mell✨

★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!

★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie

The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.

You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.

The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:

This is not the man you married.

Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.

You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.

The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.

You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.

Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…

Was Kyryll ever really gone?

You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.

Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.

Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.

Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.

The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.

Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.

Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.

It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.

So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.

These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.

“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”

But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.

“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”

Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.

You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”

“You always think about work first,” you sigh.

“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”

You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.

Almost.

Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.

All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.

“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.

“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”

Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”

Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.

“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”

Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.

You were taught to count time in threes.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.

Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.

The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.

Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.

Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.

Wait for me.

Three days pass before Kyryll returns.

The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.

Finally, he is there.

Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.

“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”

He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.

“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.

Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.

He does not kiss you back.

Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.

“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?

You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:

“What lamb?”

“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”

But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.

Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…

You do not ask.

You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.

The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.

That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.

Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.

But today, there is nothing.

Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.

Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.

For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.

Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.

You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.

At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.

But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.

They are replacements.

The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.

You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.

But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.

The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.

You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.

The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.

He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.

You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.

In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.

Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.

It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.

That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.

Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.

Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.

Instead, he walks toward you.

Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.

For a moment, you cannot breathe.

He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.

The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.

He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.

And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.

That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.

From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.

The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.

It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.

There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.

But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.

Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.

But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.

At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.

You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.

In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.

The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.

Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.

And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.

It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.

Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

One night, the dream takes a turn.

You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.

For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.

The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.

You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.

You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.

Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.

Winter eventually gives way to spring.

The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.

You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.

At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.

Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.

And that is when you turn.

Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.

The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.

He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.

It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.

For the first time, it is not a dream.

And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.

By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.

You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.

You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.

The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.

Not in fear. In want.

The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.

His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.

They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.

The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.

A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.

And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.

The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.

Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.

His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.

And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.

When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.

The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.

Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.

Even if you know it’s not.

His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.

You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.

And he notices.

The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.

You see it. You know.

But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.

It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.

Still, your body betrays you.

A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.

You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.

His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.

You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.

Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.

“Mine.”

The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.

He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.

Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.

It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.

Only the monster.

Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.

Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.

When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.

When the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Outside, the wind stirs the fields. Inside, his shadow lingers at your back, warm and heavy, his hand brushing yours as he takes the last dish to dry, wedding bands glinting in the waning light.

You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.

You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.

Now, it is you, and Kyryll.

And the thing that wears his face.

⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO

“Good morning, my ever so diligent fruit seller!” His voice is something far too spirited in the quiet, early morning. You already know then and there peace is no longer an option. So you close your eyes, take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself for the whirlwind about to make a stop at your stall, and exhale.

A shadow hovers over you, the subtle warmth of the early sun dissipating along with it. Flitting your eyes open, you're met with eyes which encompass the blues of a clear sky and the man who is the sun incarnate.

“Good morning to you as well.”

Varka beams — in that ridiculously bright curl of his lips which has you squinting — as though you haven't responded in the same monotone manner each and every time. But he acts as happy as he did the first time you so much as acknowledged his greeting all those years ago.

(Before he was the Grand Master. Before he became something akin to a legend. Before he carried the hopes and wishes of the people into every battle, every act he took to protect his home. Back when he was a bright-eyed knight ready to take on the world while you listened to his rambles, wondering how someone could be so bright.)

A nagging feeling tells you that won't be changing any time soon, and you curse your traitorous heart yearning for it not to.

A crisp crunch! dissolves your thoughts. Blinking, you're unsurprised to see a bright red apple — one of your bright red apples, you note with narrowed eyes — in his mouth. Eyes closed, he contentedly chews the bitten off piece of fruit.

“Ooh, the apples are particularly sweet today,” Varka hums, savouring the taste lingering in his taste buds. It isn't long before his attention swivels back to you, eyes crinkling in mirth. “Not as sweet as you, of course! Haha!”

His mouth really never does stop flapping.

“Flattery won't make me forget about you paying, Grand Master,” comes your deadpan response, demeanour far too used to his sweeping presence. Unfortunately.

With a melodramatic flair only he can pull off, Varka gasps, half-eaten apple in one hand while the other lies solemn atop his heart. “Grand Master? Oh, you wound me! I thought we were at least on first name basis.”

He still hands you the 200 mora amidst his theatrics, fingers brushing gently against your open palm. They linger for a brief moment, that ever familiar warmth curling into your now clenched hand, before it slips back to his side.

You roll your eyes, huffing yet not entirely surprised. “Whatever. Anyway, don't you have duties you should be attending to? You know, as the Grand Master?”

“I'll have you know I am carrying out my duties.” A cheeky grin appears on his visage upon seeing your dubious expression, and you mentally brace yourself for whatever is bound to spill from that insufferable mouth of his. He takes another bite of the apple, chewing and swallowing before continuing. “Checking in on the beloved citizens of Mondstadt is a part of my duties, actually. So naturally I'll be checking up on you every chance I get.”

“Uh-huh. And that entails any time ranging from setting up my stall first thing in the morning, like now, to when I'm about to head home?”

“Of course!” He beams, chipper as ever. “What kind of Grand Master would I be to leave my most beloved citizen bored and lonely without my presence?”

“A better, more competent one,” you drawl, arms crossed and expression undoubtedly unimpressed. “Speaking of, I hope you aren't leaving poor Jean to pick up your slack.”

Another crunch! fills the space. He's polished off the apple, leaving nothing but the pips and the stem. Your nose scrunches; he gives another lopsided grin.

“Jean has it covered. It’s essentially a part of her job description, anyhow. Besides, I’m almost positive that little workaholic enjoys taking on my work and keeping herself busy.”

You sigh, entirely unimpressed yet not surprised in the slightest. Again. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Yet you still entertain me,” he says, grin dwindling into something softer, eyes glittering a little brighter. Within a blink, his relaxed posture straightens. “Oh! Right, this is for you.”

Swept up in his presence, you didn’t realise the cecilia so obviously tucked protectively in his pocket up until now. You shouldn’t be so surprised. More often than not, he will bring you a little trinket — sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evenings. Yet seeing him carefully holding the stem, calloused fingers cautious so as to avoid crumpling the leaves or petals, has your skin warming more than the rising sun above you should.

(And so what if Flora gives you that all-knowing grin from within her own stall? So what if you're already mentally preparing for her to idle her way across to your stall during that quiet hour when the streets are less busy to tease you, again, about the Grand Master's blatant favouritism?)

“You sure seem to have a lot of spare time,” you mutter, gently taking the flower from his outstretched hand. It remains in your own for a brief moment, slowly twirling between your pinched fingers before setting it down on the wooden counter.

“Only for you,” he responds just as softly, as though speaking any louder would disrupt the peace settling over you. It’s almost embarrassing how easily the words spill from his lips, how readily he is able to drown you in this saccharine side of him none would expect from a man who birthed legends with his own name and skills.

And so you just grumble, pointedly doing your best to block out the thunderous beats of your wretched heart. “Shouldn’t you get going? Something about the thrill of adventure and action calling your name?”

“So you do remember what I say!”

“Only because you never stop talking. Even forcefully blocking you out doesn’t work.”

Still, he laughs, like you just landed the funniest joke known to man. His hulking frame of muscle and battle-worn scars shake at the boisterous action. That ever so familiar boyish sound which makes you feel both at ease but also forget just how strong he can be when necessary.

Eventually he composes himself, leaning back with his hands perched on his hips. “Save me some fruit for my return!” are his last words to you as he takes a slow step away from your stall; reluctant, almost. His waving is obnoxious, large, swooping movements which could probably render a mitachurl out of commission from the sheer velocity, his cheery grin akin to that of the shining sun.

You merely roll your eyes and give him a half-hearted wave of your own.

It's only when he disappears beyond the towering cobble walls do you allow yourself to turn away. Shining with gentle radiance in the early morning glow sits the cecilia he left for you, its pristine visage a grating contrast to the worn wood of the stall. The petals are soft to the touch, the pads of your thumb and forefinger gently running along its smooth texture.

Chatter slowly floods the city as life blooms amongst the populace, and you swiftly tuck its stem securely in your apron's breast pocket. The regulars come out for their daily peruse and purchase. The guards greet you and stop for idle chats. The children amble towards you eager to hear what new fruits you have in stock this time.

Even as the day goes on and your stock dwindles, you make sure to set aside the freshest fruit you have for when a certain man returns late into the day.

(And when he appears, roughed up from spending the day out in the wilderness yet shining as bright as ever, you act as though the ripe apple and berries were just mere leftovers — produce which never sold. If he notices the still pristine cecilia tucked into your pocket, he doesn't comment on it. He never does. Varka only beams in that manner which always gets your hands clammy, happily holding your empty crates while chattering about today's wilderness expedition, waiting as you finish packing up so he can walk you back home.)

(Like routine; like always.)

It started as a joke. A mental note. A private running tally for your own amusement.

But over time, it became something else.

A quiet, obsessive little profile you couldn’t stop writing in your head:

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Height: 6’4” (estimated; difficult to confirm without stepping too close and risking spontaneous heart failure). Known aliases: None. Known vices: Also none. (He drinks decaf. Returns library books early. Buys cookies from every intern’s fundraiser and forgets to take them home.) Notable habits: Misuses emojis in texts. Says ‘good gosh’ and ‘heck’ with a straight face. Holds elevator doors for people that are two hallways down. Apologizes when you step on his foot. Carries backup pens for forgetful coworkers (see also: you) and never complains when they disappear. Stops traffic in the middle of rush hour to rescue pigeons stranded in the rain. (Ok, that was one time, but still. Ridiculous.) Relationship status: Unknown. (Not that you’ve checked. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly.)

