you can do it whenever you want to.” So he does.

The heat of Clark’s gaze could burn you in an instant. Despite being in a team debrief with Perry in the middle of the office, Clark had his eyes glued to you and your photojournalist, Peter Parker. He was fidgeting with a pencil that eventually broke in half after Peter whispered something to your ear. 

Eyes on the board, you texted Clark. Instead he kept his dark blue eyes at you, eyebrows scrunched. 

“Is he always like that?” Peter whispered, toying with his lanyard. Clark looked at him with disgust. He hated his perfectly wavy hair, his way of dressing that looked like it came out of an early 2000’s magazine, and the way he made you laugh—like a lot. 

“He has moments,” You said, rolling your eyes. “Ignore him.” 

“Sure, boss,” Peter joked. It has been a month since Peter was assigned to you, a photographer from New York. Perry employed him after his famous pictures of Spider-man. For the past two months, Spider-man has been seen in Metropolis fighting bad guys faster than Superman ever did. 

“How about Spider-man V. Superman: A Heated Rivalry,” Jimmy said to the team, spreading his hands wide to emphasize the title Peter choked on his coffee, while an audible scoff came out of Clark. 

“You think you could get an interview with them?” Perry asked you. You never said no to any stories Perry wanted to tell, but this one? You were unsure. 

“This is much worse than hashtag supershit,” Clark said, arms crossed so tightly his shirt could’ve ripped. He sighed, “but sure why not, I’ll hit up Superman and send him your way. 

“Really, you’d do that?” you said in disbelief. It has been a while since you’ve talked sincerely with Clark, it’s usually arguments and bantering these days about work. Plus, it was even more unbelievable because he has been vocal about not liking Spider-man. Silly man in a red and blue suit he’s obviously a Superman rip-off! He’d say. 

“You think you could get Spider-man’s contact info, Parker?” an eyebrow raised. “You seem to know him very well.” 

“I’m pretty sure he’d be down here faster than Superman,” Peter said, smirking. 

“I doubt that,” Clark said, walking out to the coffee counter.  

Perry eventually ended the meeting. Everyone was back to working on their own desks. Clark stayed at the counter looking like he was making coffee for everyone. You walked to the coffee counter to help him out. 

“Is it still two sugars?” Clark said, facing away from you. 

“Erm, yeah,” you said, smoothing your palms on your shirt. “Thanks for the save by the way.” 

“Anytime,” he said. “Do you know how Peter likes his coffee?” 

“Black,” you said. Clark quickly looked at you with his brows even more furrowed. You wanted to laugh at how silly he looked. “What? We spend a lot of time together, of course I’ll know.” 

“D’you spend time at his place? House tours on his new flat I suppose,” Clark said, putting more than a spoonful of sugar on Peter’s cup. You stopped his hand, an obvious size difference between you two. 

“Oh my god, Clark,” If your eyes could roll much farther back you would. “Are you seriously jealous of him? After not talking to me for weeks? You are so unbelievable!” 

“I was keeping my distance, you knew why that had to happen,” he said. He was facing you know, his broad frame eclipsing the light over you. 

“I actually don't know Clark, you were pretty vague about it,” you looked up at him, his black curls over his face, his glass falling nearer to the tip of his nose. There was always a surge of blood through you when you argue with him. 

“I wanted you to be happy,” he uttered in a low but serious tone. 

“You broke up with me! Right when I needed you the most, how was that making me happy?” You said, looking around to see if anyone heard you, tears slowly creeping. 

“You absolutely know why,” he was clearly hinting at his secret rendezvous. “It was never safe for us to be together.” 

“Then why are you so pressed about me and Peter?” Clark didn't know what to say. You’re right, he shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t be jealous at all. 

Clark’s response was never spoken. He stood there in shame, gazing away from you. 

“Right,” you said, leaving the counter. 

Later that day, on top of the Daily’s building sat Superman. His body ached from being thrown around buildings. Despite everyone in the crowd cheering for him, TV reporters wanting to interview him, he escaped all of them to sit and ponder. All he wanted to do right now was talk to you and apologize. 

If there is one thing he hated the most, it was seeing you cry. 

“Nice save out there,” Spider-man said. Leaning on the Daily Planet sign. 

“Don’t make the same mistakes I did, Peter,” he said. Spider-man was taken aback. Clark stared at the skyline, the direction of your apartment. 

