Jae can read

This asshole knows it’s the dress that’s draped over you like water. Any piece of fabric underneath — no matter how small — would show, and that would create a field day with the press because god forbid a woman wears underwear. Unfortunately for you, that means you’ve felt every breeze that slithers between your legs during this outdoor premiere.

Fortunately for Scott, that means easy access to your leaking cunt.

And you have been leaking. And he knows that.

The two of you had been prepared separately, which meant that you arrived in different cars. The main star of the movie needs his own limousine after all. It wasn’t until he showed up on the red carpet — smug smiles, blue eyes bright behind those tinted sunglasses — that you could feel saliva pool on your tongue.

He really is built for this life. Slicked back brunette hair that’s grown out since you last saw him, curling around the nape of his neck — your fingers twitch with the urge to tangle in them and pull. You shudder thinking about how he’d growl in your ear about you being a brat, his hand landing with a loud smack on your ass the way he’s done before in the privacy of your hotel room.

He had greeted you with that charming grin, dimpled and dashing. His suit, while oversized, served to emphasize his broad shoulders even more. Perched on his nose is a pair of sunglasses he had used in the movie, a little Easter egg. But you know him better than that — he knows what he’s doing when he greets you with a wink behind them. He’s fucked you in those glasses after all. 

Then he was sliding an arm around your waist, encouraging you to smile at the cameras. The flashes were blinding and your smile faltered when his hand drifted lower to grope your ass. Your chest rises when your breath catches. The unseen movement is not enough to send the media into a frenzy, but it is enough to give them a taste of the “true” nature of your relationship.

Your chemistry is undeniable. The two of you have proven it time and time again — from the screen test, to the table-read, and obviously the shoot. You used to think the spark was a myth, that chemistry was only a class taught in school, but meeting Scott had proven you wrong. It felt like you had been doused in a mixture that had you shocked by lightning.

Tension hangs in a delicate balance in your interactions. Lingering touches and coy smiles shared in between biting remarks and heated debates that would send the staff scurrying off set.

That initial spark had combusted into a blazing firestorm that no amount of water could cease. To the press, the two of you are costars who play great lovers on screen. Professionals who know how to perform the greatest love story ever told.

Behind the scenes, you have never been more certain of anything than your hatred for Scott Miller.

He is a pompous, nepo douchebag who keeps getting handed opportunities in big productions on a silver platter because his daddy’s a hotshot executive at a major studio while his mom is an internationally renowned director. His success has been set in stone since birth.

On the other hand, you had to crawl with dirt under your nails through shitty toothpaste commercials, a torturous waitressing job, and all the terrible, misogynistic producers who tried to cop a feel since “it’s the only way you’ll make it in this industry, honey.”

But the moment Scott flashed that smirk at you — no, not the one he uses to manipulate the media and his fans, it’s that devilish grin that gives you a glimpse of the man underneath — you were a goner. Beneath all those charismatic smiles and PR-trained lines is a sincerely, truly, terribly nasty man who unfortunately knows how to give it good.

Due to your resolve or lack thereof, he has — in fact — given it to you good. Multiple times. Again and again. No matter how many times you tell him and yourself that it would be the last time.

In all fairness, Scott is equally enamored by the contradiction between your spiteful words and the way you cave into his touch. He never goes back to the same woman, let alone twice or thrice, but here he is again. His hand on your face and his breath hot against your neck.

You’ve run out of fingers to count how many times you ended up in bed with him over the course of filming. You certainly do not have enough fingers for how many times he’s made you orgasm — with or without the bed.

His coarse palm drags up the smooth skin of your thigh until he circles to the front, until he finds the sweetness between your legs. Your thighs part on instinct, a practiced response to his touch. His lips curve against the back of your exposed shoulder, pleased.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a finger stroking between your pussy lips. You can feel your slick clinging onto his skin. “I knew you were going to be wet for me. You’re always so ready.”

“We have to go back, Scott,” you squirm against him, a futile attempt to push him off you. He instead closes in around you, trapping you against the wall until you can’t find room to inhale air into your lungs. You can feel his erection pressing up against your ass, firm and warm even between two layers of separation. His proximity has your temperature rising, worsened by the blood rushing between your legs. “Are you insane? We can’t do this here!” You hiss, your fingers trying to pry his hand off you but he’s much, much stronger than you. “There are thousands of people outside.”

“Then you best bite your tongue, sweetheart,” he exhales as he pushes a finger in, drawing a whimper from your throat. You clamp down around him, squeezing around the one thick digit buried deep inside you. “You know I love how noisy you are, but I’m gonna need you to keep quiet if you don’t want anyone catching you like this.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” you snap breathlessly. “We still have press to do.”

“They can wait, I just need five minutes.”

A snarky laugh escapes you before you can swallow it. You’ll pay for that later.

He curls his finger inside of you, nail scraping your walls as your thighs squeeze around his hand. “I could drag it out if that’s what you want,” he sneers, “could have you dripping all over the red carpet like a dog. I’m gonna make you beg me to finish you out there in front of everyone. Bend you over the barricades so the photographers can see the way you look when you’ve got my cock inside you. Tease you until you’re a crying mess; lord knows I’ve done that before. Is that what you want?”

Scott is a lot of things but he isn’t a liar. He keeps his word and the last thing you need is for you to be exposed, tits out, ass up in public, pleading for him to finish you with the entire world watching. So you grit your teeth, swallow your pride, and shake your head.

“Ask me for it.”

You throw a glare over your shoulder.

“Nicely.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you snarl before you can think twice.

Scott twists his finger inside you. “I could. I’ll put you on your knees right here and I’ll jerk my cock over your pretty face. Gonna have you stick your tongue out and wait for me to finish like the obedient girl that you are,” he laughs, bitter, but it makes your insides curl with need, “but then you’ve got to explain why you’ve got cum all over this stunner of a face. All those hours in the makeup chair only for me to paint it pretty with my cum.”

You hate how your body burns with need. How much you like the thought of it. You picture yourself on the cold, hard ground. Your jaw falling open in an eager bid for him to feed you his cock. Knees bruising while he strokes his length over your face, taunting you with the red, leaking tip, tapping it against your hungry mouth. Your lips would part in a request to taste and all he would offer you is a brush of precum on your cheek.

He wouldn’t give you what you want, not if you were acting up all night. He’d finish on your face and you’d be left there with a smattering of white on your skin, hanging from your lashes, and only a dribble in your tongue.

“Now, ask me nicely.”

“Seriously, Scott, go fuck yourself.”

His fingers dig into your cheeks, prying your jaw open as he turns you to face him. His eyes are still hidden behind those glasses, a wall between the two of you as if he’s putting you in your place. You exposed bare and vulnerable to him while he can’t even be bothered to remove his shades to properly look at you.

A thumb presses down onto your tongue, enough pressure to have you whining in the ache. “This mouth of yours,” he mutters, “I’m gonna fuck it later. I want your throat sore enough that you can’t open it again to mouth me off.” Scott dips his head, nose grazing the column of your neck. A hum vibrates from his mouth and straight into your veins. “But damn if I don’t want to taste it.”

He kisses the corner of your lips softly, just enough to smudge his lips with the gloss coated on yours.

“Tastes like strawberry,” he notes thoughtfully, “this new?”

It is. You’re surprised he noticed. “Mhmm,” you mindlessly respond as he flattens his tongue on your neck.

He seems pleased with that, judging by his delighted hum, as he drags out his finger to tease your folds. He separates the sticky mess with his two fingers, knowing how much you like feeling that gentle wind slip between your thighs. It makes you feel exposed, raw.

Then he pushes two fingers in, a stretch that feels familiar yet unknown at the same time. “Always so tight for me,” he breathes out in a growl, “it’s like I haven’t been fucking you stupid for months now. You’d think this pussy would be loose with how much I’ve made you cry with my cock.”

Another protest rests on your tongue, but it doesn’t make it out alive when Scott begins to scissor you open. “Shit, Scott,” you curse, “‘s so tight.”

“I know, baby, you’re just too good for me. You always spoil me rotten with this tight pussy of yours. It’s like fucking you for the first time each time.”

His other hand travels over the loose cowl neckline of your dress, slipping underneath the fabric to cup your tits. He lets out a moan when he realizes you aren’t wearing anything underneath this either. His fingers toy with you nipple, pinching and twisting, electricity zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back arches, chest pushed into his hand.

Then he opens his mouth again, “Ask me nicely, sweetheart.”

And this time, you cave. Your lips part without your consent; a mind of its own when you whisper, “Please fuck me.”

A guttural groan rises from his chest as he drives his fingers deeper inside of you. “That’s my girl. How can I deny you when you ask me so sweetly? You’re going to make a mess of my sleeve at this rate, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fall to where his wrist is tucked between your legs, fingers fully buried inside your aching cunt where you’re currently dripping all over his fingers. His digits glisten in the dim lighting of the hallway, some semblance of privacy — or at least that’s what you tell yourself when Scott sinks his teeth into your shoulder.

“S-Scott!” You bark, “I don’t need fucking teeth marks when I go back out there.”

His tongue laps up the spot where he’s just left his indentation. He looks far too proud of his handiwork. “You don’t like me marking my territory? Thought you’d want everyone out there to know that we’re in love. We have to sell the movie, don’t we?”

“I’d rather choke than have people think I actually like you.”

“Careful what you wish for, baby,” he hums when his hand slides back up around your neck. His fingers press in gently on the sides, enough to have your breath hitching in your throat. The restriction has you a little dizzy, the size of his hand against your neck even more so. “Maybe you are telling the truth,” he mocks with a grin.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you, the squelch echoing down the empty corridor, mingling with the muffled noise from the crowd outside. You can hear Scott’s phone vibrating in his pocket, probably his manager.

“We have to make this fast. I can’t have Javi come looking for me, don’t want him to see how gorgeous you look like this. How pretty your pussy is when it’s eating up my cock. I don’t need him to see the expression on your face when you’re getting filled up and stretched out.”

“Then move it along, Miller,” you gripe with a roll of your eyes.

His lips twitch, a mix of amusement and annoyance based on the flash of his eyes. With his fingers still inches deep inside you, you hear the clink of his belt as he works to free himself.

Fabric rustles behind you and before you can think about what that means, he’s yanking his fingers out. The loss leaves you gasping and you’re about to turn to snap at him when his hands find your waist, gripping it tight as he positions you in front of him. He bends you down, your hands splayed out against the wall, letting out a hiss when he teases his cock along your slippery entrance. “She’s drooling all over me, baby. It’s like she’s beggin’ for me to fill her up.”

Another one of your snappy replies dies in your throat, melting into a choke when he buries himself all the way in. The slide in is too easy, but the burn comes as an aftermath — intense, like your entire body has been set in flames from the inside out. Fire licking every inch of your skin. It’s the kind of pain that makes you want to ask for more, to make you feel more.

It makes you feel alive, a reminder that this is real. A reminder that this is exactly where you want to be.

Scott begins to thrust into you, short grunts leaving his lips as he practically manhandles you like a ragdoll. He bullies his thick cock deep into your weeping pussy, your entire body trembling with the force of his movements. “Shit, so fuckin’ tight. This is exactly what I needed. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about what dress you’d have on tonight. I couldn’t stop praying to whatever higher power lives above that you wouldn’t have anything on underneath it. You’re a dream come true, sweetheart.”

You almost mock him for being so sentimental, but you’re too busy having your body and brains scrambled with the way he angles his hips, the friction mind-numbingly delicious as he fucks deep inside your pussy. Every scrape of his cock is another strike of lightning. A chemical reaction that seems to only happen with him.

“Tell me you wanted this as much as I did,” he rasps, “tell me you’ve been thinking about my cock too.”

“Jesus, Miller, really?”

He licks his lips. “Yeah, really. We went from seein’ each other every day, from me shapin’ this pretty cunt to my cock and hearing those gorgeous moans bouncing off our walls, to zero contact. Missed you and your cute little noises and this beautiful, tight cunt.”

Your heart skips with something you may mistake for endearment. One that may be contagious from the man who’s currently shoving his fat cock inside of you. But that couldn’t be — because you hate Scott Miller. 

It doesn’t matter that he defended you once against that asshole director. It doesn’t matter that he started staying the night in those last few weeks of shooting. It definitely doesn’t matter that he leaves tender kisses on your spine before he buries his face between your legs, rutting into the bed until he comes untouched from eating your pussy alone. 

It shouldn’t matter because Scott hates you too. 

However, right now, he makes you think otherwise. Despite his reputation and your own preconceived notions, he really is a good actor. You imagine he enjoys method acting with how soft he could be with you at times. Gentle in the way he holds you and tucks you into his chest in the wake of your tryst. Affectionate in the way he laughs whenever you accidentally bite your tongue, practicing your lines in bed with him.

The last thing you want is to fall for his charms — his act that he’s perfected over the years to literally fuck all of his leading ladies. You’re another notch in his belt and, for some reason, the thought makes you sick. 

“What happened there?” Scott asks, slowing down his thrusts. 

You don’t need to turn around to see his brows puckered in a frown, concern seeping into his voice. You tighten your pussy, hoping that it would distract him from your thoughts. “What? Just keep fucking me.”

“No, lost you there for a second,” he insists, “what happened?”

“Nothing,” you snap, “can you please just fuck me so we can go back out there?”

“You’re really not gonna tell me?”

Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you snip back, “Either you fuck me or I’ll find Tyler Owens to finish the job.”

That seems to do the trick. But it also seems to be the wrong thing to say because you can feel his entire body tense, his fingers digging deeper into your flesh. His stare through his glasses is icy, the kind of fire that runs your blood cold. 

“Wanna run that by me again?”

You swallow. No, no, you don’t. 

Scott is merciless then. He fucks fast and deep and hard into you, your body shaking with the force of his thrusts. You have no doubt you’ll see bruises in the shape of his fingerprints on your waist tomorrow, but that’s a concern for another time. Right now, you’re too caught up in the delicious burn between your legs. Your core screaming that it’s too much but also begging for more all at once. 

His cock is long and reaches the parts of you you could never do on your own. You hate to admit that you’ve bought toys that match his length in the months since you last saw him but none of them could satisfy you the way he does. 

Because Scott is mean when he fucks and god do you fucking love it. 

“You think you can threaten me with Owens? I eat that asshole for breakfast. Think he has Oscars sitting on his shelves at home? Think his bank account’s enough to keep you happy, sweetheart? You think his cock will satisfy you?”

You’ve clearly touched a sore spot but you’re enjoying it far more than you’d like to admit. Jealousy is a known friend to you when Scott is the man that he is. However, you never thought that you could poke the bear with him when it comes to you and other men.

“Do you want everyone to see what a slut you are? Spreading your legs for your co-star who you claim to hate? This pussy’s soakin’ my cock, sweetheart. Deny it all you want but this pretty cunt of yours never lies. I’m the only one who gets you leakin’ like this. I’m the only one who gets to fuck you like this.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, your hands slipping on the wall. He doesn’t let you fall, holding you up and pinning your hands onto the surface with his. His nose nudges into your neck as he breathes you in again. His cock twitches inside of you even when he’s brutally fucking you. 

“I’m in you raw, baby,” Scott drawls in your ear, breath warm as he lets out a chuckle. “Imagine if I knocked you up. Imagine the headlines. Whore actress pregnant because she couldn’t stop letting her coworker cum inside her tight little cunt.” 

“Fuck you, Miller,” you spit out.

“Already doin’ that,” he grins, punctuating his point with a deep thrust. You crane your neck up to see how his hands dwarf yours, slotted so perfectly into his palms as he places a kiss on your back. “Do you know how many times I fucked my fist to the thought of you? Picturing it was your tight pussy wrapped around my cock instead of my hand. I can still hear your moans rattling around inside my brain. ‘S not enough though. Wanna record you so I can jack myself off to your cute whines next time. Gonna make you beg me, gonna make you say my name again and again until I’m creaming inside you.”

You can lie and say the thought has never crossed your mind before. However, when your entire life is to be in front of cameras, it’s natural for your imagination to wander that way. What it would be like to film your own sex tape — without all the staff, without the intimacy coordinator, without a script. 

Only you and him and the weight of this heated relationship. 

“I can feel it, she likes that idea,” Scott huffs out a laugh, “felt you tighten around me. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll make it happen. I’ll even get myself a nice camera to make sure I capture every inch of you in high definition. Then I’ll make you watch me make you cum with my hands between these pretty thighs, make you squirt to the sight of yourself.”

His imagination is a beast of its own. You don’t know how he comes up with these scenarios, but you can’t complain. Not when you’re the sole beneficiary. 

“Better keep your word, Miller,” you say, voice hoarse with desire. 

“I always do,” he smirks. “Shit, sweetheart, you keep squeezing me like that I’m gonna cum in you right now.”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” you say a little too casually.

Scott partially freezes. “What?”

“I’m on the pill. Always have been.”

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening even behind the tinted shades. “You never let me cum in you. It’s always a condom.”

“You have one on you?”

There’s no way his manager would let him step outside with condoms in his pockets, lest he risks them falling out and that would be another scandal that Javi has to clean up. “No,” Scott bites out, fingers squeezing your waist. “Are you sure? I was going to pull out.”

“And what? Leave evidence all over this floor?”

He looks conflicted, a flicker of worry crossing his eyes. It’s strange to see concern on his face. You’re used to the glowers, the scowls, the irritation etched into the lines of his forehead.

You roll your eyes again. “If you don’t want to cum in me, just say so.”

He interrupts far too quickly, “I never said that.” 

“Then shut up and fuck me.”

Scott groans, leaning forward with his forehead on your back. “You fuckin’ spoil me, sweetheart.” For some reason, the pet name sounds a little sweeter now. 

His pace is relentless. He fucks into you without slowing down once. He listens to what makes you moan, what makes you twitch, what makes your pussy clench around him, and he does it over again until you’re quivering before him, around him. You can barely hold yourself up anymore and Scott’s the only thing keeping you propped up. Your hair is probably a mess and your skin is shiny with sweat.

But you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he’s fucking you so damn good.

“I could knock you up right now, you know. Those pills aren’t a hundred percent,” he grunts, but the movement of his cock betrays how much he indulges in that idea. “I could ruin your entire career, baby. Have you swollen with my baby. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. You know I will. You won’t have to lift a finger with me.”

In your lust-addled mind, the thought sounds far too tempting. You curve into his touch again, practically preening with the idea. 

“Lord knows I can’t have you act in any more romance movies. Not where you have to be with another man,” Scott snarls, “I’m gonna make sure you never get those roles again. If you have to kiss anyone or fuck anyone, it’s going to be me. You don’t have to worry, sweetheart. I’ll get you in the biggest movies. I’ll make sure they treat you so good.” 

Scott’s hips stutter as he promises you this. He’s close. 

“Gonna make sure the only cock you’ll have is mine. No one else is going to touch this pussy, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Possessive asshole,” you laugh, the sound breaking off into a moan as he thrusts harder into you. Faster, deeper. Your stomach coils with that familiar warmth, your lungs squeezed tight until you’re scrambling for air. 

“You’re mine, sweetheart. I ain’t never letting anyone touch you again. You get me?”

You can only groan with his claim. 

