maddie

Y/N did not expect her life to turn out the way it has. She led a normal life, as normal one can be, at the age of twenty one. Like most her age she was confused on what she wanted in life. What she knew was she wanted to be an artist. That’s something she always knew.

At the start of the year her grandfather Quil Ateara III passed unexpectedly. It was a huge loss for not only her family but the community of La Push. Y/n’s home reservation, where her grandfather had served on council for many years, a well respected elder.

As If any of it wasn’t enough for y/n the family decided to read his will. Discovering he had left her with the estate and property under her name. Yet it was never brought it up to her in their many visits. Shocking the whole family it caused an uproar.

Her own mother was surprised at this news. Everyone figured he’d leave everything to at least one of his children. Her grandmother Molly was the only one not surprised. Instead she ensured that y/n would move in by the end of the season. And that no one could argue since it was her husbands will.

Even if it was passed onto her mother, or her many uncles and aunts, no one wanted to uproot their lives to live in the house. In fact the family was ready and planning to sell the house. Deciding to split the money between everyone and cut their losses on the property. But her grandparents wouldn’t have any of it happen.

And so it was y/n was on her way to her “new” house. Her grandmother Molly had already moved in to her sisters home. As a way of keeping an eye on each other now that they’re both older.

For y/n it was all so fast but an opportunity would never come like this again. For she had been desperate for a place on her own. A studio apartment wasn’t an ideal space for someone who loved, well, space.

It was a three story house with a wrap around porch. Fit with five bedrooms and one bathroom. As she drove y/n thought of how expensive and difficult it could get to maintain such a house. But she figured she’d at least try before trying to get a roommate.

Although it was all new and quite stressful to think of. Y/n was excited to be back in her beloved home of La Push. She had only visited a few times throughout each year. And as of late she hadn’t been around much with life catching up to her.

Driving down the same old roads she couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. How many summers she spent here and what good memories were made. The scenery was always something y/n favoured especially the tall beautiful pine trees.

Despite the constant downpour of rain it made y/n happy. Even just the smell of rain and dirt made her smile. It was a moment y/n wanted to savour for herself, entering the reservation, it felt like she never left.

The road was wet from soft rain throughout the day. The clouds blocking the sun from shining. Looking at the sides of the road the hairs on her neck suddenly spiked. A weird feeling in her gut began to twist and turn.

As she looked on each sides of the road it felt eerie. Although she drove down familiar roads it didn’t feel right. As if there were eyes peering a hole in the back of her neck. Rubbing the spot in comfort she tried shaking off the unsettling feeling.

After all she was stressed and tired after a long drive she convinced herself. Upon seeing the house she was relieved. Her grandma was supposed to be here before her. But her car wasn’t parked in the driveway.

Parked in the car y/n sat awaiting for either the eerie feeling to go away or for her grandmother to arrive. As she sat and decided, she noticed in the window stacks of boxes, she had sent her stuff beforehand. With the help of her cousins they moved everything inside.

Impatient and no longer anxious she got out of the car. The property has a clear and neat tree line. The backyard was a huge open field filled with wild flowers. Although at the moment it was still too early in the spring for such flowers. The field sat in colours of yellows and browns.

Y/n searched around the area in case of anything. Taking a short moment to look. With nothing around she headed inside. Deciding to unpack until her grandma arrived. She grabbed the rest of her belongings from the trunk.

Sure enough It didn’t take long for her grandma to pull up in the driveway. As y/n headed outside to meet her she felt even more relief. Seeing the soft smile on her grandma’s face brought her comfort.

“My girl! You’re finally home” she said into her neck as they hugged tightly. “Yep! Finally home for good” y/n replied holding onto her grandmothers hands. The two headed inside to catch up with one another.

Her grandmother Molly and her were always close no matter the distance. In times of need she always called her for advice. To be living more close to her was a blessing in itself.

“I would’ve been here long time ago but I had a meeting. It ran longer than it was supposed to” Grandma Molly took her grandfathers place on council once he passed. As she felt it was her responsibility to him and the community. The people had also unanimously agreed for her to take the position.

“It’s alright grandma it gave me extra time to unpack” which was mainly just her clothes. Scanning the room over the endless boxes her grandma fussed over y/n.

“There’s plenty of time for you to do that. Now that you’re home” her grandma smiled warmly once more. “You’re right but it’s just I need groceries” y/n replied as she looked around the fridge.

“I left you plenty of dry goods in the cabinets. But I took what was in the fridge and freezer. I figured we’d go now and shop for something more fresh” y/n wasn’t surprised at her grandmas smart and thoughtful thinking.

Agreeing the two stepped out of the house. Only to be met with the arrival of her cousin Quil Ateara V. Pulling up in his black truck he wore a cheeky grin. Immediately he stepped out and rushed in for a hug.

Quil was another one of her cousins she grew up close with. Besides herself Quil was close with their grandparents. Majority of the family relied on Quil and his help. It comforted y/n to know she’d see him more often now.

“Good to see you sis” he said as the two pulled away from each other. “You too! I was gonna text you but I’m glad to see you! I’ve been meaning to thank you for the help. Moving the furniture for me was a huge help for real”

“Easy work. If you need anything just let me know” Quil was always cocky and loved to tease. He could be serious when needed to. It was something y/n somehow missed in their time apart. Although she knew that behaviour was bound to wear on her. For now she was enjoying the moment.

“We were just going into town. What are you up to?” Grandma Molly asked Quil. Shrugging his shoulders he replied “Not much just about to stop in at the house. Wanted to see if this girl was home yet or not” he smiled as he nudged y/n’s shoulder.

Y/n smiled before an idea popped into her head. “How about the three of us eat dinner? On me? I’m famished and I do owe the both of you” she replied as the two agreed. “You don’t owe us anything we’re family” Grandma Molly assured y/n as the two walked to the car. “But I will take you on that offer” she joked making the other two laugh.

“Well I have my truck so I’ll meet you girls where?” Quil asked whilst twirling his keys. The three threw out suggestions. Grandma Molly and Quil ended up squabbling over which place to eat.

“How about Carver’s? Y’know I haven’t been there in ages” y/n suggested trying to end the arguments. It worked as everyone agreed. Y/n and her grandma went together as Quil followed in his truck behind. The drive was short but eventful. As grandma Molly continued to give her an update on everyone in the reserve.

Somewhere behind them Quil had veered off the path. But y/n knew he would eventually come behind. Vouching to get a table without him until he came the two headed inside. As y/n held the door open for her grandmother, before she could enter, a man rushed to hold open the door.

“Here I got it” the man said, he stood tall way over six feet and was obviously Quileute, despite cold weather he wore only a long sleeve shirt. Y/n briefly looked at him before a surprise walked through the door.

“Y/n? Grandma Molly? Oh my god! It is true you’re finally home!” Out rushing was her cousin Kim Conweller. She grew up with her close, the two were always together, but recent years they’ve been in and out of touch. The bond between them has never faded.

Growing up Kim, Quil, and y/n were close as a trio. They were the eldest out of their cousins. It had been awhile since the three of them were under one roof. Y/n felt overjoyed at her so far warm welcomes from everyone she’s seen.

The two hugged tightly albeit y/n was surprised. “Kim! Hi yes I’m home for good now! I’m glad to run into you” she smiled as Kim gushed. “Grandma here told me a few weeks ago you were moving down. I wasn’t sure if you actually were but here you are!” Kim gushed with a bright smile.

Y/n smiled back before looking up at the man who held the door. Who stared down at y/n, with curious eyes, it felt like the two somehow knew each other. Kim took notice and nervously laughed clutching onto his arm.

“Sorry y/n you caught me off guard. This is my boyfriend Jared Cameron and this is my cousin y/n“ Kim introduced the two as Jared reached out for a handshake. When she did he wore a welcoming grin holding a firm grip on her hand. It was almost like it burned to touch him with how warm he was y/n thought.

She had heard of Kim speak of Jared when they talked. Even when he was nothing more than a high school crush to Kim. But y/n never knew anything more than his name and who his family was. She has always been curious as to who he really was.

“Great to meet you y/n I heard a lot about you from Kim” Jared said as he stood beside Kim. Making y/n look at Kim with an eyebrow raised. “Hopefully she didn’t say too much” she joked as the rest of them laughed slightly.

Before Kim answered she gave a quick glance to Jared. Then with a bright smile she replied “Of course not! I’ve just been excited to know you’re back home. It’ll be nice to have a close girlfriend around” Kim said as it was true.

Y/n was the only girl she knew who was into feminine interests. Such as beauty, fashion, and everything in between. When these two meet it was always a blast.

“Yeah me too I’m glad to have seen you Kim. You should stop by the house this week. Once I get more settled in” y/n offered. After all it’d be great to have a visitor or a helper to unpack. It’s been long enough since it was just the two of them.

“Yeah of course just send me a text. Well we better get going it looks like we’re holding up the door here” Kim said as more people pulled up to eat at the diner. As they all started to leave Quil finally arrived. As he got out of the car he rushed up to the group.

“Hey bro” Quil said as he walked up to greet Jared. Who wore a smile bright as Kim’s when they briefly hugged. “Hey~, I’ll see you at the house, alright?” Was all that was exchanged as Quil gave a nod in response. The couple leaving in Jared’s truck.

‘Wait what house?’ Y/n thought as Quil ushered them inside. Sitting down it was a quaint dinner between the three of them. It felt familiar and refreshing for the three of them. The last few months darkened by the death of Quil Atera III.

The three talked about everything going on in each others lives. How their grandma worried about them and their future. Willing to help in anyway she can. Quil’s silly jokes and stories entertained them throughout the evening.

Finishing up their dinner they got it ready to take home. As it was getting dark Quil offered to take their grandmother home. Quil said “You need to catch up on your rest sis. Really it’s no problem” y/n knew she couldn’t argue.

As she looked up ready to leave she seen two people coming through the door. First to walk in was a girl with long soft auburn curls, skin that was beautifully pale and somehow glowing, her features were delicate and pretty.

Her beauty took the breath away from y/n. For she didn’t look like she was real more like a doll. It was hard to believe someone could look so ethereal.

Behind her came a tall man with broad shoulders. He was also tall dark and handsome, another obvious Quileute man, wearing a leather jacket. The two gave off such a powerful impression it was almost unreal as they stood together. His eyes were fierce but dark as he looked over at their table.

Quil took notice from the look y/n had on her face. Turning around his heart dropped into his stomach. The two men looked at one another with disbelief. “Jacob” he said rising from his chair, this earned a smile from the man, who y/n assumed was Jacob.

“Brother” was all Jacob said as the two collided into a tight hug. Holding each other for a moment. As the two broke away Jacob patted Quil’s shoulders. The fierce look in Jacob’s eyes faded away.

“I thought—“ Quil tried to speak before getting cut off. “We’re back home” Jacob said as he looked directly into his eyes holding Quil’s shoulders to keep him in place. They shared a brief moment together before Quil nodded. His lips tightened into a stern expression.

“Hi” the girl said with a voice so sweet and alluring. Taking away her focus it was all drawn in suddenly on the mysterious girl. “I’m Renesmee” She answered earning a smile from Y/n. “Hey my names y/n” Renesmee’s smile was so welcoming.

It felt like y/n was being drawn towards her more and more with each passing second. She was definitely being enchanted by her and her eyes. They were a shade of colour close to her hair, an almost honey brown, y/n and her eyes were locked. As the girl reached towards y/n to shake her hand Quil came quickly to her side.

Jacob suddenly put a gentle hand on Renesmee’s shoulder. Breaking eye contact it was like y/n snapped out of it, as if she wasn’t breathing before, she sucked the air back into her lungs. Leaning on Quil for support briefly. He looked down at her with concern.

“We were just getting a bite to eat me and her. I’ll stop by once I drop this girl off home” he told Quil as he cocked his head in response. “Back home already? Huh… Alright—” Taking a moment to rub y/n’s arm in support. He nodded as he grabbed his jacket and Grandma Molly’s arm.

“We have to get going” Quil said cutting the meeting short. “I have to get my grandmother home” he said as their grandmother tried to argue she wasn’t tired. Y/n was still trying to get a grip on herself. Feeling Renesmee burning a hole into her neck.

“I’ll be by later. I need to talk with Sam and the others” Jacob said with the serious look in his eye back. Quil nodded and as he turned y/n noticed the look on his face. As if he was slightly panicked trying to keep calm.

Grandma Molly silently placed her hand over Quil’s. Giving a firm but soft squeeze to reassure him. Quil’s posture softened, the three of them watching the two leave, y/n noticed how the energy of Quil and grandma Molly changed.

Y/n didnt want to bother the two and ask what was up. She felt it wasn’t appropriate instead deciding to just say goodnight to the both of them. As the two sped off in the opposite direction of grandma Molly’s house.

As she drove home she tried to calm her unsettled nerves. Reneesme was so enchanting and enticing, it was like she wanted to just submit to her, whatever she asked. It made y/n uncomfortable with how willing she truly was.

Trying to avert her focus she turned the music up and chalked it up to sleep deprivation. Maybe even anxiety but in reality y/n couldn’t put a finger on it. Who ever Reneesme was she was unworldly y/n thought before falling asleep.

As the week progressed y/n settled into her house and tried to figure out a routine. Which ended up just becoming eating, sleeping, unpacking, more unpacking, etc. A bit of shopping in between.

Already tired of her routine she wondered what type of social life there is out here. And when would she be able to find new friends. Her and Kim had been texting with each other frequently. Quil as well but both have been too busy to stop by.

It was still an adjustment living alone in such a big house. Didn’t help that every time she went places, like the grocery store, shopping for the house, she’d get that eerie feeling again. It wasn’t anxiety that was a feeling she was accustomed to.

For her it felt like being watched weirdly enough. Y/n had been shaking it off as moving in jitters. But in the back of her mind the thought of it all sat there. She didn’t feel afraid but more unnerved, feeling the back of her neck hairs raise, as if she needed to be alert.

Sometimes before bed, in her bedroom there was a windowsill to sit on, some nights she’d just gaze out into the tree line. Looking up at the moon in all it’s beauty. It was one of the only ways to soothe her nerves as of late.

All of it made her wish for a roommate some days. Living alone out in an open field was unnerving enough. But when she’d leave that’s when the feeling would arise. She wondered if it was spirits but the house was already cleansed thanks to her grandma Molly.

Randomly Kim arrived that weekend, unannounced but most welcome, y/n was wondering when she would come. “Wow you’ve already made the place your own huh” she said impressed with how she decorated. Definitely a change from the usual way it stayed for years.

“Yeah well I’ll be here for who knows how long” Y/n said as the two sat in the living room. The two talking about what each other missed on in their time apart. Which was mostly just Kim gushing on and on about Jared.

Y/n knew Kim was obsessed with this one crush of hers for years. But since they didn’t go to the same school y/n always wondered who the guy was. It was exciting to know he is as obsessed with her as she is.

“Yeah things have been great with him. Hoping soon we can have our own place together. On that note I hope you don’t mind but he told our friends about you. Since we don’t get much new people here they were excited. They all wanna meet you”

This piqued y/n’s interest, she couldn’t stand being in the house alone, the novelty of it all was starting to wear on her. “Really? I mean who are your friends?” She asked with a curious tint in her eyes which amused Kim.

“I mean~ I’m really close with this girl named Emily. She has a man named Sam who Jared is also close with. We usually just hang at her place since everyone else does”

“And who’s everyone else?” Y/n asked making Kim shrug her shoulders. “Most of them are Jared’s brothers, cousins, and friends he took in. In our friend group there’s hardly any girls. Just me, Emily, and Leah”

Kim went on about who these two girls were. Emily was a friend of hers she got close with in recent years. Around two years older than the two but she was carefree and loved by all. Her fiancé Sam was a strong but calm man, was always busy with work, but loves Emily fiercely.

Apparently a few years back she had been attacked by a bear. Luckily before it claimed her life Sam came with a shot gun and blew its head out. As proof of the kill they gifted the community jars full of bear grease. It was also how Emily was able to fix her face since it was torn to shreds.

Leah was described as stoic and honest, maybe too honest for her own good, a very independent person. But like the rest she was fiercely loyal and protective of those she loves. She was more of a boyish girl and hung with her brothers a lot.

“The rest is just guys like Quil, Embry, and Jacob I don’t know if you remember those guys” Kim said making y/n rack her brain about remembering them. “Yeah somewhat… But either way I’d like to meet them also” She said getting Kim excited and giddy as she squealed.

“Well~ I came over to ask if you wanted to come to this bonfire party. It’s this weekend and I told everyone you would come. Emily especially wants to see you” Y/n couldn’t help but feel flattered and excited. This was what she was wanting, to meet new friends, so why wouldn’t she agree?

“Yeah of course it sounds fun” she said making Kim squeal with excitement. “Okay great! Oh it’s gonna be so fun I’ll get dropped off here and come with you in your car if that’s ok?” She asked and of course y/n agreed.

“It’s just that Jared has some other errands to do I don’t wanna waste my time on that” Kim said making y/n giggle. The two girls continued their visit till dark before she left. Thinking of what they wanted to do this weekend.

Jared came in his blue heavy duty truck with loud pipes announcing his arrival. Like the gentleman he was he came to the door for Kim. Before leaving she promised she’d come spend the night this weekend. It gave y/n something to look forward to.

That night y/n followed her now usual routine. Sitting in her windowsill gazing out to the tree line. Tonight was a full moon that stood high above the trees and mountains. She gazed upon it until she felt tired enough to just sleep when she hit the bed.

As she slept she had a dream, of her alone in the woods behind her house, everything all felt real to her. How the cold air bit at her skin and shocked her lungs when breathing in. Looking down she wore only a white dress with no details.

She didn’t have any shoes on either. Feeling the crunchy dirt under her feet. Looking around she wondered what was happening. She could hardly see within six feet in front of her.

The full moon was bright as it shined down through the trees. Although beautiful it didn’t help much. Aware of her surroundings she couldn’t make out where was home. Trying to find the North Star or at least the Big Dipper for guidance.

The air was silent and very still a sign she knew wasn’t good. Her instincts told her she should be quiet. For she wasn’t alone in this vast wilderness. Feeling her heart beat start to race at a steadily rising pace.

In the distance she could hear echos of thumps, four legs on the ground running at top speed, right in her direction. Her heart started to beat faster and louder. Before she knew it she was on her feet.

She ran as fast as she could, it didn’t help she was barefooted, it messed with her speed. Panicked and alone she wasn’t sure where to go. All she knew was there was something coming for *her.* The pain of pine needles and stones beneath her steps.

Somehow she was sweating as she ran full speed. She could hear the noise of something on all fours running behind her. As she briefly looked behind she twisted her foot and rolled on the ground.

Crawling onto her knees in a hurry she was frantic. The fear of not knowing what would happen if she stopped. But it was like her legs were weak and her body frozen in place.

“I can help you” a familiar voice chimed in front of her making her jump back. She felt frozen as her eyes looked forward. A woman stood in front of her face hidden under the shadows.

Y/n’s eyes trailed up from her feet, by the time she got to her chest, she could see auburn hair flowing in the wind. It gave her brief solace seeing her, the girl from earlier, Renesmee. Thinking she’d meet with the soft enchanting eyes as she did before.

Only to be met with eyes that were so black it competed with the shadows. Her skin like diamonds under the moonlight. True fear ran through y/n’s veins as she was once again locked eyes with this girl. Everything in her body told her this was what she was running from.

A howl suddenly pierced through the valley and trees. It was loud and clear so much it rang throughout her ears. It sounded like the howl was right behind her somehow directly in her ear. It struck fear into the woman in front of her.

The howl made her snap out of the dream entirely. Y/n jumped out of bed and clasped her chest. Sitting in a cold sweat her heart beat pumped steadily. Wondering what her dream meant and why did the howl comfort her so much?

You’ve been roommates with Clark for approximately… seven months. 

It’s been great really. No complaints, especially since he’s never home long enough to be annoying. He does the dishes, he takes the trash and recycling down every Thursday, and he usually makes enough food that there’s leftovers for your lunches the next day. The friendship between you two is easy, but not intimate. Clark, to you, is personable, but not personal.

You do know that he moved in with you after moving out with his ex girlfriend, and that the relationship ended as amicably as possible for “professional reasons.” Clark also works at the Daily Planet and being a writer may or may not be why he needs a roommate in his thirties. He grew up somewhere not Metropolis to your knowledge and he goes back home usually one weekend a month. 

And that’s it. That’s all you know about your roommate of seven months. It’s kind of nice to live with a dependable man, especially when he’s not just kind but also sort of intimidating. Your last roommate was a young woman around your age, and though she was fun, you were always a little worried about the weird neighbor down the hall. He really liked talking to you when you’d take the recycling down, or god forbid, when you’d have to do your laundry in the basement of your building. As soon as Clark found out about that he made a point to start taking the trash down for you and coming with you to do your laundry. The weirdo neighbor backed off pretty quickly when you began walking around with a 6’4 grown man who gave him the stink eye any chance he got. 

Obviously you’d rather be living alone, or with a romantic partner, but neither of those things seem like they’re in your cards at this point. Clark is a good alternative. You get plenty of alone time when you have a day off since Clark is at work until five most days, and on top of that sometimes he goes out with his friends. Alternatively to the time you get to spend alone, you also get to feel just a smidge safer at night. Metropolis is nowhere near as dangerous as Gotham is, at least not at night, but you can never be totally sure. Superman can handle whatever huge creature is toppling buildings over, but you can’t really call Superman if there’s someone trying to break into your apartment. You can call Clark though, or rather, knock on his door. Usually.

Tonight Clark is out. He’s actually out a lot later than usual, which is strange. He said something vague this morning about having to go to a meeting later tonight with his friends after work and he’d “be back aroumd smghmsgh.” His voice muffled at the end of his sentence because he had stuffed a cinnamon swirl eggo in his mouth. Helpful! 

Around ten you finally peel yourself off the couch. It feels strange to get ready for bed without Clark being around. You aren’t dependent on him, but like, it’s routine by now. You brush your teeth, he brushes his teeth, and then you both go to bed. Sometimes he showers, but that’s not your business to think about. At all. Clark is your friend and roommate. Your kind, dependable, tall, handsome, buff, protective, roommate. You walk to the kitchen to get a glass of water, telling yourself you aren’t prolonging the time before you get ready for bed sans-Clark.

The water pools in the sink as you run the tap for a moment before sticking your glass under. It fills a little too quickly. You chug it, pour more water in the glass, then let your eyes flit to the overhead cupboards. A notice is taped to one of them, one which you taped up. 

NOTICE: Fire alarm inspection

Dear valued tenants,

This coming Saturday the MFD (Metropolis Fire Department) will be entering your apartments to test your fire alarms. These tests will happen between 8am-11am. If you are unable to be present this Saturday please let me know by e-mail so we can rearrange a time. 

Thanks.

Ugh. Your landlord is a nice person but is it necessary to start fire alarm testing at 8am on a Saturday? You were kind of hoping Clark would get home early tonight so he could be the one to let the fire department in tomorrow morning, but you guess not. He’s going to end up sleeping in late if he’s not home soon, so you better set your alarm. 

— 

It’s 7:59am. And they’re already here. 

You had woken up to a strong knock on the door of your apartment that had you gasping for breath as you stumbled out of bed, throwing a more presentable shirt on. Thank God the fireman that you opened the door to looked worse for wear than you did. If you had opened the door to a sexy fireman while wearing your somewhat holey Snoopy sleepshirt, which you’ve had since middle school, you might have lit yourself on fire to test the alarm.

Now you’re sitting on the couch backwards, staring at the fireman as he stands on a ladder in the kitchen. You’re kind of wondering if the fire department needs to do this. You’re pretty sure Clark could check the fire alarm without using a ladder, which you’re tempted to tell the fireman, but he seems nice enough. It’s just early, you’re grumpy. 

“I’ve been doing this for almost a decade now,” the fireman says. You hum in an interested tone, watching as he uses a screwdriver to unscrew the panel of the fire alarm. It falls down into his other palm and he checks the batteries.

“Expired,” he says disapprovingly.

Okay fire alarm guy. 

He takes a couple batteries out of his shirt pocket and replaces the old batteries. Then he screws the panel back on. It kind of feels like watching you dad or uncle fix something, which would be sweet if you weren’t sleep deprived and annoyed that somehow this guy made his way to your fourth floor apartment before these tests were even supposed to start. 

The fireman puts his screwdriver back into his toolbelt and then looks back at you from where he’s standing on the ladder. 

“Might be loud,” is the only warning you get.

A shrill beep screeches through the apartment as he presses the “test” button on the alarm. It wakes you up all over again, making you jolt upwards. You’re close to cussing, but then you hear a different loud noise. Two loud thuds echo from behind Clark’s bedroom door.

Oh shit, he was still sleeping.

A couple more thuds sound out before Clark’s door is ripped open. There’s a wild look to him as his chest puffs anxiously.

“Fire?” He asks at the same time the fireman says “alarm works now!” Proud as ever.

No, there’s no fire. But it’s starting to get warm. 

You’ve never seen Clark straight out of bed. Typically he showers at night, after you go to bed, so that you can have the bathroom in the mornings. That means that by the time you see him each morning he’s already dressed for work, curls tamed, and he’s all put together. Right now though, he’s the least put together you’ve ever seen him.

His hair is somewhat screwed up, the curls flat on one side of his head from how he sleeps, and his glasses are a little crooked from how hastily he must have shoved them on. Clark is also shirtless, which is surprising. You kind of took Clark as the kind of man who has old fashioned cotton pajama sets considering he wears a suit to work everyday. You very much wish he was right now.

Clark is obviously a strong guy. He’s got great arms that you’ve been able to admire multiple times over the last seven months, and sometimes you’re able to see how big his chest is when his dress shirts strain just right. But right now, you’re getting a full view of everything, and he’s so, terribly, attractively, big. Clark’s arms are much bigger than you thought they were, but so is everything else. His stomach pushes against the stretchband of his pajama pants just right, making you think of the time that he had shared the fact that “Ma fed me well,” over dinner. Fuck yes she did. Thanks Ma. His stomach looks dense with strength, like he’s been bulking his whole life, and his tits… Lord. Never in your life have you ever thought that a man having tits could be attractive, but Clark Kent doesn’t seem to be able to be unattractive. They look heavy and the skin looks soft and for a split second you think about what it would be like to run your hands up his body and cup them. 

You notice that you’re staring at him, but he doesn’t. Instead, Clark seems to realize that the guy in your apartment isn’t an intruder, but is actually checking the fire alarm. He walks over quickly, and in typical Clark fashion, strikes up a conversation with this guy. He’s distracted fully, giving you more time to kind of drool over the new angle you’re getting of his arms.

Normally you wouldn’t do this. You’ve purposefully been avoiding being attracted or generally objectifying Clark no matter what because when he moved in with you he was sorely broken up over his last relationship ending. Clark was much too sweet for you to think about in that way, no matter how delicious he is to stare at. But it’s been months now, and he seems more okay, and damn it he’s shirtless and it’s 7:30 in the morning and you’re pissed! You deserve a little eye candy, no? 

You let your eyes drop back to his stomach as he stands while talking to the fireman. The profile of his tummy almost hanging over the waistband is making your whole body heat up, but then your eyes drop lower and it gets worse.

He’s not wearing underwear.

There’s literally no possible way that he’s wearing anything beneath the pajama pants. You can see the outline of what you think is morning wood, but you aren’t entirely sure. If he had a boner that big right now he wouldn’t just be casually talking to a stranger in your apartment, right? But then again, there’s no way he’s packing something that much. It wouldn’t be human to be that big soft. He must just be oblivious. Fuck, you’re perving out right now.

It’s pressing against the plaid pattern of his pants in a way that maybe is camouflaged to the poor fireman who now looks like he’s trapped in a conversation with Clark. You watch as the fireman slowly packs up his ladder and moves unsubtly toward the door in an attempt to drop a hint that Clark isn’t picking up. It, yes it, isn’t camouflaged to you though. You watch from the couch as his pants tent around it, the thickness of it pressing against his leg as he moves toward the door with the fireman. Sweat starts to form at your brow as you swallow dryly. 

Maybe his last girlfriend just couldn’t stand the hospital trips after they had sex? That’s the only plausible reason you can see someone dumping Clark. He’s suffering from the success of all those inches. 

