⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ moonrise ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚

it’s a friday night. the night you spend with dick unpacking your entire week and then drink to it.

you’re on your way back from the bathroom when you see him. your ex, standing near the bar like he belongs there, and your whole body does that involuntary thing before your brain has even caught up. he spots you before you can redirect. the smile that never quite reaches his eyes. the way he steps into your space too easily, like the last year didn’t happen.

you laugh at something he says because it’s reflex, because it’s easier, your shoulders drawing in without you meaning for them to. he presses his number into your hand with a casualness that makes your skin feel wrong and you smile your most noncommittal smile and walk away.

you slide back into the booth and dick is already looking at you.

he has very blue eyes and a very irritating habit of seeing straight through you with them.

“who was that,” he says.

“my ex.” you reach for your drink. “it’s fine.”

his jaw does something quiet and controlled. “he give you his number?”

“dick—”

“he gave you his number.”

“it wasn’t like that—”

“cool. cool,” he says, and picks up his drink, and smiles the smile that’s all surface, and you know exactly what that smile means.

the walk home is three blocks and dick spends all of them somewhere else entirely.

normally he fills every silence — some joke, some completely unnecessary observation about whatever you’re passing. tonight his hands are in his pockets and his eyes are forward and he says nothing.

“you’re doing that thing,” you say.

“what thing.”

“the thing where you pretend you’re fine.”

“i’m fine.”

“richard.”

“i’m tired,” he says. “it’s been a long week, angel.”

you both know that’s not it.

you make it as far as the hallway outside your apartments before you stop.

he’s already reaching for his keys and something about the set of his shoulders, the careful performance of it, makes you reach out and catch his arm.

he turns.

you kiss him.

it takes him exactly one second and then his keys hit the floor and his hands are on your face and he’s kissing you back with something desperate and unguarded that he’s been keeping very carefully under wraps all evening. a low groan muffled against your mouth, his fingers curling into your jaw, walking you back against the wall without breaking it.

when he pulls back he’s breathing harder than usual.

he looks at you for a moment. then he bends and picks up his keys and opens his door and picks you up like it’s nothing, carrying you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

later he has you underneath him and there’s nothing easy about it tonight.

he pushes in slow and the stretch of him makes your breath stutter, thick and girthy, the flushed red tip of him pressing through your plushy folds and sinking into your gummy walls inch by inch until you’ve taken all of him and your walls are fluttering around the fullness of it.

his jaw is tight. his eyes on your face.

“why do you want him back,” he says. low and rough.

“i don’t—”

he snaps his hips forward and the words evaporate entirely.

“hm?” he pulls back and drives in again, his cock dragging against your walls, you feel, oh, so full and overwhelmed all at once. “why him.”

“dick i’m not—i—”

your eyes shut. the pleasure too much, the words bleeding into a moan.

“eyes on me,” he says quietly.

you open them.

and that’s when you see it. something vulnerable in his expression, unguarded and unusual, the kind of thing he’d never let you see if he were thinking straight. something that’s been sitting underneath all of this for a long time.

“why do you want him,” he murmurs, hips rolling and pressing deep, the head of his cock nudging that soft spot inside you that makes your toes curl, “when you have me.”

it’s not cocky. it’s almost like he’s desperate to hear the answer. desperate to hear you say he’s enough. that what you have with each other is enough.

heat builds low in your belly, your body sensitive from the drag of him, your walls clenching greedily around his girth every time he pulls back.

your mouth opens. what comes out is a garbled mess of his name and something that isn’t words at all.

“yeah,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours. “that’s what i thought.”

something releases in him after that. his pace picks up and you stop trying to think at all, hands gripping his shoulders, your slick walls taking him over and over until the heat that’s been building low in your belly crests and you come apart underneath him with a broken sound, clenching tight around him. he follows shortly after, hips stuttering, a low groan muffled into your throat as he spills into the condom, his whole body shuddering through it.

afterward he’s on his back and you’re tucked against his side.

“i can make carbonara from scratch. i remember how you take your coffee. i’ve sat through every terrible film you’ve picked on a friday night without a single complaint.” he’s quiet for a second. “i’ve been your boyfriend for six months. you just haven’t called me that yet.

you look at him.

“maybe i should,” you say quietly.

he’s very still for a moment. then his hand finds yours and laces with you. warm and calloused and big.

“it was nothing,” you say. “tonight. with him. i don’t want him back. i never did.”

the breath that leaves him is slow. like he’s been holding it since the bar.

“obviously i don’t want him,” you say. “i want you. i’ve wanted you for a while.”

he turns his head to look at you. really look.

“yeah?” he says softly.

“yeah,” you say.

he brings your hand up and presses his lips to your knuckles, and settles back against the pillow.

the city hums outside. the lamp stays on.

“friday nights,” he says eventually. “same booth.”

“same booth,” you agree.

“except now i’m going to hold your hand across the table and if your ex shows up again i’m going to be very annoying about it.”

Clark Kent still won’t quite give in. 

(No matter how many times you bat your eyelashes.)

He still maintains the fact that he never should’ve fucked you in the first place. 

“It was a lapse in judgment, and I’d had a little to drink.” He’ll say. “Wasn’t thinking straight,” he’ll say. “I took advantage of you. You’re too young for me. You’re beautiful, honey, what do you even see in an old man like me?” He’ll say. 

Doesn’t matter that he’s a grown man and one beer is like a Sprite to someone his size. Doesn’t matter that you yourself were a legal, willing adult. None of it matters to Clark when he truly believes that he has your best interests at heart. 

But ultimately, joke’s on him. Because like they say about a gateway drug, one hit and he’s got you hooked. 

And he’s nothing if not your dealer, enabler: letting you in when you knock, giving you a stool to perch on while he fixes his beat-up old truck.. Paying when the two of you order in, (he won’t take you out for fear of your reputation.) giving you a well-worn flannel when you get cold. 

Clark’s not exactly above blame, here, either. 

After a certain point, some would call that a relationship. Yet your boyfriend, Clark, decidedly won’t. 

And that’s not the only thing he won’t do. 

He won’t let himself kiss you back for too long, won’t let you touch below the belt on his jeans. Won’t fuck you, but he’ll happily tease you. 

Distractedly, obliviously, until he’s looking at the scene before him, ashamed, unable to hide the hard-on pressing against rough denim underneath you. 

The History Channel’s on, yet you’re unable to give the documentary playing quite the attention it deserves. Why?

Because for the past twenty minutes, Clark’s been playing with your clit like he just needed something to do with his hands. 

See, your boyfriend’s weird about history. He’s super into it, so at first, you thought he’d be some sort of armchair expert. But there’s huge swaths of human history like pre-1930 that he just knows nothing about. 

“Over the centuries, many conspiracy theories have come out about the Titanic. One of the most popular all ties back to insurance fraud. The RMS Olympic, another ship owned by the White Star Line,” the narrator drones, voicing over a B-roll of grainy black and white pictures. 

Your lips are shut tight as the blunt tip of Clark’s finger dips inside of you, your eyelashes fluttering over the tops of your cheeks as pleasure rolls over you in a wave. He’s been at this so long, he could probably look at you sideways and you’d come. His thumb swipes over your clit again, lazily, like he still doesn’t realize what he’s doing, and a whimper escapes from behind your teeth.

“Y’okay?” He mutters, his eyes still never leaving the TV. You’re about to grab his wrist, the situation just feeling more and more ridiculous by the second. But you didn’t fight it as he slipped his hands past the waistband of your shorts, your underwear, and you’re not going to fight it now. 

And you know, clear as day, if either of you acknowledges it, he’ll stop. And you’d do anything to guarantee that he doesn’t. 

“Yes, Clark.” You reply, thighs trembling as he adds another finger inside of you, curling them in tandem just like he’s interested in the new sensory experience. 

“Had no idea people could be conspiracy theorists ‘bout something like a boat. Seems a bit silly, don’t it?” He drawls, and your eyes go upward, pleading with whatever deity that’s above to give you strength. 

“P-people are,” you start, sighing as he rubs your clit with purpose now, almost like he’s giving you a reward for your nonchalance. “Conspiracy theorists about, just about, everything.” 

You’re pretty proud of yourself for getting that full sentence out. It feels like your boyfriend is too, with the way he pushes his fingers all the way inside of you. The heel of his palm bumps against that agitated bundle of nerves, creating a friction as he fucks his fingers into you. 

The sweetest torture: the tensing of your muscles as you writhe against the worn leather of his couch, your hand slapped firmly over your own mouth, and the only sign of his possible awareness to the situation being a slight tinge of red across his cheekbones. 

“Oh, shit,” you cry, toes curling. Your stupid, stupid boyfriend. “Fuck, Clark!” 

It’s then, then, that he’s startled from a daze, tearing his eyes away from the picture of J.P. Morgan on his television screen to look at you. 

And what a mess you are: your eyes rolling back into your head, hair mussed, body shaking as you wet the thin skin of his wrist with your arousal. 

For once, he lets you ride it out, muttering sweet nothings (mainly to himself, since you’re too far gone to properly hear anything) as you clench around his fingers. 

It’s impossible to ignore the erection he’s sporting, his thighs widening to give himself more space as you look him over. It’s a hard goodbye, his fingers leaving your fluttering hole, but it’s bittersweet: Clark brings his hand up to his lips and sucks like he’s starving. 

“You’re a jerk.” You snarl, cranky due to the fact that he’s more or less unbothered and you look so desperate for it. 

His hand grabs your face, rough, fingers still wet against your cheek as he pulls you closer. 

“A brat won’t tame herself.” He replies, breath fanning over your lips, his just out of reach. 

You must have something. Everyone has something. But it is impossible to find that something, when you’re always launching LuthorCorp missiles at him and threatening him with lab grown kryptonite. Clark didn’t even know that stuff could be grown in a lab, until he landed down in your labs for some run-of-the-mill standoff, and found himself face to face with your pretty eyes, and a gun, loaded with kryptonite bullets.

Not that you’re pretty. You’ve got objectively nice features, and Clark is far from blind, but beauty does not speak to character.

Not that you’re beautiful, either. And even if you are, it’s rotted away by whatever is on the inside. Whatever runs so deep, he can’t find that tiny blossom of good, no matter how hard he tries.

“You don’t want to do this.” He’d told you, that day in the lab.

When you’d smiled, it had reminded Clark of the wolves that used to hunt Ma and Pa’s sheep. The ones that hadn’t been afraid of him, and had gnashed and snarled until he dropped them miles away from the farm.