And through a year’s worth of careful observations—of eleventh-hour rewrites, hostile interview subjects, and downloads crashing at 98%—the man has yet to let so much as a ‘damn’ slip past his lips.

And sure, that used to make sense. It fits the rest of the draft you’ve outlined in your head:

“Clark Kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. His deadlines are always met. His quotes always triple-checked. His emails always signed off with ‘Thanks so much!’ even when they absolutely should not be. He is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man in this building. Possibly on Earth.”

And that, you’ve always thought, makes him predictable. Safe. Easy to write, easy to understand.

But tonight—

Tonight blows the whole story wide open.

Because Clark Kent is ten feet away in the quiet, after-hours bullpen, lit only by desk lamps and the glow of your phone screen—and he is absolutely vibrating with fury.

He’s leaning back against a desk like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the ground. His glasses are slipping down the bridge of his nose, fogged at the edges. His jaw’s locked tight. Arms folded so hard across his chest it’s like he’s physically holding himself back.

And he hasn’t looked at you once since you showed him the memo with shaking fingers:

We regret to inform you that your article has been removed from the upcoming issue.

No edits. No explanation. Just a clean corporate kill order, stamped with that neat, infuriating euphemism: Failure to meet editorial guidelines.

Which, translated from Boardroom Bullshit into plain English, means:

Too real. Too loud. Too close to someone with more money and lawyers than you’ll ever have.

You’re still standing there, ghost-lit by your screen, white-knuckling the phone like maybe, if you squeeze hard enough, you can unsend reality.

But Clark?

Clark is something else entirely.

He’s past fury. Past protest.

Standing still in that way he only gets when something breaks—not out in the world, but inside him.

You’ve seen it before, in fragments.

When a shelter he covered lost its funding days before winter.

When a foster care bill he championed got struck down at the last second.

When your tires were slashed in the Planet garage and he didn’t ask if it was tied to your reporting—just asked which story.

When Clark gets truly upset, he doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t storm around or slam doors.

He goes still.

Brows drawn, jaw tight. And behind all that warm, glasses-wrapped mildness, his eyes turn diamond-sharp.

You’ve seen that look maybe four times in the last year.

Tonight makes five.

And this time, it’s for you.

You glance at him, then back at your phone, like the memo might’ve changed since the last time you read it.

It hasn’t.

The bullpen is quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own pulse feel like an alarm. Outside, Metropolis breathes, moving ever forward. But in here, time feels like it’s buffering.

Life still chugging along for the rest of the city while yours has come to a sudden, brutal halt.

Because your article—your article—

The triple-sourced, fact-checked into oblivion, airtight exposé Perry promised would front the Sunday edition—

Pulled.

Not bumped. Not buried on page ten.

Gone.  

And it shouldn’t hurt this much. But it does.

Because it wasn’t just a story. It was a truth someone didn’t want printed. It was weeks of whispered meetings and late-night calls. It was sources you swore to protect and facts you held like lifelines.

It was the kind of piece that reminded you why you started this job in the first place. Why you stayed when it got hard. Why you cared so deeply when everyone else called it a lost cause.

Now, it’s nothing.

Scraped like gum from the bottom of someone’s shoe.

But what wrecks you—what truly undoes you—isn’t the memo.

It’s him.

Clark Kent. Ten feet away, still as stone, burning quiet and hot like a forge under pressure.

And it’s unbearable. Not because he’s angry, no. Because his anger makes yours feel real. Valid. It’s a spotlight on everything you’ve been trying not to feel.

And the fact that it means this much to Clark—it's excruciating.

When he finally speaks, his voice scrapes low. Gravel and steel.

“This is such complete—”

He stops. Swallows it. You see his throat work through the rest.

You blink. “Were you about to swear?”

His laugh is barely a breath. “No. I was about to flip this place upside down.”

You snort softly. “Well, that’s healthy.”

He looks up at that.  

And something shifts. Subtle. Measurable only if you’ve spent a whole year cataloguing his tells, which—you have.

The set of his shoulders loosens by a fraction. His fists uncurl slightly at the edges. And then his eyes meet yours.

They’re still burning, molten with rage. But beneath it now is something raw and unmistakable. Something worse.

Grief. Fragility.

Recognition.

Not of your name or your work or even this story, but of you.

The kind of knowing that can’t be taught, only earned—through late nights and impossible deadlines, through buried stories and quiet sacrifices. Through witnessing each other bleed for something no one else can see the value in.

He knows you.

Knows the way you double-source everything down to the commas. The way you get when you're deep in a lead—obsessive, hungry, fired up on all ends.

Knows how hard you tried not to care about this one.

And how badly it broke you when you failed.

And whatever he sees in your eyes, red-rimmed and rimlit by your phone, he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

He absorbs it like gravity. Holds it, honors it.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

And it shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

But it lands clean, deep, like the final line of a piece you didn’t know how to end until just now.

Because he means it. Really means it.

Not just for the story—for you. For everything you try to keep buried. For everything you still are, despite your best efforts.

You clear your throat and shove your phone into your bag, as if that’ll erase the memo from existence. 

“Should’ve pitched a fluff piece,” you mutter. “Stuff that matters. ‘Puppies of Metropolis.’ Or, I don’t know. ‘Ten Best Councilmembers Ranked by Forehead Shine.’”

 Clark frowns. “Your story mattered.”

“Yeah, well,” you shrug. Try for a smirk. Miss. “It’s just a job.”

“No.” His voice sharpens, solidifying. “It’s not just a job.”

And the way he says it—

God, it slices clean through all your practiced apathy. Hits something soft and guarded and quietly breaking.

So you do what you always do when it gets too real:

You deflect.

“What’re you gonna do, Kent? Fly it to another paper?”

It’s a joke. A dumb one. You’re not even sure why you say it, except that sarcasm is easier than crying.

But something flickers in his expression.

His mouth twitches. His spine straightens. His eyes narrow—not in anger now, but in purpose. 

And you’ve seen this look before, too.

In press conferences. In interviews. In war rooms and city council hearings and anywhere something needed to be done.

Decision.

Steel-willed and absolute. Like he’s already ten moves ahead and just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

He pushes off the desk and closes the space between you in two deliberate steps.

“Give me the files.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Your article. Your notes. Sources. Everything. Just—trust me.”

 “Clark, I—”

“I’ll make sure it gets out.”

You stare at him.  

This is the part where you argue. Where you ask how. Where you remind him that corporate kill orders don’t get reversed by sheer force of Midwestern conviction.

But there’s something in his eyes that stops you cold.

Because what’s there isn’t hope—it’s certainty.

Like the truth has already been printed, and he just has to go pick up the copies.

And for the first time in hours, your ribs loosen. Your lungs expand. Air returns like forgiveness.

You nod. “Okay.”

He nods back, steady as anything. “Good.”

You turn—toward your desk, your files, this impossible thing you’re now apparently doing together—but he reaches out. Fingers brushing your wrist with deliberate softness.

“Hey.”

You look back.

And that’s when it hits you again.

That thing.

That not-quite-hidden headline that’s been quietly building in the margins between you for months.

The Look.

The I’d burn down the sky for you look.

The I’d rewrite every rule if it meant you got your byline look.

The this isn’t just friendship and we both know it look.

His eyes are warm. Devastating.

“I know it hurts now,” he says, voice like silk-wrapped iron, “but this is how change starts. With one person refusing to stay quiet.”

It cracks something wide open in you.

You’ve held it together for hours—through the email, through the silence, through the aching injustice of it all—but this? This is the last thread.

And before you can stop yourself—

You kiss him.

Quick. Soft. Barely more than a breath. A quiet, shaking whisper of a thing—full of too many sleepless nights and too many unsent drafts and too many almosts you never let yourself say out loud.

Every moment since that first coffee-stained blouse and fumbled apology.

And then you pull back like you've been burned.

“Shit,” you breathe. “I’m—I’m sorry—”

But Clark—

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stammer or reassure.

He just looks at you.

Steady. Intense. Certain.

Eyes gone dark and molten, burning with that same impossible heat.

And then his hand is cupping your cheek, and his mouth is on yours, and the axis of the Earth tilts.

You thought he’d be gentle.

Because he always is.

But this?

This is not gentle.

This is a damn bursting. A planet cracking. A lifetime of restraint boiling over in the space of a heartbeat.

His kiss is all heat and purpose—no backstepping, no second-guessing, none of that fumbling reserve you used to tease him for.

Just immediate, all-consuming want.

And you’re gone. Instantly.

Fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, trying to memorize the feel of him before the world finds a way to take it back.

Under your palms, his skin is hot. Not warm, but radiant. Like he’s built from something older and brighter than flesh. Sparks catch where your fingers land, skittering like static.

His glasses tilt, poking into your cheek. You press closer anyway.

And then you hear it—

A low, guttural groan, raw and unrestrained, ripped from deep in his chest.

It destroys you.

Because Clark Kent does not make noises like that.

Not the Clark who holds doors and apologizes to vending machines. Who runs back to the third floor because the printer ate your story again. Who leaves you sticky notes with silly doodles after a rough meeting and texts you safe after every late-night interview.

Not even the Clark who believed in your story when the whole building turned cold.

No, this Clark—the one kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s been waiting months to be allowed this close, like you’re the only thing tethering him to Earth—

He’s new. Terrifying. Addictive.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging gently, enough to make him lift his head.

“Clark,” you whisper, breath ragged. “We shouldn’t—”

“I know.” His voice is raw, lips brushing yours. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—I can’t not anymore.”

And then he’s kissing you again.

Harder. Deeper. Less asking, more need.

You chase him. Tilt your chin. Take. Take. Give.

His hands roam everywhere—your waist, your back, your jaw—like something broke loose in him and there’s no putting it back.

