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.

yet your attention is away from that, you were more eager to know where a certain someone is this morning.

clark’s desk is empty, from what you can see, two desks away from his. late as always. and at times like this, you imagine him stumbling through the busy streets, trying to get to work because he either woke up late or something else held him back to get to work. how he’d cutely and clumsily walk in here at last, tie and glasses askew, a slight furrow on his brows, and holding a tray of coffee. one for jimmy, lois, himself, and… you.

your heart just starts fluttering at the thought of him personally placing that hot cup of your go-to order on your desk. then muttering a small ‘good morning’ in a deep voice slightly close to your ear, and feeling his warmth radiating at your side. then you would shyly thank him for it.

clark kent was currently making you semi-crazy.

you don’t know how long you’ve had this little big schoolgirl crush on him. but who doesn’t? honestly, you don’t know why he doesn’t have a long line of people lining up, like jimmy, to date him. in your eyes, clark kent is the embodiment of a dream man. smart, kind, humble, handsome, tall… big, and cute. there’s a long list you could use to describe clark kent, and that’s how much you like him.

and if only you had the guts to ask him out, you honestly would. but that overwhelming shyness takes over, part of your lovely personality. you’d sometimes feel so embarrassed by how quiet and tiny your voice is when you two talk sometimes. even more embarrassing if everyone would see how you act so differently around him, but the good thing was that everyone knew you as this shy thing in the bullpen. a surprisingly rare trait for a journalist, but you do an excellent job in your work. the frequent front page headlines you have been writing are the evidence, almost close to clark’s victory streak.

your fingers tap impatiently on your desk, still staring at the empty desk, and patiently waiting. it’s disrupting the work you’re supposed to finish today. while the others were anticipating superman’s victory on the screen, you were looking at the opposite, anticipating something else. but luckily, you snapped out of your love haze, cheeks getting hot from embarrassment as you looked around to see if someone caught your awkward moment before getting back to the computer screen. but everyone was too busy to even notice you. suddenly, yells and shouts of praise for superman rang in the bullpen as the creature terrorizing metropolis was finally beaten down, and you sighed at yourself…

clark kent definitely is making you crazy.

a few minutes had passed, and the chaos had quieted down a bit. you were too busy to even look up at the tall, clumsy man speeding through rows of desks to get to his. and you were right in your daydream, his tie was askew, save for the glasses that were sitting perfectly on the bridge of his nose, hair messy, and holding a tray of coffee as jimmy greeted him.

“a little late than usual today.” jimmy teased as clark handed him his coffee. “thanks, man!” clark chuckled a bit at that, if he could guess, he was around 25-ish minutes late or more… he doesn’t wanna know honestly.

“yeah, sorry.” he says before handing lois’ coffee to her outstretched hand, busy with something as well, then muttering a ‘thank you’ before sipping it.

“my usual road got closed on the way.” he easily lied, and jimmy immediately rambled about him missing the news of superman fighting a giant monster a while ago. he entertained jimmy with that for a second before hastily walking towards you. you’re too engrossed staring at your monitor to notice him as the tall man places your coffee in front of you, and does his usual greeting.

“morning.” he smiles, voice gentle and soft with that deep baritone you fawn over. your heart picks up a beat as you look up to see clark. your mind wanders, curious to know how tall he is, how he almost towers everyone here.

“good morning.” you shyly replied, grabbing the coffee. “and thank you.” you held the coffee up to show him your appreciation then took a sip.

“busy morning?” clark asks, and you nod.

“the usual.” you laugh a bit, silently panicking inside on what else you could say to keep this conversation going, then abruptly end it with him walking back to his desk. you had to say something and make a change.

“congrats on your front page yesterday by the w-way.” you wince at your stutter, nerves getting to you.

clark doesn’t seem to notice how you avert your gaze from his.

“thank you!” he smiles sweetly, and you melt, forgetting what else you were going to say, but he’s stepping away now. your gaze looked like the epitome of yearning as you watched him go back to his desk. you feel a little disappointed in yourself at that. if you weren’t melting down every time he spoke to you, you could’ve asked him if he wanted to get lunch together later. but oh well, there’s always next time. you reassured yourself, not noticing some hidden eyes looking at you.

jimmy watched the scene unfold, shaking his head slightly, amused as clark sat on his desk at last. the smallville man acting all normal, not noticing the obvious signs of your crush on him, or maybe clark does notice… just not saying anything to make it awkward until you say something. jimmy kinda believes that one. clark’s an observant person, and he must have at least wondered about you.

“10 bucks i bet he knows she likes him.” he whispered to lois, knowing she’s watching as well.

“15 bucks i bet he doesn’t know at all.” lois challenged him, still busy reading the latest digs she found on lex luthor’s involvement with the boravian government.

“is that a challenge, miss lane?” jimmy turned to her, pumped up to win this bet.

“oh olsen, you’re on. because i’m always right.” lois scoffed. jimmy rolled his eyes, but was determined to prove lois wrong… for the first time. (he’s definitely going to lose. he knows it deep down, just in denial.)

“challenge accepted, then.”

・゜゜・．

the hours go by, and lunch rolls in quickly. your stomach grumbled, making you frown even more, still feeling a little down, and you haven’t packed a lunch today. your coffee’s gone. your fingers have stopped typing, and your brain has caught a dangerous case of writer’s block. just when you’re almost done thinking about what to write next, your mind decides to stop thinking. you groan, wanting to bang your head on the wall right now.

“lunch time.” lois spoke up, walking to you, hunched over, drowning in your quiet despair of any journalist’s worst hour. she smiles as she pats your shoulder, making you groan. “come on, my workaholic sphinx.”

“i-i just need to finish this-“ you reasoned, looking at lois with sad puppy dog eyes. she almost falls for it.

“don’t start. we are eating before finishing anything.” she scolded, gesturing for you to stand up.

“okay.” you quietly muttered. this was a common occurrence between you and lois. you grew close to her, having shared the same curiosities and fondness for each other’s works, and she has been there for you since the start.

“anything you craving?” lois asked.

you hum, thinking. “hm. pizza? you?”

“meh, noodles?”

“please stop eating instant noodles.” you begged, knowing her unhealthy diet of eating whatever is quick enough to cook and eat. and apparently quick enough to also make her sick. and the godly amount of sugar she’s been consuming in her coffee as well.

lois laughs. “okay, pizza it is.”

you nod in relief, and grabbed your wallet. your eyes instinctively glance to clark. he’s busy staring at his screen too, and you wonder if he has anything to eat.

should i ask him if he wants pizza? you ask yourself. maybe he has his own lunch. you suddenly thought, and maybe you should just ask him if also wants to get lunch anyway. what’s the harm with that? you think that’s a good idea, but once you’re almost at his desk with lois, you back down, feeling super shy all of a sudden. what if he doesn’t want to-

“hey, smallville.” lois suddenly spoke as you two stopped. you silently thank lois even if she ‘doesn’t’ know your small crush on him. clark immediately looks up, looking at the two of you. lois glanced at you for a moment, then at him, definitely fighting back the urge to smirk.

“wanna grab lunch? we’re grabbing pizza.”

“i would like pizza too.” jimmy says with a dramatic, sad tone.

“was going to ask you too.” lois replied before turning back to clark, raising her brows in question.

clark hesitates for a moment as he glances to you. nevertheless, he could eat something greasy and cheesy right now after fighting a giant galactic creature a while ago to replenish his stomach.

“pizza sounds good. antonio’s?” he asks, and you nod with a soft smile that’s infectious, he smiles back as well. jimmy’s saying something else in the background of ordering their calzones or whatever- he wonders what’s your favorite pizza there so he can take note of it next time.

“it’d be a crime to order pizza elsewhere, kent. of course antonio’s.” lois tuts, breaking the silent tension, and walks ahead with you trailing behind her.

“s-sure! just need to find my wallet.” clark clumsily stands up to catch up, patting his pockets, checking if he has his wallet, then confirms it’s there before rushing to catch up with jimmy by his side.

antonio’s pizzeria was across the street, but a few blocks down in the residential areas. it’s a little pizza shop, run by a family, which is a guaranteed spot where the pizza is phenomenal. the gentleman that he always is, he opens the door for all of you. the savory smell of baked dough, along with pepperonis and cheese, makes your mouth water.

the owner greeted all four of you, and lois took the initiative for small talk while you stared hungrily at the display of a freshly cooked pepperoni pizza behind the glass display.

“gosh, it always smells so good in here.” clark chimes in, standing beside you, and you nod in agreement.

“smells like heaven.” your mouth waters, thinking which flavor you’ll get.

“already picked your poison?” clark asks, and you look up to see him also hungrily eyeing the pizzas.

“maybe pepperoni, classic fave.” you shrugged, you weren’t picky. “or margarita…” you take the time to admire his side profile. glad you were actually talking to him. “what about you?”

“that’s a good question. i pick.. hmm-“ clark then glances up, as if he’s thinking deeply before glancing at you. “meat lovers or… hawaiian! and i’m sensing judgment right about now.”

you giggled, taking note of that. “i don’t judge, i promise-“ clark gives you a look. “okay, maybe a little… fruit on pizza is a crime, clark.”

he dramatically puts a hand over his chest. and you swoon over how cute he looks. “you’re breaking my heart here.”

your cheeks are getting warmer at that before cheekily teasing him back, just a little shy. “you’ll get over it.”

clark smiled back. “i might not. you have to tell me your prejudice against it.”

you two talk, a quiet banter of defending each other’s opinions about a controversial pizza flavor. jimmy slyly glanced again at the two of you having a moment. he looks at lois silently while she pays for her order, a look of ‘see what i’m seeing?’ and a little ‘i’m proving you wrong’ because clark somehow always makes small conversations with you. he must have known your crush on him! lois looks back at him, shaking her head, and still confident as ever with her bet.

“don’t get your hopes up.” she pats his shoulder, jimmy scoffed as he paid for his calzone at that.

you and clark are clueless about the silent feud happening. clark then insists you go ahead first, telling you that he’s stuck between getting mozzarella sticks or garlic knots along with his pizza. you nod, and went ahead. you wait for your order beside lois as clark finally makes up his mind. he tells the seemingly young cashier, who looks bored and tired, for a slice of meat lovers and garlic knots.

“out of sausage and ham right now, sir. that okay with you?” clark blinks, not fully understanding what the young boy said, but ultimately understands it quickly.

“so it’s just… a pepperoni pizza?” he asks, a little dumbfounded. the cashier guy just shrugs.

“we have bacon.”

“yeah, but that wouldn’t be meat lovers- it w-would just be, ‘ya know, pepperoni pizza with bacon.” he reasoned, very nicely at that. the cashier’s face remains passive.

“then, sir, would you like a pepperoni pizza instead of meat lovers?”

that got his irritation on the edge a bit how bored the cashier said it. and clearly they didn’t have meat lovers right now, so why even bother to tell him that- clark then just nodded, defeated. “i- sure, yeah, why not?”

lois snickers beside you, amused at the interaction. muttering something about teenagers these days, and clark being too kind to argue further. you just shake your head as clark looks in your direction with a defeated expression. then smiling once his gaze meets yours.

you’ll remember his pizza order now, hoping to rectify his favorite order on another day.

・゜゜・．

admiring clark from afar was the plan you told yourself numerous times. it was the logical way to do when you’re crushing on your attractive co-worker. but you also can’t help but think of the alternatives. you were fine, just yearning two cubicles apart… but sometimes fine isn’t fine. sometimes you just wanna tell him, and no one said that the indirect option wasn’t open, right?

days go by, you worked on the courage to make small changes in your situation with clark. like what you’re doing now as you slyly placed a takeout box on his desk before walking to yours. perry had just called him in his office, and lunchtime is right around the corner. your heart almost leaped out of your chest when you heard his footsteps. you quickly sat down, acting like nothing happened, and besides… the small token was just a ‘thank you’ for the numerous times he gave you coffee. totally not a cover-up!

clark sighs as he walks to his desk. perry had just given him his opinion on his latest work. and he was not impressed with what he came up with. maybe it was clark’s fault for asserting too much of his opinion on luthor corp, and on lex luthor. perry just told him to work on it more, and make it worthy to be read in a newspaper, and he’s expecting it to be done today.

he’s thinking of skipping lunch, maybe going heavy on dinner later, and focusing on revising his draft. not until a whiff of cheesy goodness catches his super smell. a takeout box with a sticky note catches his attention. it’s on his desk, and he stupidly thought somebody might have accidentally placed it there until he read the note.

my thanks for the coffees! and don’t skip lunch if you’re thinking about it. : )

and signed by you. he chuckled, how generous you are as he opened it. pizza from antonio’s, a meat lovers slice with an actual variety of meat toppings, and… oh? he’s amused seeing a slice of hawaiian in there as well. he looks over to see you focused on the screen. his mood lightens as he sits down, taking a bite as he works on his draft. definitely thinking what else he could pay you back for this.

out of the corner of your eye, when you saw his tired face light up that moment, you knew you had to continue on with these small gestures you can do without hinting too much of your feelings for him. deep down, you knew you were holding yourself back, but what’s wrong with doing it in your own way anyway?

and so began the back-and-forth ‘kind gestures’ you and clark have been doing to each other. and in all honesty, you could genuinely tell that clark hadn’t gotten the memo yet.

after the frequent coffees and lunch drops on your desks, you worked up the courage to ask him for his opinion on something you’ve been working on… numerous times. and he should have been a little skeptical, knowing you were close to lois, and who you could have easily gone to rather than him. but you guessed it was in his kind nature to help you in anything.

but this time, you had the intention of asking what he thought of your working article on the famous superhero that just saved the city again a few hours ago. you knew he was the only one who could interview superman in the flesh. and you can’t help but be curious how he does it as clark reads your work right now, hunched over you, and focused on your screen. he really didn’t need to come over to your desk (you definitely did not intend it) and stand close to you.

his cologne overwhelms your nose. his body heat beside your shoulder, and his shadow looming over your figure make you feel warm and fuzzy. like a big old blanket, a good-looking blanket at that. your heart beats loudly, and you wonder if he can hear it in this close proximity. you blame the caffeine for the added jitters as you finally ask him something.

“how come superman always agrees to talk with you?” you ask softly. clark then stops for a moment from reading and shrugs.

“favoritism or i’m just his best friend.” he joked.

“so both?” you laughed. “come on, there must be something you do to make him trust you. i need tips so i can finally interview him. ‘ya know… charm him over like you do.”

clark shakes his head as he looks at you. when he turns his face toward you, you swear you could almost touch noses. your fingers nervously tapping against your lap, trying to calm yourself, how close clark is.

“you don’t need tips from me…” he adjusted his glasses. “i’m sure he very much would be delighted to talk with y-you.” he awkwardly smiled, and you hold your breath as he lets the moment linger before turning back to the screen.

“h-how do you know that?” you stuttered, heat covering your cheeks.

“‘cause i’ll tell him about you next time i see him.” he confidently said. “and because i’m such a good charmer as you said.”

you giggled. “okay, no need to rub it in my face, kent.” you hear him chuckle, and your smile doesn’t falter. “i appreciate it though. i owe you one.”

“pay me back with your opinion on my draft, then?”

“sure.”

・゜゜・．

you were not sure whether clark fully noticed how you were only doing this to him. the small talks, asking for his help all the time, frequently asking for his opinions as well, and so much more that anyone could have noticed something. still, it was nice getting closer to him even though you were still shy around him. and maybe, you thought sadly, clark just really sees you as his friend. you didn’t want to assume the attentiveness he’s been giving you was something… or maybe a something. while it could be true, you wished maybe you should’ve just gone the easier route of asking him out. the route that everyone would have done in the first place, rather than letting your shyness take over, and testing if he felt the same or knew your feelings for him.

it’s a bit disappointing really…for wanting more. when in reality, you’re holding yourself back from opening up for more.

and now you’re contemplating whether to just ask clark on a date or completely let this go. rejection was something you fear if you asked him. and you feared the outcome of it. clark would be all awkward around you… still nice, but not like before if he said no. although some people would suggest facing that bridge is the best way of getting it over with your big feelings, but at the cost of risking your closeness with him? you’d rather just let your crush on him linger until you can move on.

and truth be told, you know deep down your feelings for him will never go away. even if it isn’t just as big right now. but for now, you just want to dance in the small moments you have with him.

“i need your opinion.” clark starts as you two stand beside each other in a small coffee shop, waiting in line. while jimmy and lois are sitting outside, waiting for you two.

“y-yeah?” you turn to him. there’s a look of momentary hesitation on clark’s face as he fiddled with his wonky and loose tie.

“in another perspective… of superman.” he gulped, and you listen. “i’m curious to know another’s opinion on him. not just- you know, all the serious business, but m-more of a…” he’s trying to find the right words without sounding too personal.

“human perspective? what do I think of him as a person?” you guessed.

“yeah! yeah, yeah.” clark excitedly nods. “it’s just… i’ve been thinking of writing that topic for a while. just really never had, um, someone in mind to ask. so, i hope you don’t mind…”

you’re a little giddy that clark thought of you first for his topic. “clark, i don’t m-mind. i think that’s a good topic to discuss.”

“cool! thank you. it’s just one, two, or more questions, something that covers all.” clark pulls his phone out, ready to record your segment.

“you sure you want to ask me in a busy cafe?” you giggle, and clark blushed.

“right, right- sorry, got ahead of myself.” he awkwardly chuckled. he then looked at you with a sweet, small smile. “you’re very patient with me, huh?”

you blink, not sure what he meant, and he seemed to notice that as he shrugged.

“it’s just that people usually think i get overly intense when it comes to our guy in blue.” he’s embarrassed; he is talking about himself.

“hm, not intense. passionate.” you mindlessly tell him, looking at the menu, and averting his gaze out of habit. “i think… others are just jealous you’re the only one who gets to see and understand him, and you care what he does. that’s something…”

clark went silent at that, studying you and your quiet way of assuring him. there’s a tense silence as you finally glance at him again. there’s something else you wish to say on the tip of your tongue.

that you like him for the way that he is.

and how much you want him.

but as always, you deflate back as you look away again.

“that’s a new way for me to think about that… thank you.” clark breaks the silence. “coffee’s on me.”

you shake your head all the sudden, this habit of his on gifting. “clark, i got it, thank you though-“

screams suddenly erupted from outside. the ground shook, and you gasp as the lights above started swaying. people inside the cafe froze as they held on to their coffees and belongings. clark’s hearing picks up something, and the way the crowd’s dispersing outside the cafe meant trouble was brewing.

“clark-“ you’re about to ask what was going on, but another seismic wave hit the cafe which caused the lights to flicker, and people yelped in fear. clark’s hand immediately gripped you softly on your side, steadying you. his expression turned serious, focusing on what he’s sensing yet it’s broken as you break away from his hold.

“lois? jimmy?” you call out to them, hastily walking outside. fearful for their safety.

“w-wait!” clark calls out to you, rushing to catch up. you’re relieved to see them both still there, just shaken like you, as lois immediately went towards you. clark’s super senses alerted him immediately once he stood outside.

“you okay?” she asks, and you nod. “what the hell was that…”

“hey guys…” jimmy called out, pointing somewhere, and making all your heads turn there. there was something happening a few blocks away, something big emerged from the corner of a building, and you all collectively gasped. another kaiju. clark immediately sprang into action as he ushered the three of you inside the building, as more people ran towards your direction to get away from the thing.