“You don’t know anything,” you’d drawled. “About what I want to do.”

That had seemed fair. He really didn’t. “There would be a death on your conscious-“

“This wouldn’t kill you, you fucking pussy.” You’d rolled your eyes, and Clark had blinked.

“That language doesn’t seem necessary-“

“Oh, I’m sorry, boy scout.” You’d smirked. “It wouldn’t kill you, you flying, caped, monkey-squirrel, sweet baby of justice.”

“I-“ That had been strangely hurtful. “I’m just here to turn off Luthor’s reactor, okay-“

“It’s not Luthor’s reactor.” You’d snapped. “It’s mine.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it kind of says Luthor on the side-“

“I’m well aware of what it says.” Your lip had curled, and Clark had tilted his head.

“You know, this thing is probably going to blow and take out the whole city.”

You’d scoffed. “No, it won’t.”

“I have friends who are professionals in this kind of thing, they say it will.”

“Your friends are wrong.”

Clark had shrugged. “Maybe you’re wrong.”

“I’m never wrong.” You’d raised your chin, and his lips had twitched slightly. He towered over you—he towered over everyone—but watching you trying to be taller was like some puffed up, feral cat. He’d pick you up with one hand and not even blink.

Not that he’d try to pick you up. You were a lady, and a human.

Although lady was by the loosest definition.

“Everyone is wrong sometimes,” he’d said gently, and you shrugged.

“I’m not everyone.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being like other people-“

“I know.” You’d smirked. “But I’m not.”

This had been deeply frustrating. “Okay, just- Look, I really need to turn off your reactor-“

“And I’m really going to shoot you if you do that.”

Clark had rubbed a hand over his face. “I mean- I’m really asking you not to-“

“That’s not how shooting someone works. This,” you’d waved your gun. “Isn’t a mutually consenting act.”

“It’s- You’re going to kill thousands of people! Let me-“

“No.” You’d hissed when he took a step forward. “It’s perfectly safe, and you’re not touching it.”

“If it was perfectly safe, would Lex Luthor have funded it?” Clark had challenged, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. “Would he have really taken a chance on something that’s actually going to help people besides himself?”

Your eyes had narrowed, and for a brief second, Clark had thought he’d gotten through to you. It had been a glorious second. He’d decided that you really were pretty, and beautiful, and all the other adjectives to describe someone who had a face like the moon.

Then you’d shot him. Point blank in the chest.

Clark had been shot a lot before. He’d been exposed to kryptonite a lot before, as well.

That had maybe been the first time he’d thought he was dying. When he’d woken up, Gary told him he’d been groaning a woman’s name in his sleep.

Your name.

Clark had decided he didn’t like you. Maybe you weren’t a bad person—he was clinging to the idea that deep, deep, deep down you’d shot him because you were being blackmailed, or were deep undercover, or Lex had you under some kind of mind control—but Clark didn’t like you. It wasn’t even the shooting thing. It was something deeply you, that wiggled into him like a worm in an apple, and made his blood pressure rise at the sound of your name.

And you’d been right. The reactor hadn’t blown up. But that was luck from a very thin draw.

Next time, Clark would stop you. Then he’d tie you to a chair and have a very long, in-depth conversation where he figured out something to like about you, then everyone could move on.

Lois has a new informant. She won’t say who it is, no matter how much Clark causally pokes.

“Confidentiality, Kent, you know I can’t tell you.”

“Yeah, but- It’s me. You know me, Lois, I’m not going to tell anyone-“

“It doesn’t matter that it’s you.” Lois sighes, giving him a pointed look. “I promised her I’d keep it between us, and that doesn’t mean turning right around and telling anyone. I worked really hard to get her to trust me. I’m not blowing that for anyone.”

Clark raises his brows. “So it’s a woman?”

“I- Yes. But that,” she points a finger sternly, giving Clark a firm glare. “Is all you get.”

“Well, do you at least really trust her?” He braces his hands on his hips. “If she’s informing you on Lex Luthor, that means she’s close, and- You know I think anyone can change, but you should always be careful with Luthor’s people.”

You.

Clark is thinking, very specifically, of you.

Because nobody moved on, and Clark has not stopped you.

If anything, he’s found more and more reasons to dislike you. And Lois insists her new informant is reliable, but now Clark is also worried that you’re going to find this mystery woman, and do something to her. You’re everywhere like that. He thinks you might be more dangerous than Luthor.

And you were always hovering somewhere behind Lex now, pretty and sharp-tongued and annoying. Clark couldn’t fight Lex when you were always just there watching. It felt like you were judging him, which he didn’t care about, but he still didn’t like.

Every time he slipped up in a fight, he could see you in the corner of his eyes, tilting your head like you were about to dissect him. If he was trading remarks during a fight and you were there, it was always impossible to find something smoother and more confident than whatever slipped like music from your lips. When it was your invention he was on, he’d started bringing back up in case you tried to shoot him again, but instead—in a much more inconvenient fashion—you’d decided to find a new way to evade him, every single time.

“You’re five minutes late.” You’d drawled a few months ago, not looking up from your desk as Clark and Guy landed in your lab.

Usually, by now, Clark had put a villain through at least three lab rebuilds. He liked seeing what they did with the new place, how they’d improved on it from the old one that he’d either wrecked in a fight, or gotten them kicked out of for committing a multitude of crimes.

You’ve had the same lab, the whole time. He was getting sick of its soft colored walls and clean floors, of all the strange clutter you kept between parts on the desk. It was mocking him.

“I didn’t know we were on a timer,” he said your name, and you hummed.

“You don’t know a lot of things, Superman. And I doubt Guy Gardener is going to help you fill in the gaps.”

Next to him, Guy had scowled. “How the hell did you know-“

“I have security, you know.” You’d spun in your chair, giving them a flat look. “And you’re the only one he hasn’t tried to use yet.”

You’d smiled, and it had been all full-lipped and sweet. Your hair had fallen a little over your face. You never smiled at Clark like that.

He’d felt kind of sick. You smiling just seemed to have that effect on him.

“I think you know why I’m here-“

“Of course I know why you’re here.” You’d cut Clark off with an insulted glare. “And you know what I’m going to say, and we both know how this is going to end. We can catch up first, if you want. I’ve been getting really into baking, since we last caught up.” You’d spun in your chair, and now you were smiling at Clark, but it was colder. Mocking. “My friend is having a baby, so I’m making cookies.”

Guy had frowned. “For… A newborn baby?”

“For her, dumbass.”

He’d blinked. “Wow, you’re- Mean.” Guy had grinned, and Clark remembered why he’d decided to bring him last. “I like it. Question, what are your superpowers again, and do they come out in any weird sex ways.”

You’d snorted. “No.”

“No, no superpowers, or no sex stuff-“

“Yes.”

Guy had frowned, looking down at his outfit like that was why he might be getting rejected. Clark had cleared his throat, saying your name in the way he always forced himself to. Gentle. Like he was talking to a rabid animal.

“We’re going to take the code to the beacon, now-“

“Supes.” You’d sighed, kicking your feet lazily. “You don’t need to do the whole thing anymore. It’s just me.” You’d smiled. “Come fight, and lose.”

Clark’s jaw had ticked. You said it so goddamn confidently, and once again, you were right.

He and Guy had given it their all, but you’d been ready. You were always ready, and always smiling, and always right, and it made Clark want to beat his own head against a wall.

“Bye!” You’d waved cheerfully when he’d retreated, beaming all bright and pretty. “You’ll get me next time, big guy!”

There had been a fever like feeling in his body, when he’d flown away. You hadn’t even shot him this time.

“What’s that girl’s deal.” Guy had grumbled while they patched up, scowling at the air. He’d gotten the worst of it.

“I don’t know. She just… Showed up one day.”

And like a weed, he hasn’t been able to get rid of you since.

It was driving him out of his mind.

Clark was running out of people to back him up. He was getting more and more distracted by your presence, and he was starting to recognize your smell. There was this cinnamon-apple candle you lit to stem off the chemical lab smell, and you used a similar kind of perfume, and every time he smelled it that fever returned. It got to the point that he’d smell the air for you like a dog, the second he touched down in a fight.

He’s worried it’s turning into an obsession. He even asked Luthor about you. About where you came from, why he hired you, anything to help him understand exactly what made you so… you.

“Why, Superman?” Luthor had smirked. “You like something you’re seeing? Because let me tell you, she’s more than worth the purchase, if you’ve got the money. Or you could just pick her up and carry her off, like the ogre brute that you are-“

Clark had knocked him out. He wasn’t going to entertain that.

But he still started watching closer, the way you and Luthor interacted. It was more than boss and employee. You smiled at him. He’d defend you in a fight, which was never a good sign.

Clark didn’t think he’d ever felt sicker, than when he pictured you and Luthor.

Together.

You smiling at him. Quipping at him without any venom or mockery in your voice. Tossing your air and batting your eyelashes, and-

He actually had no idea how you’d flirt. Clark pictured it something similar to a predator corning prey, but there was no bigger apex in this ecosystem than Luthor himself.

That was what Jimmy called a power couple.

Clark didn’t like it.

He didn’t like that, like that weed, no matter how he tried to pick away his thoughts of you they always grew back. You were stuck to him like a plaque, like a moss, like a parasite. You took his attention, his energy, a lot of his pride, every time you knocked him down without lifting one finger, your hair never even getting messed up in the fight.

Clark doesn’t like you.

He thinks he might hate you. He’s never really hated someone before, and he doesn’t like that either.

But he’s trying, so hard, to find something for you. And there’s nothing.

And he hates you even more, for that. For shaking him, and everything he knows. For getting such an iron hold on him without trying, digging your fingers in and leaving marks so deep, they don’t even fade when he doesn’t see you for months.

He hates that he still looks for you in those months. That it’s not relief when you’re gone, but something cool and light in his chest when you’re back. He tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the fever. They’re not useful feelings, in dealing with the everything about you. He thinks they’re just byproducts of the hate, because he never feels them with anyone else.

Clark’s a grown man. He thought he’d felt most things.

And now you’re here.

And he’s really never hated anyone more.

“Kent.” Lois taps his desk, her voice a hushed whisper. “I need a favor.”

Clark looks up from his desk with a frown. Lois doesn’t ask for favors a lot. Lois doesn’t ask for anything a lot. ”What’s wrong?”