The fireman finally shuts down the conversation Clark had started with a gentle “I have to go test other alarms now,” and slips out the door. Clark turns to you now, still clearly oblivious to the third leg he seems to be showing off.

“I totally forgot about that inspection, geez.”

You are braindead. His words don’t even seem like words anymore as you get another full frontal view of his less-than-normally-clothed body and the inside of your skull feels fuzzy. It’s too early for all of these emotions of frustration and then sudden insatiable heat. Maybe you’re getting close to ovulating or something, but Clark is triggering you badly.

“Are you hard?” You ask.

Clark instantly reaches his hands down, covering his crotch.

“What? No, I just– I just threw these on. They must be too small.” He sputters. 

Just threw those on? Your brows scrunch together in confusion. If he just threw those on before coming out of his room and he’s not wearing anything else (other than his glasses…)

“I sleep naked,” Clark admits flusteredly. Your eyes widen just as your mouth hangs slightly open in surprise. This is not something that you thought Clark would ever say, nor admit if it was the case. His ears are turning pink as his hands cover his crotch area still, though you doubt he’s actually covering all the square footage of his downstairs property. 

“I started sleeping naked when I moved away from home. It was like a freedom thing, I think.”

Oookay. Coolio. Packing that tidbit of info into your brain and saving it for later when Clark isn’t home and you have a certain something charged. You nod with your mouth still open, then swallow back the dryness on your tongue before speaking again.

“Why do you…” you start speaking but then he moves toward the couch and your voice trails off. He sits opposite you, looking a little ashamed as he shoves a pillow over his lap. “Why do you still sleep naked?”

He can’t make eye contact with you now, he’s too embarrassed. It almost seems like he never really thought about the fact it might be strange to still sleep naked, and now he has to face the music. 

“Clothes just… restrain stuff,” he admits quietly. 

Stuff.

“Stuff?” You reply. “What stuff?

He shakes his head, says your name quietly like he wishes you’d forget this. “You know what stuff. My stuff.”

This is insane. There’s no way he’s that big all the time. That’s not something you believe. 

“You’re seriously not… that’s not just morning wood or something?” 

Clark shakes his head again and seems even more embarrassed now. His fists push into the throw pillow on his lap nervously. “I’m sorry,” he says weakly. “I know it’s strange. Or scary, I’ve been called scary.”

Aw. You feel kind of bad for him amidst all your curiosity about this newfound limb on your roommate. The best comfort you can offer in this awkwardness is a shrug.

“It’s okay, Clark,” you attempt a normal voice, “it’s just a surprise.” 

He laughs quietly, thank goodness. His smile is always a ray of sunshine but right now it breaks up the insanity of the situation. “Golly, it’s a surprise to you? Imagine growing this thing,” he chuckles. Like it’s normal.

The honesty is somehow scarier than the fact that his dick is really that big. That’s just Clark’s life, he has to have that in his pants all the time, and now you have to know that he has that in his pants all the time too. What the fuck? What is this morning?

Clark finally works up the courage to look at you again, though you can still see the remnants of his flustered expression from moments before. His eyes stroll over your face and he seems to realize your befuddlement. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. You raise your head to nod, but then feel the tug of a question caught in your throat. 

“How big is it?” You ask. The tables turn again and Clark is back to being the one caught off guard. He sputters some breaths and attempts words but you shrug. “I’ve already basically seen it, Clark. I’m just curious.”

The last thing you say seems to ease him some more, as silly as it is. It’s true, you’ve basically seen the outline of the whole thing now, so he has less reason to be shy. Clark, again, nods. Then he picks the pillow up off his lap and places it on the ground beside his feet. This gives you a chance to see the way his stomach pouts out from his body while he sits, and the way his tits sit. They still look so soft, but you can’t make Clark any more uncomfortable than he already is, so you try your best to maintain eye contact.

“Eight and a half inches,” he manages to spit out. God, he sounds ashamed of it. Why is he ashamed? 

You gawk at him. “I don’t even think I could fit half of you in my mouth.”

Why did you say that? Oh my god, why did you say that? 

“That’s… fair. Nobody ever has,” Clark admits shyly. “I don’t think it’s possible.”

It sounds like a challenge. Your eyes drop back to his lap, searching for a moment until you can finally focus on the visible outline against the worn fabric of his pajamas. 

“I could try,” you suggest. Clark’s head tilts down a little as he tries to meet your eyes that are currently feasting on the sight of his lap. He starts to say “what” but you stumble out more words. “Like just to see. Not in a sex way, but in an experimental way. Just to see.”

He seems a little speechless, his mouth forming the shapes of words that don’t come out, seldom for a shocked whisper of your name. Clark swallows the saliva in his mouth and then  leans back against the couch, nodding.

“Not in a sex way,” he repeats as you slide off the couch and maneuver yourself between his legs. “Aw geez.”

Stupid cute man with a stupidly big cock. You aren’t technically breaking the “roommate rule” of don’t-fuck-your-roommate at least. You’re not fucking him, you are both just trying to see how much of Clark’s dick is humanly possible to suck. 

He lifts his hips for you as your hands reach up and slide his pants down his legs, pulling them off with little struggle. It exposes his thighs to you, the hair that feathers out from his pubic area into a softer dusting around the outer area where his dick lays. It’s too heavy to even stand up on its own, it just lays against his thigh. He’s uncut but the foreskin is pulled back slightly, exposing the deep pink of his tip and how it’s starting to drool pre-come. 

“Sorry, it’s um, been a bit. I’m a shower so don’t worry about,” he swallows nervously again, “about it getting any bigger than this.”

It is a little comforting to know you won’t have to deal with any more than you signed up for, but mostly you just want to soothe him. Clark seems so ashamed of how big he is, which isn’t totally unfamiliar. He always seems awkward in social situations, like a mega block in a world of lego bricks, but this is something you can help. You’ll prove to him that he is suckable.

But you’ll prove it in a moment. First you focus on what your mind, what’s left of it, wants to do.

You lean down and nudge your nose against the side of his cock, inhaling a little bit. He smells clean, just like the rest of him, but also a little different, a little more Clark than everywhere else. Your eyes meet his as you let your tongue loll out of your mouth and drag up his shaft, then lap at his tip as his head falls backward.

“Y-you said it wasn’t a sex thing,” he protests weakly. 

“It isn’t,” you protest. It’s not a total lie. “I’m making sure you’re as hard as possible. You have to be fully hard for me to–” “Please just put your mouth on me,” he blurts out. “Please? You wanna figure this out too, right?”

Holy needy. You weren’t really expecting Clark to be this submissive. He’s probably just desperate because, as he said, it’s been a little while, but he’s already begging. 

“Yeah,” you mumble against his tip, “yeah okay.”

He’s so much more than a mouthful. You were expecting it to be a lot, but you can’t breathe at all once his tip is fully in his mouth. Clark isn’t just long, but he’s thick too. It feels like you bit off more than you could chew, literally, and you’re just desperately swallowing around him. It’s especially hard to focus on not choking because he keeps making these little sounds and grasping at the arm of the couch. Clark clearly doesn’t want to push you at all. The hand that isn’t on the arm of the couch is gripping the couch cushion ferociously and his hips keep trying to buck up but he resists it, though just barely.

It isn’t a sex thing, it’s an experiment, you need to focus.

Your eyes slide shut as you decide to lock in, tuning out the noises and movements he’s making. Most of your focus goes into relaxing your jaw to fit more of him in. You know you’ll ache later, but it’s worth it. He’s so heavy in your mouth and in your hands as you hold him. The wetness of your mouth doesn’t seem to be enough and so you keep drooling out more and more saliva, trying to lube your throat so he’ll slide in easier, with less resistance. It doesn’t feel humanly possible, he’s completely right.

You attempt to say his name, but just gargle around his cock. He struggles back a “yeah?” and that’s when your eyes open again.

You’re far enough down on his dick now that when you open your eyes and look up at him, you’re met with a slight underside view of his stomach and tits. Clark looks back down at you with clouded eyes and a sweaty brow, meeting your own accidental doe eyes. It’s hard not to look pathetic and needy when you have a dick in your mouth, it’s just what happens. You maintain eye contact as you work your throat, attempting to open it up more to take him further and he whines while looking into your eyes. 

Clark breathes your name once, then shuts his eyes tight as his chest heaves.

“Are you trying t-to make me come?” He asks. His voice sounds pained, but his cock throbs in your mouth as he asks the question.

Well, are you?

He looks close already, even more wrecked than five minutes ago when this “experiment” began. Obviously you want him to come, you’re sucking his dick for gods sake, but he’s just making sure. He’s just being good and making sure that he’s allowed to come. The two of you are losing any inhibitions about this pretense of an experiment and you’re ready to fully let loose.

You can’t respond to his question without pulling off his cock, and you sure as hell don’t want to lose the progress you’ve made on his length, so instead you give in. Reaching up from the floor with your hand, you trail your fingers up his body and then cup his left tit in your hand. His breath catches as he looks down at what you’re doing, and that’s when you rub your thumb over his nipple. It hardens immediately and he lets out a rough moan as you nod, resuming bobbing your head up and down his cock. 

Yes you’re going to make Clark come. You want to make this big, delicious, kind, man come his brains out, either in your mouth or on you, or both.

Whatever efforts you were making previously tenfold as you start to start to jerk off whatever you can’t fit in your mouth with your free hand, the other one still entirely focused on groping the soft fat of his breast and toying with his nipple. Clark starts to let his hips buck up more as he begins to repeat your name, whining each time you stimulate his nipple just right. Drool leaks out of your mouth and onto your balls as you let the back of your throat get pummelled relentlessly. It feels like your brains are melting in your head each time you feel him throb or taste him leaking a little more pre-come. “I’m gonna come,” Clark warns. He says it again, but makes no move to pull you off him. 

Your eyes meet his with some sense of determination, and you hope the bob of your head and the nod of your head don’t look too similar as you try to reply with a nod of “yes, yes, come.” The message, thankfully, is received. Your hands work relentlessly to stimulate him fully through his orgasm as he spills down your throat. You try to keep up with swallowing but it starts to feel like if you don’t pull off of him you’re going to have come drip out of your nose. Finally you jerk back, watching as his cock doesn’t slow down at all, shooting ropes not just on your face and neck, but dripping onto his own thighs too. He’s so noisy as he comes, on top of all the things in motion he’s moaning your name and thanking you.

“Thank you, thank you,” he whimpers, “m sorry it’s such a mess.”

It is such a mess. You didn’t take into account that him having a big dick might mean him having bigger balls, which you certainly won’t neglect if the two of you ever do this again, but now he’s coming so much. Some of it is already half dried on your sleepshirt by the time he’s finished.

Clark’s head rolls back again, his legs falling even further apart, as he catches his breath. He has half a mind to hand you the pants you peeled off him earlier, apologizing for not being able to clean you up properly. It’s a sweet gesture, and you’ll excuse his lack of aftercare since it seems like he just emptied his entire bloodline down your face and shirt. After somewhat cleaning the come off you, you’re surprised as he lifts you up onto the couch, moving his spent cock out of the way so you can sit on him. 

“Thank you,” he says again, pushing his nose against your shoulder, “sorry I ruined your experiment.”

It seems that despite what just happened, Clark will always be the considerate, sweet, guy that he’s always been during his time as your roommate. His breath is soft against your shoulder as his eyes flutter and look down.

“And sorry for ruining your shirt.” 

A giggle pushes its way through your chest and past your aching jaw. “It’s fine. I’ll just take off my shirt next time we try.”

Clark’s posture goes a little rigid at the mention of a next time. He pulls his nose away from your shoulder and looks at you a little curiously. “Next time?” 

You’re quick to respond, shrugging it off casually to avoid the many questions and considerations you’re sure Clark will chatter away at you once his brain rebuilds itself from his orgasm.

“Yeah, next time. I only fit like… half of you in my throat. I think I can do better than that,” you say defiantly. Clark huffs a laugh of disbelief out. “I just need more practice.”

“More practice. Sure,” he agrees softly.

>///<

thank you for reading ! please leave your thoughts in the replies or tags of your reblog, or leave them anonymously in my askbox !!

purely out of curiosity, you agreed to meet her, over dinner at your favorite restaurant. much to your annoyance, your father’s fiancée was lovely — sweet, thoughtful, allowing you to set the boundaries you wanted to set.

so once you walked out of the restaurant and your father asked you how you felt, you told him that maybe it wouldn’t really be so bad for him to get married. after all, you’ve always wanted him to be happy. what kind of daughter would you be if you denied him that?

even though you’d never admit it out loud, you were afraid. afraid that the love and attention your father had always given you would become less, or perhaps even disappear entirely. it had always been you and him against the world, but now that he had someone else to love, where would that leave you?

you were terrified of ending up alone.

which, in retrospect, is a fear you never needed to have. because several weeks later, your dad’s fiancée showed up to your home with her son — mingyu.

a boy your age, with your and his birthday only two days apart. young, a lean physique, sharp features, tan skin and dark hair. a smart kid, at the top of his class, easy to talk to, remarkably athletic. one to stand out in a crowd.

at the time, you figured it could’ve been worse. mingyu didn’t seem all that bad, so you told your father you wouldn’t protest against the merging of your two families, as long as your space was respected.

besides, your house was big enough to get away from everyone else, if needed.

the wedding took place about two months after, the day still vivid in your mind: the creaking wood of the asbury staircase as mingyu’s mother took the first steps in her perfectly tailored wedding gown, the clinking of champagne glasses, the shining chandeliers and candles in the dark, dimly lit hall.

you remember standing beside your father as he gave his vows to his soon-to-be wife, though you were a little distracted staring into the eyes of kim mingyu, who was looking so dashing in his suit whilst beside his mother.

in hindsight, it’s a little ironic you and him were dressed in matching outfits — back then, you didn’t know how much he would come to mean to you.

because in spite of your opposing personalities, you became inseperable.

perhaps you balance eachother out. mingyu is on the impulsive side; talkative, outgoing, tends to wear his heart on his sleeve. you’re controlled, reserved, quieter than he is. terrifyingly composed, and a little mean sometimes. if you want to be.

those characteristics have always set you apart, to the point it almost made no sense you got along that well. but you meet eachother in the middle, with him matching your ambition, intelligence, and greed like no one else has been able to. he’s become more arrogant since meeting you, too. in turn, you’ve begun to pick up his tics and habits.

in a certain way, you’ve always considered yourselves pieces of a puzzle — both with sharp edges, only softening up when you’re around one another, only allowing yourself to click with him and he with you.

you’d spend time together, go on day trips, watch movies together, wordlessly sit in eachother’s rooms whilst doing your homework. if either of you was gone for the day, the other would always know where they were.

the two of you became a package deal.

your parents couldn’t be happier, seeing how well you got on, and when your father joked about how you could’ve been twins, it became like a brand on your relationship.

the twins. it’s what everyone began to call you over the years — it’s even how you started to introduce yourselves to people who were new in town. people always asked him about you, and in turn, you about him.

both of you thought your affection for the other was like that of siblings. you joked together, bickered like a brother and sister would, felt comfortable with one another. no one around you ever seemed to think it was unnatural.

but there was something brewing underneath the surface. something obsessive and all-consuming. it’s not until you and mingyu get older that it becomes visible.

years later, both adults, you’re all grown up.

you’re walking around in clothes that cling to your body perfectly, regularly choosing tops with a deep cleavage or little shorts and skirts, your hips hypnotizing mingyu every single time you’re around him. and you find he looks criminally good with his broad shoulders, styled hair and toned upper body — those hours he’s been spending at the gym have certainly not been without result.

the attraction towards one another is beginning to stir in your gut, but naturally, you don’t act on it.

not directly, anyway.

𝓐T NINETEEN, mingyu’s girlfriend looks like you. 

she’s got almost all your features. the hair, the eyes, the skin tone — it only strikes you once you and her happen to be in a photo together. but you assume it’s just a coincidence; if the people around you don’t see the resemblance, why should you? maybe your jealousy has you imagining things that aren’t really there.

so you try to shrug it off. it’s not like you can casually bring something like this up in a conversation.

mingyu, for the longest time, has been convinced that the affection he’s always held towards you is normal, and that he actually likes his girlfriend. but what gets him going isn’t the sound of her moans or her bouncing breasts with every motion of her hips as she rides him ­― it’s her nails.

sharp, almond-shaped, painted in that shade of emerald green he caught you wearing just yesterday, and seeing those nails dig into his skin makes him think of you.

what would you sound like if you were on top of him?

the idea of you in his bed pops into his head over and over again. it makes him feel ashamed, which is a rarity on his part — what’s wrong with him? is this a normal thing? he’s not—he can’t like the thought of his sister fucking him.

he sure as hell can’t be getting hard from the mere image of you begging for your sweet brother to fuck you into oblivion.

but he does.

and it keeps happening. he prefers to take his girlfriend with her face pushed down into the mattress so he doesn’t have to look her in the eye; so he can pretend it’s you he’s fucking.

there’s no one he can turn to about it. can’t tell his friends, his family, or even a damn psychologist. everyone would think he’s clinically insane, and if something like that got out…

well, it wouldn’t be good.

normally, he goes to you if he’s struggling with something, but this he obviously can’t talk to you about. shit, you’d probably call him disgusting, and not in the joking, teasing manner you usually do.

he can’t risk losing you.

but, he figures, this might be nothing more than a phase. something that seems like a huge issue right now but will blow over in time.

unfortunately for him, it doesn’t change. matter of fact, three months later, he’d even say it’s gotten worse.

the decision that you and him are both set to attend the same university comes as no surprise to your friends and family. they know how moody you get when you’re apart. you’ll be starting different majors, but still in the same faculty, still tied to eachother.

now that you’ve finished your first semester, you’ve started to see this guy from uni, who conveniently enough also happens to be one of mingyu’s classmates. pure jealousy rushes through his veins every time it crosses his mind.

“you know, i really fuckin’ hate your boyfriend. you can do better.” he blurts out to you at a certain point.

“he’s not my boyfriend.”

“have you told him that?”

“well, he’ll figure it out soon enough.”

mentally, mingyu feels relief. he doesn’t want his sister to end up with some douchebag, though the good guys in his circle haven’t really earned any points either. so far, he hasn’t met anyone worthy of having you — no one would have the sense of understanding you the way he does.

after all, no one knows you like family.

the first nail in his coffin comes on a regular thursday night, when he catches a glimpse of you and the guy who’s supposedly not your boyfriend sneaking into your room after going out, much to his displeasure.

with your rooms next to eachother, mingyu has to pass yours to get to his.

it’s already late anyways, so he heads upstairs to go to bed, simultaneously planning to stand outside your door for a moment to try and listen in on whatever you and that asshole are doing.

what he doesn’t expect is for the door to be ajar, or for you to be naked and writhing underneath the guy he’s gonna have to face in class next week.

his cock twitches as he pushes the door open just a tiny bit further, selfishly spying on you, ‘cause fuck, this may be the horniest he’s been since hitting puberty.

whether you intentionally left your door open or not, he doesn’t know. but one thing he does know is that you don’t mind him watching, or maybe you even like it. because when you turn your head, you directly lock eyes with him, continuing to look at mingyu while holding onto the guy for dear life as he pounds into you.

christ. it’s so audible how wet you are, the obscene noise of your dripping pussy echoing through the room. he’s growing unbearably hard in his pants, aching for some kind of friction, having to force himself not to touch his hard-on.

mingyu is upset. not because he ends up busting in his pants from the sight of his sister getting fucked — he’s upset because your virginity was taken by someone who isn’t him.

a few days later, you bring it up for the first time, right as he’s standing behind you in your room, zipping the back of your dress, as per your request.

“y’know, gyu, i didn’t expect you to be into voyeurism.”

it takes every bit of willpower not to choke on his own spit while giving you a reply. “since when are you an exhibitionist?”

“you say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“never said it was.”

it’s silent for a moment. mingyu stares you down, his face almost indifferent — it’s the erratic breathing that gives him away. his gaze lowers from your face to your chest, and as always, you’re enjoying it.

your brother has a habit of being surprisingly bold sometimes.

“did he give it to you good?”

the question makes you smirk. “after watching the show, do you have to ask?”

“i didn’t stay for the entire... act.”

“why? you didn’t like it?” you ask, tone entirely neutral. “a different position next time, perhaps?”

“you’d do that for me?”

“i’d do anything for you.”

brushing your hair over your shoulder, mingyu is unable to tear his gaze from the way your dress sits on your hips. he’d give anything to touch and analyze every inch of your skin, take his time with it.

the moment is interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket, and you gesture for him to take the call, the exact contrary of what he wanted you to do. he has to force himself to leave your room, and you chuckle to yourself, relishing in the memory of your brother’s lustful eyes as you continue getting ready.

leaving the door open that night wasn’t planned. but when you noticed it hadn’t been properly closed up, knowing he had to pass your door and catch sight of you having sex, you felt a thrill rushing through your body.

and the fact that you’ve now both indirectly acknowledged that you enjoyed it sets something in motion. you each want to push the boundaries of your relationship bit by bit.

whenever he’s got something on his mind, he waltzes into your room like he always has, whether you’re decent or not. maybe he’s even hoping you won’t be.

but both of you enjoy a bit of a challenge.

you accidentally leave your door open when you’re changing, hoping he’ll come in and lay eyes on you. at night, you moan his name when touching yourself.

he’s grown so tall since you first met him — he towers over you now, all buff and strong, much bigger than your frame.

mingyu thinks you’re so obvious. you’re practically drooling over him when he’s standing close to you, your size difference causing you to lose that perfectly controlled attitude you’re always sporting.

and he knows one thing; he likes that feeling.

it gives him a rush like nothing else. it’s the only reason he posts pictures of himself when he’s at the gym, wearing those dark compression shirts that leave no muscles unnoticed.

it’s why he comes into your room, wearing nothing but a towel sitting dangerously low on his hips, asking you for soap since he’s ‘run out’ even though there’s still two entirely full bottles stashed away in one of his bathroom cabinets.

you stare at him. he’s somewhat able to hide his smug expression.

the attraction from your side is undeniable. it confirms what he already hoped: the way he feels about you is mutual.

he’s left wondering if you’ll decide to do something about it.

𝓐T AGE TWENTY, mingyu’s girlfriend starts to become annoying.

she’s all pouty when he has certain things planned with you, and it’s the first time she vocalizes how much she dislikes the amount of time he spends with you.

“it was never gonna be just you and me! it’s always you and her. if you love your sister so much, why don’t you just go screw her instead?” she yells at him in the heat of the moment.

it results in an argument where every insult he throws at her is like the slash of a knife. harsh, meant to leave a wound.

he makes her feel like it’s normal for you to be so important to him, causing his girlfriend to think she’s not even worth that much. he gets so fucking mean when it comes to you — you bring out the worst in him. he wouldn’t have it any other way.

like clockwork, she apologizes and says she overreacted.

for his own gain, he forgives her. god knows how long it’s going to take to find someone else who looks that similar to you but is still stupid enough not to realize she’s merely a placeholder.

truly, he has no idea how someone can be that blind. for whatever reason, she’s never noticed that he only buys her the bottle of perfume identical to the one you’ve got, or new sets of lingerie afwully similar to those sitting in your drawer.

a few weeks afterwards, they go shopping. he urges her to try on the same dress you wore a couple days ago.

she casually refuses because it’s not her style, not thinking too much of it. he breaks up with her two days later. if she can’t do what he needs her to do, he has no use for her anymore. so why keep her around?

you’re the first one he breaks the news to. he’s a creature of habit.

“i’m sorry, gyu.”

he immediately detects the fake sympathy in your tone. “are you?”

a simple shrug of your shoulders follows. it’s not like your dislike for the girl went unnoticed by him. “no, i never liked her. i’m just... trying to be a supportive sister, y’know.”

“yeah, i know.” he sighs. “to be honest, i don’t think i ever really liked her either.”

“good riddance, then.” a chuckle leaves your mouth, at which he smiles.

“hey, let’s go out tonight. i want to get drunk. and dance.”

“wanna go to seungcheol’s club?”

all he gives in response is a raise of his eyebrows, as if to say, “do you have to ask?”

it immediately gets you excited. your brother is finally a free man again, his schedule completely available for you.

not that he’s ever prioritized his girlfriend over you — but you’re happy the bitch is finally out of his life. it’s like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

several hours after your conversation, you’re jumping to the music in the club, and mingyu has always been infatuated with you wherever you go, but your energy tonight is electric.

it might be that sharp cat eyeliner and smokey eye that makes you look even more seductive than you already are, or the little black dress that allows him the perfect view of your breasts. or maybe it’s the vodka dripping down your chin after you’ve taken a shot together.

he doesn’t know what it is — but it drives him insane.

you stay with him all night, giving a deadly glare to a few guys who try to dance with you, and when they catch the tall, muscled man beside you giving them the exact same look, they just assume he’s your boyfriend and leave you alone.

it takes hours before you decide you’ve had enough and head home. with a good amount of alcohol well into your system, you stumble through the backdoor by the kitchen, trying to get up the stairs.

luckily, the villa you live in is big enough for your parents’ room to be so far away that they can’t hear mingyu falling over one of the steps with a loud thud.

you laugh at him like you’re drunk for the first time, letting yourself sink to your knees next to him to get him standing upright again.

“oh my god, you’re fucking heavy. get your ass up.”

he groans like a child. “no, don’t make me.”

“too bad. come on.”

“why’re you always so bossy?”

“because i’m older than you.”

“by, like, four days.”

“still makes me older.”

“barely. ugh. you’re so mean to me.”

“please. you love it when i’m mean to you.”

sheepish laughter escapes him. “yeah. at least you’re fun. my ex just followed me around all the time. so fucking boring.”

“you need someone who challenges you. someone with bite. otherwise, you’re gonna be bored out of your mind.” you comment, sighing in defeat when you can’t get him to stand up, breathing heavily as you simply leave him be in his spot.

mingyu licks his lips. “i guess i need someone like you.”

you’re quiet at first, looking at him with narrowed eyes. of course you know what he’s doing — he’s testing out the waters, trying to see how far you’ll allow this mutual attraction to go.

tilting your head, you decide to indulge him a little. “yeah, you do. but i think you’re gonna have a hard time finding someone like me.”

“i know. but you ‘n me — we’d be perfect for eachother.” he breathes out, eyes widening at the realization that he essentially just confessed to you. “i—i mean, just… hypothetically.”

“hypothetically.” you whisper back.

either the alcohol has gone to his head or the wet dream he’s been having for the past years is finally coming true — mingyu swears you’re leaning in, and just when your lips are about to touch, the sound of a door opening somewhere causes both of you to stiffen up in your places.

the mere possibility of getting caught in this shameful manner gets you to sober up. mingyu is wise enough to stand up and drag you with him to the safety of the hallway.

leaning against the front of his bedroom door, he huffs. “jesus, that was close.”