“inside! let’s go!” he told the people outside the cafe as well. the crowd grew larger, a sea of people trying to get away. you’re squished between lois and jimmy trying to get into the cafe. some frantic people shut the door immediately as screams outside grew louder. you’re relieved that you’re inside, yet your eyes immediately went wide, realizing clark was nowhere to be found in the cafe.

“oh my god-“ you panicked to lois. “w-where’s clark?”

jimmy and lois looked around, surprised as well that the big man was nowhere to be found.

“jimmy, did clark get inside?” you frantically asked jimmy, who’s clutching his bag.

“shit- i don’t know! i got squished in too.” something immediately clicked in you. lois eyes widened, realizing what you’re about to do based on your expression.

you pushed around, trying to get out, and ignoring lois’ frantic words that you shouldn’t go out. all you could think was clark was outside, probably lost in the crowd that formed, and you’re scared he might get hurt or worse. you didn’t want to think of the worst as you finally got out. jimmy and lois are trailing behind you.

“get inside now!” lois yelled to you by the door as you looked around, trying your best to spot the tall man with black curly hair. your heart lurched when you couldn’t see him. people then screamed even louder as the large creature was bashing the buildings, and flipping everything in its way. and from what you can see at a distance, a familiar red and blue color was circling it. but that didn’t matter now, all you could think of was clark, and where he was.

“clark!?” you shouted, worry etched in your voice. lois and jimmy’s shouts merely rang in the background as you pushed forward from the crowd that’s going opposite from you. in your worried haze, you’re forgetting that the large creature might literally collapse any second once superman punched the living shit out of it where you’re standing alone.

a dark shadow looming over you was the clear indicator as you look up. you stumbled backwards, seeing the rapid descent of the body. you know you couldn’t outrun it, and you weren’t sure if you’d be able to get back inside the cafe. a flash of fear grips you in place as you instinctively hold your arms up your face, shielding yourself from the incoming impact you’re expecting to be quick if you’re squished by the large monster.

“lois!” jimmy panicked as he grabbed onto lois who was trying to get to you. not until…

“oh my fuck!” you cursed out when you felt your feet leave the ground in such incredible speed. you quickly gripped whoever shoulders just lifted you off the ground as you watched the large body collapse on the round in front of the cafe you were just standing on. you hoped no one was injured as you saw lois small figure looking up from where you are.

and it hits you all of a sudden.

“are you alright, miss?” the deep baritone of his voice reminds you of clark. you’re hovering in the air, in superman’s arms, and you’re still thinking of clark.

“i-“ you calmed yourself for a moment, it was overwhelming to process what just happened, and now superman is talking to you. his expression falters, worry plastered across his face at your lack of answer.

“i-i’m okay… thank you.” you sigh out, and he nods. the gentle arm wrapped around your waist astonishes you, how easy you are in his arms. like a feather in his hands.

“almost lost you there.” he humors, and everything suddenly crashes as you look down, trying to find someone as he observes you.

your brows furrow, trying your best not to cry in front of superman. clark senses your distress. he then flies the two of you on a rooftop. he guides you to safely land on your feet. you hold on to his hand as you touch the ground at last. your fingers brushed against each other as you let go first, not noticing how he clenched his fist afterwards, as if he’s memorizing the touch of your palm.

“h-have you seen clark? he didn’t get in- i-i need to find him. what if he’s…” you suddenly ask him, trembling. his eyes softened as he understood the distress now.

“he’s alright, ma’am. i can assure you.” his words of assurance calmed you a bit as you nod.

“thank you- again.” you tell him with such sincerity.

there’s a quiet moment after that between the two of you. like a comforting and familiar feeling as you bask in the image of superman. but the moment is broken as he looks at the scene below, and you know he needs to go.

“it was nice meeting you.” you tell him, shyly. he nodded, taking a moment to look at you one last time as superman.

“likewise, ma’am. be safe.” he flies off, and you watch in amazement at that. you take the time to calm down a bit, your heart still beating loudly, and adrenaline pumping in your veins. although the peace is ruined when the door on the rooftop slams open. lois and jimmy seemed to have ran up here.

“super-“ lois heaved, breathing uncontrollably from the amount of stairs they’ve just climbed to get to you. “-man. superman and you!”

you rush over to her but she beats you to it with a bear hug. while jimmy is catching his breath by the door, his camera slung over his neck. you could feel lois soften as she breaks the hug to cup your cheeks, and checking you from head to toe. you’re about to tell her you’re fine but she shushes you.

“that was the stupidest thing you have ever done.” she scolded, and you silently nod. letting her fuss over you as she mumbles about what could’ve happened if superman wasn’t there. that you could’ve been squished, and she doesn’t know what to do without you.

“she almost punched me for saving her, can you believe it?” jimmy chimes in as he takes pictures of the massive unconscious creature from the ledge. a great angle, he said.

“that’s because you were holding me back from pulling her in.” lois rolled her eyes. “i’d rather get squished together anyway, but he ruined it.”

“lois.” you laughed, flattered as she smiled back.

“is clark…?” lois asked, hesitant.

“superman said he’s safe. i just don’t know where he could be- i forgot to ask.” you grumbled at yourself. you hadn’t even think to ask the man of the hour where clark might be due to being a little starstruck and frantic at the same time. lois’ expression seemed skeptical, because how did superman know he’s safe? but nonetheless, she reassured you clark’s fine if superman said so himself.

“i’m sure he’ll turn up. kent has a habit of disappearing. but you know, it’s strange that coincidentally, superman and clark-“ before lois could finish, the door opens again, and all heads turn to there. clark stumbled out, adjusting his glasses as you physically felt the wave of relief hitting your entire body. your eyes met with clark’s instantly, and he’s the first to speak.

“h-hey, i just saw you get flown up here- oh!” you rush over to him and hug him tightly as his hands grip your waist, surprised. lois backs away, opting to stand beside jimmy, wiggling his brows, as she pokes the other man to turn the other way to give you two some privacy. clark feels tense, how close you are. but he softens and gently reciprocates the hug.

“sorry, i got lost in the crowd…” he reasoned, knowing you were stressed when he disappeared for a moment. you didn’t say anything at that, and he’s slightly worried again. “y-you okay? i mean, you got to tell me about superman and you-“

“don’t do that to me again.” you said, visibly upset, your voice tiny and shaking a bit. you pull away from him as clark sees visible tears running down your cheeks. he feels guilty all of a sudden.

“h-hey, i’m sorry, yeah- that was stupid of me, really stupid. i’m sorry, don’t cry-“ he fumbled, and you can’t help but let out a chuckle seeing him so distraught at your behalf. but you cried even harder, the thought of him getting lost and maybe squished by the monster’s body, wrecking you. that you haven’t even told him that you want him.

“i really thought you got squished, clark!” you wiped your tears hastily. “a-and- i couldn’t find you anywhere! and i was thinking, what if you tripped in the crowd, and you couldn’t get up. then maybe you got squished when that giant thing f-fell-“

he stays quiet, hearing your rant. his own heart fluttering realizing how much you care for him.

“…then i realized that i haven’t even told you that i l-like you before you disappeared, and maybe got squished!” you finally calmed down, then your eyes widened at what you just said. clark’s silence suddenly scares you as you look away from him.

“…you like me?” clark sounds stunned. you don’t know what to say, but clark steps closer, and you finally look at him again.

“yes.” you whispered, uncertain where this could lead. he melts inside at that single word of confirmation.

“that’s- w-wow.” he’s nervous now, flustered.

“you really like me?” he’s convinced this is a dream, and you raise a brow at his confusion.

“yes.” you’re nervous now too. “it’s ok if you don’t…” you tried to dismiss it, but clark shakes his head.

“i thought i was the only one crushing over here.” he suddenly says, and your heart skips a beat at that. is that true? you worry this might be all in your head, but clark looks absolutely real right now as he stares into your eyes. he’s leaning in now, and you’re looking at his lips, breaths mingling, and heartbeats synchronizing. you tiptoe up as his lips finally brush against yours-

“i win!” lois whispered-yelled at jimmy, who groaned in defeat, head down as he shook his head. clark and you turn your heads at that.

lois claps a hand over her mouth. she then ushers jimmy to come with her. “sorry. we’ll leave. continue, please.” she winks at you, and you embarrassingly hide your face against clark’s chest. jimmy then turned around to the two of you, looking at clark with such disappointment.

“i had faith in you, clark. i really did, buddy.” he pats his shoulder as lois chuckled, pocketing the money jimmy just gave her. clark looks confused as jimmy walks away.

“faith in me-?” he mumbles to himself what jimmy meant. “what?”

lois answered for him as they neared the exit.

“we bet on you two, and you’re an oblivious fool!”

clark genuinely seems offended at that. “that’s-“

you laughed, making clark forget whatever retort he was going to say. it was true, though. but was he really…?

“i’m not that oblivious… am i?”

You look around at the room, the maroon leathered walls creating a ghastly look. Not even the floor-to-ceiling library saved it. "Pray tell, do you interview everyone in…this asylum-esque room…?"

Your vague gesture to the room has Perry floundering while pulling out the leather cushioned arm chair for you. "We — well, only for the ones that matter but, if it's not to your liking, we can have it torn down, change the walls. Make you more comfortable for your next visit perhaps."

The insinuation is clear, but all you do is let out a displeased hum.

"What of the boy?"

Perry blinks at you and then chortles out a laughter, which you immediately reel back in a cringe.

"You mean Kent? Yes! I forget that you specifically asked for him. God knows why." He's looking at his phone nervously, muttering the end of his sentence. Perry turns to tap aggressively on his phone.

The doors damn near gets taken off the hinges when it swings open. Clark stumbles in, halfway tugging his tie up. Choking himself when he over-tightens it. You're turned halfway over your shoulder, sizing the taller man up.

"There he is. Man of the hour." Perry stomps over, patting Clark with a harder than necessary pat, he's tipped his head to whisper something in a hushed anger. Forcing him to straighten up.

"My apologies, I was —"

"The boy was out interviewing 'Superman', you see." Perry interrupts, as though the additional 'celebrity' name drop would impress.

Your eyes narrow a tinge, glancing down at his buttons that was mis-matched, and the overall sweat-slicked presentation he had going on.

"Interviewing or being Superman?"

The room falls to a silence, especially Clark, whose mouth was opening and shutting like the wind was knocked out of him. Perry's even louder laughter had both your attentions. "She's hilarious! Take good care of her, Kent."

Clark turns to you. Taking a moment to survey you with his head tipped. He shakes his head visibly, "please, sit", palms outstretched to show you to your seat. You turn heel, tucking your skirt underneath you in a poised manner.

You catch Clark sneaking glances at you, fumbling to get his recorder out and onto the table. He nearly knocks the decor off the desk, but your palm snaps out, grabbing the ornate sculpture.

"Sorry. Thank you." He mumbles sheepishly, his hand dwarfing yours when he places it back onto the desk.

The chair groans beneath his weight, aligning the notepad square on the table. A pencil gingerly placed parallel to it, you place your hand over his knuckles when he attempts to press the recorder.

"I do not wish to be recorded."

His breath stutters, "Right," he manages with a clear of his throat, "so, Miss Wayne." He looks to his empty notepad, immediately realising he brought the unedited questions with him, he's already mumbling a 'oh gosh, give me one second.'

The words are on the tip of your tongue, to correct him, but the tinge of exasperation that rumbled deep from his throat at the way he says it. Had you holding yourself back.

You liked it.

Clark is blissfully unaware, biting the tip of his pencil, and then spinning the flimsy wood that looked comically small in his hand, like a toothpick he could've snapped if he so wished.

He was woefully unprepared, so you opt to let your mind wander. Gaze tracking the solid girth of his wrists, down to the veins visibly flexing on his knuckles when he scribbles on the notepad. "Sorry. So — uh, what…brings you to The Daily Planet?"

"Curiosity." You say vaguely. But your attention is entirely on Clark. Your hands fold, and you lean forward while resting your chin on your knuckles. "Boredom," you continue, "Bruce thinks I need good press." You lie, easily.

Clark looks up, mid-word and stops. He really takes a good look at you this time. Mind catching up with the initial visual impact of you. His pencil rolls from his fingers, clattering onto the desk. He manages to snatch it before it hits the floor, though his big figure makes the action look clumsy.

"Are you usually this bad at your job?" You say simply.

He's speechless. The tips of his ears going pink. "I —…no." Clark exhales, adjusting his glasses as though to ground himself. "I'm just not used to…having a guest like yourself."

You tilt your head with a raise of a brow, letting the silence between the two of you stretch. Your crossed legs brushes past Clark's underneath the table, and you hear slight pause in his breathing. He pretends to keep busy with his notes, but all you can do is let your mind wander about what exactly those hands could do if they weren't holding back.

"I liked the piece you did." He looks up when you speak again, lips going tight with a questioning look. "The one about Batman." You let your words hang, watching the faint shift of his posture.

"You wrote about how he isn't the cold hearted vigilante people assume him to be. Something about him leaving clues for the police, that being his style and all." The cap of your heels grazes on his shins.

He swallows thickly, saying nothing.

You leaned in, "stuff people only ever notice when you're close enough to someone."

Clark clears his throat again, pushing his glasses up to his nose. "I…have good sources."

"Mmh." You tilt your head, hooking the tip of your heel beneath the hem of his slacks. His breath catches at that, and his eyes darts towards you. Questioning, but not stopping. "Anyway. Go on. Ask me what you need."

He loosens his tie, nodding. "Y..Yeah. Okay. Pardon my forwardness." His tongue catches his lower lips, biting down onto them before speaking.

"Miss Wayne. You've been on the headlines of…tabloids often."

Your brow twitches at that. "They exaggerate."

"They do." He assures, scratching the side of his nose, "but you've known to have philanthropic endeavors."

The corners of Clark's lips curl up just enough to incite the indent there as he reads his notes on you.

It makes you perk up slightly, transfixed on the way his cheek dimples. "Children's aid in Jarhanpur, playing a big part in re-structuring the schools…it's an endless list. Why don't you speak on them more?"

You straighten up suddenly at your mental slip, quashing the feeling that followed when your heart thrummed at his smile. "I don't do it for praise." Clark's lips part with a bated breath when you drag your heels higher up his leg.

"W…What…for then?" It comes out terse.

"I like how being good makes me feel."

Clark blinks at you, not expecting your answer. It's a feeling he relates to, he thinks.

"I…see. And you don't think it makes you sound like you're just doing it for self-gratification? "

You subtly shift out of your heels. Humming in thought.

This time, Clark feels the softness of your toes slide higher up his shins. Pressing enough to draw a startled breath from him. You keep your expression composed, letting your actions do the speaking for you.

"Uh…Miss Wayne." His voice cracks, and his thighs are bouncing, restless at the vague twitch he feels in his gut. "Perhaps I'm misreading but are you doing that on purpo —"

Clark shudders with a soft gasp. Looking down to see your manicured toes, rested on his bulge.

"Like you said, I seem to do things for self-gratification, do I not?"

Your toes part on the outline of his bulge, lifting it higher to drag down his length. He's hesitant when his hips subconsciously edges to your touch. "It's not…necessarily what I think."

Clark's hand rounds your ankle with a firm grip to catch your attention. You think for a moment that he might stop you. But he just has his gaze trained on you, at your chest, your face, and the glint in your eyes.

You're smiling, amused. He wanted you to look at him. You apply a little more pressure and the growing throb beneath your digits sends a delightful shiver down your spine.

"What do you think, then?"

"I think," his jaw visibly tenses as his hold on your ankle relaxes, letting you rub at his bulge with just the right amount of pleasure. Clark's head lowers, he's rambling under his breath — goodgoshthat's… "I-I think that…you're a good person. B..Because no one inherently selfish would do more for the less privileged."

Your lips twitch at that, teeth catching the soft inside of your cheeks.

"And what about you?"

Clark looks to you, fists curling into a clench on the table. "Me?…" he croaks, voice higher than he intended it to be.

"Do you feel good when you're doing good things?"

You emphasize it with a particularly harder nudge, and he's gasping out, "yes! gosh—yes, i feel good." Your lips part to let out a content exhale.

Clark's head falls lower, breath strained. He's fully bucking into the friction your feet was providing him. "Miss Wayne," his voice drops lower this time, low and guttural. A tone he takes as Superman, and not as Clark.

His broad shoulder twitches while he hunches over. Eyes fluttered shut, panting deep in stutters — holding tight around your ankles. The wetness you feel blooming beneath has you drawing your feet back, sliding back into the black heel left abandoned beneath.

He doesn't register when you stand up and round the table, tipping his jaw up with your thumb and fore fingers. "Call me. For a proper interview."

It was Lois’ idea, Cat’s too but she was less intimidating than Lane’s expectant stare. She was his friend, she spoke highly of him once she found out about his little crush on you, one of the Daily Planet’s esteemed photojournalists. 

Clark had been looking through the zines you’ve published independently, enamored by the way you captured people in their everyday lives. 

A mother holding their child in the subway was turned into a beautiful mosaic of color as passengers walked past. Another of a dog playing in a park close to the Daily Planet, droplets of water paused in motion, the puppy mid-shaking as children nearby roared in laughter. 

You had no idea how he found your gallery. But you think it was the journalist in him. He liked your older ones too, the ones you made in college. Punk shows and protests, some of your neighborhood and of urban explorations done with friends. 

The scenes you created were insightful. He could imagine the sounds, the feel of the light as it angled to the focal object, the smells. 

Your writing appealed to him. So human, natural, slice of life as you dug into emotions people couldn’t name. 

He fumbled over himself as he discussed this over your first date dinner. You looked so pretty in your dress, he couldn’t help but make a slight fool of himself. You decided he was more endearing, but maybe the next date you would give him the tough talk and finally let him go. 

You’ve been saying this to yourself the past five dates. 

Now you’re waiting for your dinner reservation. His hand at your waist, the other holding your clutch as you stood in the overcrowded waiting area.

His thumb soothes over your hip, you exhale shakily as goosebumps rise from your skin. He was warm, he smelled clean, slightly like the ink of a newspaper. You noted a woody and earthy cologne. His hair more swept back than usual, giving him a put together look. He had his suit jacket resting on his forearm and his sleeves were rolled up because of the heat and humidity that unfortunately lasted deep into the evening. 

The need for sex was growing with each date. An unfortunate need to get laid thrumming through your chest and gathering down south to your pelvis and lower belly. 

Damn it, you needed his hands elsewhere, as if you wanted him to hear the sickening squelch of your cunt as his fingers dragged against your walls. 

But you had a feeling that the farm boy didn’t have it in him to give you what you wanted no- needed. You debated within yourself, feeling the tug of his hand at your waist as you got seated, seeing the way he pulled the chair out for you and pushed it in as you sat, if you should end both of your miseries tonight. 

Surely, you couldn’t lead him on, no matter how kind, how gentlemanly or thoughtful he may be. You needed a rough being, a rough pounding to be satisfied. His eyes narrow slightly as you absentmindedly order, your finger tracing the stem of the wine glass, filled with water. It was amusing, in a way, seeing you zone out. 

In your head you go through the pros and cons. The more you spent time together the more he opened up. And you quickly discovered that he was perfect. He was smart, quippy, funny and cute. He was a good man. Although a little sassy at times, you knew he wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

But he must be a virgin. He’s never made an effort to do more. Not even a simple kiss. There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. But you needed something to help you sleep at night, like horse tranquilizer and not 5mg Melatonin gummies. Did he even know about sex? Who knows if his parents even spoke to him about the birds and the bees back home. 

