crack me open, so i feel the air inside me

It's been nearly two months since you ended things with Clark. You had met at Wayne Enterprises' annual New Year's Eve charity gala—one of the rare events where your brother would make a public appearance. This also meant that the Gotham Museum would not only be swarmed with pretentious benefactors but also scrappy reporters itching for a quote. You hated both, but you had to keep up appearances.

It was nearly midnight, and the party was still in full swing. You spent the last couple of hours dodging reporters with half-truths and shooting fake smiles at billionaire donors. You needed a moment alone, away from the social climbers, the opportunistic tabloid writers, and the unremarkable men trying to woo you with the promise of a New Year's kiss. Bleh.

Quietly, you slipped away to the rooftop. Looking over your shoulder constantly to make sure no one was following you. The cold air hit you like a knife. It's sharp, but you don't mind—you liked remembering that you're human. You made your way through the fake turf and obnoxiously bright fairy lights toward the ledge of the roof. You paused to take in the Gotham skyline.

You thought about how much this skyline had changed since you were a kid. You thought about the trips to your parents' loft in the city center whenever they had business that they knew would take a while. The ride over in the car, as your parents had to stop you and Bruce from killing each other. Your favorite was when your parents finally had a moment to themselves. They would take you and Bruce out on the balcony and point out the different buildings that littered the sky. Many of the ones that you had known when you were younger no longer stare back at you today. You weren't sure when you started crying, but you knew when you stopped.

"I hope you're not thinking of jumping from there."

Your head shot back to look at who was speaking, and in the process, your heel caught on the train of your gown. Suddenly, you're falling face-first toward the ground. But you never hit the floor.

You found yourself being hoisted up by a big pair of arms. For a second, you thought it was your brother. You looked up and were instead greeted by piercing blue eyes staring at you through black-rimmed glasses. He was tall, very tall, but not intimidatingly so. He flashed you a nervous smile, and you watched as the dimples formed in his cheeks. He was cute. A cold breeze passed between you two, making you realize how close you actually were to him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he said, letting out a soft chuckle.

"It's alright. Luckily, I had my knight in shining armor to save me," you said, lightly punching his bicep. You cringed at yourself; you were still a little bit drunk. You changed the subject, "So you're a reporter, right?"

He looked at you, dumbstruck. "How'd you know?"

"I mean, the place is swarming with either donors or reporters, and your off-the-rack suit and crooked frames tell me that you're not one of the former. So, who are you with? The Inquisitor?" Your last question had more bite to it than you intended.

"Ouch. No, I'm with The Daily Planet." He reached out his hand and flashed you a crooked half smile. "Clark Kent."

You stared at him for a second and watched how the moonlight lit up his face as a curl hung perfectly over his forehead, swaying ever-so slightly in the breeze. You swore that even in the cold, you could feel the warmth radiating from him, like he was the sun.

"I know you." You took his hand and shook it, trying to ignore the warmth rising in your chest the longer your bodies made contact. "You're always on the front page with a new Superman article. I hope you know that scoring exclusives with your super buddy doesn't mean that you'll be able to get one with me."

"Oh, yeah. I sort of expected that, but I'm not here to report on you."

You shot him a quizzical look.

"I'm working on a piece on LuthorCorp. Lex Luthor is funding one of your major donors here tonight, and I'm just following the money." His gaze softened as he leaned in a little closer, "Besides, I told my editor that the Wayne siblings liked to fly under the radar. Y'know, I learned a bit from my pal Superman about respecting privacy."

Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by a chorus of cheers. It was midnight.

You looked up innocently at Clark. "Hey, I've got a question for you, Mr. Reporter."

"Mhm," he hummed.

"D'ya got a girlfriend?"

He nearly choked on his spit as he tried to utter a simple, "No."

Smiling, you pulled him in closer by his collar and whispered into his mouth, "So, no one would mind if I did this?"

You closed the distance with your lips and waited for him to reciprocate. You felt his body ease into yours, lips moving in tandem. Your fingers snaked into his hair as his right hand cupped your cheek while his left hand made its way down to the small of your back.

You pulled away first. His once gelled hair was now a tousled mess of curls upon his head. The ghost of your red lipstick faintly lingered upon his lips. You smiled at the sight. "Happy New Year's, Clark."

After that night, you two were practically inseparable. Your apartment in Metropolis, which was once furnished with just the bare necessities, became filled with mementos of Clark. The street art you commented on in passing on a walk one day with Clark? He surprised you with it that weekend at dinner. The time you refused to let Clark visit because you didn't want to give him the flu? The weighted teddy bear and heated blanket he left in a care basket outside your door still live on your bed. When the newest season of Great British Bake-off dropped, and you were obsessed with honing your baking skills? Clark saved up to surprise you with an all-new stand mixer in your favorite color for Christmas.

