shu shu(⁠ʘ⁠言⁠ʘ⁠╬⁠)

you woke up expecting your first mission of the day to end professionally with a quiet victory. your routine usually flowed with a seamless rhythm because you had spent years honing your quirks and your instincts. you took a certain pride in the fact that your missions tended to end successfully and remained relatively calm, at least from your perspective.

you did not consider yourself cocky, but there was a comforting predictability to the way you handled villains. you could usually predict a criminal's next move before they even thought of it, leaving you to wrap things up with a clean arrest and a polite nod to the authorities.

you imagined today would be no different, just another entry in your record of efficiency.

but boy were you wrong.

your day started that morning at tokyo’s largest shopping district. the air felt crisp and the streets were filled with the usual hum of commuters and tourists.

you were paired with katsuki for a team up mission targeting a group of high profile robbers. these villains had a penchant for the finer things, having spent the last few months raiding museums for historical paintings and priceless jewelry.

the objective was simple. apprehend the group, secure the stolen assets, and ensure no civilians were harmed.

for the first hour, the mission played out exactly as you had envisioned. you and katsuki moved like a well oiled machine, your quirk complementing his explosive one. you managed to corner the group in a side gallery, neutralizing the muscle while katsuki blasted the leaders into submission. the civilians were ushered to safety and the jewels were recovered in record time.

“took you long enough to wrap that one up, you slow ass,” katsuki barked, though there was no real heat in it.

"i had it under control, katsuki, you just wanted to blow things up," you replied, glancing back at him with a smirk.

the calm shattered during the final moments of the arrest.

one of the villains, a scrawny man with a desperate look in his eyes, lunged forward as you were securing a pair of handcuffs. he didn't aim for the jewels or the exit. he aimed for you.

katsuki saw the movement a split second before you did. he didn't hesitate, shoving you hard to the side and taking the hit directly to his chest. there was no explosion or flash of light, just a strange, shimmering ripple in the air that seemed to snap onto him.

you both stood there for a moment in total silence, blinking in confusion.

katsuki looked down at his chest, then back at the villain, his face twisting into a scowl. “what the fuck was that?!” he didn't feel anything unusual, and you assumed the attack had failed.

but as katsuki reached out to grab your arm to pull you away from the scene, the world seemed to tilt. the moment his fingers brushed your skin, there was a violent, audible clack, like two industrial magnets slamming together.

you were suddenly jerked backward, your back slamming into his chest with such force that the air left your lungs in a sharp wheeze.

“what the hell?! get off me!” katsuki roared, his voice echoing off the museum walls.

“you get off me!” you retorted as you tried to push away, planting your feet and leaning forward with all your strength.

“i am not staying stuck to you all day,” he snarled, his palms sparking. “i will blast this quirk right off of me!”

“don't you dare blast us into a wall,” you warned, though you were already feeling the dizzying proximity of him.

you managed to create a gap of maybe three inches before an invisible force yanked you back. you flew backward again, hitting him with a dull thud that made you groan.

that’s how you ended up here, talking to the authorities, finishing the mission by sharing all the intel you have gathered. you could physically feel the headache coming as you scolded yourself for your wishful thinking that today would be a good day because you were so wrong.

the very angry and very agitated katsuki bakugo who was literally stuck to you was living proof of that.

“that fucking bastard! get us out of this, you pathetic excuse of a villain!” he yelled at the villain who was cuffed being escorted away.

“katsuki, stop moving! you’ve already tried pulling away once and it didn’t work. what makes you think trying over and over again would be any different?” you snapped, though your voice was strained from the impact of his chest on your back from the constant forceful pulling.

“i am not moving, you damn brat!” he was screaming even louder now, his face inches from your ear. “i shouldn’t have agreed to do this low tiered mission.”

“you’re a hero! we did our job, get over yourself.” you knocked your head back to his, hitting him square in the forehead making him groan.

“fuck you.” katsuki growled at you from behind, biting onto a section of your hair from the back before tugging.

you rolled your eyes in anger before stomping on his foot. “stop acting like a child.”

“hit me again and i’ll throw the both of us into traffic.” katsuki threatened you.

you rolled your eyes as you turned your head back to look at the police officers who were still processing the scene. you tried to maintain your professional composure while katsuki was essentially glued to your spine.

he was leaning back with all his might, trying to keep his chest from pressing against your back, but it was a losing battle. every time he drifted a few inches away, the magnetic pull would snap him back into you with a forceful slam that pushed you forward, nearly making you trip over your own boots.

“for the love of god, i am just trying to finish the report,” you told the katsuki before turning back to the detective, ignoring the way katsuki was vibrating with rage behind you. “please ignore him and his temper tantrum.”

“shut your mouth!” katsuki yelled, his hands gripping your waist tightly, not to keep himself from slipping but because he physically can’t let go. “i am not having a temper tantrum, you're just annoying! and you!” he turned his head to glare at the captured villain who was already in police van. “you piece of shit! i am going to blow your limbs off one by one! do you hear me! i will blast you into the next century for this!”

“katsuki, shut up!” you yelled back, snapping your patience. “can’t you see i’m talking to the authorities! just stay still for five fucking minutes!”

he spat a curse, his breath hot against your neck. “do you want to be stuck here like this the entire day?! if i hadn't taken that hit for you, we wouldn't be in this mess! you're lucky i'm even touching you, you brat!”

the detective cleared his throat, looking between the two of you with a mixture of pity and amusement.