You overthink about his inexperience and about the way you might react to it. It would be bad, you’re not good at keeping your faces in check, much less your own words. It was a miracle you haven’t said anything before. The sun that always seemed to be following him had seemingly stopped you. 

Clark’s hand lays on top of yours, his fingers sliding further into your wrist feeling your heart race at the touch. His thumb presses against it, moving side to side. Your head lifts to meet his gaze, you shiver.

God, when did he get so hot? You could see the veins in his forearms, his biceps bulge from the sleeves. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe for a second. 

“You okay?” 

You nod, your lips pursing in a tight smile as he squeezes you in his hold. You take a sip from your water, the server arrives with the appetizers. 

You were telling a coworker about this exact problem that very morning. 

Superman was spotted and you happened to be in the area as you both witnessed him stop a robbery in a convenience store nearby. He was greeting people on the street that had witnessed the crime, children coming up to him and wanting to be picked up or talk. It was an opportunity for a candid picture you couldn’t ignore.

“How’s your boyfriend, Clark, right?”

You had been talking about Clark, the man that was taking you on dates and just hasn’t made the move. You turn the aperture ring as you attempt to focus on him, the sun’s glare had you inching closer, huffing as you circled around him, your companion in tow, still keeping the conversation going. 

You groan at the title. 

“He’s not my…”

You groan again, you didn’t know what he was. The relationship hasn’t been defined yet. 

“He’s fine,” you mumble. You pause, remembering that he came over to your desk the day before while you were uploading some negatives to your computer. He’d gotten you coffee, a bagel. You showed him some of your shots and he showed you the newspaper, his name on the first page, grinning from ear to ear. He was confident that day, even going as far as to tease you, groaning exaggeratedly at the fact that you had spilled some sauce on your blouse. 

His thumb swiped it off, ever so lightly pressing into your breast, feeling the softness briefly before he sucked it into his mouth. You’d given him a wide-eyed look. It was the most action you’ve gotten from him. 

You lower the camera, sighing lightly as you recall the moment. If only he could see the way you shifted in your seat and wet your underwear at his cocky look. You swore his eyes drifted to your lap for a moment, his throat bobbing in a thick swallow. 

“He got on the first page,” you say plainly. 

You shoot. You didn’t think it was good. You try to adjust. Your colleague scoffs next to you, clearly wanting more gossip. 

“I heard.” Silence. They clear their throat. “So. How is he in, ya know…?” 

You sigh, you shoot, you sigh again. 

“Damn” 

“Yeah.” 

“So, no good?”

You give them a look. You speak your thoughts, almost as if a plumber had found a leak and cut open a spewing pipe. 

“Nothing’s happened yet. We haven't even kissed. The man has no sexual bone in his body. I’m pretty sure he’s a virgin and I cannot deal with that- I mean- I need to be dicked down- and in a good way. At this point who knows if he even knows how to put it in- ” 

Your breath catches in your throat. You swore Superman just looked directly at you, his face neutral, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The conversation ended as he spotted you both, your camera lifting quickly to get the shot. 

Perry liked it, he said Superman looked righteous, his face serious, looking deep into the lens of the camera, the audience. Ready to serve. Ready to prove himself.

Whatever that meant. 

…

He walks you home, like always. It was sweet, so sweet you felt your heart chip away with each step as you got closer to your apartment. Your arm was wrapped around his, halfway through the journey he placed his jacket over you. 

You were too focused on the sidewalk, at your feet, to notice his wandering eyes. The way his chest puffed at how large the jacket was on you, how he could see your cleavage whenever he glanced down. 

You rehearse it in your head. Over and over again, finding something new to say, to soften the blow. You felt like the devil. Maybe a demon. A sex fiend? 

A woman has needs. You couldn’t deny it any longer. It was a comparability thing. 

‘I just don’t think we’re compatible. I love sex and orgasms and you don’t give me the vibe that you’d be able to give it to me. We must part ways dearest Clark.’ 

You barely noticed you were at your door. Your heart races. He notices, he somehow always does. His hand moves to your waist. Something’s he’s been doing more of lately. You attempt to find your keys in your clutch. He leans against the wall, watching you. 

It felt like you two were in a bubble. His hand on your waist, you in his jacket, his large chest blocking everything else around you. His scent consumes you, his warm hand burns into your skin.

Your fingers find the keys and you drop them to the floor, he leans down to pick them up as you do. He was quicker. You straighten awkwardly as he holds it up to you, as he rises, he’s suddenly a step closer, his eyes level with yours as he bends to your height. 

Your back was pressed against the door. Did his eyes just flicker to your lips? Did yours? Your face feels as if it’s on fire, his hand on your waist goes lower, to your hip, then the small of your back, his palm resting on the curve of your ass.

You imagine him grabbing a handful, squeezing with his big, strong, sturdy hand… 

“Hi,” he says lowly, he could hear your heart beat out of your chest. He’s never been this close. You could cup his face. You do. 

He smiles, leaning closer. You should be backing off, he should be walking back to the subway with his head down somberly because you broke it off with him. 

“Hey,” you respond back, almost in a whisper. You grab the key, it digs into your hand as he moves in on you predatorially. He looks down on you teasingly, as if he knew something you didn’t. 

You swallow thickly, your mouth parting as you attempt to find your words. His eyes again are directed to your lips. 

“Clark, I need to tell you something-“ 

He slides his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you close into him. His lips move languidly against yours, your cheeks prickles in pleasure and your eyes widen. 

His eyes were closed as he parted your mouth to stuff his tongue in with yours. You yelp, he groans, and pulls your head closer, his nose smooshing against your cheek. 

You get lost in it, eventually your eyes flutter closed as he sucks in your little sounds, his hand moving under your ass, squeezing it and causing you to moan lightly. He lifts you, scooping you up by the back of your thighs. You didn’t notice how your feet were off the ground, in a haze, in your apartment's hallway. 

His mouth pants in hot wet breaths, nose smoothing down your jaw and neck. He starts to kiss down your throat, your hands move to his head, feeling his soft hair, urging him further, your back lightly pressing against your front door.

He stops suddenly. 

He puts you down quickly, almost making you collapse to the floor from how wobbly your legs had gotten. Your hands tighten over his shoulders in a mix of shock and panic as you land on your feet. 

A door opens a second later, the next-door neighbor sliding past you both. You watch silently, eyes wide. You’re pressed against his chest as he attempts to make more room in the tiny hallway. 

He grimaces, nodding apologetically at the old woman who trudges an overfilled trash bag as she attempts to move past him. 

You didn’t notice that he was so big before. You’re sure his shy demeanor made him seem so much smaller. You were sure he wasn’t that tall before, or his shoulders, you swallow thickly the more you think about it, his shoulders were so broad, his arms tight against his dress shirt. 

You watch with your fingers twisted tightly in his coat sleeves. He went to help the older woman, lifting the trash bag and pushing it into the trash chute for her. 

You feel your pussy throb. He was so nice. And so… dirty. You watch as your neighbor woman pats his chest and he smiles sheepishly down at her. 

She leaves, but not before winking at you from her door. 

You think Clark had awakened something in you. You almost glare at him, your stare intense as he pecked your lips good night, leaving his jacket with you because ‘It looked good’ on you. He turned back with a boyish smile as he walked away, your heart beating out of your chest. 

Your new kink was Clark Kent. 

…

You shift in his gaze. 

You’ve been avoiding him the whole day, flustered, your heart racing whenever he were near. You couldn’t focus as you presented photographs to a reporter you were working in collaboration with that week. 

Some heartfelt story of an old woman being helped across the street by a local shop owner every morning. Who gave a shit. You kept on thinking of Clark’s tongue shoving itself down your throat, exploring your mouth and making you melt against his thick, hard, body like softening butter. 

You could hear him from across the large open media room, chatting with Lois or Jimmy at his desk. He texted you good night, sending you a picture of a midnight snack, as you knew, he always likes to snack. It showed off the obvious bulge in his grey sweatpants, and damn it, you could tell he was soft despite its size. 

Fuck his handful of grapes and ritz crackers, he should have sent a picture of himself shirtless with a hand holding his dick. 

You curse him mentally, you could tell from the moment you walked into work he was going to make the day hellish. His eyes followed your every move as you wandered around his floor. You were usually a floor down, in the photo lab with other photographers who worked in the darkroom just as much as you. 

Jimmy stops you, yelling for you to come hang out for a bit. Damn you, Jimmy, you mumbled under your breath, your boots clicking with each step. Clark had sharply turned his head in your direction, an amused look of confusion in his face as if he had heard you. 

You turn your back to him, ignoring the way he stood up. You were wearing lacy black panties underneath your jeans. Clark could see the way your asscheeks wobbled with each step. He felt an almost possessive feeling in his chest, as if everyone else in the room had x-ray vision. He makes his way over to you, his hand makes its way to your waist briefly and squeezes, causing you to shiver as it slid away.

He looks down at you, smiling with a shrug of his shoulders as Jimmy continues talking about this ‘vintage” camera he found on eBay. The seller was sketchy, he wanted your opinion you guess by the way he was describing the bid. 

“Hey…” Clark whispers, albeit a little loudly. You act as if you couldn’t hear him, pretending to be focused on Jimmy’s computer screen. You could smell him, it made your stomach curl pleasantly, your thighs shift. 

Jimmy looks up, he smiles up at Clark. 

“Oh, hey Clark…” Jimmy continues, starting his explanation all over again once he sees him standing next to you. You twitch, adjusting yourself to cross your arms as Clark's fingers tease along your back, like little spiders crawling all over your spine. 

You give him a sidelong glare, refusing to say anything in front of Jimmy. Everyone knew that you were seeing each other, Clark would spend his lunches on your floor at times, Cat always pressed him about dinner locations. 

He’s never been so bold. Jimmy’s eyes flicker to the touches, the way his finger plays with the belt loop of your jeans, tugging lightly. You inconspicuously slap his hand away. It was unprofessional, others thought it was cute. 

Clark, so awkward. Clark, shy. Clark, the goddamn tease. 

You walk away before he could continue, leaving them watching as you practically stomped out of the room. Jimmy raises his hand exasperated at your sudden departure. You didn’t even give him an answer. 

You disappeared the rest of the day, your fellow photographers mentioning that you were in the darkroom, not coming out, not even for lunch. Clark was shitting himself at your sudden enclosure. What if he went too far, he curses himself and his damn recklessness. He just knew that midnight snack picture was too forward. Shit. 

He makes his way to the photo lab. It was the end of the day, most of the building empty for a select few who wanted the quiet to finish up some report or project. 

He stands, shifting on his feet, his hair a mess from how much he attempted to smooth it back. His curls were gone, he places his suit jacket on the laboratory table’s stool. The room smelled like chemicals, the solution baths by the sink almost making his head spin. Your bag was under the workbenches, the only one in sight. He sighs. 

You were the only person in the lab. 

You heard footsteps, coming closer to the darkroom’s revolving doors. You lift your head from where you were focused on the timer when you hear an attempt to slide the door open. Clark didn’t know how things worked in the lab. Jimmy attempted to teach him once, he just didn’t grasp it. 

“Just keep on sliding it to the left, hop in, and slide it again.” 

You were switching printing paper from one tub to the next, your eyes focused on the timer on the side of the sink. He could see all of your stuff set against one of the desks behind you, a large projector in each desk. The darkroom looked haunted, the light casting a red hue over everything inside. 

He looks you over, you were wearing a tank top, no gloves on even though he thinks maybe you should have some. You shake the picture with your tongs, the excess liquid dripping onto the tray. You clip it on the hangar, waiting for it to dry as you go back to the enlarger and pack up. 

“It’s pretty late,” he mumbles.

You hum in response, he gulps. You were aching not to turn around, all you could think about was that kiss, the way his hands felt against you, his smell, the feeling of him. It was driving you crazy. The darkroom was the only place you could clear your mind and he was invading it. 

He walks around the sink, moving close to you, leaning his shoulder against the shield that divides the space between each enlarger. You glance at him briefly. He looked so handsome, you're sure he didn’t even know it judging by the way his eyes were so sincerely attentive to you. 

“I’m walking you home.”

Not a question, a statement. It sent a chill down your body. You look back at your workstation. Clark watches as you pause, your shoulders tense and square off in a sigh. You nod, slamming your negative contact sheet binder closed. 

He could tell you were pent up and it was all his fault. He almost felt pity, a little guilty from the way he nudged you the past two days. But based on what he overheard from your discussion with your friend yesterday morning, his chivalry had not been as appreciated as he thought it was. 

He had become determined. 

You were waiting for him at the door, urging him inside the tube. 

You push the revolving door, succumbing you both to the darkness as he steps in. The glow in the dark paint and plastic stars shine, not enough to illuminate you both, but visible enough to elicit a simple pleasure from your chests. 

It looked really cool, so he mumbled under his breath. You snorted, keeping you both there to admire the darkness. You thought it was too when you first saw the brush on swirls of green glowing paint. 

“I did this one,” you say softly, blindly reaching for his hand to press it against the side of the metal door. It was a star with your initials inside of it. A lot of the Daily Planet’s photographers placed their marks on the entrance to the darkroom. A rite of passage, even for the interns. 

You slide your fingers against his palm tentatively as he traces along the star. He intertwines your hand together at the light touch, stepping closer to you.

You feel his breath on your cheek, you grip your folder tightly, tingling from the feel of his other hand resting against your shoulder, his thumb tipping your jaw up. You couldn’t see him, but he could see you, your eyes wide, but somehow meeting his even if you couldn’t see. 

The air was getting thinner, his fingers squeezed yours and raised it to kiss the back of your hand. Your lips purse, your brows raising at the affection. It feels ten times warmer than when you first entered. 

“We’re going to lose oxygen,” you say shakily, stepping back and letting go, dragging your hands against the revolving door to open it up to the other side. 

Your eyes adjust to the change of lighting. The harshness of the white lab lights makes you wince, the back of your eyes burning for a second before unblurring. 

He watches silently as you place the finished printing papers in the tub of water by the sink, shifting them lightly around the liquid to completely coat and rinse off any fixing solution left. You were so focused like this. In your zone. Your eyes briefly glancing between your pictures as if looking for any tiny mistake, a blur, a crease, a blob. 

You let them sit there, walking over to the long metal table. You point to the pictures you had ready, sitting in piles with the rest of the finished works that the intern took out that morning as they mixed up solutions and trays. 

He stands behind you, peering over your shoulder, the scent of your musk and chemical, something human and stinging, made his head tip ever so slightly to inhale deeper. 

You felt his breath against your neck as he leaned down against the table, his hand resting against the cool metal as you showed him photograph after photograph. 

He mumbles approvingly with each thwip and slerk of printing paper sliding against each other. The glossy finish soothing against his ears and his tired state. You feel a pleasant shiver trickle down your spine as you feel his chest rumble against your back. 

“You have a good eye. You always capture so much movement,” he mumbles, shifting ever closer. He had taken off his glasses, which confused you slightly. But it seemed as if he took in the image you showcased better without them. 

He was so strange. He smelled like warmth and sunshine. His presence was always comforting. God, you wanted it bad. 

Your last picture feels heavy in your hands, the rest stacked beneath them, the corners and edges pinching your skin as you hold them. You lift it closer to him as he rests his chin against your shoulder. You feel yourself melt against his chest slightly before leaning forward, creating a centimeter of space between you both. 

“Superman. He’s a wonder. Almost looks angelic,” you say quietly. 

Your finger traces the figure reverently. He was surrounded by rubble, creating puffs of grey clouds around him, the light shadowing his face as he floated in the sky with the monster of the week lying unconscious beneath him. A crowd had been forming around it, as if coming out of hiding from the buildings at the edges of the frame, all clapping and cheering. 

He hums, his gaze now directly on you. He studies you, you glance at him, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed at your words. You clear your throat. You weren’t a fangirl, not really. Everyone loved Superman. Everyone appreciated Superman. You hope he didn’t think of you as being part of his fan club. 

He just happens to be around you, maybe you attracted criminals. You're not completely sure, but you always managed to get his attention. He’d look into your cam, almost as if he were waiting for you to take a picture. Perry even seemed to notice that your shots have become more and more about Superman than your usual stuff these past few months. 

It brings in the big bucks, so you don’t mind. 

You turn to your side, facing Clark, tipping your head as you give an inquisitive brow and he looks at you with a half lidded dazed smile. It was shy, intimate, wholly endeared. His eyes pry deeply into yours, as if he knew something you didn’t and was waiting. 

You just didn’t know what for. You offer him the picture, extending it out to him. 

“Could you give this to him?” 

You give him a wanting look, eyebrows creased into the middle of your forehead, almost pleading but not enough to be considered a real beg. You knew he interviewed Superman all of the time. The only other person being Lois. Unfortunately, you didn’t believe Lois had the inner strength to not keep a hold of the picture, she easily swayed with success.

Not that you blamed her.  

Clark straightens up, in utter surprise as you offer him the photograph. It was good enough to be a front-page image. You were willing to give that up. 

“You know him, right?”

He nods wordlessly, gently taking a hold of it, his fingers lightly skimming across yours. A shot of electricity fluttered over your hand, heat spread across your face as he looked you over. As if in awe of you. As if you had personally gifted him the picture. 

He hears you swallow thickly as he places the photo in his laptop case. You point a finger at his chest. 

“Don’t publish it with one of your pieces, alright?” 

His lips quirk up in amusement. He snorts. 

“Superman’s eyes only.” 

You nod firmly.  “Good.” 

Clark bites his lip, looking down at the floor and huffing out loudly. He shakes his head in astonishment, fighting back a grin. You give him a look as he crosses his arms and leans towards you, bending down right in your face. 

“You’re fucking amazing.” 

He says it so sincerely, you let out an awkward laugh, fighting back a smile at the butterflies that he was making you feel from the sudden and exaggerated praise. His large hands cup your face, making you look up at him. 

“What-“

He kisses you, your hands grip his wrists and you gasp as he presses his body into you. 

His lips were soft against yours, your hands move over his forearms, his hand cups the back of your head, his fingers pressing against the nape of your neck. 

“You’re-”

A peck. 

“Fucking-”

Another kiss, this time deeper, his thumb smooths over your jaw, your legs wobble and your eyelids droop. 

“Amazing.” 

Your back hits the metal walls of a door nearby, your hand entangled in his hair, pressing his back towards you to bring him closer. He kissed you harder, groaning as you bit his lip, watching with drunken lust as you pulled back slightly. His cheeks were cherry red, hair a mess, glasses thrown on the floor from when he hoisted you up, his hand palming your ass as he held you up by one arm. 

He tasted like coffee and that tres leches cake he liked from the bakery around the corner. He was so sweet, everything about him was so sugary sweet. You feel his bulge, rising and pressing against the seam of your jeans. Your eyes almost roll back from the size of him, your hips twitch onto it, grinding, your panties were a mess already. 

He kisses you harder, like a starving man, his hand sliding over your hip possessively and underneath your top, his palm against your bare skin and fingers splaying across your ribs, right underneath your breasts. 

You bite your moan back as he pushes your bra up, his fingers finding their way to your nipples. 

“Clark,” you groan out, feeling your body stiffen in pleasure from the stimulation. They were sensitive, his hand squeezing your breast roughly. 

He trails kisses down your throat, shushing you, pushing your strap away to teeth at your skin. He imagines getting you in his bed, tasting you, spreading you out on his sheets and getting on top of you. 