“Remember that informant I’ve been working with? The one who helped me break the piece about LuthorCorp and the animal experimentation?”

Clark nods. He remembers that clearly. Just as clearly as he remembers your lab, and all the super-powered bears that attacked him in your defense.

“Well, she told me she thinks Luthor is onto her. And I know he’s onto me.” Lois sighs, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve had someone following me all week. My phone isn’t bugged, but I never let it leave my pocket, and- I checked my laptop. Someone installed a malware, it’s been downloading my emails to an off-bank server.”

Clark’s hands curl on his keyboard. “You think they’ve gotten to your woman-“

“No. She’s smart.” Lois frowns. “She’s been using some kind of extra-burner email? I don’t know. She explained it, I didn’t really follow. You’ll see.”

“Okay, that’s good.” Clark pauses. “I’ll see?”

“Yeah. That’s the favor.” Lois pats his shoulder. “You’re taking over for me.”

“Lois, I-“

“Look, she’s got a lot of information. I can’t tell you anything specific, but this is the best source I’ve gotten, maybe ever. I’m not losing her.”

“Well, you and I- We’re different.” Clark leans back in his chair with a pleading expression. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help. He’s just worked with Lois’ informants before, and they’re all very disappointed he’s not Lois. “Did you ask her, if she’d be fine with me taking over-“

“Oh, I told her everything. And don’t worry.” Lois smiles. “She’ll go easy on you.”

“Easy?” Clark laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses. “I mean, It’s just a meeting, right?”

“Sure, buddy. Just a meeting.”

Lois is good at a lot of things. She isn’t good at being reassuring. 

But Clark can’t say no. Not to her. Not when it’s something that’s going to help people.

He’ll meet the informant. Maybe she’ll be able to help him take down Luthor for good.

And, a tiny, bitter little voice crows from the back of his head, maybe she’ll be able to help him take you down.

Clark needs to stop predicting things. He’s bad at it.

He walks into the library at noon on a Wednesday, just like Lois told him to. He sits in the romance section, his posture straight, his expression perfectly approachable as he scans politely over the titles on the shelf. His One Desire. Her Sin. The Roses In Lace. Lost at Sea. Found at Sea. Lost in Him. Found in Him. There seems to be a pattern, and he wonders about the overlap between stories. The informant is running late. Maybe she decided she didn’t want to work with him. Clark’s never loved these romances, but there must be some appeal to them if they’re so popular. Reading is always good for you, and—as he takes one of the books off the shelf—he decides there isn’t really a better way to kill the time.

It’s a bit of a drudge. The prose is lacking, and the two characters seem to have less chemistry than the cows back home. Clark re-reads a few sentences over and over—the word cock is used quite a lot, and it’s starting to sound fake in his head—and the positions they’re getting into can’t be physically sound. Maybe he’s imagining them wrong.

“You’re amazing.” She whispers, her lips tinkering over the soft, meaty flesh of his ear.

This man must have big ears. And Clark pauses, because there’s a faint smell of vanilla and apple, and it makes him look up with a frown.

He must be imagining things. Or maybe his brain just associates you with meaty ears. Brains are strange like that. And you are haunting every facet of his life.

“I want you.” He growled. “You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever fucking seen. My whore.”

Clark’s frown deepens. He doesn’t think this book is for him.

“That one is bad.”

Clark looks up from the book, and his jaw drops.

You’re standing across the table from him, your head tilted slightly, eyes locked onto his.

“The sequel is better.” You hum, pulling out a chair. Sitting down. “I think the author really took the criticism of this one into consideration. She stopped using the word meaty so much.”

Clark blinks like an idiot. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually been this close to you before. You’re wearing normal-people clothing, instead of a lab coat with the LuthorCorp brand logo. You’ve got sunglasses on the top of your head, and your face is open and relaxed, but that might just be your inherent smugness.

Whatever perfume you use is suffocating him. Clogging his thoughts, smoking out everything but the ringing song of your name.

“Are you the bird?” You ask him, still tilting your head, and it’s kind of like how you look at him during fights.

You know. A loud alarm blares in his head. You know he’s Superman.

Clark laughs weakly, adjusting his glass. “I- Uh- I’m a human man.”

Why the fuck would he say it like that. He never says it like that. He’s been lying about his identity his whole life, and he’s never been such a fool to call himself a ‘human man’-

“Congratulations?” You look like you’re trying not to laugh, and Clark feels his face heat.

There’s the fever again. Your attention is searing, and it’s winding his muscles so tight his hand has to curl into a fist on his knee. Maybe it’s your perfume. Maybe it’s some kind of secret pheromone.

“Are you, um-“ He looks around the empty shelves. “Are you looking for something?”

You tilt your head again. Clark swallows.

“I, uh- I can help you find it.”

“No.” You lean forward, and Clark is frozen in his seat. “I think I found it myself.”

Oh.

No.

The bird. Lois told him her informant would ask for the bird, and he’d have to say he was still growing wings. He remembers the conversation clearly. He even told Lois he thought that was a little convoluted, and she’d laughed.

But now you’re in front of him. And you always make his—incredibly controlled—thoughts all scrambled and messy.

He adjusts his glasses again, clearing his throat. “I’m not a bird.” He says slowly. “I’m still growing wings?”

You smile.

And that’s not the smile he’s seen on you in the lab, or the saccharine, almost siren-like one you gave Guy.

It’s real. It’s a real smile, that makes your eyes shine like stars. The light pours out over you, and you look even more beautiful than before, and Clark didn’t think that was possible.

He didn’t think he’d find himself leaning forward, instead of away. His body drawing itself forward like a boulder being dragged out to sea. He’s not a movable man. He’s trained himself to think and restrain his every movement, every craven or hungry desire, for the safety of everyone around him.

But you smile.

And he can’t do anything but move.

“I’m Clark Kent.” He sticks out a hand, and you glance down with an unreadable glint in your eyes.

“Clark Kent.” You echo, and he nods.

“Sorry I’m not Lois.”

You smile again, at that. It sends a rush through Clark like a drug.

“I’m not.”

You take Clark’s hand. He’d always thought your skin would be cold and scaly, like a crocodile.

It’s warm. Soft and warm, your fingers brushing over his wrist. His head spins, and he swallows on his own, bubbling, confusing thoughts. They’re more bursts of emotion. Sparks you’re making fly through his body, and a sticky feeling over his heart that oozes like honey.

You say your name, and Clark bites down an I know.

I know you. You’re the bane of my existence, and I think you might’ve put Lois under a spell. You’re putting me under one now. Let me go, because I know what you are.

He’s so sure, that he knows what you are.

But you settle into the seat, and smile again, and Clark doesn’t think he knows anything at all.

The first interview goes well, if not a little awkward. Clark stumbles over his words, and finds himself staring at you a little longer than normal. Worse, you don’t seem fazed by it, just smiling right back and batting your eyelashes like some kind of doe he knows is made of teeth.

That’s the truly confusing part. Clark knows you. He thinks he knows you. He was pretty sure, that he knew you.

And the woman sitting across from him at the table is not you.  

“How’d you meet Lois?” He asks casually, as you’re wrapping up. It’s a reasonable question. Naturally curious for anyone, not just Clark, who might have a pit growing in his stomach, that can only be fed by knowing more about you. “I mean- I’ve seen you on the news. You’re close with Luthor. She said she had an informant-“

“Didn’t think it would be me?” You smile again, and he coughs.

“Didn’t think it would be anyone close to him.”

“Well.” You shrug, sliding your sunglass back over your brow. “Close is a very strong word.”

You don’t offer him more than that. He doesn’t get a chance to ask.

When you leave, he stands in the romance section for about three minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to make sense of a world that’s flipped, and constant in his life being changed.

He hates you. It’s been about a year and a half since you showed up, and Clark has become very certain in the fact that he doesn’t hate anyone, expect for you. Lois would call that an exception that proves the rule.

And suddenly, you’re splitting the rule clean down the middle, with a single smile.

When he gets back to the Daily Planet, he relays almost everything that happened to Lois. He leaves out how he’d stared, and how pretty your eyelashes were, and how when you laugh for real it’s a musical sound. Like a bird, ringing through the air and calling everything else in response. Clark swore he felt a dizzying cloud form in his chest, when he heard your real laugh.

But that’s not something Lois needs to know, so he doesn’t tell her. He doesn’t tell anyone.

He just thinks about it. Over, and over, and over again. He put your next meeting on the calendar. He stares at the date, and finds that pit in his stomach trying to gnaw at time. To get you closer again.

When the day comes, he goes early with an extra coffee in hand. He decides he’s trying to test how much you really trust him. Most villains never accept food or drink from anyone. They’re too paranoid.

The first part of his plan goes wrong when you’re there first. Waiting at the same table as before, reading one of the romance books off the shelf. You don’t look up, when Clark sits across from you.

His foot bumps yours, under the table. He forces himself to ignore how the small touch shakes him like lightning.

“You’re early.” You say, and he smiles.

“We’re here at the same time.”

“I know.” You glare at him over your book. “And I’m early. But I’m always early.”

“You were late last time.”

“I was testing you last time.” You shrug. “I wanted to see if you’d give up, and leave.”

Clark blinks. He’d suspected that. It had been another part of his plan, to try and make you admit that everything you do is calculated and crude in some way.

He really hadn’t expected you to just… admit it.

“Did I pass the test?” He asks, a little stupidly. You finally set the book down, and smile.

 “I don’t know yet.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “Can I ask what my grade is right now? If I’m still being tested?”

Your smile widens. It’s an enchanting sigh. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Clark wishes he knew what that meant.

He wishes his own plan was better, too. He offers you the coffee, and you take it, but maybe you just like free coffee. He did get it from the fairly expensive place down the street.

Your fingers brush, when you take the cup from his hands. It’s worse than the foot. He’s almost stunned for a second, his eyes locked onto you like you’re a magnet.

He learns nothing. You’re just as restrained and open as the first time, when he finally remembers he’s supposed to be interviewing you. He asks about Luthor’s plans down at the harbor, and you tell him about the deep-sea mining and threat to the environment. He asks if Luthor knows about the risks. You laugh, and it’s a little dry, but still one of the most beautiful sounds he’s ever heard.

“You think he cares?”

Clark knows he doesn’t. He’s just surprised you know, too.

“Well,” he clicks the recorder off, and you raise your brows. “You do work for him. You know him better than I do.”

“Hm.” You take a long sip of your coffee. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It has to be, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. But I don’t think it is.”