“yeah.” you’re looking up at him, silently trying to convey you haven’t forgotten what he tried to do. “make sure you drink plenty of water, ‘kay? i’m gonna go to bed.”

he momentarily closes his eyes when you kiss him on the cheek, your lips lingering on his skin a little longer than they should.

always lingering.

his brows knit together, and he almost seems sad that you’re not planning on going into his room with him. was he imagining the way you gazed at him before?

christ, what is he even thinking? you’re his sister. it’d be so fucked up if you wanted to kiss him. he shouldn’t want to know what you taste like.

but he does.

out of fear of losing you, in the days after, he doesn’t bring up the moment you shared on the stairs. lets it fade like a distant memory.

or he tries, at least.

mingyu doesn’t know what to do anymore. no matter what he does, his thoughts keep drifting back to you. everything reminds him of you — he comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t need a girl like you, he needs you.

very selfishly, he wants to make you see that you, in turn, need him. he’d be the perfect match for you, it’s only a matter of time before you realize it.

one night, while watching a movie, you fall asleep next to him on the couch.

and his perverted thoughts cause him to clench his fists. he can’t help it — you just look so gorgeous, snoring peacefully with your head on his shoulder.

god, he’d only have to move his arm the slightest bit and he could worm his fingers underneath the fabric of your panties.

what if he just slid his cock between your lips? what if he let you wake up to him slowly fucking your mouth? he wonders if it’d turn you on.

carrying you upstairs, he lays you down in your bed, forcing himself to look away from your chest when he sees you’re not wearing a bra.

what bubbles in his chest must be the kind of desire they speak about in the books. it’s something dark that claws at his ribcage, something that makes him want to do things he shouldn’t.

with heavy breaths, he leaves you by yourself in your room, rubbing an orgasm out of himself the moment he gets back to his own.

it suddenly gives him an idea.

he’s gonna have you make the first move — and he won’t stop pushing you until you will.

the following night, he heads into a bar, going up to the first girl whose physique is the most similar to yours. he takes her back home for a one-night-stand, secretly recording it without her knowledge. a shitty thing to do, but for a good reason, in his opinion.

he’s seated in his chair, pants and boxers down to his ankles, black tank top still on. his hands are on her hips, roughly pushing her down on his cock. grunts escape his mouth through gritted teeth.

in a way, he’s being so rough with the girl because he’s angry.

you’re not my sister. you’re not her. i only want her.

the words keep replaying in his mind like a mantra. he does everything to make himself think of you instead — he looks at the bouncing tits in front of him and pretends they’re yours, gags the girl by stuffing her mouth with her own panties, solely to drown out her annoyingly high-pitched moans.

the video turns out nicely. he’s able to crop the girl’s face out of it, leaving only the rest of her body in frame. so when he sits next to you on the couch later, he gets up to go to the bathroom, accidentally leaving his phone unlocked, showing the overview of his camera roll.

from the corner of your eye, you catch the thumbnail of the exact video he wanted you to see. with wide eyes, your cheeks flush crimson when you realize it’s a sex tape, and maybe you should feel a certain level of shame after you’ve sent it to your phone, but you don’t.

he hears your soft moans through your bedroom wall that night, grinning like a cat at the realization his plan is working just as he hoped.

just to annoy you, he takes home another girl in that same week.

once the foreplay is over, he’s about to reach for a condom, only to realize the box is empty. fuck, he forgot to buy new ones.

but then he thinks of you, and he comes up with a plan that makes him wonder how you’ll react to it.

he pulls his shorts on, telling the girl in his bed he’ll be right back, and he walks out of his room to knock on your door. you huff at the disturbance, mostly just annoyed he’s got a girl in his bed that’s not you.

leaning against the doorpost, he tilts his head. “i need a condom. i’m all out.”

“what if i don’t have any?”

“then i’ll have to send her home.”

“really? wow. not even gonna fuck her raw?”

that teasing of yours is getting to him — he wants to see you all hot and bothered for him, this time.

so he takes a step closer. “no, i’m not. i didn’t even fuck my exes raw.”

“saving it for someone?”

he nods. “yeah. so what’s it gonna be? you got any or should i send her home?”

his eyes quickly locate the small, carton box visibly sitting underneath your bed. there’s at least three condoms still untouched, neatly sitting in their plastic packaging, and you follow his gaze, looking at the box too before meeting his eyes again.

“seems like i’m all out. sorry.”

the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips comes slowly and subtly, and once you see it, you feel heat rushing to your cheeks.

“good to know.” he murmurs, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek for a second. “goodnight, sis.”

frankly, he almost forgot the girl was still waiting in his room while speaking to you. he gladly sends her home, and she scoffs before leaving the house.

the only thing that sucks is that he’s gonna have to take care of his hard-on by himself now.

just when he’s about to head into the bathroom to take a cold shower, the door to his room opens, and he’s surprised to find it’s you. you don’t bother to ask if you can come in, immediately closing the door behind you.

“we tell eachother everything, right?”

the question sounds so innocent that he nearly grows worried there might be something else going on. “yeah, we do.”

“i don’t like it when you bring girls over.” you confess, attitude oozing with confidence. it’s always been like that between you — he’s confident as well, but there’s no one he wants to please more than you. and you’ve always known about that. taken advantage of it, even.

he takes a couple steps closer to you. “yeah, i know. but i want something i can’t have, and that means i have to distract myself. you understand that, right?”

“and what is it you want?”

mingyu is sick of hiding this from you. he needs to tell you about his true feelings — consequences be damned.

even though it’s glaringly obvious, he still feels nervous when he cups your jaw, his other hand sitting on your waist like it belongs there. “i want you. i’ve always wanted you.”

“how do you want me?”

“in every way you could possibly imagine.” he finally gets to admit it out loud, and it hits like a drug. “i’ve never loved anyone like i love you.”

your heart is racing. he puts his finger under your chin, lifting it so you’re looking him in the eye. you manage to breathe out, “i knew.”

“just had to see me work for it, huh?”

“i needed—i needed to see how far you’d take it. if you’d ever act on it.”

“and? did i do well? did i take it far enough?”

always so eager to impress you. it makes you dig your nails into his side.

removing your cropped top and shorts, you’re left in a black balconette bra and matching panties. mingyu’s mouth waters at the sight. “i think you should take it one step further.”

his breath hitches in his throat when he pulls you closer to him by the waistband of your underwear. like a starved man, he’s unable to take his eyes off your cleavage, yet gently running his thumb over your half-covered breast.

“i’ve wanted to hear you say it for so long. i still do. ‘cause we tell eachother everything, don’t we?” he questions, feeling himself tremble with need, wanting to get this out of you before going any further.

biting your lip, you finally give him what he wants to hear. “i’ve only ever wanted you, no one else.”

mingyu kisses you in a way you didn’t anticipate.

sweetly. innocently, almost.

it’s only once you kiss him back that it slowly transforms into something else. something more desperate and messy and needy.

he pours everything that’s been sitting on his mind for years into that kiss — undying love, selfish greed and desire. he doesn’t have to tell you for you to feel it.

then you break the kiss, reaching behind your back to undo the clasp of your bra. you let him tug at the straps, and he takes the fabric off your skin slowly, all to savor every bit of newly exposed skin.

he touches your breasts as if you’re some delicate doll. then he sinks to his knees, his eyes still locked with yours as he pulls at your underwear just as slowly, letting the black lace fall to the floor.

but patience has never been that much of a strong suit for him. once he lays eyes on your bare pussy, his tongue latches onto your clit, and he finally hears you gasp for him the way he’d always hoped you would.

with his hand on the back of your thigh, he’s pushing you against his face so much that you almost worry he can’t breathe.

while you’re still in charge, you feel like he’s so aggressive in pleasing you because it’s something he’s been wanting for so long, so you give into him, letting him take whatever he wants from you.

he moans into your cunt, humming against you, causing you to buck your hips. “fuck—oh, that’s so good.”

the praise works on him like drugs. his lips and chin are coated in your wetness, and he just wants more, obsessed with the taste of you. with one free hand, he palms his cock through the fabric of his shorts.

god, it feels like your arousal is just dripping down your core. you’re clenching around nothing, wishing he’d fill you up. just imagining the stretch of him nearly has you whining his name.

“fuck me. just fuck me, please.” you beg, almost forcibly having to pull his mouth off you.

mingyu looks up at you with big, brown eyes, nodding at your wish like a hypnotized man.

his body almost shakes from sheer excitement when you lie down on your back, all naked and wet and beautiful in his bed. all for him to use, to please, to love. he’s never wanted anyone more.

much to your surprise, he puts your legs up over his shoulders, bringing your knees up to your collarbones. the position is a new experience for you, and you breathe shakily when he pushes himself in, eyes rolling back at the feeling of him sheathed fully inside you.

“fuck—you’re so wet.” he hisses out when you’re subconsciously clenching around him, your pussy swallowing him up.

he drives his cock in and out of you. you’re so tight, so wet — it’s finally you he’s got in his bed. how many times has he already imagined having you underneath him like this?

the way you fuck is something akin to animalistic. it’s not just something you’ve both been aching to have for years, it’s something you’ve never had with anyone despite both of you having fucked others before.

it’s like you’re trying to crawl into eachother’s skin, like you want to bury yourselves in one another entirely. to become one in every possible way.

grabbing the top of the headboard, your moans are getting louder as he’s able to thrust harder into you. it’s the sudden jealousy flaring up that makes him do so. “y’know, every time i see my fucking classmate, i think of him fucking you that one time. did you let him take you raw?”

“no, i wouldn’t let him.” you breathe out, his cock hitting a certain spot that has you digging your nails into his back.

“no? only me?”

“only you.”

he’s panting, absolutely losing his mind over your heat sucking him in. he’d want nothing more than to yell at everyone that this is what you do when none of them are watching. you’re his. completely his.

and he just can’t help himself. “want your brother’s cum? gonna keep it all in your pussy?”

“yes! yeah, i promise gyu, i’ll keep it all inside—”

god, you get him fucking feral.

sweat is dripping down his neck as he continues to pound into you, whispering the confession about his obsessive feelings in your ear, “fuck, i just wanna be everything to you. i need to be everything to you.”

the words make you clench around him. “you are. you’re everything to me, gyu. i swear—”

just hearing you say it makes him feel insane — and something near animal inside him breaks.

the pace he sets is ruthless, knocking the air out of your lungs. “my best girl. my sister.”

you’re sinners of the highest order, both of you. indulging in something so utterly wrong that it should make you feel ashamed.

but there’s not an ounce of it to be detected. you’re only pulling him closer, he only fucks you harder.

and to make things worse, once you hear your parents walking past the door, he wants you to moan louder. solely to let the whole damn house know there’s no one who can make you feel as good as he can. no one treats you better than your brother.

you come around his cock with a pornographic moan, legs trembling over his shoulders, clenching on him so hard that it forces the orgasm out of him as well.

“am i really everything to you?” he asks breathily, the aftershocks of your pussy making his body twitch.

letting your legs down again, you nod at him. “you’re everything to me.”

hearing you say those words has mingyu feeling euphoric, like he’s succeeded in every way possible. to have someone love you the way you love eachother is like a burning, violent mark sitting beneath his ribs.

a mark only you can touch and connect with. a mark he’d never even show to anyone else.

only you.

𝓐T TWENTY-ONE, you and mingyu move out of the house, into an apartment together.

no one questions it — after all, you share mostly the same friends, go to the same university, and the apartment is spacious, each of you having your own bedroom. to anyone else, it seems like a perfectly normal situation.

then again, no one knows mingyu fucks you in every possible spot in the apartment. no one catches him lying through his teeth when he claims to be all hot and sweaty from working out when in reality, it’s because he was on top of you minutes before. no one recognizes the red panties scattered in his room, which are clearly from your closet.

any dates you each go on are solely for appearances. every girl sitting across from him in a restaurant makes him wish he could go home to you already. not a single guy taking you out is able to measure up to your brother.

at a certain point, you invite some study friends from class over. the group of girls catches a glimpse of mingyu saying bye to you before leaving for the gym.

the moment the door’s been shut, one of them asks if he’s single.

nothing about your calm and collected attitude shows your desire to shove your nails into her eyes. you respond with a chuckle, saying that you think he’s seeing someone. she doesn’t need to know he fucked you on the couch she’s currently sitting on.

several days later, she’s permanently expelled from university. it was kind of your father to work on such short notice, but he’d do anything for his daughter — all it took was you telling him how much she cheated on her exams.

not that she actually ever did.

you pretend to care when she calls, crying because she was kicked out of a place she was happy in. it’s a selfish world — why should you give a damn about her?

in november, you and mingyu are invited to joshua’s vacation house in switzerland, alongside a few of your other friends.

the cozy but spacious cabin offers everything needed on a winter vacation. it’s snowing outside, there’s a sauna and swimming pool on the ground floor, and the cabinets are filled with plenty of food and booze.

it’s seungcheol and mingyu who eventually choose to get away from the loud music, taking a bottle of tequila with them before going to the pool.

about half an hour later, you open the door to the pool, greeting the two. “why is it so fucking hot in this whole house?”

“why don’t you get in?”

“i would, but everyone’s drunk upstairs, and i think it’s gonna take approximately ten minutes before someone breaks an expensive vase or something.”

seungcheol, feeling ever so responsible as the eldest of the friend group, lets out a sigh before swimming to the edge. “i’ll go and check on them, maybe put soonyoung to bed. once he’s knocked out, we can all sleep comfortably. you can go in the pool, if you want.”

“well, i’m not gonna say no to that. let us know if you need any help, okay?”

“yeah, i will.” he says, climbing out of the pool, using his towel to dry off as much as he can before heading to the living room, which leaves only you and mingyu behind.

seeing your brother like this causes desire to stir in your gut. he looks so good — one arm leaning on the edge of the pool, his chest bare, hair wet.

it’s been days since you got here, and constantly being surrounded by others means you can’t touch him in the way you’d want to.

and he’s been teasing you relentlessly. being handsy underneath the table while you were all having dinner, grabbing your ass when everyone else was distracted, hands grazing your thigh as he walked past you.

he knows exactly how to rile you up. luckily, you know your brother just as well.

so you remove your turtleneck and jeans, watching the smirk on his face fall once he sees you in your lingerie. it’s not like you were wearing a bikini underneath your clothes, after all.

mingyu has to force himself not to gasp. “is that—is that a new set?”

“yeah. you like it?”

of course he does. one of his biggest weaknesses is seeing you in lacy lingerie, and this is the first time you decided to go for a new color — white. a stark contrast to the darker colors you usually go for.

he feels breath hitch in his throat when you get into the water right next to him, his pupils widening. “yes.”

tracing his biceps with your sharp nails, you press your front against him, and you feel him already half-hard in his shorts.

“you really do, huh?” you tease. as always, he’s utterly weak for you. if he’s got the power between you, it’s only because you let him have it — and it’s clear as day that you’re currently taking it back. “you wish you could have me right now, don’t you?”

despite the question being rhetorical, he’s always eager to show you his love. as if he constantly wants to prove no one could possibly love you as much as he does. “you know i do.”

mingyu hisses when your hand reaches down to fondle his clothed cock. “and you know what you’ve been doing to me the past few days.”

your faces are close — so close that it quickens his heartbeat. “do you have any idea how hard it is to hold back from touching you?”

“why don’t you tell me?”

putting your hands on his upper chest, you look up at him with sweet eyes, and he’s gonna start stumbling over his words if you don’t stop seducing him like this. “i can’t wait ‘til we get back home. just wanna be able to touch you properly again.”

“so you’re not gonna touch me right now?”

“i’d fuck you right here if i could—”

“how about tonight?”

getting you close to him by your waist, he pulls you into a searing kiss. it’s been too long since he’s been able to do that. “you know we can’t.”

“why not?”

“because the others will hear us.”

“not if we’re quiet.”

“as much as i admire your confidence, you’re never quiet.”

that, and the risk of someone catching him going into your room late at night is big. too big. but you won’t get out of this pool before you’ve persuaded him.

“then put your hand over my mouth. fuck me with my face into the pillow. i don’t care.” you tell him, pressing your lips to his jaw. “please.”

please. when it comes out of your mouth, he just can’t find it in him not to oblige you.

“you need it that bad?” the question comes out breathlessly, trying to focus on anything other than your tits pushed up against his chest.

“why don’t you come to my room in fifteen minutes and find out?”

watching you back away from him, you get out of the water, and the sight of your nearly naked body all wet makes him embarrassingly hard.

mingyu bites his fist in anticipation and excitement, the passing of minutes suddenly feeling like years.

what he should probably be more concerned about is the fact that for the first time ever, someone caught you kissing — someone who happens to be very close to him.

chan feels his head spin when he reaches the kitchen. he’s not sure whether it’s all from those beers or the sight of kim mingyu kissing his sister the same way he’d previously kissed all of his girlfriends.

he can barely comprehend what he just saw. it was a full-blown kiss, not even a mere peck — but he’s too drunk to even talk about it. hell, he’s too drunk to even be awake.

it’s why he lets himself fall onto the soft, beige couch in the living room, and he’s already drifting into a deep sleep when mingyu quietly slips into your room, the same way he used to do when you still lived with your parents.

the next morning, chan wakes up with cold sweat, the images of last night flashing through his head like a painful memory. what the fuck happened?

god, he needs to drink some water. and get some damn painkillers in his system.

getting up from the couch he fell asleep on, he drags himself into the kitchen, almost scared shitless when he finds seungcheol preparing breakfast.

“morning. hey, have you seen the twins yet? they’re usually awake by now.” cheol mentions, and if chan thought he wasn’t experiencing a fever dream yet, it certainly feels like he is now.

“i have no idea. none. zero. i didn’t even see them last night. at all.”

the elder of the two raises one of his thick brows. “jesus, you look like shit. if you’re gonna throw up, do it in the toilet, please.”

nodding frantically, he genuinely feels like he’s about to hurl, and he just wants to get out of here. “right. i’ll go and do that.”

half an hour later, he feels much better, the aspirin he’s taken easing his pounding headache — but what he saw last night remains heavy on his conscience, as if he were the one who did it.

at breakfast, chan watches you and your brother’s every interaction like a hawk.

the way you rest your hands on his shoulders like a wife would to a husband, how his fingers are always rubbing at your skin, the constant being around one another — it’s like a piece of the puzzle he didn’t know was missing has suddenly clicked for him.

how on earth has he never seen it before? you act like lovers yet everyone around you simply shrugs it off as if it’s normal.

he needs to talk to someone about this. but then again, if he chooses to discuss it with someone that isn’t either of the twins, and it comes out as untrue, he’ll be declared insane, probably.

so on the last day of the trip, he somehow musters up the courage to mention it to mingyu, but not without feeling his heartbeat all the way in his throat.

“can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

“look, i’m not trying to insinuate anything, but…” he starts out hesitantly, “were you with your sister last night?”

mingyu slightly tenses up, but recovers from the initial shock quickly enough for chan not to notice. “i was with a lot of people last night. what do you mean?”

“it’s—i don’t know how to say it.”

his words come out harsher than intended. “just spit it out.”

“i thought i saw you kissing her.”

there’s a palpable tension in the air, and chan seems much more torn up about the matter than the person in question.

chan doesn’t know what reaction he anticipated from his friend. would he be disgusted? angry? appalled? horrified?

but mingyu unexpectedly laughs instead. “what, on the cheek? we always do that.”

“on the lips.”

it’s like the air is suddenly sucked out of the room. the accusation is enough to drain his eyes of all playfulness that was previously there, and chan suddenly feels reminded of how much bigger and taller his friend is — or how intimidating he can look when he’s angry.

“the fuck did you just say to me?”

“i’m—i wouldn’t say something like this if i wasn’t completely sure of it.”

“if i wanted to kiss my sister—” mingyu inhales sharply, physically unable to completely refute the accusation, “—i would never do it publicly. obviously. do you realize how nuts you sound?”

“but i saw you, in the pool!”

“dude, you were black-out drunk! you could barely form a coherent sentence, let alone see things properly,” he retorts.

unfortunately, it is true. chan doesn’t remember the last time he had that amount of alcohol in his system.

he quietly stares at the floor for a moment, not knowing what else to say.

“didn’t you say something about those really vivid dreams you’ve been having lately?” mingyu asks innocently, manipulatively putting a caring hand on his friend’s shoulder.

chan’s recently begun to have difficulty waking up from his dreams in the morning, and he’s able to recall every detail once he’s awake. it frustrates him to no end, as he’s explained a while ago, and mingyu mentioning it to him causes chan to worry — what if he did dream the whole thing?

in retrospect, he’s so ashamed of himself. what if you really are just two affectionate siblings? what if he’s mistakenly accused you of having some weird, fucked up incestuous relationship?

shit. he must’ve seen things that weren’t there.

he buries his face in his hands. “oh my god, what’s wrong with me? i’m sorry.”

mingyu smiles to himself now that he’s distracted. “it’s okay. you thought it was real.”

“i shouldn’t have accused you of something like that. i’m really sorry. ugh, please forget i said anything.”

“i’m not one to forgive and forget. but i’ll let it go, alright?”

despite the mention he’ll keep it in mind, chan is content enough with the acceptance of his apology. “thanks.”

“good. well, i’m gonna go and pack my things. i’ll see you downstairs.” mingyu tells him, standing up from his spot.

though he suddenly halts his movement.

“chan?” he asks, hand on the doorpost as he looks back.

the boy in question looks up. “yeah?”

mingyu’s face is set sharp and stern, his voice still sounding surprisingly warm despite the cold words when he gives the warning, “never say something like that about me and my sister again.”

a brief silence.

chan swallows the sudden nervousness that’s blocking his airway. “right. of course.”

as if the entire conversation didn’t take place, the sweet, golden smile chan is so familiar with returns to his friend’s face. mingyu walks out of the room, heading downstairs, not at all worried that the façade you and him have been putting up for years is slowly beginning to crack.

someone will eventually discover the truth.

it’s only a matter of time.

𝓐T TWENTY-THREE, your parents inform you of your worst nightmare coming true.

they want both of you to start thinking about the idea of marriage — to people who are heirs of other prominent businesses, of course. the classic unspoken rule. it means the dating pool is limited to people from the upper class of society, and you’ll need to have your parents’ permission before even thinking about securing an inheritance.

marriage isn’t something done out of love in your circle. not often, anyway. your parents being genuinely in love with one another was simply a happy coincidence — an exception to the unfortunate rule.

you and mingyu are at your happiest when you’re together, but unless you run away from your current lives and start a new life elsewhere, a marriage between you is simply not done. not even if your parents divorced.

the idea of another man becoming your husband makes you sick.

“i don’t wanna get married, gyu. not to someone else.” you tell him, your head on his bare stomach as you’re lying in bed together. “i don’t want this to end. us.”

he caresses your cheek. “you think i’m gonna give you up to some guy?”

“well, last time i checked, unless we wanna get disowned and publicly shamed, you’re gonna have to.”

rolling his eyes at your dry tone, he slowly runs his fingers down your neck, comforted by touching your skin. “we just gotta make sure we get married for business only. we’ve managed to keep our relationship hidden for the past couple years, so why shouldn’t we be able to while married to other people?”

he has a point. it’s pretty much the only option you’ve got if you want to have the best of both worlds.

“we could get away after a couple years. once we get hands on our inheritances, we could… we could go abroad and get new identities. buy some secluded house, somewhere close to a small town. get married.” he proposes.

the words have you tracing your cherry red nails across his chest. leaving everyone and everything behind is scary, but you’re both willing to do it for one another. “i like that idea.”

pressing kisses to your collarbone, you let him touch you, sighing in pleasure.

it’s a few months after the conversation when your parents introduce you to wonwoo.

a little older than you, good-looking, well-mannered. he’s a surprisingly soft man underneath that stone-cold facial expression he always wears.

and wonwoo, at your first meeting, might just as well have fucking hearts in his eyes. he looks at you and thinks it’s love at first sight. your charm has him wrapped around your finger.

he thinks you’re perfect.

like the two-faced snake only mingyu knows you to be, you pull out every trick in the book to appease wonwoo. he bears the name of a family that’s loaded — they have almost as much in the bank as your own parents, and that is precisely what makes him a good marriage candidate.

it’s probably for the best that your brother is out of town when wonwoo proposes to you. he’s never been quite as good at hiding disdain as you are.

though even you have a hard time forcing a happy nod when you accept the ring mingyu would never have picked out for you — he’d have chosen a design more to your liking.

a while after your now fiancé has put a rock on your finger, you’re talking to him at a formal event, suddenly finding a much more pleasant face in the small crowd of chattering people coming up to you.

“wonwoo, this is my brother, mingyu.” you introduce them to one another. sure, your brother could’ve met him sooner than this if he wanted to, but he wanted to hold it off as long as possible.

your fiancé has no idea what the hell kind of family he’s stepping into when he extends his hand to mingyu. “you’re the man i’ve heard so many stories about.”

“only good ones, i hope. nice to meet you.”

there’s something dark flashing behind mingyu’s eyes when he sees wonwoo’s arm looped around your waist — he’s the only one who should be able to do that.

“mind if i borrow my sister for a bit?” he asks, the question being entirely rhetorical; he’s the last person who would ever need to ask permission to spend time with you.

your fiancé catches the dark glare he receives from your brother. the expression was only on his face for a split second, but it was something so sharp and harsh that it surprises him.

he knows for a fact he hasn’t done anything wrong. it lingers in his head, the memory playing over and over, and throughout every single day that follows, he begins to find the situation more alarming.

wonwoo, as perceptive as he is, thinks there’s something really off whenever seeing you and mingyu together.

the guy is so possessive over you. whenever wonwoo isn’t around, mingyu’s always got his hands on you.

wonwoo swears that hand of his goes a little lower on your back every damn time he sees it.

it gets him a little fed up. you’re his fiancée, yet you’re spending more time with that guy than with him. his first mistake is seeing you as this beautiful angel of a woman which you really aren’t — but love has a habit of blinding a person.

“she’s pretty close to him, isn’t she?” he asks joshua, one of your best friends, when you’re all at a charity event together.

the elder of the two follows the direction of his pointed finger, noticing he’s talking about you. you’re standing across the room, talking to a small group of friends with mingyu beside you. “the twins? yeah, they’ve always been like that. most close-knit pair of siblings i’ve ever seen.”

“have they always been so...”

“what?”

“i don’t know. intense?”

truthfully, he understands wonwoo — you and mingyu are already intimidating enough individually, bordering on unapproachable when side by side. who wouldn’t be intimidated? you’re both attractive, highly intelligent, always well-dressed, usually sharing that same stern look on your faces.

joshua nods. “pretty much. they’d do anything for eachother. not everyone can love like that.”

“like what?”

“ike brother and sister.”

it doesn’t sit right with wonwoo at all. it’s like he’s the third wheel, the dirty intruder, when it’s mingyu who should be feeling like that. how on earth is he supposed to make your marriage work if he doesn’t even feel included in the first place?

he’s not sure. but like the lovesick fool he is, he still goes through with the wedding. his second mistake.

you’re considerably colder towards him once the vows have been spoken and you’ve been declared husband and wife. you don’t want to spend any time with him, you live in separate places, even having his hands on you during public events makes your skin crawl.

of course he felt that, perhaps, you didn’t like him as much as he liked you.

he just didn’t think you never liked him at all.

he does his best to get you to do things with him that are not mandatory public appearances. wants to take you out to dinner, maybe go on a date, anything — anything.

but every single coversation you have somehow reverts back to business. as if you’re colleagues or associates instead of husband and wife.

wonwoo is just so desperate to make this relationship work. so maybe, he figures, he should approach the issue in a different way.

at a saturday night dinner with your family, he finds your brother outside, having a smoke break.

they’re not alike in the slightest. wonwoo is more uptight, stoic, with a good heart and a sweet voice. mingyu is messier — the half-long strands of hair that blow in the wind, quicker to react emotionally to things, more of an open book. a heart that’s everything but made of gold. he’s a selfish man and revels in it.

“so, how’s married life treating you?” mingyu asks him, only out of good manners. it’s not like he doesn’t already know exactly what is and isn’t happening between you.

“it’s... good. your sister is lovely.”

your brother decides to act like he’s genuinely interested in wonwoo’s side of the situation. “sounds like something is bothering you.”

“well, i mean — i’m sure you know your sister is a tough nut to crack.” wonwoo chuckles, despite not finding it the slightest bit funny.

mingyu doesn’t seem to like his choice of words — hell, he just doesn’t seem to like wonwoo speaking of you at all, as if you’re some saint, some holy being people are only allowed to talk positively about.

“my sister is a cold woman, sometimes. to certain people.”

“not to you?”

“less. i’ve grown to appreciate it. but she’s also warm. loving. special.”

wonwoo sighs. he wishes he could somehow get access to that side of you. it seems almost unimaginable from his point of view. “it’s like i can’t reach her, and i don’t understand why.”

the younger of the two just can’t stop the snide comment from slipping out. “how unfortunate.”

mingyu masterfully avoids wonwoo’s glaring eyes as he lights his cigarette, using his hands to cover the flame from the evening breeze.

“funny.” wonwoo mutters under his breath, and mingyu looks at him with intrigue, pushing his tongue against his cheek before speaking up.

“what is?”

“nothing.”

“you can speak freely, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“correct me if i’m wrong, but… it doesn’t really feel like you want me to get closer to her.”

mingyu does something wonwoo didn’t expect.

he says nothing. doesn’t correct him. it’s a silent way of confirming he indeed doesn’t want wonwoo closer to you.

the confrontation that’s been waiting to happen gets closer with every subtle insult, every insinuation of the dark truth.

mingyu finds himself defensive over you. “i think my sister should’ve married someone else. someone who sees her for what she truly is — you’re just a guy who will never understand her beyond who she appears to be on the surface.”

“and let me guess, you are the person who gets her?”

“you already know the answer to that.”

wonwoo is so far into the conversation, all the good manners and niceties are out of the window anyways; he might as well say whatever’s on his mind.