His cock pulses. You feel it and your brain short circuits. You start to unbutton your pants, hands then rushing to his chest to unbutton his shirt. 

He stops you, his head shooting up to face the door. Before you could question him, he opens the door behind you and rushes inside. It was pitch black, you couldn’t see a thing as he closed it. 

“Clark, what are you-”

“Hello?” someone calls out from outside. 

You tense. A fucking intern. You move to buckle your pants, but his hand stops you quickly. Your bags and your stack were out on the table. Your legs tighten around his waist, his hands press you tighter against his chest, his palm resting on the small of your back. 

He was still hard, you had to bite the back of your hand to stifle a moan as you moved against it.

The intern, Micah, you think, calls out your name. You wince. You were in the negative developing room, where you would take out the film from your camera and load the film into a developing tank.

The process had to be done in complete darkness if you didn’t want to risk ruining your film. It was a rather tedious step, annoying if you couldn’t get the roll in place.  

“In here,” you shout. You feel Clark’s chest vibrate, a silent chuckle or snort. You move to slap his chest but miss and hit his collarbone. He makes a hushed ow in response. 

“You ok in there? I’m about to head out.” 

“Yup.” You pop the p. He snorts and you somehow manage to cover his mouth with your palm. His hand squeezes your ass teasingly. 

“I’ll clean up, go home, Micah, have a nice night.” 

A long pause. 

“Ok… good night.”

You could hear the intern open and close the front door. You breathe out a sigh of relief. Clark barks a laugh, and you sigh in irritation. 

“You sounded out of breath.” 

“I did not-” 

“Yeah, you did.” 

You huff. He puts you down, cracking the door open. You both stand out in the light, his chest peeking through, showcasing his defined pecs and collarbones. Your zipper exposes your panties, a little bow at the front making him smirk. 

“Your place or mine?”

He doesn’t think much about the answer. 

“Mine.”

His place was closer, he wanted to see you in his clothes and he wanted to make you breakfast in bed the next morning. It was Friday after all. 

…

You barely had a chance to look around his apartment before he picks you up and walks over to the bedroom. He had a nice city view, open, tall windows that allowed you to see the buildings overhead.

It was nice and very modern. A completely different homestead that you imagined for the farm boy. Then again, you think you might have a lot of wrong ideas about him. 

Your back lands on his mattress. The sheets were soft and fluffy, the pillows silky. He takes off his shirt quickly, taking up all of your attention. 

His hand unbuttoned his pants as he watches you squirm in his bed. He crawls over you, a leg kicking off his pants his cock springing forth from his boxers. 

You moan at the sight. He was out of the ordinary. Long, about seven inches, girthy, you don’t think you could touch your fingertips if you wrapped around him and…

You swallow thickly as it slaps against his ripped stomach. His tip spittles and dribbles pre-cum as he jerks it. Your mouth waters. 

Uncut. 

You’ve never felt need like this. So desperate you felt as if you were underwater, a beast inside of you attempting to claw its way out of your chest and latch onto his expansive one. 

He casts a shadow over you, as he crawls closer. Eyes watching you as if you were his prey. 

His hands make quick work of your clothes, leaving you in panties and your bralette. He touches, presses, squeezes all over your body. 

“Have to get you ready.” 

You pause. He kisses your cheek, pecking down your jaw, his hands briefly squeezing your breast. 

“What?” 

You’re not a size queen, by any means. But you’re sure you could take him. Sure you’ve never had anyone as big as him but… 

You could take him. 

You whine from the back of your throat as he kisses down your belly. His palm pressing against your panty covered cunt. Your thighs close around his forearm, back arching at the stimulation. He could feel your clit through the fabric, pulsing, swollen, ready to be touched.

He presses his face against your pussy, licking erratically, wetting the fabric further with his spit. He could smell your cunt, he groans, his cock throbbing. 

He’s always had a thing for wet pussy. Something in his biology got him so hard at the scent, sometimes enough for him to have to go to the restroom and fix it during your dates. When you were ovulating, his cock stiffened, his body reacting to yours without you even trying. 

Your pussy was so sweet, like it was calling to him. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he finally gets a taste. You smother your mouth with the back of your hand as he pulls your panties to the side, tongue laying flat against your folds, nudging against your fat clit. 

It twitches as he sucks. His fingers pressing against your opening, curling upwards and spreading inside of you. Your gummy walls squelch, a wanton moan escapes you as his tongue enters with his fingers, flicking upwards and pressing against the spongy spot right near your hole’s rim. 

His saliva pools on the sides of his mouth, gliding down your folds and between your asscheeks. You stare at the ceiling in complete disbelief.

The sheets were getting soaked, as if he were a slobbering animal, so hungry for your pussy he started to drool. His hips flex against the ends of the mattress, you take off your bra and start to pinch your nipples as he brings you to the cusp of orgasm. 

He sucks your nub as if there were no tomorrow, tongue circling around it quickly, his fingers pressing upwards and applying pressure. 

Your fingers grip his hair tightly as your thighs start to shake. You feel your lungs start to collapse. 

“Clark.” 

He moans, open mouthed, lips shining with your juices. He looked drunk on it, he swallows thickly as he looks at you from his position between your legs. 

“Say it, say my name again.”

Unbelievable heat courses through your body at his slack jawed expression. 

“Fu- “ He starts to lick and suck again, keeping his eyes on you. “Fuck-Clark” 

One long suck brings you to ecstasy. Your body shakes as an uncontrollable squeal escapes your throat. Your thighs lock around his head, his fingers fuck your through your climax, opening you up, spreading. 

He pulls your panties down your legs as he moves up your body, watching as you twitch and pulse, your mouth open as you panted. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” 

He shrugs. He gives you a smile, soft as he runs a hand over his head, waiting for you to calm down. You feel lightheaded, the world blurs for a moment. 

Your hands shake as they lift to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing against his chin, covered in your slick. 

“Let me suck you off, baby.” 

He shakes his head at your request, head flicking down to lick your thumb clean. He hums and closes his eyes. You gasp at the action. So fucking dirty. 

“C’mon,” you whine. He nibbles on your neck, you melt into his soft comforter. He brings both of your calves to his shoulders to have your thighs press on either side of your torso. A mating press. 

He closes his eyes tightly and shivers at the sight of your bare pussy, glistening, your hole gaping and twitching. 

“Tonight’s about you.” 

He kisses you tenderly, slowly as he licks at your bottom lip, willing you to open up for him. 

“All for you,” he murmurs into your mouth. 

He shifts forward, you let him manhandle you, putting you in any position he wanted. You peek between your bodies, he guides his cock to your folds, rubbing his shaft over you, lubing himself up. His balls were heavy, full. 

His tip pushes into your hole, you constrict around it. You throw your head back as the head pops inside of you with a slimy squelch. Your hands tighten into fists. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe out shakily. 

He knew how abnormally large he was. But he loved watching you squirm and whine. He kisses your cheek.

“Relax. I’ll go slow.” 

You nod, leaning your head back, watching as he focuses on controlling himself. His eyes move across your body, watching as goosebumps rise along your skin, smiling lazily at the sight of you so pliant underneath him. 

“Clark-” your words come out garbled, he watches you intensely as your cunt swallows his cock inch by inch. Your hands fist his sheets, your hole twitches and pulses, your walls squeezing so tight it felt as if they were attempting to push him out. 

He shushes you, kissing down your neck and to your breasts, taking one into his mouth and sucking. His thumb circles over your clit, urging you to open up. 

“You're so fucking huge,” you say out of breath, sweat collecting over your furrowed brow. He pushes in another inch, he groans into you and bites your nipple lightly. 

“You can take it.” 

You felt a building pressure in your lower belly, you took deep breaths in. You felt like you were on the verge of overstimulation, your senses surrounded by Clark, his scent, woody and warm, his touch, his mouth, his monster cock. 

You close your eyes and rock into him, moving your hips from your compromised position. Your cunt produces more slick, tinges of pleasure as his cock drags along your walls and makes your mouth open in half moans and half whines. 

He holds your hips in place. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

He straightens up, you could see his upper body, flexing as if willing himself to not push you further than you could handle. Your nipples tighten, pinched and sensitive in the cold air. 

They jiggled with each flex of his hips. 

He looks further down, his eyes focused on your cunt, watching the way it squelched with each press and drag of his cock. You bit your lip to hold in your moans, the headboard starting to rock against the wall loudly. 

He could see himself inside of you, your walls stretching wide and straining. He lightly nudges your cervix, your body locks up. Your eyes well up in tears. 

“So pretty, just a little longer and it’ll feel so good. Already drunk on my cock, uh?”

His voice was deeper than usual, raspy with want. The tremor of his tone digging into your skin and burying into the marrow of your bones. Your brain is turning to mush, lips parted, almost making you drool.

“Yeah- yes.”

He quickens pace, his balls pressing against your ass, the base of his cock kissing your folds. He presses his body weight against you as your slight winces of pain turn to full on moans of mind-numbing pleasure.

Each thrust feels like a punch in the gut, your lungs compressing and releasing your breath all in one go. A good punch, a sexy punch. His head rests besides yours on his pillow, his grunts feral as he erratically ruts into you. 

He grinds against your pelvis, the pleasure shooting through you from your clit, making your body shake. Your words slurred into mumbles, walls so tight around his cock he almost felt as if it could stop him from moving forward entirely. 

Your feet jostle, the backs of your thighs wobbling against his solid chest. 

“Cum for me, baby.” 

He sits up, releasing his hold on your legs and wrapping them around his waist. His palm presses against your lower belly. The pressure mounts again, you close your eyes tightly, but his hand grips your jaw.

“Hey, look at me.” 

He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips squish together, moans escaping you freely. He seemingly gains control over most of your body as he pounds into you. 

You nudge his hand lower, it lands on your throat. He sees you lose it completely. Your hips move to meet his with each movement, he feels his cock brush against your cervix each time, the soft tissue almost pushing him back like a wall made of Jello.

It sends a delightful shiver up your spine each time. Your body throbs, clit pulsing. 

He’s only ever held the throats of bad guys. If that. It felt so aggressive, so demanding. 

This was entirely new for him. He feels his chest tighten at the sight of your utter enjoyment, almost convulsing against his mattress as each flex of his hips presses you further into it. 

He puts the slightest pressure along the sides of your neck, your cunt tightens so much he had to soften his thrusts. He fears he might actually lose control if you continue, but fuck if it didn’t feel good for him too. 

It felt like your insides were being ripped apart, in a good way. You’ve never felt anyone reach so deep inside you, first emotionally and now physically. 

You were on the verge of orgasm, his squeezing in pulses helping you along. He had a gentle hold over your entire body, sturdy and firm but not pushing further. 

The headboard cracks against the walls, his bed creaks.

“C’mon, cum for me.” 

He leans forward, kissing you with all that he has, your wet pussy makes an even wetter mess, each thrust producing gummy sounds to resound around the walls of his bedroom, your juices dripping to the sheets. 

You swore you saw colors across your eyelids as you came. You could feel his hips twitch, body shuddering and mouth stilling against yours as he spilled into you. 

It went on for a few seconds, both of your bodies wrung tight, molded perfectly against each other as you both shook in pulses. 

He came a lot. You could feel the warmth of his seed spew from around his cock, dripping down your abused hole as he pulled out of you. 

His hand smooths over your twitching thighs as he lightly shushes your groans and moans of utter fatigue. 

He licks you up, moving his lips around your folds as if he were making out with them. The overstimulation made you push on his head weakly, but he didn’t move an inch. 

It was like attempting to move a brick wall. You lean back against his pillows as he laps at you, the sounds of his feast making you cover your mouth and bite down your palm.

His hips flexed against the mattress, and he paused to give out a long moan. You turn your head to see him at full mast, cock still slick with his cum and your juices. 

It was a long night.

…

You woke up in a cloud, your body seemingly floating atop a cumulonimbus. You feel deeply satisfied as you laid in Clark’s bed, nuzzling into the sheets and smelling his laundry detergent on them. 

He changed them as you went into his bathroom to freshen up, right before going to sleep. 

Your eyes finally open and you gaze around his room. He had his front-page paper hung up, a framed picture of everyone from the Daily Planet. A picture of you, cut out from who knows where, stuck into the corner of the frame of a candid of his parents, presumably a baby Clark held between them. 

Your heart soared at the detail. 

You hear him in the kitchen, it smelled like bacon, eggs and warming bread. 

The scene was perfect. The sun’s rays were shining in through the wall to ceiling windows, his kitchen was illuminated by the warmth of the sun. He almost glowed from it. 

You pick up your bag, attempting to be as quiet as possible. He pauses as if he could possibly hear you near silent movement for a second but continues. He was quirky you thought, your hands digging through your cam bag to fish out your camera. 

His shoulders and back flex with every movement, his hand stirring the pan full of eggs, you presume, with a spatula. 

You take a picture of him, with your personal digital camera. You feel a giddiness inside of you as you trace his figure in the image, his exposed torso, the sweats low on his hips. 

You narrow your eyes. He looks sort of familiar. The toaster goes off and he picks up the bagel as if it were nothing, holding it in his palm as he coated it with cream cheese. 

You almost want to tell him to drop it on the plate from how long he holds it like that. You wince, he must have tough hands. But they didn’t feel that calloused.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks without turning. 

You swallow thickly, you could feel the bruises left on your hips, he held onto you fiercely throughout the night. Your back was covered in love bites, breasts too. 

You slept like a baby. 

“Good. You?” 

He turns, food plated. He smiles widely as he makes his way to you.

“Great.” 

Your stare makes him almost miss his step, you pull the sheets over your chest as you sit up. He bites his lip and swallows thickly at the sight of you. 

You were gorgeous, he could see darkened spots over your body, his work. 

You look through the camera roll in your digi cam, ignoring him as he places breakfast beside your legs. He sits next to you, peering over your shoulder. 

You glance between him and the picture you have in your tiny screen. It was Superman, grinning widely, after he saved a girl’s cat stuck in a tree. He had waved at you, pointing to your camera and posing. 

Clark didn’t have his glasses on. You look up at him with wide eyes, mouth parting in shock. Same dark hair, same broad shoulders and chest, same goddamn smile. 

Clark hears blood rush through your veins quickly, your heart beating like a hummingbird’s. He gives you an almost pleading look as you stutter. 

He says your name softly; you slap a hand over your face exasperatedly. How could you have not noticed? You curse under your breath as you cross your arms. 

“Don’t-“ Clark attempts. 

You narrow your eyes. He says your name again, this time in a light warning, pointing a finger at you. Clark Kent who wouldn’t hurt a fly and would actually go through hell and back to save it. 

He makes sounds as you attempt to speak, interrupting you each time. You blurt it out quickly, leaving the room in stilling silence. 

“You’re Superman.”

---------------------

David Corenswet’s voice is sexy and Superman has been freaky and horny since 1978. This is inspired more on the Lois and Clark dynamic from the 80s movies. Like wdym Lois’ underwear is pink, Clark???? Also, I will fight back against any babying of this man! 

Requests open! Plesss give me Clark Kent ideas plesssss

Shutterbug Masterlist

You became part of the plan, he hadn’t lived a single day not loving you only, never not eager to be with you or see you, always keen to learn you inside out. So this moments, where everything felt soft and right and fun, it was all he could ask from this life. That’s who was now, Clark Kent, yours. Superman, yours.

“I- what song should we pick, Clarkson?” You asked, one hand coming to the side of his face to get his attention. He smiled at the nickname; you once jokingly asked if Clark was short for something and when he asked what could it possibly be short for, you responded “Well, I don’t know. Clarkson?”

“Don’t know, darling. Me and you?”

“No, me and her. God! You’re always trying to intrude in our moments.” Lois corrected, giving him a dirty look which Clark could not be offended at, he was only delighted that everyone loved you too. You giggled as you ran your finger down the list, looking for the correct song you two would belt out.

“Let’s do… Cowboy take me away! I loved this song secretly in high school.”

“Yeah! You’re a cowboy, baby. ‘S for you.” You said and looked up at him, winking at him and he rolled his eyes. He helped you down the chair, letting you run towards the stage and leaving him alone with Jimmy and the girl who was flirting with him, the rest of the group elsewhere in the bar. He watched you get a microphone and clear your throat, whispering something into Lois’ ear which the two of you laughed at.

The song started playing and Lois took the first verse, not terrible but not good. However, someone cheered at her which only made her get more excited and louder. Clark looked down at his phone, checking the time and weather to make sure no one got out of here too late, when he was distracted by a melodic voice taking over the chorus. He looked up, and sure enough it was coming from his girl. His beautiful, silly, sincere girl. It was like a choir of angels in your voice; he wondered if your spawn would get the same talent.

“Dude! How had you never mentioned she can sing?”

“I didn’t know!” Clark defended himself from Jimmy, looking back at you whose cheeks were red from the attention, but you were looking at him, singing right into his eyes before looking back at Lois. Clark couldn’t help but crack a smile at the fact that after three years together, he was still far from knowing you completely. There was still so much to go and, Jesus, was he excited for it. He still hadn’t found anything he didn’t like. When the song was over, you two waltzed back to the group hand in hand like you’d just finished a sold-out show, all giggly and sweaty.

“How’d we do, cowboy?” You asked as you came towards Clark and immediately grabbed your face between his hands, pulling you towards his own face and kissing your lips tenderly. A smile threatened to break the kiss on both your mouths so you pulled away and looked at him.

“Why were you hiding that from me?” He teased and you shrugged, not giving any answers to something you didn’t know. It hadn’t come up, and it’s not like you were Whitney Houston. You were just slightly better than average. It wasn’t much of a lie either; you’d never lie to him, scheme or hide. He’d never do it either. You two were already on the peeing with door open stage, the ‘look at this pimple’ stage, the ‘I talk to your mother just because’ stage.

“Gonna take me away now?” You asked and he nodded, one hand on your hip as the whole group moved towards the exit. Behind you, at the stage, a group of girls started to belt out Wedding Bell Blues and you looked back at them as Clark led you away, words starting to pour out like vomit from your mouth.

“Clark, are you ever going to marry me?” Clark’s eyes nearly fell out of the sockets when he heard the words, you looked at him first like you’d were embarrassed you even brought it up but then it turned into a quiet, alcoholic confidence because, hey, just like Laura Nyro wonders, when were you going to see your wedding day?

“Okay, you two… be safe. Bye!” Lois pulled Jimmy away from you and walked towards the other direction, eyes wide and amused at your sudden question. You kept looking up at Clark, waiting for an answer from his suddenly dry mouth.

“No comments? Want me to make my own conclusions?”

“No! I mean, baby, of course I want to! I love you.” Clark walked fast, as if he needed to get home and run from the conversation. Well, jokes on him, you live together.

“Want to what? Say it.”

“I- I want to, marry you I mean.”

“You almost barfed, Clark.” Clark laughed now, because surely you knew you were exaggerating. He loved you; you knew that more surely than anything else in the world. He stopped your steps next to a streetlight and made you look up at him, your silhouettes reflecting the image of love onto a white wall behind you. Picture perfect, exquisite, all that made up you two.

“Honey, I love you so. I always will. C’mon, you know I see my future with you.” He tried to reason but you still groaned at him, wrapping your arms around yourself as the alcohol wore off and so did your body heat. Clark sighed and placed his jacket on your shoulders; you didn’t fight it because deep down you knew he was right. You did know it was you and him for good. You just… wanted it on paper. With a picture, a dress, a vow reassured. Soon enough you got home and said nothing more, you took off your shoes and grabbed a glass of water as Clark went into your bedroom immediately. You sat on the couch and sighed, feeling a little ridiculous now for cornering him like that.