It’s good to know that, even when you’re being nice, you’re still infuriating. “You’re the closest member of his inner circle.” Clark argues. “You have to at least know a little about him. I only interview him.”

“You interview me. And Superman. Do you not know us?”

Clark swallows. “I know Superman. But- We work closer on things.”

“Things?”

“Yeah. I can’t say anything else.” He sits up a little. “Superhero business.”

You just give him another strange look. “Does he ever talk about me?”

Clark blinks. He thought you just forgot he existed, every time he flew away. “Uh- No?” He’s worried if he talks about you once, he’s never going to shut up. “Why? Do you- What do you think of him?”

“Of Superman?”

Clark nods, and he has to drag himself back from leaning over the table. He doesn’t know why he’d let himself ask that. But it’s too late to take it back.

“I work for Lex Luthor.” You shrug, turning your coffee in your hands. “Opinion is a luxury I’m not afforded.”

He frowns. “Everyone gets an opinion. You can have it privately, but you still must have one.” You must think of me too.

“Maybe I do.”

“So you do.”

“Maybe.”

“You can tell me, if you agree with Luthor that he’s a- a plague sent to destroy humanity-“

“I don’t think that.” Your voice is suddenly harsh, and Clark blinks.

“Then what do you think?”

You tilt your head at him, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Clark snaps a pencil between his fingers.

Your gaze drops down to the fractured pieces, and you smile again. Clark realizes his breathing is shallow, because—for reasons he’d rather not thing about—this matters. You matter.

“I think he’s good man.” You say slowly. “And I think he’s a hopeful fool, and- Dangerous. To me.”

Clark swallows. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just nods, and goes back to his pre-planned questions.

He thinks about your answer, for the rest of the week. It plays over and over in his mind, and he writes it on scraps of paper at his desk. It should make more sense. He should be able to let it go.

But it’s a part of you. And Clark’s never been good at letting you go at all.

Clark’s dependent on the pheromone theory now. Because if you’re just like this—if you just consume his thoughts and follow him into his dreams, all on your own—he thinks he might be screwed.

He’s screwed.

Clark counts down the days until you meet, and tries to talk to you as much as he possibly can when you’re there. He wants to understand, how you can be the impossibly enchanting woman across from him at the table, and the crude shell of a person who hovers behind Luthor at every press event and meeting.

The woman you are here is good. Amazing. Still made of some barbed wire, but Clark’s getting better at weaving through it. And it’s not even that he’s uncovering that rot he’d always thought you to be made of. You’re just… Not made of it. Not here.

Here, you’re made of flowers and honey and soft, summer fire. Here, Clark can picture you laughing with wind in your hair, teasing him without any venom all the time. He likes everything he learns about you here.

He doesn’t understand how you’re the same person.

“Do you like these books?” He asks, nodding to the shelves of romance, and you shrug.

“So what if I do?”

“Nothing. Everyone- They can like whatever they want. I just… Didn’t peg you to enjoy The Summer of Sin.”

Your face relaxes slightly. “Why not? Do I not look like a romantic?”

Clark swallows. He thinks you look like everything. He barely knows better than to say it. “I’ve imagined you’re more of a nonfiction enjoyer.” He settles on smoothly.

There’s a glint in your eyes. He knows immediately he’s made a mistake.

“You’ve imagined me?”

All the time. Most of his thoughts circle around you, and it’s even worse than before. Clark’s found himself memorizing every detail about you he can scrape, weaving them together like a gorgeous, puzzled tapestry of a woman he knows he’s obsessed with. There’s no use fighting it anymore, when he wakes up and wonders what you’re doing. When he wanders through the day seeing you in every ray of sunlight through the windows and longer shadow on the floor.

He’s hoped, at some point, that he’d find the string of you that unravels the whole thing. That tells him he was right the first time, and you’re no work of art. Just so shiny he’d been blinded, and everything he’d thought the first time had been right.

But that string isn’t coming. And the more Clark learns about you, the more every color he’d painted you with become inverted.

You’re not shiny up close. You’re just… Glorious. Like water catching on the ocean, exposing the glittering rocks and life below.

“I- I don’t- Not in- I think about you, yes, but-“

“What do you think about me?”

Clark’s face must be burning red. He really wishes you’d stop looking at him. “A lot of things.”

That unreadable look flashes over your features. “Are they good?”

There’s something oddly heavy, in your voice. Clark can almost feel it in his hands, fluttering and delicate.

“Mostly. Yes.” He tries to offer you a smile. “But you are strange.”

You scowl. “I am not strange-“

“You like romance books-“

“Which is very normal.” You raise your chin, and Clark grins. It gets cuter every time. “They’re fun, Clark. Sometimes, you just need fun.”

“What’s fun about them?” He really wants to know. He wants to understand you.

“I- I don’t know.” You glare down at your hands. “It’s escapism. You get to imagine that you’re a princess or something, instead of- Just another fucking person.”

Clark frowns. “I don’t think you’re just another person.”

You snort. “Yeah. I know.”

“I’m serious, you- You’re a genius-“

“I’m tired.” You say firmly, and Clark realizes that you are.

There are bags under your eyes, almost perfectly covered by concealer. Your lips aren’t chapped, but there’s a little puff on the lower one from chewing, and your shoulders slumps. He doesn’t know how he never noticed before.

Maybe you just never showed him. Never let him see.

“I know,” you speak slowly, not looking him fully in the eyes. “That these books are stupid. But I like them. They- They help.”

“Help? With-“

“Everything.”

“Oh.” He swallows. “I could help. If you ever- Needed it. With anything.”

And he means it. He really would.

You smile at him, and he wants to ask if you think about him too. Not Superman—a hopeful fool, dangerous to me—but just Clark.

Instead, he just smiles back, and reveals in the way he sees your gaze relax.  

He likes you like this. You’re really not that different, when he thinks about it, and he doesn’t understand how he was ever so wrong.

Clark is beginning to give up on understanding.

He just wants to know you.

He’s back in your lab, for the first time since he took over for Lois. It’s about the docks, and the deep-sea mining, and the pump that you told him—told Clark, at least—was going to be put in the water. Jimmy found out that the pump was going to be filling the bay with a toxic chemical that’s been compared to a truth serum.

Clark can’t understand why you’d tell him, if it was your design.

And he doesn’t understand why you’re just lying on the floor of your lab, scrolling on your phone when he arrives.

He clears his throat, and you sigh, craning your neck to frown at him.

“You’re here.”

“You and Luthor are going to pump the water with chemicals that will alter the free will of the people in Metropolis.” He’d been rehearsing, on the flight over. He’s trying to sound more heroic, and not dwelling on why. “Hand over the pump, and we can do this the easy way.”

Your lips twitch. “You mean the way where I kick your ass, and then walk away untouched.”

“I don’t know if you kick my-“

“Yes, I would.”

Yes, you would. “Just- Tell me where the pump is, please.”

“Oh, there’s no pump.”

Clark blinks. “What.”

“I don’t have a pump. I made that up.”

“Wha- Why would you do that-“

“I was testing something.” You shrug, patting the floor next to you. “Sit down.”

Clark squints at the floor next to you. There’s nothing under it. When he looks at the ceiling, there’s nothing there either. You’re just… Asking him to sit down.

He pulls his cape behind him, and sits with his legs crossed at your side. You flop back down, your knees pulling up and your arms around your stomach. Clark doesn’t expect the silence to last so long. He’s not sure what to do with his hands, especially as they start to itch. Something about you is magnetic. There’s a wrinkle in your brow he wants to soothe with his thumb, but that might end with him getting shot again-

Your eyes suddenly lock onto his, and Clark swallows. In the low light, they glow like gemstones. He thinks he could get lost in them, if he was allowed to. Even if he wasn’t really sure what he’d been diving into, he’s come to find that you don’t exactly fall into predictably.

He likes trying.

Clark thinks he might want to learn everything about you, until he’s the only person in the world who understands.

“Hi.” You whisper, your eyes still locked onto his.

Your voice is softer than he’s ever heard it before. It’s unsettling, like silence before a storm.

“Are you alright?” He asks kindly, and your eyes narrow.

“Should I not be?”

“I don’t know. That’s kind of why I’m asking.”

He tries to smile at you, welcoming and warm. Your lips twitch. That’s better than nothing.

Even if you sigh, and look back up to the ceiling. Leaving Clark leaning a little forward, wondering if it’s wrong to lean closer, and try to drag your attention back.

“Is there something you need help with?” He offers, and you let out a soft, huffing laugh.

“No. Not that you can help with.”

He frowns. “I don’t know. I- I’m actually pretty good.” He clears his throat. “At helping with things. It’s my job, in case you didn’t know.”

You laugh, and this time it’s a little louder. “You know what, I think I’ve heard.”

“You think?”

“I watch the news.”

“Ah.” Clark tries to read further into your expression. He doesn’t think he’s very good at it. “And what do you think, when you’re watching the news?”

“Of you?” You’re looking at him again. He sits up. He doesn’t want you to look away.

Clark nods. “I, um- I know they do a lot of pieces on me.” He clears his throat. “I read the Daily Planet.”

“Oh, you read it?”

“I’m not a big TV person.” He shrugs lamely, and you laugh again.

“Sure.”

The silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just… Odd. Clark doesn’t think he’d ever been in your lab this long without suffering an injury. It’s kind of nice. When he looks up at the ceiling, he realizes there are stars painted all over the tiles. That must be new. He would’ve seen it before, if it wasn’t-

“I had a bit of an… episode.” You murmur, and he thinks you might be reading his mind. “Last night. I started doing that, and couldn’t stop, and now…”

You trail off, and Clark takes a deep breath through his nose. He can only smell you, and that intoxicating perfume. “You air out the paint already?”

“I used a spray.”

“That you… invented?”

You smile. “That I bought from Costco.”

“Oh.” He’s making himself an idiot again. “I didn’t know you could paint.”

“I don’t anymore.” You’re silent for another moment, and Clark tracks your every breath. “You know, you’re from there.”

You point at the ceiling, and Clark cranes his neck to see the sky. You’re pointing to a cluster of stars a few tiles over, and it takes him a second to understand what you mean. You didn’t just paint the sky.

You mapped it. The constellations, accurate to the clear nights in Kansas he remembers so well.

And it feels like you mapped a part of him.

Clark looks down at you, and finds you watching him silently. He lays down slowly, just so your shoulders are brushing. When he offers you another smile, you return it.