When your back hits the desk with a soft thud, you barely feel it. Because he’s there. A wall of heat and strength, all breath and heartbeat and too-broad shoulders. One hand braces your waist, the other cupping the back of your head—like even now he doesn’t know how to be rough with you. Like no matter how desperate this gets, reverence is the instinct he can’t shake.

Your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, popping a button free. He shudders under your touch.

“We’re still at work,” you manage to gasp.

It’s not a protest. Just a fact. A threadbare attempt at logic thrown into the fire.

“I’ll stop,” he murmurs.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let go.

Then his mouth finds your neck, searching. When his teeth graze that one spot, your body jolts. He latches on there, slow and sure, kissing and mouthing like he’s studying you. Committing you to memory. When he finally sucks, it’s just enough pressure to leave your bones soft, make your knees buckle.

You bite your lip to hold the sound in, but his name escapes anyway—rough and wanting and far too loud for a quiet newsroom.

And something inside him snaps.

His hands slide to your hips, lifting you—gentle, effortless, like you weigh nothing but mean everything—and suddenly you’re perched on the edge of your desk.

His palm slides along your inner thigh, eyes never leaving yours.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “If this isn’t what you want, please. Tell me.”   

Your pulse stutters.

He’s wrecked. Trembling. Holding himself together by threads. And still—still—beneath all that, he’s endlessly soft.

This is Clark Kent at his core—steadfast and true.

The same man who brings you tea when your voice is shot. Lets you fix his crooked tie in the elevator. Held your hand the last time your story was gutted and said, ‘I’m proud of you.’

You take his hand.

Guide it beneath your skirt, up your thigh, to where you’re already soaked.

“Does this feel like I want you to stop?”

His breath catches. His fingers twitch—then freeze.

Like he still doesn’t quite believe this is real. Like he’s been holding this want in both hands for months and doesn’t know how to set it free.

But then you lean in, forehead to his.

"Clark."

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth crashes into yours again, hot and sure.

Your skirt rucks up around your hips. His hands frame your thighs like he’s holding something sacred. When his fingers slide beneath your underwear, it’s slow. Tender. Almost unbearably gentle.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice blown wide open. “You’re…”

His thumb moves through your slick heat, circling over your clit in patterns that are nothing short of devastating.

“...you’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re telling me.” You gasp, already trembling.

He huffs a laugh—shaky, ruined—but it vanishes the second he drops to his knees.

Just like that.

No pretense. No buildup. Just down.

And something in you stutters.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not here. Not now. But he’s already got your knees over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk.

And then his mouth—

His mouth—

Fuck the plan. No time to think.

The first stroke of his tongue is slow, greedy, filthy—it knocks the breath clean from your lungs.

Your hips jolt, fingers finding his hair. Your thighs lock instinctively around his head, but he doesn’t flinch. Just keeps holding you open and hums deep in his throat, the vibration lighting you up from the inside out.

His tongue draws slow, maddening circles over your clit. Just light enough to tease. One of your leg twitches, your body bucking under the gentle pressure of his mouth.

And he just smiles. You feel the curve of it against you.

Bastard.  

“Clark—please—”

He glances up, just enough to meet your eyes.

And the sight between your thighs just about flips your stomach inside out.

His hair’s a mess from your hands. Mouth slick. Eyes dark and shining and so damn warm it’s almost too much to bear.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, eyes locked onto yours. “Don’t hold back.”

Then he’s gone again.

No hesitation. No showmanship. Just devotion.

His mouth seals over you with devastating precision, tongue steady and unrelenting. Every motion pulls you higher, pressure climbing in sharp, stuttering waves.

You’re shaking. Buckling. One hand gripping the edge of the desk, the other tangled tight in his hair. Every part of you taut, humming.

And Clark—sweet, perfect, fucking Clark—just keeps going.

When he drags the flat of his tongue up your clit, simultaneously slipping two fingers inside, slow and curling just right—your back lifts clean off the table.

“Clark— Jesus, I’m gonna—”

You barely get the words out before you break.

Your whole body locks up. Pleasure slams into you like a wave cresting too high to outrun. You cry out—sharp, wild, unrestrained—coming hard and helpless in his mouth.

And he doesn’t stop. Just keeps kissing you through it, patient and tender, coaxing every aftershock from your trembling frame.

Only when your hips start to flinch, too tender to bear more, does he pull back.

Careful, reluctant. Like he’d stay there forever, if you let him.

And when he rises, he looks—

Destroyed.

Beautifully, sinfully destroyed.

Gloriously flushed, chest heaving, lips shining with everything you had to give him.

And god help you, you’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life.

He kisses you then. Slow and deep. Like he needs to taste every part of what had just passed.

Your hands fumble for his belt—still burning, still aching—but he catches your wrist. Gentle, steady.

Still the same Clark underneath it all.

“Not here,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Not like this.”

You blink, dazed. Floating somewhere just outside yourself.

“Why not?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, warm and boyish. Tender in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because when I finally have you,” he says softly, “I want to take my time. I want to see you.”

And the way he says it—like it’s something sacred, like you’re something sacred—knocks the breath from your lungs.

“…okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Uhm, your place or mine?”

He grins. That crooked, ruined, stupidly perfect grin that makes your knees wobble again.

“Yours. You’ve got better snacks.”

You laugh—really laugh—and something cracks open between you. Something warm and deep and safe.  

He kisses you once more, gentle and lingering, before helping you off the desk. His hands stay firm at your waist until he’s sure you won’t topple.

The newsroom around you is hushed. Lamps dimmed. The soft buzz of the city humming through the windows, distant and irrelevant. For once, the world outside isn’t clawing for your attention.

You smooth your skirt, catching your reflection in the dark window—swollen lips, wild hair, flushed cheeks—and something curls sweet and slow in your stomach.

When you turn back, Clark’s looking at you like you’ve just rewritten his world.

“You okay?” he asks, soft.

You nod, exhaling slow. “Yeah, it's just… kind of unexpected.”

He lifts an eyebrow, teasing. But there’s something nervous in it too.

“Unexpected... bad?”   

You snort softly, breath still uneven, heart fluttering in disbelief.

Searching for footing in a story you once thought you understood.

“No, just—”

But you pause. Because now there’s room to really look at him.

The glow behind his eyes. The soft flush on his cheeks. The open, vulnerable way he’s watching you—like he’s terrified to move in case the moment vanishes.

Like he knows every jagged, weary part you’ve tried to hide, and wants you more because of them.

His hands twitch at his sides. Waiting.

Your chest goes soft.

“No,” you say quietly, eyes locked on his. “Unexpected perfect.”

Clark’s lashes flutter. And then—

He smiles.

Not the polite, mayor’s-office smile. Not the Sunday-church one either.

No. This one is his.

Crooked. Bright. Disarming in its sincerity. The kind of smile that plants morning light deep in your ribs. Making soft gold bloom from the inside out.

And when he leans in again—slower this time, as if memorizing the way you breathe when it’s just the two of you—

You meet him halfway.

Three days later, your article is everywhere.

Not buried. Not trimmed. Not sanded down to fit corporate comfort zones.

Published. In full. On the front page of a different paper entirely, circulated across Metropolis before most of your newsroom have had their first cup of burnt breakroom coffee.

The byline? Yours.

The exposé—your exposé—is splashed across every feed, pinging inboxes faster than the spin doctors can catch it. Reporters are quoting it, politicians are dodging it, and suddenly, you’re the name in the room. The one who broke it wide open.

When you walk into the bullpen, the room goes still for a moment. Then comes a ripple of applause, a couple cheers. A low whistle that has to be Jimmy.

Even Perry White, who doesn’t do applause—who curses, barks, and points at clocks like they owe him money—walks past, claps a hand on your shoulder, and grunts:

“Hell of a story, kid.”

You nod. Swallow. Try to look like your knees aren’t full of helium.

You don’t ask how it happened. You don’t have to.

Because across the room, at his desk, typing away like it’s just another Friday, is Clark Kent.

He doesn’t look up at first. Doesn’t need to.

But when he does—when his eyes find yours—he gives you that look.

That quiet, unshakable thing he carries in his gaze when he’s sure of something.

It hits you dead center.

You mouth: Thank you.

He pushes his glasses up, mouths back: Anytime.

And when you move past him—headed for the coffee pot, trying very hard to look normal—he reaches out without looking, fingers grazing the back of your hand.

Light. Deliberate. Like a secret traded in plain sight.

You stop. Turn.

Your heart is hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Something coils tight and electric in your stomach.

You lean down, all slow and casual, like you’re just checking his screen—then murmur, lips barely brushing the edge of his ear:

“Stairwell. Five minutes.”

Clark drops his pen.

You smirk.

His back slams into cold concrete before the door even clicks shut.

You shove him hard—no grace, no patience, just raw, pent-up need— and he barely grunts before you’re on him, kissing like it’s a fight, like you’re trying to crawl under his skin and disappear.

It’s more violence than a kiss—teeth dragging, lips bruising, nails digging. Your hands fist in his shirt, yanking him closer, and his groan rumbles through both of you, hips pressed flush to yours.  

“What is—fuck—what is wrong with you?” You gasp against his jaw, kissing him between words. “Whose balls did you have to bust to—get that—” Another kiss. Frustrated. Shaky. “You said it’d take longer. You can’t just—drop this on me—”

He’s laughing now, happy and breathless, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I cashed in a favor,” he murmurs, not even trying to sound sorry. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”

“For fuck’s sake, Kent—”

You yank back just far enough to glare at him.

His hair’s a mess. Glasses askew. Your lip balm smudged on his mouth.

He looks completely undone. Glowing with it.    