“from what we can see so far, all five of the villains captured today aren’t japanese citizens. this means their quirks are completely unregistered in our database.” the detective eyed his phone before meeting your eyes once more. “i have already informed the lab about you and dynamight’s situation. they will be analyzing the specific properties of the magnetic quirk. once we get the villains to custody, i will personally question the villain who hit you with the quirk and get more information on it.”

“for now,” the detective continued, “i will inform the hero commission that both of you are off duty. no missions, no patrols, and certainly no work at your respective agencies. you are physically incapacitated as a pair. i suggest you both go home and discuss where you will be staying. hopefully, the quirk effects will wear off on their own within twenty-four hours.”

“thank you, detective,” you said, giving a tired smile. “we appreciate the help.”

katsuki didn't thank anyone. he just growled, a low, dangerous sound in his throat, and glared at the detective as if the man had personally glued them together.

the ride back to katsuki's agency was a chaotic affair. once you arrived, you were greeted by mina and kirishima, who had been briefed on the situation. mina nearly collapsed in fits of laughter the moment she saw you two stuck together.

“oh my god!” mina squealed, pointing at you. “you guys are literally like a human sandwich! this is the most romantic thing i have ever seen in my entire professional career!”

“it is not romantic, you idiot!” katsuki screamed, his face turning a deep shade of crimson. “get over here and help us get these damn costumes off before i explode this entire building!”

the process of changing into regular clothes was a nightmare of coordination and physical strain. because you couldn't be separated by more than a few inches, you had to change in separate rooms with people literally holding you back.

mina and two of katsuki's assistants gripped your arms and waist, anchoring you to a heavy bolted table in one room, while kirishima and another sidekick did the same for katsuki in the adjacent room.

it was a grueling exercise in willpower. every time you tried to slide a shirt over your head, the magnetic pull would tug at you, threatening to launch you through the concrete wall and right back into katsuki's chest.

you were sweating, your teeth gritted as you gripped the edges of the table, your knuckles white. i can't believe this is my life right now, you thought, feeling a bead of sweat roll down your temple. i expected a calm day, and now i'm being held back like a wild animal just so i can put on a t shirt.

rom the other side of the wall, you could hear kirishima grunting, his voice strained as he fought to keep katsuki in place.

“bakugo, man, listen,” kirishima gasped, sounding completely out of breath. “i think you should just go pee or do your business in the bathroom while we're still here. i don't think you'll be able to do that once you two are back home and stuck together. there won't be anyone to pry you off each other.”

“i will kill you!” katsuki's voice boomed, followed by the sound of a small explosion. “stop talking about my bladder, shitty hair! i can handle myself!”

“it sounds stupid, but kiri is right,” mina said to you, her voice shaking from the effort of holding you still. “you might want to consider it.”

you paused, the reality of the situation sinking in. you looked at the wall separating you from the most stubborn man in japan and sighed. “fine,” you called out. “take me to the bathroom.”

after another thirty minutes of torturous maneuvering, kirishima and mina drove the two of you to katsuki's penthouse.

the car ride was an exercise in sensory overload.

katsuki had claimed the back seat, spreading himself out with his back against the door. because of the magnetic pull, you were forced to sit with your back against his front, tucked between his legs.

you tried your best to focus on the scenery passing by the window, but it was impossible to ignore the loud, frantic thumping in your chest. your face felt hot, a deep blush creeping up your neck.

you could feel every inch of him. his chest was hard and defined, digging into your shoulder blades, and his hands were firmly glued to your waist. the heat radiating from him was intense, a constant, pulsing warmth that seemed to seep through your clothes and melt your resolve.

why is he so warm? you wondered, biting your lip. and why does he always smell this intoxicating.

kirishima and mina were kind enough to make sure the two of you were settled, ordering a massive amount of food and eating with you both in the penthouse before they had to leave for their own duties. they left you two alone in the silence of the luxury apartment, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife.

the rest of the afternoon was spent in his bedroom, which had become a battleground for the remote control. you wanted to watch something light, something that would distract you from the fact that you were physically fused to your long time crush, but katsuki wanted to watch literally anything else.

“we are watching a rom com, katsuki,” you insisted, leaning back into him as you both sat on the bed. “come on, it will be fun. plus it'll calm you down.”

“i am not watching some garbage movie about people crying over flowers!” katsuki yelled, though his voice lacked its usual bite. “put on an action movie! something with explosions!”

“do you even need any more explosions when you are a already human bomb?” you countered, a playful smirk on your lips. “oooh! how about we watch mean girls? it's a classic.”

“i don't care if it's a damn classic! it's stupid!” he groaned, but he didn't fight you as hard as he usually would once you pressed play. he seemed exhausted by the day's events.

you wore him down with a combination of stubbornness and a few well placed pouts. eventually, he caved with a loud, dramatic sigh that sounded like he was conceding a war.

“fine! watch your stupid mean girls movie! just stop talking during it!”

you ended up lying on his bed with him (duh), the movie playing on a large screen in front of you. because of the way you were stuck, he was positioned behind you, his arms forced to wrap around your waist in a permanent spooning position. his chest was pressed firmly against your back. you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart matching your own.