“Clark! I’m sorry, okay? It’s fine if you’re not ready. I know we’re committed, you’re my person, you’re always there for me.” You said as you walked into the room, pulling off his jacket before turning around to see him kneeling next to your window. You laughed, thinking he was being silly before he took his glasses off, putting them on the bed and pulling open a red velvet box. You dropped the jacket in shock, moving closer to see if he was just playing a sick joke on your poor heart. But no, there it was cushioned between mountains of superman blue you were sure was on purpose. It was a ring. A perfect, lovely ring. Perfect size, perfect color, perfect cut. God, did your man know you.

“You, my impatient, beautiful woman, are the love of my life. You’ve been on my side whether I’m winning or loosing, whether I’m Clark or Superman. It’s you, my girl. Will you marry me?” Your mouth let out a huff before you kneeled in front of him, kissing him quick. His mouth tasted different, like the relief of not having to hide that damn box all over the house, having to fly home to get to it before you did and check the ring again and again to make sure you’d like it. Like excitement of giving you a new title, his fiancee, his bride. His.

“So yes?”

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes. I’m sorry I was so annoying-“

“No, you’re not annoying. We were on the same page, I was planning to do it next week. But it’s as good a time as any, ain’t it?” Clark smirked and you nodded, watching him take the ring out of the box and place it softly on your ring finger. Like it had always belonged there. Your smile was surely sweet and sickly, looking down at your hand as Clark maneuvered you into his arms.

“Can I take you to bed, my bride?” He whispered, a kiss on your cheek and you looked at him. In his eyes, his ridiculous blue eyes, there was nothing but wide pupils and passion and love. Yours hopefully matched that, but by the way he looked at you right now, you were sure they did.

In your train of thought, you didn’t realize you had just run into something you really shouldn’t have. A group of kids, young and dumb, were trying to rob a store with bats, knifes and audacity. You stayed still as you watched them notice you, look at each other before one of the pointed a knife to you. You rolled your eyes, put your hands up and walked closer to them.

“I’m not a snitch.”

“We didn’t fucking ask you.” Wow. Mean. Sounds meaner when it comes from people who had reached puberty a couple years ago. The taller one grabbed you by the shoulder and pressed a blade into your arm, uncovered because you were a moron and picked a strappy top. It wasn’t much sharp or intimidating, but you still knew that any move would cut you and ruin your pale blue heels with blood. You looked up at the sky as you heard a big swoosh, eyebrows rising as something, or someone, fell onto the pavement in front of you and scared the shit out of everyone, causing the boy’s hand to shake and the blade to pierce you like you were an unbaked sourdough.

“Oh my God, ma’am, I am so sorry.” The kid reacted as soon as he saw what he had done, dropping the knife and putting his hands up in surrender. Superman was here; nothing could be done. The owner of the store walked back inside and locked the door like it was all over and the other kids ran. Superman. Right. You had heard about the mythical creature before, Metropolis saviours. The handsome bachelor with a heart of gold and fists of steel. Right now, he didn’t look like a mythical creature, though. He was someone you knew all too well.

“Kid, you know better. Look, this is what happens when you play with fire. Someone gets burned.” Superman’s voice rang loud and clear as he looked down at the boy who nodded and gulped, realizing it had gone too far and waited for Superman to give him the go ahead. Superman looked at your bleeding arm before your face. When he was checking the wound and how bad it was, he squinted as if the simple vision of your skin colour, the singular freckle on your hand had transported him somewhere else. His breath hitched and he looked up at you. It was you, the same frown and disappointed look you had always had. You still had your father’s eyes and your mother’s nose. The same lips that kissed him for the first time ever under the bleachers after a football game. The same chin he’d hold softly between his fingers and wipe because you always got paint on it somehow. It was the same hand that he’d hold while walking you home, sometimes while doing chores and you giggled as he tickled your palm while picking up hay.

And you knew those eyes, that fallen curl on his forehead. That nervous look like when you’d ask him how the fuck he got here so fast or stare at him like you knew he was hiding something. The Adam’s apple you kissed so many times trying to get him to relax and let you in. The neck you held when you let him in for the first time, so painful and magical you would’ve never known you two would break up in two days. It was Clark fucking Kent. It was as clear as day.

“Uh- m’am, are you okay?” The kid asked you, still shaking in fear. You turned to him and nodded.

“Just… make better decisions and go.” He nodded and ran in the direction his friends had just minutes before. Clark, or Superman, was still quiet and fearful like he’d seen a ghost. Like you were gonna bite. You would have a couple of years ago, when you were still so mad at him. It took you a very long time and some sessions a therapist, but it was just something you tried to make peace with. Between other relationships you’d realized humans were too complex and not always meaning to harm, even if they still did. You tried to understand why Clark swore he loved you but still refused to stop hiding from you. Why he didn’t show up to your art show senior year and swore he had a really good excuse but refused to tell you what it was. How he swore he was breaking up with you just because he loved you and could see you weren’t happy with him, you didn’t trust him. You gave him your virginity two days prior. How could he say that? You agreed to break up though because he was still sort of right, you didn’t trust him, you weren’t happy. He was still nice afterwards. If he was getting with other girls, you never found out. He said he’d always be there for you and he was, he was at the mass of your mother’s passing two-year commemoration. He gifted you a beautiful necklace for your eighteenth birthday. He went to say goodbye to your house the day he left for college.

But here he was, happy and well and with another identity where he had superpowers. Fuck, that explained a lot, actually. How he didn’t bruise, how insistent his parents were about him ‘controlling himself’ (you thought it was about sexual urges and were confused they bought it up because Clark was almost too much of a gentleman). How he was always hiding, acting like he was battling something he wouldn’t tell you.  

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier. There was traffic.”

“In the sky?” He chuckled once, putting his hands at his hips.

“There was a traffic jam because of a pothole and I fixed it.” You nodded, still confused. Was he going to pretend you couldn’t tell?

“Are you okay? It’s sort of bleeding a lot but it’s pretty superficial. There’s an emergency room not too-“

“I’m fine. Just ruined my shoes. I’ll take care of it.”

“Are you sure, miss?” Miss. So this is what it was going to be.

“Yeah, thanks, uh-“

“Superman.” He responded like that was his name, a hand on his chest.

“That’s what your parents named you?” You asked, still holding the wound pressed hard to avoid any more bleeding.

“Uh, no, m’am. That just kind of caught on. I’m Kal-el.” You nodded, somehow surprised he was being sort of honest. That’s what you had read his name was.

“Do you need any help?” He motioned to your hands, and you sighed.

“Yes, can you just grab my phone out of my bag and help me get my address on google maps?” He nodded and did as told, picking up your phone and letting you unlock it with your face. He looked the background picture; it was your mother holding you and your brother when she wasn’t sick and was still full of life. He remembered her like that, cheery and so kind. He remembered everything from those months too, your father’s numbness, your brother’s confusion, you taking care of everything. Clark shook the thoughts away, opened google maps and pressed the ‘home’ button, quickly mapping out that you were indeed not too far. Just somehow on the other way from where you started.

“Do you want me to walk with you? You never know… they could come back.”

“I don’t think they will, you scared the living shit out of them. But yes, that’s fine.” He nodded with a laugh and led the way to your apartment.

“So, are you new around here?” Superman asked, watching you out of the corner of his eye and inevitably smiled. It felt weird to see you. He had spent so much time just looking at old pictures and holding onto memories. He had great memory, so it wasn’t a problem. But he’d searched for you on social media, asked his parents and no one seemed to know much. You didn’t have an Instagram and weren’t seen around town since your brother went off to college.

“Yeah, just moved here a month ago.” You didn’t look up, you couldn’t look at him anymore without being so confused at the fact he thought you didn’t know.

“Oh, and how are you liking it?”

“Well, it had been fine till I sort of got stabbed.” You motioned to the arm you were still pressing to avoid getting more blood all over yourself, it seemed like it had stopped though, so you removed your palm. You looked down at your bloodied palm, resisting the urge to wipe it against yourself.

“Here, sorry.” Superman offered his cape to help you get rid of mini puddle on your hand. You sighed and wiped it as you held onto it carefully, looking at the soft confection and wondering why the hell he landed on a cape. You let it go when your hand felt usable again and noticed your apartment building, fast enough for you to feel like an utter buffoon for getting lost.

“Okay, thank you, uh Superman, Kal-el.”

“I didn’t do anything much, miss.” He said, looking at you with an indescribable look. His head twisted to the side just a little, you barely noticed, as he looked into your eyes trying to decipher what you were thinking. What you were feeling. What he was feeling. You gulped nervously, antsy under his stare.

“I’m gonna head up.”

“Right, yes, absolutely. Have a good evening, take care of that. And yourself.” He pointed his finger to your arm and then a circle around all your body like giving instructions. You nodded and turned around quickly before you fainted from the way your heart was beating and your face was burning. Not only was it a weird night in general, but seeing Clark in person when he had existed as a figment of your imagination for so long was completely uprooting. He lived in your head; you didn’t mention him other than when people asked how many boyfriends you’d had or shared a funny story that included him. Like when you had driven the tractor over his foot when he was teaching you how to use it or when his parents almost caught you in his room real late at night and you jumped out of the window with your bra in your hands and hid behind a cow when Johnathan came out to inspect the weird noise they heard. You mentioned him as your high school boyfriend, but his name never came out. It didn’t even come out tonight, but it sort of wasn’t supposed to be him. He thought you didn’t know and you allowed it.

As you put your hair up with a pen and kept hammering the nail, your mind drifted to what happened four days ago again. Clark was Superman, he was Kal-el. And he thought you couldn’t tell. He thought you could mistake his eyes for someone else’s. You didn’t know if its offensive or Clark was too naïve. Your headphones were on, the gallery was closed for lunch break, but you took the time to fix a falling decoration because you were your own handyman, your father was a farm man who taught you the same things as your brother.  You weren’t noticing the outside world, didn’t hear the shatter of the glass on the gallery and didn’t feel the sudden gust of wind of someone with a stupid bowl cut crashing right into the space. You just placed the following nail between your lips and turned around to see some creature-pseudo machine. You yelped, held onto the hammer with more strength and threw it bullseyes into the creature’s chest, the claw landing and logged into the insides, creating a short circuit. It fell back onto the floor, the man who had crashed into the building standing up.

“Lady, what the hell?” He yelled and you finally removed your headphones amongst the noise.

“What?”

“How didn’t you hear? How did you do that?” He was out of breath; you immediately moved towards the window.

“You broke the glass! Do you know how much effort the pieces inside here take and you could’ve damaged them. What even is this?” You yelled, kicking off your heels to step closer to the mess made without tumbling on them. You inspected the big sculpture at the entrance and checked for damage.

“Guy! All good?” Someone flew into the gallery through the broken window, head turning towards you the second he arrived. You were too pissed to look up, frowning as you took your sweater off to wipe away the shards that were on top of it.

“Yeah. I- landed here and this lady threw a hammer at it. It worked.” You finally looked up, seeing Clark-no, Kal-el, standing in front of you looking confused. Guy walked towards you too, watching you standing on your tiptoes to avoid stepping on the glass.

“What- hi, are you alright?”

“Fine. Your friend broke my glass. He could’ve ruined this piece.” You said, too mad to react at the fact that you had somehow summoned Clark by thinking of him, in the worst possible way. He nodded, lips pursed together.

“I’m sorry, okay? Not on purpose. How did you aim that?” Green lantern questioned you again, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Was an axe thrower in high school.” You mumbled, mainly at Guy because Clark knew you were an axe thrower in high school, he had to lock himself into the house to not run towards you and pull you out of the way every time it bounced back while you learned. He watched from the window with a clenched jaw, letting your little brother practice boxing on him meanwhile. He was terrified of showing you his powers, but even more of you getting hurt so he knew when it came to it there was nothing that could stop him. You never did though, always moved in time even when wearing the stupidest outfit while doing it, jean shorts and sinful white blouses, another reason Clark had to cage himself in. You joked you would die pretty if you fucked up, making him roll his eyes and do an x-ray into your head to check if you were actually insane.

“I’m sorry about the mess, ma’am. Is the piece okay?” Superman asked, carefully stepping towards you. You nodded with a frown, watching him move closer to you and wrap one hand around your waist to pull you up from the mess. You said nothing, let his hand basically scorn the skin. You hadn’t felt his touch in ages, it didn’t feel any different, though. It was still gentle with a little too much strength, his hands were still warm and jagged. He put you down where there were no glass shards on the floor.

“Seems you can handle yourself, miss. So, I’m going to take this and go.” Guy said, removing your hammer from the machine and handing it back to you. He took the machine and dragged it out your gallery.

“He sucks.”

“Yeah, he’s… not the best.” Kal-el responded, hands on his hips like he needed them steady somewhere. He wasn’t expecting to see you again, not after the had mapped out the area around your apartment and kept a watchful eye on it but had not seen you around. He had been shocked and quiet the rest of that evening, never expecting to see you in Metropolis. You always said big cities made you sick, too many people and trash. You were also never keen on being far from your family.

“Um, I can help you clean this up and I’m sure you’ll need insurance, I can like keep an eye on it at night.” There was your mumbling, eager to please Clark. Who offered teachers help, who did the dishes without being told to do so. The man you first loved had kept himself a secret for who knows how long, you didn’t know why or how. But there were things that were real. His kindness was one of those.

“It’s fine, I’ll just call the owner. We have great insurance and it’s early, he’ll get someone here by the end of the day.” You sighed, ready to call up your co-workers from their lunch break to get help cleaning this up.

“Okay, yeah. Sorry again. How’s your arm?” He pointed to the place where the cut had been, now mostly healed.

“It’s fine. Didn’t think you’d remember.” You glanced at him as you put your heels back on, looking for your phone on the counter and fully taking off the headphones.

“I remember everything.” Superman said in a voice too low to be his regular regal and professional tone. Because he was sort of saying it to himself too. He did. He remembered every second with you, from the time they first met in middle school, to the last time he saw you, around Christmas of your freshman year of college. You both came home and he went by to your house to drop of a present, a brand-new set of really fancy watercolours he got in Metropolis. You were cordial and polite; you hugged longer than you had since you’d broken up. He never saw you again.

You glanced up at him from your phone, wondering if he was going to fess up. To admit that he knew you. He gulped, fear in his eyes and looked away. So, no.

“I’m just going to call my boss, Kal-el. You can go. Wasn’t your fault.”

“Right, I’ll get out of your way, miss-“ He waited for you to say your name, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. You said it and he repeated it back with a smile, like he was relieved to be able to call you by it now.

If you just… wiggled your hand out, it wouldn’t hurt more. No, that wouldn’t work. It was really wedged in there. You had dropped your sketching pen in the drain next to the bench you were sitting in and thought you could surely grab it with your nails on the small holes of the system. You were wrong, so terribly wrong. You could not and it was now stuck in there. To add insult to injury, you had chosen a pretty secluded place in the park and saw no one who could help you. The dog was looking at you like you were an idiot and you could not fight him on it. You supposed you had done it to yourself; you wanted to know how good Superman sense of danger was and wondered if you screamed his name, he’d come. Would Clark recognize your voice? You were about to try it when you dropped the pen and thought maybe Superman would come for a citizen with her hand in the sewer. You had not counted on getting stuck. Your fingers were numb already when you broke and yelled a loud ‘fuck’ echoing the surroundings. Anyone would do right now.

“We have got to stop meeting like this.” A voice said from behind you. It had worked. Clark crouched down in front of you, and you knew you looked like a moron, on all fours with your hand full of graphite and hair in your face. You weren’t even wearing the leggings that looked good, they were the old, grey type.

“How’d you know it was me?” You questioned, glancing at him who held a proud smirk on his face.

“Your smell.”

“Creepy.”

“Don’t call the man who’s going to save you from amputation creepy.” You huffed, shaking you head with a small grin.

“I’m sorry.”

“Atta girl. C’mon.”  He snuck his finger into the railing right next to yours and without breaking a sweat, he lifted the metal and bent it, effectively freeing your hand. You moaned relief, your dog finally hearing the commotion and running up to you, licking your face like you hadn’t seen him in weeks.

“Suppose you were reaching for this?” Clark grabbed the pen and put his hand out in front of you, the sudden movement scaring the animal into defence. He stood defensively between you two and groaned.

“Oh, okay. He’s feisty. Just gonna put it down here.” You watched as you rubbed your hand and tried to bring it back to life, Superman placed the pen the bench.

“Of course he is, I’m a woman living alone. He knows the odds.” You defended your puppy, petting him to get him to calm down. Clark put the railing back into place and wiped his hands clean, offering you his hand to get you to stand up. You took it, trying to ignore the weird electricity that coursed through your veins at the simple touch. His hand was rougher, maybe even bigger than before. It was just as comforting, though.

“That’s good, he’s your protector.” Superman said and you nodded, straightening your body and sighing.

“Yep. Thanks, uh- Superman. Kal-el.” You said, not knowing how to refer to him

“You can call me Kal-el. Superman’s pretty formal.” He said and you nodded, sitting back down on the bench and pulling your knees to your chest. Even if somehow your initial attempt was to summon him, now that he was here you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know why you wanted him here, you were just thinking of him.

“Can I sit?” He pointed to the spot besides you and you nodded, picking up your sketch pad to give the space. He sat down with a sigh, like a man who carried the world on his shoulders. It did fit him right.

“Are you an artist?” Kal-el motioned to your art supplies, you grabbed them tighter to you as if you wanted to hide them.

“Uh, as a hobby.”

“But you work in a gallery.”

“Yeah, but I manage it. It’s close enough, though. And sometimes the Metropolis art museum calls me for a restoration project. Well, they’ve done it once. But I’m on the roster.” You explained, not knowing how you felt about how your life had turned out. You never had a specific dream, not like he did. You found restoration fascinating, you liked painting and drawing, you wanted to learn more. That was about it. He had his life planned out at sixteen. And it seems like he did it all. Help everyone. Write in a big newspaper. Be able to help his parents. You used to be part of those plans, only in whispers when you’d lay on the field and he’d run his fingers down your arm and ask if you’d like a house or an apartment, a dog or a cat, vacations at the beach or at the mountains. You never gave a serious answer, asked for a Komodo dragon or a treehouse. It was scary to tie yourself to a man who had bigger dreams than you and secrets he wouldn’t tell.

“That’s really cool. Is it what you always wanted to do?”

“Uh, I like it. It’s enough. Never had my life planned out. But I like my job, like supporting artists and bossing people around. It pays well.” You shrugged, looking at him and resting your face on your knees. He was looking at your dog jumping around with another one, already feeling protective over the pup. He nodded, looking back at you.

“What about you? This your dream job?”

“This doesn’t pay. No paid time off or 401k. But I love it, it was sort of my dream.” You smiled, nodding softly. You could tell he loved it, you saw it in the way he the relief took over his face after a job well done, the way he conducted himself in the interviews (he was interviewing himself, made you break into laughter when you first read that), the pictures and the news segments with soft smiles that would make anyone swoon.

“So you have a 9-5…. A wife and kids in the suburbs?”

“A 9-5 and an apartment where I don’t spend enough time.” He responded and you were relieved there wasn’t a wife and kids, it would’ve been a knockout to find his life had turned better without you. That you leaving his life wouldn’t have shifted him even a little. Not that you wanted him to be unhappy, of course not, but you still wanted some type of consequence for giving up on you.