Lit from within by that maddening, quietly heroic light he wears whenever he does something outrageous and pretends it’s ordinary.

Something behind your ribs gives way.

Your throat tightens. Your nose prickles. Emotion catches you off-guard and rises sharp behind your eyes.

You blink hard, trying to look away.

But he sees it.

He always sees it. 

His hands come up, cupping your face, thumb gently brushing under your eye before the feeling has a chance to fall.

“You did all the work,” he says, voice rough with truth. “I just helped the story get where it needed to go.”

You blink back at him.

This man.

This infuriating, ridiculous, unshakably good man who has never once doubted your voice. Who saw your fury and didn’t turn away. Who held your anger like it was something holy and refused to let the world bury it. Placed all his stubborn kindness, all that relentless quiet conviction, in you.

Like the truth was always going to find the light—he’d just hold the sky steady until morning came.

You want to say something. Anything.

But your voice is gone, twisted up in your chest with everything else you can’t name.

So you do the only thing you can.

You grab his collar and kiss him.

Desperate. Grateful. Furious. In love.

He groans into your mouth, hands sliding low to anchor you, pulling you tight against him. Your back hits the opposite wall, and you barely register it before his hands find the backs of your thighs and lift.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively as he presses against you, body slotting perfectly to yours. You fumble for his belt, fingers clumsy with urgency—and when your hand slips past the waistband of his briefs—

Jesus.

He’s already hard. Hot. Thick. Practically pulsing in your palm.

He hisses through his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut as you stroke him—slow and firm, with a teasing twist at the top.

He’s stunning like this—glasses slipping, flushed from neck to fingertips, biting his lip so hard to keep quiet. Which, frankly, only makes you want to ruin him more.

“Fuck, please—"

“Language, Smallville.” You grin.

He laughs—just barely—but it turns into a moan when you squeeze.

“Unfair,” he whispers, forehead thudding against your shoulder. “You’re being so unfair.”

“You broke embargo,” you murmur, kissing his jaw. “I’m just collecting interest.”

Then, you fist his hair and give a sharp tug. He moans loud enough for it to echo to the ground level.

“Clark! You can’t—”

“Sorry, sorry!”

Three days ago, you didn’t know what Clark Kent sounded like when he’s desperate.

Now, it lives under your skin.

You used to think he’d be quiet in bed. Gentle. Restrained.

He’s not.

He moans. He begs. He loses himself in you.

And he swears too, colorfully so. Under his breath, against your skin, sometimes loud enough to rattle the walls.

And as you dig your fingers into that thick, impossibly soft hair and give another deliberate pull—he shudders. His hips jerks forward, cock leaking in your hand as his mouth falls open around your name.

"Still works," you whisper. "Thought maybe the effect would wear off."

He huffs out a ragged laugh, eyes hungry as they flick up to yours.

“Not a chance. And it’s really not fair how well you know me already.”

“Three days,” you murmur, lips brushing his. “Eleven orgasms. I’ve had time to study.”

“Twelve,” he rasps. “You forgot the shower this morning.”

You groan, dropping your head to his shoulder. “Oh god, the shower.”

“I like you wet,” he murmurs, free hand gliding up your thigh. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got you up against tile.”

“Clark,” you gasp, laughing. “We’re not in a shower right now.”

“No,” he grins, shifting you up higher. “We’re not.”

His fingers pull your underwear aside, and he groans.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “Still soaking.”

You gasp as he slides in two fingers—slow, familiar, devastating. He knows your rhythm already. Circles first, just enough pressure. Then deep strokes, curling upward.

You tremble in his grip, clinging to his shoulders.

He watches your face the whole time—eyes dark, mouth parted, like your pleasure feeds him.

You pull at his hair again, impatient, and he grunts.

"Condom?" you gasp, breath hitching as your orgasm flirts with the edge.

"Pocket," he pants, "But you’ll have to let go.”

You whimper and release him just long enough for him to fumble it on one-handed.

And then—

He’s inside you.

The stretch immediately steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not new. Not anymore.

But it knocks the wind out of you, every time.

He moves slow, sinking deep, jaw clenched tight with restraint. And when he bottoms out, hips flush, he exhales into your shoulder like it’s the only breath he’s needed all day.

“Every time,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “You feel unreal.”

You clutch at his back, hips rolling.

“Move,” you plead. “Please, Clark—move—”

He does. A slow pull. A hard thrust.

Again. And again.

The rhythm builds fast—skin slapping, gasps mixing with half-broken moans, your name like a prayer on his lips. His hand braces behind your back. The other grips your thigh, grounding you as your body stutters and trembles.

And then—you feel it.

The edge. That rising, pulsing ache about to break you open.

“There,” you choke, eyes flying open. “Right there, don’t stop—”

“I won’t,” he pants, unraveling. “I’ve got you—just like that—please, keep pulling—fuck—”

So you do.

You yank his hair again, and it’s enough.

You shatter around him. Your whole body tightens, clenches, falls apart. Unrelenting pleasure floods through you as you cry out, gasping, body convulsing as you cling to him.

Clark follows with a groan, hips stuttering as he spills into you, forehead buried in your shoulder.

The world holds its breath.

Only the sound of panting. Heartbeats slowing. Limbs trembling.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

You cradle his head, fingers stroking his hair, and after a long, slow moment, you whisper:

“…we should head back.”

He nods, reluctant, and eases you down onto unsteady legs. One hand on your hip, the other steady at your elbow.

You don’t need a mirror to know that you’re a wreck.

Hair ruined. Lip balm long gone. Thighs sticky and trembling.  

You adjust your underwear and fix your skirt, trying to gather yourself into something vaguely resembling human. Trying to find the composure you lost the moment Clark looked at you from across the bullpen this morning.

And Clark—well, Clark doesn’t even try.

His shirt’s wrinkled, belt undone, hair a disaster. Glasses missing.

He just looks back at you with that smug, slow grin on his face like he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

You meet his eyes, brows raised. “Think we were subtle?”

“Absolutely not,” he shakes his head, beaming.

You smack his chest. “Clark, we’re gonna get fired.”

“I’ll write a defense,” he says, tucking himself away. “‘A Case for Stairwell Trysts: Breaking the Taboo of Workplace Romance.’”

You choke on a laugh. “Catchy. Real Pulitzer-worthy.”

He grins, pretending to type on invisible keys.

“In these uncertain times, can love not be found between the third and fourth floors?”

“Oh my god.”

“Sources confirm the encounter was loud, reckless, and deeply necessary,”

“Clark.”

“Eyewitness has declined to comment but was visibly traumatized.”

“Eyewitness?”

“Ferguson. The rat, remember? Hope he’s still crawling around the vents somewhere.”

You’re still laughing when you reach for the stairwell door, but he stops you with a gentle hand on your wrist.  

When you turn, the joke’s still in his eyes—but something else has surfaced.

Vulnerability, soft and quiet, flickers to the surface.

“Okay,” he starts. “What if… instead of writing that article…”

He clears his throat, fingers brushing the back of his neck. “I pitched a different one.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh?”

His smile tilts—shy and hopeful.

“Yeah, forget the op-ed. How about: ‘Local Man Caught Stammering Around Brilliant Coworker, Attempts Recovery By Asking Her Out For Dinner Instead.’”

You blink, heart catching in your throat.

And suddenly—this is scarier than anything that came before.

You search his face. The smudge of gloss on his jaw. The curve of his lips.

That quiet, unshakable look in his eyes.  

You swallow.

“What’s the angle?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Human interest.”

You bite your lip, smile threatening. “And your sources?”

“Reliable,” he says, nodding seriously. “She even let me stay over. Twice. Her kitchen may never recover.”

You hum. “Sounds like she’s into you.”

“Yeah,” he steps closer, smiling shyly. “I’m starting to think so too.”

You let the silence bloom between you—warm, delicate, just a little terrifying.

Then, without thinking, you press up on your toes and kiss him.

He leans down to meet you halfway.

This kiss is different. No urgency. No heat. Just a quiet kind of knowing. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together like they belong there.

You rest your forehead to his, breathing slow.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her seven o’clock.”

His smile blooms slow and bright—a sunrise you get to keep.

“Done.”

epilogue

Clark Kent. 32. Staff Reporter. Boyfriend. Love of your life. Height: 6’4” (confirmed; measured via very scientific method involving back kisses and the doorframe in your apartment). Known aliases: Smallville. Pretty boy. Baby. Honey. Lover. Oh, and—Superman. (Yes, that one. You’re still not over it. You probably never will be.) Known vices: Hair pulling. You saying his name, any tone, any time. You, in his glasses and nothing else. Praise—saying it, hearing it, saying it again. And anything that lands him on his knees with his nose buried between your thighs. Notable habits: Still hopeless with emojis. Still says 'good gosh' and 'heck' unironically—only now it’s the morning after he’s had your legs over his shoulders for an hour and made you cry on his tongue. Still buys cookies from every intern, but remembers to bring them home now. Saves the peanut butter ones for you. Leaves notes with hearts and your name doodled all over like he’s twelve and in love. (He is.) Still drops everything he's doing to rescue tiny lives. (You'd asked him about the pigeon once. He'd just shrugged and told you 'he looked scared.') Relationship status: Taken. By you. Extensively. Repeatedly. Thoroughly. On every flat surface in your apartment. And his. And yes—occasionally, on questionable ones at work. (Sorry, Jimmy.)