“this is so stupid,” katsuki muttered, his voice low and husky right against your ear. “why are people so obsessed with who sits where at lunch? it's a school cafeteria. eat your fucking food and go.”

you chuckled, the sound vibrating through both of your bodies. “i don't know, katsuki, you tell me. i think you could definitely pass as a mean girl. you've got the attitude and the temper for it.”

he stiffened, his grip on your waist tightening. “what did you just say to me? i will blast you into orbit!”

you just laughed, feeling a surge of boldness. “admit it, you'd totally be the leader of the plastics. you'd just scream at everyone until they did what you wanted… which you already do. and you’re blond as well. it’s perfect casting!”

katsuki didn't yell back this time. instead, he let out a huff of air that felt like a kiss against your skin.

you weren't normally this chatty, but the proximity was making you reckless. you were desperately trying to distract yourself from the heat of his body. for hours, you had been glued together, and the friction was starting to create a feverish warmth between you. you could feel the slight dampness of his sweat against your back, the nitroglycerin scented moisture making your skin tingle.

i can't believe he hasn't blown us up yet, you thought, your heart racing.

you had carried a torch for katsuki since your second year at u.a. high. it had started as admiration for his drive and evolved into a deep, aching attraction that you had kept hidden behind jokes and professional courtesy. now, with your agencies located close to each other and your friendship deepening, the feelings had become an obsession.

you shifted your hips slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position to ease the strain of being fused to him. as you settled further back, pushing your backside against him, you felt something hard and unmistakable pressing against the curve of your butt. you froze, your breath hitching in your throat. it was his cock, already thickening through the fabric of his sleep pants.

you felt his breath hitch. the fingers that had been awkwardly and tensely gripping your waist earlier were changing. he wasn't just holding on anymore. his fingertips began to move, subtly drawing slow, rhythmic shapes on your skin, tracing the curve of your hip and the dip of your waist. the touch was almost shy, which was completely unlike the man who had spent the morning screaming at police officers.

you moved a little bit more, trying to settle in further into the bed.

katsuki let out a long, shaky breath that fanned across the nape of your neck. you felt his fingers tighten on your waist, his grip almost bruising. “stop moving,” he growled, his voice a deep, guttural vibration that resonated through your entire spine.

you knew you should stop, but a spark of mischief flared in your chest.

you shifted again, a slow, deliberate grind of your hips that pressed you deeper into his hardness. you acted innocent, humming softly as if you were still just trying to get comfortable. “i'm just trying to get settled, kats, it's a bit cramped,” you whispered, though your voice held a teasing lilt.

he let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a snarl. you could feel him growing harder, the length of him stretching against you, hot and demanding. the heat between your bodies was becoming unbearable, a fever that blurred the lines of friendship.

“you're doing that on fucking purpose,” he hissed, his breath hot against your ear. “you like playing with fire, huh? you damn brat.”

“i don't know what you're talking about,” you replied, tilting your head back to look at him, your eyes dancing with challenge.

katsuki's restraint snapped. he shifted his weight, pushing his body more firmly onto yours, pinning you to the mattress. he leaned in, his voice dropping to a dangerous, predatory whisper. “you think you're so clever, don't you? teasing me when you know i can't even pull away from you.”

“katsuki,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“you're just a little tease, begging for me to fucking lose it.” he muttered, his words laced with a slight edge of degradation that made your stomach flip.

“maybe i am,” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“look at me,” he commanded, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. you could feel the heat of his skin, the roughness of his tongue as he grazed your collarbone. a low moan escaped your throat, and you felt him shudder against you.

you turned your neck, straining against the magnetic pull to face him. the moment your eyes met, he crashed his lips onto yours.

the kiss was explosive, tasting of desperation and years of suppressed longing. his tongue pushed into your mouth, tasting of cinnamon and heat, sucking on your tongue with a hunger that left you lightheaded. you moaned into the kiss, your hands reaching back to tangle in his spiky blonde hair, pulling him closer even though there was nowhere left to go.

the kiss deepened, becoming wetter and more frantic. you could hear the sound of your saliva exchanging, a wet, shlicking noise that only fueled the fire in your gut. he shifted his weight, pinning you further into the mattress, his thighs sliding between yours. the friction of his trousers against your own was driving you insane.

“i can't... i can't stand this,” katsuki gasped, breaking the kiss to bite your earlobe. i want you. i want all of you.

“oh—please…” you arched your back, pressing your rear into his crotch. you could feel the hard, thick length of his cock straining against his pants, a rigid pillar of heat that was pulsing against you. you whimpered, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

he began to move, his hips grinding rhythmically into your backside as he continued to kiss your neck and shoulders. every thrust was heavy, his hardness rubbing against you through the clothes. you arched your back, grinding back into him, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps of pleasure.

“k-katsuki,” you pleaded, not sure what you were begging for, but you were.

“god, you feel so good,” he muttered against your skin, his voice rough. “i've wanted to do this for so long, you stupid, beautiful idiot.”

katsuki struggled against the magnetic effect that was very much a nuisance as it was a push, his muscles straining as he fought the pull to lift his hand. he grunted with the effort, his face contorted, but he managed to slide his hand down between your legs. his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of your underwear, finding the heat of your pussy.

“ha—! kats…” you squirmed at the sudden pressure.

“you're already wet,” he chuckled, a dark, triumphant sound. “look at you, soaking through your clothes for me.” he began to play with you, his fingers circling your clit through the cloth of your pants, sending jolts of electricity through your nerves.

you whined, your head tossing back against his shoulder. “katsuki, please,” you begged, your voice trembling.

he was impatient, the hunger in his eyes mirroring your own. he didn't want to waste another second with fabric between you. with a sudden, violent surge of strength, he gripped the waistband of your bottoms and tore them. the sound of fabric ripping filled the room, a sharp crack that made you gasp. he didn't stop there, his hands moving to your top, ripping the material away with a focused aggression, fighting the magnetic pull that tried to snap him back.