“there is something i cannot place about your relationship with her, and frankly, i find it unsettling.” he confesses. “everyone acts like it’s normal — how you’re always looming by her side, watching her, touching her.”

“is there a question in there somewhere?”

“you want her all to yourself, don’t you?”

“it’s not a matter of wanting, wonwoo.” mingyu tells him coolly, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray. “we’re twins. two halves, incomplete without the other. we get restless when we’re apart.”

the knowledge that you and him aren’t even actual twins sits somewhere in the back of mingyu’s mind — a fact he suppresses more each day, all so he can fall deeper into the rabbit hole, so he can feed his twisted fantasy of the girl he loves being tied to him in every way possible.

“why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?” he questions, excitement making his fingers twitch.

wonwoo’s heart skips a beat before finally asking what he’s dying to hear an answer to.

“do you want to fuck your sister?”

mingyu looks wonwoo dead in the eye while answering, the remainders of his cigarette sizzling in the tray beside him, “that’d be despicable.”

yet his face doesn’t quite match his words. there’s a hint of amusement and arrogance that really should not be there — it’s as if he’s daring his brother-in-law to do his worst.

mere seconds later, you step out of the house, approaching them to let them know dessert is about to be served.

your brother enjoys a bit of chaos. it’s the sole reason why he compiments your dress, shamelessly staring at your cleavage, right in front of your husband.

wonwoo seethes with jealousy. clearly talking to mingyu was a wrong move, but he thinks to himself it should still be possible to try and get something out of you.

when you’re getting ready in front of your mirror — only doing so at his apartment because you need to be seen leaving for a party together — he walks up to stand behind you, helping you zip up your dress.

you can’t breathe when his fingers linger on your skin. it’s like being suffocated. he could have his hands locked around your throat and it would feel the same.

“take your hands off me.”

he does as you ask of him.

“can i ask you something?” he clenches his fists out of nervousness. “what is our marriage to you?”

the question catches you off-guard, but you give him an honest answer. “an agreement. symbiosis.”

“except it feels like neither of us are benefitting from this union.”

“c’mon, wonwoo. you’re not stupid, so don’t pretend to be.”

your aloofness gets on his nerves. “what would you say i gained from this? because i have no clue.”

“a fruitful business relationship. status. more money. a wife from the right family. you should be overjoyed with this union, and frankly, i’m a little offended you’re not.” you scoff.

god, he thinks he’s genuinely about to jump out of his skin. “i thought i was getting married to someone who wanted me back.”

“you didn’t. and don’t you put that on me — have you ever even asked me if i liked you back? not that i can remember. it’s not my fault you chose not to see it.”

“okay, fine. that’s my fault. but don’t you—” he cuts himself off, trying to find the right words first, “—don’t you want to try and make this work? maybe we could… learn to love eachother.”

the word love is like a needle being forcefully pushed into your skin.

love is something sacred. who the hell does your husband think he is, expecting you to just give that to him? he wouldn’t recognize true love if you gave it to him on a silver platter.

“i don’t want your love, wonwoo. and do not think for a second you will ever have mine.”

he swallows his retort before leaving the room, and you allow yourself to lean against the wall, a sigh escaping you. how much longer will you have to keep dealing with him?

unfortunately, there’s no backing out of your planned attendance of the event tonight.

you put in your earrings and look at yourself in the mirror, and as you’ve done countless times before, changing your attitude is as easy as flipping a switch.

mingyu will be there, which is all that matters.

wonwoo looks utterly miserable in the car, so you reprimand him. “you’re a grown man. pull yourself together. i don’t feel like doing damage control with the press.”

neither does he.

it’s a fucked up feeling — to love someone you want to hate.

the very moment you get out of the car together, he puts on a surprisingly good façade, playing the part of the happy husband exceedingly well.

once inside, you lock eyes with mingyu, who thankfully enough doesn’t have a fiancée yet. not that no women want him, unfortunately. they’re trying to chat him up every damn time he steps out of his house.

wonwoo feels your hold on his arm loosen, following your gaze, and he tries to get you to stay with him. “we gotta get our pictures taken.”

“we can do that in an half an hour, too.”

“you can’t keep ditching me for your brother.”

“you can’t tell me what to do. maybe if you hadn’t been so unbearably annoying, i wouldn’t keep leaving you all the time.” you hiss back at him, abandoning your husband without a care in the world.

returning to mingyu’s safe arms finally allows your nervous system to relax. while you do return to wonwoo to take the promised pictures and meet some people, it’s mingyu you eventually leave the party with.

and wonwoo decides he’s had enough.

he’s got a gut feeling about mingyu and needs to know if he’s right. it’s why he follows you two going from the party to your apartment, watching you head inside from behind the tinted windows of his car.

it takes a few minutes of him sitting in silence to get out of the backseat.

where the confidence to follow you inside comes from, wonwoo has no clue, but it’s rushing through his system like drugs.

taking the key he took from underneath the mat, he quietly steps into the apartment.

there’s some noise coming from your bedroom. so he cautiously passes the living room, making sure he’s as quiet as a ghost while trespassing.

peeking past the doorpost, he finds you in bed, completely naked, with mingyu’s body on top of you, his hips roughly snapping against yours.

wonwoo finds the sight repulsive.

as it turns out, even the perfect twins have their defects. he just never anticipated it to be something this sick and twisted.

and yet, it makes perfect sense. it explains everything.

forcing himself to look away from your naked bodies, he runs a hand through his hair, leaving the apartment as quietly as he entered.

he waits for the next day, when you show up at his house, to confront you with it.

“i want you to stop seeing mingyu.” a valid thing to ask of you, he finds. he is your husband, after all.

by now, he knows to expect the deep frown on your forehead. “excuse me?”

“i know you’re fucking him.”

staring at him with a blank face, you say nothing at first. so wonwoo knows the truth. you might as well show your true colors, then. “took you long enough to find out.”

“either you stop seeing him, or i’ll get a divorce.”

“and what power do you think you have? our agreement isn’t that simple, wonwoo. you and me got married for business, not for love.”

“except i do love you. you just don’t love me.”

“well, get over yourself. i love one man, and it’s not you.” you tell him, words cutting through him, tearing him apart. “if you try to get out of this agreement, my brother will see to it that your reputation and your company are ruined. so keep your mouth shut and find love elsewhere. get a mistress, go nuts.”

it’s not the outcome he was hoping for. to say the least.

he no longer knows anything — what to do, how to handle this, where to put his love.

wonwoo really fucking hates that he’s still feeling the need to make you see reason. that your relationship with your brother is abnormal, unhealthy, a sickness.

“it’s not healthy. what you two have is obsession, not love.” he tries to tell you. another mistake. he just keeps making those when it comes to you.

“they’re two things that go hand in hand.” you shrug, clearly mocking him. “you’d know, wouldn’t you? your love for me got you to break into my apartment even though you knew i’d never want you to do that. because you were obsessive in finding out the truth about me and my brother.”

he clenches his jaw. “that is not the same thing.”

“maybe. we’re both trapped in this marriage. if it puts you at ease, it won’t be for the rest of your life. just a couple years. but for however long we’re married, i’m gonna make the best of it — i’d advise you to do the same.” you state, putting your bag over your shoulder. “goodnight, wonwoo.”

leaving him in his living room, you walk out the door, and he lets you go.

all he can do is pour himself another drink and mourn the love he will never have.

thank u for reading, let me know if you enjoyed it <3

However, there was still a façade placed upon his shoulders by the idea of Superman. There’s still an expectation that Clark has to meet—he has to meet that, or people will die. So, there’s pressure. A lot of pressure that Clark places right on top of his own shoulders. One that he won’t let fall. That he can’t let fall. 

He is strong. He is powerful. He embodies the essence of hope in a city like Metropolis. He still, in the mind of others, is an idol—a hero that should be remembered as one of the greats who saved thousands of lives. And he does. 

However, sometimes, he wished that people would take Clark just as seriously. Sometimes, he wanted Clark to be Superman instead of the other way around. No one knew—not a single soul. Well, his parents. His lovely, Kansas upbringing is part of why he cares so much in the first place.  

Even though Clark knew that Superman is him and Superman is Clark, sometimes he still feels like there’s a bit of a difference. It was still there—even a hint. So when you were saved by Superman and rejected his flirty advances, he was absolutely stunned. 

Today was supposed to be a blissful summer evening. The night sky shone brightly with stars, and the gentle, light breeze could make anyone smile at how nice it was. It seemed almost perfect.

Almost.

You were walking home. The heels that once hugged your feet, the ones you wore to the office, were long gone, placed securely in your bag. Instead, what hugged your feet was a cushy pair of sneakers. You had just said goodbye to Lois, mummering to her that she shouldn’t stay too late. However, you both know that she will, in fact, stay way too late. The elevator down felt too long—you were almost too antsy to get out of that building and into the fresh air. 

You turned the corner by the Daily Planet, doing your usual walk back home. You had your earbuds in, blissfully unaware of the situation unfolding on the block opposite yours. While you weren’t usually so unaware, especially at night, there was just something about this day that washed away all your worries. You were happily singing along to one of your favorite songs in the dead of summer. While you usually watched kids play in the fire hydrants, there wasn’t a soul in sight. 

Well, it was because of the alien attack. While Superman was fighting off someone trying to attack the city, you were having a little dance party in your head. That beautiful summer breeze and fantastic night had come to a halt, though. 

You let out a gasp, a reflexive reaction that enabled you to move three spaces back. The brick wall to your left had burst—easily—with Superman and his opponent entangled in a battle. You stood, absolutely stunned, trying to shake off the shock. They rolled on the ground, both out of breath, before getting back up again in another fight. Superman’s fist connected with his opponent in a fast strike, blue blood spattering on the concrete. 

The opponent laughed, muttering a small, “Is that all you got, Superman?” Before immediately making a jab into the superhero’s ribs. Superman let out a grunt—the force of the hit had sprung him back a few feet, but nonetheless, it didn’t knock the wind out of him that much. 

Then, you saw it—the shift. 

The alien had locked eyes with you. The devilish smirk had risen onto his features. You couldn’t even gulp—you just knew. 

Before you can even react to the sight in front of you, the alien is suddenly flying towards you. You let out a scream, Superman’s eyes going wide at the realization. The antagonist grabs you, holding you hostage against your arms. 

You open your mouth, but nothing escapes it—your body held siege by the stranger. The pressure of his hold was going to leave bruises. The strong grip had hurt, your body aching for release. There was something familiar about the blue eyes that bore right into yours, though. “Move and I kill, Superman.”

Clark doesn’t move a muscle.

He didn’t realize it was you until he saw the flow of the summer dress that you were wearing at work this morning from the corner of his eye. The fear in your own eyes made his Kryptonian heart palpitate, something taking hold in his heart. The raw dread that’s locked between his chest almost hurts. 

“Let her go.” 

He demanded—no, yelled. Panic was evident across his features. Not you.

Anyone but you. 

His hands started to tremble, and the mere thought of you being in danger had made his head spin. “Please.” 

The opponent laughed and lifted a hand. Before he could even do anything, Superman reacted. It was pure instinct—the one to protect you. If he can’t even protect those he loves, how is he going to protect those he doesn't? 

His fist knocks into the villain almost immediately—almost at the speed of light. He wasn’t even thinking, just fueling into action. His fist instantly connects with his cheek, and the super strength that occurred had made the villain fall back almost thirty feet, crashing through buildings in the wake.

Clark usually holds back—he’s generally able to hold back. But not this time. This time he couldn’t—not with the quick image in his head of your dead body splayed across the concrete. It almost brought tears to his eyes.

You could tell that Superman was ready to attack again, the way his stance seemed secure to the ground, but not before taking a quick glance at you. You were knocked to your feet, your body falling onto the concrete. You seem unscathed—so far. Just as Superman was about to fly toward the alien, his hearing catching the slight move of rubble, Green Lantern appeared.

He started attacking the alien, making gestures and putting on a little too much of an act—all while Hawkgirl and Mr. Terrific were helping out. 

Clark felt himself relax a bit. He could focus on you—just for a little bit. 

“Are you okay, miss?”

You looked up—body still on the concrete. He offered you a hand, and you took it graciously. His hand was large and warm, one that you would expect from a superhero. He lifted you up almost effortlessly. 

“Thanks—uh, for that.” You swiped some dirt off of your dress. He couldn’t help but smile at your awkward appreciation. It was just so you. He could feel the butterflies rush through his chest, a stark contrast from the horror he felt earlier. 

“No problem. A-Anytime.” He coughed out. He felt awkward, not knowing how to handle the fact that he couldn’t envelop you in a hug right now. He was still checking for any injuries, to the point where he thought he should use his X-ray vision. Just in case. 

You didn’t say anything after, your heart still pounding from the adrenaline. You seemed to be still in shock, but there was also a part of you that was grateful. Had Superman not been there, had he not reacted like that—you knew you wouldn’t be here. Instead, Clark let his mouth run before his brain could catch it.

“You-you come here often?”

He wanted to kick himself, if he was being honest. That line, out of all of them? God, Clark, he thought, why don’t you hump her leg while you’re at it? He inwardly cringed—he did not plan for that to leave his mouth. 

“No thanks.” You said, so nonchalantly, like it was so casual.

His eyes widened. It shocked him. 

Everyone liked Superman, but you seemed unfazed. Grateful, sure, but still unfazed. It was honestly…refreshing for him. He knows he’s handsome—as Superman. He knows, but you always seem to surprise him. 

“I actually like someone you know.”

That intrigued him—made him tilt his head to the side. You almost squinted because that’s precisely what Clark does when he’s confused. 

“Oh? Who?” He was sweating, though. Because, what do you mean you like someone? 

“Clark.” He just blinked. Then blinked once more. Huh?

He thought for sure his heart had stopped. You mistook the blinking as unfamiliarity. “You know, the guy who interviews you? Does the six-five nerd who’s impossibly handsome ring a bell?”

You liked him. Clark. The purest version of his own self. The one where he doesn’t have to fake being brave and fearless all the time. No persona—no superhero powers, or god-like features. Just him. 

“So, I’m good. No need, Superman. I’m not interested.”

He just stared. You liked him—and he could hardly believe it. The guy whose favorite color is crayon red, the one who likes to garden—even has one on his patio. The guy who reads shitty mystery novels before bed and always has his tie on crooked.  

Superman is him. Superman is Clark, but no one seems to be fazed by Clark or give him the time of day. Sure, he enjoys that, the simple pleasures of life. But sometimes he just wants to be recognized as himself, not the superhero. 

You liked him.

His smile was bright. It was so bright that it even made your own breath hitch. He wore that smile proudly—like it could power the whole city with its glow. 

That’s what caught you off guard—that smile. 

You had gotten to work early. Maybe a little too early. 

You just didn’t want a repeat of last night, where staying too late in the evening meant you’d run into that big hunk of muscles again. It wasn’t that you disliked the man or anything, but now you’re worried. You were worried that Superman would tell Clark that you had turned down his advances and that you’re head over heels for the journalist instead. 

It was stupid—and probably irrational—but here you were. It made your heart beat a little too loudly. The pit of your stomach sank just a bit too much when the elevator dinged to the top floor. 

You just needed to rip the band-aid. You just needed to tell Clark you liked him before the red and blue man did. 

If only it were ever that simple, though. 

You only looked up for the 130th time when the elevators dinged, but this time it made your heart skip a beat. Clark rushes in—obviously late again—and clumsily avoids people in the bullpen. All the meanwhile, you are trying to be “busy” by just typing random words into your computer. 

You were definitely not watching Clark from the corner of your eye. 

Clark didn’t even go to his desk. Your eyes start to widen when you realize that he’s walking over to you. He ends up tripping—somehow—and while he catches himself this time, one hand on your desk—he is still as disheveled as ever. 

“Please? Can I talk to you? I really need to talk to you, uh, not here.” He rushes out the sentence so fast that you’re barely able to comprehend what he says. 

“What?”

He grabs your arm, which lifts you up from your chair in the process. “Clark—” He’s dragging you a bit, lightly and not harshly, but your body follows his. 

“I just, you know, really need to talk to you. Like now—like in private—Like—” And now you’re in a closet. You’re in a cramped, super tiny closet with Clark’s frame towering over you. His chest was heaving—his eyes sparkling with something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

You were so close to touching. One move and his body would be flesh against yours. “Clark, I-”

You were interrupted by his lips on yours—the sound muffling against his lips. Your eyes widened, your head going backwards, but the closet prevented you from going anywhere. Once Clark realized what he had done, he made a noise. A cute noise. 

Clark immediately tears his lips off of yours, “Oh gosh, Oh no, I should’ve asked—I mean—I should’ve said—”

Now, he was interrupted. Your lips crashed on top of his—trying to catch up by being on your tippy toes. It works, though. Now, he’s stunned. 

It takes him a moment, just a small moment. But then he’s wrapping his big hands around your waist—warmth radiating off of him. The way his lips feel, on yours, feels as though they’ve always been there. The way his saliva is mixing with yours and the heat of his mouth is heavy on your skin.

It’s intoxicating. You never want to stop. He never wants to stop. He dips his head further, like he’s trying to get closer and closer to you, as if that’s even possible. Something snaps inside of you—the way he feels, the way he looks—it’s all too much. 

He’s the one to pull away first. He thought that maybe you needed some air. He could go for much longer, but he has non-human lungs. “Sweetheart?”

It was timid—like he was almost afraid to speak. You were looking at him so softly, so kindly, that it struck something inside of his chest. “Did Superman tell you?”

He laughed—the chuckling sound bouncing off the closet walls, and it made you feel so warm. “Yeah, he told me. I-I just couldn’t wait.” 

He knows he should probably tell you the truth. Soon, he will tell you the truth. For now, though, he’s content with your arms and his interlinked. “Good. I’m glad he did.”

Luthor would pay you handsomely for the trouble. You who kept most of his secrets, you who he sends enough flowers to fill up your apartment, you who he has special meetings with while his girlfriend was off on a shopping spree. 

He almost feels tenderly towards you. You were a perfect candidate. 

…

You bounce on his lap, sinking onto his prick as he leaned back on his office chair. Peering at you as if you were on your knees and praying to him. 

You grunt quietly, he watches as you get yourself off, as he does nothing to help. 

Your fingers glide diligently over your cunt, the squelching sounds making you whimper as your clit throbs between your fingers. 

He’s not good at sex, he likes having it, likes getting himself off. But he is not inept at pleasuring others. 

You’re fine with it. No one has ever made you finish anyway. You only needed his dick. Like a dildo. 

You grind your hips against his pelvis, his cock pushes in deep as you pulse around him, your head falling forward to rest against his shoulder in a stifled final moan. 

He grips your hips as he pulses inside of you, you groan at the action. He always pulls out. You give him a look as you stand, he pulls your panties up against your cunt and pats your ass. 

“Keep it in.” 

You snort, he raises a brow, wondering where the joke was in his tone. Thank goodness for birth control. You’d rather die than have his demonic children. Even more spoiled brats and the world's riches would be divided within the Luthor family entirely. 

“Remember what the goal is today…” he says as he points a teasing finger at you. 

You nod as you straighten your pencil skirt and button up your shirt. Your hands drag against the wood of his desk to swipe your glasses teasingly. 

“I’m ready.” 

…

Being jostled around the air was irritating to say the least. The clone repeatedly evaded Superman’s moves, causing you to be caught midair several times. One second Ultraman, the other Superman. 

It was like tug of war, except instead of rope, your body was being pulled every which way. 

Another frightening possibility you didn’t think of before was that hands slip, butterfingers, people fumble. 

Superman drops you. You imagine Lex having a laugh. 

Superman apologizes as he recatches you, hands tight on your waist as he turns swiftly to take a hit to his back. You could see the way he grits his teeth and shut his eyes from the pain, the way his hands tightened over your body as he cocooned you. 

You get it, you realize. Despite the obvious threats around him, his focus was on protecting you, the civilian. It made your chest warm. You almost coo from how selfless he was. 

He flees from Ultraman, disguised as a villain of the week, in an attempt to put you down in a safe location. 

“You ok?” 

You grip onto his shoulders fearfully, feeling the taught muscle underneath. You get those who swoon. He was even bigger in person. 

You nod slowly, eyes wide, a hand pressing your glasses to your face to keep them from flying off. 

“Yea-“ 

It was like a train had hit him, the impact of the clone ramming into his side so strong it caused him to lose his grip on you. Again.

Jealousy you briefly wonder, you’re sure Lex didn’t tell him to do that. You’ve never seen that move before. 

You each go in opposite directions. You could hear Superman scream out a sharp no as you’re free falling in the air. 

The genuine concern won him points by you again. 

You think about Lex. About the way he practically begged you to accept the role as victim for his latest scheme. 

You’d slap him the next time you see him. 

Your attempts to scream are tampered by the rush of air, you couldn’t breathe in or out, the rush of adrenaline making it hard to focus on the action as you see the pavement inch closer. 

And suddenly you’re in someone’s arms again, held tightly against their chest. You take a harsh breath in, the rush of oxygen making your lungs burn.

Your eyes stayed unfocused from your lack of lenses. You look behind you to find metal armor facing right back at you. You sigh. 

You’re shaking as you’re deposited to the floor of the lab, located near a small town west of the city of Metropolis. 

Ultraman dropped you unceremoniously, making your knees buckle and causing you to fall. 

You glare up at him, narrowing your eyes as he refuses to look your way. Unlike him. He was most definitely jealous. 

Several lab techs surround you and Ultraman briefly to assess damages. They find none, they leave quickly, leaving you to reorient yourself in your lonesome. 

You stand, wiping your hands down your skirt as you grumble about the lack of adequate patient care they offered you.

You try the door closest to you, it was locked. For a moment you stare at it dumbfoundedly. This was supposed to be where Luthor was entrapping Superman. There was a bed in the middle of the room, a toilet to the side. This was a prison. 

Surely someone was coming to get you, or one of the doors will lock once Superman arrives. 

You try the other door, locked. You knock. Your polite knock turns into a slam of your palm. You shout that you couldn’t get out. That you needed to get out. That you were starting to freak out. 

You could hear metal bend. Superman was here. You shook the door knob desperately. 

“Lex!” 

The pounding was getting louder, you could hear his grunts as he attempted to make his way to you. To “save” you. 

What would he do once he found out you planned to imprison him for testing, then undoubtedly kill him afterwards. 

The sound of the panels behind you, curling in his hands like cardboard, made you think he wouldn’t be too happy. 

You turn your back against the door, chest rising and falling with each breath as he breaks himself into his own doom. He takes a breath of relief at finding you unharmed. His eyes scan over your form as he jogs forward, hand gently holding your glasses out to you. 

You take them shakily, placing them on to see his soft smile clearly. He puts his hand on your shoulder, your expression terrified. 

“You’re going to be ok.” 

Alarm bells ring, the room turns red and walls appear, layers and layers of metal sliding atop each other, just to stall him for the next part. 

You swallow thickly and shake your head in denial. There must have been a mistake, you weren’t supposed to be in here, no one other than him was. You were fucked. You step away from him, he looks around the room in confusion. 

The size of the room is cut in half by the strongest metal Luthor could find. Superman could easily punch his way out, but the amount of punches would be too much for him to get out in time. 

A greenish fog fills up the room. He reacts quickly, tugging you from the wall and covering his mouth with his hand, as if urging you to copy the action. 

“Hold your breath, I’ll get us out of here.” 

You stare at his back, hands at your sides, as he turns to pull his hand back and hit the wall. What a beautiful idiot. 

He didn’t realize that with each layer he destroyed more and more gas was being pumped into the room. It made you feel lightheaded. 

You stay put in the middle of the room, legs turning weak and arms barely holding you up against the bed. Superman calls for you to follow him, almost desperately as he feels himself weakening. 

He holds his breath, he could hold it for several minutes. But he was barely leaving a dent now. 

“Don’t breathe it in!” he shouts. It didn’t matter. The smog could be absorbed through the skin anyway. 

You fall to your knees. He stops and rushes to you. He could see that he wasn’t as close to breaking out as he liked. 

He could only think of one thing. Kryptonite. It was making him feel almost anemic. He starts to shake. But he didn’t feel any pain. He felt a strange rush go through his body.

“Don’t-“ you wheeze out as he kneels over you, hand coming up to touch your shoulder. 

The more you inhale the more you feel the effects of the gas. Your stomach clenches, your clothes feel suffocating, your skin sensitive. 

Lex said it was going to debilitate him. Make him bend to his knees and writhe. 

He grips your bicep, to stabilize you. 

Your sharp moan made the hero freeze. It was sensual, pornographic. Not of pain or agony. His breath stutters at the sound, he feels himself start to sweat, his face heating up impossibly in embarrassment and something else. 

What the hell did Lex put in this damn cell? 

Your stomach cramps. You could hear the room speaker turn on with a sharp crack. Superman stands, looking around the room, attempting to find it. 

“Hello, Superman.” 

“Luthor,” he says as a response, sounding tired, almost bored of the other man’s voice already. 

“Why don’t you or your people ever show themselves?” he asks after a moment, looking up towards the corner, knowing that a camera was pointed right at him. 

“I’m closer than you think.” 

Superman’s brows furrow. He turns to you and shrugs his shoulders with an incredulous look, obviously mocking Luthor’s ominous tone and words. You look away in shame, his face falls as you cower away from him. 

“Oh! I didn’t introduce you to my secretary. Say hi to my secretary. Isn’t she cute? Great actor too.” 

Superman’s eyes connect with yours and you pant as you drag yourself to the far wall. His eyes sharpen and his brows furrow, so deep creases formed in his perfect friendly face. The hint of a smile, gone. He was clearly upset by the setup. 

“What did you do?” he asked, voice raised. He stares directly at you, eyes roaming over your body. 

You’re not sure who he speaks to. Lex or you. By Lex’s snort, he assumes it was to him. 

“Do you feel it?” Lex’s voice reverberated around the small enclosure, you bite your lip to hold in a whimper. 

Your breath comes out in short pants. You feel your thighs slicken, each shift highlighting the fact that there was now a building dampness underneath you.

“It’ll take a while to set in for you.” 

You rock your hips, Superman watches you curiously. You fight the urge to press your hand between your legs. You turn in your embarrassment, your nipples were so hard they stung and pointed out against the fabric of your shirt. 

You press your face against the cool wall, it gives you brief relief. Another cramp in your lower belly hits you, you shake and groan. 

“It’s already set in for her. You’ll see soon enough.” 

He could smell your arousal, he exhaled shakily as he felt a warmth travel through his spine at your twitches and small noises. His eyes start to roam over your body, the way your back arches lightly, your ass curving out against the fabric of your skirt, now showing a growing spot of wetness. 

He licks his lips before refocusing. 

“What did you do?” he shouts with force. 

“Don’t worry, it’s harmless.” 

Superman looks at you, your back to him, he steps forward before stopping. His stomach tightens, his mouth salivates, and he feels his briefs tighten against his growing heavy bulge. 

His eyes were intense, pupils fighting between expanding and constricting. He holds a hand up, as if to calm you, maybe even calm himself. 

“You’ll be fine-“ he attempts shakily. His knees wobble. 

“Oh. She will die,” Lex’s voice cuts sharply, humorously. 

You moan out into the air, your skin prickles and itches. You refuse to look away from the corner, you didn’t want to give Lex the satisfaction of your tears, your panic. 

“You require the dosage of an elephant. I had to make sure it worked.” 

Your lower stomach tightens so much the rest of your body locks into place. You feel a rush like no other and yelp as the feeling makes your cunt’s walls constrict around nothing. Your body trembles in sweet erotic pulses, you pant openly as the rush fades into a low simmer. 

Did you just have a mini orgasm? 

“She needs an antidote, luckily for you Superman, you have plenty of it.” 

The comm clicks as it turns off. You groan as you flop against the metal floor, facing the ceiling, body spread out like a starfish. You could feel his heated gaze, he looked furious, huffing out like a bull ready to charge.

Lex had been testing weird shit on the clone. He’d figured this chemical out a couple of months ago. It affected hormones, made the body crave another. 

It wasn’t as bad as this. It wasn’t as intense. 

Sure, Ultraman had humped your leg when you were trimming his hair but you’re sure he never felt as if he were dying. 

Then again, Kryptonians, clone or not, wouldn’t be affected as fast as humans. You had a feeling this time would be different, you could see Superman pace back and forth, running a shaky hand through his locks almost pulling on it as his chest stutters with each gulp of air. 