Marvel and DC

Clark Kent to whom it may concern; 18+, mdni You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planet—soft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer… he might be Superman himself.

in the silence; 18+; mdni In the quiet spaces between friendship and something more, you fall for Clark Kent the way snow falls—softly, steadily, all at once. You promised; 18+ mdni When Kara Zor-El crash-landed into your life at fifteen, everything changed. She was bold, brilliant, and desperate for something real—and you were it. Her anchor. Her safe person. You’re also the girl who she made promise not to fall in love with him. But you did. You fell for Clark Kent with the kind of love that lingers quietly for years. A love built on late-night walks, inside jokes, and aching silences. A love you buried every time he dated someone else, every time you reminded yourself he wasn’t yours to want. Until one naughty picture. One snowstorm. One bed, and one kiss that cracked everything open. Now, nothing feels simple—not your loyalty to Kara, not the years of secrets, not the impossible way Clark looks at you like you hung every star in his sky. You were never supposed to fall in love. But what happens when the one thing you swore not to do becomes the only thing you’ve ever wanted?

Oral History: 18+, mdni Clark Kent is sweet. Respectful. Barely swears. Which is why you cannot stop thinking about what his ex drunkenly told Jimmy Olsen at trivia night: that Clark, apparently, is an oral god. You try to ignore it. You spiral. You investigate. For journalism. Obviously.

Of Gods and Ghosts: 18+, mdni You were never meant to matter. Not to Lex Luthor, who weaponized your past and turned you into his most invisible asset. Not to Metropolis, who doesn’t know your name. Not even to yourself, not really—not after everything you’ve done to survive behind LuthorCorp’s glass doors and closed fists. But then Superman shows up. And Clark Kent won’t stop asking questions. You were supposed to bait him. Break him. Deliver his downfall. Instead, you hesitated. And now you’re spiraling. Because Superman wasn’t supposed to look at you like that. And Clark—Clark wasn’t supposed to matter. You didn’t mean to fall for both of them. Now Lex knows you’ve slipped the leash. He wants you dead. Clark wants you safe. And all you want is to make it out alive long enough to choose who you are—before someone else chooses for you. When everything burns, who do you save? And who do you become? My Friend, Superman: 18+, mdni (coming Wednesday) You’ve spent months falling for two men: Clark Kent and Superman. One soft but distant, the other larger-than-life and burning. But when a rooftop secret finally breaks, the truth hits harder than any fall—because they’re the same man, and he’s been in love with you from the start. Now everything you thought you knew is in flames. And when he kisses you? The world never lands the same.

Loki Laufeyson and still, I chose you : 18+ MDNI You were Earth’s finest diplomat—sharp, composed, loyal to the cause of peace. When war threatened the realms, the Council asked the unthinkable: marry one of Asgard’s princes to solidify the alliance. Thor is everything a ruler should be—honorable, loyal, safe. Loki is none of those things. And yet, he sees you. He undoes you. Duty demands you choose the golden son. But desire, ache, and love—the dangerous kind—pull you toward the prince raised in shadow.

Bob Reynolds: things we don’t say (john/bob/reader): 18+, MDNI, threesome w John You’ve done this before. A few too many times to call it an accident—but no one’s saying it out loud. You know exactly how to ruin each other. And exactly how to put each other back together.

on the line: 18+, MDNI Scenarios for Bucky, John, and Bob involving an oral fixation. Joaquin Torres: almost wasn't: friends to lovers, 18+, mdni You and Joaquin have been best friends since the Air Force—shoulders pressed side by side through deployments, shitty rations, late-night confessions, and every almost that never became something more. You’ve seen him fall in and out of love. He’s seen you pretend you don’t need more than friendship. You date other people. You go on double dates. But every time, you end up right back next to each other—too close, too familiar, too full of everything you won’t say. Until one night, everything breaks open. And it turns out, the only thing worse than wanting him all this time… is realizing he’s always wanted you too.

John Walker things we don’t say (john/bob/reader): 18+, MDNI, threesome w Bob You’ve done this before. A few too many times to call it an accident—but no one’s saying it out loud. You know exactly how to ruin each other. And exactly how to put each other back together. off record : 18+, MDNI You weren’t supposed to fall for John Walker. Not when he was a disaster of a man, all snark and contradictions and casually cruel denials. Not when he made your chest ache with how close he let you get—only to remind you it “wasn’t a thing.” Not when you knew better. But still, you stayed. And so did he. only you: 18+, MDNI (john x babysitter reader) John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home. You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary. But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart. breakaway save: 18+, MDNI, (hockey AU) John Walker’s trying to be better. New Avengers. New therapist. New hobby: rec league hockey with a bunch of ex-military guys who don’t ask too many questions. He didn’t expect you—sarcastic, steady, and not scared of the mess he is. But you keep showing up. And slowly, he starts to believe he deserves that. This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about trying. And falling. And choosing love anyway. mrs. walker, if you're nasty: 18+, MDNI, (Fake Marriage AU) You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you.  What starts as pretend hand-holding and shared hotel beds spirals into jealousy, bathtub confessions, and one unhinged night that breaks every rule you agreed on.

mine to catch: 18+, MDNI You love when he chases you. You love it more when he catches you. Out in the trees, John Walker ties you down, spanks you until you can’t think, and fucks you so full you forget your own name. But when it’s over, when your body’s trembling and your voice is gone—he’s the one who puts you back together. He always does. Because that’s the thing about John—he breaks what’s his, but he never lets it go. fine line: 18+, MDNI You moved into your new apartment for peace and quiet. What you got instead was a shared wall—and a nightly soundtrack—courtesy of your ridiculously hot, insufferably smug neighbor, John Walker. He’s loud. He’s rude. He’s apparently allergic to emotional intimacy. And worst of all? You can’t stop fantasizing about him. What starts as passive-aggressive note wars and 2AM arguments slowly shifts—through snowstorms, soup deliveries, shared beds, and the occasional wall sexting—into something that feels dangerously close to love. There’s a fine line between hate and want. You’re about to find out what’s on the other side. outside: 18+, MDNI (John Walker x Reader) Your ex used to talk shit about John Walker. You all ran in the same Army circle– never close, but you knew each other. Then one night at the bar, John saw you walk in wearing that dress… and decided that your ex didn’t deserve to say your name ever again. 

on top: 18+, MDNI topping john walker is not easy, but you do it so well. The Weight of Your Regard: 18+, MDNI, Pride and Prejudice Inspired After the Blip, a newly rebranded “New Avengers” initiative is launched— a PR-forward, multinational task force designed to stabilize world tensions, counter rogue super-powered threats, and rebuild trust. You, a sharp-tongued humanitarian turned government attaché, are appointed liaison to the New Avengers. You specialize in political diplomacy and ground intel, and you hate everything this initiative represents— especially John Walker, the golden boy turned controversial symbol of militarized heroism. John, for his part, is trying. He’s lost Lemar, lost the shield, his marriage is over, and every day feels like he’s being watched, judged, and expected to fail. He sees your disdain and assumes it’s just like everyone else’s. But it bothers him more. Because you’re smart. Because you’re good. Because you make his chest ache and his jaw clench every time you walk into a room. (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Bucky Barnes: collateral (part 1) (part 2): 18+, MDNI, Bodyguard Bucky x Stark Reader the kiss hypothesis: 18+, MDNI One kiss to get it out of your system. He doesn't even have to know. congressman barnes: 18+, MDNI Drabble of congressman barnes x reader his girl (part 1), (part 2): 18+, MDNI Before the war, before Hydra, before the ice—Bucky Barnes called you his girl. You grew up together in Brooklyn, never official, but everyone knew. When he left for war, he promised to marry you. You never got to answer. Then you were gone. No body, no explanation—just a ring on his dog tags and a name he never stopped whispering. Bucky survived everything but losing you. Decades later, a mission uncovers what Hydra meant to keep buried—a story of love that defies time, memory, and loss. bound to burn: 18+, MDNI You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part? None of it feels fake. Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.” And when it’s all over? You still ache for him. And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket. Spellbound: 18+, MDNI, Sex Pollen Trope You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him. But Bucky doesn’t know that. You try to hide it. You try to fight it. But one late-night phone call changes everything. You come to the sound of his voice. He hears it. And he comes running.

Chemistry, Probably: 18+,MDNI You’re a new recruit with an active imagination and a fat crush. He’s a former assassin with dreamy eyes, a metal arm, and more patience than you deserve. What starts as flirtation spirals into late-night texting, movie nights, and a slow-burn so intense it’s practically a war crime. into the shadows (Bucky Shame Room AU) After Bob becomes the Void, the Thunderbolts are forced into a fractured psychic realm made of shame and memory. You and Bucky end up trapped in each other’s worst moments—his time as the Winter Soldier, your secret grief over a friend he unknowingly killed. As the loops force truths into the light, so does everything you’ve been avoiding between you. What started as revenge turned into something deeper. And in the wreckage of everything, love might finally have a place to land. where the quiet lives: 18+, MDNI You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house. Mi Cielo and the Winter Soldier: 18+, MDNI They were partners in the field long before they were anything else—tangled in months of soft glances, unsaid things, and the kind of quiet tension that felt like gravity. After a shared mission in the mountains, everything shifts: one night of silence, one shared blanket, and one watch shift too close to ignore. Back at the Tower, the space between them only gets tighter—rendezvous in hallways, training flirtations, and one chaos agent named Joaquin Torres who rage-baits Bucky with reckless devotion and zero awareness. page turner: 18+ MDNI When you fall behind on your Avengers book club reading, Natasha suggests Bucky help keep you on track. You didn’t realize the book was basically porn. He definitely didn’t mind. Now you’re reading the filthiest scenes out loud with his hands on your thighs—and he’s not pretending it’s just about finishing the book.