He looks back to the sky, and lets himself exhale.

You’re not going to attack him, and he’s not going to ask why.

He’s just going to lie here, and watch the unmoving stars.

“I wanted to be an alien when I was a kid.”

Your words are sudden. As far as Clark had known, you’d been talking about LuthorCorp coverups. “Huh?”

“When I was like, five.” You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. “I wanted to be an alien.”

“Oh.” Clark blinks. “Why?”

“Because I wanted to be something.”

“You are something.”

“Well, I wanted to be more.”

“What, an evil scientist?”

You go silent, and Clark wants to kick himself. That was rude, he’s never rude like that, you just- You do something to him. You make his brain fuzzy and his manners fade, clinging with sunken claws for control of his tongue and hands. He’s been thinking about touching you a lot. About grazing his hand over the small of your back when you walked by, or hugging you before you leave, to see how you’d fit in his arms.

He thinks you’d fit well. That whatever is making you tired and sad, he’d be able to wrap over you and fend it away. He’d keep you afloat like a lifejacket.

If you dragged him down with you, he might let you do that too.

He doesn’t think you would. Right now, you’re staring at your hand, lips pressed in a tight line, and Clark feels like a jerk.

“I- I didn’t mean-“

“It’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry-“

“It’s fine.” You snap, and Clark swallows. “I’m fine.”

“You, um- You kind of don’t sound fine.”

“Well, I am.”

Clark doesn’t know how to push against you. He has all the strength in the world, but you’re the most immovable things he’s ever seen. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

You’re silent again, and Clark adjusts his glasses. Lois is going to kill him, if he just ruined this. And he won’t even fight back. He’d deserve it, for making you look so sad.

“I’m not evil.” You mutter, and Clark sits up.

“I know-“

“But I’m not-“ You shake your head, still looking at your hands. “I’m not you.”

Clark frowns. He doesn’t understand what that means. “I mean… Yeah. You’re not Lois either. Or Luthor.”

You laugh, but it’s not full. It’s that hollow laugh you use, when Clark doesn’t understand something. “No. I mean- Yes, but that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” He asks quickly.

You stare at him. For a long, long moment, you’re looking right at Clark, and he’d swear the world stopped spinning if he didn’t feel the ground slipping from under his feet as his body tries to crash, face-first, into yours.

“I don’t know.” You say softly. “But- I wanted to be an alien.”

The words are supposed to mean something to him. He can hear it, ringing in your tone.

But either he’s not smart enough to understand, or you’re too smart, and you’ve dumbed it down for him so much it means nothing anymore.

“I didn’t want to be an alien.” He says carefully, trying to test the waters. “But- I wanted to be a farmer. Like my parents.”

You tilt your head at him, and Clark clears his throat.

“I think you’d be a good farmer. You’d like the sky. The quiet. You- You’d like it.”

He doesn’t think you’d like the bugs or the mud, but he doesn’t say that. That’s not important.

All that matters is your small smile, and the way you relax again.

And Clark thinks this really might be something big. Bigger than just an obsession.

He feels his whole world ease, when you smile. And he thinks it might be love.

He goes to your lab, for no good reason. There’s nothing for him to fight you about, no false plans to investigate. He just wants to see you, and he thinks he might be welcome.

He still hovers outside the window for five minutes, just to talk himself into it. Last time might have been a fluke, and he’s about to get shot again.

Clark decides that it’s worth the risk.

“Why were you outside for so long?” You’re lying on the floor again, and Clark sighs.

“Cameras?”

“Mhm.”

He smiles to himself, sitting at your side. “I was trying to figure out if you’d try to kill me again, if I came inside.”

You scoff. “I have never tried to kill you.”

“I have injuries that say different-“

“If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.” You look right at Clark as you say it, and he balls his hand into a fist.

He wants to trace the line of your teasing smile. He wants to memorize it.

It’s one of the last things he has to memorize about you. The most forbidden thing.

And he wants it more than anything.

“I believe that.” He says, and your smile widens.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Clark lies down, and you turn your head to hold his gaze.

Your breath is warm, fanning over his face. Your hands are crossed over your stomach, and there are tiny little divets in your face that Clark is only able to really notice this close. Your eyes are a little uneven, and your teeth a little crooked, and it’s all perfect.

“Can I ask you something?” You breathe, and he nods without thinking.

“Anything.”

You hum, fidgeting with your fingers as you look back up to the ceiling. “What do you think of me?”

It’s not what Clark expects, but you have such a habit of stunning him, he’s learned to recover fast. Clark clears his throat, watching your profile like if he stares enough, he’ll close his eyes and see you clearer than he does in his dreams.

“You don’t have to answer-“

“I think you’re a good person.” Clark murmurs, and you look back to him with wide eyes. “And I think you’re angry, and you should be, but- I think you’re a threat.”

“A threat?” Your brow furrows, and Clark shakes his head.

“To you.”

“You think I’m a threat to myself-“

“And to me.”

“I- But not anyone else?”

Clark shakes his head. “No. Not to anyone else.”

You laugh that hollow sound, and look back to the ceiling. “Someone once told me I was evil.”

Clark cringes. “He was an idiot-“

“He was right.”

You look to him, and there’s something so sad and heavy in your eyes, Clark is sure the only way to get rid of it is to burn it away. 

But all he can do is shake his head. “No. He wasn’t.”

“I’m a threat to you.”

“I know.”

“You’re Superman.”

“I’m aware.”

That gets a tiny smile. “Historically, threats to Superman are evil.”

Clark pretends to consider your words for a second, even though he already knows his answer.

“There are different ways to be a threat. There’s offensive, and defensive, and- Distractions.”

“Is that what I am? A distraction?”

Clark lets himself smile at that. You have no idea.

“I’m here, aren’t I.”

You laugh softly, your eyes still not leaving his.

“I read a romance book last week,” he adds, trying to get you to understand without spooking you away.

“Did you like it.”

“It was enlightening.”

“What,” you snort. “About sex?”

“No.” He snorts. “I’m- I know about that.”

“You’re a boy scout, Supes, it’s not insane-“

“I have everything humans do.” He gives you an amused look, and suddenly, you’re silent, your eyes shining in the dark.

“Yeah?” Your voice is barely a breath, and Clark shrugs.

“Yep. There were just some things in that book I don’t think anyone can do. Or- I guess, but it would take a lot of work. And most human men don’t have that stamina.”

He’s expecting a little, smart remark of and what, you do? But you’re just silent. Gaping at him, your face softly flushed. Clark isn’t sure what he did.

But he likes how relaxed you look. If it’s because of his conversation, he’s more than happy to offer more.

“I might read another, if you have any recommendations.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I didn’t like it a whole lot, it was very… explicit. But I’d read another.”

He doesn’t say for you.

But with the way your eyes widen slightly, he thinks you understand just fine.

“I’ll bring you some on Wednesday.” You whisper, and Clark grins. Gifts. That’s progress.

It’s only hours later, when he’s alone in his apartment, that he realizes what he said.

How, just like always, you scrambled him. You blurred lines.

Superman doesn’t know about the romance books. Clark does. But he just slipped into you like always.

Clark doesn’t swear, expect under two circumstances.

Sex, and when he’s really fucked up.

And when he realizes he’s all but told you he’s superman, there’s only one thing he can think.

Shit.

You’re not there, the next day.

Clark goes to the usual section, and you’re not there waiting for him. He waits until the librarians start to look at him weird, then he sends you a short, worried email, and leaves.

You don’t respond. He’s checking every five minutes, and the hours creep slowly as he refreshes, over and over and over, hoping this time he’ll just get a sign that you’re alive.

He doesn’t think you’d turn him over to Luthor. You’ve been working against Luthor for a while, with Lois, and even if you wanted to—which you wouldn’t—you’d have to admit that you’d been meeting him as Clark, and letting him into your lab.

Or you could just lie. You’re quite a good liar.

No.

You wouldn’t tell Luthor.

Clark still feels like his skin his trying to crawl off his body, the longer he waits. He considers asking Lois if you ever stood her up, but he already knows the answer.

You know. You know.

And now, you’re gone.

Clark drags his feet home. He’d flown to your lab after leaving the Daily Planet, and you weren’t in your lab, or any of the LuthorCorp building. Some part of him should be glad, if you just picked up and ran. Maybe you can find a farm, far away from Luthor, and live a nice, quiet life.

But most of him just misses you. And is worried, and wants you to come back. It would be creepy, to scour the whole planet to try and find you. And it would probably take a few days, if he’s really looking. But he could do it.

He’s trying to remember how much PTO he has banked, when he climbs the stairs to his apartment. You can’t have gone that far, unless you used a portal. Then you could be anywhere. If you’re on another planet, that’s going to take weeks, and if you’re in another galaxy that might be months-

You’re on the couch.

Clark opens his door, and finds you on his couch.

You smile at him, like you didn’t just break into his apartment. “Hi.”

“I- What are you-“

“I didn’t want to show up at the Daily Planet. Would have been asking for open fire.”

“Asking for- What the heck are you talking about-“

You pull up your oddly dirty shirt, and Clark feels his bones get heavy and cold. There’s a pattern of deep, purpling bruises all over your stomach.

You’re hurt. He’d been so stupefied by your presence, he somehow hadn’t noticed you were hurt.

His bag slips from his hand, as he rushes to your side. You wince, hissing through your teeth when his fingers graze one of the marks, and Clark swallows down his blurred anger and panic.

“You- Who-“

“Luthor.” You mutter. “Turns out he also has cameras.”

Clark’s gaze shoots up, and he finds you already watching him. “And he did this.”

“He got angry I wouldn’t tell him who Superman is.” You say flatly. “When we were clearly so cozy.”

His hands fist. If he went now, he’d be back within ten minutes, and Luthor would be chained to the top of the Eiffel tower, his bald head freezing off.

But you’re in front of him now. And that’s what needs to matter.

“Okay. We- We need to get you in a bath. I have a bath.”

“Wow, aren’t we fancy.”

He gives you a flat look. “Don’t sass me. I can leave you on the couch, you know.”

You tilt your head at him, and smile. “No, you won’t.”

Clark stands up, braces his hands on his hips, and glares at you. You glare right back, and he doesn’t know why he thought he’d ever possibly win this.

He groans, ducks down, and picks you up. You smile at him, and he sighs.

“I know. Don’t- You don’t have to say it.”

Your smile just widens, and Clark thinks he can lose a lot of fights, if they make you smile.