“be patient, damn it,” he growled like a hypocrite. he slid his hand down, his fingers diving into your wetness. you were already soaking, your juices coating his fingers as he slid them through your folds. he let out a low whistle, his voice thick with lust. “hah! not only are you a tease and impatient as fuck, you're also so fucking wet for me, aren't you?”

“yes, m’sorry… just please,” you breathed out, tilting your head back.

katsuki didn’t need to be told twice. he found your clit and began to rub it with a punishing intensity, his fingers sliding deep inside you. the sensation was overwhelming, the friction of his skin against your walls creating a wet, squelching sound that filled the silence.

“k-kats—hah…” you called out his name, your body squirming against his touch, your muscles clamping tight around his fingers.

“mmh?” he nipped lightly at your shoulder, his other hand moving up to cup your breast through your blouse, his thumb finding your nipple and rubbing it to a hard peak. “tell me this is wrong. tell me to stop.” his voice was a dark challenge.

you arched back into him instinctively, pushing your ass more firmly against his hardness. a low groan rumbled from his chest. “it doesn’t… f-feel wrong,” you managed, your own voice husky. “f-feels so good…”

katsuki was losing it as much as you were, he was just good at hiding it. he was breathing hard, his chest heaving. he gripped his own clothes, his muscles bulging as he fought the magnetic force one last time to rip his pants and underwear away. as soon as he was free, the magnet slammed his bare body back against yours with a heavy thud.

the feeling of his bare cock grinding against your bare behind was almost too much to bear. he was huge, hot, and leaking pre-cum that lubricated the space between you.

“sh-hiiiit…” you breathed, eyes rolling from the weight of his bare cock behind you.

“yeah?” he cut in ruthlessly, his hand squeezing your breast, his hips grinding again in a rhythm that was becoming unmistakable. “found the opportunity and started grinding your ass into me like this,” he rocked against you, the friction deliciously maddening. “you’re such a fucking tease. always been f’me, huh? you get everything little thing you want, don’t ya?”

“ngh, no m’not—” you moaned, your head falling back against his shoulder. “you’re the one… who’s being a tease. katsuki, please…”

“hm? what’s wrong?” he taunted softly, biting your earlobe. “please what, baby? tell me. what happened to your damn confidence now, huh?” his long fingers curled deeper inside you, the slick wet on his fingers.

“oh—mmh, yeah… just like that, k-kats,” you gasped, bucking against his touch.

“you hear yourself?” he fucked you harder with his finger before adding another, his thumb finding your and rubbing in tight circles. you cried out, your hand struggling against the magnet as it flew back to clutch at his thigh. “so fucking wet and loud—mmm’fuuuck.”

katsuki was grinding against you relentlessly now, his cock hard and demanding against your ass, his fingers working magic through your slit. the friction between you was building a frantic heat low in your belly. your breath came in ragged pants that matched his own.

“w-want it— shiiit. katsuki, please. i want you inside me. want you so bad,” you begged again, the thought of him fragmented by pleasure.

“god fucking dammit, you beg so pretty f’me,” he growled, his voice guttural with need. he pressed his face into your neck, inhaling deeply. “been wanting this for so long.” he pulled his soaked fingers out of your pussy making you whine at the emptiness. he didn't need to be told twice. he positioned himself, the head of his cock probing the entrance of your heat. he pushed forward slowly. “fuuuuck… you feel good,” a low growl ripping from his throat as your tight walls gripped him.

you whined, the feeling of him filling you up stretching you to your limit. he was thick, far thicker than you had imagined, and the sensation of him sliding deep into your cervix made your toes curl. you arched violently, a loud moan tearing from your throat as pleasure spiked through you. “oh god! katsuki!”

katsuki began to move, his thrusts rhythmic and powerful. because of the magnetic bond, he couldn't pull away completely, which meant every thrust was deep, hitting your most sensitive spots with punishing accuracy. the sound of your bodies colliding filled the room, a rhythmic squelching noise as his cock slid in and out of your drenched pussy.

shlick, squelch, shlick.

“that’s it, baby,” katsuki purred against your skin, his fingers kept pressure on your clit, circling it around while his hips never stopped moving “take it. take what you’ve always wanted from me.”

“fuck yeah. yeah, right there…” you were full on begging and purring now as you moved your hips meeting his thrust, the pleasure overwhelming your senses. you could feel the sweat from his chest dripping onto your back, mixing with the fluids of your union. he was panting, his breath coming in short, jagged bursts against your ear.

“look at you—fuck. made for me”, he groaned, his voice breaking. i'm going to ruin you. he increased the pace, his movements becoming more overzealous. in his desperation to get deeper, his cock slipped out of you for a fraction of a second, only to slam back in with a wet thud that made you cry out. the sound of air being pushed out of your pussy created a loud, popping noise that only made him more aggressive.

“m’don’t think… gonna last looong—oh! yes, fuck! harder, katsuki!”

“come on then,” katsuki commanded, his voice rough with strain. he bit down on your shoulder blade. “cum for me. show me how good it feels when i finally touch you like this.” he curled his fingers harder, pressed his thumb down fiercely. “let go for me, you slut. let me feel you cum around me.”

he gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving red marks that you knew you would cherish tomorrow. he was hammering into you now, his balls slapping rhythmically against your ass, the sound of skin hitting skin filling the air.

you felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of heat that started in your toes and surged upward. “katsuki!” you screamed, your muscles clamping down on him in a series of violent contractions.