“You get me?” He snaps, louder this time. Loud enough that the sound will surely carry to outside.

It’s only then you realize that the slapping of skin against skin, his thighs against yours as he sinks his cock into you echoes far too clearly in this passageway. Anyone could walk in here and see you, hear you. They’ll see you take Scott’s cock like another one of his girls. Another one that bit the bullet and fell into his lap.

But you don’t care. Scott wants you. Right here, right now — what he wants is you. 

And that thought sends you over the edge as your orgasm snaps through you, pulling a gasp from your lips as your body quakes and tightens around him. That’s all it takes for Scott to finish too, liquid lava spilling inside of you as his hips twitch upwards, like he’s plugging his cum in deep inside of you. Not letting a single drop go to waist.

His moan reverberates straight through you, leaving a tingling in your fingertips as you press them deeper into the wall.

A shudder wracks through him as he feels you pulse around his cock, milking his length dry of every last drop. A sticky mess clinging to your walls. “Fuck,” he mutters, “I could get used to this.”

A giggle slips out and you see him smile over your shoulder. “I don’t think so, buddy. This was a one-time thing.”

“That’s what you always say,” Scott grumbles. He looks down at where the two of you are joined, frowns when he sees his cum beginning to leak out, and pushes depeer inside of you.

He draws out another groan. “Shit, we have to clean up before we go back out there.”

Shaking his head, he slowly pulls out of you but keeps you bent so he can admire his handiwork. You can feel his cum leak out of your cunt, his thumb opening up your pussy lips to allow the milky white liquid to dribble down your thighs. 

Pursing his lips, he drags that drop back up to your pussy and pushes it back in with his thumb. “No.”

“No?” You gape, “Scott, everyone’s going to see.”

“Let them,” he shrugs.

“Screw you. You might still have a career after fucking me, but I certainly won’t if they find out I’ve been letting you fuck me.” 

Scott’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek as he rearranges your dress to cover you up again. You can still feel his cum rolling warm down between your thighs, you pressing your legs together does nothing to hide the fact that you’ve got it in a gooey mess all over your skin. 

“I won’t let that happen,” he says. 

“You can’t possibly guarantee that.”

“I can and I will. You take my hand right now and we’ll go out there. I won’t let them touch a hair on that head of yours.”

You’ve never heard him sound so sure. Determination in his voice and confidence in his outstretched hand. 

“I promise,” he emphasizes. 

Despite the rapid beating of your heart and your brain screaming at you to have some common sense, you extend your hand and take his. His hand is warm and large around yours. Your shoulders slacken as you lean into him.

He smiles as he tugs you closer. “I’ll protect you. Always will.”

“Big words, Miller,” you mutter, grimacing when you feel another drop down your thighs. “Wait ‘til you get your next movie and your next leading lady, you’ll be singing a different tune.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Such little faith in me. I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He pauses before the two of you walk out those doors again. The way he’s looking at you now, calm and composed, appraising you, makes you squirm.

“Quit looking at me like that.”

“Trying to figure out if you’re fucking dense or an idiot.”

Your jaw drops. “What the fuck?”

“I meant it when I said I’m not letting another man touch you. I don’t give a fuck if it’s for a movie.”

“Green isn’t a good color on you.”

“Well, I don’t like it on you either, especially not when I’ve made my promise to you.”

Your heart flutters, butterflies flapping around your chest like they have any right being there.

“Now, if you’re done questioning my intentions, shall we go back out there?”

Without another word, you nod. You can question his intentions another day. Tonight, you have a movie to promote.

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @fruitypebsworld @solynoche

i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the high-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you quip as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness that came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patient was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone soon dissipates along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom. 

Because you, the best editor at the Planet, consummate professional, had peeled your black cardigan off right in front of him, revealing the sleeveless button-up top underneath, and the gorgeous ink that covered both upper arms.

It was ruining Clark's life.

First of all, due to the aforementioned strength of the aircon, you were usually all covered up at the office. You were perpetually in a cardigan, something plush and warm that made you look so soft and cozy.

Clark loved how the sweetness your cardigans added to your looks contrasted starkly against your fiery personality. Sure, you were beautiful on your own, and with your cozy wardrobe, looked innocent and approachable. But you were whip-smart, strategic, and vicious when you had to be. A life of constantly being underestimated molded you into the brilliant, fearless woman you were.

And it also made you kind. It made you thoughtful, empathetic—and a little edgy. You've leaned more alternative in your wardrobe and, well, everything. Kindness is punk rock, you'd insist to anyone who'd listen, and you'd debate til kingdom come with Lois about which death metal bands were posers and which actually embodied the true spirit of punk.

Lois actually respected your opinions, so Clark was always happy to listen in, because goodness knows he got his fair share of flack from Lois about his taste in music. And if all the bands and songs you mentioned in those conversations ended up on a private Spotify playlist called "music she likes" that Clark listens to on his commute to work everyday, well, he's just broadening his horizons.

So maybe, given your deeply leftist disposition and love for joining mosh pits, he should've seen this coming. Why didn't he see this coming? You were standing at your desk in front of him but were turned so he mostly saw you in profile from the left. His eyes were laser-focused on the full-color half-sleeve tattoo you sported on your left upper arm. It was a stunning floral piece that covered most of the skin, but not all of it, in vivid reds, pinks, and greens. The art was hyper-realistic—masterful, even. He appreciated how the art wrapped around your shoulder and snuck further into the collar of your shirt. He wondered how far it went.

If he looked closer, he could see the glaze of sweat that sat on your skin. His mouth watered; he wanted to lick it clean off you, see if it tasted as sweet as it looked.

Holy crap, he needed to get a grip. He needed to get out of this room, make up some excuse, or— Perry White's voice boomed across the newsroom. "Folks, the HVAC guys can't fix the air conditioning til tonight. I'm not making you suffer in this oven all day and risk a heat stroke, so you're all welcome to work from home. Go on, get out of here." There was a collective sigh of relief from everyone in the bullpen. It was enough to jump start Clark's brain. But you turned, and your eyes met his, and you shot him a smile that made his heart skip a beat, and suddenly you were walking over? You were here? Right in front of him? "Hey—you okay?" you asked. "Did the heat melt your brain?" You offered him an amused smile.

He blinked and then grinned at you. "Yeah. Totally melted. Soup between my ears."

You giggled and wrinkled your nose. "Think some ice cream will help? Lois, Jimmy and I are stopping at the shop down the street. Wanna come with?" "Yes," Clark said immediately. "Absolutely yes. I'll be right there." He slammed his laptop shut—maybe a bit too forcefully in his excitement, but he'd deal with that later—and messily shoved it and the papers on his desk into his satchel.

When the four of you piled into the elevator, you found that the A/C was out in there too. It was the whole building, and now you were in a hot, stuffy box, sharing stale air.

It was the closest Clark has been to you all day, and he could smell you, oh my god. You smelled like sweat, and clean laundry, and the orange blossom perfume he'd come to associate with you, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold it together before he cracked.

The elevator reached the ground floor and you all exited, Clark trying his very best to look normal, and spilled out onto the street. It was a lot nicer outside, with a breeze that felt like heaven on your skin.

You fell into pairs as the four of you walked to the ice cream shop. Lois and Jimmy took the lead, gabbing about something stupid Steve said that Lois was still pissed off about. Clark hung back with you.

"I didn't know you had tattoos," he began.

"Yup,” you said, popping the ‘p.’ “I have this half-sleeve, all these patchwork tattoos on my right arm, one on my back, and one on my thigh," you listed, counting them off on your fingers. "Which was your first?" he asked.

You turned a bit as you walked so he could see the one that looked like a postage stamp just above the inside of your right elbow. "This one. I got it when I was nineteen, when my grandma passed away. We used to write each other letters and send them in the mail." Clark's heart squeezed in his chest. "That's so sweet." You smiled. "Thanks. I love remembering her.”

"That's a wonderful way to do it. Like a reminder that she's with you forever." Clark thought about his own parents, how he carried them with him, how he looked for reminders of them when he needed soothing.

"Do you have any tattoos?" you asked.

"No, I can't get tattoos. I have a, um. Thing. With needles," Clark said with an embarrassed laugh. The thing, of course, being that needles couldn't puncture his Kryptonian skin, but you didn't need to know that...yet. You grinned. "Totally get it."

Clark laughed. "Right, because you're clearly so scared of them."

You rolled your eyes and elbowed him lightly. "You think I can't relate to being afraid of getting hurt?" you said, spearing him with your gaze.

He raised his eyebrows. "Oh—uh—" You bumped into him with your hip as you walked. "I'm just joshin', Kent. Relax." He laughed, deflating as you broke the tension. You finally arrived at the ice cream shop, which was quickly filling up with people. The four of you joined the line and immediately began debating the merits between flavors, toppings, and vehicles (Jimmy insisted that cones were the only way to go because they were delicious and edible, ergo environmentally friendly, but Lois said a cup was easier and way less messy.)

"Everyone put your money away, this is my treat," Clark announced after you all had placed your orders. "Absolutely not," you protested. "This wasn't even your idea! Put that card back in your wallet right now, Kent, this one's on me!" you said, pushing past Lois and Jimmy and trying to steal Clark's credit card out of his reach. He, of course, used his height to his advantage and held it up near the ceiling. "Who cares whose idea it was—" Clark began "Mine," Jimmy cut in, "but I'm not paying for any of you—"

"—and if I'm offering then shouldn't you just let me—"

"Kent," you said sternly, your fingers scrunching up his collar to pull him down to eye level with you. You held his face deadly close to yours and murmured, "Don't make me pull rank on you." Clark literally gulped like a cartoon character and felt woozy with how quickly the blood was rushing away from his brain and towards somewhere else. You laughed evilly and took the opportunity to tap your credit card against the machine instead, leaving a hefty tip for the cashier who had to endure all that bickering.

"That's not fair," Clark breathed, his brain finally coming back online. But you, Lois, and Jimmy were already beelining for the exit with your sweet treats so he sighed and followed.

The line outside the ice cream shop was growing exponentially and there were no tables to be had, inside or out, so you all voted to go your separate ways and work in your own air conditioned apartments instead.

After Jimmy and Lois departed in their respective ways home, Clark turned to you. "Where are you headed?" he asked, taking a bite of his strawberry ice cream.

You hummed thoughtfully as you licked your mint chip. "I normally take the bus, but I could walk there. I haven't decided yet. It's like an hour long walk, and it's hot, but the breeze is so nice," you reasoned with a sigh.

"Do you want company?" he asked. You look over at him and meet his gaze.

"You want to walk me home?" He smiled fondly at you. "I do." You grinned back. "Then I do, too."

You fell into step together, eating your ice cream as you walked. This was the first time you'd gotten to have a real conversation about anything other than work. His journalistic instincts kicked in and he interviewed you about your life, your hobbies, your taste in music. He drank up your stories like they were water in this heat.

You were no wilting flower either. You volleyed back with questions of your own about his life, his love for journalism, his love for people.

Your ideologies were so compatible, so service-oriented, that halfway through the walk, you'd decided that if you were deemed emperors of the free world and everyone had to do what you both said, your combined stubbornness and tenacity would fix everything that was wrong with the world.

You walked past your favorite coffee place on the way, and you almost regretted pointing it out because his hand circled your wrist and tugged you towards it (so gently, you were shocked someone of his size was even capable of it). He insisted on buying you an iced coffee now that your ice creams had long been finished. You rolled your eyes but acquiesced, and when you told him your coffee order, he tapped his temple and winked, like he wanted you to know he'd remember it.

"Thanks for walking me home, Clark," you said softly, turning to him as you approached your stoop. "This was so nice. I really like talking to you." Clark's breath caught in his chest when you said that, your eyes boring into his, melting his stomach into nothing but a puddle of warmth.

"I really like talking to you, too," he murmured. "Can we, I mean—do you want to go to dinner with me? This Friday?" You raised your eyebrows and for a split second, Clark was ready to walk it all back, but a smile grew on your face like a weed and it was all he could do to hold back a laugh of relief. "I'd love to," you said, your hand landing on his bicep and squeezing for emphasis. "Here, give me your phone. I'll put my number in and you can text me the details."

When you gave his phone back, he tucked it into his pocket and patted it, as if locking it away for safekeeping. "So, I'll see you tomorrow? At the office?" "Yeah, if the HVAC guys get their shit together," you said with a smile. "Fingers crossed!" he said, and nearly tripped trying to walk backwards.

You texted back and forth the rest of the week. You sent him the songs you talked about on your walk, and he sent you some of his own that he thought you would like. You sent each other pictures of every dessert you ate. You traded memes, Instagram reels, TV show recommendations, all of it, like you had to show each other every piece of media you'd ever enjoyed, right now, immediately.

The funny thing was, before that day with the ice cream, Clark Kent wasn't really on your radar. Of course you knew he was gorgeous, I mean, you had eyes, but you figured everyone else in the office was chasing that tail and you weren't about to join the conga line. Besides, how much could you possibly have in common with a prettyboy from Kansas?

A lot, it turned out, because he was way more than just a prettyboy. He was kind, and smart, and not full of shit. When he told you he volunteered at the local senior center to help older people use technology a couple times a month, your heart did something in your chest. It flipped, or squeezed, or broke, or something. This man was so transparently tender, so sweet, that you had no clue how you'd written him off so easily. Because now you were crushing hard, and even though you'd been working side by side for six months at that point, this new dynamic was only days old, so finding your footing in it was terrifying.

By the time Friday rolled around, the air conditioning had long been fixed and the two of you had gotten way more comfortable, both via text and in person. He’d started bringing you coffee during your afternoon slump and sharing inside jokes with you while you waited for the copier. It was deeply endearing to you: already he was making your life easier, sunnier.

“So, are you gonna tell me where we’re going tonight?” you asked as he stood preparing your coffee for you.

“It’s a surprise,” he said with a smile, “just like it has been all week.”

“I’m going to get you to crack, Kent, mark my words.”

He laughed out loud at that. “Get me to crack?”

“I’ll waterboard it out of you if I have to,” you said seriously, crossing your arms, schooling your smile into submission.

“What are you, CIA?” he asked incredulously. “Is the Daily Planet your cover?”

You let a sly smile creep across your face as you pluck your mug of coffee out of his hands. “If I tell you,” you murmur, lifting yourself up on your toes to move your face dangerously close to his, “I’m going to have to kill you.”

You dropped back down and stepped away quickly, relishing the flush of red blooming up his neck and on the tips of his ears. “Thanks for the coffee. See you later,” you said cheerfully, hoping he picked up on the flirty edge in your voice as you said it.

“Yup,” he said weakly as you turned on your heel and walked away.

You didn’t bother to hide your grin when you glanced back and saw that he was frozen, watching you—and your ass in your favorite slacks—walk back to your desk.

He picked you up on your stoop at 7 on the dot. He’d changed out of his work shirt and slacks and into a white linen button-up top and jeans, looking like a model from a Hollister catalog. When you emerged from your building in a cherry-printed off-the-shoulder sundress and walked down the stairs toward him, he met your gaze with awe written all over his face.

“You’re stunning,” he murmured quietly, stretching out a hand to help you down the last few steps, as if your Chelsea boots would give you any trouble. You took it anyway and he kissed the back of your hand.

“You look pretty good yourself. When did you turn into James Bond?” you asked, trying not to let your voice betray the fizzing in your stomach at his chivalry.

“I think all the anarchist punk you’ve made me listen to this week has, uh, bolstered my confidence a bit,” Clark said, slipping back into the sweet, shy coworker who’d been plaguing your thoughts all week.

He held your hand as you walked and you gave it a squeeze. “Can I finally find out where you’re taking me tonight?” you asked playfully.

He looked down at you and grinned. “I’m taking you to one of my favorite spots in the city. Hope you like board games!”

“Clark, how are you already so good at speaking my language?” you said, your hand skating up his arm to squeeze his bicep.

“I’m a fast learner,” he retorted cleverly, coaxing a laugh out of you.

Clark took you to a cozy board game café that you’d been meaning to try. The place was cute: shelves with every manner of tabletop game lined the walls and large floor lamps in the corners bathed everything in a warm glow. He walked you both up to the counter in the back.

He’d reserved a table for the two of you for an hour and a half. Once you put your stuff down, you followed him to the shelves of games and stuck close to his side as the pair of you browsed.

In the end, you settled back at your table with a beat-up edition of Scrabble—you both worked at a newspaper, after all, so a word game felt like a naturally even playing field.

A server stopped by to take your food and drink orders and you ordered spaghetti and Cabernet sauvignon while Clark ordered mushroom ravioli with Pinot Grigio.

You played while you waited for your food, stories about your respective childhoods being interjected between shouts of “X on a double letter score! YES!” and “No, no, no, there’s no way that’s a real word, look in the handbook—“ Eventually the food arrived and there was less room at the table for your rowdiness, but neither of you lost your competitive edge.

By the time you ordered dessert—chocolate lava cake with ice cream, two spoons—you were two glasses of wine deep and 50 points ahead in Scrabble.

“Have you been letting me win? How am I beating you so handily?” you asked as you cleared the board to set up another round.

“No, unfortunately for me, the Scrabble gods have decided to smile upon you today, it seems,” he said with a wry smile.

“I don’t think they have to smile very hard when you’re the one who wasted ‘jazz’ on a totally blank spot when you could’ve attached it to ‘shellac’ and gotten a double word score,” you reasoned.

He wrinkled his nose. “Ooh, missed that.”

You rolled your eyes and smiled. “Hopeless. Remind me never to pair up with you for Charades—I’d need someone who could actually pay attention if I want to win.”

Clark leaned forward. “I’ll have you know, I’m excellent at partner play,” he said, his voice low and warm as he speared you with his gaze. You raised your eyebrows, any clever retort dying on your tongue at the heat in his voice. “Maybe tonight I was just a little distracted,” he said. He smiled at you, half sweet, half wicked, and you bit your bottom lip to rein in the grin that threatened to break across your face.

“Rematch at my place?” you asked. His eyes lit up and he agreed enthusiastically before flagging the server down to pay the bill.

You took the train back to your apartment since it was a fairly long walk home. He kept a steadying arm around your waist as he hung on to the bar, and as the train grew more crowded around you, he put himself between you and the other passengers, crowding you into a corner to keep you safe and comfortable.

You certainly weren’t complaining, since this meant he was pressed up against you and you could feel the hard lines of his body hold yours. You looked up at him and saw that he was already staring at you. He smiled, warm and sweet, even as his gaze flickered down to your mouth. You wet your lips subconsciously and watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed. You were so close, you were sharing each other’s air. If you got up on your tiptoes, you’d be centimeters from

his face. You could kiss him right now, and god, you wanted to, he was so beautiful, so thoughtful, so warm up against you. All it would take was just a little—

Of course, that’s when the train arrived at your stop, ripping you out of your reverie. Still, you launched into chatter quickly after you made it back out onto the street, and he listened as you yapped about how Monopoly was just a corporate rip-off of a game that was invented by a woman.

You only shut up when you let yourself and Clark into the apartment and closed the door behind you, and only because Clark pinned you to the inside of your front door and kissed you silent.