“Bodily fluids,” you gasp.

A kiss made it better, Lex made you kiss the clone, on the cheek, to test it out. Lex had a boner as he watched the interaction. The freak.

He kissed the clone himself afterwards, right on the lips, to see which method worked best, according to him. Tongue on tongue worked the best for pacifying the chemical. 

You were used to seeing Superman’s face. You just weren’t used to him being able to speak back to you. He turns sharply towards you, he growls. 

“Don’t test me.” 

You roll your eyes, your body was shaking, your heart beating so fast you were starting to feel lightheaded. He could see your heart, so fast he fears you’re going to pass out at any moment now. 

Worse, you might get into cardiac arrest. He sighs in frustration. 

He kneels beside you, sitting you up against the wall roughly, pressing your shoulders into the metal despite your discomfort. 

The touch makes you shiver, you hold back a moan. He cages you in with his arms, hands planted on either side of you. 

“What can we do?” 

You lick your lips, and he follows your tongue with his eyes. His stomach flexes and he grunts. 

“It helps, saliva, sweat” you swallow thickly. He was so warm, your lips part lightly. You’ve never wanted anyone inside of you so badly before. 

Your hands weakly lift to grip his bicep, big bulging biceps that were so hard as you squeezed. You bite your lip and suppress a giddy giggle, your hand roaming over his chest. 

He shakes you from your daze. You drop your hand to the floor and swallow thickly. Focus. You take a moment, body flushing even further from humiliation. 

“Ejaculate, arousal fluid, I promise,” you stutter, you adjust your glasses. 

He narrows his eyes, you gush at his stare, a fresh wave of arousal almost squirting out of your cunt at his proximity. 

He closes his eyes tightly, his arms flex as he resists the urge to manhandle you. He didn’t know if it was from anger or something else. Maybe it was the half-lidded gaze you gave him, eyes wandering all over his body and lingering on his very prominent bulge. 

“So… what do I need to do?” 

You shrug. It was obvious. Your eyes blank as you lean back against the wall. 

“Just let me die, dude,” you mumble. He scoffs. Your head rolls to the side and your neck is exposed. He zeros in on the soft skin of your throat, his jaw tightens as he’s hit with your scent of fresh arousal. The musk was enveloping him, his hand cups your face. 

He kisses you, face scrunched as if he hated the idea of being near you. You gasp, his tongue swipes through the roof of your mouth before swirling over yours. 

You moan, fighting to keep your hands on the floor, curled into tight fists as he pulls your head closer. 

“You smell good,” he mumbles offhandedly, voice low and tense, as if he could be doing anything other than this. His actions said otherwise, his tongue splays over your skin, lips pecking down your jaw. His hand grips your hips and pulls you forward. 

“Thanks,” you groan out. 

His head pulled away from you, his pupils were dilated. He was breathing heavier. His body twitches, neck straining. He was starting to feel the effects intensify. 

“You feel better?” he asks softly, eyes roaming over your face, stalling over your lips. 

In fact, you were starting to feel worse. You nod, despite the way your face twisted in pain, the cramps intensity almost debilitating. 

“Liar.” 

He kisses you again, the make out evolving as he pulls you to his lap. He guides your hands to touch him, sliding your fingers up his chest, over his neck. He guides your fingers to the buttons of his suit, right at the nape of his neck. 

Your skirt rides up and he starts to unbutton your blouse. His mind started to cloud, almost as if he didn’t realize that you were being watched, as if you weren’t both trapped. 

Lex sits in the surveillance room alone, having dismissed everyone else once the gas had been pumped into the cage. 

He has cameras for every angle of the cell, he zooms in between your bodies. 

He unbuttons his trousers, palming himself as he focuses in on your ruined panties grinding against the pronounced outline of Superman’s cock and balls. 

Superman presses you against his chest, you tug your arms out of your dress shirt, hands going to his face as your tongue caresses his, wanting to be impossibly closer. 

Luthor chortles as he hears your underwear rip, flinging to the other side of the room. Your bare cunt was spread open by thick digits. His fingers press into you, making your head fall back in delight. 

Superman’s thumb rolls over your clit, you gush around him, so sensitive that a mere touch makes you fall off the edge of pleasure. 

Lex jerks his cock in his hand, thumb running over the head as he spreads his spewing pre over his shaft. His cum was inside of you, Superman was playing with his cum already in your cunt. 

What a sight. 

…

You pant out heavily, he licks up your juices from his fingers and watches as your heart slows, only to start up again. His hand roams all over your body, pressing into your soft skin, groaning as you ground down on him. 

“I’m sorry I have to…” he trails off. Eyes connecting to your breasts. He rips your bra quickly, hands coming up to squeeze the soft mounds. 

His mouth hangs open, he feels himself drool at the sight of your bare body. He was delirious. 

“I have to save you,” he mumbles, as if he were drunk. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, pulling you closer, his nose trailing down the middle of chest, nuzzling softly between your breasts as he breathes in deeply. 

“Jes- jeez-“ he stutters. His tongue flicks out to taste your sweat, your breasts smelled like heaven, a certain musk that guided him to suck the soft flesh in his mouth. 

His nose sinks into the softness, as his lips suck around your nipple. The other hand cups your breast and squeezes, his fingers holding your nipple in place as he presses the surrounding area. Almost as if urging something to drip out. 

And something does. It must be an adverse effect of the gas, you see pearls of white dribble from the nipple he grasps in hand. 

You instinctively attempt to push him away, but he holds you in place. 

You flush in embarrassment as he groans, sucking harder, having just tasted what you’ve seen. He holds the small of your back against him, pressing you closer, his face smothered in your breasts. 

You cup his head, mouth wide open as you moan out into the air freely. 

You grind against his lap, tugging at his briefs. Your weak pawings towards his cock made him ache further. He stands, your limp body pliant in his hold as he makes his way to the bed in the middle of the room. 

You fall harshly against the mattress. Your attempts at unbuttoning your skirt left you feeling winded and weak. You close your eyes and your breath gets caught in the back of your throat. Desperate for him. 

He rips your very expensive and very vintage pencil skirt as if it were wrapping paper. In a blink his suit was gathered on the floor in a heap. 

His chest rises and falls with each breath. The cool air gave him a bout of clarity.  

He was still so upset. He stares down at you, almost in a scowl. He jerks himself, he can’t believe the amount of pre-cum that was coming out of him, almost like a fountain. He pulls your legs, making your back slide towards the edge of the bed. 

His eyes soften as you writhe against the sheets. He palms your breasts and squeezes, he swallows thickly at the milky pearls that bead out. He tests the pliancy of your body. He could break you if he’s not careful enough. His stomach tenses and his heart quickens, almost making him keel over. 

“We dont have to do this- we can-” 

He stares at your cunt as you spread your legs. He swallows thickly. He feels himself fight the urge to sink into you. But his mothers words dig into the back of his skull. Do not get a girl pregnant before marrying her. He stalls. 

He could put his mouth on you for hours, he’s sure he genuinely could do it for hours. He’d love to even. 

But sperm was proven to be the most effective antidote. Who knows what Lex had to figure that out.  You glance at his dick, so hard it looked almost painful. He was about to speak again but you cut him off quickly. 

“I’m on the pill,” you whimper. 

He’s on you quickly, knees digging into the soft mattress as his mouth leads a path up your body to your lips. He thrusts into you. You squeal, a mix of pain and intense pleasure. 

“Holy- goodness-“ he groans, mouth wide open as his hips flex into you. Your pussy was so wet, and so tight as if it wanted to milk him for each drop. 

Lex didn’t have anything to hold onto. Superman's hair was out of its usual gelled back style, pieces of his hair tickling against your skin as he places his forehead against yours.

Your fingers curl into his locks so tightly you fear if he wasn’t nearly invincible, you’d rip them from their roots. 

He groans, eyelids heavy as he gazes down at you. You were such a mess, your eyes were wet, body covered in sweat, a pool of your juices staining half of the mattress. With each of his orgasms, he could feel your body calm further, as if his seed were a salve.

His arms were underneath you, lifting you lightly for more leverage. The squelch of his cock, pumping into you as he held your body below him possessively was so arousing to you. 

You’ve never had an experience like this, someone so attentive and desperate for your body. Although in the back of your mind you knew that he wasn’t exactly desperate for you. You were both so unbearably horny, chemically enhanced hormonal shifts. 

His mouth sucks at your nipple, he groans as you wrap your legs around his waist, your hand reaching to pull his ass onto you. 

His weight was pushing you down as he changed position, pulling your legs up in the air and pressing his chest to the back of your thighs. It was obscene, his spunk spews from your pussy, your lower half seemingly covered in the milky white. 

Lex Luthor watches the whole thing, it lasts hours. He’s almost impressed. It infuriates him. 

Superman did everything in his power to get the chemicals out of your system, through sweat, tears, your cum. And he did everything to feel normal again, to stop craving the feel of your plump heated flesh, the tightness of your cunt, the softness of your lips. 

You were pretty for a LuthorCorp goon. Especially with your glasses all slanted as he pounds you into the mattress. 

By the end of the day Superman was spent, your heart has finally calmed. The last spurts of his cum pump into you weakly. He falls on his side, facing you. 

You both catch your breath, staring into each other's eyes, shifting closer until his arm wraps around you to pull you to his chest. 

His fingers press against the curve of your cheekbone as you lay on your side. He takes your lenses off gently, placing them on the pillow beside your head. 

You stare at him, finger pressing against his chin, his lips, his brow. 

“You’re so different,” you mutter. His eyes look over your features, not hiding his confusion. He imagines you mean different from Lex Luthor. You meant a lot of people. His clone was fucked up, cute, but the bridge of his nose and chin were slightly different. 

“Why do you work for him?”

You shrug. Lex Luthor was a good boss. At least before today. 

You had great health care, optometrist, dermatologist, endocrinologist and many more ists included. Pay was great, company products were free. Lex would get you flowers, he’d listen to your opinions, he’d take you to expensive dinners. 

But it was never intimate, not like the way Superman was pressed against you now. He hums, his hand traces over every mark he left on your body. 

Your expression was grim. 

“You should find another job.” 

You shrug again. He rolls his eyes, disappointed by your nonchalant response. He points between you both. 

“This is pretty messed up.” 

You nod. 

“I know.”

He stands, you stare at the ceiling. He gives you one last look as he changes. He feels better, stronger now. He looks down on you. He looks at the length of his cape. He could wrap you in it, fly to his apartment or Kansas. He’d make sure you were safe. 

“You should come with me…” 

You shake your head, turning on your side. Back turned away from him. He could sense the sadness, the betrayal. He’s sure you’ll leave LuthorCorp on your own. He’d find you. To find out more about what happened, to maybe even take you out for coffee. 

He’s hoping you would confide in Clark Kent.

You hear him tear through the metal. You cocoon yourself into a ball and finally succumb to your fatigue. 

…

You wake up in a hospital bed, the heart monitor beeping loudly beside your ear, making your head thrum with a headache. 

Lex was sitting next to your bed, analyzing your face as you scowled at him. He remains neutral. Your hand whips out faster than even you expected, his head whips to the side as your palm lands on his cheek. 

He rubs his jaw, amusement in his eyes. He takes your hand.

“How do you feel?”

You scoff, pulling your hand away from him. 

“I’m done.” 

He snorts, he gives you a look, as if you were stupid. Class Lex. He always makes you feel so small. So useless sometimes. 

“You’re not done,” he says, shaking his head as if he were speaking to a toddler who didn’t want to eat their vegetables. 

You sit up furiously. “I am done!” 

He doesn’t react to your tone. His eyes look over your body as he speaks. 

“You signed the contract. You work for me for another year.” 

You fume. Your hands ball into fists. He passes you your glasses but you slap the offer away. 

“Unless you want to void the contract. That’ll cost you 50,000, darling.” 

Tears well in your eyes. You couldn’t afford to void the contract, or the NDA. Or pay for legal fees if you want to get a lawyer. You stare up at the ceiling, the pillow is soft.

He holds your hand once again, this time tighter than before, not allowing you to pull away. He pulls in close next to you, he grips your chin to make you look up at him. 

“I own you.” 

He kisses your lips lightly, you face twitches in irritation. 

“You did good. We got what we needed.” 

His lips skim over the marks left by Superman, kissing the bruises and darkened spots so delicately it sent shivers down your spine. Your body soften against the mattress, giving in. 

Your hands were planted against the cushion of the medical bed as he lowered down between your legs, pulling your hospital gown up to expose your pussy. 

He groans at the sight. You let out a shaky breath and spread your legs. Your mound was swollen and as he spread your folds he could see streaky white slick drip out. 

He asked them not to clean you there as medical staff crowded over you after Superman had left.  They understood. It would make for a viable pregnancy if the sperm were to last longer inside of you. 

He licks you, sucks your cunt, slurping Superman’s cum from your gaping hole. There was so much of it. 

Your hands grip the medical bed, his head underneath your soft gown and shifting as he mouths at you. 

He’s never touched you like this, fucked you like this. 

He almost couldn’t believe it worked. Almost. Your pills were switched out months ago, there was no protection and judging by testing done on his clone. Superman’s sperm was potent. Statistically, way more potent than his own. 

He sucks your clit, you muffle a moan with the back of your hand. He stuffs the seed back into you, you succumb to a back arching climax. 

He wipes his mouth with a handkerchief and walks out of the room. 

…

You sit up in Lex’s bed. It’s been a month. 

He’d become more caring, in his own strange little ways. He broke up with his girlfriend, he asked you out on a date. 

He apologized. 

You think something was wrong with you. You stayed. You’d rather reap the benefits of a rich boyfriend than deal with the legalities of quitting your job. 

He touches you as if you were a delicate thing. Precious. You moved into his penthouse. You had access to most if not all of his belongings. 

It was fishy. You’ve asked him about why he did what he did. He said it was to collect more DNA, which was left all over the mattress. 

He wanted to create a better clone of Superman. 

You swipe through your phone, ignoring emails of this so-called Clark Kent from the Daily Planet who wants to discuss your kidnapping the month before. 

He’s been trying for weeks now. 

You trudge through the bedroom door to see Lex in the kitchen. You sniff and your stomach twists. You get closer and you have to stop. 

Bile collects in your mouth, and you rush to the bathroom. He calls out for you in concern, rushing towards you as you keel over the toilet bowl. 

“What were you making that smelled so disgusting?” you groan. His cooking skills were mediocre at best. You weren’t surprised by the horrible smell. 

“Eggs.” 

He could see the wheels turning in your head. You missed your period, but you’ve always had irregular months. 

Your ears ring, you want to puke but not from the smell of breakfast. 

Now that you thought about it. Your boobs were sore, you brushed it off as a long-term side effect of the chemicals. You were spotting for a few days. You felt off. 

You slam the door on Lex’s face and scour through the drawers underneath the sink. A fresh box of pregnancy tests was almost gleaming at you. 

You curse Lex. The bastard planned this. 

You sit on the toilet for more than two minutes. Your legs shake, your hands smooth over your thighs anxiously. 

You’re pretty sure it was Superman’s. You hoped it was just to spite Lex. 

You shake your head and put your head in your hands. You hope it wasn’t anybody’s! 

You pick up the test and close your eyes tightly. You open them and your heart drops. Your body goes cold. 

Lex gleams with joy as you scream in a mix of frustration and pent-up anxiety. You open the door and shove the test to his chest.

He watches you pack your belongings.  

It was positive. 

——————————

Baby daddy needs to lock in… Lex Luthor is so freaky I fear he would make a scheme to carry the child himself if he biologically could. Anyways, I don’t feel great about this one. Idk. Let me know if y'all want more of this reader. 

Requests and asks open! 

You stop in your tracks then, just outside the Mercedes hospitality. “What?”

“I know, I know it’s going to be so busy for you and I am truly so sorry. I’ll send over his schedule” He sighs. “I tried telling them to not hand it over to you, cause I know Doyoung has a shit ton to do today but I don’t think they’ll listen.”

You hang up just as you step through the glass doors. The paddock’s already starting to fill—press, crew, sponsors, all of them moving with that media day urgency that feels a little more frantic than usual. You’re used to it. What you’re not used to is the weight of two drivers and whatever the hell Joshua Hong’s day looks like.

Joshua’s schedule hits your inbox seconds later. You skim it through it quickly, stomach tightening when you realise how little time there is between each thing. Back-to-back and some even overlap with Doyoung’s.

Great. You think, mentally scorning the higher-ups for not having a backup plan.

“Hey,” a voice says behind you.

You turn. It’s Joshua, already changed in his team shirt, cap low, and with a bottle of water in hand. You straighten slightly, unsure how to even begin.

“Hi,” you say. “Uh—so Minghao’s sick, I don’t know if you know. They’ve put me on double duty today.”

His brows lift just a little. “So I’m yours now?”

The way he says it—casual, almost amused—makes you blink once.

“Temporarily,” you reply. “Until he stops dying.”

Joshua nods, then pushes his cap up a bit. “Guess I’ll try not to be too difficult.”

You don’t reply to that. You’re already flipping through his schedule and cross-checking it with Doyoung’s in your head. You have twenty minutes before Doyoung’s interview with American media, but Joshua’s supposed to be at a sponsor photoshoot in ten. It’s in a completely different building.

“I’ll walk you there,” you say, more to yourself than to him.

He follows easily, steps matching yours as he scrolls through his phone. At one point, you drag him by the sleeve towards yourself so that he doesn’t bump into a few Alpine mechanics hoarding around a box of something.

“Sorry,” he lets out with a small gasp, “God, my friends are planning to come in for Silverstone and I’m trying to figure out their passes.”

“All good.” You grumble slightly, checking your watch again.

The photoshoot runs long. Doyoung’s media prep runs early. You’re glued to your phone by mid-morning, answering one call while texting logistics to two different comms interns. It’s chaotic, but it’s familiar. You’d handle it fine if it weren’t for the fact that now, somehow, you’re fielding questions like “what do we usually do for Joshua’s media pen appearance, later on?” when you have no idea what his “usual” even looks like.

At one point, you find him sitting outside the hospitality, sipping a coffee like the world isn’t on fire.

“You’re supposed to be on your way to the Sky Sports filming right now. What are you doing?” You ask, huffing out a breath and trying to continue, when someone calls your phone. Letting out a small sound of frustration, you glance at him once more, pointing in the direction of where the interviewers are standing, before picking it up.

He blinks at you, almost innocently. “They told me it got pushed ahead by ten minutes.”

You don’t have the energy to check if that’s true. The call you’re on is already starting to drone in your ear, and someone’s messaging you about a missing team jacket. You close your eyes for a second.

“Fine,” you mutter. “Just go now. Please.”

Joshua lifts both hands in mock surrender, rising from the chair. “Okay, fine, fine.”

You shoot him a look, even as you bring the phone back to your ear and mutter something resembling an apology to the comms assistant still waiting on the line. By the time you look up again, he’s halfway across the paddock.

You don’t see him again until much later, when the worst of the day has passed and you finally get a minute to breathe inside the hospitality. You’re leaning back in a chair, half-reading a spreadsheet, when Joshua walks in holding two iced coffees.

He sets one down in front of you without a word.

You look up with a questioning glance.

“Half milk. Less sugar. Like how you ordered yours this morning,” he says, casually. “Figured I owed you.”

You blink, surprised but grateful nonetheless. “I—thanks.”

He shrugs, sliding into the seat across from you. “Didn’t get lost or miss anything this afternoon, so I’d say your track record’s looking good.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Are you done for the day? Or does your brother dearest still have schedules?”

“He’s in a meeting right now,” You sigh out of satisfaction from your first sip. “So I’m not done for an hour or more. I have a meeting to get to in…” you trail off.

Joshua raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue.

“Now. Actually. You’re done for the day, so you’re free to go home.” You mutter, getting out of your chair and setting your cup down before beginning to gather your things. Joshua shifts, trying to help you, but you wave a hand at him.

“Thank you for not being a pain, actually.” You say to him once you’ve got everything you need in your hands. “I thought I’d have to chase you around all day or something. I know Minghao’s there with you most of the time, so I’m sorry I couldn’t but…”

“You thought I was difficult?” Joshua lets out, almost incredulously.

“I think you’re used to Minghao borderline baby-sitting you.” You roll your eyes.

He laughs now, tipping his head back a little. “To be fair, he likes bossing me around. Who am I to refuse?”

There’s something oddly warm about the moment, despite the fatigue clinging to your limbs. You glance at him again, at the way he’s still nursing his coffee like he has nowhere else to be.

He pauses, gaze flickering to you. His smile softens, not teasing or sharp, instead almost sincere. “Thanks for stepping in,” he says. “I know you didn’t have to.”

You shrug, throwing him a grin over your shoulder. “It’s just what we do as a team, I guess.”

The atmosphere was mellow, lights dim and verging on yellow in the trendy new spot near the Daily Planet building. Fake plants collecting dust were scattered around the restaurant. 

Clark’s arm bumps against yours as the server takes their sweet time taking orders. You check the time on your watch, they had a whole speech, the line was unnecessarily long. You catch his eye, lingering over your hands lightly cradling your stomach, thumbs hanging on to your belt loops. 

You put them down to your sides self consciously.  

The options were rather limited, gourmet deep dish, gourmet chicken tenders, gourmet burgers, gourmet deli sandwiches. You settle for a chicken Caesar salad, Clark butts in with his own order of a double cheeseburger with fries before the cashier could ask if you wanted anything else. 

The total was given, and Clark pressed his card against the screen before you could even reach into your pocket for your wallet. 

Your arms are crossed lazily as you balance yourself against the counter near the pickup area. Clark has his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground beside you. He told you to wait at the table with the rest of your coworkers, but you refused. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say lowly. He gives you a tight-lipped smile. He waves a dismissive hand. 

“Pfft. No big deal.” 

His cheeks were rosy with a light blush as he avoided your gaze. You sigh, you didn’t really want the pity or extra attention. 

Much less from him. He was the most annoying coddler of them all. 

He takes the tray of food back to the table, walking a step behind you. Everyone turns to see you walk over. You hold back a snort as Lois awkwardly pulls back a chair for you. 

Everyone eats and chats, sometimes the conversation is directed to you, asking indirect questions about your pregnancy. 

How are you feeling? Seeing anyone? Have you set up a registry? 

You were four months along, you were just barely showing underneath your loose clothes. But months before, everyone figured out your gestational status. 

Maybe it was because you were more irritable. You think it was because of the way you stormed out of an editor meeting mid way through to puke your guts out in the bathroom nearby. 

Clark had always been the most attentive. He even confirmed it in front of everyone. Steve invited the newsroom out for drinks, you agreed. 

Clark narrowed his eyes at you, everyone gathered near the entrance to the Planet, dividing up and waiting for Ubers. Lois was nudging your shoulder, challenging you to a drinking game. 

“Aren’t you pregnant?” Clark blurts out. 

You were about to tell Lois that you weren’t going to drink, hoping she would catch the hint as you pressed a hand to your stomach. You froze in place, blinking as everyone turned to you. 

The casual drinks turned into a celebration. Everyone wishing the new mother a healthy pregnancy. You’d smiled through grit teeth as everyone made a ruckus at the bar and toasted to you. 

Clark would never forget your glare. You didn’t speak to him directly for a week. Your dry emails scalded him. 

The conversation is focused on something else now, you pick at the pieces of parmesan cheese left in your bowl. It was really good. Your lips are downturned in a small frown. You should have gotten something more filling. Your stomach growls lightly, imperceptibly. 

Clark shifts the tray of his fries in your direction, his attention directed at the conversation as Jimmy tells a story of a date he recently went on, his hand flinging every which way as he dramatizes the woman. 

You cautiously take some of his fries, dipping them into the ketchup he had poured out on the tray. 

Clark glances in your direction, sending you a soft smile, mouthing a ‘you ok?’ from across the table. You nod and his eyes twinkle. His smile widens for a second. 

Your cheeks sting from the heat rising within them. 

…

Month Five: Development

Whenever you look through the maternity section, your brain shuts off. You leave the site or leave the store entirely. 

They were just so boring. You liked your style, you thought your bump looked cute when you wore a tank top and cargo pants. But a lot of your usual attire didn’t fit anymore. 

You think the baby’s a big one, judging by the look on your doctor's face, when she told you the growth was super healthy for 19 weeks. 

The adjective makes you gag. Superman gives you a super baby. You sigh, your folder landing on your desk a little too forcefully as you scoot the chair out from under the desk. 

You sit down and unzip your fly, finally allowing yourself to take a deep breath, the soft swell of your belly starting to rest against your lap. Your shirts ride up and your pants were held on by a hair tie you borrowed from someone when you just couldn’t zip up your jeans again. 

A cup lands on your desk, a smoothie cup. You sigh. Clark says it’s a good source of nutrients, all natural sugars and all of that other healthy bs. They were also extremely good, no matter how hard you try to find anything negative to say. 

Clark was behaving like a mother hen, but most of the time you couldn't be bothered to push him and his attention away.

He waits by your desk as you take a sip, as he usually does to ensure your satisfaction. 

You wince lightly. It tasted greener than usual. You smack your lips as you try to decipher if it was spinach or kale.

He extends a hand towards the smoothie, fingers bending repeatedly in a ‘gimme’ motion.

“I could get you another one,” he says softly, humorously. 

You hold the cup tightly, pulling it closer to your chest. Gosh you were so cute. He knew how sensitive you were with smells and tastes now. 

He changed his cologne after he gave you a side hug goodbye one night and you flinched. 

It was right after taking you home, like he does most days. 

It was strange how he stays as late as you now. He must be busier than usual. Certainly not waiting for you to pack up so he could offer you a ride or anything. 

“I’ll deal,” you mumble, taking the straw and taking another sip. He lifts his hand in a sign of surrender, and he makes his way to his desk a couple of cubicles away.

You could see him in his cubicle because of his broad shoulders. Your hands twirl the straw absentmindedly, watching him clumsily organize his workspace.

You lean back against your chair, rolling it back to see his face more clearly over the desk shields. 

He could feel your stare, the way you analyze him. He misses being able to tease you about your cold gaze.

He could hear you gulp. He could tell you liked this flavor. Some weird name like caterpillar fruit salad or something. 

“Thank you.” 

He lifts his head, glancing around the room. He almost wants to point at his chest to see if you were speaking to him. 

You snort. His face turns red as he watches your lips spread into an amused smile. 

You lift the cup, tapping against the side.

“Thank you, Clark.” 

He smiles bashfully. Ducking his head as he waves you off. He sits down and you smile to yourself as you scoot closer to your keyboard.

A hand meets your shoulder, you jump. Your hands are pressed to your chest. 

“When are you going to take that white boy home?” 

You’re appalled. You make a sharp noise from the back of your throat, utterly appalled. Catherine Grant looks at you with a craze you haven’t seen before. 

You pull her in closer, into the cubicle space. She moves your papers and sits on your desk, bending down to hear your whisper. 

“It’s not like that.” 

She scoffs. She looks at your desk, finding one of Clark’s notes on an article draft you were working on, he quite literally drew a smiley face and heart on a post-it. She scoffs again.

Cat was smart as a whip. She knew everything about everything. You couldn’t disagree with her more in this regard. 

“It’s not,” you affirm. She gives you a look. The man was already clingy, helpful, and kind, sure. But if you would have asked him to jump off a cliff, he’d do it with a running start. 

“He’s just nice. I’m literally pregnant."

She bites her fingernail, shaking her head. 

“Pregnant and single,” she corrects.

She shimmies in her seat, wiggling her brows. 

“Milky tits, a fat ass, c’mon. That would not stop a straight man with half a brain.” 

Unfortunately, most men had even less than a third of a brain. You cross your arms. She stands at your glare, making her way back to her desk.

“I hear wedding bells in your future, babe,” she whispers harshly right next to your ear. 

She passes by Clark’s desk and makes a motion of eating from a plate with a fork behind his back. 

…

The newsroom was nearly empty, but you could hear typing ahead of you. You slowly peek to the side from your desk, Clark was ever so diligent at his desk. 

The glow of the computer monitor reflects off of his glasses. You slowly inch away from the edge and refocus on your work. 

He wonders when you’d start to pack the hell up and actually go home. He didn’t even think his fingers were capable of cramping up. But they did from being on the keyboard for so long.

He could see you, two desks away from him. His vision makes you easily visible. The fetus snugly cradled in your belly. 

It makes him smile softly. He overheard you tell someone the baby was the size of a mango today. That was adorable. 