“fuck, i’m close,” he growled against your skin, his hips bucking up, driving his cock impossibly deeper where your bodies joined.

the feeling of your pussy pulsing around him was the final straw. “god fucking damn it! mgghfuuuck…” he let out a roar, his body stiffening as he shot his seed deep inside you. you could feel the hot, thick spurts of his cum hitting your cervix, filling you up until you felt like you were overflowing. he groaned, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest heaving as he slowly came down from the peak.

katsuki breathed heavily, his heart racing. he suddenly gripped your waist. “turn around,” he commanded. “face me.”

“i can't, kats, the magnet,” you panted from your orgasm, trying to shift.

“fight it,” he growled, his voice regaining its dominant edge. “i want to see your face when i fuck you again. fight the damn thing.”

that was all the motivation you needed. you both gritted your teeth, straining against the invisible force. you pushed away from him, your muscles screaming, and with his help, you managed to swivel. for a second, you were almost face to face, before the magnet snapped you both back together with a loud groan, your bodies slamming into each other.

he didn't let you settle. he strained his muscle against the pull and manhandled you, flipping you over so you were on properly top of him. he gripped your hips, pulling you down as he entered you again.

you looked down at him, your eyes locking with his vermillion ones, the intimacy of the gaze making the pleasure of him inside you feel ten times more intense. “katsuki, baby.”

“that's it,” he whispered, his hands digging into your ass. “take it all.”

you tried your best to ride him, your breasts bouncing, your breath coming in ragged whines. he reached up, pulling you down, your lips meeting his. it was messy, your tongues dancing in a feverish rhythm, the taste of salt and desire filling your mouths. eventually, you collapsed onto his chest unable to fight the pull of the magnet, your face tucked into the crook of his neck. he took over, doing all the work, lifting his hips to drive deep into you.

“ngghh—oh, fuck,” you whined, your fingers clutching at his shoulders, your skin slick with sweat. “please, katsuki, harder,” you begged.

“shut up and take what i give you, brat,” katsuki replied, though his voice was thick with affection. he began to fuck you with a renewed aggression, the sounds of your bodies interacting becoming more visceral.

the squelching of your joined heat and the heavy thud of his chest against yours created a symphony of lust. he gripped the back of you neck, lightly squeezing, the sensation that only pushed you further over the edge, making you clench tighter around him.

“m’gonna cum again… baby, pleeeease—oh, make me cum,” you choked out a moan, your body tightening as you felt another orgasm building.

“fucking hell, baby, ya gonna milk me dry, huh?” he snarled, bucking his hips up, his hands clamping onto your ass. “yeah? just like that. scream like that. let everyone in the building hear you scream through the fucking walls.”

you moaned loudly, your body still trembling from your orgasm as he began to move inside you again. “agh! f-fuck—kats… m’cuming” you threw your head back.

“cum with me,” he commanded. “fuck, do it now.”

you screamed as you peaked, your internal muscles squeezing him tightly. katsuki let out a guttural roar, his body stiffening as he came deep inside you, his release filling you again with warmth.

the room fell silent, the only sound being your labored breathing. you stayed in that position for a long time, the sweat cooling on your skin. for a long time, neither of you spoke. you were both covered in a mixture of sweat and fluids, the scent of sex and nitroglycerin filling the room.

“does mean you actually like me? or do you just let anyone fuck you?” you broke the silence, your voice clearly teasing and mischievous to get under his skin.

katsuki scoffed, though he didn't move his arm from around you (not that he can). “tch. whatever the hell that means. i don’t even like when other people breathe close to me. what else would this nonsense mean?”

“is that your way of being romantic? because calling what we just did just now ‘nonsense’ is a bit low… even from you,” you teased.

“shut up,” he muttered, his ears turning a bright shade of red. “… listen, tomorrow… or whenever the fuck. after this damn quirk wears off. you're going out to dinner with me.”

“wait, as in a date?” you snapped your head up from his neck to look at him only for the stupid magnet to slam you back down his chest with a thud.

“stop fucking moving—and it's not a big deal,” katsuki snapped, holding you tighter almost subconsciously. “i just don't want you starving to death because you're too clumsy to feed yourself. just say yes, damn it.”

you giggled, kissing his chest. “yes, katsuki. i'd love to go on a date with you.”

“stop pushing it!”

after a couple more yells from katsuki, you both fell asleep in each other's arms, the magnetic effects of the villains quirk finally feeling like something you wanted to keep.

the next morning, the shrill ring of a phone shattered the silence.

katsuki groaned, his eyes fluttering open. you stirred on his chest, your face nuzzling into his neck, half-asleep and warm. he reached out with one hand to pick up the phone, his other arm cradling the back of your head. as he moved, he paused.

he felt his hand slide away from you without any resistance. there was no pull, no snap, no invisible force. he moved his arm further, realizing that the magnetic effect had worn out.

“what?!” he barked into the phone.

it was the detective from the previous day. the man's voice was professional but held a hint of amusement.

he informed katsuki that they had finally identified the specific nature of the villain's quirk.

“upon further investigations and quirk research through quick blood samples, we received word back from the lab. the villain confirmed it himself not long after. his quirk allows him to make someone he hits with the magnet physically stuck to the person they desire the most. after the questioning, we were told that the effects should wear off after a day, so the two of you should be good by now.”

katsuki froze, the phone still pressed to his ear. physically stuck to the person they desire the most.

you, who had been now awake and listening, began to snicker against his skin. you looked up at him, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “you know, katsuki, you didn't really have to take the hit for me after all.” you whispered, “if the quirk works that way, we would have ended up stuck together regardless of who got hit.”

katsuki stared at the ceiling, his face flushing a deep crimson. he slowly hung up the phone and pulled you closer, his grip firm. “whatever,” he muttered, though he couldn't hide the small, satisfied smile on his lips. “just shut up and go back to sleep, brat.”