You sighed and melted into his embrace. You let yourself sink into the moment, cataloging in your mind the feel of his torso against yours, his lips against your lips, his hands on your face, in your hair. He was warmth personified, and the way he held you as his tongue explored your mouth sent sparks shooting down your spine.

“Are we actually doing a Scrabble rematch?” he asked, finally giving you a second to catch your breath.

“Not right now, we’re not,” you said with a grin as you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him back into a heated kiss.

He laughed into your mouth, delighted, and slipped his hands under your thighs to carry you further into your place. The benefit of living in a studio apartment was that the house tour was two seconds long and you didn’t have to tell him where the bedroom was.

He let you back onto your feet next to the bed but it was another second or two before his mouth finally left yours. “Have I told you how absolutely gorgeous you are?” he murmured against your mouth.

You smiled. “I could stand to hear a little more.”

He grinned wolfishly at you and planted kisses on your mouth and along your jaw. “First of all, this dress on you? Beautiful. The way it glides over your body is mesmerizing. But you, god—“ he broke off to press his nose to the spot just under your ear where you like to spray perfume and let out a groan that made you clamp your thighs together “—you’re what makes it gorgeous. The way you fill it out. The way it compliments your skin. The way it lets you show off this beautiful ink…”

He slid his hands down your arms and sat at the edge of the bed so you could slot between his legs.

“I could stare at you all day,” he murmured, his gaze burning into yours. You felt your cheeks heat up and smiled down at him.

“I could do the same to you,” you whispered, carding your fingers through his curls. When your hand cupped his face, he turned his head and planted a sweet little kiss onto your palm. Then on your wrist. And then he was kissing up your arm as he pulled you ever closer, moving himself back toward the center of the bed so you could straddle him. You went willingly and hiked your dress up so you could sit on his lap.

Clark stared deep into your eyes for a breathless second, his brow furrowing more as it stretched on. “I-I know this is our first date but—if this is too fast, we can—“

You surged forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, covering his mouth with yours. It was your turn to silence him with a kiss. “I want this, Clark, I want you,” you whispered against his lips. He groaned into your mouth.

“Can I please take this off you?” he murmured, his fingers playing with the strap on your dress.

You nodded and guided his hand to your back. “Unzip me.”

He took a steadying breath. His hands pressed you in close to his chest and he pulled the zipper on the back of your garment. The bodice loosened, you slipped your arms out of the straps, and he helped you pull the dress over your head. It had cups sewn into it so you hadn’t needed to wear a bra, and your nipples hardened with the exposure to the cool air. He absentmindedly tossed the dress onto a nearby chair as his gaze raked up your body. You noticed the quirk at the corner of his mouth when he took in your underwear, plain black with a little bow on the front.

“Goodness, you’re gorgeous,” he breathed. You had to smile at that. His hands flew to all your newly exposed skin, caressing it, massaging the soft flesh of your hips as they moved up the sides of your body.

You made quick work of unbuttoning his linen shirt and you tossed it in the general direction of your dress. He’d been wearing a plain white tank top underneath and you huffed, playfully annoyed, before peeling it off of him. Clark laughed as you wrestled it over his head, and you couldn’t help but mirror his smile when you finally managed to get it off and appreciate the soft skin and sinew before you.

“Jesus, Clark, talk about gorgeous. Your body belongs in the Met,” you said reverently, ghosting your fingers across his collarbones, then down his pecs, abs, and then settling over his hipbones.

He chuckled shyly and you were so endeared by the blush that spread across his cheeks. “Thank you,” he whispered, before kissing you, slow and deep. His lips refused to leave yours as he pulled you off his lap, and then he was pushing you to lay back against the pillows. You sighed against him, pulling him down so you could feel the weight of his body on you.

He towered over you. His elbows bracketed your head, made you feel completely enveloped in him as he kissed you. Then he moved and leaned on one arm as he kissed his way down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. The other hand snaked down your body and onto your clothed cunt, where you’d soaked through your panties.

“Oh, gosh, so wet for me,” he said with a gasp, breaking your kiss to look down at where he was touching you. You couldn’t help the amused grin that split over your face.

“Gosh,” you repeated gleefully, biting back a giggle.

He looked up at you and grinned. “What?”

“Clark Kent, you’re so fucking cute,” you said, shaking your head and pressing your smile to his. He chuckled into your mouth, thrilled that he made you smile. And he wasn’t even upset when it was wiped off your face as he slipped his hand beneath your underwear and ran his fingers through your slick folds. Your jaw went slack and you closed your eyes, savoring the feel of him.

“So pretty,” he murmured. His fingers started circling your clit and you let out a low groan.

“Mmm, that feels good, Clark,” you sighed, winding your fingers into his hair and kissing him again.

You enjoyed the onslaught of stimulation: his fingers coaxing out electricity between your legs, the pleasant weight of his solid chest on yours, his tongue in your mouth, the scent of his cologne.

He played you like an instrument, like he somehow already knew all the chords of your body, the melodies he could pull out of you. You were close already, so soon, and you fucked yourself back on his fingers as he worked you towards your orgasm. The tide within you grew, swelled, until finally it broke and you came, panting into his mouth.

“Fuck, that was so good,” you said as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you. Clark grinned down at you and pecked your lips once, twice before licking his fingers clean. He stared into your eyes as he did it, making sure you saw the bliss that swept across his features as he tasted you.

“Delicious,” he said quietly. Your breath caught in your chest when he ran his fingers down your soaked pussy and brought them back up to his mouth.

“You wanna put your mouth on me?” you asked.

“Please,” he said, and pressed a beseeching kiss to your lips.

“Of course,” you breathed, and lifted your hips up so he could finally get your underwear off. Then he stood, took his shorts off, and deposited the clothes on the chair. He turned and was about to stride back toward the bed, but you held up a finger.

“Ah—excuse me, those too, please,” you said, achingly polite as you gestured to his boxer-briefs, the last scrap of fabric either of you had on. He huffed a laugh, a little nervous one, which you found adorable. Clark obliged, of course, and tossed his grey underwear onto the pile before sidling back up to bed. You drank in the sight before you, at the light dusting of hair on his juicy thighs, and between his legs, at the gorgeous cock already hard and leaking for you.

You shook your head again and pushed a long breath out from your puffed cheeks. “Clark, seriously, what the fuck.”

He raised his eyebrows at you in alarm. “What’d I do?”

You scrubbed your hands down your face in mock agony. “How the fuck are you this hot?”

He laughed then climbed his way back on top of you. He nuzzled his nose into yours and pressed a kiss to your mouth. “I could ask the same of you, you know,” he murmured.

You let out a breath of a laugh, just a quick amused exhale through the nose, and then kissed him in earnest.

Clark broke away after a second and pressed his forehead to yours. “Am I gonna get to eat you out, or do you want to complain more about how hot you think I am?”

You laughed and smacked him lightly on his side as he moved down your body, grinning cheekily all the way down. He spread your legs wide and tucked himself between them, letting you rest your knees on his shoulders.

He took a second to stare and you fought every instinct in your body to hide or get embarrassed and just let him admire you. It was almost easy to when you looked down and saw the heady combination of awe and lust in his eyes.

And then he licked a hard stripe up your core and your mind went deliciously blank. He lapped up your arousal like he was dying of thirst. Clark moved his mouth over the flesh of your cunt, kissing and licking at every inch of skin, and groaning at the taste and feel of it. When he took your clit into your mouth and sucked hard, you tossed your head back into the pillows and moaned. “Fuck, yes, just like that,” you gasped.

Instead of following orders, though, Clark replaced his mouth with his fingers rubbing circles onto your clit as he licked into your entrance. “Oh my god,” you said as he fucked you on his tongue.

“Fuck, Clark, more, please,” you said desperately, rocking your hips against his face.

He groaned and moved again to suck at your clit while his fingers slipped inside you. He curled them up into your g-spot and fucked them into you relentlessly. The pressure in your abdomen built hot and fast, and your orgasm slammed into you. Your nails dug into Clark’s skin as he fucked you through it, forcing the peak of your pleasure higher and higher until you rolled straight into your third orgasm of the night.

“Holy shit, Clark,” you panted.

“Good?” he asked with a grin, his sweet face popping up from between your legs. His cheeks and chin were glistening with your slick.

“So good, baby. C’mere,” you murmured, holding your arms up so he could crawl into them.

He obliged and held himself over you as he kissed you soundly. You moaned at the taste of yourself on his tongue and Clark instinctually brought his hips down against your leg, seeking friction. You felt the thick heat of his dick against you and groaned.

“Want you inside me,” you said into his mouth.

He nodded frantically but still asked, “Are you sure?”

What a sweetheart. You just wanted to eat him up. You’d save that for later, though, because you were aching to be filled up by him now.

“God, yes,” you said, planting a hot kiss on his eager mouth. He melted into you, going warm and pliant, and whimpered when you pulled away to grab a condom and lube out of your nightstand drawer.

“Oh, thank you, baby,” Clark murmured when you turned back to him with the goods. He let out a choked off gasp when you wasted no time slipping the condom on his angry cock and pumping him firmly.

“You’re so big,” you whispered in awe, appreciating the thickness and weight of it in your hand. “Thank god you’ve loosened me up already,” you joked. He laughed and kissed you.

He pushed you down on your back again and leaned over you. He planted a million tiny kisses all over your face as he rubbed his dick on your soaked pussy, collecting the warm slick. The head of it notched against your clit and you moaned lowly.

“Clark, please,” you whimpered.

“Okay, honey, yeah,” he said. He began pushing in slowly and you savored the pressure, the delicious stretch.

“Fffffuckkkk,” you sighed, throwing your head back.

“Oh my gosh, baby, you feel amazing,” he whimpered. Inch by inch he filled you up until his hips were flush against yours. Your pussy pulsed around him as you adjusted.

“Mmm, so do you,” you moaned. “C’mon, baby, you can move.”

He obliged. He pulled his hips back nearly to the tip and then sank back in, fast and deep. You moaned beneath him and clung onto his shoulders as he worked himself up to a punishing rhythm.

“Not—gonna last—” he grunted into your ear.

You groaned. “It’s okay, baby, you can come for me.”

He moaned and redoubled his efforts, his heavy balls smacking into your skin, turning you on even more as he pounded into you. He slammed in once, twice, then buried himself deep as he came with a shout of your name.

He flopped down onto one arm, trying hard not to crush you, and then rolled onto his side. You both hissed as he pulled out of you. He let himself lie boneless next to you for a second as you absently ran your fingers through his curls. But too soon, he was out of bed and padding to the bathroom.

“Washcloths?” he tossed over his shoulder. You were stunned at how he had already resumed normal brain function while you were still scrounging for two live brain cells to rub together.

“Uh, bottom left drawer in the bathroom,” you called. What felt like seconds later, he was back and cleaning you up with a warm, damp cloth.

“Mmm, thank you, baby,” you sighed. You took him in as he stood over you, his dick still half hard. Fucking glorious. If you had any artistic talent at all you knew he’d become your muse. There was no way you could bring yourself to stop examining his chiseled features, watching the light catch in his eyes, his hair.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, shocking you out of your reverie.

“I was literally just about to say the exact same thing,” you said with a smile. He grinned back at you and joined you in bed, lying flat on his back and rolling you over his chest. You wound your arms around his waist and rested your cheek against his pec, lulled to a new sense of calm by his heartbeat.

You lay like that a while, dozing. When you woke, you noticed him tracing the tattoos that formed your patchwork sleeve.

“Hi,” you whispered, looking up at him.

He met your gaze and smiled. “Hi, beautiful.”

You nuzzled into his pec and turned your head back to watch his hand move over your skin.

“You seem to really like my tattoos,” you said when you felt more awake.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the ink on your arm. "They're gorgeous, I—I don't even know how to explain how beautiful they are to me. How beautiful you are. To me."

Your brows knit together—you were touched—but you teased him anyway. "C'mon, Kent, you're a journalist. I think you can find the words," you said.

He huffed a laugh. "I mean, when I first saw them—the other day when the A/C was out—I think I literally short circuited, so."

You raised your eyebrows, the grin spilling across your face. "Short circuited?"

He scrubbed a hand down his face and chuckled at himself. "Yeah. Just totally glitched. I think seeing them told me a lot about you that I didn't know. And I liked what I saw."

"What did my tattoos tell you about me?"

"Fishing for compliments?" he asked wryly.

You grinned. "For answers. But if your answers are also compliments, I won't complain."

He chuckled. "They told me you were...cool. Maybe had a bit of a creative side."

You felt him hesitate, and you just had to prod. "Mhmmm...what else? You short circuited because you realized I was cool?"

He sucked in a breath and averted his eyes but he couldn't keep the smile off his lips. "Yeah. Like a rock star."

"Come on. You're holding back on me, Kent, what is it?"

He laughed again, scrunched up his nose and ran a hand through his hair. "You just—you clearly put a lot of thought into the ways you’ve decorated your body. I feel like I’m seeing your soul when I look at your tattoos. It's—hot." 

"You think my soul’s hot?" you asked, a smile growing on your face. You swung a leg over his hip as you slowly moved to straddle him. His hands naturally landed at your waist.

“And beautiful, colorful, deep…” he listed. You pressed your grin to his and ground your hips down against him, savoring the groan it pulled out of him.

“Shame you don’t have any soul-baring ink for me to admire. I’ll just have to get to know yours the old-fashioned way,” you said against his mouth as you rolled gently in his lap.

He sighed, his warm hands kneading circles into your waist. You could feel his erection thickening against you. “I’d like that.”

he tried the usual things. he cleaned the apartment at human speed to make it drag out longer. he put an old rock record on the turntable to fill the empty space. he prepared dinner and set everything in the fridge so it was easy to throw together when she got home. he even got his clothes out for the next day and reviewed notes he had taken so he could start the following day at the office with a focused mind.

that was getting boring.

clark kent wasn't a jealous person. he never had been. he grew up in a loving family that humbled every aspect of his superhuman abilities until he could function like every one else on the surface. they spoiled him with love and taught him important values that he held close to his heart today. they worked him on the farm until he no longer felt the anger and frustration at being different and therefore being able to show who he really was to people.

jealousy therefore didn't register. he worked hard for everything he achieved. he got good grades and used those to get into a good university. he used all the HDs he got in his degree to propel him into an internship that eventually got him enough credit to be working for the daily planet. with that, he became such an established investigative journalist that he got to follow one of the most important metahuman trials in the city, one offered to him before lois lane got a chance to jump at it, which then got him in with his girlfriend; the absolute love of his life. he worked so incredibly hard for everything he had ever achieved in every part of his life, so why would he ever need to be jealous?

the reason for his jealousy came not from the reason she was spending so much time in the office, but from who she was spending so much time with. his name was lucas and he was the new paralegal. he was a few years younger than her and was known around metropolis as a damn good paralegal. he had been up for grabs and every law firm had down their best to tie him down, but ultimately it had been her law firm to seal the deal.

he was efficient, and originally that had her coming home from work earlier with less of a workload on her shoulders. that abruptly changed when the clients started rolling in after the last two wins had proven that she fought to hell and back for those she represented. even with lucas and a few more staff members in the mix, things still dragged on late.

clark was jealous of his girlfriend's paralegal simply because he got to spend more time with her than he did.

it was stupid. he spent hours with lois lane and she never seemed to be jealous, so why was he suddenly jealous of her coworkers?

CLARK'S head snapped up when he heard the front door unlock. he looked up from where he had been aimlessly flicking through tv channels on the couch to watch as she tossed her white cane to the side and kicked off her heels to land beside them. a gentle moan of relief escaped her throat now that her feet were free from the uncomfortable pair of heels she had begrudgingly chosen to wear to the office today. they were a more expensive pair, one that she had treated herself to after winning a big case a few months ago, but god they fucking hurt to wear after a while. had she not been talking to the press today she would've settled for a comfy shorter pair.

"sorry," she sighed, shutting the door behind her and reaching to lock it. "but i brought home some bread to go with dinner . . . i was thinking of throwing together a quick pasta?"

she froze when something seemed off. she could feel that clark was in the room, could hear him take gentle breaths, but they were deep as if something heavy had attached themself to every exhale of carbon dioxide. "what's wrong?" she asked pointedly, slowly moving in his direction. she set the bread and her bag down on the coffee table once she made it to it, the table the only barrier between her and her boyfriend.

clark's shoulders slumped. her head tilted when he sighed. it was a mix of annoyance and neglect, it reminded her of the time they had left krypto in the apartment and he was sad that he couldn't go out with them. she imagined his eyes conveyed that same look of a sad puppy, too. it would be the same look she used to give her father as a child when he said she couldn't have ice cream, and the sparkle of sadness in her eyes were all he needed to give in. she doubted she would ever be able to replicate it ever again, but she pictured it so clear it was almost like it was yesterday instead of so many years ago. perhaps that was how clark looked now.

"nothing."

"you're a terrible liar, clark," she pushed her glasses up until they sat atop her head. "let's try again. what's wrong?"

clark sighed even louder. "nothing," he pouted this time, unable to help the way his lips contorted and the way his voice rose so high it was almost a whine. he certainly didn't miss the way he watched the corner of her lips twitch.

"sure, okay," she shrugged, feigning being unbothered and walking past the coffee table. before she could make it past the couch clark was on, his hand shot out to grab her, and suddenly she was tumbling on top of him in the blink of an eye. too fast for her to comprehend, she was momentarily dizzy as she felt her surroundings to figure out what she was facing. her hands found clark's face, the pads of her fingers tracing the pout lines in his face, from his forehead down to his lips. he pressed a kiss to her fingers before sighing once more.

"i'm sorry," clark mumbled, his hands resting gently on the exposed skin on her neck. he brushed her pulse point and felt it flutter under his touch. "i don't know what's wrong with me."

instinctively, his words had the back of her hand pressing to his forehead. "did you get enough sun today? you feel fine . . . so—"

"i think i'm jealous of you and your paralegal and i feel so very stupid for even bringing it up because it is stupid because obviously he works for you and you're my girlfriend but i just haven't really seen you lately and i know it's because you're busy but i miss you so much and you get to spend more time with him — which is fine — but he's clearly attractive so i think that's not helping how i feel and . . ." clark trailed off to suck in enough oxygen that he coughed.

his rambling was so rapid fire that it took her a moment to process it all properly. "'clearly attractive'?" she quoted, and felt as clark nodded. "babe, you do remember that i can't, like, see him, right?" clark was silent on that one. "how am i supposed to know if he's attractive? i don't know what he looks like."

which seemed to bring up a whole new lot of spiralling thoughts in clark. she shifted so sit on his lap better, and his hands came to circle her middle, locking her in place. "wait," his eyebrows furrowed, "then how do you know that i'm attractive. like, you can't see me either but you always say i look good so . . ." he squinted, "does that mean you're lying?"

"i can't tell if this is worse than your jealousy tangent or not," she muttered under her breath. "i just know, okay. i can feel you," she lifted her hands back to his face just to prove her point. she dragged her index finger over the bridge of his nose and traced the outline of his lips before trailing up his jawline. "you have perfect physical traits . . . but who you actually are is the important part to me. that's how i'm very lucky to have someone as good-looking as you."

she could feel clark's face heat up under her hands. "and i, once again, forgot for a second that you see differently," his voice dropped into a mumble that she heard perfectly clear. "which means you can't see lucas . . . not like i thought you were gonna think he was better than me or anything anyway . . ." he sighed. "and suddenly i feel really stupid again for even thinking any of this. i just miss you and it's making me feel weird."