While you take the bath, he waits in his kitchen. You’re going to need to ice that, but he doesn’t actually have ice packs. He’s never needed them.

He flies up a little north to get them. You’ll be fine on your own for five minutes, and he doesn’t want to accidentally get you ice that melts too fast, or isn’t cold enough, or anything less acceptable than you deserve.

It’s a welcome distraction, too. From thoughts of you, in his bathtub. Naked and breathing slowly, your thighs pressed together underwater, or spread wide, baring you up to be seen-

Clark sticks his face in the snow. This is the last bit of control he’s managed to keep, the last leash he’s still on. He won’t let it slip now.

You’re wrapped in a towel on the couch, when he gets back. Clark frowns, and opens his mouth.

“I’m not made of glass.” You snap before he can speak, and he sighs.

“I know, but you are injured. It’s not good to put extra strain, when your body is already trying to recover-“

“Are you a doctor now, too?”

Clark stares at your scowl, and it slides off in a second. You look back to your hands, your voice turning into that smaller one he doesn’t think you use with anyone else.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’ve had a long day-“

“No. I- I was- I’m sorry.” You glare at him again, like you’re challenging him to try and refuse the apology again.

He wouldn’t dare.

“Okay.” He approaches you slowly, holding up his makeshift ice. “I- I got this for you.”

You frown at him. “A wet hand?”

Clark follows your gaze, and groans. He’d spent too long staring at you, and forgotten to wrap it in cloth. The ice melted.

“Alright, I’ll just go get more-“

“Don’t you have frost breath.”

Oh. He does.

But he wishes he protested more about that being a bad idea. It means he has to kneel down in front of you, very carefully open up your towel, and pretend he can’t see the underside of your breast as he blows on your stomach. Your whole body twitches under his hands, pinning you gently to the couch.

He’s still in control.

“How’d you know where I live?” He asks between breaths, and you grunt.

“I looked it up the day after we met.”

Clark looks up at you in surprise. “What? Did you do that with Lois-“

“No. Lois isn’t Superman.”

His fingers curl on your sides, and you blink at him with an oddly soft shine in your eyes.

The day you met. The day.

“You’ve-“

“Yeah.”

“But- I was wearing the glasses-“

“I know.” You smirk. “How ever did I figure it out.”

Clark rubs a hand over his face. “No, you don’t understand, they have this- It’s like a magic trick, that’s literally supposed to be impossible.”

“Shit.” You laugh weakly, your body curving from the pain. “I think you should ask for a refund.”

Clark chuckles, pinning you a little tight to the couch. He doesn’t want you to be able to move too much. You might get more hurt.

“Was it something I said?” He asks, and you shake your head.

“I- I just knew, okay? That’s it. It doesn’t have to be a big thing.”

Clark thinks it does have to be a big thing. It should be a huge thing, that you’ve known the whole time, and just… said nothing.

But you’re still injured. And Luthor might be looking for you.

So he just sighs again and blows on your stomach. Your back arches into him, this time. If he couldn’t see the flutter of your eyes and ripple of your body under his hands—clearly trying to react as little as possible—he’d think you were torturing him on purpose.

“You should stay here.” He mutters. “Until it’s safe.”

You scoff. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Clark frowns. “Luthor isn’t going to let up until he finds you-“

“I can disappear-“

“Not right now. Not like this.” He grazes his thumb over your bare skin, and a noise awfully close to a moan escapes your lips.

“Clark, fuck-“ Your head tips back, your hand shooting into his hair, and that was a really bad idea.

Your moan might be the most addictive sound he’s ever heard. That’s a selfish thing for his focus to be, right now.

“You’re staying here.” He says firmly, then pauses. “Or- Lois can take you. If that would be more comfortable.”

He doesn’t want it to be. He wants you here, where he can keep you safe himself, and talk to you all the time. But it’s not about him. 

“No.” You snap. “I’ll go in the morning-“

“I’m not letting you do that.”

“Oh, you’re not letting me-“

“I’m not just- Just going to sit here and let you walk out, only to find out that Luthor grabbed you and now I have to go save you!” Clark’s voice is rising, but you don’t balk. You just roll your eyes, and lean your head back on the sofa.

“Please. You- You don’t have to do that.”

“Do what? Stop you from getting yourself hurt?! You work with Luthor, you know what he’s capable of-“

“You know what I’m capable of.” You hiss, and Clark shakes his head.

“And I know you’re a better person than he is, you won’t go to the same- The same insane extremes-“

“Won’t I? You said it, you said I’m an evil scientist-“

“You know I didn’t mean that-“

“Don’t I?”

“Yes, you do-“

“Do I-“

“Stop doing that!” Clark shouts, and your mouth snaps shut.

He doesn’t know when, but he’d risen up on his knees. Your faces are only inches apart, your eyes wide and lips parted, and for once Clark’s got you completely quiet. He grabs your knee lightly. He doesn’t want you to go away. 

“You are infuriating.” He mutters, holding your gaze. “And confusing, and I- I don’t understand howsomeone so… So-“ He shakes his head. “So you ended up with someone like Luthor. But I know that you’re not evil. And I know that Lex- He doesn’t forgive grievances. He won’t just let you go, and I’m not letting you get hurt.”

You stare at him for another handful of minutes. When you speak again, your voice is small. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why would you care.” You whisper. “I- I know what I’ve done-“

“It was never really you-“

“Then what I helped do, and I- I was just young, and stupid, and I didn’t have a lot of choices and he listened but- I still-“ You reach up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Like he’s the last thing you have to hold onto in the world. “You stopped. You stopped asking me to stop, and you- I thought you gave up.”

Clark’s lips twitch despite himself. In way, he had given up.

He’d stop trying to convince himself there was anything about you that needed to be fixed.

“You’re not exactly a moveable person,” he mutters your name, leaning a little closer. “And I- I guess I just decided I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t care-“

“What you were doing. Or- Why. I trusted you.” Clark swallows. Your noses are bumping, and your skin is warm under his hands. “And I want to help. Let me help.”

You stare at him, and for a second, he thinks you’re going to try and pull away. So he says the only thing he’s been able to think of you, letting it fall from his lips with ease.

“I love you.” Clark strokes his thumb over that furrow in your brow, and your breath hitches. “Please. Let me help.”

Silence lingers again. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard.

And this time, you don’t break it.

You just nod.

Your eyes fall to Clark’s lips, then dart back up. Your breathing is coming shallow, and your skin is getting warmer. Clark’s drowning in you, in being this close, and then he smells it.

Need.

You need him, and he wants to give. To show you that something can be soft, that you’re worthy of every bit of care he has to offer. He leans in, just enough to brush his lips over yours.

You open for him in a second, a moan falling from your lips.

And Clark lets everything in him snap.

He surges up. Grabs your jaw to keep you steady, and kisses you with everything he’s let wind up inside him for months. His lips move against yours in a smooth rhythm, his tongue tracing over the line of your teeth before pressing down your throat. He can’t find himself to have enough of you, doesn’t think there can be enough. You taste a little salty, and your moans are soft and loud, and it’s just as addictive as the rest of you.

Clark presses over you, careful that his weight doesn’t crush you. You tip your head even further back, until your eyes are fluttering whenever he pulls away to catch the shortest breath. The kisses are sloppy, like neither of you can bear to pull apart for a second. His hand on your thigh wanders up, tracing over soft, hidden skin under your towel, and you shiver. For a second he’s ready to pull back, check that he’s not hurting you more, but you’re kissing him with the same desperate fervor as before. You let out a sweet little gasp when Clark squeezes your thigh, and his lips twitch.

You like.

You like this plenty.

Clark tips your head a little to the side, dragging his lips down your throat, letting his hand knead against your skin. You’re reactive, every light touch making your whole body shake. Clark has to bite down a groan, as the smell of your arousal starts to flood his senses. He nips under your neck, and a breathy whine leaves your lips, one hand shooting into his hair.

“Clark- Oh- Oh my god-“

“I know.” He mutters, sucking on the small hurt. “You got no idea, how long I wanted this. Thought I was going crazy, sweetheart, you have no idea-“

You make a mumbled sound, pulling on his hair, and Clark glances up to find you staring at him with shining, doe-like eyes. It knocks the air out of him, and that’s not supposed to be possible.

But you defy a lot of things, for him. What’s just one more?

“You,” he drops his brow against yours, and your hands press flat on his chest. “You are beautiful.”

Your lower lip wobbles, and Clark kisses you slowly. Lazily. He’s got you, pliable and wanting below him. If he’s taking anything he’s offered, he’s doing it for you, not to you.

And it pays off immediately, when you start to work yourself up. Your kisses turn frenzied, your hips rolling up into his hand, and Clark’s fingers brush against wetness, dribbling down your thighs. He groans against your lips, and is rewarded with another high, breathless plea.

“Want you.” He mutters, keeping his hand firmly planted down, closer to your knee. “I’ll be gentle, swear it, just- Want you-“

You nod, your mouth slack, and Clark pulls up with a small frown.

His hand on your head drags down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. They hang open, and he has a feeling if he pressed his thumb forwards, you’d take it with shiny eyes and a moan.

But you’re just staring at him. All your bravado is gone, and you’re just blinking at Clark with a glazed, lustful expression.

“Can you say you want this?” He rasps, pressing his brow lightly over yours. “Tell me, baby. I can give you anything, but- You gotta tell me.”

You nod again, and Clark gently taps your lips.

“Words.”

“Yes.” You whisper, your fingers digging against his skin. “Clark, please, yes. I- I want you, want you so bad, please-“

Clark kisses you again, a little worried if he lets you keep going, you’re not going to be able to stop. You moan happily against his lips, and whine when he pulls away again.

He presses his brow back against yours, and lets his gaze drag slowly down your body. The towel has fully fallen away, exposing you to the room, and he thinks he’d be drooling, if he had a little less self-control.

“Holy…” He drags one hand slowly down your bare side, feeling the blood rush into his cock. “Fuck, baby, you’re- You’re amazing.”

Clark expects a teasing response, about the swearing. Instead he only gets silence, and when he glances back up, you’re staring at him with the widest, most flustered expression he’s ever seen. He squeezes your waist, and your hand flies up to cup his cheek. Clark smiles, and kisses the inside of your wrist, watching your breath catch from such a small touch.

Just to test, he moves his hand from your thigh to just under your breast, cupping your ribs and letting his thumb graze over your nipple. The reaction is immediate. You shudder, eyes batting and a long, musical whine filling the room.