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It had always been this way. Clark and you. Life began when you met Clark and not in some corny way either. Your first real memories were on the Smallville farm. Scraped knees, popsicles, and mud pies then the throes of puberty and teenage angst. Sure, there were times when you had found a new friend group or didn’t hang around Clark as much as you should have, but it didn’t matter because you were a permanent fixture in his life. You were invited to Thanksgivings, birthday parties, and vow renewals. Your picture hung on at least three walls in that farm house. One you knew for sure, a picture from Halloween where Clark and you had dressed up as two peas in a pod for the 5th grade costume contest. Martha had made the costumes. You were as close to family as it got. His mom had taught you how to make pie crust. His father had shown you how to drive a tractor. And Clark had told you everything there was to know and he never second guessed it. 

And so it was normal to tell your best friend that you loved them. It was a text message, it was a goodbye, it was said in laughter and in strife. It was never a question. Clark isn’t sure when it began to mean something else. Because falling in love with you was easy. 

For Clark, it was trying to pinpoint exactly when it happened. Falling in love with your best friend wasn’t always an obvious thing. Falling in love was coming back to a stream ten years later to see how much it had changed or the tree you carved your names into as teenagers somehow sprouting new branches years later. It was like the changing of seasons and you never quite saw the first signs of Spring until it was in full bloom. These things would sneak up on a person or maybe they were there all along and Clark had never been privy to it before. 

ii. on a sunny tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair

Clark remembers the first time he noticed how beautiful you were. That you weren’t just some snotty nosed kid anymore. Or an awkward tween who was growing into her skin, unsure of the new weight gain and haircut, unsure of if you applied lipstick the right way. 

It was outside the barn, a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was setting behind the trees and you were sitting on the tractor with tears in your eyes. The Kansas sun caught in your hair just right and the red around your eyes did nothing to distract him from the fact that you were beautiful. And Clark said something to make you laugh, that wide smile on your face. He had wished he had a camera to capture the moment, breath getting caught in his chest. And maybe it was all for selfish reasons but he also wanted you to see exactly how he saw you. Beautiful and worth more than whatever guy had broken your heart in the tenth grade. A name you couldn’t recall years down the line.

“He said he just doesn’t like me anymore.” You hiccuped, the laughter that Clark had pulled out of you fading away. 

Clark’s concern was always genuine. His eyebrows knitted together, a frown to accompany it. He’d rip his chest open just so you could see how his heart broke along with yours. “Well, that’s stupid.” And it was so Clark, so sincere and matter of fact that it put another smile on your face. “And I love you and I’ve put up with you this long and that’s never gonna change.” His hand hovers over your knee. Touch was different as teenagers, fewer and farther between than it used to be. But it didn’t stop, it just didn’t look the same as it used to. His thumb rubs circles into your knee, that supportive look on his face. 

“Well, thanks.” You roll your eyes, shoving his hand away as your face grows a degree hotter. From the tears? “Come on. Fly me somewhere, that’ll really cheer me up.” You grin, trying to see if he’d finally break. You had been begging him for ages. 

“Nice try.”

iii. as a hello

Clark wasn’t typically full of himself. When he started growing into his body as a teenager, people would tell him all the time that he was handsome, that he had good looks. It wasn’t something that he had really given all that much thought to. But preparing for prom was shaking loose a weird insecurity he didn’t even know he had. Did he fill out the suit nicely? Was it too big? Too small? Should he have gotten a haircut before tomorrow? Were the sleeves the right length? And when one insecurity sprouted, several more followed in their wake. He was standing in front of the mirror, poking and prodding at his face. The suit was still clad on his body.

“I love you, but what the hell are you doing?” Your voice suddenly comes from behind him. 

Clark jumps, turning around to pierce you with a stare. A clear annoyance filling his eyes. He was not startled by much. And really, he should’ve been used to you popping up behind him or appearing behind the screen door of the kitchen. He wouldn’t be surprised if Martha and Jonathan had made you a spare key. Showing up to the farm unannounced might as well have been your love language. “I don’t have to answer that.” He frowns, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket. 

“Nervous?” It was only mildly infuriating when you could read his mind. You're plopping down on his bed as you stare up at him. His bed was made meticulously, plaid comforter tucked into the sides. A bowl of chips in your lap as you wrinkled the blanket, did you help yourself to that or did his mom send you up here with a snack? 

Clark shrugs, his body taking up the spot beside you. Your thighs press against each other on the twin bed as he’s reaching across to steal a handful of chips. Usually, you tease him, move it out of his grasp, but this time you’re offering it up to him. “I guess.” 

“I hate to say it, Clark, but they might be right.” You swallow down a mouthful of chips, eyes sliding down his body. It’s almost a physical thing, your stare. He feels it on his skin. Typically he shies away from the attention, not this time. “You look… handsome.” You grimace, the words foreign coming out of your mouth. “But don’t tell anyone I told you so.” 

Clark laughs and your presence alone has his nerves soothing, your words doing the rest of the job. There was no one more honest in the world to him. His parents could occasionally sugar coat things or wore rose colored glasses when it came to him. But you knew every part of Clark Kent, even the ones he didn’t want anyone to see. 

iv. with a hoarse voice, under the blankets 

It was all phases of life, too. It was always Clark Kent by your side in one way or another. Senior year of Metropolis University. A shared two bedroom apartment. It only lasted one lease period– you realized too late that a roommate with super-hearing wasn’t your cup of tea when you wanted to finally explore the dating scene in the big city. Well that and it brought a new phase of your friendship with Clark. One that neither of you could really understand or stand too long in. It was no longer the safety of Smallville. It was as close to real life as the two of you had tasted. 