He just wished he could go to appointments and shopping with you. He sighs, focusing back on his screen. Maybe get some kissing in too. 

You don’t open your balcony door, there’s an excessive pile of leaves and dust on the ground and over the patio chairs. 

You don’t even go out there anymore. 

He was frustrated, but he understood. He used to joke that you had the same mentality as Lex Luthor who has progressively become an opposing voice to the conversation on Metahuman intervention and conflicts. 

He understood your point. Superheroes could turn at any point. A bad day, a missed calculation could end up in so much destruction. And it already has. 

But Superman was starting to show you how you and many others didn’t have to worry. There will always be a prevalence of good people. 

It all fell apart. 

He visited every night the week you found out you were pregnant, looking into your bedroom with X-ray vision, and watching as you retook pregnancy test after pregnancy test. 

He’d watched you cry, he’d watched you zone out into your ceiling fan, even watched you as you slept, still sniffling. 

You were scared. He was too. 

“Holy shit- Clark.” 

He sits up at your voice, his thoughts disappearing, replaced with a spike of anxiety rising through his throat. 

Your chair rolls loudly as you push away from your desk. 

He stands, almost knocking down his cubicle along with his chair as he rushes to your side. He kneels to your level. He looks over your body.

“What, what, what, what?” he asks in a panicked frenzy. 

Your stare at your bump, eyes wide and flickering. As if waiting for something to rip through your skin and maul your face. 

You yelp again, cupping your stomach in panic. He grips your desk chair, swerving it to the side to have you face him, his body between your legs. 

His eyes squint lightly as he stares at your stomach. He doesn’t find anything wrong. The baby was curled in the amniotic sac, heartbeat stable. 

A tiny leg twitches and he flinches. He takes a deep breath in.

“Kicking,” you sigh softly, astonished. It felt like flutters, you pressed a hand to the side, where you felt the movement. 

You take his hand and place it to where the kicks are prominent. His hands shake, his palm smoothing over the fabric of your shirt. Clark’s hand was large. So warm. You just realized how close he was to you. His fingers glide underneath the waistband of your trousers, thumb rubbing the kicked spot tenderly. 

It was so intimate, you swore his eyes were glistening with welling tears. He exhales shakily, adjusting his glasses and sweeping a hand across his curls as you let go of his hand. 

His eyes land over your pelvis and he looks away quickly, clearing his throat as he stands. His cheeks turned pink. You glance down and you curse at yourself. Your panties were on full display, zipper wide open. You needed new pants. 

…

It was a cool night, you zip up your jacket quickly and clutch the strap of your bag as you hop out of Clark’s car, he comes out of the driver's side and stares at you, opening and closing his mouth, wanting to say something.

It was cold, you wanted to get inside. 

“Clark-” you start, wanting to thank him for the ride.

“I want to take you out to dinner.”

Your mouth shuts and your breath stutters. He stands up straighter amidst the silence. 

“I mean- can I take you out to dinner- may I?” 

…

“He asked you out?” 

You nod. 

“I think he has a fetish,” you say calmly as you hold up a onesie and feel the texture of the fabric. It was so soft, you pouted at the cute baby elephant design. 

Lois looks concerned by your statement. She pushes down the onesie in your hand so that you drop it back into the pile of baby clothes already in your shopping cart. 

She lifts a brow and crosses her arms. 

“I’m sorry, what?”

You shrug, pushing the cart to the maternity aisle. Lois follows, lifting up clothes, allowing you to either nod or wince before it either goes into the cart or is left behind.

“Well, he just likes you. He always has,” she says carefully. You attempt to recall instances where you felt his interest before your pregnancy. You guess you just didn’t notice. 

“Since when?” you ask. 

“The moment he walked into the Planet and saw you almost put your fist in Jimmy's stomach for stealing your story.” 

You purse your lips and shake your head. Lois sighs. 

You bought some pants and shirts for work, a dress, pjs and underwear. Lois also chipped in and bought some onesies, claiming that as godmother she needed to provide early. 

You grumbled at the self-appointment. 

Being on your feet had you winded, your soles ached. You sip on your lemon water, taking a break from shopping as you take lunch. Lois swirls the straw in her drink. 

Everyone was too afraid to ask you questions. No one knew you were seeing anyone. Many were theorizing the baby was Clark’s but given by the way you spoke about him, it seemed unlikely.

“So, do you know who the father is? I mean has he offered to be there for the baby?” 

She avoids your gaze as she asks, looking to the side as if the topic didn’t interest her as much as it did. You look off into the distance and let out a long, heavy sigh. 

“Remember that interview I did about five months ago?” 

It took her a moment. She startles you as she leans over the table. She cups your face and makes you turn your head. Your lips pursed, her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in shock.

“Superman?!” 

…

Month Zero: Conception

“You’re so annoying,” you grit out. 

“That’s not what you said the night before, or the night before, or the night before…” 

You grip onto his shoulders tightly. His suit was on the floor, each piece making a trail to your kitchen. Your ass slid against your kitchen island as he pumped into you. 

You kiss him harshly, teeth clinking, lips bruising and leaving him breathless. Your thighs spread as you wrap your legs around his waist. 

His hand twists your shirt at the small of your back as he thrusts in a steady rhythm, the fabric tightens around your torso and highlights every dip and curve. His hips slam onto your pelvis, making your body jiggle with each beat. 

“S-shut up-“ you stutter. 

He came to you at this point. Your work relationship strong due to his punctuality. 

He’d arrive at your apartment's balcony, wait there as you got your recorder, your pen, and your notebook ready. 

You’d open your sliding door, dressed professionally in your pajamas. He’d step in with his hands intertwined and in front of him. His cape would caress your bare legs, like a breeze in the summer night. 

You came at him with tough questions. He’d get heated, you’d shift in your seat. He always smelled your arousal. 

And you’d always spread your legs for him the second he confronted you, stepping between them as you sat on your couch, his cock covered in Kryptonian fabric straining in your direction, willing you to touch. 

You wouldn’t publish the interviews. So, he’d come back to try again. 

He carries you to your bed, despite your growls and barks, you really didn’t bite. He could feel you soften underneath him as he drills into your tight wet hole over and over again. 

Your nails dig into his skin, barely leaving a mark, if only light red lines on his back as you took his cock throughout the night. 

You’re left a panting mess, lower belly painted in white, a path leading to your pussy, his seed dripping from your folds.

He had left a 50-dollar bill on your dresser. He didn’t pull out quick enough. An honest mistake when your walls got so tight he didn’t even want to move. 

He was going to come back the next day, probably check if you took a morning after pill, if not tease you about your frequent forgetfulness due to stress. 

That was the plan, until he was accused of attempting to conquer the world and build a harem. 

Your balcony was locked, blinds closed shut. You never answered despite his soft knocks. You didn’t trust superheroes, he knew this well. 

He broke what little faith you had in him, and it wasn’t even his fault. 

…

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out as you finish your recount of events. It gave you a headache whenever you thought about Superman for too long. He just recently stopped knocking at your balcony door, about the same time Clark asked you to dinner. 

Lois nods along. Oh Clark. He was going to be a father. Out of wedlock no less, she wonders what the midwestern farm boy thinks of that. Her lips purse. 

He’s too open minded to be thinking of that type of stuff. She doesn’t approve of his “plan”. She wonders what you would say when you realized. Because you will realize. 

The baby has potential super strength and might have laser beams shooting out of its eyes, but the child’s will also have an uncanny appearance to Clark Kent. 

“What did you say to Clark?” 

You look down at your plate of lunch, picking at the pieces of food with your fork. Lois sips her lemonade as you mutter.

“I said yes.” 

She almost spits out her drink from laughter. Clark is so screwed. 

…

Month Six: Libido highs 

You were so soft. Softer than a rose petal. He could tell you liked being cared for, pampered. But you just didn’t open up. 

He could tell by the way your heart fluttered each time he got you something sweet from the cafe next door. When he would bring you fresh flowers to decorate your desk each week. 

He loved taking care of you, taking you home, asking about your day especially when you had difficulty expressing yourself with anything other than irritation. 

A compromise was made as you started dating. A subconscious compromise. He’d take you home right after seven at the latest. Straight home. He’d come in and make you dinner, maybe even let you help. 

Then he’d be on his merry way home.

You’d relax and work on your laptop, snug as a bug, freshly showered, and in your pajamas for the night, an oversized shirt and sleep shorts. 

You were doing just that tonight, watching reality tv, a hand absentmindedly rubbing over your belly as you zoned out. 

But something was different. Your energy finally increased over the past week or so. You move as if your center of gravity wasn’t shifted completely. Like a lioness on the prowl. You turn to stare at him as if he were prey, hands tight against the back of the couch.

You had acted this way the whole day, eyes following him as he made his way through meetings, calls, errands. 

“Can you stay the night?” you ask, your head resting on your arms, resting on the back of the couch as you watch him wash the dishes from your kitchen. You bite your lip as his tank top was visible over his dress shirt. You imagine this was how it felt to see a girl's bra through her shirt. 

You smile innocently as his eyes roam over the way you're on your knees on top of the couch. He shifts and faces the sink, willing his growing boner to soothe over. The shirt was loose over your shoulders, exposing your collarbones. You weren’t wearing a bra, apparent by the lack of a strap. 

“Y-yeah,” he clears his throat, his voice cracked. 

You haven’t had sex with Clark. But Clark remembers the feel of your body in hyper detail. He shivers as you make your way over to him, pressing your front to his back as you reach over to the cupboards.

Your belly presses against him, he straightens his back. His hands squeeze the sponge in his hand and he closes his eyes, almost in prayer. 

Your hand meets his side as you reach for a mug and your tea bags. He gets them for you, glancing briefly to see the way you rest a hand on top of your belly, fingers highlighting the curve of your breasts by pressing the fabric of your shirt underneath them. 

The more your pregnancy progresses the more he wants to tear apart a room, maybe even your clothes. How dare you walk around the editing room with a shirt that pronounces your bump and the breasts that rest atop it, pants that show off your thickening hips and juicy ass. 

He grips the sponge so hard it almost rips from the pressure. He wants to touch your soft tits so bad. 

“They’re throwing a baby shower for me next week. Wanted to know if you’re coming with me.” 

He pauses briefly at the invitation. He wasn’t just invited as a guest. He was invited to go with you. As your partner. He fights a grin of elation. 

Your water heater boils loudly. You press a hand to his back, rubbing up and down. You could feel his back muscles. You bite your lip as they flex under your touch. 

He turns. 

“I’d love to go with you.”

You smile softly, genuinely. He dries his hands with a rag, takes your hand and presses a soft kiss against it. 

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly. 

He nods. His hand squeezes yours as you swing it lightly between your bodies. 

“You don’t have to. I’m not trying to ask anything of you,” you rush out. 

He takes a step towards you, you avoid his pointed gaze. You were asking so much more than a baby shower. 

“What if I want to?” 

You take a step, bringing your intertwined hands to the side of your bump.

“You want this?” 

He bends down to meet your gaze, willing you to meet his eyes. He cups your face gently, tapping your chin with his thumb when you couldn’t quite look up at him. 

Your eyes were red, slowly welling with tears. Frustration, anxiety, fear. He cups the side of your belly, thumb rubbing soothing circles over your skin. 

“I want this and more.” 

You sigh in relief, arms winding over his shoulders, fingers playing with the collar of his flannel as he kisses your cheek and pulls you close into his warm embrace. 

…

You sit on the couch behind him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling it back as he types in his laptop, grumbling about the red line highlighting underneath proper nouns. 

Your legs were spread wide to accommodate his broad shoulders as he sat on the carpet facing the tv. 

He was in a shirt and sweatpants. Some of your most oversized clothing items you had on hand. They were form fitting, luckily. 

You fight the urge to pounce on him. You didn’t think he could be so large. Tall, yes of course. But muscular and shaped like a Greek God? 

Who would have known. Then again, he is from a farm. He must know a thing or two about working with his hands.

His kisses have gotten even more adventurous. The tension is sticky and dewy. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. At least you hoped he did so that he could follow through. 

You peed yourself in the morning, after rushing to work and having missed your alarm. The kid kicked harder and harder each day, your organs losing space inside of your body. A hit to your bladder was imminent. 

Clark had watched you straighten up from your chair to stand stiffly, hand on your back to handle the weight. You were 26 weeks along, just about to get into your third trimester. 

You were waddling to the restroom and he was pretty sure you weren’t waddling the night before as he left you at your apartment door. You texted him SOS. 

He had to look through your desk drawers for spare undies. He pulled them out of your drawer to shove in his pocket quickly. They were maternity panties, the ones that stretched over your belly. 

He was flustered as he made his way to the bathroom, looking behind him after barging in to the women’s. 

He held the underwear between his fingers as he handed them to you, snickering under his breath about granny panties. You pinched his side and used a stall to change. 

“You could have asked Lois,” he mentions, completely embarrassed from being inside the women’s bathroom. Even if the door was locked and no one could enter. 

“You're my boyfriend, I don’t want her to see my intimates,” you retort behind the stall. 

The word repeated in his head over and over again. He couldn’t not think about the casual way you said it. He felt his pants tighten, he grinned as you came out of the bathroom. He was your boyfriend, and you were his pregnant girlfriend carrying his big baby that just made you pee your pants.  

He came up behind you and pressed himself against your back. The proximity surprised you, his hands cupped your belly, adjusting the stretchy strap of your maternity trousers lower and lower until it bundled up on your waist. 

His fingers press underneath your belly, inching closer to your cunt. 

“What-” 

He kisses you as you turn your head, holding you in place as his lips moved languidly over yours, his hands wandered, softly at first, resting on your bump but it quickly evolved into passionate fondling. 

He cupped your breast, squeezing as you leaned further into him and lifted a hand to caress over the back of his head. The other hand pressed against your hip, pressing you against him to grind on you. 

You felt his hot erection press against your ass, you arched your back to press your mound against the bulge. 

The knock at the door didn’t soften him, but his groping slowed to a pause. He caresses over your belly, his head buried between your neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply. 

They knock again. 

“Clark, we need to go.”

He growled, kissing a path to your jaw and shocking you from his possessive hold. His glasses were skewed as he unwillingly pulled away.

He was flushed as he made his way out of the women’s bathroom behind you. Cat stared at you pointedly as you avoided her gaze. She gave a wry laugh as Clark said a quiet ‘excuse me’.

You couldn’t focus the rest of the work day, and now as he sits on the floor of your apartment between your knees, you couldn’t help but feel frustrated. 

Your hands travel, smoothing over his shoulders, then over his biceps, squeezing the mass until it hardens with a flex. 

He turns his head, the side of his face meeting your bump. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. You tip his head so that you could meet your lips with his. 

He must be shy. The bastard. 

In his own head, he was thinking if you’d find his body familiar if things continued. He’s visibly nervous. He’s had time to think over the possibility of you somehow remembering the shape and size of his dick from months before.

You shift in your seat. You stick your tongue in his mouth and moan. He suddenly forgets about all of his worries. He turns his body, departing from your lips and kneeling in front of you. 

You lean forward to peck his lips.

You wince as your feet meet the ground. He stops, parting from your lips, like a dog straightening up from a rustle in the bush. He’s been noticing you wincing a lot lately. 

“What is it?” he asks softly, cupping your cheek.

You shake your head, leaning down to kiss him again. He pulls away. You whine from the back of your throat and you surprise yourself with the noise. 

He bites back a smirk. His chest rumbles with satisfaction at your neediness. 

“Tell me what’s hurting.” 

You groan and slump against the cushion. You lift your foot. Your usual heels didn’t fit anymore, you had to wear sandals. It's been like this for a couple of days now. You could barely bend down to see your toes. 

He pushes his laptop off to the side and takes your feet to his lap. His thumb presses against the arch of your feet, a tingle shoots through your leg and to your center. His touch was firm yet gentle. 

Your head lolled against the cushion, and you sank deeper into the softness of your couch. You groan as he presses and kneads your foot. You didn’t even notice one of his hands started rubbing up your calf and to your inner thigh. 

Your eyes are closed, your leg twitches in a short burst of pleasure as he continues. 

He kisses up your leg. You sit up but he pushes you back down against the couch, palm right up against your mound and cupping your belly. 

His fingers on the sole of your foot continue to massage into your muscle.

“Let me take care of you. Hm?” he says, mouth parted as he played with the waistband of your shorts. 

You gush. 

“So good,” he hums against you, tongue flattening over your folds. You cup his head against you pressing his face deeper. You roll your hips. 

The lower half of his face was covered in your arousal as he pulled back. He kisses your inner thigh as you lift yourself up on your elbows. 

“You taste so good. So sweet.”

Your leg twitches, breath stuttering. You internally squeal. You want to grab your throw pillow and shove your face in it to bite and scream. His eyes narrow and his eyes flicker from your chest, your heart pumping erratically, to your cunt. 

He grips your hands pushing them against the cushions as you attempt to reach for his head as he dives in again, you moan out at the strength he displayed. Sweet, shy Clark, holding you down as he ate your pussy like a man starved, not caring for the breathy whines of overstimulation that vibrated through the walls as he pressed the tip of his tongue around the rim of your hole. 

Clark loved your attitude. He loved being able to turn you into putty in his hands. He’s sure you didn’t even realize as he maneuvered you onto the bed, over his body. 

You were somewhere else, somewhere not quite away but never quite conscious enough to retort or scowl or take the control you so desperately required at work, in public with your colleagues. 

Even Superman got you fucked out and stupid, despite your skepticism and cold demeanor. 

You were always so warm when he had you like this, underneath him, his cock impaling you, his mouth licking over your skin. 

He situated you on his lap, your eyelids were threatening to close completely, and you had lost all of your words. He took your clothes off of your body, hands wandering and squeezing, your hips, your ass, your breasts. His lips praised you as he brought you to ecstasy over and over again with his tongue, fingers, and cock.

“Good girl.” 

Your hips stutter, your eyes widen. You look at him as if he held the world in his hands. Putty in his hands. You bounce on his cock, his hand lightly holds your throat, the other playing with your sensitive nipples, squeezing your swollen flesh. 

“Fucking me so good, my good girl.” 

You lean forward, your round stomach pressing against his. You kiss over his neck, although due to the deep thrusts from below, you often paused just to moan out. You close your eyes tightly as he lifts his hips up into you. 

You lose your inhibitions completely to a place he’s never taken you before. 

“Daddy,” you blurt out, word coming out as he thrusted and his cock punched the breath from your lungs. 

He pauses, he makes you sit up straight again. He teases you, failing to hide his smirk at your completely petrified face. He was a daddy, technically. 

“Fuck, I don’t-” you press a hand to your mouth in shock, your eyes were teary from pleasure, you were shaking. 

He sits up against the headboard, taking your hands away from your face and kissing your lips softly and slowly. He cups the back of your head, keeping you in place as he moves your hips back and forth, plunging you onto his cock like a sex doll. 

He uses your body, you break the kisses to moan, to bite your lip and attempt to contain yourself. That won’t do. 

“Who’s your daddy?” 

You try to say it, you try to answer him but your shyness prevents you. You bite your tongue, pursing your lips as your face scrunches as if you were in pain. He cups your belly, he kisses down your jaw, coaxing you to let go. 

“You’re so stubborn. Who’s your daddy?” he repeats, his pace quickens. You let go with tears in your eyes, you babble your answer repeatedly into the air. 

“Fu-You. You, Clark, You, You, You.”  

He makes you repeat yourself all night. 

…

He was so peaceful asleep, his arm was holding you close by the waist, his face shoved in the pillows, hair a complete mess. He snores a little. 

Your finger caresses his cheek lightly, he takes a deep breath in, his eyes fluttering open. It was eleven. You both slept in. 

Your stomach growls and he looks pulls you closer, his face gently resting against your breasts.

You didn’t really like being cuddled in bed. There wasn’t enough space to spread out, your body was too hot during the night and now with your pregnancy, the discomfort made it hard to sleep. 

You melt into his touch, burying your nose into his hair and smelling your shampoo and a hint of salty musk. 

He kisses up your neck, to your lips, making you groan as he attempts to use his tongue to open your mouth. 

“Morning breath,” you mumble self-consciously, keeping your lips pursed as you speak groggily. He hums pressing a kiss to your temple, rolling his eyes. 

“I’m making you breakfast. You two hungry gals need to eat.” 

You don’t say anything as he sits up, you stare at him as if he grew a second head. How did he know? You’ve barely asked your obstetrician for the gender the day before after being so indecisive for months. 

Maybe you mentioned it. The confusion is excused as pregnancy brain. 

He knows his way around your kitchen, your apartment in general. As if he lived there himself. He serves you from your favorite plate, turns on the tv in the background as you talk because you hated the silence between each shift in conversation topic. 

You hated yogurt but you let him feed you a scoop of his. 

He had a lot of his things here you notice, some snacks he likes, a Smallville sweater he left. The crib he built, the stuffed cow he bought the baby, up as decoration against your spare bedroom’s window because “it’s a safety hazard to have stuffed animals and thick blankets in the crib, y'know". 

“How are you feeling?” 

You're ripped away from your inner thoughts. He rests his hand on your stomach. You nod. 

“No heartburn?”  

You shake your head. He lifts your feet to his lap, massaging the swelling around your ankle. You feed him the rest of the food on your plate, he always serves you too much. 

“No bleeding gums?” 

Your disturbed expression tells him no. He laughs and you stuff a piece of toast in his mouth. 

He was treating you like his baby momma, as if the child growing in your womb was his. But you had to admit, you could see him as a father to your baby. Some part of you already did. 

Your chest feels heavy. You sigh. You have to tell him who the father is. One of these days. 

…

Month 8.5: Labor 

Maternity leave just started, albeit later than usual due to your stubbornness. He hated seeing you in so much discomfort. 

You were mentally done with pregnancy at 35 weeks. It was uncomfortable to sit, to lay down, to eat, to shower, to just be. 

The final straw was when you started leaking. You were one of the lucky ones to express colostrum. Some cheesy and outdated “mommy” blogs called it liquid gold, stating that the milk was a blessing. 

Your blessing made two large wet spots in the middle of lunch, your coworkers avoiding looking you in the eye for the rest of the day as a result. 

You had cried that night, completely humiliated. You were leaking all day and Clark couldn’t help but think that this was all his fault. And it was. 

That was the final straw. You stayed home. 

You were sitting on your couch, staring at the ceiling in deep anger. 

“I hate him,” you mutter. Clark leans over the back of the couch and rests his head against your shoulder.

“Who are we hating today?” 

You shake your head. You’ve been anxious to tell him. He knows the man, they talk for interviews all of the time. You think they were friends. 

You sigh. 

“The man who did this to me.” 

He says nothing but a short “oh.” and kisses the side of your head. You blink up at the ceiling, having expected him to ask clarifying questions. 

He pats the side of your belly, like he would a dog that would bound up to him at the park whenever you wanted to walk outside.

He chuckles at the sound it made, like a hollow watermelon. You grip his hand tightly, head turning slowly to glare. 

You stand, wobbly, pressing a hand to your back to steady yourself. 

“Are you not going to ask?” you ask accusingly. His visible confusion makes you even more upset. You turn the corner.

“What do you mean?” 

You scoff. He was a journalist. You’d think he’d be better at asking questions, that he’d yearn to learn the truth, to know more. 

His lack of interest on the topic of the biological father wasn’t going to be healthy in the long run. 

“You’ve never asked, Clark.” 

Your hormones were getting more rampant, more irregular. You went through emotions quickly. Having a metahuman baby would surely make the effects even more intense. You scowl. 

“Asked what?” 

You groan lightly, you cross your arms. He was too calm, too genuine. It made you pause. Why did he fit into the father role so perfectly? He never seemed concerned at the prospect of his newish girlfriend having a baby from another man. 

“About the father.” 

He shrugs. He swallows thickly and smooths his hair back. 

“Do you want me to ask?” 

You nod. 

“You have to know. In case…” 

You drift off, your voice trembling. What if he doesn’t want a metahuman baby? What if it’s too much? What if the child looks too much like his buddy? 

“You have to know,” you say with finality. He sits down on the loveseat, gesturing for you to sit on the couch, facing him. His lips twitch, as if he found the situation funny. 

You huff. 

“What- how do you want me to ask? Serious, casual, w-what?” he stutters wittily. You stare at him, unblinking. He nods, pursing his lips at your eyes full of scold.

“Who is the father?” 

You swallow thickly. He mimics the action. His leg bounces, ready to hear you say what he already knew. 

“Superman.” 

His lips twitch, your hands were wringing in your lap with nerves. You look down at your feet, as they shift against the carpet. 

He chuckles. He stands.

“Superman?” 

You scoff at his tone. His voice was filled with disbelief. He kisses your cheek sweetly, rubbing a hand over your belly before standing up straighter.

“Ok.” 

He swallows so thickly that he almost chokes on his tongue as he goes back to the kitchen. His face pales as he faces away from you. 

He was panicking. What will happen once that curly dark-haired baby comes out looking exactly like Clark Kent. Will you shrug it off as coincidence? Should he tell you the truth before you figured out Clark and Superman were one in the same?  

He chopped some fruit, dwelling in the silence that followed his dismissal. He hears the couch shift, you stand, determined. 

“You don’t believe me,” you state. He avoids your gaze. He chops up a mango for you to snack on. He shrugs. 

“You don’t think your buddy Superman could ever be an absent father?” you spit out. His hands tighten. He places the knife against the cutting board softly. He was about to retort a sharp no. 

Because Superman was not an absent father. 

You huff heavily through your nose at his silence. Your body starts to shake with frustration. 

“Why don’t you call him up.  Ask him.” 

He says your name slowly.

“You get an interview from him any other day, I'm sure you could get him alone to ask about child support.” 

He turns to face you, your eyes hardened. You turn to your balcony, throwing your hands out. You ignore the slight pressure on your belly. It must be a strong kick. 

“You know what? I’ll call him right now.” 

You open the sliding doors roughly. 

“Superman!” 

He follows you outside. He feels his chest ache as he looks around. A sense of nostalgia from stepping into your balcony. 

“Superman!” you shout again, a tad bit louder. Clark stands behind you. The sounds outside were deafening, you didn’t think you would be able to hear yourself from the street below 

“What are you doing-“ 

You cut him off, holding a finger up as if his voice was disturbing your call. 

“He said he would answer my call no matter where he is, what he’s doing, he could hear me.” 

He does. He hears you perfectly well. Superman wasn’t going to come. He looks at you softly, you shout a few more times. Annoyance builds within you, sadness festering with it. 

You clutch your belly with a hand, you wince, the pressure around your bump becoming more prominent. You felt your heart in your throat, you groaned at the tightness. Clark jumps to action, hand moving to cup your bump and ask you what was wrong. 

You clutch the balcony’s thin metal railing as you lean away from him. Petty and still upset. 

He notices the creak coming from the rusty bars. He sees the way it bends forward from your weight.  You pushed away from him and suddenly you were weightless. 

You yell out as your feet slip from the ledge. 

He holds you up by the waist, another hand cupping your head. You stare at him, terrified to fall. Your chest rises and falls, you wrap your arms around his shoulders tightly.

You hear the fence clash against the street below. 

A pressure releases from your center, it felt like you pissed yourself, but your bladder wasn’t squeezed by the baby’s kick. Your pajama pants dampen. 

He was floating, the soles of his shoes lightly brushing the walls of the building. His curls flop forward as you stare up at him.

Your yell was so loud he flinched. 

“Hospital!” 

…

Month 6: Family Road trip

She babbles from the back of the car. You could see her from the mirror you set up in front of her seat, biting into the teething toy Clark froze a while ago as he drove. 

The drive from Metropolis to Kansas was almost 6 hours long. It was like a family road trip, even though you’re sure she wouldn’t remember a thing about her travels along the state. 

Clark has his hand on your thigh, resting there. You place your hand on top of his and he glances in your direction, giving your leg a squeeze. 

Driving back to Kansas was annoying, admittedly, but after groveling at your doorstep or whenever you dropped off his Dolly at his apartment, he finally managed to make you agree to seeing him again.

He couldn’t fly you both to Kansas, no matter how much he attempts to convince you to climb on his back. 

The car parks right outside the Kent household. He takes little Martha Dorothy, Dorothy mostly your silly little suggestion for a middle name because Kansas, out of the car seat and into his arms. He coos at her, mimicking her slight fussiness from the hot humid air she was blasted with as the doors opened. 