But it wasn't the gifts that won you over. It was the thought and love that Clark put into them. You were used to receiving gifts from men in your past, but they tried to impress you with things they assumed you wanted. Jewelry, art, cars, whatever they thought fit the Wayne image, but it wasn't you. Clark, however, saw past your last name, and you loved him for it.

That's why that night hurt so much. You were sprawled out on the couch in a Smallville High School sweatshirt, many sizes too big for you. Anxiously, your eyes darted back and forth from the door to your phone. It had been three hours since Clark said he would come over, and he was still nowhere to be seen. No text, no call, nothing. He had begun to make it a habit of no-showing and cancelling at the last minute, but you always took him back. He would show up at your door the next morning with flowers and coffee, flashing his big puppy dog eyes at you. Each time, you folded.

But you could only take so much. In the year that you dated, you felt yourself grow closer to him than anyone else in your life, while also growing farther and farther apart. Your abandonment issues could only take so much, and Clark knew that. Yet, despite all your pleas for honesty, he never budged. You knew something had to give.

The next morning, when he inevitably showed up with flowers and your coffee made just right, you let him in without a word. Not looking him in the eye as you broke his heart.

"Clark, I can't do this anymore. You say you love me, but you don't show it. At least, not anymore." You can't look at his face, but from the way his body tenses, you can imagine his expression. Your voice started to quiver, "I love you. So much. But I need stability. I need someone who I know won't leave me like my parents did, like so many people have."

"Darling, c'mon," he pleaded.

"Clark, I'm serious," you said, avoiding his gaze. You could almost hear the tears as they welled in his eyes.

"I owe you an explanation. Please just let me give you that much," he desperately cut through your words.

"Clark, if I let you do that, then I'm just gonna end up taking you back, and I can't let that happen. Not this time. I can't hurt myself anymore. I'm sorry."

Clark didn't fight back, although a little part of you wished he did. He accepted defeat and choked out, "I'm so sorry, love," as he made his way out the door.

And so there you were, alone, wearing Clark's sweatshirt, in your apartment full of memories of what once was.

Now you were in that same apartment, mementos of Clark shoved in a box in your closet, as you clenched the latest edition of The Daily Planet in your hands. Memories and feelings that you were trying to bury for the past two months threaten to resurface.

"This article is such a cry for attention, I mean, what happened to journalism?! You should sue him," your friend says bluntly.

You blink at her.

"I mean for slander, or libel, or whatever the print version is. Maybe throw in a little defamation for good measure."

"I couldn't do that to Clark," you push back.

"Oh, god," your friend groans, "have you FORGOTTEN what that man put you through the last couple of months of your relationship. Shall I pull out the notes app list I made, recording every time that he stood you up?"

"No, no," you said, swatting her phone away. "I don't know, it feels way too harsh, and we're currently going no contact anyway."

"In case you don't remember, you're the one enforcing no contact. Loverboy has been calling, emailing, texting, carrier-pigeoning you nonstop since the breakup." Your friend lets out an exasperated sigh. "Just get one of your arsenal of lawyers to serve him!"

You don't say anything. You just shoot her a look and move on, but the conversation sticks with you. You sit in your bed that night, looking around your room, and the memory of Clark still lingers. The Mighty Crabjoys poster hung above your record player? It came with the record that Clark got you as a consolation gift for missing the concert he had given you tickets to. The Lego flowers sat neatly upon your nightstand? You and Clark built them together during a date night at your place after he flaked on going to the movies the night before. The half-empty perfume bottle collecting dust on your vanity? Clark had gotten it for you after an awful fight about his unreliability. He said it was so you would always have a reminder that he was with you, even when he wasn't. Even in his worst moments, he still managed to be the most thoughtful man alive. It infuriated you.

So, you took your friend's advice. You spent the week in Gotham consulting with your lawyers and ignoring the wary looks Bruce gave you. After a week of endless meetings and "well, maybe I shouldn't"s, the lawsuit was ready to be filed, and you had the honor of serving it.

That's how you end up outside the door of Clark Kent's apartment on a Friday evening. You can hear the faint sound of pots rattling as he cooks along to a recipe video on full volume. You remember all of the times you would yell at him to turn down the volume because "surely you can hear it just fine with the volume just halfway up." But you weren't there to scold him anymore.

You hold your breath and close your eyes as you hold out your hand to knock, when all of a sudden the door swings open. You were face-to-face with Clark.

"Hi," you let out breathlessly, like all the air was suddenly squeezed out of your lungs. You always let your guard down around him, even when you hate him.