becoming mrs. barnes // the barnes conspiracy (Secret Wife AU) Before the secrets. Before the team starts snooping. Before anyone found a second dog tag with the wrong last name— There was this. A slow, quiet love story between the ex-assassin and the woman who saw him clearly. Sam and Joaquin know. They’ve practically staged a security detail. But the New Avengers—Bucky’s new team of misfits and second-chancers? They have no idea he goes home to a wife. And soon… a baby.

on the line: 18+, MDNI Scenarios for Bucky, John, and Bob involving an oral fixation.

asset protocol (winter solider!Bucky x Scientist! Reader) You are a biomedical engineer under Hydra’s control, tasked with maintaining the Winter Soldier’s titanium prosthetic. One day, a man touches you—and the Soldier reacts with chilling precision, maiming him. It isn’t protection. It’s possession

refraction (winter soldier!Bucky x reader x Bucky Barnes) verse When an interdimensional rift tears open mid-mission, you and Bucky Barnes are pulled into a brutalist pocket reality—a decaying world with no sky, no time, and one impossible constant: him. The Winter Soldier lives here. An alternate Bucky who was never freed. Still weaponized. Still watching. And somehow—obsessed with you. As you and your Bucky search for a way out, the Soldier follows—not to kill, but to learn. He mimics. He lingers. Because in all his fractured code, you are the anomaly.

eyes wide shut: 18+, MDNI (winter soldier!bucky x reader); refraction verse companion piece to refraction. The Winter Soldier broke. Silent. Still. Useless. HYDRA refused to let go—so they reached into the multiverse and found you. Your laugh. Your voice. Your body. All of it fed to him in loops. Not as comfort—but as bait. They taught him to crave you like a weapon. Now he waits. Not for orders. For you.

probably always (Bucky Barnes x Reader) Bucky doesn’t believe in fate. You don’t believe in safe love. But somewhere between quiet coffee, post-mission silences, and a kiss that feels like peace—not passion—you start to believe in him. (Inspired by watching the Materialists. a romance with light angst)

class dismissed: 18+, MDNI (Uncle-to-the-Wilson-boys!Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader) Because falling for your favorite student’s “uncle winter soldier” was never part of the lesson plan. (Romance comedy) research purposes: 18+, MDNI (Virgin!Bucky Barnes x Experienced! Reader) What starts as “sex ed” with your shy, curious best friend turns into something neither of you can deny. He wants to learn. You want to teach. But somewhere between the videos, the moans, and the way he says your name—it’s not just research anymore.

the secretary clause: 18+, MDNI (congressman barnes x reader) You built the wall. Bucky Barnes just waited on the other side. Your boss. Your best friend. The man who got engaged for politics—not love—then started crossing every line you swore not to. He barely mentions the engagement. But he did write a new clause—one that quietly banned staff relationships the second you started trying to date someone else.

You leaned into his chest, laughing as you fisted his shirt. His hand moved to the back of your head, fingers sinking into your hair as he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. Before you could get your bearings, he moved you with just two firm hands on your waist. You found yourself sitting on the counter as he overtook the task of chopping the vegetables.

“Okay, okay, calm down, ET,” you said, starry-eyed as you watched him. He was perfect in every way you could measure— though he never hesitated to insist otherwise. You always brushed it off. Every flaw just reminded you he was him. That was your Clark. 

He couldn’t hide the short puff of laughter that slipped. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, shaking his head as he finished the cucumber you’d abandoned. The way you’d poke fun at him, the nicknames that were wrapped in endearment, the way he knew it could never be anything but pure. All it amounted to was the burning red at the tips of his ears. This time was no different.

You leaned forward, taking the top of his ear softly between two fingers and tugging ever so slightly. You scooted closer, your hand moving to cup his jaw.

“You know I still love you, even if you may not be able to eat beets." What if I told you none of it was accidental And the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me? The bullpen often birthed dramatic, albeit intriguing, conversations. Most times, Clark had elected not to engage, keeping his nose buried in the piles of papers at his desk. Whittling away at yet another Superman interview that you warned him several times would eventually become suspicious.

It wasn’t until he heard the debate between Lois and that guy from the sports section, what was it? Keith? It wasn’t until the dry and sardonic tone that was so familiar to Lois floated over his computer to grip his attention that he perked up.

“How can you think that? I mean, is he perfect, no. But he’s still a person— a person who was seen helping little kids with their fractions at the park last week!” He looked up, noticing how her hands frantically danced as she spoke. 

Keith leaned against the counter, shaking his head with that egotistical smirk that drove Clark insane. He hated those kinds of looks.

“He’s an alien, Lane! End of story! And now he's stirring up problems for us, humans who shouldn't have to deal with messes he causes,” he snatched the fresh coffee from her hand, ignoring the shocked but not shaken look Lois gave. “You really would trust something like that with your kids?”

Clark lowered his gaze. His throat was dry, and a bitter taste was growing in his mouth. 

Alien. Something.

The comments were nothing new. Especially after his stunt in Jarhanpur. He knew he had his skeptics, those who always saw the worst in him, despite his intentions. Those who—no matter how small he made himself, how much he downplayed the Kryptonian side of himself, how human he tried to be —would always see him as foreign. 

But, a something. That was new.

He wished he could say he let it roll off his back, that he didn’t let the small nature that Keith so clearly felt the need to compensate for affect him. But that would just be a lie, and one thing about Clark. He hated lies.

What if I told you I'm a mastermind?

Clark’s body was splayed out over yours, his weight grounding as you sank into the pillows and mattress. Perhaps his size was slightly too much, putting a dull strain on your lungs. But the all-encompassing security his closeness provided more than made up for it.

Your hands dug into his hair, exploring and occasionally tugging gingerly on the loose curls. His soft hums of contentment egged you on, filling your stomach with butterflies you swore he put there. Some Kryptonian spell he must’ve had to make the love you felt for him so all-consuming.

“You don’t care that I’m not from here, right?” he said, his arms wrapped firmly around your middle.

“I mean, normally I hate transplants. But you do my dishes, so…” Your joke died in giggles as he groaned into your chest.

“No, no,” his head popped up, looking into your eyes. “Does it bother you that I'm not from Earth? That I’m an alien?”

You giggled softly, sitting up as he pulled himself from your lap. He rolled off, resting his arms on his knees as he listened for your response. As if something in him needed you to say the right thing. To assure him that all his efforts, the way he walked or stood or spoke, none of it was for nothing. That he was as human as anyone else.

“Clark, come on,” you said, your tone still humorous, “That’s crazy, of course I don’t care.”

He looked down, a huff of relief leaving as he began to relax. The feeling of your arms as they wrapped around his shoulders, the way you scooted closer and rested your chin on his shoulder, the soft lip pressed under his jaw. It pulled him out of the pit that was growing inside him, one he couldn’t figure out how it got there.

You took his chin in your hand, turning him to face you as you rested your forehead to his.

“You’re an alien, sure. But you're my alien, you weirdo,” you said, squeezing his hand before slipping off the bed and heading to the bathroom.

Why didn’t he feel better?

If you fail to plan, you plan to fail Strategy sets the scene for the tale

It wasn’t sudden. As if he didn’t want you to notice something was off. But you did. How could you not?

He seemed smaller, less eager. The little things that made him him, the lines that blurred between the man in the suit and the man in the red and blue, began to fade. And somewhere in that, you noticed him slipping away.

After all, he wasn’t Clark Kent, the Daily Planet reporter. He wasn’t Superman. He was Clark, a man somewhere between the two. And lately, it seemed as though the latter was missing in action. Leaving you with that facade that was normallyfor everyone but you.

You noticed the way his hearing suddenly worsened, how the speed he used to race into your room when you even hummed the start of his name slowed down. You noticed the number of dishes remained the same over the past week or so, and he hadn’t accidentally broken a glass in his hand as he dried the clean dishes. His strength, which he could control most of the time, became precise, never to be used outside of the cape.

Something was off with him. If it were you, he didn’t show it. His hands never hesitated to pull you close, to fidget with the hem of your dress when you were perched on his lap. The way you never had to touch a door handle around him, or dare to imagine walking home from work alone, nothing changed. But you knew Clark, maybe better than he knew himself.

His hands gripped the vacuum so tight we wondered how the plastic hadn’t splintered. The furrow of his brow betrayed the frustration he had been trying his best to cloak. He wasn’t stupid; he was one of the smartest people you knew. So why was he trying to cram the vacuum under the narrow slit between the couch and the floor?

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, coming up to rest a soft hand on his arm. He switched off the vacuum with a slight huff. Any building irritation was gone when he turned to you, that smile you would die for slowly growing as his eyes roamed over you. The smile that seemed different lately.

“I’m fine… why?” he said, resting the vacuum on the arm of the couch. 

“Why don’t you just lift the couch, like always?” you asked, your eyes narrowing to prying slits. 

He didn’t answer, well, not in words. A stalling ‘uh’ creeped from his mouth as he looked at the couch, then to his hands. If he was trying to convince you he was okay, that familiar high pitch gave him away.

He turned back to you, with a smile you swore had to be forced, before kissing your temple. 

“I’ll um…I’ll do it later,” you tried not to panic as he walked off. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t your Clark.

I laid the groundwork and then, just like clockwork The dominoes cascaded in a line

Sent to rule Earth. Rule without mercy. A Secret Harem?

It was all ridiculous. Absurd. It was unequivocally untrue. 

You knew him, you knew him better than yourself. It was a lie. All of it.

That was not him, it never could be. The lies, the slander, the hate, all of it bubbled over inside of you as your screen flashed with whatever new article popped up when you refreshed your search. It chewed at your insides, leaving a hollow and rotten feeling that made your heart rise to your throat.