She was so small in his arms, she leaned against his shoulder. Clark blew on her face lightly, providing a cool breeze. She sleeps as he rubs her back in circles. 

Martha and Jonathan Kent greet you all with open arms. 

…

Martha was in Clark’s old crib, she slept peacefully, Clark rubbing her belly as she snoozed. 

“She liked the cows,” he says almost in a whisper. You looked over at him and could see the adorable way he was crouched over the wooden crib, his hulking form watching the teeny tiny half human dream of candy clouds and rainbows probably. 

You hum, crossing the room and pressing against his back, arms winding around him and palms sliding over his chest. 

He’s been begging for you back for months, ever since Dolly was born. You press your face in his neck. His flannel smelled like him. Not like smoke and dust from debris like Superman. Not like printer ink and that expensive coffee that he gets from around the corner. 

He smelled like plain old Clark, hot chocolate and firewood. 

“I really want to marry you.” 

He touches your hand, playing with your fingers. He wasn’t nervous as he told you this. He was surprisingly calm, and his voice was steady. He tips his head lightly to glance at you. 

You were surprisingly not freaked the hell out. 

“Not right now, though, obviously.” 

You nod, snorting at his clarification. You peck his cheek, smoothing back his hair. 

“Obviously, yeah.” 

You watch the baby settle into deep sleep. She had Clark's hair and his eyes, a slightly darker shade. You wonder if you would have ever realized the similarities. 

You tsk. You definitely would have. 

—-----------------

Hope you enjoyed anon! This was fun and silly to write. I’ve never written about some of the smut aspects. lol I'm exploring. 

Requests will be closing soon (a day or so) because I’m about to move into my new apartment soon and start the semester and lowkey I gotta lock in for senior year. I need that honor chord twins. 😔

Chubby Clark request soon! 😝

Taglist:

@aphroditesblunt @animegamerfox @twizzlelutz

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

“That’s not true. I couldn’t help you move.” 

You wave a hand at his wincing. You hadn’t asked him to, and you hadn’t minded when he cancelled at the last minute. “I’m just happy your ma was okay.” 

“I’d still like to make it up to you.” 

“How?”

His smile is crazy. Magnetic and tempting and sickening, too, nausea a pit in your stomach that blooms the longer you stare at him. Sometimes, sometimes, Clark smiles at you in this quasi-specific way and you think —you. I know you. 

And then a headache comes like a knife between your eyes. 

Clark startles at your hard flinch. “Migraine again?” 

“Not a migraine.” 

“Then what would you call it?” 

“A shooting pain? They don’t last long enough to qualify. Jimmy says so.” 

“What does Jimmy know about headaches?” Clark asks, voice taking on a silky quality that threatens to send shivers down your back. He hesitates in front of you, taller and taller as the moment stretches, before he bends at the waist to touch your forehead. “Sorry, can I just– is this okay?” 

“Sure, but, what are you–”

His hands are warm. “You don’t feel hot. What did the doctor say?” 

“I didn’t go.” 

“You didn’t go?” His softness turns stiff. “Why wouldn’t you go? Sharp pains like this aren’t normal. Why wouldn’t you go and get that looked at? You already made the appointment.” 

You shift away from his hand. It would be easy to meet him where he is right now. You could tell him that it isn’t his problem nor his business. That you didn’t wanna get looked at and ignored, again. You woke up this morning and couldn’t hack it. 

“I didn’t feel like it,” you say, not without care. 

“You didn’t feel like it.” His eyebrows rise. His thumb strokes over the curve of your eyebrow as he pulls his hand away to straighten his glasses. 

“That’s what I said, yeah.” You laugh at his parroting. “I’m fine. It’s not so bad when I’m at home. I figure maybe it’s the computer screen.” You let him stare at you in his sternness until you start to feel too much like a bug under a magnifying glass. “If I send you this bit on one-pan carbonara, could you just– read it for clarity? And cross out whatever sounds ridiculous?” 

“I doubt anything sounds ridiculous, but I’m happy to read it.”

“Thank you, Clark.”

“You’re welcome.” 

He takes a seat at his desk across the way, forcing you to turn your chair away from your computer to see him. You pretend to watch the TV, eyes flicking carefully to his back, waiting for a sign that he’s found a mistake in your article that needs changing. You’re caught on the dark curl of hair kissing his jacket when he tips his head back to meet your eyes, like he’d known you were staring the whole time. “This is great,” he says. “It’s nice, I love the anecdote at the end, you aren’t overwhelming the reader but there’s a clear set of directions and you explain it well.”

“Oh. Thank you. It’s not like there’s much to explain, really.” 

“Sure,” he says, always sure, so easy for him. “But for somebody who’s never cooked alone before, I think this is a nice starting point. I might try it.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, you can judge me on it. We can put your instructions to the test.” 

You laugh through a smile. “You can’t make carbonara?” 

“That tone you’re using wasn’t one I picked up on in the article.” 

At the end of the workday, when you’ve exhausted yourself mapping out your next week of online columns and the sun has turned Metropolis into a baking puddle, Clark catches you on the way out and walks with you to the end of the block. “So,” he says, knocking his glasses up his nose with a rushed hand, “are you free tonight?” 

“Why?” 

“To help me with this carbonara.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, please. I could use your guidance. I don’t think I even know what to put in a carbonara.” 

“You do. You’re lying.”

He smiles. “Yeah, I’m lying. Come help me anyways?” 

Grocery shopping with Clark is weirdly nice. He makes you laugh; he smells amazing when you stand beside him picking out fresh herbs, a cologne that lingers but you can’t place; he carries both bags from the store to his apartment, and makes it look like easy work. 

—

“Okay?” 

Things with Clark are so new they’re barely anything at all, but there’s an exclusive sort of sweetness to him as he slides a coffee onto your desk. You raise your chin to meet his eyes, dark behind darker glasses. Blue eyes, you know, but less piercing than you’d imagine them to be. 

“I’m okay.” 

“How’s your head?” 

It actually really hurts, now he’s mentioned it. “Fine.”

“Well, it’s decaf.”

“Spoilsport.” 

“But it’s just the way you like it, otherwise.” 

You raise your brows and take a showy sip, visibly judging his performance. The flavour hits the back of your throat, but after a rough swallow, you realise it’s probably the nicest cup of joe you’ve ever had. “That’s perfect,” you tell him, voice all scratched up and awed as he peers down at you. 

He really looks like someone else, sometimes. The more you think about it, the worse your head hurts, so you push the thought from your mind. “Thank you, Clark. This is really good. Do you– is this, like, a hobby?” 

“What, making coffee?” He deliberates with a shrug. “Not really.” 

“You’re just naturally good at everything, then.” 

“Of course not, I’m… I practised. I wanted to make it how you like it.” 

You lift your shoulder before his hand comes down to squeeze it. He handles you so easily, and so kindly, that a little brashness like this makes all the difference. His thumb works into the bone of your shoulder and it nearly-not-quite aches as it brushes its way up to the side of your neck.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly. 

You tell him you are. The workday goes like any other, you send him what you’re working on, Clark sends you back a sweet comment. He asks you if you’re busy on the way out, and you agree to go grocery shopping with him so he can attempt your recipe for honey-roasted peanuts under the watchful eye of a professional. 

“It’s not complicated, Clark, you just blanche your peanuts–”

“Raw ones?” 

“Yeah, well. You can use the pre-cooked ones, but they’re not as nice. Then you make your glaze, honey and butter and a little bit of sugar, you read the recipe–”

“Yeah, I read it, I just know you can make it better than I can, and I need the excuse to spend time with you. Which you know,” he says, holding the door for you as you go. 

It’s sitting on his kitchen counter with the smell of honey-sugar thick in the air that Clark kisses you for the first time. You’re wondering if this is real, if the handsomest man you’ve ever met genuinely wants you, and he’s sliding a hand up your thigh with a gentleness that tickles. “Hey,” he says simply. 

“Hey.” 

“Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

“For helping. For not laughing when I burned the butter.” His hand coasts to your hip, opening and then pressing into softness unabashedly. “For… letting me be a coward, for this long.” 

There’s a headache brewing square between your brows that you fight to ignore. They’re awful lately, shooting pains that don’t end unless you close your eyes. 

“This isn’t cowardice,” you say, because it’s unbelievable that he wants this, and if he doesn’t kiss you soon your heart’s gonna fall into your stomach. “Just the run up.” 

“Yeah.” He grins. “I like that. The run up to a good kiss?” he asks. His voice has gone small and weak. You don’t mistake it for nerves. This is something else entirely.

You close your eyes. It’s all the answer he needs. Your mouth falls open slowly against his as he tilts his head, as his body tries uselessly to slot between your thighs. You sigh a half-protest and he murmurs sorry into your open mouth. 

You don’t get another headache for days. 

They come back to bite you, though. Superman spent the morning playing on TV, fighting a water monster that threatened to drown an elementary school with gelatinous gloop. Clark texted you an apology of all things a few hours ago when he realised the water monster had flooded 110th street, stranding him in a bakery. Your pastries are dry! he’d promised. 

He rolls into work halfway through the day, when Superman and the Justice Gang have successfully boiled the water monster off in another shocking display of heroism. They’d blocked him into a glowing green box with Superman and a triangulation of Mister Terrific’s flying robots, amplifying his heat division and filling the box with boiling steam. Superman had been unaffected, as usual. 

Clark looks red in the face, ridiculously sorry as he presses a kiss to your cheek and a brown paper bag against your chest from behind. “Hi,” he says, “how are you?” 

You preen into his kiss. His nose lingers against your cheek. “I’m fine.” 

He smells weirder than he usually does. You sniff him curiously, promoting a warm huff of a laugh and another kiss to your cheek. “What’s up?” 

“You smell different.” 

“I do?” 

“You’re not wearing any cologne.” 

“I guess I’m not. I was in a rush. Did you eat?” 

“Yeah, we had sandwiches.” 

“Did Jimmy pay again?” 

“He did not. He offered.” 

He pulls you back to his chest. “He did.” 

“You’re not actually jealous.” 

“It’s polite of him,” he says, falling into that little voice that makes you wanna ask him to take you home. What is his problem? He’s 6’4, he’s wide, he has no business baby-voicing you and you’re eating it up ‘cos you know it isn’t put on. He gets sweet when he’s comfortable. You make him happy. 

“You’re smiling,” he accuses. 

“Nope.” 

The headaches persist. Clark is this shining bright spot of goodness in your life, even if he kisses you rather impolitely when the office clears at hometime, even when he disappears at strange times. He always texts, so. There’s a hundred different reasons as to why he’s late for work, or cancelling a date last minute, and he makes it up with flowers and apologies out of the ears. 

Superman gets busy on the news. You feel a bridge there, something about something about Clark Kent. A migraine hits before you can figure it out. 

It’s a few weeks after your first kiss, and you spend the morning flicking through photos of you and Clark. He likes taking them, holding your phone out in front of you both. “Smile!” he says, kissing you fondly when you oblige. You’re thinking about getting a couple of them printed for your photo album, though that might doom the whole thing, really, an early jinx, so for now you settle for thumbing through them with a big smile. Your head’s been hurting some since you woke up. You blame Clark for surprising you with a too-early FaceTime, sheets pulled up to your nose. 

To make up for waking you, he promises to bring groceries. You’d written a recipe for creamy mushroom eggs a few days ago that he swears he can make so long as you’re watching. 

You struggle out of bed when you hear him knocking. He’s grinning at the door, three paper bags hoisted in arms that have no business being as shapely as they are, his hair wet with rain and curling against his forehead. 

“Oh, no, it’s raining?” 

He leans in to peck you, paper bags crinkling sadly between your chests. “Not much.” 

His obvious lie makes you laugh, which has him stealing another kiss from the apple of your cheek. 

“You okay? How’s the head, today?” 

“It’s fine.” It’s protesting, actually, angered by your movement. 

“Why don’t we go sit you down, huh?”

“I don’t know why…” 

Clark guides you to the kitchen, shelving the paper bags on your small table and shepherding you into a chair at the head of it. “Why what?” 

You chew your lip. 

“What?” he asks patiently. 

“It’s like they get worse when you ask me about them. Maybe it’s psychosomatic? I’m sorry, I don’t mean– you don’t make them worse, Clark–”

But doesn’t he? He’s looking down at you and your headache is blistering, that single black curl against his forehead as his glasses slip down a damp nose. He’s wearing a blue hoodie and light wash jeans and it’s stirring and it hurts your head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. 

“It’s not you, Clark.” 

“It might be.” 

“What?” 

He bends slightly to see you. Your eyes throb in their sockets as he watches you, clearly thinking, the cogs behind pretty eyes turning slow. 

Clark brings his fingertips to your cheek. “You’ve always been very observant.” 

“Have I?” 

“Of course. You’re so smart, you have an eye for detail, the small things, all the most important parts. That’s why you’re good at what you do, right?”

“I don’t follow, Clark.” 

“Your headaches are the worst at work, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“And since we’ve been dating, they follow you home, too.” You’re worrying that this is the breakup when he raises both hands to his glasses. “It’s my fault. Or, it’s down to these.”

You stare at him wordlessly. 

“It’s– Four. Made me these, they all did, to obscure my identity. So I could have a normal life.” 

You’re feeling pretty nauseous, as things go. Maybe you’re having a stroke? That’s how these happen, sudden, strange feelings in your hands and garbled speech. Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to be speaking in riddles? 

Clark strokes your cheek again quickly, fingers going back to the arms of his glasses before you can savour the touch, and he works the black body of them down his nose and off. 

You squint at your almost-boyfriend. He looks different without the glasses. Paler. 

Then he straightens up and the pieces click firmly into place. 

Your lips part. He folds his glasses into the front of his hoodie, crossing his arms over his chest to follow. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” 

“How are you… Your glasses– and they– the headaches?” 

“I don’t know. They never told me there’d be side effects.” 

“Who’s they?” 

He smiles rather boyishly, considering. “The bots, at the Fortress of Solitude. Four never mentioned that it could hurt you. I’m sorry about that.” 

Superman is looking down at you with big blue eyes and Clark Kent’s pretty mouth. That you’ve kissed. You’ve kissed superman. 

“Can you stop frowning? You have a nicer smile,” you say finally. 

He wants to do as you’ve asked, but his expression stutters. “You’re not mad?” 

“About what?” 

“About– about what? About my secret.” 

You’re not sure you can say ‘Superman’ out loud. “Either I’m having an aneurysm, or you have, like, the world's biggest burden on your shoulders. How could I be mad about that?” 

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. Clark-man (wow!) grins sudden and sweet as he loses his straight-backed posture, bending down again, looking for your hands where they live waiting at the ends of your arms for his touch. “I’m a metahuman. Hell, I’m not even human. I’m from space. You’re being unbelievably cool about this.” 

You settle into your chair with a tired smile. “My headache’s gone for the first time in months.” 

He pulls your hand to his chest. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, completely. Who knew it was you the whole time? Should’ve stayed away. Just, I couldn’t manage it.” 

He kneels at your feet. “Is it really all better?” he asks.

The relief is nothing you’ve felt before. The first absence of pain after weeks of pinching agony. 

Clark pulls the glasses off of his hoodie and throws them over his shoulder. They land with a crack in the kitchen sink. 

“Don’t you need those?” you ask. 

He takes your face into a big, big hand, smiley and shy as he pulls you down to meet his mouth. “Not for this,” he promises, breath warm on your lips and your tongue as he takes the lead. The kiss goes hot and heavy as honey under summer sun, blistering, and searchingly slow. He kisses better without his glasses. You shuttle the thought away for a later date and let yourself sink into the heat of his chest. 

—

“I thought Superman didn’t have time for selfies?” you croon sometime later, sated and steady with a warm body behind your back. 

Clark hums into your hair tiredly. “Huh?” 

“You always make us take photos together.” 

“Well, that’s different. With you, I’m usually Clark.” 

“Usually?” 

He kisses the top of your ear. “Yeah. Guy you just met? That was Superman. But otherwise, I’m just Clark.” 

You groan as he laughs, giving it your best attempt at wiggling out of his reach to punish him for the cheesy line. Strong forearms cross over your stomach to pull you right back in. 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, hips rolling in slow, punishing thrusts that pulled gasps from your throat. “You feel so good—always feel so fuckin’ good…”

Your legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the curve of his ass, urging him deeper.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart?” he panted, forehead resting against yours. “Come on, I know you’re close.”

You could barely form words. Everything was heat and friction and the slow climb to a peak that had been building for days. He’d been gone—missions, briefings, whatever other bullshit Val had piled on him—and you hadn’t had this, hadn’t had him, in far too long.

Now, you were starving for him.

And from the way he was panting against your mouth, he was just as gone for you.

Bucky’s rhythm faltered for a second—just a split moment—as his cock pulsed deep inside you and he moaned, low and wrecked.

Then—bzzzt.

The phone on the nightstand lit up.

The sound sliced through the heat like cold water.

You groaned, your hands clawing into his shoulders, nails dragging down the flex of his back. “Ignore it,” you muttered, voice thick.

He nodded without looking, mouth already on your throat again. “Wasn’t gonna stop.”

Bzzzt.

He hesitated. You felt the tension in his hips, the shift in his weight. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to grab it—like his fucking conditioning made him twitch toward the sound.

“James,” you growled, pulling his face back to yours. “Focus.”

He smirked—flushed, wild-eyed, strands of hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead. “Yes, ma’am.”

He rocked back into you, deeper this time, harder. You gasped, arching into him, fingernails biting into his arms.

“You’re such a good girl,” he grunted, “always take me so—”

Bzzzt.

The sound felt louder now.

Persistent.

You tensed beneath him, and he slowed—just a fraction. His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You whispered, dangerously low, “James Buchanan Barnes, don’t you dare.”

He paused. Exhaled. “I won’t,” he murmured.

And he didn’t.

Not when you kissed him. Not when your legs tightened around him again, pulling him back into that rhythm. Not when your hips met his in frantic, greedy movement, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

But then—

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

Buzzing. Relentless.

Like it knew it was ruining something.

His rhythm faltered again. Slower this time. His breath hitched.

And you could see it—feel it—his mind slipping.

“Two seconds, baby,” he whispered, barely coherent.

Then he reached.

You froze. Staring.

He reached for the phone.

“For fuck’s sake—” You shoved his chest, hard enough to make him fall back slightly, the weight of him disappearing as you slid out from under him.

“What?” he asked, dazed, already answering the call. “Where’re you going?”

You grabbed your robe from the edge of the bed, slipping it on in one fluid motion, not even sparing him a glance as you stalked toward the kitchen.

“To make a goddamn sandwich,” you snapped over your shoulder.

And then Bucky was left there, shirtless and half-hard, with the call pressed to his ear and the echo of your frustration ringing louder than the goddamn phone ever did.

────────────────────────

The quiet creak of the bedroom door broke through the stillness as you stood at the kitchen counter, barefoot, chewing slowly on the sandwich you’d slapped together out of spite and mild hunger. Your tiny silk robe hugged your hips, and the morning light from the window behind you cast a low, golden glow across your back.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You could feel him watching you—feel the apology radiating off him before he even spoke.

A few seconds later, Bucky padded into the kitchen fully dressed, freshly showered, dog tags glinting faintly beneath his shirt collar. His hair was still damp, slicked back lazily with his fingers.

Your stomach twisted.

He stopped beside you, hands in his pockets, jaw tense. “It’s the team.”

You nodded, still chewing.

You didn’t need him to say it. You’d known the second that phone buzzed three times in a row.

“In the city?”

He nodded. “Watchtower. Just a briefing. Maybe recon. Shouldn’t be long.”

You nodded again, finishing the bite and setting the crust on the plate. The silence stretched.

Bucky leaned in, crowding into your space slightly like he always did when he needed you to ground him. “You angry?”

You sighed, licking a crumb from your bottom lip. Then you turned, finally facing him, and your arms slid easily around his neck.

He exhaled the moment you touched him—like that one gesture released the tension wrapped around his ribs.

“No,” you murmured, voice quiet but firm. “I’m not angry.”

His arms circled your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You sure?”

You nodded into his shoulder. “I know what I signed up for. You’re out there saving the world.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, brows furrowed, voice softer now. “Still. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate leaving.”

You looked up at him for a long beat, reading the guilt in his eyes. Then, deadpan:

“Well. You did spend the last ten minutes of our morning trying to ignore your phone while balls-deep in me. I’d call that balance.”

He huffed a low, surprised laugh, forehead dropping to yours. “Jesus Christ.”

You shrugged, lips twitching. “Hey. You asked.”

He kissed you, slow and lingering, and whispered against your mouth, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

You pulled back just enough to give him that classic stare—the flat one that usually made Bob flinch.

“Honestly?” you said, voice dry. “Just the luck of the draw, hon.”

Bucky barked out a real laugh this time, low and raspy. “That sounds about right.”

You smiled—small, real—then leaned in and brushed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. His hand trailed down your spine, fingers resting at the hem of your robe, his lips ghosting along your jaw now.

“I told them I’d be there in fifteen.”

“Mmhm.”

“But the drive’s only ten.”

You hummed, finishing your sip of water, eyes moving to your sandwich.

“So,” he murmured, mouth back at your ear now, voice dipping low, “technically that gives us five minutes to finish what we started.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze under lowered lashes.

The look in his eyes was full of hope. And want. And a little desperation.

You kissed him—once, slow and sultry—letting him feel your mouth move over his.

Then you pulled back, just enough to whisper against his lips, “Mm. No.”

He blinked. “What?”

You turned, picking your sandwich back up and walking away toward the couch. “You already finished once today. Let a girl eat.”

Behind you, Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And yet, here you are,” you called over your shoulder, settling down and flipping through the remote like your thighs weren’t still sticky from him.

He watched you for a second longer, eyes lingering like he was committing you to memory. Then he sighed, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door.

“Call me after?” you said casually.

He looked back, already halfway out.

“Always.”

────────────────────────

The conference room in the Watchtower was, unfortunately, real. Sterile and over-lit with its polished black table and transparent display screens, it felt more like the waiting room of a tech-startup funeral than the nerve center of the New Avengers.

Bucky sat at the far end of the table, jaw clenched, half-listening as Val paced in front of a projected graph that looked like it was bleeding red. His phone buzzed once in his pocket—his eyes flicked down—but it wasn’t you, and the hollow ache behind his ribs twisted a little deeper.

This was the thing that had pulled him away. Not a mission. Not a world-ending threat. Just PR bullshit.

Val tapped the screen with her manicured finger like it had personally offended her. “The numbers are bad. Public trust in the New Avengers is declining, and fast. People don’t like what they don’t recognize. And right now, you’re a bunch of strangers with messy optics and zero cohesion.”

At her side, Mel nodded without looking up from her tablet. “Engagement down 22% week-over-week. Headlines are skewing nostalgic. Keywords trending: ‘wish Cap was back,’ ‘where’s the heart,’ and ‘vigilante vibes.’”

Yelena lounged back in her chair like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her feet were propped on the table’s edge, one boot bouncing with slow, deliberate disinterest. “Maybe they’re just mourning the glory days,” she muttered, twisting her gum around her finger. “Old team got shiny deaths and glossy documentaries. We get memes.”

Ava, seated across from her, gave a quiet snort. “We’re not here to trend. We’re here to finish missions.”

Val didn’t even blink. “You’re here to represent global security and inspire public trust. And without that trust, you’re nothing more than privately-funded vigilantes in almost matching gear.”

“I like our gear,” Alexei rumbled helpfully from the end, arms crossed over his chest like a stubborn bear.

Val spared him a look. “You’re the closest thing we have to comic relief, Alexei. Lean into it.”

“Is that what they call ‘noble heroism’ now?” he huffed.

Walker sat ramrod straight, jaw working, his suit perfectly zipped. “You think Cap worried about popularity? We’re not running a fashion campaign.”

“No,” Val said flatly. “But Cap didn’t publicly decapitate someone with a shield on live television either.”

Yelena snorted. “Yikes.”

John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Point is,” Val continued, “you all need a rebrand. Yelena—your personality makes you relatable. Media loves you. You’ll handle most interviews.”

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Great. I’ll practice my ‘Good Morning, America’ smile.”

“Ava,” Val said, turning, “your trauma narrative plays well. But lean into redemption. Soft lighting. No more disappearing mid-interview.”

Ava’s response was a flat stare. “I’ll try not to phase through my own dignity.”

Val didn’t even acknowledge the jab.

“John,” she said, and his head snapped up like a soldier awaiting orders. “Less cowboy, more Captain. Smile more. No threats on-camera. Pretend you like people.”

He scoffed under his breath, muttering something about “hand-holding and fairy tales.”

“Alexei,” she said, deadpan, “people like the Soviet uncle bit. Keep it up.”

Alexei beamed.

“Bob, you’re doing fine. Stay polite. And no more jokes about punching through tanks, they’re fact-checking you.”

Bob looked vaguely hurt. “It was metaphorical.”

Val finally turned her gaze to Bucky, her expression shifting slightly—not warmer, but sharper, more calculated. She paced a slow step closer to where he sat, hands clasped behind her back like a politician delivering bad news with a smile.

“You, Barnes, are the key,” she said simply. “You’re the most recognized face on this team, and not just because of your past as the Winter Soldier.”

She gestured toward the screen behind her, now displaying a montage of Bucky’s appearances—post-congressional interviews, old wartime footage, newer press photos where he stood stoically beside Sam.

“You were a war hero before you were ever the Winter Soldier. Sergeant James Barnes, the Howling Commando, the man who fought beside Captain America during the most iconic conflict of the 20th century. And, until very recently, a U.S. Congressman advocating for post-snap veteran reform. Your file reads like a patriotic fantasy novel.”

Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. But something in his jaw ticked.

Val leaned in a little, her voice softening, but not with kindness—just control.

“What we need now is that Bucky. The leader. The charming, respectful, golden-era face people want to believe in. Friendly. Accessible. And most importantly…”

She paused.

“Available.”

That made Bucky’s eyes lift, expression tightening. “You do know I have a girlfriend, right? I’m in a committed relationship.”

Val didn’t miss a beat. “One the public doesn’t know about. And doesn’t need to.”

He sat forward slightly, steel entering his voice. “You’re asking me to lie.”

“No,” Val said, waving a hand. “I’m asking you to protect her. Think of it this way—if no one knows who she is, no one can leverage her. No threats. No gossip. No crossfire. It’s smarter this way.”

Mel tapped her tablet again. “We’ve already scrubbed mentions, just in case. Nothing linking her name to yours comes up in connection to the New Avengers.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He hated this. Every inch of it.

“Why is it so important that I look ‘available’?” he asked flatly.

Val’s smile sharpened. “Because people want to like you. And people like what they want. It’s a psychological pull. You become more desirable, more approachable—someone they imagine they could know. That they could be with. It builds trust, makes you more likable. Marketable.”

He stared at her for a long beat.

“You want to make me into a fantasy.”

“I want to make you into a symbol,” Val corrected coolly. “And symbols don’t get girlfriends.”

Across the room, Yelena let out a low, mocking whistle. “Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”

Ava shook her head. “What’s next? Tinder profiles and fan edits?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s optics. We all knew this came with the job.”

But Bucky barely heard them. His mind was already drifting—to you, still barefoot in the kitchen, silk robe sliding over bare thighs, chewing your sandwich with zero interest in who he was to the rest of the world. Just who he was to you.

And now, he had to pretend you didn’t exist.

He didn’t respond. Just sat back in his chair and regretted every second he hadn’t spent in your arms this morning.

────────────────────────

The Watchtower always smelled like metal and over-sterilized air. You hated it.

Fluorescents buzzed overhead as you stepped off the elevator, holding a small, zippered pouch in your hand—the charger Bucky had forgotten, again, even though you reminded him three times before he left.

The place felt like a cross between a tech firm and a concrete bunker: all gray walls, touchscreen doors, and state-mandated potted plants.

The main floor—what passed for a communal living space—was half chaos, half nap zone. Yelena was sprawled on one end of the sectional couch, flipping through something on her tablet and eating dried mango slices from a bag she probably stole from someone else.

Ava stood leaning against the wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the room like she was waiting for someone to step out of line so she could phase them through a floor. Bob was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a comic book held way too close to his face, murmuring what you assumed was commentary under his breath.

Alexei was telling a story. Loudly. And probably badly.

Bucky spotted you first. He was standing near the open kitchen area, talking with Mel—Val’s too-efficient assistant who always looked like she was plotting the next step of a corporate coup.