"aw, baby," she hummed, kissing him gently. "i was gonna take tomorrow off anyway . . . you should do the same."

clark perked up at that. "i'll call out tomorrow morning," he grinned so hard she could feel it without even needing to feel his face. "i think i can pull off a pretty convincing sick voice."

she knew that his sick voice was very unconvincing because he had never really been sick, but she nodded anyway. "oh totally," she nodded like she was truly convinced. "and then you can have me all day."

"just you," clark nodded, the idea of it perfect, "and me." she could feel his smile against her face when he brushed their noses together. "and no one else."

During the first time in which the Winter Soldier gets sent out on a solo mission without his handlers— after being beaten into a level of submission palatable enough for Hydra to want to try the ultimate test of effectiveness of his conversion to a weapon for their personal use— something both unpredictable and unexplainable happens: The Soldier, thought to be successfully stripped away from any and all ounce of self-identity starts to hum under his breath.

It’s a tune he doesn’t even recognize, and although the act itself feels foreign, the melody itself feels strangely familiar, as if somehow, his subconscious recognized something his conscious mind cannot quite grasp. It continues, although only in the moments when he is alone— despite his confusion about the origins of his newfound fondness for humming, the Soldier knows that doing it in front of his handlers would only result in beatings brutal enough to make his bones ache for months on end— and so on cold, lonely nights, with his broad frame crouched down before the torn up mattress laid across the iron lining of his cage, the Soldier hums his song, the lyrics long forgotten by his battered mind.

The reasons for the comfort that the action brings him remain unclear to the Soldier for a very, very long time— until flashes of blonde hair and the vivid teal of a pair of irises, a bloodied mouth and a name— “Bucky?”— bring about a myriad of fractured memories.

The first few ones are blurred and distorted, clouded like the murky waters of a lake, until he hears it one night after another exhausting day of being on the run: The voice of his mother singing that very song. The memory lands like a punch to the gut, and the Soldier— Bucky Barnes— sees the warmth of a smile on a face he had not envisioned in over seven decades, her features clearer than he ever expected he would remember.

Suddenly he is seven again, weightless with the kind of insouciance only a child can hold, watching as Winnifred Barnes bounced across the kitchen, humming a tune as she moved along, the smell of a home cooked dinner filling the air.

Bucky blinks and suddenly he is nine and sitting on the couch, peeking over the backrest as his mother sweeps the floor, that same tune falling from her parted lips.

His heart squeezes painfully in his chest as his memories flash again until he is ten and tucked away in bed, feeling the comforting warmth of Winnifred’s kiss on his forehead, her fingers pushing his hair back with tenderness before she sings a lullaby, the lyrics coming in bits and pieces to the forefront of Bucky’s mind, bringing tears to his eyes.

That night marks the very first time that Bucky Barnes feels like he has found a piece of himself again.

Every so often, mumbles come out of your mouth at an attempt of a story that is almost immediately killed by the smashing of the backspace. The flow of words finally run dry after just over an hour of writing. You would think that the writing bug would at least stay for another hour, but of course not.

Another turn of the page and your head is now smushed in your duvet.

"Maybe if you try writing for Jason Todd, the words will come outta you." Clark's voice interrupts the headache you brought to yourself while not even peering up from the comic in his hands.

Your head snaps up from its place on the bed as Clark turns to the next page like a dad in the 1950s reading the paper. Face scrunching with annoyance towards him, the bed creaks under you as you shuffle around trying to find a big enough plush to wack him with.

"Was the 12k not enough for you?" your voice dropping in disbelief. You try to find the fourth wall, the invisible camera just to give them the look of how fed-up you are.

"I told you, it was not believable that Jason Todd of all people would eve-"

A soft thump of the plush against his face shuts him right up, thank god. You love Clark, but would it be so hard for him to shut up about characterization for a second. The amount of times that he's read the fics you wrote and complained about it and that he had forced requested you to write was astonishing.

"You know what, Clark? I'm pulling the plug, no more living the y/n life through me. I'm cutting you off," You punctuate your words with a few more clicks of your keyboard.

And then even more backspaces when you reread what you just wrote.

Of course with a flair of dramatics, Clark whips himself around to face you with a slam of his comic on your desk.

"What."

"If you know Jason Todd so well, you can be the one writing about him frenching you instead of me."

"You're kidding me, right?" Clark whines at you as his grip tightens around your shoulders, "How am I supposed to get my fill then? Hmm?"

You blink, "I can literally name so many amazing Jason writers from the top of my head, Clark. I am on first na—err internet first name basis with several of them, I've told you about them."

His hands fall from your shoulders as he starts lamenting to whoever is out there. Which you ignore as you start listing off blog recommendations and in turn, he completely ignores you as well.

"I can't believe after years of helping them build a career, a successful one might I add-"

"First of all, I don't even know how many times I've literally told you about @scissorhvnds —"

"A long-winding fanfic writing career that I had —on numerous occasions— bestowed my-"

"Actually, I think that she wrote a couple about you," you mind wanders further away from your point. And yes, you do read fanfic about the man who just body-slammed into the bed next to you, and what about it? Even if he is an ass about your writing, you're not ashamed. Hello, look at you right now.

"Very good, very exclusive, very successful ideas for them to write-"

"Which you probably would enjoy becau— anyways, back to the point."

"Wow, fun, never used the bold lettering for one of these before. Anyways-"

You start counting on your hands, "I've literally seen you scouring @luviery's Jason tag on multiple occasions, Mr. 'where-am-I-supposed-to-get-my fill'. Come on man-"

"Fat chance you're actually gonna cut me off."

"Wait a minute, aren't you literally mutuals with @starr-jazz???" Your body shoots up, just to peer down at him for emphasis, "I literally saw you messaging her the other day, I mean-"

"Wait, where is this even going?" Clark interrupts.

"Even if I really were to cut you of-"

"We're getting further from what this was originally supposed to be," his arms make a vague circular gesture to everything, "Of course, I have to be the one to get this back on track."

Effectively cutting off whatever was happening before, Clark snatches your computer right infront of you. You hear him mutter a small curse at the writer under his breath as his eyes start darting across the screen, reading your half-written draft.

"Hello- the fuck? Don't read that!"

"Too late," Clark's voice tutting at the t in the word and completely ignoring your order.

"What the hell Clark, I'm not fucking done with that, like all," you stammered while trying to get your computer back, "You know I don't like anyone read before it's done."

You lunge at him, aiming for the computer.

Only for you to flop right back onto the bed as his body zooms from under you and rises higher and higher.

Clark floats above you, slowly spinning around airspace as he continues to scroll. You can't help but huff as all you can do now is scoot back onto the pillows and watch the reactions on his face while he reads. Legs tucking under you, you pull the previously thrown plush into your lap, slowly inspecting it to distract yourself. Embarrassment and doubts starts to creep in the more Clark stays silent and reads your writing right infront of you.

Sure, many people have read your writing and for sure, Clark has definitely done so as well, but actually seeing someone read it infront of you feels uncomfortably vulnerable. Seeing their reactions to something you put your heart and soul into sends uncomfortable chills up and down your spine. It took you about a year into writing to even tell him about this particular hobby.

And he fucking knows that.

"So," you can hear smug grin starts to grow on his face," is this about me or…"

You deadpanned, "You're joking."

"I mean, it says Clark Kent," Clark says with an amused tone, "Didn't specify which Clark Kent."

You pretend to think for a moment and prop your head onto your fist. For some reason, Clark's eyes seems to shine at the notion.

"It is about my favorite Clark, now that I'm thinking about it."

Clark floats back down the the bed and hovers right infront of you, the computer gripped loosely in his hands. Your fingers twitch in your lap as he floats closer to you.

Clark exhales, leaning closer and closer into your personal space, "Really?"

"Yeah," you whisper to him, drawing him in anticipation.

You can see his mouth start to twitch, probably loading up a smug comment.

"I actually wanted to tal-"

"Yeah, the one who doesn't complain to me about my depiction of Red hood," you say while snatching your computer back from him.

Clark pulls back with a whine, "Corenswet, really? Again? God, you don't know how to have fun."

He starts to float back up to the ceiling in a pout. You aren't really sure why he's so disappointed.

Before he's too far from your reach, you're able to gently wrap your hand around his ankle, anchoring him back to the bed.

"You know I'm joking," you gently tease. With a small tug, you're able to guide down back onto the bed with minimal resistance. A large crease between his brows is still present as he lands right next to you.

While your focus is now locked onto the words on the computer screen, you hand off the small bear in your lap to Clark's. There's an uneasy feeling stuck in your chest, left over from before, as you rake through the story again. The words no longer feel right after seeing his reactions leading to more retypes and frustration.

For a while, the only thing you can hear is the clicks of the keys as you start editing and revising with Clark's shoulder pressed into yours as he watched the cursor move back and forth. After a good ten minutes on revising the parts you already have, you start to feel better on your work and the words start to flow again.

Clark, on the other hand, was having a bit of a dilemma. Well, he knows that you loved writing for the other Clark Kent. Like, he was pretty sure you wouldn't be writing for Jason if it weren't for him. He has read everything that you had written and while he did have qualms with some of your writing, Clark genuinely thinks that you're an amazing writer.

The problem to him though was the fact that when he read your Clark fics, it was like you were writing about him. Something he prides himself on his that he knows these characters like the back of his hand and when reading your fics, its obvious that the Clark written by you isn't the same ones he's dedicated his life to studying or the ones you spent hours upon hours watching.

Maybe it's the fact that the two of you hangout too much, who knows.

Clark interjects, but not before giving you a quick glance just in case, "Hopefully, I know the exact reason, but we haven't got to that part yet."

If he were to be totally honest, something inside him is pissed off that it isn't him you're writing about.

"You've got that right."

Your head peaks up, "You talking to them again?"

"That's none of your business."

You only shrug before trying to turn your attention back to the screen.

Suddenly, your brain starts to stall.

You start watching his hands run smooth over and over again over the blanket underneath the both of you.

"Clark, can I ask you a, uh, favor?"

His focus is still somewhere else but a small hum comes back as a reply.

Your eyes flicker to the blinking cursor, waiting for your brain to come up with the next scene. Ok, you admit, intimate scenes like cuddling or kissing or affection adjacent was never your strong suit. Writing them felt clunky and whenever you read them back, you always felt like your inexperience shown through the screen like a spotlight.

"Are you gonna ask me or no," Clark waves a hand infront of your face shooting you back into your surroundings. Your heart jumps as he settles back to his place next to you, one of his hands setting on your knee.

"Well, you read it," you start, "I need help trying to explain a couple of things."

"Like…"

"Mostly the positioning of how they would be in bed because I don't know if people would actually be able to move in that way," the words come rushing out before you chickened out.

Your head turns to face him, his head tilting, his full attention on you as Clark starts to nod slowly, knowing you're gonna ask him another thing.

The silence stifles you, pressuring you to just let out what you want to ask of him.

"Okay," panic starts to flare up inside of you, "I also need help trying to explain how it is to try and just almost-"

His deep laugh cuts you off, a lopsided smirk that always seems to send warmth rushing thru you appears alongside it.

"If you wanted me to kiss you, you really should've asked a long time ago."

"What?" your body freezes yet overheats at the implications, "A long… time ago…"

Clark slowly shuts the computer, placing it to the side. As you still try to wrap around the thought, his frame starts to slowly envelop around you.

"Wait, wait, wait," the warmth from him starts to reach out, finding you as he inches closer "So, you're telling me-"

A similar hum escapes him as he takes your face in his hands. Clark dips his head lower making sure to catch your eyes with his, making his intentions crystal clear. The distance starts decrease as your breath starts to quicken.

Your body seems to move opposite of your mouth, inching closer and closer like you have been waiting for this exact moment. Unfortunately, you can't help but tease him just as your lips are about to meet his.

"All this time I could've been getting your help writing these scenes if I just like, what. Asked???"

A long groan of frustration rips from his chest. Almost inaudible curses spew from his mouth as you can't help but giggle at him. Your foreheads collide softly as you continue, his head still tilted low in disbelief.

"God, Clark, you know how hard it is for me to write these scenes, I mean-"

The feeling of his mouth against yours shuts you up quick.

Your hands find it's way up his hair, raking through the dark strands as a smile erupts across your face, still pressed against his. Your eyes droop as you pull away from him, if only for a moment so your brain can catch up to your body. Clark chases your lips as soon, capturing you back into his, not even a second after you pull away.

His arms snake around you as you feel weightless pressed against him. A hand presses you closer as it finds a place right at the nape of your neck with the other securely around your waist.

Your hands pull at his hair, almost forcing a delicious groan to be pull out of him. His hold tightens around you, pulling you deeper into him until all you could sense, feel was him.

A whole new world is revealed to you as Clark starts to nudge his mouth open, giving more of himself to you. Waves of warmth seem to rush over you as you drown in everything that is Clark. Small whimpers of pleasure slip from him, only spurring you on to never let go.

Not that you even want to.

God, this was so much better than just reading about it.

All that seems to be running through Clark's brain is just you. God, the feeling of you simply pressed into him was enough to kill him. Sounds that he only could imagine till now started to fall out of you that will forever be ingrained in his brain, replaying over and over again. The feeling of your mouth against his, shyly and slowly licking up into him as if you were trying to memorize everything about this very moment sends chills up and down him.

It's almost clinical the way you push and pull at him. Not that Clark minds, he is more than content to hold you and keep you on him for the… rest of…

Clark reluctantly pulls away, "Is there anything else you need help with?"

Now, you are the one to chase his lips, your brain mush and dizzy at the feeling.

"Hmm.." you move forward, trying to catch his lips again, " W'are we talking about?"

A whine escapes your throat as Clark dodges the slow attempt and your hands slowly fall from his now messed up hair to his chest.

"Aw, do you not remember?" Clark teases as he places slow kisses over you, of course making a point not to give one to the place you really want one , "Of course, you don't remember, do you."

"Clark, please," you whine up to him, eyes almost glassy at the loss of him.

"What? I'm just trying to be thorough about all of this," Clark can't help but play with you, "You did ask for my help, just wanna be helpful."

"God, screw that, I do not care anymore. Can't believe we could've done this so much sooner," you murmur into his skin, attempting to bring his focus back onto you.

It feels like torture the way he starts to give attention to the rest of you. Kisses start to trail lower, almost immediately finding every weak point. Pleasure starts course through you as the feeling starts to radiate around you.

A feeling of pride starts to fill him just looking at the state of you from just kissing you and Clark can't help the small laughs that escape him as he watches you try to capture is lips again.

"If you get so whiny over this, imagine how you would act if-"

A small tug at his hair distracts him long enough for you to take his mouth back onto yours.

You can't help the small sigh that escapes you can as you feel his body start to mold back into you, melting into your touch. You really should've asked him for help a long time ago.

"I mean if you need any more help with positioning, I am more than happy to help."

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The idea of children was always met with a "not yet". Only once had it caused an argument between the two of you—one that ended in the both of you storming off for all of the day and half of the night.

Loki had his concerns. A flurry of spiraling thoughts that he hadn't conquered yet - could he be a good father? Would he know how to be a better person in such a profound way?

You had your wants. A baby to hold and keep. Little eyes that you could show the wonders of the world to.

Neither of you could settle on an ideal.

So—not yet.

Which is fine.

Your life, both married and as an individual, is fulfilled. You have hobbies. Books to read. Land to travel.

You're not lacking.

Still, you picture what your house would look like with a little one running around. The possibility that they would inherit Loki's eyes and quick hands. Your laugh, and hair. A combined cleverness that would leave the nearby town cowering.

Not yet.

It's fine.

Until the most interesting thing happens.

Thor knocks on your front door, a little before suppertime. The places have already been set at the table, and company wasn't expected.

You answer before Loki can say no.

It's been raining all day, he would've said, given the chance, let me continue to enjoy my peace.

The door swings open.

You expect to see Thor, towering and boisterous—possibly returning from a conquest of some sort or another—offering ale and stories to pass the night.

What you do not expect is the small being underneath his arm.

"This is not normal," you say, hand still on the doorknob. Of course, you meant hello.

Thor is not deterred. He grins, tilting his head to the side in his boyish manner. "Extraordinary circumstances."

Your gaze drops down to the tiny human that is dwarfed next to Thor. A child, little older than a toddler, with hair that you think would be untamed even if the weather was dry and big, curious eyes.

Loki finally makes himself known, standing behind you. "Brother."

Thor's eyes soften, and something about the action makes him feel all the more serious. "Could we speak inside?"

Loki takes Thor into the kitchen. They sit at the table, the placemats temporarily forgotten, speaking with lowered voices that you couldn't quite hear.

You don't like being separated while they're clearly discussing something important. However, Thor had suggested that there were details he needed to share that he did not wish to repeat in front of his guest.

You knew how to handle children. You're not scared. You're just... not sure how to fill the silence.

The little one has on a cloak that is too big for them, the rain-speckled fabric dragging in places across the floor. They almost look like a ghost with it on, you think, as they stand in the middle of the floor awkwardly.

A little ghost.

"It's okay," you tell them, once it's obvious they aren't going to move from their spot. "If you want to look around? There's books. You can touch any of them."

The child looks but does not move.

You’re careful to not move too quickly as you step towards the bookshelf. You pluck a hardback from its place, opening the pages. “This one has nature in it, I think. If you like nature?”

Little Ghost hesitates. Then they come closer, standing on tiptoes to peer at the book.

A fire, a few towns over.

A house no longer standing.

A family reduced to its smallest member.

The details make Loki's stomach churn as he sits across from his brother.

"I would take the babe myself, if I were home long enough."

Loki's eyebrows furrow. Babe? "You speak as though you brought an infant into my home."

Thor waves his hand, dismissing Loki's tone. "You know what I mean."

Loki sighs, leaning back in his chair. "Unfortunately, I do," he replies. "Though it does not change the fact that I—we—are not keeping the child."

"A temporary solution," Thor quickly corrects. "Until there is someone else."

Loki frowns. A temporary solution to be taken away. "No."

Thor scrubs a hand down his face. “You haven’t even asked—“

“Exactly,” Loki interrupts, his voice firmer. “Because they will get attached, and I will still have to say no, and you know that.”

A bad guy yet again, in another story.

“You accuse me of seeing into the future.” Thor smiles. It feels patronizing to Loki. “Very well then, brother, if you are so set—“

“I am.”

“—then I believe it would be best for me to venture elsewhere tonight.”

Loki stands first. “I’m sorry I do not have a more favorable answer.”

Thor shrugs. “It will be what it will be, brother mine.”

They both walk into the living room, with Loki leading the way. He stops in the threshold, and Thor nearly knocks him over.

“Wha—“ Thor’s words are cut short when he sees what Loki is looking at.

The child is peering over the book, and you have crouched down to accommodate them. Occasionally, you turn a page, pointing at an illustration and explaining what was being shown.

Loki notices that the little one looks less undone, less likely to crumble on the spot, than when Thor brought them through the door. They peer over your shoulder with a curiosity that feels familiar to him.