“Ah, you did well for yourself, Kal-el.”

“Thank you.” Clark couldn’t bring himself to ask more about you without seeming suspicious or without it breaking his heart. It would kill him to know if you had struggled, if your family was fine, if men had been nice to you, if you’d made good friends. He should’ve been around for all of that, he wanted to. But he promised, he said he’d do right by you. Even if it meant letting you go.

“Clark.” He looked up from the book on his left hand, his right still over your shoulders as you slept soundly next to him, bundled against his side with your face still tacky from the tears. It had become a routine, you sat beside her and inevitably ended up weeping, Clark taking over the reeding. Your mother turned around to look at him, having interrupted the reading of The house of spirits when he finished the chapter and was licking his thumb to turn the page. “Yes?” “You’ll take care of her, right?” Clark’s mouth went dry, closing the book and looking down at your sleeping figure. You’d be furious with your mother if you heard her asking a man to take care of you. “I’m not- I know you’re kids. I’m not asking you to be with her forever. But while you can, just… help her out? Y ’know she’s all brave and strong but I know my little girl. And I just want someone to keep an eye on her. You love her?” He nodded instantly, his hold on you not having faded a single second even when his hand went numb and he knew he should’ve been home for dinner. “I- I know I’m young but if this isn’t love, I really don’t know what else it could be. You know that quote from Jane Eyre? We read it a couple months ago in AP English.” “Which one? Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own?” “Yeah… I feel that.” “Jesus, kid.” Your mother laughed slightly, looking at Clark who was all blue eyes and charm. He smiled softly, like he was embarrassed of feeling so deeply so young. Feeling like this when she didn’t even know who he was. “Okay, good. When I’m gone, which will probably be soon, I want her to have people who love her. Your mama raised you well, Martha’s lovely and I want her to have that.” “Of course, ma’am. I’ll be here as long as she’ll have me.” “That’s the thing, too. She’s loyal as a dog, so she won’t leave easy. If at any point you think you two don’t fit into each other’s lives, if whatever it is that your hiding starts getting in the way” Clark looked down embarrassed, he didn’t realize so many people could notice, “you’ll have to be the strong one. I know you will be.” He sighed and heard her rearrange herself on the bed, sitting up with difficulty but he didn’t run to help her because she hated it and it risked waking you up. She reached for Clark’s hand, it was cold and wrinkly, but he looked up at her. The thought of you two breaking up hadn’t ever occurred to him, he sort of thought this was it. No more searching. After a you agreed to be his girlfriend, the girl in his class that smelled like roses and made him laugh so hard during lunch he squirted milk from his nose, that was enough. This was going to be the rest of his life. And he was ecstatic about it. “Okay? I’m not asking the world of you, right?” “No, ma’am. I can do that. I will.”

That was the reason why when he couldn’t get a smile out of you, he needed to make the decision. Because he couldn’t tell you, it would freak you out. You’d be in danger; he was as illegal as it could get. If he decided to use his powers for good, you’d be at risk. He couldn’t tell you. After you had sex for the first time, he was so enamoured he forgot for a whole day that you didn’t know who he truly was. Then the guilt started to eat him up, turning into a discussion of whether to tell you or not where his parents were no help. That was the night of your art showcase and the following morning you were over.

“I’m heading home. What about you, Kal-el? Those spidey senses tingling?”

“Wrong superhero.”

“Ah, you all look alike. Very well, I’ll see you around. Say bye, honey.” You cooed as you leashed up the dog and he looked at Superman, starting to walk away. You chuckled, looking back at him with a grin. The grin of mischievous charm you’d had since 13. The one he saw when you sneaked him into your room on late nights, when you wrote small compliments on pieces of paper and passed it to him in class to make him blush. It was in his composition to smile back, giving you the dimples that used to stop you in your tracks. It did again, your tote falling from your shoulder.

“Tough crowd. Take care of yourself. Really.” You nodded, smiling at him and waving while he watched you walk away.

“Don’t I tell you to take care of yourself?” Superman said, looking down at you with a smirk. He was all cape, a vision of strength and righteousness. You wished you had a photograph, if you hadn’t just not so accidentally fallen down on the street, soft enough that he had had to be close to you to notice it.

“I tripped; I didn’t get shot.” He rolled his eyes, using his two hands to pull you up by your arms in a grip that felt like he was holding back to not hurt you. He was.

“This little man didn’t help, huh?” Beetle’s tail shook while Clark looked down at him, already growing fond of the man since last time he had seen him when he ‘ran’ into you while walking him and he accompanied you home. He melted himself against his palm and Clark remembered how cool normal dogs who couldn’t drop kick you or ruin your apartment in two seconds were.

“Slut.” You told your dog as you watched him leave hair all over Superman’s leg.

“Who made your suit?”

“My ma.” You guessed that. Martha had shown you how to do basic sewing when you were younger and she fixed some of your mother’s clothes to wanted to keep, to fit you better. You saw the inklings of the love she poured into everything, specially her only son, on the inches of his suit. Remembered how she used to stitch Clark’s initials into the insides.

“And do you think she knew you would look double cheeked up in it?” You wiped your legs as you glanced up at him to see if he still blushed up to his ears and got the shy blinking thing.

“What did you just say?”

“You know, your ass looks huge.” He choked on his own saliva and there it was, the blush and blinking thing. It was still the same dork as always. You sort of forgot after all these years of forceful forgetting and hating him that you used to love him. He used to be the last thing you thought about at night and the first thing in the morning. You had spent years running from him. From the smell of his laundry, his humming when he studied, the way he had made you feel like he was in it for the long haul and you believed him. Everything that rang through your brain when it was quiet. You spooked it away, dreamt of him so much he slowly lost his reality. But he was still real and you had to go back to wondering why he suddenly didn’t want you anymore. Or why he lied. It was terrifying to slide back into it, but you couldn’t help it. Clark was still intoxicating.

“No… I don’t think she previewed that.” You laughed at his response, walking alongside him towards your apartment. This has happened a few times now, you run into a little bit of trouble (sometimes on purpose) and Superman appears from behind you like he was summoned from breathless ‘fuck’ from your mouth.

“Just a happy accident, then. What were you doing on this fine Sunday night before duty called?”

“Not much, polishing my boots.”

“Are you serious?”

“You’ll never know.” You huffed, shaking your head as he chuckled. He wasn’t going to lie, he was sort of hoping you’d appear. Seeing you again had shaken his world upside down, an odd mixture of guilt, regret and excitement filled his nerves when he heard you call (or struggle). But mostly, he was so happy to see you. See what had changed, what had stayed the same. How you still filed your nails the same way but never braided your hair like before. How you talked to your dog the same way you talked to the baby goats the farm had one spring. How you still saved all your loose change to give to people in need. But you didn’t wear gold hoops all the time anymore and it seemed like you had retired the Kansas accent mostly (he had too).

“How’s curating going?” Kal-el asked, referencing the second job you had been picked for now.

“It’s mostly just q-tips and alcohol right now, it was recovered from an abandoned hospital towards the outskirts of Gotham, all dirty and dusty. But oddly enough, even that I love. It’s like when you scratch a lottery card and start revealing the image behind it.”

“I get that. Sounds great.” You nodded, wiping your face as a leaf flew on you and Clark bit his tongue to avoid not reaching out to wipe it himself.

“What about your day job?” He waved at a kid who looked at him from across the sidewalk and watched him erupt in hysterics, turning to his mother to celebrate. You watched too with a grin.

“Good. Sort of slow. My co-workers are trying to do an unofficial retreat to a cabin which I’m sure would end in murder.”

“You’d be there to stop it, though.” You pointed out, looking up at him.

“Well, what if I’m the one committing it?”

“Ah, isn’t there some intergalactic oath that says thou shall not kill in cliché ways? Like in a cabin, so unoriginal.” Superman laughed, shaking his head.

“Not really.”

“At least go full horror movie and get a chainsaw.”

“What horror movies are you watching?”

“None at all. I’m more of a Chef’s Table kind of gal.”

“What’s Chef’s table?” He didn’t get a response as you turned the corner of your block and a little girl with two pig tails came barrelling down the street at the sight of you.

“Hi, Beetle! I missed you.” She yelled, coming to a halt in front of you and letting the dog sniff her hand first before petting him lovingly, getting face licks that turned her into a fit of giggles.

“Hi, Tiana. I’m here too.” You teased her, making her smile up at you.

“I’m more excited to see him.” She still had her arms around the dog, hadn’t even noticed Big Blue next to you covering what was left of the sun. You let out an offended gasp that made the little girl laugh even more. A man jogged towards you two, same smile as the little girl. He was tall, dark and magazine handsome and he had a confused grin as he looked at the man besides you.

“Hi, Wes.”

“Yeah, hi. Uhm, Superman. A pleasure to meet you. I’m Winston. Big fan.” He didn’t even glance at you, offering his hand to Clark who shook it with a grin.

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

“Overshadowed by men. I should have killed your plants.” You joked, rolling your eyes teasingly. Winston glanced at you finally, a softer smile taking over.

“Sorry. Hi, sunshine. Had a hard time watering them?” He said, leaning over his daughter to kiss your cheek. Clark’s eye twitched involuntarily at the display of affection, which didn’t have to mean anything, but it could. And he had avoided completely thinking about the fact that you may be taken, you didn’t seem like you were. He could have ignored the signs for his mental health, though.

“Nope. Your basil’s still perfect and I found a packet of Oreos on the counter that looked real lonely. I may have kept it company.” You crouched down to look at the little girl, Tiana, and squinted at her.

“I was letting them get soft.”

“I like them stale too.” The little girl’s mouth dropped, looking up at her dad like she couldn’t believe you had dared. Maybe you had, you loved Oreos dearly your whole life. Clark rarely looked at one without thinking of you.

“Daddy, I’m gonna go look if she took them. I’m taking Beetle.” She grabbed your leash from you and skipped with the dog into the building.

“I didn’t, by the way.” You said as you looked at both men, continuing to walk towards the building and follow Tiana inside.

“Didn’t think you had.” Both men responded at the same time. Your eyes opened wide, looking between them with a small smirk.

“I’m so predictable. Okay, I need to save my dog before Tiana puts make-up on him. See you around, Supes?” You looked up at Kal-el, he nodded and put his arms to his sides to avoid leaning in to touch you. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. You smiled and reached over to squeeze his arm affectionately, letting go quickly before jogging up to your apartment.

“Great to meet you, man.” Winston said before following you, leaving Clark standing outside and thinking how the hell he was going to find out if you were dating without grossly abusing his powers and your privacy. He didn’t have any right to know; he was still hiding from you in all things considered. But he was green and confused, what you had here was fragile and strange and friendly, so he didn’t have the right to even feel anything. He was still a coward.

“What are you doing?” Lois asked, effectively spooking the man of steel who jumped and changed the tab on his computer immediately. He put his head on his arm and turned around, smiling unsuspectedly.

“Just… research.”

“You’re researching… pretty girls?”

“I’m researching art galleries. The pretty girl is a coincidence.” Lois squinted at him, crossing her arms in front of her.

“Aha. Well, let’s see the pretty girl’s art gallery.” She motioned towards his computer, making him switch back to the website of the gallery that featured pictures of the staff.  And there you were, professional and still casual and so, so sweet and pretty. He had been looking at the picture like a creep for a while now until Lois noticed.

“And what’s so interesting about this gallery?” Lois asked, coming closer to him and taking his mouse to look around the page.

“Uhm, they have some pieces from around the globe and have like videos where they show the artists like showcasing their work. They have like agents around the world who get them real unknown people.”

“Huh, sounds neat. Were you planning on taking a crack at it?”

“I don’t think I have the vision.” Sounded much better than ‘I was actually just stalking my ex’.

“Okay, maybe I will. Need a break from seedy politicians. Thank, Smallville.” Lois slapped him on the back and grabbed her phone, snapping a picture of the address and you. Clark winced, not wanting her to get mixed up in his personal problem but too afraid to tell her what was going on.

“Hi, you said you wanted to speak to me?” You were wiping your hands as you walked to the reception area, a lady in a purple sweater and beautiful dark hair with her back turned towards you was said to be asking to talk to the manager, ‘not in Karen way’ she said, made your co-worker laugh.

She turned around and smiled at you, you thought there was surely someone blowing on her hair and flashing some overhead light. She was ethereal, pale skin and bright blue eyes and she was looking for you.

“Yes, hi, I’m Lois Lane. Nice to meet you.” She said, following with your full name and you nodded with a confused smile.

“You’re- you look beautiful. Wow. Great hair.” You responded, shyly wiping your hands on your apron as she had caught you in the middle of fixing an artist’s piece that got damaged in transport. Lois laughed, pulling her hair back and uncrossing her arms.

“You’re too kind. I’m from a newspaper and I was interested in doing a piece about the gallery. I tried to get into contact with the owner, but he told me to talk to you.” She explained and you sighed, you weren’t a great talker, but the owner was a worse one, so you’d guess it’d be a better bet. Plus, why would a newspaper want to know about this gallery in Midtown?

“Oh, alright. Yeah, do you wanna come to the back and we can sit down?” She nodded and you motioned her to follow you, walking to the back and into the employee lounge where they painted and did all sorts of things. You took off the apron and sat, watching her sit down in front of you.

“So, this gallery was recently brought to my attention, and I thought it could be a good arts and culture piece. Let people in on this secret. I just wanna get some background, ask about the method, favourite pieces. I won’t take up too much of your time. Does that sound good to you?” Lois said, pulling out a notepad and a tape recorder. You sighed and nodded, straightening your back to look more professional. Lois’s questions were straight forward and instigative, she got you talking and explaining about the owner’s ideas and how you treated sales of pieces so personal and from around the world. Towards the end, the questions turned silly and gossipy.

“Silliest sale story?”

“Someone tried to buy my spirit level. If I was a funnier person, I would have but instead I just directed them to Ikea.” Lois laughed, note pad left behind.

“Where are you from?”

“Smallville, Kansas. Home of the meteor.” You responded, Lois sitting up straight. She suspected Clark was being deceitful about having your website open, but this had just turned much juicer.

“Really? We have a co-worker from there! You may know him, Clark Kent.” She saw your easy smile drop, looking around as if he would appear from thin air or someone would come out with a camera letting her know it was a rouse.

“Oh, yeah. The Kents. Nice people.” Lois nodded, reading your expression and wondering how to get more out of you without sounding like a gossip.

“Yeah, he’s a real neat guy. All corn fed and midwestern charm.” You chuckled, nodding and wrapping your shal around yourself tighter like it was your shield.

“That’s… yeah. That’s him.”

“You look like I just mentioned the grim reaper.” She said lowly, coming closer to you to see your flushed cheeks.

“I- we just… lost contact.”

“But you had contact?”

“A lot, yeah.” You admitted, biting onto your nail. Really, you were sort of glad to be able to talk about him with someone else, instead of him just living in your mind and the weird limbo between Superman/Kal-el and Clark that developed in two months.

“Oh, okay. And did it end bad?”

“Well, not really. It was just hard to keep talking after.”

“Well, between us, of course, what did he do?” Lois asked, because it was clear to her something had gone wrong and if she knew Mr. Oh Shucks, it may have been his fault. It was hard for her to imagine Clark being horrible though. He was so respectful and kind, she had only seen him talk about woman with respect. You didn’t respond, biting your cheek from the inside like you were debating on if to say something.

“What? Did he take your virginity and dump you?” She asked in a laugh that faded when you didn’t respond.

“You took her virginity and dumped her?” Lois said, rather loudly, as she put her jacket down and walked towards desk. Cat looked at her with a confused look, glancing back at Clark who looked like someone had spilled his secret.

“I- what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Kent. The nice girl from the gallery.” Clark stood up quickly, taking Lois by the arm and leading her into a more secluded place to avoid her telling the entire bullpen about what he did.

“Did she- it’s not that simple.” Clark defended himself, Lois’s glare becoming harsher.

“You had sex with her, and you dumped her two days after. Seems pretty simple to me.” Clark whimpered, it was the course of events when you played it out like that, and he was horrified to realize that’s what you took it as.

“Yes, but I was dealing with a lot- I was getting my powers and she didn’t trust me.”

“She gave you her virginity! How is that not trust?” Lois spat, offensively looking at the man who was stumbling on his words.

“Okay, first of all, I was a virgin too. And second, you don’t get it. She wasn’t happy and her mother told me I needed to be the strong one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Her mother, on her deathbed, told me if she was unhappy or our life didn’t blend together anymore, I had to be the strong one and pull the plug. She would never do it herself and she was- she looked at me like I was disappointing her. And I was! I couldn’t tell her about the whole Kryptonian thing and a lot what happening so I just lied and avoided her, and I could tell she was tired. I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t know what to do- I kept thinking about her mother telling me to keep her girl safe and I would be putting her in danger. So, I just- I was the strong one.” He finally breathed out what he wanted to say, he had never told anyone the whole story or been honest about what was going on. To his parents it was because of the powers, to your friends it was because it just wasn’t working out. Lois was still frowning as she took it all in, arms uncrossing to place one on his shoulder in comfort as it was clear it was hard for him to talk about it.

“Oh. So, you never told her?”

“No. I was too afraid of scaring her or putting her in danger. When the powers came in harder and I realized what my parents- from Krypton, had wanted for me I just thought she didn’t deserve that. She needed stability and honesty. I didn’t know how to fix it or say it. I was terrified of her looking at me different.” Lois nodded, looking down as she imagined the type of mental hell Clark was in during that time.

“I get it. How did you know she was here?”

“I ran into her as Superman. Then again in her gallery that Green Lantern crashed into. I just kept like- listening to her and every time she needed help, I was there.”

“So, you’ve been like… back in her life as Superman.” He nodded, licking his lips and leaning against the wall. It was a relief to get this off his chest. He’d been hiding and plotting, acting like he was on a top-secret mission to help you carry groceries.

“Why not just… tell her? Now?”

“I- it’s like admitting to her I was lying all that time. I hid so much. She’ll think I didn’t trust her or love her enough.”

“She already does.” Lois whispered, Clark’s head whipping up at the words, his knees nearly buckling.

“What did she say?”

“She said she supposed you had fallen out of love or just never loved her really. That you wanted to go away to college single.” Lois repeated what you had told her when you explained the situation in a more calmed and relaxed manner, less freaked out by the mention of his name. Clark’s face fell, his heart in his throat. That was the last thing that he wanted, and he said it wasn’t because he didn’t love you, but he guessed it sounded like a lie with the way he acted. His first two years in college were even celibate, too afraid he’d whisper your name into another girl’s mouth, or it would lead to him thinking about what he did and what you were up to. If you were sad or had moved onto other better, human-er guys.

“Couldn’t be further from the truth, Lois. She was… the sun before I learned about what it did to me. She felt just the same way. I was.. every good thing I am is because of her, everything that didn’t come from my parents. She was in the stars every night I looked up, it was consuming my DNA. I still think of her, dream of her. She’s like my sleep paralysis angel. So close but so far.”

“Jesus, dude.” Lois whispered, shaking her head to shake away one of the most haunting, depravedly romantic things she’d heard. Clark sighed, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes in a rough manner, to rid himself of the emotion pouring out of him every time he talked about you. That’s why he avoided it for so long, rejected it when his parents asked or brought up anything regarding to you.