They didn’t know him. They didn’t know how he stared at the hashtags on his phone, so affected by strangers' opinions, you always told him to ignore. How you had to remind him to log off when you could see him wearing a tread in the hardwoods. How he always gave himself the messy pancakes because he swore they tasted better, you knew he just wanted you to have the best. How he refused to kill spiders no matter how much you shrieked, dumping them outside in a cup, even if he had to walk four flights of stairs. 

They didn’t know Clark. They didn’t know how human he actually was.

You sent text after text, noticing there was no coverage of him in the city. Each went unanswered, leaving bile to rise in your throat. You grabbed your coat and bolted for the subway. The spare key to his apartment spun on your fingers as you raced through the turnstile.

Something was building up in him, an insecurity you just couldn’t place. One you wished he’d let you in on. If so, you could come in with a sword and slay them all to the ground. 

Another text. Two calls. No response. Just that familiar voicemail that caught the sound of you calling him from the kitchen.

By the time you reached his empty apartment, you just hoped he was okay. 

It was all my design 'Cause I'm a mastermind

It was five past midnight when he finally came through the windows. You tried not to rush him as he sat on the couch and adjusted his boots. You didn’t need to make yourself known; he could hear your heartbeat from three neighborhoods away. 

The urge to pull him into your arms won at some point in the night. You found yourself sitting on the coffee table, Clark on his knees as he rests between your legs. Your hands found their way to his curls, second nature, as if they couldn’t be anywhere else. The soft tremble in his shoulders didn’t escape you; it never could. It was the same one you saw some nights when he found himself too deep in pockets of social media that saw him as something vile.

Despite your words, your assurance that you never believed a word, the quiver in his brow told you he wasn’t sure. Despite your pleading, the way your hands tugged at his cape, and your perfume lingered as he tried so hard to stay stoic, he was making his way back to the window. Back into a world that didn’t deserve him. To turn himself over to people who would never handle him with the care he deserved.

“I love you,” he said, his face buried into the hair at the top of your head. You could feel him slipping away, a tremor in his hands that never was there when he held you, “So much it scares me.”

“Clark,” you said, pulling back and cupping his face in your hands. “Please don’t do this. You don’t have to—”

His lips were on yours before you could finish, holding you as if he wouldn’t get the chance again. The shake in his lips had your fingers digging into his sides, and any attempt to keep him from those who you knew didn’t see him as anything beyond the red and blue.

By the time you realized he had pulled back, the crisp air of Metropolis was brushing against your cheek. The flap of the wind under his cape had never sounded so sickening.

You knew it was stupid, you knew it was pointless. Clark was gonna kill you. But you would kill him for turning himself in.

You cried out as you watched them smash his face into the pavement, the rubble of the blacktop shattering under his strength. Your blood ran cold at the sight of him on the ground as SWAT and cops swarmed him. The harsh yank of his arms, the way they continuously shoved him down, forcing the soft flesh of his cheek further into the debris. That should have been the worst part. But it wasn’t.

Their words made your stomach drop. Their tone dripped with disdain and disgust, their fear and hatred laced into each word.

“Contain it!”

“Alien scum!”

The echoes of the cops’ words rang from the crowd that surrounded you, creeping up from a dull roar into a mob that was only held back by the spare men who weren’t occupied by crushing your boyfriend into the pavement.

You knew he could hear you, the way you shouted for them to stop. Your hands pushed you through the crowd, and as close as you could get. The pleas that fell from your lips as you tried to get past the cop to reach him. His head turned under the hold of the men, his blue eyes reaching yours through the rubble. You swore your heart shattered at the sight.

Your fight dulled for a moment as you watched his face, defeated and full of sorrow you had never seen. His head softly shook, only for you. Telling you no, begging through the restraints that kept him from reaching you. What you didn’tknow was that those restraints weren’t the handcuffs that could never contain him. No, it was that pit in his stomach that had never felt heavier.

No one wanted to play with me as a little kid So I've been scheming like a criminal ever since To make them love me and make it seem effortless This is the first time I've felt the need to confess

It wasn’t the safest time to be back in the city, not as soon as the growing tear in the ground had closed. But as soon as you saw him in the sky, you knew you had to be there. You had to reach him before anyone else.

The three days without him, not knowing where he was or if he was alive, ate away at you. You couldn’t tear yourself from your phone, praying for a text or anything that would pull you from the spiral of news you found yourself in.

You had no idea what was happening to him; all you knew was it was nothing kind. The sight from Wednesday was burned into your mind, replaying over and over as you found yourself curled in the sheets of his bed. The way they threw him to the ground, the force, the hate. It had your stomach turning. Their hands on him as if he weren’t a person but a thing, a weapon that they deemed a threat.

As if he weren’t human.

You moved through the street, avoiding other civilians as they rushed to family or friends. From a landed ship, you could see people rushing from the ram to a gathered crowd of loved ones. Beside it, a red craft and Clark’s coworkers. Finally, your eyes landed on him.

You tried not to rush forward, the need to protect him and his identity constantly fogging your mind. Hands fidgeted at your side as you stood by the door of a shopping center, waiting under the awning for him to notice.

His brows twitched, and you watched as his head turned, scanning the crowd as if he were looking for a lifeline. A smile grew on your face as you watched his brows perk, eager to find you. You swore the air was knocked from your lungs when his eyes finally met yours.

He excused himself from the reporters around him, slipping away towards you. With a knowing smirk, you turned and headed into the building, waiting in the shadow by the doors.

His hands on you were desperate, pulling you close as if it was the only thing grounding him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, trying to pull him closer down to you, but failing as he lifted you to him. His face found the crook of your neck, pressing kisses to the dip of your shoulder.

“You’re still here,” he said, that familiar crack in his voice you only heard late at night.

“Where else would I be?”

So I told you none of it was accidental

And the first night that you saw me, nothing was gonna stop me

His hands wrapped around your hips, gripping softly as the pads of his fingers played with the hem of your sweats. You refused to let him leave your site, attached to his hip as he moved around your apartment. By the time night had come, he drew you in, keeping you as close as he could. Your fingers danced along those freckles at his jaw, counting softly aloud to keep him grounded.

“All their words, all their fears, I didn’t realize how strong they are…” Your eyes watched his solemn face as he spoke. “I thought, I thought I did everything I could, it be…”

Your hands slipped to his neck, thumbs brushing gently at the hollow dip near his throat. Your eyes were inviting, urging him to continue, to finally open up.

“To be what, hun?” you asked, leaning in.

“I just…I thought if I did everything right. Maybe they wouldn’t see me as a threat,” his eyes never met yours. 

“Ever since I was little, I did everything I could to keep this in check.” his hands moved from your hips, displayed before you as the thing he needed to control. “I always did what I could to be smaller, to be what I thought they would accept.”

You nodded, trying to remain neutral so as not to spook him. But the way your heart broke inside your chest threatened to make you hurl.

“And Superman…all I’ve ever wanted to do was good. To show these people how much I love them, how much I want to be one of you. And I thought I did a good job, but…” You shook your head as his voice cracked, your hands moving to cup his cheeks and fix his gaze to you.

“Hey, hey,” you started, ducking your head to meet his eyes as they tried to move away. “You don’t have to try, you are human. As human as any of us.”

You noticed his hands in your lap, unsure of where to go. Gently, you took them and placed them at your waist. When you felt them pulling back, you held them firm, “You always were, Clark. Despite what anyone says.”

“They called me an it, baby,” he said, his voice low and wavering. Your chest heaved at the sob building in his throat.

“Don’t listen to anyone, anyone, who tries to make you feel anything less than just like us.” Your hands released his, and when they moved back to his face, his grip on your waist remained.

“I’ve always wanted to be normal. Everything I’ve ever done, it’s…I just care so much,” his eyes stayed on yours.

“Clark, honey, you’re a miracle,” you pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. When you pulled back, that familiar red burned in the tips of his ears. “You don’t need to be normal.”

Monday was a bit weird, to say the least.

Clark had spent the weekend at your place, mostly lingering in your bed or curled up on the couch. It had been one of the best weekends of your life. You hadn’t wanted it to end, you could’ve stayed in his arms forever. But alas, Monday morning meant work.

Of course, being the nervous wreck you were, you had brought up the conversation. Where was this going? You didn’t want to rush things, and neither did he, so you agreed to keep things low-key : act normal at work, keep it quiet around friends and coworkers for now, and continue your little dinner dates. Because that’s what they were now, right? Dates?

You still remembered how flustered you'd been when Clark casually mentioned they had always been dates, for him, at least. Since the very first night. He just hadn’t wanted to overwhelm you by putting labels on anything. This man was, somehow, both the most thoughtful and the most clueless person you'd ever met. But you liked him for that.

Another thing that made you realize Clark was serious about you? How easily he let you in on his little secret. Well, technically, he’d been the one to blurt out too much in the first place. But could you really blame him? He’d been more than a little pussy-drunk on the girl he’d been in love with for months, of course he’d slipped up.

It had made so much sense in your head. The familiar feeling you always got around Superman, the same warm presence, the same knowing smirk that mirrored Clark’s perfectly, the gentle, steady aura both men seemed to radiate. It had been a shock at first, sure, but looking back now, you felt a little ridiculous for not figuring it out sooner.

Clark had laughed when you told him that, reassuring you with that soft, dorky grin of his. He explained that Mr. Terrific had made him special glasses, something that subtly interfered with how people perceived him, making the connection harder to recognize. It wasn’t that you were oblivious. Clark just had... very talented friends.

After the shock, you had gone on for almost an hour about the N line being destroyed, still feeling very petty about having to walk to work every day. Clark had been endlessly apologetic, insisting he didn’t know you took that line. But then, of course, he had to go and ruin the moment by pointing out how grateful you should be. According to him, if the N line hadn’t been destroyed, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have ended up in your bed.