“You’re mentioned a lot when we’re together,” Peter said. “There’s still a lot of love shared between you two.” 

“Maybe before,” Clark said. Peter took off his mask and sat next to him. 

“Only one way of finding out,” Peter said, tapping Clark’s shoulder before taking a thwip at a nearby building. 

Your nightly routine was perfect, shower, then skincare, maybe a few minutes reading a book then off to sleep. After closing the cap of your moisturizer, you heard a knock on your window. It was Peter, unmasked. 

“Are you hurt?” you said, letting him in. Behind him was Superman, his head down like he was hiding his face from you. “Clark?”

“What is he doing here?” you continued. The two men sat on your sofa. Peter unzipped the top half of the suit in such a way it hung on his hips, a worn out graphic tee underneath. They both drank the water you offered them. 

“Well you wanted that interview right?” Peter said. “Here it is.” 

The silence was thick in the air, weighing down on you and Clark. He finished his water but his lips stayed pressed on the glass, cold and uncomfortable. 

“Oh, come on you two, the tension is making me feel faint,” Peter said, pressing the iced glass on his forehead. 

“It was rude of me to come at you like that, I’m sorry,” Clark said, slowly lifting his head to match your gaze. 

“Asshole move by the way,” you took their glasses and put them in the sink. When you came back the two boys were following your every move. “You know it was never about being a hero, I just… wished you could've been more honest with me. I would understand.” 

“I’m sure Peter treats you better,” Clark said, even though he didn’t mean it like that it did come off a little condescending. 

“Peter and I are just friends,” you said. “We’ve known each other since college. When I found out he wanted to move I asked him to move here and work with me.” 

“So…not dating then,” Clark said. “Cool…cool…” 

“Well not yet,” Peter said. 

“Not helping!” you interjected. “I like you two but you guys are making it harder for me.” 

“You like…us?” The two men said in unison. 

You shut your eyes and shook your head, surprised with what you said. “That’s not–”

It was Clark who stood first, Peter followed. 

“Let me explain,” You said, putting your hands in front of you as if pushing them away. “You’re both great, okay. Clark’s kind of an asshole sometimes but you’re the sweetest man I’ve ever known. And Peter, you’re the most patient and understanding person ever. And I’ve really been confused with what I feel lately because I don’t want to have to choose–” 

“You don’t have to,” Peter said. He came closer and held your hand. “I’m sure there’s space for both of us.” He looked at Clark, who nodded and went next to you.

“If you’d let us.” Clark held your other hand, rubbing his thumb on your skin. 

The three of you sat at the edge of your bed in nothing but underwear. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you said, smoothing your palms on your thighs.

“If you want out you could just sit there and watch us,” Peter jokingly said. 

“That’s an option?” you said, smiling. Clark looked like a deer in headlights. 

You held his face and kissed his lips, warm and soft like how you remembered it. He wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you in, another hand holding your cheek. You pulled back, much to Clark’s dismay. Peter’s kiss was slow and definite. Like a spider, his hands crept all over your body. Your back, your waist, your chest. 

Clark felt your hand on his wrist, pulling him in. With that, the three of you joined in a kiss. Tongues going back and forth through wet lips, the heat of your breaths echoes with moans and grunts. Peter dragged his kisses to your jaw, down to your neck. Clark kissed the back of your ear, his hand steady on the curve of your back. 

The two men moved around you like they knew each other’s thoughts. Clark shifted so that you sat between his thick thighs, your back against the hard muscles of his chest. Peter, on the other hand, was on his knees, kissing the skin of your thighs. Clark continued kissing your nape, his hands teasing your nipples. 

You could feel Clark’s hard cock twitch at each whimper. Peter’s lips made their way to the skin above your sex, slowly pulling the last piece of clothing from your body. His mouth teased the perimeter, the heat in between your legs growing more and more. Clark’s hips would move ever so slightly, the tip of his cock rubbing against his boxers. 

“Gosh, you sound so beautiful,” Clark said, kissing and nipping at your neck. 

Peter chuckled. Clark was right, he was leaking in his boxers just from the sound of your moans. He placed his mouth on your sex, licking and sucking on the sensitive gland. Your hands smoothed through his hair before pulling them in, his tongue adding more pressure to your center. 

“Fuck–I don’t want to come yet,” you cried out. Peter halted, letting a string of saliva drag out from your sex. “I need to see you both first.” 