“I don’t think it’s too late. If you wanted to.” Clark looked at Lois and swallowed her words with difficulty. How could it not be. You had a life that didn’t need him; a hot neighbour who called you sunshine, a dog more loyal than a tick, a job you were wonderful at. You made yourself into the person he wanted to be around to meet, to help, to love. Without him.

“Where would I even start?”

When Bucky was told he had to go through government mandated therapy sessions, it might as well have felt like being put back into a sterile Hydra room.

He wanted to avoid it as best as he could—the mere idea of therapy didn’t sound pleasant at all. White walls and in an enclosed space, ostensibly designated to make him feel safe—a place to open up about his past and get “well” enough to prove to everyone that he was no longer a threat. No longer the Winter Soldier, but rather just a boy from Brooklyn. He almost laughed at the idea alone. As if therapy could help with that.

He had been trying to avoid several things lately. Text messages from Sam and these therapy sessions were at the top of the list. But if given the choice of which to face first, he’d actually choose the therapy.

Now, Bucky sat in the quiet waiting room, manspreading as his left knee bounced anxiously. He was hunched over, hands between his legs like a cat with its tail tucked.

He should get up and leave—go back to being a hermit in his small apartment on Union Street, and do his best to dodge these sessions until he got a call ordering him to try again. Then rinse and repeat.

The door in front of him clicked open, and you stepped out.

You wore a soft cardigan, and your hair was a little messy. Not totally unkempt, but he wouldn’t call it professional, either. You looked more like a regular, frazzled woman he’d bump into at a grocery store than a specialist meant to mend broken people and their emotions.

“James Barnes?” you called out, glancing around the small waiting room.

There were only two other people in the room—a man and a woman sitting just a few seats away—but you still looked right at the super soldier first.

Bucky lifted his head, meeting your eyes before pushing himself out of the chair with a huff. Here goes nothing.

“I’m here,” he said, raising a hand. He offered a tight-lipped smile meant to be friendly, but it fell flat.

You smiled warmly. It was inviting, but far too rehearsed for him to accept at face value.

Pushing the door open with your back pressed against the frame, you stepped aside to let him in. He gave another forced nod out of politeness as he entered the room.

Standing near the entryway, he paused and took in the surroundings. The room wasn’t what he expected at all. The walls were colorful, warm string lights hung across them. Several plants were arranged neatly around the space—more so near the windows. A large couch sat on one side while a simple lounge chair faced it. Against the wall stood a shelf lined with books tucked neatly inside— self-help, fiction, and biographies.

But what really caught his attention was the turntable sitting on top of it, with no record spinning.

“Make yourself comfortable,” you said, flipping the ‘THERAPY IN SESSION’ sign to face outward and shutting the door behind him. “Whether you want to take the couch, the chair, or even lie on the floor—it’s all fine by me!”

Bucky huffed out a short laugh, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. “You have people who lie on the floor?”

You shrugged, removing your cardigan and draping it over the coat rack. “This is a judgment-free zone, James.”

You stood beside him with a smile, your hands folded neatly in front of you, and that’s when Bucky realized you were waiting for him to make a decision.

He eventually chose the couch, sinking into the cushions with a grunt, while you settled into the chair across from him.

“Have you ever been to therapy before?” you asked softly.

“No,” he replied—straightforward, honest, and flat.

You sifted through the papers attached to the clipboard in your lap, checking the records that were passed on by his psychiatrist. Bucky assumed the list of things wrong with him was longer than your weekly grocery list. You lifted your eyes back to him, noticing the obvious tension in his shoulders.

“It’s not as bad as they make it out to be,” you explained gently. “I won’t tire you out with the whole ‘what do you want to work on, why are you in therapy?’ nonsense,” you tried to say lightheartedly, waving your hand for emphasis. “I know that you’re only here out of a government mandate, but just know that I’m here to help you because there are people out there who care about you—”

A heavy, long sigh escaped Bucky’s nostrils before he could stop it.

You tilted your head with an innocent frown. “Is something the matter?”

Yes. There are a lot of things that matter—like how you’re saying your usual script for your other clients, claiming that you “care” when in reality, you care about dragging out the time until your pockets are full of green.

“No,” Bucky lied. “Nothing’s wrong. Go ahead.”

You knew he was lying, and you didn’t need to call him out on it to prove it.

After some awkward silence and being watched under your silent scrutiny, he eventually sighed and shifted awkwardly on the couch.

“It’s just… I doubt there are people out there who care about me, you know? Like…” he blew a raspberry, feeling like he was rambling now. “They couldn’t care less about what I do in a day.”

You set your clipboard aside. “And what did you do today?”

He blinked, not expecting that question at all.

“What did I do today?” he repeated with pinched brows. He shrugged. “I went for a walk at my nearby park, and then…”

He trailed off with a scrunch of his face.

Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t done much at all today.

“And then…?”

But for some reason, he didn’t want to seem as lame as he felt. So, he continued.

“I guess all my eventful stuff will be after this therapy session,” he explained. “I’m supposed to be having lunch with a friend.”

Your face lit up, and Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. Your expectations for him were probably that low—you truly believed he didn’t have any friends to have lunch with.

“That’s great, James!”

Just wait until you find out that the person he was having lunch with is a man in his eighties with a son whom he had brutally murdered while he was the Winter Soldier.

“Yeah. His name’s Yori. We usually get sushi on Wednesdays.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m glad that you have a friend who’s close enough for you to find a routine with,” you said. Your eyes flickered to his gloved hand resting on his thigh. “Does he know?”

Bucky glanced down at his left glove. “I’m sorry?”

“Does he know about your arm, and about what you’ve done in your past?” you clarified in a gentle tone—well, as gentle as it could be given the subject.

Bucky flinched, and that action alone was enough to give you your answer. His eyes fell to the colorful patterns on your carpet, his left hand curling into a tight fist beneath his glove out of apprehension.

No. Of course Yori didn’t know.

He knew that being truthful to himself and to his therapist was the whole point of therapy—the whole point of getting better. But Bucky didn’t see the point in going into detail with the whole, “No, Yori doesn’t know, because then that’d mean I have to tell him I killed his son!” routine.

You frowned, leaning a bit closer. “If he doesn’t already know, you’re going to have to tell him.”

Bucky stayed quiet. The patterns on your carpet were stupid, but he couldn’t look away.

“Because if you don’t—if you continue to hide from someone who cares about you—you’re hiding a part of yourself,” you explained.

“It’s not that simple, doc.”

“Is it ever?” you asked with a small chuckle. “This is all about trust—not just for Yori, but for yourself, too. You have to trust yourself to find trust in others. And in order to trust yourself first, you can start with acceptance—accepting who you are and what you’ve done.”

“I can’t,” Bucky protested weakly. “If I tell him, everything will change. He’ll look at me differently and… and then we can’t have lunch—”

“—that’s the beauty of life, James. Change is a constant thing, and sometimes, it's completely outside of our control. Without change, there is no growth.”

Bucky stayed quiet.

You leaned back in your chair and suddenly asked, “Before everything that happened, what did you like to do?”

Bucky furrowed his brows. He had no idea where you were going with this, but he tagged along anyway—not like he had a choice in the matter, but just to get it over with.

“I liked listening to music.”

“Okay, okay,” you nodded, rubbing your chin. “What kind of music?”

“Forties music,” he replied.

“Has that ever changed?” you asked with genuine interest.

Bucky remembered the list of things Sam had told him to listen to before he ghosted him. Marvin Gaye was one of them. Had he listened to it at all?

“No,” Bucky answered.

It was like a light switch turned on in your head. You suddenly got up out of your chair, making him flinch, and walked over to where your record player sat. You crouched down, your fingers sifting through your large collection of records until they landed on one he didn’t recognize.

You pulled it out and revealed the record to him face-first with the brightest smile. It had four men walking across the street in flared jeans—and with hair too long for his liking.

“Abbey Road,” you announced, handing it to him. “The Beatles. Made thirty years after your time—but listen to it and tell me what you think.”

Bucky frowned, examining the cover. He wasn’t fond of your methods of getting accustomed to ‘change,’ but it could’ve been worse.

“Fine,” he sighed, pushing himself up from the couch as his session neared its end.

You led him out the door, holding it open for him. “I’ll see you again next week, and you can tell me what you think about it. And whether you like or don’t like it—just remember, change can be good, James.”

You pointed to the cover he held in his hands. “And personally, I think Abbey Road is very good,” you added with a grin.

Bucky, however, was surprisingly fond of how personal you were. He didn’t think that’d be possible with a therapist.

“Sure,” he said with a smile that felt just a tad less forced than the first one he had given you. “I’ll see you next week, doc.”

As he walked past your door and entered the waiting room, you also added with a shout that caught the other patient’s attention who were waiting, which could be seen as totally unprofessional:

“Oh, and if you’re grabbing sushi, order the fried tempura rolls!”

His back was already turned, and he made a face. Oddly enough, fried tempura rolls were something he’d never ordered before. Not only were you dictating his emotions, but now you were dictating his music choices and food as well?

He waved over his shoulder, letting you know he heard you, before disappearing around the corner with your vinyl in his hands.

Looking back down at it, he realized he didn’t even have a record player to put this on.

Shit.

Bucky had forced himself to do more things out of his comfort zone in the span of a week than he had ever since gaining his freedom in Wakanda.

Since his first session with you, he had gotten sushi with Yori and had tried the tempura roll. It was different from what he usually ordered—which was just nigiri and a beer—but surprisingly enough, he liked it. Even the waiter had raised an eyebrow when he pointed it out on the menu.

Then, after walking Yori home—who lived in the same complex, so it wasn’t much of a walk at all—he decided to stop by a music store just a couple of blocks away to listen to the vinyl you had given him.

The store had various music players that people could test, such as jukeboxes, CD players, radios, and record players.

Stepping inside, he was greeted by a friendly ding! from the door chimes. Bucky lifted Abbey Road in his hands. “Got any record players open?”

The boy behind the desk, who looked no older than twenty-two, pointed towards the back. “There’s one open, but it’s loud in here. Need headphones?”

Bucky furrowed his brows in confusion. “Headphones? For a turntable?”

The worker nodded with a shrug that was far too casual—it made Bucky feel stupid. “Yeah, we use headphone amplifiers for them.”

Bucky looked at the boy like he had grown a second head. The worker grabbed a pair of headphones from beneath the counter and nodded toward the other end of the store.

“Here, follow me.”

Bucky followed the boy’s lead to the turntable, which was far different than the ones he was used to back in the forties. Back then, turntables were usually in a small brown box, and the vinyls were never this size. The player in front of him was silver, sleek, and he didn’t even want to attempt to use it at the risk of making a fool of himself.

The boy, luckily, took charge. He grabbed Abbey Road from Bucky’s hands, popped it onto the platter, plugged in the headphones, and handed them to him.

“Enjoy,” he said, before walking back to his post behind the counter.

As Bucky slipped the headphones over his ears, he tried his best not to stare at the people around him. The customers in this store were young, with styles he couldn’t begin to comprehend. Piercings, colored hair, and tattoos.

It was different—but he liked it.

It was his next session with you.

Your hair was styled more neatly than it had been the last time he saw you, but your smile was still the same. Soft and welcoming.

“So,” you started with excitement. “What did you think of it?”

“It’s different from the music back in my day, but it was good,” Bucky said with a shrug that felt almost dismissive despite his honesty.

“What was your favorite song?” you pressed on.

His teeth caught his bottom lip as he tried to remember the one that stuck out to him the most. “The one with the sun, and how it’ll be alright?” he answered, though it sounded more like a question.

“Oh! Here Comes the Sun—that’s a popular one! One of my favorites, too!”

You sounded more excited over this than he felt. Your smile and enthusiastic energy were bouncing off the colorful walls and string lights—and Bucky couldn’t help but smile, too. It was contagious.

“Did you have a record player at home to play it on?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I went to a music store down the block and played it on one of their players.”

Your smile grew wider and your eyes softened. You had planned for this to happen—for him to step out of his comfort zone and find a way to listen to the music.

“And how was it?” you asked.

“Not my kind of crowd, but it wasn’t terrible,” he explained. “It was loud in there. People were blaring all kinds of music I’ve never even heard of.” He made a face at the memory. “The kid who worked there had to give me headphones so I could listen.”

Your eyes widened in confusion. “Headphones? To listen to a turntable? That’s a thing?”

Bucky was caught off guard by your reaction. Even over something as small as headphones, he liked that he wasn’t the only one who felt out of the loop.

“Yeah, the kid was trying to explain it to me—something about disabling the phono preamp and using the input for an amp. I’ve got no clue. It’s all rocket science to me,” Bucky rambled.

You threw your head back with a laugh, and Bucky chuckled along. He hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling until then.

“I had no clue that was an option. I might have to try that one day.”

Bucky couldn’t stop staring at you.

Up until this point, he’d had to drag his feet just to get to your office. But now, sitting across from you, he felt like all the tension that had built up in his shoulders over the last week had finally eased. He was laughing and smiling more than he had in a long time—he probably looked stupid.

“Oh yeah, I also tried that thing you suggested I get for lunch yesterday,” he said, trying to remember the name. “The… fried tempura?”

You leaned closer, practically on the edge of your seat as you looked at him with wide-eyed anticipation.

“Did you now? How did you like it?”

He’d actually liked it a lot—but with the way you were looking at him, those sparkly irises fixed on him, he couldn’t help but want to tease you. Maybe it was just the playful instincts he had back in the forties kicking in again.

“Eh, it wasn’t really my cup of tea.” He shook his head, watching closely for your reaction.

Your expression shifted dramatically from delight to disappointment. The sparkles he loved seeing in your eyes dimmed just a little, and your lips pursed into a slight frown.

“Ouch,” you muttered, slumping in your chair. “Can’t win ‘em all, I guess.”

Bucky had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. You were too easy, and he was having fun.

“I’m kidding. I did like it.”

You blinked at him. “Oh, so you’re playing with me now?” You huffed a laugh, crossing your arms and legs. “Whatever happened to my lesson about being truthful and honest?”

Bucky wore a boyish grin. He felt like he was talking to a friend rather than a therapist.

“Hey, I was being honest... eventually,” he added, which received an eye roll from you.

“Well, despite you pulling my leg, you did really well this week.” A proud smile spread across your face. “I’m so happy for you.”

His grin faltered for just a second. He knew that tone of yours. It meant this session was closing to an end, meaning he wouldn’t be able to talk to you again until another week. He hated how disappointed he suddenly felt about it.

You pushed yourself out of your chair and wandered over to your large collection of records. “Since we’re almost out of time, I want to send you home with another album to listen to.”

You pulled out another vinyl—a black and white cover featuring a woman who looked like a ballerina witch and a man with a beard and a ponytail.

“Rumours,” you said, handing it to him.

Your hands brushed over his just briefly, and his whole body shuddered. Despite wearing a leather jacket, he felt goosebumps prickling his skin after your touch.

“Fleetwood Mac. It’s lighthearted and catchy—kind of like Abbey Road, but… not really.”

You watched as Bucky took the record, examining the cover closely. A small smile lifting across your face.

“Let me know what you think about it next time.”

It was the first time in a long time that Bucky felt like he had something to look forward to.

Going to the same music store no longer felt like a chore. Rather, it had become another stepping stone that brought him a little closer to you. The kid behind the counter already knew why he was there, handing him the same pair of headphones and all.

He slipped on the headphones, put on Rumours, and let himself get lost in the music. There was something special about listening to your favorite albums. It felt like a closeness he wouldn’t ever get to experience any other way. Music said a lot about a person, and with every track, he felt like he was learning a little more about you.

Suddenly, a finger tapped his shoulder.

Bucky turned around, pulling the headphones down around his neck.

Standing behind him was a woman—and a remarkably pretty one at that—wearing a bright smile that instinctively put him on edge. She pointed to the silver turntable spinning in front of him.

“Fleetwood Mac?” she asked.

Bucky glanced from her to the album cover, his mind landing on the most logical conclusion. She must’ve been waiting for her turn.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, stepping aside. “After this song, I’ll be right out of your way.”

The woman let out a soft laugh, taking a small step closer to him.

“No, no, you’re fine! Keep listening.” She smiled. “I just couldn’t help but notice, you know? A guy who looks like you listening to Rumours? That’s a rare find these days.”

Bucky frowned, looking down at his worn leather jacket.

What was wrong with the way he looked?

She leaned against the edge of the counter, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked at him. “And honestly,” she drawled with a honeyed tone, “I find it kind of hot.”

Now, Bucky was just confused.

His brows furrowed into a tight knot as the words failed him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been hit on, and it was just another one of those moments where he had no idea what to say.

“The, uh…” He cleared his throat. “The record doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to my therapist. I’m only listening to it out of recommendation.”

He figured mentioning the word therapist would be enough to lose her interest, but the woman only smiled wider, and somehow that scared him.

“And you care about your mental health?” she said. “Gosh, you’re like a man straight out of every girl’s dream!”

He had no idea what to make of that. If this random woman thought he was hot, he wondered what you would think of his appearance.

She ran a hand through her hair and looked him up and down, making Bucky stiffen. Did his hair look weird?

“But hey, if you’re looking for other recommendations… I know a really great bar that makes the greatest cocktails just down the street. They have an open-play turntable with fancy speakers on Thursdays. I’d love to show you sometime.”

He knew he should accept the offer. He was being given the opportunity to put himself out there and make friends. This was what you would want him to do. This was good for him.

“I can’t,” he mumbled weakly. You idiot. “Sorry. I usually have… a, uh, thing on Thursdays with a friend, so—”

He started to scratch the back of his head, and she took the hint to back off.

Well, not entirely.

She pulled a notepad and a pencil out from her tote bag. Bucky had assumed that everyone did everything electronically these days. She started to jot down something, then tore the page off and handed it to him with a grin.

“If you ever change your mind, you know how to reach me.”

She turned and walked away before he got another word, and Bucky stood there with the headphones wrapped loosely around his neck with a dumbfounded expression. He glanced down at the piece of paper.

It was her phone number.

“You managed to get her phone number? That’s incredible!” You beamed in your chair, clasping your hands together with excitement. “How does that make you feel?”

You were more excited over this than he was, and he found himself smiling. It wasn't because the memory of getting that girl’s number was a huge boost to his ego, but because he liked seeing you smile. He always missed it during his week away from you.

“I felt flattered,” he answered truthfully. “I was surprised that any woman in this day and age would be interested in a guy like me.” He leaned back on the couch. “Though, it’s usually the men who pursue the women… not the other way around.”

“Well, times are changing, Bucky!”

Earlier in the session, he had encouraged you to use the nickname he was fond of—the one he reserved for the people closest to him. He didn’t know why he hadn’t suggested it sooner, because he was already in love with the way it rolled off your pretty lips.

Bucky made a face that made you chuckle. “Is that why she gave me her number on a piece of paper instead of making me hand my phone over?”

You grinned. “I guess some ladies like to keep it old-fashioned.”

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his words from spilling out—words that were far too inappropriate to say as a patient to a therapist who was only there to keep his emotions in check.

“Do you like to keep it old-fashioned, too?”

And yet, the words spilled out anyway. If he wasn’t staying silent, then he was always saying something stupid instead.

The way you looked at him made him want to open up the couch and let it swallow him whole. You went from smiling to a flustered, awkward mess. You chuckled—trying to save face—as you scratched lightly at your cheek to ease the tension.

“Probably just like any other woman,” you managed. “I like to get wined and dined. There’s nothing more romantic than keeping it classy.”