He curses Thor in his mind. As if he could feel it, Thor quietly snorts.

You look up from the book, meeting Loki's eyes. You don't say it, but it's clear, the question—Well?

Loki looks at you. Then at the book in your hands. Finally, at the child, and how they tap on the page. "What's that?" They ask. Their voice is small, but they are persistent in getting more information.

"A coyote." Your attention turns back to the book, to the tiny being next to you. "They howl."

"Howl?"

"Mmmhm." You point at the text next to the picture; Loki knows this animal encyclopedia well, can almost imagine what the next paragraph will say.

He turns to Thor, who looks like he has won a prize.

"And to think, I'm known as the tricky one."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He does.

"How long?"

"I don't know."

A pause.

"And you truly believe it's the best option?"

"I believe they will be safe while they are here," Thor responds. "However long that may be."

It sounds so honest coming from Thor that Loki feels like he needs to take a walk. Instead, he casts another look at you and the child, and how neither one of you pay attention to him. Then he looks to his brother. "You owe me a child-sized bed," he says.

"That's all?" Thor asks, visibilly perking up.

"For now."

Thor claps a hand against Loki's shoulder, keeping it there. "I'll be back tomorrow morning."

By the time the sun has fully settled underneath the horizon, the rain has also slowed to a barely-there pitter-patter against the roof. The lights in the house are mostly off, save for the ones in the guest room where the three of you have gathered.

Loki had disappeared sometime after supper, tasked with making the spare room feel more comfortable for their small guest. Windows opened to clear the air. Blankets, shaken out and then remade on the bed.

Now as you sat on the edge of the bed with the small child tucked in towards the headboard, and Loki standing near to the side, you couldn't help but wonder if you were doing the correct thing. It felt right but—

They picked at their food, eating timidly. When you offered new, clean clothes (an oversized tee), they only took it when you reasoned that you would run their current clothes through the wash.

How could you comfort someone who had gone through something so big? How could you help them understand it when they still had such a small view of the world?

The silence felt heavy. You had already ran through goodnights, and were prepared to offer bedtime stories when Loki speaks.

“Did you like the coyote?”

It’s the first question he’s directly aimed at the child.

They nod their head.

“Would you like one in your room for protection?”

Your brows raise. You do not own a coyote, guardian or not.

Loki pays your expression no mind. He conjures a small orb, green and hazy. The child looks concerned.

“It won’t have a name,” Loki says, so softly. “Will you be able to name it?”

The child thinks about it. Then slowly, they nod.

The orb grows, accepting the permission it’s been given. The form starts to appear, with a mouth, and legs, and then finally a fully formed animal. Loki keeps the apparition close to his palms.

Delighted, the child gasps. "Magic man!"

You feel entirely too pleased that Loki has conjured a solution from thin air. "Indeed," you muse, mostly to yourself.

"It'll stay here throughout the night, if that's okay?"

They nod their approval.

Loki lets the illusion grow until it looks like it wandered in from outside. It sniffs through the air, as if it were truly testing its surroundings, then settles on the floor next to the bed.

"Goodnight, then," Loki says. He looks at the child, his face impossibly soft with the glow of his magic illuminating off of his features. He steps towards the door, pausing to wait for you.

The bar might be loud, but you feel that quiet gaze of his press into your shoulders with gentle pressure. Clark isn’t mad at you, not at all. You know that. He might not even be mad at the man talking to you who is very clear on the fact that you have a boyfriend. You had thumbed over your shoulder at Clark when the man first sidled up expressing his interest. Clark had held up his pint glass in a mock salute, pride glowing in his chest at being able to be called yours. 

He knows you would call him over if you needed his help, and so far you haven’t, but you don’t exactly look thrilled with his conversation. So Clark just broods next to Jimmy, wishing your attention was entirely focused on him. Watching. Waiting. 

When the man steps closer to you, you step back, stumbling into a barstool behind you, and Clark takes that as his cue, hardly setting down his drink before making his way to you. 

You feel him before you hear or see him. His warm chest, pressing steadily into your back. You don’t have to look to know that it’s him as his voice rumbles against your back. He doesn’t speak to the nameless flirt, only to you. “All right, sweetheart?”

Your cheeks flush in that bashful ‘i can’t believe it’s you’ way. “Yes.” You gasp breathlessly, leaning back into him and gazing up at him. Your smile is hardly restrained as Clark lets his hands fall possessively to your hips, holding you in place. 

“She’s all good,” Clark tells him without looking away from your eyes, “Have a good night.” Clark offers sincerely to the other man, who is now bowing his head in slight defeat and moving onto his next targets; a group of girls who look to be fresh out of college and far too drunk for a Thursday night in Metropolis. 

To anyone else, Clark would have looked far too polite for someone who just watched their girlfriend get hit on, but you know Clark better. You can feel how tense his core is from the hand you have placed on his lower stomach. His arm is curled protectively around you, bicep cradles the back of your neck meaning only one thing. 

He’s jealous. 

So jealous, he leans down to press his nose to your pulse point on your neck, inhaling your scent before offering a gentle nip of his teeth. A reminder. One he would never verbalize, but to anyone watching the message is clear; “She’s my girl.”

He surfaces only a moment later, lips pouting ever so slightly. “Are you okay?”

You nod, cheeks flushing and slightly flustered. The bar continues to move around you, uncaring of the moment you’re sharing. Some hip-hop song from the 2000’s pulses in the background, Jimmy tries fruitlessly to get the Eve’s phone number, and you stare into his oceanic eyes with little shame. 

Clark’s eyes rake over you, studying you for any sign of delayed distress. He won’t find any- not as long as you’re in his arms.

You’re sharing the same breaths. Your embrace is a casual and fairly innocent one in comparison to what this dingy place usually sees, but you know him better. His hold is a claim. From the way his pupils are dilated, you can assume he’s tuned in to the pulsing of your heart. You’re sure he must be able to feel your nipples hardening against the thin bra and shirt you’re wearing, and you know he’s able to feel the warmth of your rapidly dampening panties as he presses his thigh between you legs. 

One soft kiss to his lips- far too chaste for your position (or his liking), has him dropping his arm to grab your hand and taking your purse as he pulls you out of the bar. He barely tosses a goodnight to Jimmy, and you wave at him, Eve, and Lois as you enter the warm Metropolis night. 

The streets are quiet and devoid of people despite the busting bar behind you. The birds have gone to bed, replacing their song with a quiet hum of crickets in the trees. You can’t control your laughter as Clark stumbles over an uneven sidewalk panel in his haste and nearly trip yourself, stabilizing with Clark’s hands on your hips. Despite himself, he’s laughing too. 

“What was that in there?” You tease, squeezing his hand a bit tighter. “Practicaly dragged me out!”

There’s no disdain in your voice, just pure, unbridled giddiness that someone as handsome and loving as Clark feels as possessive over you as you are of him. Easily led, he lets you walk him backwards until his back hits the brick of a dark storefront. 

“I-. You’re just-” He stuttered, lips pulling into a sheepish smile that puts his dimples on display. His tongue darts over his pink lips, wetting the plush skin. 

“Yeah,” you murmur breathily, rising to your tiptoes and nosing along his jaw, “Me too,” you hum just before kiss him hard. It’s wet and hot and everything you love about him.

Love. 

These are the fairytale kisses you’ve dreamed of. Clumsy, but filled with passion and clicking teeth and take place under flickering streetlights on the too-hot summer nights in the city. The way Clark holds you close to him and you cup his chin. One of his arms wraps around your back, hand splaying across the spot where your shirt rides up and pulling you closer into him.

This is the kind of love the poets write about. It fills your body from head to toe, like a warm honey. Sweet and sticking to anything that touches your skin. The kind that makes you feel like you could get under Clark’s skin, never separated and you would still want to be closer. Never getting enough. The butterflies in your stomach must be multiplying with every kiss and lust filled look, because your pulse is everywhere. He is everywhere- in your fingertips, in your heart, in your lungs with every shaky breath.

You don’t separate when a car drives by, its honking blaring through the night, or when  a gaggle of girls step outside, shrieking in laughter as they dart across the street. The world might as well not exist. Not with Clark’s arms around you. 

When you finally do separate, Clark’s canines glint in the low light from how wide his smile is. 

“What was that for? Not that I’m complaining-”

You shrug, smiling as you lace your fingers together once again and he falls quiet, looking down at you with that adoring blue gaze of his. 

“Let’s go home.”

You’re hardly through the door when you’re tugging your shirt off, pressing your hot skin to his chest as you shove at his own shirt. His arms encircle your body once you’re both freed from the cotton confines, lifting you up and kissing you deeply. The movement causes your denim shorts to ride up a bit, giving a delicious pressure to your aching core.

“Mine.” Clark mumbles, dropping you atop your mattress with a bounce. He hovers over you, propped up on his elbow with hair sticking up in all directions. 

“Yours,” comes your breathy echo.

His touch is featherlight, circling your nipple gently, then switching to the other side with little ceremony. Goosebumps rise across your skin and you squirm under the barely-there touch. Clark starts to trail his fingers down the swell of your stomach, tracing along the button of your bottoms. You almost whine impatiently at his teasing, but the sound doesn’t make it out before he’s covering the sound with his mouth, licking into your mouth and kissing with the fervor of a man possessed. Your shorts are unbuttoned and kicked off with little aplomb, disappearing somewhere in the dim room.

A gasp rips from your throat and your hand flies to his tousled dark hair when he carefully traces a hand down your slit and sinks his middle finger into you, down to the knuckle. “You’re so wet, honey. Feel so good.” His thumb presses gently to your clit, giving it the gentlest of circles as he curls his finger.

“Oh!” You sigh, “oh, Clark.”

He shudders, groaning at the sound and dropping his lower half against you. You can feel his cock, hard and hot, against your leg. 

Another finger joins the one buried inside your cunt, your hips canting to meet the rhythm Clark has set. Your body is putty, malleable and pliant in his hands. 

“You’re perfect.” Clark breathes into your neck, “so perfect. So pretty. All mine. Can’t believe that… that jerk thought he had a chance with you.”

You almost want to laugh at Clark’s censorship, but he presses his thumb harder against your clit, moving the nub gently and causing you to keen, letting out another high-pitched whine. 

“Clark, please.”

His motions don’t let up, continuing with that rhythm that he knows will get you there. “Let me hear it, sweetheart. No one else gets you like this. No one else will know how pretty you sound when you moan for me.” A kiss is pressed to your hipbone- an oddly chaste action compared to the filth between your legs.

The coil in your stomach tightens at his words, moans tearing from your lips with little care for the late hour or your poor neighbors. Wetness gushes from your cunt, surely dripping down his veiny forearm and releasing obscene squelches that would make you embarrassed if it was anyone other than Clark. All you can think of is Clark, playing your body in a perfect symphony to bring you to the peak. 

“She’s so wet for me, honey. It’s addicting. Can’t wait to taste her.” The words are quiet, said more to himself than you, but you catch it anyways.

The crescendo continues to build as you call Clark’s name over and over, as though he might disappear when you don’t. The coil in your stomach grows tighter and your cunt squeezes his fingers so much that he gasps. When you do come, it’s blinding. White hot pleasure courses through your veins as you sink your teeth into the muscle where his shoulder meets his neck, surely leaving bite a mark and moaning his name. 

The come down is just as intense, with you still canting your hips gently into Clark’s palm as you pulse and clench around him. His fingers roll your clit back and forth until you’re squirming away from the stimulation, humming out a quiet “too much, oh, too much.”

HIs hand withdraws from between your legs as you open your eyes, not realizing you’d closed them to see Clark smiling down at you, absentmindedly grinding himself into your leg as he raises his fingers to his lips and sucks you clean off of him. He hums like he’s just been gifted the sweetest candy in the universe and despite your limp and spent body sinking back into the mattress, a renewed energy surges through your blood at the sight.

He maintains eye contact as he does so, your core pulsing desperately in response. You sit up quickly, eyes wild and ignoring the sensitivity between your legs as you flip Clark over, perching atop him. His mouth drops open, digging his fingers into your hips as you drag your still-dripping pussy over his abs. The ridges of his muscle catch your core just right and the damn menace notices, smirking as he tenses his muscles and begins to work you over his core. 

Your eyes snap open when a particular grind has his cock poking the plush of your ass, forgotten and leaking against his stomach. As if sensing your desire before you can act, Clark grabs your wrist from his chest, pressing a kiss to the inside and humming, “Not right now, baby. You can get your mouth on me later, but all I want right now is to feel that sweet cunt wrapped around me.”

Your lips part in awe, a shriek tearing from your lips as he brands an arm across your lower back and pulling your body into him, turning until you’re underneath him.

“You want me?” He asks, pulling his cock through your folds and tapping the head against your clit. Little sparks of electricity jolt up your spine at the action, wondering when the hell he learned that. Instead, you nod eagerly as he notches himself against you and begins to sink inside.

“Geez… you always are so damn tight for me. No one else can fill you like me. Right baby?”

“No, no one.” You moan, arching into him. “Cl-ahhh-rkkk, oh!” 

He bottoms out, hips pressing to yours and holding himself there. His hair falls out of its style, damp strands sticking to his forehead and dangling over you like short vines. 

“Quiet, baby,” Clark hums, leaning down to peck your lips as he starts to circle his hips. “Don’t want to wake the neighbors. They’d know how bad you want me.”

There’s an irony to that, considering he was the one who staked his claim over you at the bar. You don’t call him on it, too lost in pleasure as he pulls out all the way before thrusting back in, tip kissing your cervix delicately. He fits in you so perfectly. Warm and soft and so very him, veins rubbing against your gooey walls perfectly. His pace is slow at first, desperate to have you writhing beneath him. Clark can’t control himself, knowing the position that drives you crazy has him pulling your legs up over his shoulders. The movement has you clenching around him again, a litany of moans being released into the air.

“You might like that though, wouldn’t you? Letting me into your wet cunt in the bar bathroom, where anyone might see us? You want them to know who you belong to?”

Clark’s thrusts speed up a bit, hitting your spots perfectly and bringing you closer ot the edge with every movement. His fingers find your clit again, circling quickly to bring you to another ind-numbing orgasm. 

“They’ll know.,” Clark grunts, growing closer to his own peak, “You’re mine. My girl. My love.”

The words break over you like a wave, pleasure wracking your body as you cum around him. Clark doesn’t last much longer, burying his face into your neck and collapsing atop you. His groans are muffled as he empties his seed into your cunt until a white ring forms around the base of his cock and you’re dripping with his cum.

“That was good,” You hum into his ear, punctuating the sentence with a bite to his earlobe and relishing his shiver. “Think you could go again?”

Clark raises his head to meet your gaze, “Honey, I know I could. I’m insatiable when it comes to you.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, lips curling as you tug and roll your hips up against his still-twitching cock. “Then what are you waiting for, Kansas?”

Two orgasms later, with Clark panting into your neck and your legs still wrapped around his hips, you finally speak.

“You’re like the sun.”

His head his rises, gazing into your eyes as his cock twitches where it’s still nestled in your pussy. Clark presses his forehead to yours, breathing heavily with his eyes still closed. His forearms are bracketing your head, keeping him from dropping his weight entirely atop you.

You don’t think you’d mind that, actually. 

“The sun?” 

“Mhmm.” You hum, tracing an unintelligible pattern into his warm back and losing yourself in the calm of his sparkling blue gaze. “The sun. Warm and comforting. Like- like I didn’t realize how much I missed you until I didn’t have you. Like without you, things just… wouldn’t work.” Clark has his lips pressed together, studying you, and you tense ever so slightly, stomach dropping. “Sorry, that’s weird-”

Clark shuts you up with a kiss, as if its all he can think to do to get you to understand. 

“I know.” He says once the two of you have surfaced for air. “Me too.” He circles his arm around your waist and rolls, flipping so that you’re on half on top of him and pulling you into his chest in one fluid motion. “Me too.” You settle there, listening to the sound of his heart as sleep presses in around you. The curtains flutter with a night breeze, a welcome coolness against your hot skin.

“I don’t have all of the words for it, yet.” Clark finally rasps, breaking the silence. The two of you half-asleep, but the words are warm all the same. “It’s not going to be a checkbox. I don’t think there are enough words in any language to tell you. You’re my world.” He inhales shakily, “but when I do-” Clark presses his nose to your hair, lips brushing your scalp when he speaks. “I promise I’ll never let you forget it.”

You roll over to the empty side of the bed, squinting toward the bathroom. The bedroom was mostly dark, like the rest of the apartment. The only light was the night light atop your dresser.

After a few moments, you sit upright and rub the sleep from your eyes. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:37 A.M.

It’s far too late. Or far too early.

You make your way to the bathroom, half asleep, thankful it’s connected to your bedroom.

It’s darker inside, except for the moonlight through the window, since the person inside doesn’t need the light.

But through the fogged glass shower door, you can still see your girlfriend’s silhouette beneath the spray.

Her broad shoulders drooped slightly, her head bowed and one hand braced against the tile wall.

You quietly step into the bathroom, wondering what caused this night for her—not that Clark could hear your heartbeat from across the city if she wanted to.

After taking off your slip dress, you slide the shower door open. Then, you’re met with Clark’s bright blue eyes boring into you.

Your eyes travel over her bruised, blood-smeared body, and her eyes do the same.

Although you know the cut on her lip and the gash across her stomach will heal in the morning sun, your heart aches.

To distract you from your wandering gaze, she speaks. “Hi, sweetie.”

Her voice is rough with exhaustion.

You smile, stepping into the shower, making her smile. “Hey.”

“Did I wake you up?”

The hot water washes over your shoulders.

“Nope.”

The lie is terrible. You both know it, but she doesn’t argue.

Clark watches you reach for the shampoo bottle and pour some into your hand.

She hums, her eyes fluttering as you work the shampoo into her dark hair. A whimper escapes her lips.

You chuckle, kissing her forehead.

“There’s my girl.”

Her gaze never leaves your face as you guide her to rinse the soap from her hair. Your fingers graze the scrape on her cheek.

She clears her throat. “I’m okay, I promise.”

“I know,” you murmur, continuing to wash her hair.

The water runs over you both as she leans into your touch, hand grasping your wrist.

You don’t move, eyeing her fondly as she presses light kisses against your skin.

Then she does it again, a little higher.

Her kisses travel up the inside of your arm. Knuckles. Forearm. Elbow. Each one needier than the last.

Her hands settle at your waist, pushing you back against the cool tile.

“Clark,” you warn, placing your hand on her shoulder before she starts kissing your neck. “You’re injured.”

You swear she whines into your flesh, shaking her head.

“Don’t care… need you more.”

You open your mouth to protest, but nothing comes out when she kisses right below your earlobe, making you involuntarily shiver.

Her grip on your waist tightens and, beneath the warm water and steam, along with her persistence, you can’t help but give in.

Your hand moves up to cup her jaw and guide her towards you, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips.

You whisper, your breath mingling together. “Alright… just don’t hurt yourself.”

Clark dips her head wearily, kissing you once more before moving down to your chest.

Arousal drips down her inner thighs as she effortlessly lifts your legs around her waist. Her hips rock into yours in a slow, sensual rhythm.

Her mouth latches onto your right breast, moaning. The vibration ripples through your body, making you throw your head back.