Clark raises his brows, and your flush deepens, your eyes darting away. He can’t have that.

He mutters your name gently, and you shake your head, still avoiding his gaze.

“I- I’m fine-“

“You don’t look it.” He says, rising fully up so no matter where you try to look, you’re going to see him. “Sweetheart, I need you all into this-“

“I am all- You know-“

“I don’t. And you’re not looking at me.”

You sigh, dragging your face back, but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Clark frowns, worried that your injuries are worse than he thought, and you’re trying to push through it for his sake when he should be taking care of you and letting you rest-

“I’m not…” You take a heavy breath, your nose scrunched in the most adorable way he’s ever seen.

Clark says your name, and you shake your head, your arms wrapping around your stomach.

“I don’t do this.” You blurt, body curling into the cushion. “I don’t- I- Sex isn’t- I have a job.”

He blinks at you. “I… Also have a job-“

“You have a life.” You cut him off with a mumble. “I- I work. And I go home. And I look at the internet, then I work again, and I- I don’t- This.” You gesture between your bodies. “I don’t do this.”

Clark stares at you for a second. Your flustered, embarrassed expression, your heartbeat pounding in his ears. “Do you… Want to-“

“Yes.” Your eyes shoot open, pleading on his. “But- I just-“

You shake your head, looking back to some random spot on his shoulder.

“I’m not- I’m not good at it.” Your voice is small. “And you’re- You’re-“

Just to test something, Clark squeezes under your ribs again. A loud moan falls from your lips, your eyes wide on his as your whole body grinds up in response to the touch.

“Clark…” You whine, and he grins, ducking down to kiss you, slow and soft.

You melt right into him, another pretty sound escaping when he moves his full hand to palm at your breast.

“Oh- Oh my-“

“I’ve got you.” He kisses away your flustered pleas. “I can take care of it, baby, you don’t need to do anything.”

Your nose scrunches again, and Clark thinks you’d protest if you weren’t already so dazed from light touches.

He needs to work you up as much as he’s allowed. Needs to see what you’re like when you’re nothing but putty in his hands, because he loves your smart mouth, but he also loves the softness that only he gets to see.

This part of you, molten and writhing as the kisses grow more intense, is all Clark’s.

He drops one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on your breast, and starts to tease over your soaked folds. You arch into him, and he presses back down gently, giving you a stern look.

“I’ve got it.”

“Clark-“

He kisses your neck and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.

“Let me, baby.” He mutters against your skin, his thumb dragging over your clit. “Please.”

You nod, your body already going limp under his hands, and he grins.

Clark starts to kiss down your body, letting his hand against your core slowly work you up.

“You’re soaked.” He open-mouth kisses your neglected breast, petting your pussy with two fingers, letting them dip into your fluttering entrance with every touch. “You like me this much, sweetheart. ‘Cause I know how much I like you.”

He slaps your cunt lightly, and grins at the loud whine of delight that tears from your lips.

“There you go.” He slides two fingers slowly inside you, biting back a groan at how easy they go in, your walls fluttering around him. “That’s it.” He licks your nipple, scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching you open. “That’s a good girl, takin’ it so good for me.”

Oh, you like that. Your clench tight around him, dripping down his fingers, and Clark groans against your skin. Just the smell of your need is intoxicating, he needs to taste you or he thinks he might go mad.

“Lookin’ so pretty for me, sweet girl.” He kisses down your stomach, careful of your injuries. “Shit, your pussy is tight, bet it’s gonna feel so good ‘round my cock-“

You moan loudly, and Clark grins, tongue tracing over your hip bone as his fingers drag over your walls, looking for that gummy spot that’s going to give him what he wants. He finds it fast, and marvels in the way your whole body trembles, your fingers pulling weakly at his hair like you’re not sure what to do with the pleasure he’s giving you.

He watching your mouth hang open, as he crooks his fingers and starts to rub inside of you. Another lewd sound falls from your lips, and it’s the best thing Clark’s ever heard. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then the opposite thigh, then right over your clit. He keeps himself feather light and teasing, watching your body quiver with anticipation. He presses hard inside you, hovering his lips right over the little button, and grins.

“Relax for me, baby.” He orders, and you whine, but try. Clark can see how much you’re trying, but he’s already wound you up too much.

“I need- Clark-“

“I know. I’ve got you.” He uses his free hand to pull your pussy lips over from your clit, exposing the swollen nerves fully.

He blows on it once, starting to rub his fingers furiously inside you, and that’s all it takes.

The sight of you coming might be the best thing he’s ever seen. You’re gorgeous, shaking and writhing above him, the sound leaving you sounding like a siren call, his name the only word possible to make out between your moans. He needs more. He needs all of it.

Clark starts to lick your clit, light and fast, and your orgasm drags on. You won’t stop spasming around his fingers, still working you open, and your eyes get impossibly wide as you realize what he’s doing.

“Clark- Fuck- Oh-“ Your head throws back, your thighs wrapping tight around his head. “Oh- Oh- Oh my god-“

He doesn’t need to come up for air. He doesn’t need air anymore, not when he has this. He shoves his face fully into your pussy, starting to pump his fingers in time with the work of his tongue, and in no time your thighs are trembling, your body limp from the second orgasm he drags out. You’re gushing all over his face, your pussy so oversensitive that when he pulls out and just traces his fingers over your hole, your body arches like he’s fucking you into the couch.

You’re more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He was right. You taste better than you smell, and he thinks he could get drunk on it. Clark drags his tongue down to your entrance, letting himself lap up your release with a loud moan. He’s so hard it hurts, and you’re so perfect, he might be about to blow it in his pants.

It’s an effort, but he pushes himself back up over you. You’re blinking at him all doe-eyed again, and he smiles. When he leans down to kiss you, you’re somehow more desperate than before.

“That good?” He asks softly, and you nod.

“So good.” You moan. “So- Oh my god-“

Clark’s fumbling with his belt buckle as you scratch at his chest, and you whimper against his lips as he drags the head of his cock against your puffy pussy. He marvels at the way you’re already trying to relax, your hips angling up to invite him in.

“You that desperate for some cock, baby?” He teases gently, and you nod like a bobblehead. “You want me to fill this pussy up, fuck you ‘till you can’t walk?”

“Fuck,” you breathe out, your head tipping back like you don’t even have the strength to keep it up. “Clark- I- I-“

He kisses you deeply, muttering against your lips. “Say it. Say you want me, sweetheart, beg for me-“

“Clark-“

“You can do it,” he taps the head of him against your clit, and you squeak. “You’re so smart, you know how to say please-“

“Please.” You breathe, your eyes glossy, voice barely a breath.. “Please, please, fuck- please, I love you, I need you so bad-“

Clark slams over you, his head getting clouded as it absorbs your words. You love him. You love him.

He’d give you the world.

“Good girl.” He grunts, just to see you get all pretty and flustered about it, even as his dick grinds against your drenched cunt. “That’s my good girl, love you so much- You- Fuck- You have no idea-“

And he feels a swell of pride, at how well you’re reacting just to his words. You’re restless below him, not taking anything but just silently begging, and he’s going to give you it all.

“Lie down,” he kisses you lightly, guiding you onto your back in the cushions, hiking one leg up over his shoulder and pressing the other back into your chest. You pussy is on full display, letting his rub it gently as you settle into the folded position. He looks up to find you gaping at his cock, and he grins.

“You- You’re-“

“I know.” He clears his throat. He tries not to think about it. It’s far from the most important thing about him. “I’m gonna be gentle-“

“I- I don’t know- I don’t think I can take it-“

“Yeah, you can.” He leans down, kissing you sweetly. “You will.”

You whine doubtfully, but Clark knows what he’s doing. He keeps his lips working against yours, his thumb rubbing your clit slowly as he starts to slowly push himself inside. Your mouth falls into a pretty little O, and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“I know.” He coos, rubbing a little firmer. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweet girl, taking me-“ He bites back a groan as you wrap around him, warm and gummy and perfect. “You’re takin’ me so well, you’ve got it, almost there.”

You moan beneath him, and the sound vibrates around Clark’s dick. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from coming right there. He’s really not sure how long he’s going to last, but nobody can blame him.

Not with you, cockdrunk and gaping under him. He lets you adjust, when he bottoms out, and your breathing is shallow and breathy in his ear. He coos the best praise he can, while also trying to drag himself back under control.

When he rises up, dragging his hips slowly back, your arms wrap around his neck, and he groans.

“You feel so good.” He groans. “So fuckin’ good, I- Jesus.”

He pushes forward again, and you look up at him like he’s more than a god. More than the hero.

You look at him like he’s the sun itself, and he’s shining just for you.

He thinks he is.

So again, he lets himself snap.

Clark starts his pace slow and lazy, making sure he’s angled to drag over your g-spot with every thrust. He keeps his voice low, kissing all over your face, helping you through it.

“That’s it.” He mutters. “That’s a good girl, all pretty and dumb for me, you’re letting it feel good, aren’t you sweetheart?” He taps your cheek, pressing forward a little harder, and grins at your whimper. “Come on, you’re so good at telling me what you’re thinking-“

“More.” You breathe out, and Clark swallows. “More, Clark, more-“

“Yes, ma’am.” He grunts, slamming his lips over yours, and maybe another time he’ll be able to find it in him to tease you.

Today, he just needs to give.

He picks up pace without any further warning, and finds his own words slipping away fast. You squeeze around him, every time he bullies that soft spot inside of you, and the sound of your breathless gasps mixed with his cock slamming in and out of your cunt is almost too much for him to bear. He busies himself with kissing you everywhere he can reach, letting his hands wander to memorize every spot that makes you arch further into him, making the angle deeper, until he’s pressing against your cervix.

“Shit,” he groans, pressing his face deep into your neck. “Gonna cum, baby, need- Where do you-“

You don’t answer with words. You lock your arms around him tighter, rolling your hips up and keeping him thrusting, shallow and rough, against you. He’d laugh if his head wasn’t fogged with your touch, your body moving so well against his.

Clark pushes his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit back and forth as fast as he can. You shriek, overwhelmed by the sensation, and try to crawl away, but Clark pulls you tight into his chest.