Bucky’s eyes studied the way you sat so neatly in your chair, one leg crossed over the other, your skirt draping softly over your knees. Your nails were neatly manicured, and your makeup was light enough to let your natural beauty shine through, doing nothing more than enhancing what was already there.

He couldn’t help but think that someone like you deserved nothing less than a classic kind of love.

The kind that received flowers for no reason at all. The kind of man that held doors open for you, or put his palm respectfully over your waist during a slow waltz, and remembered every little thing you ever mentioned. The kind of love from a man that made you feel cherished every single day.

Bucky silently wondered if he could be that kind of man.

You cleared your throat, sitting up straight and dusting off your skirt. “Anyway, enough about me. This is about you.”

Bucky’s frown lines deepened. He didn’t want to change the subject—he wanted nothing more than to hear about you and your interests. But even then, a dark feeling began to stir deep in his gut over the thought of you being wined and dined by someone else.

You tilted your head, trying to engage him back into the conversation. “Have you spoken to her since?”

“No,” he answered, his gaze drifting down to check for a ring on your left hand.

“Why not?”

There was no ring.

Letting out a subtle breath of relief, he met your eyes again. “I just don’t see the need to.”

“Then open your eyes, Bucky. There are a lot of opportunities you miss out on if you continue to keep them closed.”

There was a selfish part of him that didn’t like the fact that you were trying to encourage him to talk to another girl. If he were to find out that a man had given you his phone number, Bucky would be entirely against it.

Fuck. What was wrong with him? He tried to push those thoughts aside—those silly, inappropriate thoughts about his own therapist.

He knew the session was nearing its end, so he thought he’d change the subject—but that was just his excuse to get you to stop encouraging him to go on a date with this random woman.

“What’s the album for this week, doc?” He asked.

You smiled. “Marvin Gaye.”

Bucky remembered the list of things his old friend Sam had told him to check out—though Sam probably wouldn’t consider him a friend anymore, given how Bucky had ghosted him. It was a long list, a couple of items even carried over from the notes Sam had given Steve years ago. Aside from emphasizing how great Thai food was, Sam had insisted that he absolutely needed to listen to Marvin Gaye.

Yet, despite all of Sam’s efforts, all it really took for Bucky to finally listen was a recommendation from you—the only woman he cared about.

Marvin Gaye’s voice filled his ears, and Bucky could finally understand why Sam had been so insistent about it.

If love was an emotion too complicated for him to grasp, the lyrics explained everything. The gentle beats danced in his ears, and sweet melodies about love, devotion, and longing wrapped around him. Before long, he found himself closing his eyes and picturing you.

He imagined the way you smiled, the way you laughed so easily around him, and the way you made him feel like living was a beautiful thing and not something you dread.

Whoever Marvin Gaye had been singing to in Let's Get It On must have been someone deeply cherished—someone longed for so intensely that the only way to express it was through music. It was everything Bucky wished he could say to you, if only he were allowed.

A soft smile tugged at his lips at the thought of you.

Of course you liked music like this. The kind you’d slow dance to in the middle of the living room, one hand intertwined with someone else’s. The kind that sounded like old-fashioned love brought to life.

His heart thrummed happily, his mind filled with giddy, hopeless thoughts.

He couldn’t wait until Wednesday morning, when he would see you again to talk all about it.

On Tuesday afternoon, his flip phone dinged with a notification from you.

Hi Bucky, I’m so sorry for the short notice, but something urgent has come up and I have to cancel our session tomorrow. I’ll reach out next week to reschedule. Take care!

Bucky stared at the message, his frown lines deepening.

Had something bad happened to you? Or had he scared you off with his question last week?

No. This is stupid, he told himself, trying to shake the sudden panic. There’s no point in dwelling on something like this. She’s just busy.

But as the hours ticked by, his mind began to spiral. He had nothing to look forward to for the rest of the week—just seven empty days without you. He stared at his phone, wondering how inappropriate it would be if he sent a simple, “Hey, how are you doing?” text to his own therapist.

He tried to push the thoughts away, but nothing he did could distract him. Frustrated and exhausted, Bucky decided to turn in early and end the day.

But as the sun went down and the moon rose, sleep brought him no peace. Instead of falling into a blissful rest, he was dragged straight back to his nightmares—except they weren’t like the ones before.

None of them were about his Hydra days or his past victims.

Every single nightmare was about you.

It was the most absolute terrifying fear of abandonment.

In the dream, he pushed open your office door, expecting to see the warm lights and your pretty smile. But the room was completely empty. The walls were cold, bare concrete, and your chair sat vacant in the center of the room. It didn’t look like the welcoming, colorful space with the warm string lights he knew—no, it looked more like the sterile Hydra rooms where he had been brainwashed over and over again.

He tried calling your name, but his words were stuck in his throat. He tried to scream, but it only strained his vocal cords, and nothing came out but a pathetic wheeze. He kept trying, over and over again, until he finally gasped hard enough to wake himself.

His eyes flew open as he bolted upright on the floor. His bare chest was drenched in sweat, his vibranium hand clutching the sheets so tightly the fabric threatened to tear.

He stared blindly into the dark corners of his empty apartment, his chest heaving. It took him a long time to realize it was just a dream, but the hollow feeling in his chest wouldn’t go away.

He just needed to see you.

“I think the saxophones were the best part,” Bucky praised Marvin Gaye with a gentle smile. “In Distant Lover, especially.”

“Excellent choice, Bucky. That one’s my favorite, too,” you returned the sentiment, leaning back in your chair. “So, tell me. Did you have any new, fun interactions at the music store again?”

Bucky shook his head. It hadn’t been interesting at all this past week—just seven days of solitude away from you.

“What about the girl who gave you her number?” You tilted your head. “Did you ever reach out to her?”

“God, no,” Bucky said with a huff of a laugh. “I actually ended up losing the paper. Pretty sure it went through the wash.”

You let out a soft gasp, placing a hand over your heart.

“Bucky! You threw away her phone number? Do you know how hard it is to get someone’s number the old-fashioned way these days?” A smile crept onto your face, matching the teasing look in your eyes. His favorite. “I’m guessing Marvin Gaye couldn’t convince you to be a little romantic, huh?”

Bucky looked down at his hands, both flesh and vibranium. He had stopped wearing gloves to his appointments. He fiddled with his fingers over his lap, looking almost sheepish.

“Guess I just haven’t found the right person,” he mumbled shyly.

“Sometimes it’s not about finding the right or wrong person. Just spending a few hours with someone can help you grow,” you explained. “If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.”

Bucky rose a brow.

You grinned. “A quote from Marvin Gaye.”

“What a sap,” he joked, and you chuckled.

You adjusted yourself in your chair, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and Bucky’s breath caught in his throat.

“You haven’t brought this up in recent sessions, but I’m curious to know—”

A ring. Nestled on your left ring finger.

“—are you still having nightmares?”

It was shiny. The diamond was a respectable size—as much as he hated to admit it.

“If you don’t feel comfortable talking about it, we don’t have to.”

You had been proposed to?

Was that why you had to cancel on him?

“I just thought… as your therapist, it was important for me to ask, to see if you’re actually getting better—”

While he was having nightmares about losing you, you were out getting proposed to. He hadn’t even known you were being courted.

The warmth that he only felt inside your room turned to ice so fast it was hard to breathe.

Your lips were still moving, your voice as gentle and professional as could be as you continued to speak, but Bucky couldn’t hear a single word. There was a loud ringing in his ears, drowning out everything else.

His eyes were helplessly glued to your left hand. Every time you moved, the silver band caught the sunlight streaming through your office window, throwing a tiny, mocking rainbow light over his lap.

It was cruel. Someone else had asked you for forever, and you had given it to them. While he had spent his Tuesday night twisting in his sheets, choking on a nightmare about losing you, you were already out in the world, building a life that didn’t include him. A life where he was just an hour on your Wednesday schedule. A stupid, court-mandated file.

He wanted to pull his eyes away. His vibranium fingers were twitching to pull his gloves back on. He wanted to collect his things, and his feelings, and leave the room without looking back at you. But he knew he had no right.

All he was was your patient.

He was nothing to you.

“Bucky?” you asked softly, carrying such genuine worry that only made his feelings that much more complicated.

When he didn’t move, you leaned forward. Slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away if he wanted to, you reached across the small gap between your chair and the sofa and gently rested your hand over his. Your touch was light, full of professional respect, but the warmth of your skin seared right through him.

“Bucky? Are you okay?”

He flinched slightly, his eyes ripping away from the diamond to look up at your face. You looked so kind, so concerned for him. It nearly broke him right then and there.

He swallowed hard, forcing the massive lump down his throat as he tried to find his voice. He needed to lie. He needed to put the walls back up before he spilled every pathetic, selfish thought in his head.

“No,” he whispered, his voice rough and slightly cracked. He cleared his throat quickly, pulling his hand back just a little to break the contact, though his skin immediately missed your warmth.

“No. No nightmares, doc.”

Time had passed since he saw the ring, and every day felt like a countdown to the ticking time bomb in his heart, ready to explode.

The walls of his apartment felt lonelier and smaller than ever before. Night after night, he found himself sitting on the floor, his head buried in his hands as he let himself drown in panic. He always had pent up grief and anger from his past to wrestle with. Now, he had to contend with something else entirely—the longing for you that clawed relentlessly at his heart.

It was the kind of emotional turmoil he was supposed to share with his therapist, but how the hell was he supposed to tell you everything when it was all about you?

He couldn’t go to his sessions and look at that ring anymore. He couldn’t sit there pretending to be the patient who was supposed to be honest about his feelings when he couldn’t even tell you a fraction of the truth.

Then came a bright Tuesday morning, the day before his weekly Wednesday session.

Bucky wandered aimlessly down a quiet street, his jacket collar pulled high against the breeze, when he saw you.

You were standing outside a local flower shop beneath a green awning, leaning over a vibrant display of fresh blooms. Your eyes were closed as you bent down to smell them, a soft, peaceful expression resting on your face.

You were probably looking for flowers for your wedding. The thought twisted painfully in his chest.

As if sensing his gaze, your eyes slowly fluttered open and found him across the sidewalk.

A warm, familiar smile spread across your face—the same smile he had grown to love, and the very one that haunted his dreams. But because you were his therapist, you kept your distance. You didn’t wave or approach him, preserving that professional boundary and leaving the choice entirely up to him: acknowledge you, or walk away.

He had every opportunity to turn around.

He should. He should walk away and never look back. But as he looked at you standing there among the flowers, so close yet completely out of his reach, he felt his resolve begin to crumble.

He couldn’t keep living like this.

If he was ever going to accept himself—if he was ever going to trust his own heart, just as you had spent these sessions trying to teach him—then he had to face the truth.

Sooner or later, his footsteps brought him closer to you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, trying to force himself to sound cheerful, but the effort failed.

“Yeah,” you breathed with a smile, gesturing to the blooms. “I’m just looking at some flowers for the wedding.”

Another knife to his heart. He felt his face ache from how hard he was trying to maintain his smile.

“They’re beautiful,” he complimented the flowers, despite his eyes being stuck on you.

“I know! There’s so many to choose from. It’s kind of overwhelming,” you chuckled with a hand over your mouth.

Bucky’s heart was hurting so bad in his chest. The longer he stood in front of you, the less he trusted himself.

“Your fiancée is a lucky man,” he said. Fuck. “I’m happy for you.”

You blinked at him, processing his words. It confused you, but what confused you even more was the solemn expression he wore on his face despite saying he was happy.

He looked like a can of worms that were threatening to open and spill all over your hands, like a bomb that was ready to tick off with one wrong move or one wrong breath.

“Bucky,” you frowned, adjusting your bag strap. “Is everything okay—”

“I… I don’t know what to do,” he cut in, his voice trembling with pent up feelings he couldn’t contain for a single second longer. “I’m having the nightmares again. Every single night. But they aren’t about Hydra anymore. They’re about you.”

You stood there, stunned.

“Bucky, what—what are you saying?”

“I have… I have all these thoughts about you,” Bucky confessed, the words pouring out of him like a broken dam, his blue eyes left entirely vulnerable. “Stupid, selfish thoughts. It’s making me crazy. I know I’m your patient. I know I have no right to feel like this—”

He pressed his lips together. He should stop. No. He needs to stop—but he can’t.

“But you taught me to trust myself, and right now, the only truth I have is—”

“Bucky, slow down—”

“—that I’m in love with you.”

With the way you were looking at him, he might have believed he was in a nightmare already.

“I… I—” you stammered, clutching your bag so tightly.

You were usually so confident with your words, always knowing the right things to say in the perfect tone. But now, your words failed you completely.

A patient? Falling for his therapist?

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say—” you tried for a lighthearted laugh, but it came out painfully awkward. “I’m sorry—but you don’t love me. Y—you’re just confused—”

“I’ve had a lot of doubts in my life,” he insisted on adding salt to the wound, stepping closer in the small hopes of reaching you. “I struggle to navigate my feelings—I know that. But my feelings for you—that is the one thing I don't doubt.”

The look on your face was so solemn, so melancholy, yet you were still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

In no world would it ever be appropriate for a patient to fall in love with their therapist.

He knew what was coming next. He knew full well the consequences of confessing his feelings—of saying something stupid to the one woman he shouldn’t.

But he loved you so much, and as a result, he had to let you go.

“I’m so sorry, James.”

“Let’s hope you don’t fall in love with me next,” Dr. Raynor tried to joke in that flat, sarcastic tone of hers. Bucky didn’t even smile.

She jotted something down in her notebook, and the scratching of her pen made him deeply uncomfortable.

It was cruel, really. The moment the board found out he had fallen in love with his therapist, they stripped him away from the one person he actually cared about. Now, they had paired him up with a much older, entirely unenthusiastic replacement. It was a complete joke.

“Since then, have you tried reaching out to other people?” Dr. Raynor asked.

Bucky sat perfectly still on the sofa, his expression blank. “I… have.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “James, I’ve done this long enough to know when a person is lying. You hesitated.”

“You’re a cynic. I don’t know what you want me to do, doc—”

She clicked her pen with a sigh and started scribbling, making Bucky’s eyebrow twitch.

“Okay, fine. I haven’t reached out to anyone,” he admitted in defeat. “I know I should talk to Sam, but… I don’t know. It’s hard.”

“Have you tried reaching out to him?”

“No.”

“Has he tried reaching out to you?”

Bucky stayed quiet, and Dr. Raynor’s patience wore thin. “Let me see your phone.”

Bucky knew there was no point in fighting her on this. With a reluctant sigh, he shifted his weight to dig into the back pocket of his jeans and handed over his brick of a flip phone.

Dr. Raynor took it and began clicking through. “Several missed text messages from Sam, spanning back months. James, what are you doing?”

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he turned to stare out the window. Dr. Raynor’s office was completely different from yours. It lacked all the welcoming colors your walls had. There were no string lights, no carpet with silly designs he could get lost in, and most of all—there was no music.

Dr. Raynor tossed the flip phone back to him, and he caught it effortlessly.

“You’re punishing yourself,” she pointed out blatantly.

Bucky didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes down to his phone, his gloved thumb swiping over the screen. “I’m not punishing myself, doc. I’m doing myself a favor.”

“Bullshit, James,” she snapped, leaning forward, resting her elbows on her knees to force him into her line of sight. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, his gaze lifted up to her.

“I know what happened with your previous therapist. I read the file,” Dr. Raynor said, using that same tough love of a tone that only made Bucky feel like a child being lectured. “And I know it hurts. I know it feels like the universe threw you a bone, let you feel something real, and then ripped it away just to remind you of who you used to be. But isolating yourself in this empty apartment, cutting off Sam, drowning in your own head—that is the worst goddamn punishment you could possibly inflict on yourself.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard, a muscle ached. “I cross lines when I feel things. I get confused. It feels safer like this.”

“No, you’re just a coward,” Raynor said, unfazed by the hardness in his eyes. “You allowed yourself to feel human for a minute, James. You fell in love. Was it appropriate given the circumstances? No. But it proved that the Winter Soldier didn’t kill the man inside. Now you're treating a normal, heartbreaking human experience like it’s a… a Hydra relapse.”

Bucky made a face.

For a therapist, Raynor was terrible with her allegories.

“Solitude isn’t keeping you safe. It’s just a slow suicide. You want to honor what she taught you? Stop. Hiding. In. The. Dark.”

Raynor checked her watch, clicked her pen one final time, and stood up.

“Our time is up. Call your friend.”

After his session, Bucky found himself walking through a nearby park just a few steps away from his apartment.

Children were running around together. Families were eating on picnic blankets. Couples walked hand in hand. And funny enough, there was even a couple getting engaged just a few feet away from him, surrounded by friends laughing and cheering.

He finally found an empty bench to sit on and pulled out his phone, desperate for a distraction.

Bucky couldn’t remember how many times he had brought Sam up to you in your previous sessions. Every single time, you had encouraged him to talk to him. At the time, Bucky had you—he hadn’t seen the need to reach out to anyone else for friendship when he already had you.

But now that you were gone…

With a sigh, he pressed the phone to his ear and let it ring.

“Sam Wilson. Who’s this?”

Bucky’s throat suddenly felt like it was coated in sand. “Sam.”

There was a dead silence on the other end. Bucky shut his eyes, waiting for Sam to hang up on him. He deserved it after having the audacity to call after nearly a year of silence.

“… Bucky?” Sam’s voice came out breathy and surprised. “Man, I—wow. Are you alright? Why are you calling?”

Bucky winced. He knew Sam probably didn’t mean for it to sound accusatory—or maybe he did. Either way, he had earned it.

Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat, his eyes drifting up to the sky. He inhaled deeply, letting the fresh air in. He thought of the warm string lights, the colorful walls, the beautiful laugh and the gentle advice of the woman he had been forced to leave behind.

Sam sounds like a wonderful person, you had told him once. You should talk to him. You need someone like that in your life.

He was going to try.

For you, he was going to try.

“Yeah. Uh. I just wanted to tell you, I finally listened to Marvin Gaye. Think you got some time this week to catch up?”

There was another pause, long enough to make Bucky’s anxiety spike. Until finally…

“Marvin Gaye, huh? You know, I thought you’d never ask.” Sam said with a light laugh that made Bucky feel a little less tense. “And I don’t want to hear a single thought about it unless we’re talking over a couple of beers. How does Friday sound?”

For the first time in what felt like ages, Bucky genuinely smiled.

“Yeah, okay. Sure.”

It still hurt, knowing that he didn’t have you to look forward to anymore. He had messed up the one good thing he’d had going for him since Hydra—but he had allowed himself to feel. To fall in love. To open his heart to someone else, even if it hadn’t been the right person.

He had to learn to move on. Marvin Gaye was a sap, a man who sang of fantasies entirely out of reach for someone like Bucky. But the man was right.

“It’s good to hear you again, Sam.”

If you cannot find peace within yourself, you will never find it anywhere else.

“It’s good to hear you too, Buck.”

me when i might say something stupid (but the fic is actually buns so this entire fic is just me saying something stupid) i've always wanted to write a tfatws!bucky healing fic of some sort, and what better way to do that than by making the reader his therapist, someone he hopelessly falls in love with which actually plummets his mental health even further! thank you to @houseofhyde and @iamthatonefangirl for beta-reading ily guys

if you've made it this far, i hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading! while you're here, might i suggest taking the opportunity to check out the rest of the bwat summer masterlist that this fic is part of here!

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