“Get up. Please.” Clark is fighting a losing battle. He can see your form underneath the blankets on your bed, shifting around in annoyance. Your entire body is covered by the comforter. No limbs peak out. He moves closer to the edge of your bed. You were hungover and Clark wasn’t going to let you live it down. He never let you live anything down. “Come on. I made you pancakes. They even have the worst smiley face ever in the middle and you can make fun of it and–” 

Your arm reaches out from underneath your blankets to grab his arm, tugging him. This is the man who cannot be moved. And you knew this. “Come on, let me have this.” A typical phrase. He hears it when you want to win a play fight, when you want him to pretend a shove from you actually does anything. Clark will always cradle his arm in mock hurt, wincing till a knowing smile is shared between the both of you. He always relents. You pull him into the bed with you, the covers coming up to wrap around the both of you. “Clark Kent,” Your hands come up to your face, rubbing at your temples, “You’re giving me a headache.” 

“Oh, me? I’m giving you a headache?” A small amount of sunlight filters through the blanket. Your hair is unruly. You’re in one of his t-shirts, threadbare and stretched out, but it’s ridden up your thighs, twisted around your belly. He does not stare. He does not ogle and especially not at his best friend. Clark Kent has always prided himself on that even as his eyes make their way up the rest of your body. “It has nothing to do with last night? Oh and by the way, you’re welcome for picking you up last night. You always get so touchy when you’re drunk and–” 

You shove him. “One last warning, Clark. I’m serious.” You grumble, feet moving to push at his body too as if that will do anything your arms couldn’t. “Get out of my fortress.” His fingers dance at your ankles. “And bring me my pancakes.” 

“As you wish, ma'am." He’s sliding out of your bed, his fingers tickling their way down your ankles, your toes, a giggle eliciting from underneath the blanket. 

If he didn’t have super hearing maybe he wouldn’t have picked up on it so well. “Love you.” You grumble begrudgingly, twisting the blanket back around your body. 

Clark smiles and his heart flips in his chest. But it’s the one that happens sometimes with you. When he’s so grateful to have you in his life and of course hearing your best friend say they love you would do that to anyone. 

v. when we kissed for the first time 

It all started to warp around this time, deep in his belly and twist up into something he couldn’t quite name.

And it wasn’t a weird request. It wasn’t, you had reassured yourself. Maybe you had too much to drink during game night, but Clark was always the person you could go to. Nothing was awkward with him. I mean he had probably glimpsed you naked before and overheard you after a date and you shared a bathroom and a space and you grew up together and it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t. And now you two sit alone in your apartment, the moonlight leaking through the curtains. 

“Please?” Your pupils are blown. You swallow some of the spit that had gathered in your mouth. You’re starting to regret asking, but his fingers are still sliding over your calves, soothing. Your legs in his lap as you sit across from him on the small couch. He’s got that look on his face, deep in thought. Clark Kent has to weigh every outcome. He’s had to do it ever since he started realizing the magnitude of his abilities, what came with them. He found people's emotions to be the same way, that they weren’t something to take lightly. 

“You’re drunk. I love you and you’re drunk.” He decides, hands going still on your legs. He watches your face for a reaction. God, how he wishes one of his abilities was to understand what was going on in your brain. All this time and he still didn’t have it down to a science. 

Your lip is drawn between your teeth as you move to sit on your knees, fingers coming out to rest lightly on his chest, his shirt underneath your fingertips. “Clark.” Your eyes shine with emotion. He’s not sure if it’s him that hurt you or if it’s the reason you’re asking for such an absurd thing. “Two guys have told me that I kiss weird. Two. Not just one. And you’ve always been honest with me. I mean remember when I tried to switch up my style and no one told me for weeks that I looked–” You sigh, eyes falling to stare at your hands on his chest. “That’s besides the point, but I mean, what if it’s true? And what if I never fix it and you, Clark Kent, had the chance to tell me? Or should I go through my life never knowing?” The dramatics were not lost on you. Had you been sober, it would have been a funny conversation. One that Clark could easily talk you out of. He would have reassured you that guys your age were simply trying to get under your skin, trying to create a sense of self-doubt. But that wasn’t the point. Not now. The point was his best friend is on her knees across from him, begging for something as simple as a kiss. 

Clark hates seeing you so upset. “Listen–” 

You drop back against the couch, whining, fingers rising to hide your face. Clark only used that tone of voice to soothe your anxieties, when he knew you were embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked. M’sorry.” 

Your words fall on deaf ears as Clark is leaning over the space between you. His large hands gather up your face before he has his common sense come back to him. Your eyes meet for the briefest moment. Your breath hitches as he finally closes the gap, lips moving against your own. It’s the sort of thing you probably should have prepared for. Maybe set some ground rules, but there’s no rule book and wow, you’ve never kissed your best friend's plush lips before. There's suddenly no space between you as he’s crowding you against the arm of the couch. Lips move against each other, drowning in the new feeling. It’s open-mouthed and desperate. He’s pulling you closer, tongue swiping across your bottom lip, wanting to know exactly how you react to that. Your chest pushes closer to his own, craving to close the last bit of space between your bodies. A whine from you then a groan from him, both swallowed by the kiss. 