His entire expression changed when he saw you. The tension in his shoulders dropped a little, the corner of his mouth lifted, and for a second, he didn’t look like the unofficial leader of a barely-tethered government strike team. He just looked like your boyfriend.

You handed him the charger without ceremony.

“You left this.”

He took it with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck like it was the first time he’d ever been caught forgetting something (it wasn't). “Thanks. Thought I had it packed.”

“Nope,” you said, popping the “p.”

You didn’t mean to stay. You weren’t supposed to linger. But Bucky motioned for you to walk with him, and you didn’t say no.

Up close, you noticed the tired edge in his face. Like whatever conversation he’d been having before you arrived had worn him down more than a mission ever could.

He told you about it—about Val’s latest brainstorm. That the team needed to be more “media-friendly.” That they wanted him to lean into the good ol’ days: Sergeant James “Bucky” Barnes, WWII hero, former Congressman, the smile-that-could-end-wars poster boy.

You listened without interrupting, arms crossed, eyes squinting toward the ceiling as you tried to think through what he was actually saying.

When he finished, you just shrugged.

“Well,” you said, “sounds like when celebrities fake relationships before a movie comes out. Or pretend they’re single to sell tickets.”

Bucky blinked. “How do you even know that?”

You gave him a flat look, expression unreadable. “I was born in 1995, babe. Not the fucking 40s.”

Behind him, Walker snorted loudly. He’d been pretending not to listen, but of course he was.

“Damn,” he said, leaning against the fridge like he was waiting for someone to ask for his input (nobody did). “My wife would’ve never let me get away with that.”

You turned to look at him. Not annoyed. Not even angry. Just blank. Like staring at a particularly ugly lamp in a hotel room.

“That’s why she’s your ex-wife,” you said, voice calm. “And good for her.”

Yelena, without looking up from her tablet, let out a noise that might’ve been a laugh. Ava smirked quietly. Even Alexei stopped mid-sentence to grin like someone had dropped his favorite sitcom back into rotation.

Bucky watched all of it happen with a complicated kind of amusement. But it didn’t last.

Because then he had to say the next part.

He rubbed his hands down your arms, slow and hesitant, like bracing you.

“Val advised…” he started, then caught himself. “She recommended that maybe—for now—you don’t come around the tower. Or get seen with us in general.”

He didn’t say “hide.” He didn’t have to.

Your face didn’t change much. Not really. But he saw it. That tiny prickle of tension in your jaw. The slight shift in your eyes when you looked away from him for just a second too long.

You muttered something low. A lazy, “Whatever.” But the way you pulled your arms away said everything.

“I need to go anyway.”

Bucky stepped closer, voice soft but strained. “You don’t have to leave right away.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, eyes unreadable, lips pressed in that almost-smile that wasn’t really a smile at all.

Then you leaned in and kissed his cheek, slow and warm, the way you always did when you were trying not to let the weight of something show.

“See you at home,” you murmured.

Your voice dipped at the end, barely above a whisper as you pulled back. “If you’re still allowed to come home, anyway.”

It wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t bitter.

It was worse.

It was tired.

Before he could answer, before he could say anything at all, you turned and walked to the elevator, the soft sound of your footsteps swallowed by the Watchtower’s chaos.

He didn’t follow.

And that hurt more than you cared to admit.

────────────────────────

It was slow. Almost imperceptible, at first.

A missed call here. A text left on “read” longer than usual. A two-day mission becoming a four-day stretch at the tower. No big fights. No yelling. No doors slammed.

Just quiet.

But that was the thing about quiet—Bucky had lived in it for too long. He knew its weight. Knew how it filled rooms like fog, hiding the way things shifted underneath.

Now, it was in everything.

He sat on the edge of his bed in the Watchtower, staring at the wall, phone still in hand from a message he hadn’t sent. His thoughts weren’t here—weren’t in this too-bright room, or with Val’s next debrief, or on the press event they had the next morning.

They were in Brooklyn.

Your shared apartment. The one with the soft light and creaky floorboards, and the tiny espresso machine you swore was better than anything Bucky had ever tasted. That place was home. It smelled like your lavender detergent and your coconut shampoo and your weirdly specific collection of candles labeled things like “wet grass” and “Scandinavian night.”

His body ached to be there. Just... there. On the couch. Next to you.

He used to spend three days a week here, tops. Two, if he could push it. The rest he’d guard selfishly for you—days spent sleeping beside you, cooking breakfast together, reading on opposite ends of the couch while your foot found his thigh and stayed there. You’d talk to him, let the silence stretch and snap and re-stitch. You never pushed. You never pried.

You were his quiet. The right kind of quiet.

Now? Now he barely remembered the last night he’d actually fallen asleep next to you. Really slept. Not just crashed on the bed after some back-to-back PR gig that left him in a suit with aching teeth from smiling too much.

He hated it.

He hated talking to the press, hated the way they asked questions like they already had the answers written. He hated being told to laugh, to charm, to tell stories that didn’t feel like his anymore. He hated Val’s smug reminders that likability mattered. That perception mattered.

Sometimes, he wished he’d never gone to Congress. That he hadn’t let convinced himself into the platform, the speeches, the idea that he could do good with a microphone instead of a mission.

Sometimes, he wished he’d just… faded.

Found a quiet nine-to-five. Something with a routine. Something boring.

Something normal.

Like you had.

You worked corporate communications. You clocked in and out. You had a clean desk, ergonomic chair, sarcastic co-workers. You went for runs in the park on weekends, had lunch dates with your girlfriends, took yoga classes when you weren’t too exhausted from the week.

You lived in the world like a real person.

And he’d wanted that so badly. Not for himself—but with you.

Because you were his normal. His constant. The stillness that didn’t suffocate. The grounding he’d clung to after years of floating through someone else’s chaos.

But now?

Now he didn’t know how to reach for it without dragging it into the spotlight with him.

And every time he came home and found you already asleep, back to him, or out with friends instead of waiting, or just… quiet in a way that wasn’t yours anymore—

He felt it.

The drift.

And he hated it.

────────────────────────

You didn’t talk about it.

You didn’t let yourself think about it.

The distance. His absence. The too-quiet apartment, the untouched half of the bed, the silence when your phone didn’t buzz all day. It wasn’t worth thinking about. People were dying in the world—actual, breathing, bleeding people—and you were going to be pathetic about your boyfriend missing dinner?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

So you cleaned. You ran. You worked. You answered emails with snide internal commentary and booked your usual yoga class for Tuesday even though you hated the new instructor’s voice. You refused to call it coping.

It was just living.

And tonight? Tonight was fine.

It was Saturday. He’d said he’d be back for dinner.

You didn’t text to confirm because you didn’t want to hover. Didn’t want to be needy. He’d said it, he’d meant it, and you would trust that. Like always.

So, you cooked.

Beef stew—slow and thick and comforting. Heavenly mashed potatoes, made with way more butter than you’d ever admit to aloud. Roasted vegetables, because Bucky needed something green on his plate or he’d sulk. It was all simmering gently on the stove while you lay curled on the couch in your oldest pair of yoga shorts and a hoodie, eating straight from a pint of mint chocolate chip.

It was fine.

Okay, it was your cheat day.

Okay, you’d had more cheat days than planned recently.

You’d also bought a new pair of jeans in the next size up, but that was irrelevant. You were not stress-eating. You were just... adapting to your changing lifestyle.

Had Bucky noticed?

The thought came and went before you could kill it.

He hadn’t said anything. Not that you needed him to. But still.

The sound of the TV murmured in the background, some fluff piece news channel you’d forgotten to mute while scrolling your phone. Something about the New Avengers. You tuned in just enough to glance at the footage—drone shots of a crumbling government facility somewhere in Eastern Europe, flames curling up the side of a building like hands.

You recognized the team instantly. Yelena, tossing her baton mid-air like it annoyed her to carry it. Ava disappearing through smoke. John looking way too pleased with himself.

And then—there he was.

Bucky.

His tactical suit was soot-streaked, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, face streaked with ash. He was helping someone—no, two people—down the fire escape, guiding them through smoke with one hand steady on their backs.

Then it happened.

One of the women—civilian, blonde, maybe late 20s—turned and kissed him on the cheek. A hard, grateful kind of kiss. The kind that left a smudge of ash on his jaw.

She clung to him like he’d saved her life.

Maybe he had.

And Bucky? He smiled.

Not his press smile. Not the tight, practiced one. But something else—softer. Real.

You blinked.

Let out a breath through your nose. “Jesus Christ.”

It wasn’t like he kissed her. It wasn’t like he meant anything by it. She’d probably thought she was about to die, and then Bucky Barnes dragged her out of a collapsing building, and she just… reacted.

You weren’t jealous.

You were just being dramatic.

This was not about you.

But somehow, that one moment served to curdle the rest of the evening.

You changed the channel without saying anything, the ice cream melting slowly in your hands. The scent of stew floated in from the kitchen, warm and rich, but you didn’t move.

Dinner would keep.

You weren't sure if he would.

────────────────────────

It was past ten by the time Bucky stepped into the apartment.

The hallway had been dark. The front door had creaked louder than usual. And the only light inside was the kitchen, glowing soft and golden like a memory. It lit the space just enough to reveal the forgotten dinner plates covered in cling film on the counter, the quiet hum of the microwave keeping your meal warm—like it was still waiting.

But you weren’t.

His breath caught in his throat as he toed off his boots, silence wrapping around him like a punishment.

He said six.

Not “around six,” not “if I can swing it.” Just six. Sharp. He said it with his hands on your waist and his lips in your hair the night before. Said it like he meant it.

And now it was 10:18.

He could barely look at the time. The guilt clawed at him, sharp and low and constant. Every second he’d spent at the tower—every extra minute talking to reporters, doing damage control, smiling on cue—had eaten at him like acid.

He was supposed to be here.

In your shared space. In this soft, too-warm apartment that smelled faintly like roasted vegetables and your perfume.

And the worst part wasn’t just that he’d missed dinner. It was that he knew exactly what you’d done in his absence.

You wouldn’t have texted. Wouldn’t have called. You would’ve made his favorite meal anyway. You would’ve set out two bowls. You would’ve eaten alone, probably on the couch, probably in silence. And you would’ve told yourself—it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine—like you had any interest in believing it anymore.

The bathroom door clicked open.

He froze.

You stepped out, already dressed for bed—an oversized button-down, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your hair was twisted up and pinned in the messy, practical way you always wore it when you were done for the day. Slippers scuffed softly against the floor as you walked into the hall, blinking slightly at the light.

You stopped when you saw him.

Both of you just stood there for a moment—frozen in that strange tension where neither of you knew which role to play yet. He looked at you like he didn’t know if he was allowed to speak.

Then he remembered how to breathe.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said quietly, voice rougher than he meant. Like he’d been holding it in all night. “I—I got caught up. I didn’t mean to—”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just blinked at him. No surprise on your face. No anger.

Just quiet.

Then you gave a little shrug—small and tired, the kind of shrug that said what else is new?—and turned toward the kitchen.

“There’s food in the microwave if you’re still hungry,” you said simply.

And then you walked past him.

No kiss. No touch. No sarcastic jab.

Just your scent, and the ache of knowing that he wasn’t even sure if he was following you to the bedroom or to the guest room tonight.

The door clicked softly behind you.

And Bucky stood alone in the glow of a kitchen he didn’t deserve.

────────────────────────

It was almost midnight when Bucky finally walked into the bedroom.

Not because he was tired. He’d been tired for hours.

He just needed to be sure you were asleep.

The microwave had long since gone silent. He’d eaten half the stew in distracted mouthfuls, barely tasting it, then spent an hour sitting in the living room in the dark, elbows on his knees, forehead resting on steepled hands. The guilt gnawed at him—not loud or dramatic, just steady, like water dripping against stone. It never stopped.

He pushed open the door slowly, as if afraid it would creak too loud. The room smelled like your shampoo, your skin, your cocoa body butter. His sanctuary. The place he used to walk into and feel immediate calm.

Now it just reminded him of everything he was missing, even while it was still right in front of him.

You were already in bed.

Covers pulled halfway up. Lights dimmed. Hair pinned back in the soft way you wore it only at night. You slept with your back to the door—back to him—and it made something inside him pinch.

He hesitated in the doorway, watching the gentle rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers curled under your pillow. Still. Quiet. Entirely out of reach.

He stripped silently, down to boxers and a threadbare black t-shirt, and slid beneath the sheets with a care that bordered on reverent.

Then—inch by inch—he moved closer.

It was tentative. Like approaching a deer in the woods. Like if he moved too fast, you might flinch and disappear.

His arm slid around your waist. Cautious. Testing.

You didn’t move.

So he let his chest press against your back, warm and slow. Let his knees curve behind yours, let his other hand reach up and tuck gently under your ribcage, pulling you flush.

Then—finally—he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Breathed you in like he hadn’t seen home in weeks.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Still, you didn’t stir. No tensing. No pulling away.

Just the soft, subconscious hum of sleep.

And that—that tiny, unconscious mercy—was enough to let him exhale for the first time all night.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And he held on to it like it might save him.

────────────────────────

The apartment smelled like detergent and coffee. Morning light streamed in through the windows, dust catching in the gold. On the surface, it looked like a Sunday—peaceful, slow, quiet.

But it wasn’t.

You sat on the couch, folding laundry with the precision of someone who needed something—anything—to occupy your hands. T-shirt, fold. Socks, fold. Hoodie, fold. The pile on the coffee table grew in neat little stacks, organized by drawer and category.

Bucky leaned in the doorway, watching you. Barefoot, hair tied up, one of his sweatshirts hanging loose around your shoulders. It should’ve been comforting. Familiar.

It wasn’t.

He moved to the kitchen, filled two mugs with coffee, brought yours over without a word. Set it down next to your knee. You gave a nod, murmured “thanks,” without looking up.

His stomach twisted.

He sat across from you, mug cradled in both hands, trying not to overthink it. Trying to act normal. Pretend that everything didn’t feel like it was three steps left of what it used to be.

“So,” he said, voice easy, like he was just easing into the day with you. “You still going to that yoga class on Tuesdays?”

You didn’t look at him. Just kept folding a pair of socks, thumbs pressing the fabric into place. “Yeah.”

He waited for more.

Nothing.

“You like it?”

You shrugged, moved onto a fitted sheet. “It’s fine.”

Bucky nodded slowly, feeling the distance like a cold draft under a closed door.

That was how you talked to people you didn’t want to get stuck in a conversation with. To strangers. To coworkers who overshared. To the people you were polite to but had no desire to know.

He remembered how your voice used to sound when it was just the two of you—low, dry, threaded with sarcasm and occasional sweetness you tried hard to hide. He remembered the way your eyes used to flick up mid-conversation just to check that he was still smiling. He remembered you saying, “I hate everyone but you,” with a hand on his chest and a smirk you couldn't keep down.

Now?

Now you sounded like someone tolerating him.

And it broke something inside his chest that he didn’t know how to fix.

He took a sip of his coffee, staring into the steam, words catching behind his teeth.

You weren’t angry.

You weren’t cruel.

You were just... gone.

And it was killing him.

The silence had stretched too long. Not peaceful. Not content. Just tense.

Bucky watched you fold a hoodie and set it aside like it mattered. Like it was worth more attention than him. He had tried—coffee, questions, anything to coax out that sliver of warmth you used to give him without thinking.

Now it was measured. Distant. Like he was on the other side of something neither of you had noticed building until it was too high to climb over.

He stared into his coffee like it might offer an answer. It didn’t.

So finally—quietly, but not gently—he asked, “Are we okay?”

You froze mid-fold.

Your hands stilled, holding one of his long-sleeve shirts in your lap, fingers curled around the soft fabric.

And then, for the first time that morning, you looked at him.

Not a glance. Not a nod. You looked at him.

There was a frown on your lips. A deep furrow between your brows. The kind of look you gave when something was broken and you weren’t sure whether to fix it or walk away from it.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly.

The words hit harder than he was ready for.

You didn’t know.

And that terrified him.

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to process it, but nothing quite stuck. His hands tightened around the mug in his grip.

You looked down again, slowly folding the shirt in your lap. Your voice dropped, softer now. Barely above the hum of the fridge.

“I try not to think about it.”

Bucky’s throat tightened.

You weren’t trying to hurt him. But it hurt anyway.

Because that was the truth of it, wasn’t it? Neither of you had talked about it. You’d just lived in the quiet space between exhaustion and effort, pretending the love was enough to keep everything from shifting.

You still loved him. He knew that.

But love wasn't fixing it. Not when you felt like strangers in the same home.

“I miss you,” he said, voice rough. “Even when I’m right here. I miss you.”

You didn’t look up.

Didn’t answer.

Just smoothed your fingers across the folded shirt like maybe if you kept them busy, the truth wouldn’t get too loud.

He wanted to reach across the coffee table, wanted to take your hands, wanted to say something to undo it all.

But neither of you were good at this part.

You were good at sarcasm. At quiet nights. At sex in the kitchen and lazy Sundays with pancakes and him pretending not to burn the bacon.

You weren’t good at asking for what you needed.

And right now, neither of you knew how to say what came next.

So the silence stretched again—thicker now, heavier.

The laundry was folded.

That’s what you clung to, bizarrely, like it meant something. Order. Control. You stacked the last shirt on the table and smoothed your palms down your thighs, blinking at nothing in particular.

You hadn’t spoken since I miss you.

Not because you didn’t want to.

Because you didn’t trust what might come out if you did.

Across from you, Bucky hadn’t moved much either. Just sat with the cooling coffee in his hands, elbows on his knees, staring at the place you used to lean into him without hesitation.

The silence thickened until it felt like breathing through gauze.

You stood up, grabbed your coffee, and walked into the kitchen. You weren’t thirsty. You just needed something to do.

Behind you, Bucky’s voice broke the quiet.

“This isn’t what I wanted,” he said.

Your back tensed. The mug clinked slightly against the counter.

“I didn’t want this either,” you said, not turning around.

“You used to talk to me,” he murmured. “Even when you were annoyed. Even when you were tired. You still talked.”

You closed your eyes.

“It’s hard to talk,” you said, voice flat, “when you’re not around to listen.”

The armchair scraped back against the floor. Footsteps. Closer.

“I am listening,” he said, more desperate now. “I know I’ve been— I’ve been stretched. But I’m here now. Just talk to me.”

You turned around slowly, coffee mug still in your hand. You looked at him, really looked. And something inside you cracked—not because you didn’t love him.

Because you did.

That was the problem.

“I don’t want to be another thing you manage, Bucky.”

He froze.

You shook your head slowly. “You manage the media. You manage the team. You manage your image. I don’t want to be another box you tick at the end of the day.”

“I don’t think of you like that—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

He stared at you, helpless.

“I don’t doubt you love me,” you continued. “But I can’t keep living in the spaces between your obligations. You show up late, you leave early. You touch me like you’re scared I’ll vanish. And maybe I will, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take without losing myself.”

Your voice didn’t shake.

Your hands didn’t clench.

You weren’t yelling.

But you might as well have torn your heart out and set it on the counter between you.

Bucky swallowed hard. “So what? You’re done?”

You looked at him, and for the first time, there was no sarcasm. No tight-lipped smile. Just a hollow kind of truth.

“I’m tired,” you said. “And I don’t know how to not be tired anymore.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Your voice dropped lower. “I can’t be the only one holding the thread, babe.”

The silence returned. Bigger now.

You stepped around him, walked to the bedroom, and closed the door behind you—not slammed. Just shut.

Soft. But final.

While Bucky stood in the kitchen, frozen.

The coffee in his mug had gone cold.

The apartment felt foreign, like he’d wandered into someone else’s life and forgotten how to get back to his own.

He sat down on the edge of the couch, hands in his hair.

He couldn’t lose this. He wouldn’t.

You were it. His peace. His pulse. The only thing in his life that ever made him feel real.

He didn’t care what Val said, or what public image they wanted to build, or how many staged smiles he had to fake for camera crews.

If it meant losing you?

Then it wasn’t worth anything.

And he would fix it.

He didn’t know how yet.

But he would.

Because if this ended, if you walked away and didn’t look back—

He’d be nothing but a name in a file again.

And he’d already spent too much of his life feeling like a ghost.

────────────────────────

Bucky had never cared for formal events, especially not since becoming the public face of a team that didn't particularly want one. But tonight wasn’t about optics. It wasn’t about strategy or good PR.

It was about you.

The invitation had landed on Val’s desk a week ago—a high-profile charity gala for Clean Futures, an international organization funding mental health programs for post-Blip survivors. Your company had a long-standing partnership with the group, which meant you’d be there. Representing. Smiling for photos. Dressed to kill.

And you hadn’t told him.

You didn’t need to. He hadn’t earned that kind of openness in weeks.

So Bucky had taken the opportunity and run with it.

He stood in front of the full-length mirror in the Watchtower’s prep room, tugging at the lapels of the black suit that Mel had somehow sourced last-minute. The cut was sharp, classic, tailored to emphasize broad shoulders and trim waist. His hair was slicked back, jaw clean-shaven, cufflinks engraved with the new Avengers insignia.

It felt like armor.

It wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t for the team.

It was for you.

Because maybe if he showed up—not as a soldier or a symbol or a ghost of a man who couldn’t keep promises—but as your man, he might finally break the wall you’d built brick by slow, exhausted brick.

"You look like a magazine ad for heartbreak,” Yelena said flatly as she passed him in the hallway, already halfway into a glittering black gown. “That is not a compliment.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “You know she’s gonna be there?”

“Do I look like her personal assistant?” she replied. “You’re the one who made Val jump through hoops to drag us into this.”

“It's for a good cause,” he said.

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “Uh-huh. Sure. Purely selfless.”

Ava walked by next, heels clicking. “You’re nervous,” she noted, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m not—”

“You’re sweating through a thousand dollars worth of tailoring. That’s nerves.”

He rolled his eyes.

Alexei, coming down the stairs in a tux that looked like it belonged to a different century, clapped him on the back. “You want advice? Make her laugh. Women like a man who makes them laugh.”

“Or,” Bob said quietly, trailing behind them with his bowtie untied and suit wrinkled, “you could just apologize. That works too.”

Bucky ignored them all as he fastened his bowtie and adjusted the cuffs one last time.

He didn’t know if you’d speak to him.

But he’d be damned if he stood across a ballroom from you and didn’t try.

────────────────────────

The camera flashes started the moment the New Avengers stepped out of the sleek black convoy outside the grand hotel.

Reporters lined the ropes, shouting names and questions, bulbs flashing like strobe lights in a storm. Val stood smug just off to the side, soaking it in like she’d orchestrated the whole damn thing.

Inside, the ballroom was already humming with rich voices, tinkling glassware, soft jazz echoing beneath a grand chandelier. Politicians, CEOs, heads of NGOs, tech royalty—all of them looking to shake hands and write checks.

Yelena rolled her eyes as a photographer barked her name, whispering something to Bob, who stayed glued to her side. Ava immediately veered away from the attention. John lapped up the press like a plant under a grow light. Alexei was already loudly asking where the vodka was.

But Bucky wasn’t looking at the cameras.

He wasn’t smiling.

He was scanning the ballroom, eyes darting over sequined gowns and tuxedoed silhouettes with laser focus. Looking. Searching. Waiting.

And then he saw you.

It hit him like a sucker punch.

You descended the marble staircase on the far side of the ballroom, a vision in crimson. He hadn’t seen the dress before—he would’ve remembered. The deep red clung to your body like it knew exactly where you wanted to be touched.

It shimmered subtly under the chandelier light, catching the gold in your skin, the delicate slope of your collarbone, the shape of your legs moving with slow, elegant precision.

You were talking to someone—corporate, probably. Networking. Smooth and composed, all polished charm and business poise. The person in front of you was smiling wide, laughing, but your expression was mild, professional. Exactly what it needed to be.

But then—

Like you felt him.

You turned.

Your eyes swept the crowd and locked on him like gravity itself had bent the light to make it happen.

Bucky froze.

Time narrowed.

The din of the gala dulled. His heartbeat went hot in his ears. All he could see was you—standing there in that goddamn dress, looking like a memory he hadn’t earned and a future he didn’t deserve.

And for a second, just one second, your expression broke.

Just a little.

Recognition. Surprise. And something else—something softer. Sharper.

Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You turned back to your conversation, spine straightening, mouth curving into that polite smile you wore when you wanted to end something without causing a scene.

Bucky stood rooted in place, jaw clenched, hands curled at his sides.

Right.

He’d told you not to be seen near them. Told you to stay away, for safety. For PR. For a million reasons that didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.

And now?

He couldn’t just walk up to you. Couldn’t confess his love in front of the board members and donors and paparazzi. He knew you. Knew you’d hate it. Knew it would make you glare instead of melt.

So he’d have to find another way.

One that would mean something.

One that would be yours.

And Bucky Barnes had never been more ready to fight for something in his goddamn life.

────────────────────────

Bucky spent most of the night like a man caught in the wrong timeline.

The team had dispersed—mingling, sipping wine, taking photos they didn’t want to take. Yelena charmed a table of older donors by being blunt and hilarious.

Ava was already in a corner having a serious conversation about resource allocation. Bob, somehow, had gotten pulled into a group selfie with a senator. Even John had managed to slap on a half-decent smile and talk to two reporters without saying anything arrogant.

But Bucky?

Bucky stood there.

Dark suit, jaw clenched, drink untouched in his hand.

Watching you.

You moved through the room like you weren’t breaking his heart a little with every step. Laughing politely at something someone said. Holding your glass just so. The fabric of that crimson dress whispering around your ankles as you walked.

Every now and then, your eyes flicked to his. Brief. Electric. Then gone again.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

And then—heels clicking, voice like an ice pick—Val appeared beside him.

“You’re up.”

Bucky blinked. “Up for what?”

Val gave a thin, dry smile. “Speech. On behalf of the New Avengers. Seeing as the rest of your team has at least attempted to behave like functioning public figures, and you’ve done nothing but stand here looking like an emotionally repressed Greek statue all night.”

He blinked again. “I wasn’t told—”

“You are now,” she interrupted, already turning away. “It’s already been cleared with the host. Mic’s ready. Try not to say anything too traumatic.”

And with that, she pivoted away, already bored of him.

Public speaking. God help him.

But then his eyes found you again.

Still glowing under the chandeliers. Still you.

And he thought, maybe this is it.

He walked onto the stage to the quiet hum of low conversation and the gentle clinking of glasses. The host introduced him with a few polite words—"Representative of the New Avengers, veteran of WW2..."—and then stepped aside, leaving Bucky with the mic and a ballroom full of people who had no idea what he was about to say.

He gripped the podium tighter than he meant to.

Cleared his throat.

You were near the center, now seated at a table with your company’s execs. And your eyes were already on him.

God.

He hadn’t even started yet, and he was wrecked.

He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

A few polite nods from the audience.

“I’m not… great at speeches,” he started, eyes sweeping the crowd once—but only once—before settling back on you.

“But I’m honored to speak tonight. Because this cause… matters. Mental health support for Blip survivors—that’s not just a talking point. It’s life-saving.”

People leaned in.

“I’ve seen firsthand what coming back can do to someone,” he said slowly, carefully. “What it feels like to be displaced. Lost. Like time’s moved on without you, and you’re just… dragging behind it, trying to catch up. And the worst part of that isn’t the confusion. It’s the loneliness.”

His voice was low, careful. This part, at least, he could manage.

“I think we talk a lot about the logistics of the Blip—people gone, people returned, the chaos. But we don’t talk enough about what it did to the people who stayed. Or the ones who came back and didn’t recognize the world anymore. People who survived, but didn’t feel alive.”

You shifted slightly in your seat. His eyes never left you.

“And I’m saying this not just as an Avenger or a veteran… but as someone who’s been there. Someone who came back from the dead—twice. And there were days I didn’t know how to keep going. I’ve spent years working on being more than what happened to me. I’ve sat in rooms trying to explain why it still hurts. Trying to find meaning.”

A pause.

“And I wouldn’t have made it if I hadn’t had someone to come home to.”

That’s when the shift happened.

Eyes widened. A few murmurs from the crowd. Even Val froze near the back.

“I’m not… great with this kind of thing,” Bucky said, adjusting the mic slightly. “But I’m standing here in front of all of you, not because I’m part of a superhero team, or because someone handed me a title. I’m standing here because there is a woman in this room who keeps me tethered.”