You dig your nails into her shoulder as another jolt of pleasure shoots up your spine. She glides her slick folds against hers, sucking your nipple.

She savors the way your thighs tremble and tighten around her waist, and how your breathing turns unsteady despite the agonizing pace.

You gradually lose track of time, lulled by the warmth of the water and the pleasure clouding your mind.

Clark’s mouth is no longer wrapped around your nipple, now kissing you instead. She grinds into your pussy, her thrusts remaining deliberate.

You both feel the tension inside you tighten and tighten. It feels so far away, yet somehow it seems right there. You deepen the kiss as her breathless pants melt between your lips.

Finally, she rasps hoarsely, “Baby, I’m about to cum… come with me, please..”

You nod, beginning to match her thrusts, knowing it’ll make Clark unravel.

And it does.

She jerks, her pace quickening, not by much, but enough to cause your body to shudder.

All the muscles in your body are pulled taut, wound up, and straining. You could only feel the unbearable pressure building behind your ribs, begging for a release.

You choke out, “G-god, keep going.”

Clark obeys, maintaining the uneven cadence. She quivers when you drag your fingernails down her back.

You feel your toes curl, your body locking up before it snaps. It knocks the air from your lungs; a blinding rush of heat surges through you.

She follows suit, her hips hitching sharply. A ragged sound tears from her throat, and she instantly goes limp against you. She sets your feet back on the floor, hands still warm against your skin.

“Golly, sweetie. You don’t know how good you feel.”

You snort, holding her up even as your shaky legs threaten to give out. You run a hand through her soaked curls, still coming down from it.

You should know it’s going to be one of those nights when Scott and Lacey show up at the door and Lacey doesn’t have her backpack.

“Honey, you have to have your backpack ready when I pick you up,” you sigh.

Your night is long enough already, you don’t need the added stress of negotiating with her.

There’s no response, just the gentle lean and stretching of her arms that signals you have to take her.

Her face is already shifting, features rearranging themselves into the picture of gentle pleading.

“Daddy said I should ask if maybe I can stay another night and you can also stay,” she huffs out in one breath. She occupies her hands with the necklace you’re wearing: a dainty heart locket with pictures of her on either side.

“Lacey sweetheart. You know you have to come home with mommy today. Scott go get her backpack please.”

Lacey turns her pleading gaze on Scott and you can’t help the irritated sigh that leaves your lips when he doesn’t move.

“Please mommy it’s just today.”

She’s looking straight at you now, the corners of her lips already tilting down.

You know it's going to be one of those nights when her bottom lip starts quivering, tears already gathering on her bottom lash line.

"Mommy, please. I always have to go. I wanna stay," she says, voice wavering as she looks between you and Scott. Soft hands tug at your earrings before resting gently on your cheek, the way you rest your palm on her cheeks when you need her to focus on you.

"I wanna stay again mommy, please," she repeats, already sniffling.

You know you need to put your foot down now, respect the rules you've put in place, but with the night you've had you just don't have it in you to add ‘making Lacey cry’ to your list, so you acquiesce with a sigh and a nod, brushing past Scott as he tries not to smile.

“You look good tonight,” he says. “Real good.”

You roll your eyes, not even sparing him a glance as you push your jacket into his hands.

“Rough night, huh,” you hear him say as you walk into the living room, where Lacey’s already waiting for you on the couch, patting the empty spots next to her with a smile on her face so bright you forgive her for being Scott’s most effective weapon against you.

“Daddy and I made pizzas all on our own today,” she says, excitedly pressing her fingers into your thighs like she’s kneading dough. “Daddy was throwing it real high up. Like whoosh!! like a real pizza maker!”

“Sounds exciting! Did you throw any pizza dough in the air?”

“No. I tried a little bit but I think I’m not good at it yet,” her voice drops and you can almost see her next to Scott, little brain working over time to cobble together the co-ordination to copy him as best she could.

“A little more practice and you’ll be good in no time,” Scott promises, couch shifting as he settles in on her other side.

That perks her right up, and she makes Scott promise to help her practice the next time he has her.

“‘course, sweet pea,” he says with a squeeze.

Satisfied with his promise, she turns her attention to picking a movie, flicking through the options on the TV. She settles on Toy Story, then hops down to get some snacks with Scott.

“Drink?”

“Wine,” you sigh, sprawling across couch. “Don’t be shy, either.”

“Scale of one to ten how bad was he?” Scott calls from the kitchen.

You hear cabinet doors opening and closing, the drag of Lacey’s stepladder as she insists she can get her own snacks.

“Ten. Miserable from start to finish,” you complain as you get comfortable.

“From start to finish?”

“Start to finish,” you confirm, sitting up again when Lacey comes back with a packet of gummy worms, holding them out for you to open. You’re going to talk to Scott about candy after bed time, but for now you’re content with deducting Mom Tax in the form of three worms and popping them into your mouth while Lacey tries to get comfortable.

When Scott gets back with your drinks, you’re happy to find that he hasn’t been shy at all with your wine.

“Now we can watch,” Lacey says.

“Nuh uh, little miss,” Scott starts as she reaches for the remote. “You need to put your jammies on before we watch.”

“But why if it’s not bed time yet.”

She makes no move to get up, instead turning her most pitiful ‘please’ look onto Scott.

“Because if you fall asleep, and I wake you up to change you’re gonna be grumpy.”

“But I won’t fall asleep, I promise.”

She sticks her pinky out and you see Scott’s hand twitch.

“Yes you will sweetheart, it’s late.”

“How come mommy doesn’t have to change, but she always falls asleep on movie night?”

“Because if mommy falls asleep, I don’t have to wake her up, or carry her to bed or change her into her jammies.”

Lacey sighs. Scott sighs louder. Lacey finally gets off the couch.

“Do you want my help?”

“No,” Lacey says, then as an afterthought: “No, thank you, I mean.”

Disappointment flickers across Scott’s face, but it’s gone when he actually turns to you.

There’s a short, awkward silence as Scott puts your feet in his lap, rubbing at your calves while you take a sip.

“I didn’t know you knew how to toss dough,” you say, leaning back onto the armrest so you can look at him. He still has a little flour in his hair, which — now that you’re looking at him properly — you can see is longer than before. It curls at the nape of his neck, and a few stray strands fall into his face. He’s also got facial hair, a fact so surprising you’re shocked you didn’t notice it before.

“And you changed your look. Who are you?”

He rubs at the facial hair in a move that’s a touch too charming to be shy as he smiles at you.

“Thought I’d switch it up a little, you really just noticed?”

“I haven’t seen you in a week, Scott.”

“My hair was definitely longer, you just don’t pay attention to me,” he fake pouts, squeezing at your calf.

You sigh, sitting up so you can take another swig of wine.

“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, Scott. I’m sure it hurt to be spurned,” you remark. “And the dough tossing?”

“Shit. No ‘you look good’, no ‘suits you’ at least? Harsh.”

You roll your eyes.

“You look good, Scott. Facial hair does a lot for you,” you admit. You find it extremely unfair that he looks good with or without. You find it even more unfair that he’d managed to deprive you of the view the entire time you’d known each other.

“I know,” he smiles. “And I didn’t know how to toss pizza dough until two nights ago. I’d signed us up for a Make Your Own Pizza night, but the class got cancelled so I just figured out how to do it myself. Practised when she went to bed. Money saved,” he shrugs, like learning to toss dough because a pizza making class got cancelled was the easiest thing in the world.

“You learned in one night,” you say surprised.

“Not hard to be decent at it. Unless of course you have the co-ordination of a toddler.”

“Or perhaps are one,” you snort.

“Forgot that kids need to grow,” he laughs. “She was a star on the rest of the prep though,” he smiles. There’s an almost dreamy look on his face, and even though you’ve seen it plenty of times, it never fails to surprise you how sentimental Scott gets over Lacey.

You’re robbed of your chance to tease him about it when Lacey comes running back, nightie on both inside out and back to front.

“Movie time,” she says, then sighs when Scott stops her.

“You almost got it right,” he says, sliding it off of her and fixing it before putting it back on. “But the picture needs to be in the front, silly goose,” he adds with tickle of her tummy. She giggles, sharp and high-pitched as Scott scoops her up and brings her onto the couch. You can’t help the smile on your face when you watch them.

“I’ve never seen these jammies before, Lace,” you say when you notice the picture on the front.

“They’re new, because yesterdays I had an accident but then daddy didn’t have any jammies for me so I had to sleep in his t-shirt but it was huuuuuggeeeee,” she giggles. “So then after that we went to the shops and daddy got me new jammies and some more clothes and even some toys,” she nods.

“Couple months back,” Scott clarifies, but you just laugh.

“You’ve been watching me give her a backpack when she comes to yours and you had clothes?”

“You seemed to like the ritual of it. Who am I to take that from you?”

You want to argue, but Lacey’s impatient and she’s had her movie night delayed long enough so the three of you get comfortable, Lacey in the middle and you and Scott on either side.

As expected, you’re no more than halfway into the movie when Lacey’s head drops onto your arm, her eyes start drooping, eyelids fluttering in an attempt to stay awake.

“Hey sweetpea, might be bedtime,” you whisper, shaking her gently.

“But I’m not sleepy,” she says through a yawn too big for her to pretend.

“We’ll finish the movie tomorrow,” Scott promises.

“Don’t watch it without me,” she says, fighting another yawn.

“Promise. Say goodnight to your mom, and thank you,” Scott instructs.

“Night mommy, thank you for not making us go home,” she says, burrowing her face into the side of your body.

“Goodnight, sweetpea, I love you,” you murmur kissing the top of her head. You suspect she might love you too but her yawn cuts through her words, and then Scott is picking her up and carrying her to bed.

You down what’s left of your wine, consider if you’ll get away with making Scott sleep on his couch. You’re listening to the hum of the TV, enjoying the buzz. It’s been a while since you’ve spent the night at Scott’s, and he’s definitely changed some things, but it feels more familiar than it has any right to. It’s homier than his old one, and he has various Lacey Crafts displayed around the living room. Happy crayon stick figures playing in the sun stuck up on the walls, oddly shaped rocks that have been patchily painted and had googly eyes stuck on them lining the DVD cabinet beneath the TV. So much proof that Lacey lives and plays here that you may as well be back at your house.

“Refill?” Scott’s voice pulls you out of your head.

“And make it generous,” you smile.

He mock salutes, then disappears into the kitchen. With Lacey gone, you feel the urge to smooth down your dress, and you’re suddenly aware of just how overdressed you are to be lying on Scott’s couch. And then you remember it’s not really your fault and you feel yourself getting mad again at your failure of a date night.

“So, what was wrong with this one,” Scott asks when he’s back, handing you your wine. He takes a swig of his own drink before putting on the side table and joining you on the couch. You still have your legs over his lap, but he reaches out so he can trace, soft electrifying spirals on your stomach, his fingers soft and buzzy through the satin.

“You really should’ve let me take her home,” you sigh trying to change the subject. This is too close to intimate for your liking, but the wine makes you lazy and there’s no harm in letting him make you feel better, even just for a little bit.

He cocks his brow at you.

“She’s spending the rest of the break with my parents, remember?”

He rolls his eyes, and then quicker than you can process, he’s pulling you into his chest and laying down so that you’re practically on top of him.

“Tell me about your date,” he says, fingers under your chin to force you to look at him.

“You’re just gonna make fun of me.”

“Obviously. But I’d also like to know, I’m curious.”

“And how would your girlfriend feel about you listening to me vent about my shitty date while lying on top of you?”

His face pulls together in confusion.

“My what?”

“Aren’t you seeing someone?” you ask.

“No,” he huffs.

“Yes you are. I met her last month, Scott,” you remind him.

You remember her — driven and sweet and completely taken by Scott, clinging to him as the three of you chit chatted idly at Javi’s birthday party.

“Not anymore,” he mutters, gently pulling your hand up so he can press a kiss to your fingertips. “Funnily enough, we broke up the day after the party.”

“Scott.”

“She broke up with me! I tried,” he defends, his other hand sliding down your back to rest on your butt.

You cradle his jaw, ignoring the flutter when you feel the rough hair beneath your palms.

“Is that the reason for the new look? Heartbreak makeover?"

“No. I told you I just wanted to switch it up.” He sighs. “See how I answer your questions? Answer mine.”

“Why do you care?”

“You’re my daughter’s mom. Be weird if I didn’t care about you at least a little.”

He’s too sincere, not enough sarcasm behind his words for you to justify another deflection.

“This was a third date, and I definitely ignored some of his earlier… quirks, but he was nice overall and I thought he’d be a fun guy casually,” you start.

“You ignored someone’s little quirks? Since when?”

“Since I got told I’m too picky,” you shrug. “Anyway. I get all dolled up, look good, feel good, smell good and when I get to the restaurant I’m waiting almost twenty minutes for him to get there. NO text, NO call, NO warning. Then he gets there, doesn’t even apologise or try to compensate by complimenting me. Just ‘hi’ and a side hug and then he was pulling out his seat.”

Scott’s face has morphed into something you can only place as disgust, and you shrug.

“I figure he’s having a bad day, so I let it go and try making conversation, but all he can talk about is himself, and he snaps his fingers at the waitress, and it’s like… who is this guy? Obviously, I ask him what’s going on, thinking that maybe he’s dealing with something and do you wanna know what his answer was?”

“Please, spill.”

“He was acting like a douche, because he felt like I hadn’t invited him home quick enough and instead of coming to the conclusion that maybe I wanted to get to know him first and this is only our third fucking date,” you whisper harshly, trying your best not to get loud, “maybe I was just being wary. No, he decides that I’m purposely holding out on him because he was ‘too nice’ and maybe if he did a complete 180, I’d feel more attracted to him. Now I’m confused, because do I seem like the type of woman who dates assholes? And I ask him that, and he says that I must be, because otherwise I wouldn’t be a single mom. The fucking nerve, he’s never even asked about you. And the cherry on top?”

“You’re not done?”

He looks genuinely incredulous.

“God, I wish. The worst thing is that he picked some upscale restaurant so now I'm out a hundred bucks and I didn't even have a good time. Food was great though," you shrug.

"You paid to go on a shitty date. How empowering," Scott rolls his eyes.

"Don't start, we were having such a good time. You were almost one of the girls. "

"Just saying. I'm an asshole and I wouldn't make you pay to go on a shitty date with me," he shrugs, the pads of his fingers warm as he takes the glass from you. “Also I don’t wanna be one of the girls. I’m your daughter’s father.”

You ignore the way his fingers have slipped beneath the hem of your dress, trying desperately to focus on his face instead.

“I bet this is real amusing for you,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

“Not in the slightest. I didn’t realise it was that bad.”

His fingers toy with the edges of your underwear, snapping it gently against your skin.

"Dating as a single parent is hard,” you shrug.

“I’m a single dad and I’ve been just fine.”

“Yes, ‘cause you’re a single dad,” you emphasise, pushing a finger into his chest. “Women love single dads, especially if their kids love them. And you have a daughter. Women fucking go crazy for dads with daughters.”

“Yeah well you have those,” he argues, nodding down at your boobs. “Worked on me.” He smirks down at you, and you ignore the traitorous tug of want in your stomach.

“These aren’t as effective on weird men when you’re a single mom. Having a daughter is always effective when you’re a single dad.”

“Compelling argument, except I don’t use Lacey as a flirting mechanism.”

“Oh so it’s just me you use her emotional guerrilla skills on, then?”

He scoffs.

“She wanted to stay another night. You know what she’s like when she wants something. Stubborn, just like you.”

You roll your eyes.

“You’re not slick, Scott.”

“You sounded mad over text. Knew you wouldn’t say yes if I asked.”

He’s pressing kisses to the side of your head, and the scratch of his moustache more pleasant than you’d like to let him know.

“Scott?”

He hums, pulling away so he can look at you.

“I don’t need you to pity fuck me.”

He scowls in offense.

“I’ve never pity fucked you before, so why would I start now? You look good,” he says with a kiss to your cheek. “You look really good, and I don’t know about the other losers you fuck, but I never let a pretty woman get all dolled up just to send her home high and dry and out a hundred dollars.”

You sit up, pulling him up with you so you’re straddling him.

“You make it sound so kind. Almost charitable,” you mumble as you push at the hair framing his face.

“I’m nicer than you give me credit for.”

He presses a soft kiss into the crook of your neck, then squeezes at your ass. “I also missed you.”

“Scott,” you sigh.

“Nothing wrong. We’re both single right now,” he mutters into your neck. He cradles your face, tracing his thumb over your bottom lip. His lips ghost over yours, and you shudder, then he’s kissing you. The pressure of his lips on yours is dizzying in a way you can’t blame on the alcohol, and he tugs at your bottom lip with a familiar hunger, his arm circling your waist as the other keeps your face cradled.

Your fingers tangle in his hair as you press in closer to him, pushing him into the back of the couch as you press your tongue to his, smiling when he lets out a strangled moan beneath you. It’s an ego boost, feeling the rise and fall of Scott’s chest beneath you as you bite gently at his bottom lip, his hands on your waist as he rocks you against him.

He only pulls away to make you straddle his thigh, pressing long kisses on your throat before kissing you properly again, and your head feels light as you feel him thick and solid beneath you. Reliable, almost. His hands are under the hem of your dress again, kneading the flesh of your ass, squeezing so hard you know he’s gonna leave bruises. He drags his tongue along the path marked out by the dainty chain of your locket, then presses a soft kiss to the metal heart before turning his attention to your boobs.

“Been keeping my girls happy for me?” he asks. He nips at the exposed cleavage, hands cupping them through the dress. “They’re wasted on the men you date,” he complains. A hand slips down the front of your dress, and you want to chastise him, but he’s flexing his thigh beneath you and when he takes the flesh into his mouth you lose all focus, fingers curling tighter into his hair.

The creaking of a door stops you both, sends a sharp bolt of fear down your spine. When Lacey footsteps don’t echo down the hallway you sigh in relief.

“Couch probably isn’t the best place for this,” he says, pulling your dress back into place.

You wonder whether a house with Lacey in it is ever the best place for this, but he’s already standing you up, guiding you towards the bedroom.

He’s barely locked his door when his lips are on yours again and he’s pushing you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

“We’re not supposed to do this while she’s in the house,” you whisper, fingers already fumbling with the waistband of his sleep pants.

“Relax,” he says with a firm grip on your hands. He places them on the bed next to you, and then he’s spreading your legs as he sinks down onto his knees. “You just have to be quiet for me, yeah? Look too good to end the night without something.” He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your knee, heat blooming on your thighs when he pushes the hem of your dress up, the satin bunching up around your hips. Teeth press into the soft flesh of your thighs and you can’t help the short, strangled sound that leaves your mouth.

“Shhh,” he whispers into the skin. “Gotta be quiet, remember?”

“Sorry, I’m not used to the hair,” you sigh as he sucks at the inside of your thigh again, hands keeping your legs spread apart.

“You like it? Or d’you want it gone?”

“Keep it, it’s good,” you sigh, when you feel his tongue pressed along the edge of your panties. He just grunts, then squeezes your thigh in acknowledgement.

“My dress, Scott,” you warn him.