“Can’t- Can’t take another-“

“Yes, you can.” He grunts, kissing your open mouth. “You can do it, baby, do it for me, come on-“

You cum with a scream of his name, and Clark feels something hot and wet flooding over his dick, as you contract tight around him. You’re squirting, gushing over his cock, and it drives him right over the edge. He feels himself snap, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into your through his release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

When he’s done, you’re trembling beneath him, your lips brushing over his jaw like you’re trying to kiss him, but don’t have enough strength. Clark takes over for you, turning his lips to capture yours in a lazy, loving kiss.

He grabs his shirt off the floor, along with a blanket tossed onto the coffee table, and uses them to cover you while he gets a cloth to clean you up with. You’re limp on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile, and Clark feels that pride blooming back in his chest, knowing he made you feel so good. You don’t fight it, when he dabs away your mixed releases, then pulls you into his arms. Brings you to the bathroom, waiting patiently while you pee before carrying you to bed.

If you need, he’ll sleep on the couch. But you’re getting the bed.

You sit in his lap, face pressed into his neck, and he drags his hand up and down your spine. You’re so soft, and his.

Like this, you get to just be his.

“You really love me?” You breathe against his ear, and he nods.

“Yeah. A whole lot, actually.” He pauses, then mutters, “And you-“

“Really.” You tilt your head, giving him a tiny smile. “So much.”

He chuckles, kissing you gently again. He’s never going to get tired of it. Never going to get tired of you.

“Stay here.” He mutters against your lips. “With me. If- If you want to, of course-“

“I do.” You breathe. “I want to.”

Clark leans back, cradling your face in his hand. “Really.”

You nod nervously, and he grins.

You smile back, tentative but real, and Clark presses back down into a kiss.

He doesn’t think there’s anything that’s quite as good as this.

As good as you, content and happy in his arms.

“What are you all dressed up for?” he asks

“I had a date. And it could have been a disaster if it had gone well and I brought him up here only to find my very intimidating and more-than-occasionally bleeding friend on my couch.” You gesture, taking note of the lack of open wounds on Frank’s body.

Finding Frank in your apartment was not an unusual occurrence, though it was always a surprise which state of distress he’d be in - whether he was dropping in for a friendly visit, or bleeding so profusely you weren’t sure the whole of the Red Cross’ supply could replenish him. Thank god, you didn’t also have to deal with stitching him up tonight.

“Okay. Clearly didn’t go well since you’re alone and it’s only 8:30,” he responds, checking his watch.

“Yeah well, he stood me up so…”

“You’re shitting me.” Frank's lips purse and his signature vacant stare glazes across his eyes.

“Nope,” you sigh, flopping down beside him. Your relationship with him so comfortable that you don’t even register the change in his expression, let alone fear it. You nudge your knee against his, attempting to reclaim some personal space from his massive frame currently dominating your tiny New York apartment. Frank does not yield, too focused on the tale of your love-life’s misfortunes.

“What a shithead. What’s his name?”

“Frank, no.” you say sternly.

“I just want to talk to him.”

“Yeah sure, talk to him.” you give air quotes, “Talk to him with your favorite shotgun.”

“Pfft don’t need a gun to let him know what I think. Fists’ll do just fine.”

“Well if the Punisher is suddenly going after scumbags who stand up women on dates instead of your usual criminals, I’m happy to provide a whole list.” you say dryly

Frank swallows thickly, fingers mindlessly plucking at his jeans as fury begins to grow inside him.

“Really? There’s more than one idiot standin’ someone like you up?” he gestures to how well you’ve cleaned up for the evening, letting his gaze linger on the way your outfit clings to your body.

“Apparently a very good majority of men in this city,” you respond with a shrug, trying not to notice the way his intense stare follows you to the kitchen as you stand again. Your fridge is embarrassingly empty and you mentally curse yourself for not doing any food shopping this week as a small gurgle rises in your stomach.

Frank cracks his knuckles and shakes his head and you swear you hear something similar to “assholes” mumbled under his breath.

“You hungry?” you ask “Cause I didn’t eat anything at the restaurant while I waited for that jerk, and now I’m starving. I’m gonna order something if you want?”

“Nah. Don’t order in tonight.” he replies, planting his weighty boots on the area rug and pushing against his thick thighs to stand.

“Frank, I’m starving, why not?”

“Cause we’re going out. You got all dressed up and I’m not gonna let some fucker ruin your night.” he explains, a mischievous spark dancing in his dark eyes.

“I am not letting you take me on a pity date, Frank.” you argue, cringing at the thought

“Not a date. But you’re hungry, I’m hungry. So let’s go somewhere.”

“Fine. Where are we going?” you resign, knowing there is no arguing with him once his mind is made up.

____________________________________

The small windows of the bar are caked in a layer of dust that matches the brown shade of the sticky wood floor Frank leads you across. The chatter from the handful of the evening’s patrons is punctuated by the occasional glass shattering from a barback tossing an empty beer bottle in the trash and the whack of cue poles hitting pool balls in the corner, where you and Frank are currently locked in a heat battle with two of Frank’s “fellow FUBAR veteran group” friends (as he lovingly introduced them.)

Deviating from a normal situation with you two, no one gives a second glance at Frank, worn jacket slung across his large frame and mud-crusted boots not even garnering a raised eyebrow from the several patrons seated at the bar top, all of whom in some way resemble the cast you’d see in b-grade cop show. Your chosen ensemble for your defunct date stands out among the casual crowd, prompting a few glances every once in a while from a passing handsome stranger. Frank does not hesitate to display a particularly harsh scowl, causing them to scuttle away in regret for even looking at you.

Frank’s calloused hands sneak a french fry off your half-eaten plate as you rosin up the cue pole, racking your brain for how you’re going to proceed strategically.

“Kay sweetheart, Curt and Barnes are up a point, so all you need to do is sink the 13 or the 9 and we can beat em’.”

“Angle’s too tight on the 13,” you respond “I think I can make the 9, but I’m not loving how close the 8 ball is.”

“You can do it, we just gotta get you lined up right. Here…” Frank ambles over to you, carefully bracketing his arms around you and guiding your hands into position. His broad chest barely sweeps against your back as he leans over you, sending an icy shudder down your spine. Usually so steady and precise, you swear you see his hands tremble for a moment as they rest on top of yours, lining up your shot with his military-trained eye for accuracy.

His breath is hot on your neck as he mumbles “All you” into your ear and takes a step back, the nearness of his body to yours stringing tension in thick spider-webbed threads between you.

“Kay, 9 ball. Right corner pocket,” you announce, throat suddenly feeling dry. You take a deep breath, over compensating for your current shortness on air, before pulling your elbow back and releasing.

A sharp crack rings out as the cue makes direct contact with its mark. The 9 ball wizzes across the green velvet, narrowly avoiding the 8, before sinking cleanly into the intended target. You jump up with a “whoop!” as Frank wraps his strong arms around you in celebration.

“Atta girl!” he cheers and you’re buzzing, though whether it’s the joy of victory or the way Frank is currently enveloping you and your senses, you can’t say.

Bucky and Curtis groan in frustration. As Bucky steps up to rerack the game, Curtis speaks up.

“You know you surprised me. The way Frank’s always describing you, had me thinking you’d be more demure and shy. You’re really more than he gives you credit for.”

“You talk about me at group?” you whip around to Frank, who stepped toward the back wall to take a swig of his beer.

“Mighta mentioned you in passing.” he shrugs, fiddling with the label of the bottle.

“Can’t get him to shut up about you.” Curtis replies

“C’mon Curt!” Frank rolls his eyes

“What else does he say about me?” you turn back to Curtis and a broad grin spreads across his face.

“Reracked and ready for round 2.” Bucky announces

“Barnes has an unfair advantage with that roboarm.” Frank complains, hoping to deviate the current subject away.

“I think Curtis and I are at a disadvantage going up against two of the best sharpshooters the country’s ever known,” you argue back, Frank’s attempt at changing the subject nearly working to take your mind off Curtis’ comments.

“Yeah well, only one of us isn’t a hundred.” Frank steps forward to take his shot and Curtis uses it to his advantage, leaning in to speak only in your ear.

“He says you’re the first thing that makes him feel good about himself since Maria and the kids died. Like he’s got a purpose for himself instead of just existing to be the Punisher. Those of us in the profession like to call that hope.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as Curtis steps away to go order another round at the bar, his words lingering in your mind as you glance over to Frank. His dark eyes meet yours, then he clears his throat, and quickly turns his attention to Bucky, who is circling the pool table with deep concentration. You swear you see a dopey smile growing on his face as he looks at the floor, avoiding your gaze.

____________________________________

The wind is loud in your ears as Frank’s motorcycle weaves and zips through the New York streets. You grip tightly to his back and breath in the hints of his woody aftershave mixed with the remnants of gunpowder still engrained in the fibers of his jacket. The Brooklyn Bridge looms large above as you cross over it, making your way back towards your apartment.

“Tonight was fun, Castle. You bring all your first dates to such a romantic spot?” you ask as you and Frank stroll down the sidewalk, stretching out the steps it takes to walk from his bike, which he parked an entire block away in a not-so-subtle act of extending the evening, to your front door.

“Told you sweetheart, that wasn’t a date. And no, I got a little more class than that,” His hands shoved in his pockets as the crisp evening air stings against a still healing bruise on his left cheek bone.

“So where do you usually take your first dates?” you ask

“Italian. There was a little place in Hell Kitchen that I used to take Maria to, but it’s been closed for years now. Gotta find a new spot.”

Frank has never shyed away from bringing up his family with you. You love that he feels comfortable enough with you to do that and he’s made it clear one of the reasons he keeps you around is because you don’t “get all weird” around him when it does come up.

“Well this is my building.” you say with a nod of your head towards the front door. He knows that and you know he knows that, but still you weren’t quite sure what to say as the evening is clearly coming to it’s end.

Deep, dark eyes meet yours and you both stare for a moment, before he cups your jaw and draws your face close to his. His lips are soft, even hesitant as they meet yours gently. He doesn’t linger, but pulls away just enough to give you the choice about what happens next.

“You kissed me,” you comment, lips still hovering inches from his as a giddy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

“Yeah, that’s what you do at the end of a date when it goes well. Know I’ve been outta practice for a while now, but didn’t think that part changed much.” The boyish charm you know hides behind such an intimidating man now appearing behind his soft stare and lopsided grin.

“I thought this wasn’t a date.”

“Shit. I did say that, didn’t I?”

“I like Italian.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you respond nodding your head “So take me for Italian. On an actual date. And if it goes well, kiss me again.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” you confirm with another soft peck on his lips.