"Hi," he says back, cautiously. "What are you doing here?"

You're brought back to reality. Clearing your throat, you tell him, "I'm suing you. You've been served," as you hand him the stack of papers.

He gives you a small smile. "Do you want to come in?"

"Clark, I'm suing you. Can you give me any hint of a reaction? Please—"

Clark drags you inside anyway.

"Clark, are YOU crazy? I'm leaving right now, and you should be glad I don't add a kidnapping charge to your case. God, you're insufferable." You're on your way out when you're stopped in your tracks.

"I'm Superman." He says bluntly, but there's a sincerity in his voice that stops you from laughing in his face. The same inflection that Bruce had when he finally came clean to you about Batman.

The air in the room is heavy as you turn to look at him. His face lit up in the moonlight the same way as it was that first night you had met him, except this time his glasses were off, and suddenly, you understood.

Clark makes his way toward you as you drop your hand from the door handle. He stops two feet away, his eyes begging for you to close the distance. So, you do.

He wraps his arms around you tightly, like he can't bear the thought of you getting away again. Leaning down in your ear, he whispers, "I'm so sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I was so caught up in the idea that I was protecting you that I didn't realize I was hurting you until it was too late. I haven't been able to forgive myself since."

His breath is hot against your skin. Your hand is on his chest, and you can feel his heartbeat. He's a nervous mess. Superman is a nervous mess. All because of you.

You move his chin so you're looking each other in the eye. "Is that why you wrote that article, Clark?"

"Yes." A blush forms on his cheeks. "I know you enough to know that you probably didn't realize that the salacious headline didn't match the way I defended your character in the actual article. I know you would want to find a way to hurt me the way I hurt you. I knew you wouldn't have spoken to me any other way."

You're stunned. All you can do is make a slight "oh" sound with your mouth.

Clark continues, "I'm sorry, love. I know it doesn't change the past, but—"

It was your turn to cut him off as you shut him up with a kiss. It's angry, aggressive, and passionate. It's everything you've been feeling for the past two months being released in one moment.

It doesn't take long for you and Clark to return to a familiar rhythm. His lips rest on yours, and he bites your bottom lip in a way that makes your knees weak. His tongue makes its way into your mouth as he tastes you for the first time in months, letting out a soft moan against your lips.

Your hands are in his hair, it's all so messy and so primal. The harder that he bites, the harder that you pull his hair. Strands of black curls threaten to escape from your fist. Your free hand rests on his chest, as you feel the way his breathing goes up and down, up and down. He puts his hand on yours and brings it down as he traces your curves.

When he reaches your ass, Clark lifts you up without breaking the kiss and walks you over to his kitchen counter before setting you down. You pull away for a second and just take him in. His curls are a dark mess on his head as they stick out every which way. His eyes are glazed over with a mixture of love and lust. His face is flushed with sweat, though you can't tell if it's his or yours. He looks beautiful like this.

Your lips crash onto his, and he bucks into you. His grey sweatpants do little to hide how hard he's getting, and you thank him for it.

"Clark—fuck," you moan breathlessly.

You grind yourself onto him, desperate for something you've been starved of for so long. You feel his cock twitch through his sweats, and memories of him pounding into you with his huge cock flood back. You remember thinking he was going to split you in half as he had you an overstimulated, dirty mess, and now you knew why.

His back arches as he tries to close the distance even more, letting out soft grunts in your ear; they're only for you to hear. Your hand snakes its way up underneath his shirt, feeling your way up his abs. He sighs happily at the sensation, immediately taking off his shirt.

Slowly, you begin to kiss your way down his neck, not caring how rough you are. You know he can take it. "My perfect boy. My gorgeous, gorgeous boy. My Superman," you moan out in between kisses.

Clark's a mess next to you. Your hand moves from his chest down to his waistband. He shivers and moans your name as you pull on his sweatpants.

"Missed me so much, you're a mess, and I've barely even touched you." Your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers as you feel his abs flexing with every breath.

"Gonna make me cum right here if you keep teasing me like that," Clark moans into your mouth.

"Is that a promise?" you ask innocently as your hand slides down into his boxers.

"Yes, baby, oh—"

BEEEEEEEEEP

Your heads shoot up toward the smoke alarm going off, then down to the smoking, charred concoction now sitting on Clark's pan. You can't help but laugh.

"Aren't you supposed to have like heightened senses or something?"

"Well, I was a little distracted," he said, gesturing to you while running to fan the smoke away from the alarm.

And that's how you found yourself in Clark Kent's apartment on a Saturday morning, wearing his high school sweatshirt, calling your lawyers to throw out the lawsuit while Clark made you breakfast.