“I’ll be careful,” he says, as he hurriedly pushes the material until its over your hips. You have too many shirts with missing buttons to take him at his word, but he doesn’t seem interested in arguing. “You’re fucking nuts,” he says, eyes locked on the sheer scrap of fabric masquerading as underwear that you’d chosen for the night. “Wasting this on other guys,” he mumbles, lips pressed to your mound through the material. He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, laying his tongue flat against the lace, warm and flat as he holds you still. Your stomach lurches, and you’re embarrassed, but you’re beyond caring. He’s slow, tongue prodding over the material as it gets progressively wetter. You want him to hurry up, try your best to press yourself right against him, but he doesn’t budge. He uses a finger to push the sopping wet material against your clit, his other hand tightening around your thigh when your hips twitch.

“Stop, Scott. Do it properly,” you whine when he keeps mouthing at you over the material.

“Is that how we ask?”

You despise the smugness beneath his question.

“I thought you wouldn’t leave me high and dry. Thought you were different,” you fire back.

“Not dry at all,” he says, knuckle pressing into your slit. You squirm uncomfortably as the underwear sticks itself to you. “But I keep promises.”

You lie back in relief, but it’s short lived, because the moment he has your panties tossed into some dark corner of his room he’s lapping at you like a man starved. It’s torturous, made no better by the coarse drag of his facial hair and the fact that he’s paying attention to everything but your clit. He’s pressing sloppy kisses into the insides of your thighs, sucking harshly then soothing the ache with his tongue. He’s pressing his tongue flat against you, tongue teasing at your slit, coming right up so he can ghost gently over the neglected bundle of nerves at the top before he pulls away again.

You know better than to beg. He knows, he knows and he’s punishing you, and you’d rather not give him the benefit of seeing you accept this punishment.

When you’re squirming beneath his mouth, skin growing slick and your stomach tightening beyond what you think you can handle he finally gets back up.

“Turn over,” he says with a soft tap of your thighs. His pants are already halfway down his thighs, but he stops you when you reach for your zipper. “Keep it on,” he instructs as he turns you over himself, his hand pressing into the space between your shoulder blades. “This colour’s so pretty on you, you know. Can’t believe he didn’t lose all sense seeing you in this.”

You’d consider him romantic if he didn’t have his erection pressed between your lips, rocking gently as he twitched against you.

“That what’s happening to you?”

You’re pushing back, reaching for him, but he just puts your hand back on the mattress.

“I’m getting there,” he says with a soft tap against one of your ass cheeks, then a slightly harder one that makes you groan into the mattress. “Always making me wait, but when it’s your turn,” he squeezes harshly, “I need to hurry up. Very unfair of you,” he clicks his tongue softly.

He’s still rocking gently, teasing, and just when you think you can’t take much more he pushes into you in one swift stroke, all the way to the base like he knows you’ll stretch to accommodate him. You can feel your dress slipping and shifting as he presses you into the arch he wants, his encouragement coming in gruff sentences as he pulls out so he can push back into you, deep and slow.

“Would never let pussy like this go to waste, are you fucking kidding me,” he mumbles, picking up the pace with no regard for the fact that you’re struggling to keep up. You turn to face him as best you can, but he’s not looking at you, eyes locked instead on where you stretch around him.

He hasn’t bothered taking his pants off the whole way, and the cotton rubs almost uncomfortably against the backs of your thighs with every thrust, but it becomes background noise as Scott fucks you, his pace brutal. You feel the cool air of the room against your back as Scott drags the zip down, but he still doesn’t take it off, just slides one of his hands in through the back so he can grope at your tits, and you bury your face back into his mattress as he squeezes at your nipple.His other hand remains anchored on your hip, occasionally coming off to push your dress back into position.

“So perfect for me,” he says when takes a brief pause, kissing down your spine before pushing the dress further up so he can bite gently at your hip. “So goddamn perfect,” he says with squeeze of your ass, using both hands to spread you open again. He holds you steady when he slides back into you — lets you feel the weight of him as he catches his breath. When he starts fucking you again, it’s rough and hard, the lewd sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your muffle moans. You’re trying to be quiet, really but when you hear the way he groans your name like he hasn’t had you like this fifty times before, you let out a pathetic whimper.

There’s a pause and then you feel his thumb, thick and wet as it prods at your asshole and you feel butterflies you haven’t felt in a while.

“You like it there?” he asks, pushing a little harder. “Feels so tight. She being neglected? Not letting your other guys in there?”

Your brain is stuck between letting him know that there are no other guys and confirming that he is in fact the only person who knows you that intimately so you just warble out a disjointed string of sounds and hope that he understands you.

“I’m real special, huh,” he gloats, gently working his way deeper. You nod against your better judgement. “Right,” he snorts. “Special enough to have you any way I want, but not special enough to take you for a proper dinner before I do it.”

He’s pressing his thumb in properly before you can respond and the pressure is more than you can handle, walls fluttering then spasming around him.

“Whatever,” he continues, rolling his hips like he can’t feel you squirming beneath him. You can feel him twitching inside you, but he keeps his strokes slow, makes you feel every inch he’s got to give you as you grasp for him, trying to breathe through the waves of pleasure washing over you. “You gonna let me back in here one day? Bet she’s all tight again, gonna have to work you up to it nice and slow.” He’s fantasising, losing his rhythm as he presses his thumb into you a little harder. “You gonna let me sweetheart? Gonna let me fill ‘er up next time?”

You nod, and he laughs.

“Glad you know what’s good for you,” he groans, and you tighten around him again. He’s swearing, barely audible complaints tumbling from his lips as he finally speeds up again. You probably wouldn’t be able to hear him anyways, too focused on keeping your voice down with your teeth pressed painfully into your lower lip. Scott’s fighting a losing battle, grunts growing louder before he finally lets out a choked groan, his hips stuttering as he empties into you, thumb gently popping out of your ass so he can pull you up to him and place a clumsy kiss on your lips. He doesn’t let you move until he’s slipped out of you, soft and slick and then he follows you as you fall back onto the bed, exhausted.

“You really gonna let me fuck you in the ass again?” Scott asks, when he’s caught his breath.

“No towel, no pyjamas, just thinking with your dick aren’t you?”

He just kisses you, slow and sweet.

“Just making sure. Circling back and all that,” he smiles.

“Just get me a towel you freak,” you command, sitting up.

You pull your dress over your head and toss it onto the floor.

“And a shirt. Then we can discuss whatever you want,” you yawn.

“You’re the greatest woman alive, you know that?”

Your and Clark’s relationship had always been defined by clandestine meetings. It wasn’t often that you were afforded a true moment together without the prying eyes of servants or the demands of either of your jobs. While you craved the longer, more relaxed moments between the two of you, there was something deliciously special about quick entanglements in stairwells and empty rooms.

Much like now, when the two of you found yourselves tucked into a small alcove outside the garden, far from the prying eyes of the people in the ballroom. He had one arm around your waist and the other tangled in your hair, holding your body to his chest while you writhed under his touch. His hips pressed into yours, your dress only barely hiding his cock buried deep inside you. With your skirts rucked up around your middle, you were sure you looked like anything but a princess, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care so long as Clark was touching you.

When he hit a particularly sensitive spot, you tossed your head back and whined carelessly, fingers curling into his dark curls and tugging, ripping a groan from deep within his chest.

“Shh, sweetheart. We need to be quiet… can’t let anyone hear us,” Clark murmured into your ear, emphasizing his words with a gentle nip to your earlobe. He didn’t let up on his pace as he did so, coaxing your body closer and closer to a blissful high.

“Clark,” you moaned quietly in response, burying your face in his neck. His scent propelled you closer to your peak, cloaking you in him. Clark’s hand shifted, the cool metal of his signet ring searing into your hipbone. “Clark, ’m so close.”

“I know,” you felt his voice more than you heard it. “Me too. Let go for me, my love.”

White edged your vision as you felt him twitch within your warmth, his own release creeping closer. He wouldn’t come until you did- you knew that- but the thought of him finishing inside you sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through your body as you clenched around Clark once more. Stars flickered across your vision as you threw your head back, Clark continuing to whisper soft praise into your ear.

You came quickly, the orgasm wracking through your body like a tidal wave, leaving you only enough breath to whisper Clark’s name and cling to him as though he were the only thing keeping you afloat in an ocean. His movements slowed enough to let you ride it out — shallow thrusts, enough to keep him close to his own release, but not so much as to overstimulate you to the point of pain.

“So beautiful,” Clark gasped into your mouth. “May I?”

You nodded, tightening your legs around Clark’s lithe hips as he resumed his movements. Bliss was the only way to describe what he was doing to you, playing your body like a violin as he chased his own release. It would have been too much on its own, but for Clark, you would gladly push yourself beyond your limits over and over. He might deny it, but he loved being able to bring you pleasure beyond what you could ever imagine, leaving your legs wobbly like a fawn’s and your lips swollen.

“I’m gonna-” Clark breathed. “Sweetheart, you’ve gotta let me-”

You shook your head, drawing his dark blue eyes to yours and hooking your ankles behind him to prevent him from pulling away. “Stay.”

His lips parted as his head fell to your chest, mouthing at the swell of your breast revealed where your dress strap had slipped from your shoulder. Clark moaned your name as he came. You felt his release flood into you, warm as his cock twitched through the orgasm. His ring dug into your hips, the bite of the metal marring your skin.

The two of you didn’t move or speak for several minutes, only exchanging deep kisses as you slowly floated back down to earth. Clark’s grip on your hip loosened, his hands smoothing over you as he slipped from your warmth, while you instinctively clenched and whimpered at the loss of him. He pulled his trousers back into place and adjusted his ring so it sat properly on his finger. Clark then drew you into a soft embrace as your skirts fell back to your ankles, gently tugging your dress strap back into place.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded against his chest, the familiar ache of goodbye flooding your heart as you realized you wouldn’t speak to him – wouldn’t see him – for a while after this. You didn’t even know when. It could be as short as hours. It could be as long as days, even weeks. His fingers traced up and down the bare skin of your backless dress, goosebumps following in their wake.

“I don’t want to go back in there,” you whispered, tears clouding your vision.

Clark’s grip tightened around you as though he was protecting you from the silly threat of a crowded ball.  “I know, my love. But you must.”

“I wish I could stay with you.”

“I’m always with you. Right here.” He touched your heart, feeling the steady pulse beneath his palm. Clark smiled reassuringly as he took your hand and pressed it over his own heart. “Just as you’re with me.”

You brushed that stubborn curl away from his forehead, searching his face for reassurance you didn’t need but desperately wanted, trying to convey just how much you loved him without words- as though a single look, kiss, or sentence could ever contain the depth of your feelings.

Clark knows.

Clark knows, dropping to his knees to ensure your skirts sit perfectly in place, lifting one side to tug your lace panties back where they belong and pressing his lips to your ankles, knees, and hipbones as he goes. He noses at your hip, reverently holding your sides as if worshipping at the altar of your love.

He stops. Frozen, thumb running tentatively over your skin.

You look down, wondering what’s caught his attention, and then you see it.

Right where he had been gripping you, where his ring had dug in, is a mark.

c.k.

It isn’t deep; it will likely fade before morning, and it doesn’t even hurt.

Clark stares at it reverently, wishing he could feel sorry, any kind of remorse, but the sight of your perfect skin marked with his initials nearly drives him insane. It leaves him hard again, wanting to throw you over his shoulder and announce to everyone in that stuffy ballroom that you’re his.

Even though he can’t, the tiny mark fills him with pride, as though he just did.

“Oh,” you say, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

“I’m sorry,” Clark says, sounding not at all sorry as he presses a gentle kiss to it before rising to his feet and once again fixing your dress.

You wrap your arms around his neck. “When will I see you again?”

Clark presses his forehead to yours, breathing in your last moments together. “Tonight,” he decides. “Put a candle in your window if you still want me to come.”

“And you’ll be there? Even if I fall asleep?”

“Sure as the sun rises,” Clark promises, kissing you chastely; a sharp contrast to the mess he left dripping out of you. He pulls away, reattaching his sword to his hip.

“I love you,” you breathe desperately, grabbing his hand and squeezing.

The look he gives you could give you the strength to scale a mountain- wide-eyed and adoring. His smile could power the entire palace. “And I love you.”

Later that night, when you’re both back in the too-hot ballroom - you dancing with the son of a duke from a duchy three kingdoms over and him standing post and watching - Clark can’t find it in himself to be jealous.

“Same as always,” he shrugs.

“So great, then? You're always so cheery, I’m jealous.”

His nose wrinkles.

“I’m not always.”

“Yes you are!” you laugh, leaning back in your chair and gesturing toward him. “Everytime I see you you have a huge smile on your face, it’s lovely.”

He ducks his head away from you, that same cheesy grin stuck to his face as you watch his ears turn pink as he regains his composure. 

“You’re smiling every time I see you, too.” He replies, making you smile even wider at him because thank god he notices. 

He gestures towards your computer screen then, pulling your eyes from him. 

“What are you working on?”

The question earns a frustrated huff. You lean further back in the chair and rub at your eyes as though that might somehow make the article less painful to look at.

“I can’t seem to get it quite right, but it's a feature for the website about whether there's any merit to Superman's critics.” You grimace. “Something about the way it reads just isn't right.”

It's hard to fight a smile as you watch Clark freeze up a little in the corner of your eye, he always does when Superman is brought up in any context. Really, it's a wonder that more people haven’t figured him out. 

He raises a hand to scratch the back of his neck as he weighs up how to ask his next question. You could predict it every single time.

“And, uh…” he glances away. “And what do you think?”

It would be nice to put Clark out of his misery someday. Tell him you’ve had him figured out for ages. You don't remember exactly when you pieced it together but Clark Kent is so Superman and Superman is so Clark Kent it’s unreal. 

You figure there's no harm in pretending you don't know until he’s ready to tell you himself. Besides, teasing him is fun.

Clark knows how much you like him, even if he insists on convincing himself otherwise. You've hardly been subtle. He can stand a little teasing while you wait for him to make a real move that isn’t disguised as a friendly dinner after work.

“I think he’s pretty,” you say, fixing Clark with an innocent look. “I also think the odds are he’s as good a guy as he seems.” you tilt your head. “You’d know that, though. All the interviewing you do.”

Clark lights up at your words but catches himself quickly, ducking his head and fiddling with his glasses. What a dork! Although, you suppose, he doesn't know that you know you're really complementing him.

“But…” you trail off, snapping Clark's attention back to you. “I can understand why people think he's a nuisance. I mean, there's a reason people go all out for their car insurance now.”

You feel positively gleeful as he leans closer to you, his face scrunching as he thinks of a way to defend Superman but not so vehemently that he could give himself away. It's a real treat. And you'll take any excuse for Clark Kent to move closer. 

“He’s helping people everyday.” Clark states, still leaning forward, your heads closer than they probably should be at work. “Even if the occasional car gets thrown,” he says, the second part is quieter. 

“I know that,” you nod solemnly. Then, because you can't help yourself, “either way that whole supershit thing was pretty funny.”

“Wasn’t that funny,” he mumbles, leaning back.

Oh, dear sweet Clark. He makes it a little too easy to wind him up sometimes. He is so sensitive about Superman. It really is what makes him so great. If some people in the world could do what he could, they wouldn't care about what people think like he does, they'd do what they wanted whenever they wanted to.

Clark worries. He cares. He wants people to be safe. He wants people to like Superman, not because he wants praise, but because he genuinely wants to be doing the right thing.

 You're all incredibly lucky it is Clark in that suit. Maybe you should cut him some slack. 

The thought softens your expression immediately. Most of the time when you look at him, you're fairly certain your face is full of adoration. It definitely is now.

“Anyway, what do you need from me? You didn’t come back to my corner just to see what I was working on, did you?”

The question pulls Clark from whatever reverie he’d drifted into while staring at you.

“I didn’t,” he agrees," but I always wanna know what you're working on, it's always great. I wanted to check that we were still on for dinner though.”

“Oh yes please! I’m really looking forward to it.” 

“You are?” he asks. He settles a hand gently on your shoulder.

“Of course I am.” You look up at him, “It’s good food and great company, handsome.” 

You punctuate the words with a wink and Clark looks like he's just won the lottery.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You manage to finish off the article, not to your usual standard but good enough, just before the deadline. It's only achieved because you avoid talking to anyone else throughout the day and drink a lot of coffee. There's probably a little too much thinking about a certain farm boy but you'll allow yourself that.

By the time it's submitted, your eyes ache from staring at the screen.

You make your way to the breakroom, hoping to get some water in you before wrapping up for the day, only to find half the office crowded around the television.

Lois is the first you see, so you make your way towards her with a frown etched on your face.

“Hey,” you say, tapping her arm to warn her you're there. “What’s going on?”

Lois gestures towards the screen, uncaring. It confuses you until you see the breaking news banner across the screen in bright red. Another something – or someone – threatening Metropolis. It makes sense then, it sort of feels like there's something new going wrong every other day. 

“The usual,” Lois says, turning away from the television entirely. She studies you instead, brow furrowing. “Where have you been all day?”

“My Superman feature was due at three...” you say distractedly, still trying to make sense of the footage on screen. “It needed finishing and polishing.” 

Lois nudges you with her shoulder, pulling your attention and fixing you with a stern look.

“You have to stop leaving things ‘til the last minute. Eventually it's not gonna work out.”

“I know I do.” you sigh. “This one was just tricky to get right.”

You turn away from her to focus on the breaking news on the screen, wondering if Clark knows what's going on yet.

“Darn it.”

He knows. 

You turn to see Clark approaching from behind, his eyes locked on the news before they dip towards you. He looks awfully sad and maybe a little guilty as he sidles up beside you, your shoulders touching. 

“I’m sorry, I'm gonna have to cover this, honey.” His tone is so unbelievably apologetic that even if you didn't know the truth of what he was really going to be doing this evening, you'd forgive him.

You think the honey slips out by accident – his mind focused on other things, as it should be – but it sends a hundred butterflies fluttering in your stomach. What a dizzying thought, that Clark calls you honey often enough in his mind that it can appear while he isn't paying attention..

“That’s okay.” 

He seems appeased by your quick agreement, a small thankful smile gracing his lips as his shoulders relax. Seemingly without thinking, again, he pulls you into a hug. You’re not sure he realises what he’s doing.

Either way, neither of you seems particularly eager to let go. Clark Kent is all-encompassing warmth. Solid and safe. Why would you willingly give that up?

When he does pull away, it's not far and he starts to speak lowly so only you can hear.

“We’ll do dinner another night, I swear.” 

“You can buy me coffee in the morning to make up for it,” you say, mostly teasing. “Send me a message for what time, yeah?”

“Yes!” he nods enthusiastically. It makes you laugh. “Of course, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

As soon as you hum your agreement, he turns on the spot and makes his way out of the daily planet quickly like he’s only just remembered he has somewhere to be and pretty urgently too.

It’s very sweet, you think, that he apologises for missing plans with you before flying off to save the city. But that's Clark, he’s considerate to his core. You wonder if that's just innate in him or if it's how he was raised. You’re willing to bet it's a little of both.

When you eventually get home, you find yourself glued to the couch watching the news more intently than you have before. You wish that Superman would learn to dodge a little better because your sweet Clark doesn't deserve to take the hits you’ve seen.