Annoyingly, he had a point.

And anyway... he’d made very good apologies, for hours.

It was so easy with Clark, everything just came naturally. Almost like you were meant to be. Walking to work beside him, his hand wrapped gently around yours, made your heart race all over again. And now, knowing he could hear it? That made it skip yet another beat. The way Clark laughed at the sound let you know he was always listening.

As you approached the Daily Planet, you let go of his hand with a small kiss to his cheek. You’d agreed to keep things discreet—just like always, you would arrive a few minutes before him, while he strolled in fashionably late with everyone’s coffee. Just another normal Monday morning at the Planet.

But before you could step away, he caught your arm, pulling you back into him, just long enough to press his warm, soft lips to yours.

Biting your lip, you let out a small giggle as you walked away from him, casting a glance over your shoulder, just in time to catch the flush creeping up his ears. It was good to know you weren’t the only one feeling all giddy.

In the elevator on your way up to the office, you forced your smitten smile away, shaking your head in an attempt to clear all the sweet and passionate flashbacks from the weekend. Thank God you were alone, you were not ready to face your coworkers with that look still on your face.

When the doors slid open, you slipped back into your usual routine. You greeted everyone already in, chatted briefly with Lois and Cat, then made your way to your desk. Just another Monday.

Or at least, it was supposed to be.

As you started working, you felt Jimmy’s eyes burning into you, silent, insistent, demanding your attention.

“What, Jimmy?” you said bluntly, not even looking up from your screen.

“Had a good weekend?” he asked casually. You couldn’t see it, but you could hear the smirk in his voice, and that was somehow worse.

Turning in your chair, you looked at him. He was wearing his signature eat shit grin, a pencil lodged between his teeth, eyes locked on yours with far too much amusement. Sometimes, you actually hated him.

“Yeah, nothing much happened,” you said casually, turning back to your screen as you focused on prepping for the morning meeting. “What about you? How was the headache?”

Jimmy leaned forward, resting his elbows dramatically on the edge of your desk, the pencil now tucked behind his ear. “Headache’s gone. Thanks for asking. Amazing what a little rest, hydration, and not staying up all night doing the nasty can do.”

You blinked at him slowly. “Wow. Subtle.”

“I try,” he said, grinning wider. “It’s a gift.”

You shot him a flat look. “You’re fishing, I'm not a future article Jimmy.”

“I’m observing,” he corrected, holding up a finger. “There’s a difference. You came in this morning looking like you had just had the best night of your life. Straight out of a Nancy Meyers movie.”

“That’s your professional opinion?” you said, biting your cheek to keep from smiling. He was right, of course, but you weren’t about to give him the satisfaction. “Surprised you even know Nancy Meyers,” you added, arching a brow. “Maybe I did have the best nights of my life. Or maybe,” you smirked, “it was just a very restful weekend. Drop it.”

Jimmy gave an exaggerated gasp. “Did you just throw shade at my cinematic literacy? Ma’am, I’ll have you know I cried during The Holiday.”

You snorted, unable to hold back the laugh this time.

Behind you, a chorus of giggles broke out. You glanced over your shoulder to see Lois and Cat watching the exchange like it was prime-time TV, whispering to each other with far too much interest.

Great.

You shot them a warning look. Lois just raised her brows innocently. Cat winked. You turned back to your screen, sighing. “I need better coworkers.”

Jimmy was already walking away, victorious. “You love us. Especially the tall, gentle suit-wearing ones.” You shook your head, but the smile lingered.

That was, of course, the exact moment Clark chose to walk into the office, offering his usual warm greetings to everyone. Behind you, Jimmy scoffed, trying, and failing, not to laugh.

“He has perfect timing,” he muttered, raising his eyebrows and letting out another little chuckle.

What was it with him?

It wasn’t like you were acting any differently than usual. No one even knew Clark had walked you home on Friday night. Well, Steve did. But you doubted he’d told anyone. Why would he? Steve didn’t know about your little crush on Clark. Admittedly, Jimmy didn’t either.

But… Jimmy was Jimmy. He loved to tease you, and once he picked up on something that got a reaction, he clung to it like a dog with a chew toy. Still, this felt different. Not just teasing. Almost... knowing. Which was impossible.

Right?

For the next hour, focusing on your presentation for the morning meeting was a losing battle. It was nearly finished, but a few sections still needed editing, and you couldn’t afford to mess this up. The piece was about the ongoing Lex Luthor drama, Perry had handed you the next feature on him, and he wanted a clear update on your research.

You sipped your iced latte, hoping the caffeine would help.

Unfortunately, it only reminded you of the man who’d brought it to you this morning. The warmth of his hands on your skin, his lips trailing down your neck, his length in—

“Meeting room. Now,” Perry barked as he swept through the bullpen.

You nearly choked. Feeling heat rushing to your cheeks, ears and neck. 

Right. Lex Luthor. Journalism. Focus.

As you got up, Clark gave you a curious look. Oh. Right. Your heart was pounding like a drum.

You passed by him, brushing it off with a quiet, breathless, “Stress of the meeting.”

It was barely a whisper, but you knew he heard it. His lips curled just slightly at the corners. Not quite a smile. Not quite a smirk. Just enough to let you know he wasn’t buying it, but he wasn’t calling you out either.

Classic Clark.

The presentation went smoothly. You made sure to take in all of Perry’s notes, as well as your colleagues’ input. Brainstorming with them was always surprisingly stimulating. In moments like this, all the laughter and teasing disappeared, everyone was focused, sharp, completely professional.

Even Jimmy.

He mentioned he had a contact who might be able to get information straight from LuthorCorp. Weird. Unexpected. But you weren’t about to question it, or turn it down. It was complicated enough to get information of Lex Luthor, you'd take all the help you could get. 

Back at your desk, your brain kicked into high gear.

Phone calls were made. Emails were sent. Your article grew stronger with each passing hour, sharper, more precise, more damning. You were in the zone.

You didn’t hear anyone talking. Jimmy’s passing jokes barely registered. You didn’t notice Lois and Cat exchanging glances in your direction. You didn’t even flinch when another coffee appeared on your desk—this time with lunch beside it.

You just kept working. Totally locked in. Totally unaware.

Eventually, the smell of food broke through your concentration. You glanced down and spotted a familiar takeout bag, from the little restaurant you and Clark went to every week. You smiled without meaning to.

Without missing a beat, you dug in, still typing away, fingers flying across the keyboard. You didn’t forget to shoot him a quick text: Thank you :)

His reply came seconds later: a single red heart emoji. Simple. Direct. Cute. 

You felt your cheeks flush, and unfortunately, that was all the invitation Jimmy needed. He glanced over, narrowed his eyes, and pushed his chair closer with a loud scrape, planting himself squarely in your peripheral vision.

You tried to ignore him. It worked for about three seconds.

“What?” you sighed, fingers never pausing on the keys.

“For someone trying to be discreet, you’re doing a pretty shitty job,” Jimmy said, nodding toward the untouched latte and lunch on your desk.

You frowned, trying to play innocent, confused, even. You knew exactly what he meant, but maybe he didn’t? That was the moment you realized how stupid it was to try and hide things from the best reporters in the city.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, sounding dumb.

Jimmy scoffed, shaking his head, a smirk tugging at his lips. He was gently mocking you. “Well, I don’t know...” He paused for effect. “You came in this morning all happy and bright-eyed, when we all know you hate Mondays. So yeah, you had a damn good weekend. Steve told us you and Clark left together after our little pub adventure—”

“He walked me home, that’s all,” you cut in.

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “Then Clark strolls in this morning looking like he just won a million bucks—”

“He’s always happy,” you shot back quickly.

Jimmy grinned wider. “And you just happened to get lunch from the same place Clark’s eating from right now.”

“You said it yourself, Jimmy, he’s thoughtful.”

Jimmy laughed, then leaned in close, dropping his voice to a whisper in your ear: “And you’re full of shit.” Before you could respond, he stood up and strolled away, leaving you smirking in his wake.

Just then, Jimmy stopped in the middle of the bullpen, a spark lighting up behind his eyes. Oh no. This couldn’t be good.

“You know,” he started, his grin growing wider by the second, “you should really try paying more attention to what’s going on around you if you’re going to hide something.”

You frowned, looking around, your brain racing through everything that had happened today. You’d barely interacted with Clark, not even looked his way like you usually did. You’d been so focused on your work. What was he talking about?

“Cat saw you kiss this morning,” he finally said, voice dripping with amusement, “just a block away from the Daily.” Lois and Cat were trying so hard not to laugh.

Oh no. 

You could tell Jimmy wasn’t done yet. How much worse could this get?

“And maybe…” he added, his smirk bigger than ever. “Next time you have a huge presentation to deliver, don’t do it with a hickey peeking out from your top. Or just… keep your hair down.”

The color drained from your face as the room seemed to close in. Your hand shot up to your neck.

You’d noticed the hickey earlier that morning, but your top was supposed to cover it. So was your hair. It had slipped your mind, as it was bothering you so you had simply put it up. 

You were livid, blushing, wide-eyed, caught off guard, as the three of them burst into gentle laughter.

“What are you all laughing at?” Clark asked, genuinely curious as he walked back into the bullpen, holding a fresh stack of papers.

The timing was too perfect. Laughter erupted instantly, Lois, Cat, and Jimmy all doubling over, and you?

You sat frozen at your desk, slowly sliding down in your chair, face buried in your hands.

Clark looked between everyone, then at you, clearly confused, but that soft smile was creeping in. He didn’t know what was going on yet, but he definitely knew you were involved. And he was probably already putting it together, with the knowing looks the trio was sending his way. 

So much for keeping it lowkey. 

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