They both stood in front of you with cocks pointing north. This time you finally had the opportunity to look at them next to each other. Clark was obviously bigger, in every sense of the word. Shoulders wide, muscular arms, thighs bigger than your head. Peter was equally handsome though, he had wide shoulders, but his body leaner and more fit for agile strides in the sky. 

They both undressed. Your thoughts felt like mush, it was as if you were drunk from their presence. 

“Did you just gulp?” Peter said, scratching the back of his head.

“Did I?” your eyes were transfixed on their erections. You took Peter’s cock first, it was the smaller of the two–still a good seven inches though and mostly because you were scared Clark’s cock would bruise your throat. You licked a strip from underneath up to the leaking tip. Peter’s eyes rolled back from the wetness of your tongue. 

“Damn,” Peter yelped when you took the last inch, sucking as you pulled back. “That mouth feels so good.” 

You didn’t want to leave Clark hanging. He felt your warm hand on his cock, slowly stroking. For a man dubbed by many to be made of steel he wanted to bend and break like a sand castle in front of you. You let go of Peter’s cock with a loud pop, still stroking it with your spit as lube. 

Being a bit scared proved to be right, your jaw hurt a little from sucking Clark’s cock. It was definitely thicker, but it felt so good to just suck on it, earning deep guttural moans from him. “You’re so good at that sweetie, missed that mouth so much.”

“I missed doing things with it.”

“Other than arguing?” Clark snickered. He picked you up so he could kiss you again this time more desperate than the last. “Bend over for me and Peter, yeah?”

You do as you’re told. Clark positioned himself at your back, rubbing his cock on your ass. Peter sat in front of you, leg spread on the bed. He kissed you again and again until you were breathless. “Knew you had it in you,” he said, just in time for the two of them to fuck you together. 

You’ve never felt this full before, your nails dug into your sheets for control. Clark gently stroked inside you, slick from your spit and arousal. You gasped when he was fully in, sucking in Peter’s cock deeper in the process. You pleasured them both from each end, using the same rhythm through each stroke. “Needy for Clark’s cock?” Peter said, patting your head. 

You nodded, cheeks flushed and damp with tears. Clark’s grip on your waist was tight and strong, he fucked his fill into you that your hips were sure to get sore. He places his hand on your sex and uses the wetness to pleasure you. Your body felt tingly from all the touching and fucking that the arousal dripped down your thighs and into the bed. 

“You should see this face, Clark, teary eyed from taking two dicks,” Peter cooed. “You’ve been wanting this haven’t you?”

“Yes–” you gasped for air. “He’s stretching me out.” 

Clark got harder after you said that, he wanted to finish inside you, show you how much he missed you. “I’m close—haven’t come since our last time,” Clark was on top of you, his body weight pressing on you slightly. His thrust became faster, each stroke a hard assault on your sensitive spot. 

“Go for it, come inside me.”

“Oh, you sweet thing,” Clark melted in response, shooting his come inside your warmth filling you to the brim. Clark laid down on his side while trying to catch his breath. Peter flipped you over so he could take his turn while you faced him. 

“Think you can take on more?” Peter said, kissing you again.

“I told you…there’s space for both of you,” the two of you shared one more kiss while Peter entered. He dug his face to the corner of your neck, lifting your legs so he could feel the warmth. He could still feel Clark’s come inside, making things slicker, his cock going in and out easier. 

Clark cuddled you in, using his bicep as a pillow. You two watched Peter’s cock go in and out of you, Clark’s joined a hand to pleasure your sex. Your body tensed, a knot forming tighter and tighter. 

“I’m so close too,” Peter said, his face was pink, his lips reddened and needing one more kiss. 

You reached to stroke Clark’s cock again, he was already moaning and panting through your kiss. “Kiss me again,” you said to both of them. They both joined into a kiss, stroking their hips. Clark’s hand on your sex helped bring you closer. “I’m coming,” you moaned. 

The air in the room drowned in the sounds of your climax, panting and grunting as Peter emptied himself in you. The three of you cuddled until the next hour, sharing kisses here and there before Peter had the great idea of doing it all over again in the shower. 

Perry woke up with an e-mail from you. Can’t come to work, interview with Spider-man. And another e-mail from Clark. The Superman story right now, might be late. 

The interview would last a day…or two.

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