21:09 Clark - can I pick you up at 9 for coffee? Sorry again about dinner.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Clark has a problem, or maybe not a problem, more a choice to make. He really, really likes you, wants to kiss you and he has for a while. He’s also cursed with the knowledge that you feel the same way. You're pretty obvious. So it should be simple, right?

It's not. Before he kisses you or admits how much he wants you, he owes it to you to tell you exactly who he is and how he spends his time not with you or at work. It’s terrifying though because what if it changes how you look at him, how you feel. Clark can’t stand it.

He can’t hide the truth from you any longer, it’s not kind and it’s not fair to you. You deserve to make a choice with all the facts.

So, he’s going to take you to get coffee and then suggest a walk through the park. When you're in a private enough area he’ll rip the bandaid off and tell you. Hopefully, you’ll still look at him the same way you did yesterday at your desk. 

Clark takes the stairs two at a time up to ring the buzzer to your apartment, rehearsing and abandoning different versions of the conversation with every step. He finds himself no closer to figuring out how to say it.

When you appear through the door you inspire a big goofy grin to appear on his face, as you often do. But what you see makes your face drop. There's a mottled bruise right by the corner of Clark's lovely eye that makes worry fill your body.

God, Superman really needs to get better at dodging.

You surge forward without thinking, raising your hands to cup his face and hold him in place. With him a few steps lower you can look him directly in the eyes and Clark can see every flicker of concern within your own. The warmth of your hands against his skin is enough to make half the thoughts in his head disappear.

“I thought you healed super quick?!” you exclaim without thinking. So much for letting Clark tell you when he’s ready.

He doesn’t seem to really take in what you've said at all, completely pacified by your hands on his face.

“I do! It doesn’t even hurt it’s just the bruises sti–” Realisation dawns on his face then, his mind catching up with the things happening around him. “Wait, what!?”

You don’t have it in you to try to explain it, so you let him figure it out for himself while you let your thumb trace a slow, indulgent arc across his cheek. You fix him with a flat look.

“You knew?!” 

“Of course I knew, Clark!” you nearly shout before lowering your voice with a smirk on your face. “Why do you think I always make fun of superman around you? I'm teasing you. Pulling on your pigtails.”

You watch as he shuts his eyes and tilts his head further into your hands before taking a deep breath. He’s quieter and more calm when he speaks.

“How long have you known?” he asks, shaking his head in awe. The question makes a teasing smile grow on your face.

“I don’t think you wanna know.” 

He looks away from you sighing, he shakes his head as a smile starts to grow on his face. He can't believe he’s wasted all this time debating whether he should tell you or not and you’ve just known. Nothing's going to change. He could’ve had you long before now.

“No I don't,” he admits, looking back at you now.

“Are you actually gonna kiss me now I know all your secrets, Kent?” you ask lightly. It takes him a second to catch up with your words again but when he does he settles his hands on your waist and his grin grows even bigger somehow.

“You don’t know all of them.”

“What else are you hiding?” you laugh, pulling him closer. “You’re also secretly a supervillain, aren't you? such an overachiever.”

He squeezes your waist, laughing along with you. He has the nicest eyes, they're so blue and overwhelming. You've never seen them more filled with joy than in this moment.

“You caught me.” he teases. “I’m a real jerk, sometimes.”

“Well, can you stop being one and answer my question, please, handsome?”

“If you want me to kiss you, honey, I will.” he tells you. “I want to.”

The space between you suddenly feels very small. Your mouth falls to his slowly as he leans forward to cover the last few inches between you. The kiss is soft and sweet, like most things are with Clark. His hand slides higher against your side. Your fingers curl against his jaw. The world narrows to just the two of you, smiling into a kiss. Nothing in you wants this to end, the brush of his lips searching against yours is perfect.

When you pull away it's with gigantic smiles on each of your faces. Clark is smiling so hard his cheeks must hurt. It was worth the wait, you’d say.

You've kissed Superman. 

Though as Clark leans forward to rest his forehead against yours, laughing quietly under his breath, you can't help thinking that's not the impressive part.

K - Kryptonite play (consensual and careful): This only happens if he suggests it first and requires insane levels of trust. A controlled amount makes him feel more human and sensitive. It stays at a safe distance, ideally with you in the dominating position, riding him while watching deep green veins crawl up his skin. When you start worrying and try to move faster, he begs you to slow down so he can experience this vulnerability under your control. He’ll tell you when he needs it to stop but often keeps it around during aftercare so he can feel tired and sleepy with you....

The room was swallowed by a thick, oppressive darkness, save for the sickly, emerald radiance bleeding from the bedside table. The lead-lined box sat open, allowing the kryptonite to pulse with a rhythmic, poisonous light that painted the walls in shades of green.

You were perched atop him in a slow, grinding rhythm, thighs gripping his waist as you sank deep onto his thick, throbbing cock. Inch by veined inch, your soaked pussy swallowed him whole, stretching around his impressive girth until your clit ground flush against his pelvis. Clark lay beneath you, chest heaving like a dying engine, skin slick with a cold, heavy sweat that made the sheets stick to his broad back and shoulders. Beads of it rolled down his temples, tracing paths that caught the green glow and shimmered like liquid poison. 

He looked fragile, a word that never applied to the Man of Steel and the sight of it sent a jolt of raw heat straight through your core, making your walls flutter and clench greedily around him.

As you rolled your hips in a filthy circle that dragged his cockhead against that sweet spot deep inside you, your fingers reached out to trace the side of his neck. The skin burned hot under your touch, feverish from the radiation but beneath the surface you felt the distinct, raised ridges of green veins crawling up his throat and temple, pulsing in time with the glowing rock nearby. 

They stood out dark and angry against his pale skin, branching like toxic ivy. The radiation was stripping him bare, peeling away every layer of invulnerability and leaving behind a raw, hypersensitive man who felt every millimeter of your slick friction with an intensity that was almost agonizing.

His massive hands were clamped onto your hips but their grip was wrong. Usually, his touch was a careful, measured restraint, always holding back the terrifying strength that could shatter you but now, his fingers trembled. His hold was weak, slipping slightly against your sweat-slick skin, thumbs pressing with barely any pressure as his muscles failed him and the toxin seeped into his marrow. He was exhausted, breath coming in ragged, wet gasps that echoed in the silence of the midnight hour in deep, shuddering inhales that sounded pained, followed by shaky exhales that brushed hot against your collarbone.

You looked down at him, seeing the way his pupils were blown wide, blue eyes clouded with a mixture of pain and absolute, unwavering devotion. The trust in the room was palpable, a heavy, intimate weight that pressed down on both of you because he had asked for this, he had begged you to feel this human, to feel the terror of weakness while anchored by your presence, body and control.

You picked up the pace, hips snapping down harder, driven by a sudden, desperate need to claim him while he was this broken. The obscene, wet sounds of your soaked cunt sliding up and down his cock filled the air with lewd squelches every time you bottomed out, your arousal and his precum mixing into a slick substance that coated his heavy balls and dripped down to soak the sheets. 

Your tits bounced with each thrust, nipples hard and aching, brushing against his sweat-drenched chest.

As you accelerated, you saw his head toss back into the pillow, jaw locking tight as the green veins in his neck bulged prominently. Suddenly, a sound tore from his throat in a low moan that cracked into a broken whimper of genuine distress, something you had rarely heard him make in all your time together. It was the sound of his body buckling under the strain, raw and exposed, like the last defense of a god crumbling.

Panic quickly flared hot in your chest and you immediately shifted forward, still impaled on his throbbing length, reaching one hand toward the bedside table to slam the lead lid shut and end the torture but before you could touch the box, Clark’s hand shot up.

It was sluggish and shaking but he still managed to catch your wrist, fingers barely curling around your skin with fading strength. You didn't stop moving, pussy still clenching and sliding up and down in a slow, agonizingly deep friction, milking his cock with every roll of your hips but your wide eyes locked onto his.

"Not yet," he breathed, voice a wrecked, gravelly shadow of itself, barely more than a hoarse whisper.

You were breathing heavily, breasts heaving as you stared at the sweat dripping from his chin onto his collarbone. His other hand, still resting on your hip, gave a weak, demanding squeeze, prompting you to keep grinding against him, to keep fucking him through the haze of poison and pleasure.

"You're in pain, Clark," you whispered, voice trembling with worry and lust as you felt his cock twitch and pulse inside your tight pussy. "I think it's enough. I can't...I can't watch you suffer like this."

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, as the green veins pulsed vividly under the emerald light. He then looked up at you, his expression one of pure, erotic surrender, eyes glassy and lips parted while a small string of saliva bridged the gap between them as he fought for breath. His abdomen clenched visibly beneath you, fluttering with exhaustion but his cock stayed rock-hard, buried to the hilt in your dripping cunt.

"I can feel it," you groaned, your own pleasure peaking as you felt him twitch again, thick and hot inside you. You rocked slower, savoring the drag, nails digging into his chest just enough to leave faint marks on skin that should’ve been unremarkable by you. "I can feel how weak you are…It's too much."

His hand on your wrist loosened but didn't let go, guiding your palm back to rest on his heaving chest instead. The trust was raw and sometimes terrifying, but beautiful. He didn't want the safety of the lead box, he wanted the vulnerability of being completely at your mercy, stripped of his godhood, feeling every throb of your velvety walls, every ridge of his own cock as it speared into you and every drop of sweat sliding between your joined bodies while the poison made him crave you with a desperation that bordered on madness.

His breathing hitched again with another broken, needy sound escaping as you clenched around him. His hand trembled on your hips, fingers slipping in the slickness, no longer able to guide you with superhuman force but still trying, still holding on to this moment of complete surrender.

You leaned down closer, forehead nearly touching his, breaths mingling as you continued the slow, filthy ride. Your soaked pussy slid up and down his thick, straining cock in grinding circles, taking him to the hilt again and again so every veined inch dragged against your fluttering walls. The kryptonite's light cast shadows across his face, highlighting every bead of sweat clinging to his brow, every straining tendon in his neck,and the darkening green veins that mapped his vulnerability.

He remained pinned beneath you, shivering and spent, yet refusing to let you save him until he had felt every single second of the exquisite ruin you were bringing him. 

Clark let out a guttural groan, muscles twitching and jumping under sweat-slick skin. Despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, the heavy-lidded eyes, the dark circles and the sweat pouring off him in rivulets, he managed a tired, blissful smile that tugged weakly at the corners of his lips. "What's pumping out of me right now is far from pain..." he rasped, voice vibrating through your shared heat, broken and hoarse. "Not yet, sweetheart…please."

As if to prove his point, his cock gave a powerful, rhythmic throb inside you, stretching your walls to their limit and leaking hot precum that mixed with your dripping arousal. You let out a high, needy whine, forehead dropping fully to meet his. Your eyes fluttered shut, the world narrowing down to the salty-musk scent of his sweat, the sickly sweet-green glow of the room and the overwhelming fullness of him buried so deeply. 

In a surge of desperation, you arched your back and dug your nails deep into the meat of his shoulders and for the first time in months, you felt his skin give.

There was no resistance or impenetrable barrier, solely the soft, visceral slide of your nails breaking through his flesh, leaving raw, crescent-shaped marks that welled with tiny beads of blood. The suddenness of it sent a jolt of fear-laced arousal through you, the realization that he was truly, dangerously fragile in your hands made your heart hammer against your ribs and your pussy clench hard around his cock.

Clark felt the change in your energy and the flicker of panic in your touch. He opened his eyes, and you saw them shimmering, tears of raw emotion welling up in the blue depths and spilling over to mix with the sweat on his temples. The fact that you were scared for him, that you felt the weight of his mortality, made every second of the poisoning worth it. He wasn't a god here, he was just a man trembling, leaking, hypersensitive and utterly yours.

"Honey..." you whimpered, hips never stopping their relentless, grinding pace. Your pussy slid over him in wet, sloppy friction, loud and obscene in the oppressive silence.

He reached up, one large palm cupping the back of your head with trembling fingers, tangling in your hair to lock you against him. He held you there, forehead to forehead, breaths mingling in hot, desperate pants.

"Help me stay in this dream a little longer," he whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of your combined panting and the wet squelch of your cunt riding his cock.

"I'll still be here when it's over," you moaned, voice breaking as you sank down on him again, feeling every thick inch split you open. "And long after the sun rises…You know that."

A full-body shudder ran through his entire frame, making his cock jerk and pulse inside your tight cunt. "The marks you leave behind won't...I want to see them on my skin in the light of day." His voice cracked with raw need. He wanted the evidence of this vulnerability, the physical proof that he had been broken open by you, claimed, marked and made mortal under your hands.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of it, you tucked your head into the crook of his neck, face pressed against the green veins of his throat. You could hear the frantic, uneven thud of his heart beneath your ear, weaker and more human than it had any right to be. You accelerated your pace, pussy clenching tight around him, milking him with every desperate downward thrust. The wet slap of your bodies meeting grew louder and filthier as your ass bounced against his heavy balls, cock churning your combined fluids into a creamy mess that leaked out around him with every rise and fall.

Clark’s other hand on your hip tightened as much as his fading strength allowed, fingers digging in to help guide your rhythm, pushing you down harder and faster. The pleasure for him was agonizingly amplified, every nerve ending raw and exposed by the kryptonite. Each drag of your slick walls felt like fire and lightning at once, too much, too perfect. His breaths came in wet, labored gasps, chest heaving beneath you as sweat poured off him in sheets, making your tits slide messily against his slick pectorals.

The climax built slowly, torturously, dragging you both toward the edge. Your walls fluttered and tightened around his throbbing length and Clark’s groans turned into broken, whimpering moans, sounds of pure, helpless ecstasy mixed with the strain of his body fighting the poison. 

His cock swelled even thicker inside you, veins pulsing in time with the green glow.

When the orgasm finally hit, it crashed over you both like a tsunami that refused to recede.

You screamed into his neck, your internal muscles convulsing in violent, rhythmic waves as you came hard, your entire body shaking and shuddering on top of him. Your pussy spasmed wildly around his cock, squeezing and milking him in powerful contractions that drew out every drop of pleasure. Juices gushed around his shaft, soaking his groin and thighs as you ground down desperately, riding through the peak.

Simultaneously, Clark let out a loud, wrecked groan that sounded like a prayer torn from his soul. His weakened body bucked up beneath you in shallow, exhausted thrusts, cock pulsing frantically as he came. 

Thick, hot ropes of cum shot deep inside you, flooding your pussy in heavy, endless spurts that filled you to the brim and beyond. For Clark, the orgasm felt fundamentally different, terrifyingly sensitive as every nerve was stripped bare. The release crashed over him in prolonged, devastating waves that left him gasping and trembling, tears slipping freely down his temples.

It was catharsis, a complete surrender of his body and soul, while the poison heightened every throb and spurt, until he felt hollowed out, raw and profoundly human. His balls tightened and emptied in long, draining pulses, cock twitching and jerking inside your twitching pussy as aftershocks continued to rip through him, prolonging the ecstasy into something almost painful in its intensity.

Even as the main peak faded, smaller ones kept rolling through both of you. Your pussy continued to flutter and squeeze around his spent cock, drawing out weak, oversensitive whimpers from deep in his chest. His hands trembled on your skin, barely holding on, breath ragged and wet against your hair. The exhaustion settled heavy into his bones, a bone-deep tiredness that made his limbs feel like lead, yet the emotional high kept him anchored to you.

You collapsed fully on his chest, your skin sliding against his sweat-slicked torso, bodies still joined with his softening cock buried deep inside your cum-filled pussy. The only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized rasp of your breathing, the emerald light of the kryptonite still casting long, ghostly shadows across the two of you as you lay there, entwined and utterly spent.

Clark’s hand moved slowly up and down your back in long, lazy strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with fragile tenderness. The warmth of his release leaked slowly out around him with every subtle shift of your hips, a slick, messy reminder of how thoroughly he had spilled into you, thick, pearly cum trickling down his shaft and over his heavy balls, coating your skin in warm, sticky evidence of his surrender.

His chest rose and fell beneath you in uneven rhythms. He tried to hide how much trouble he was actually having breathing but you felt it in the way his lungs hitched and the faint tremor that ran through his entire body. Sweat still glistened on his skin, cooling slowly under the green light, making every point of contact between you slick and intimate.

“I wish you could have this all the time,” he said without thinking, voice hoarse and quiet, barely above a whisper.

You turned your face just enough to see the side of his face, your cheek still pressed to the damp skin of his shoulder. “Have what?” you asked quietly.

“Normalcy.” He paused, the word hanging heavy between you. His hand kept moving along your back, slower now, as if even that small motion cost him. “Proof that when the suit goes on, the man under it is still yours.”

You traced your hands over the dark veins of kryptonite that lingered beneath his skin, following their faint paths across his chest and neck with gentle fingertips. The raised lines felt warmer than the rest of him, pulsing faintly in time with his labored heartbeat. You knew what man, what version of him, was talking now. “I’ve always wanted to touch the stars…and I come home to a gift from them.” You paused. “The one time I needed proof of vulnerability from you, you opened your heart and let me in...I know just how human you are…Kal-El.”

Clark met your eyes and realized he could do nothing but stare. The blue of his gaze was glassy and unguarded, shimmering with everything he couldn’t say. How could someone know both parts of him so deeply? His breath caught visibly and a soft, broken sound escaped him as the weight of your words settled over his weakened body.

He moved his hand with visible effort, cupping your jaw and pulled you into a kiss. His lips were fever-warm and trembling against yours, the kiss was slow, deep and a little desperate, as if he were trying to pour every remaining ounce of himself into you. His tongue moved lazily against yours, tasting of salt and exhaustion. 

You made sure he stayed distracted by the kiss, pouring yourself into it just as fully, while your hand blindly reached toward the bedside table until your fingers found the lead lid and pushed it shut over the kryptonite with a soft, final click. The green glow vanished instantly, plunging the room into deeper shadows broken only by the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains.

He pulled back enough to rest his forehead against yours, hand now resting in place while the pad of his thumb brushed across your cheek. “You touch my soul and act like you never meant to reach for it,” he murmured, voice cracking with raw emotion. “Only the sun has come this close…”

His eyes began fluttering shut, heavy lids drifting downward as the full weight of the kryptonite’s aftermath crashed over him. No matter how many times you’d witnessed it, the fear still twisted sharp in your chest as you watched the last traces of tension leave his face, but you knew this was part of the process, this was the price he willingly paid to feel human with you. You didn’t want to take your eyes off him but you did for a second, glancing toward the window, hoping to see the first hints of sunrise bleeding across the horizon. 

Yet the sky remained dark and indifferent.

“Only the sun,” you breathed quietly, the words slipping out like a prayer against his lips as a single tear slid down your cheek. It would only register to him because of how many times it had happened before, because he knew every small tell of your heart the same way you knew his and it had been proven that not even kryptonite could strip you away from his being.

The promise of sunrise would never make it easy, not when its absence was what gave it meaning. So you would keep hoping for it, even as you cherished every sundown spent beside him because every dawn was a reminder that even the most constant light could leave and still be worth yearning for.

It was the debt of being conscious and in love…the very burden and privilege of being human.