Realization only dawns when you’re struggling to breathe. You pull away to catch your breath. Clark’s lips chase yours. “Well. You don’t kiss weird.” You decide before the real thoughts and emotions try to catch up with you. Clark didn’t need to breathe, he probably could’ve done that forever and been happy.

“I don’t think that was the test.” Clark is clearing his throat, red splotches appearing underneath his collar, rising to his face. “You, uh, you don’t kiss weird. Either.” He has to get out of here immediately. Preferably off planet, but he’d settle for his room.

He doesn’t have to make that decision though because you’re standing up, smoothing down your clothes like it was something clinical and it was just what you expected to happen and not earth shattering. He almost feels sad, nervous, ansty. He didn’t think that was something to just move on from. And it’s all catching up to him now. No preparation before the world ends would do that to a person. 

You’re trying to save face. “I’m tired, Clarkie. I’m gonna head to bed.”

You’re almost to your room when he speaks up. “They were just trying to get under your skin, you know?” 

You smile, “I know, Clark.”

vi. on a post-it note & in a way i can’t return 

love u. wont be home tonight get dinner without me xx 

The post-it was stuck to his bedroom door when he got home from class. He snatches it off his door as he pushes it open, grumbling as he does. Clark Kent wouldn’t describe himself as a grumpy person, but it seemed to be more of a common occurrence lately than any other emotion.

It was towards the end of your lease together that you started seeing someone consistently. It didn’t bother Clark, of course not. I mean sure, it was your weekly dinner night together and college had been so busy that he felt like he hadn’t been seeing you as much. You spent less and less time at the apartment and more at your boyfriends, but that’s all it was. That sinking feeling in his chest. It was normal. It was normal to get jealous that your friend blew you off for a date. 

Life had resumed rather normally after you kissed for the first time. Because what else was there? (Denial was a pretty powerful emotion). You had been best friends since forever and a single kiss wasn’t going to change that. It was a blip in the grand scheme of everything else you guys had lived. But feelings simmered below the surface and this feeling, whatever it was, was a way to shake them loose. 

He had typed out a long message and then subsequently erased it about a thousand times. He decided it was better to just talk to you when you finally got home. Except he doesn’t hear the front door open until the following night.

“You’re home.” Clark’s voice has an air of relief in it, but his annoyance tinged it. “Finally.”

Your eyebrows raise as you reach inside the fridge to grab a drink before you’re turning around to look at him from the kitchen. “What, are you my mother now?” You have no idea what you’re in trouble for, but your tone conveys the sentiment: how dare he police you?

“Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes, standing up from his place on the couch. “You totally blew me off yesterday!” Clark doesn’t mean to raise his voice right now. It’s not in his nature, but neither is the jealousy low in his belly. He’s itching for a fight with you. Because there’s no one easier to pick a fight with than someone you know like the back of your hand. “You totally blew me off and then left me this little sticky note like it makes up for it.” The pink post-it is clutched in his fist, his eyebrows down turned. A near pout on his lips. 

You scoff. “You can’t be serious.” You take a few steps from the kitchen to close the distance, staring him down. “You used to do this shit all the time.” 

Clark’s mouth flaps like a fish before he shuts it completely. Thinking, rolling his reply around his head. “Not like this.” 

“You don’t get to take the moral high ground here. You used to stand me up all the time to gawk at Lana!” 

“That was high school. This is different.” The man of steel who refuses to break. Who refuses to acknowledge that it really isn’t all that different because his feelings are hurt and you don’t just get to get away with that. 

“Please, Clark.” You scoff. “That was only a few years ago. I’m not doing this with you.” You’re retreating to your bedroom because the only thing that worked with Clark Kent was to let him simmer off, let the anger or whatever he was feeling evaporate till he would knock on your door later, puppy dogs eyes and all to beg for forgiveness. 

He can’t help himself as he watches you leave, “I love you.” And there’s nothing else accompanying it. Plain as day, his feelings. They hang in the air around him. The words sound different coming out of his mouth. Maybe because he feels different, has nothing changed for you? He doesn’t want you to go to your room and wallow and he doesn’t want to do the same. Clark doesn’t want to go to bed mad and work through it by himself. But his voice sounds pleading and his heart is on his sleeve and he doesn’t want to ruin this, ruin you or your happiness. How do the words he’s said a thousand times feel different coming out? He tries again. “You drive me crazy and I love you.” Was that better? Was that normal? 

“Living together is turning us into a married couple, Clark.” You joke, sparing a single glance back to him before you’re closing your bedroom door on him. 

vii. before you fall asleep 

“Can you come walk me home?” You sniffle on the other side of the phone. 

Clark had picked up immediately. It didn’t matter that it was 2AM and his final project presentation was tomorrow. When you rang, he answered. Clark was nothing if not a man of principle. Sturdy and consistent. 

Clark is appearing in front of you before you even had the chance to start crying again. You had calmed yourself down, but the feeling of getting broken up with sort of just ebbed and flowed. One minute it’s a blessing in disguise and then next you’re not sure how to go on, how life resumes after your heart is broken. “Hi.” A smile sneaks its way onto your face, a sort of self-pitying one as your best friend looks down at you. You're thankful he’s the type to refrain from saying ‘I told you so.’ “Well. It’s over.” 

Clark is nodding, arms immediately moving to wrap around your frame. “That’s alright. You’ll be alright.” His hands are smoothing down your hair. His cheek is pressed against the crown of your head then his lips. A reassuring kiss for his own selfish needs. He doesn’t move to pull away, not even when your breathing evens out and your body is slacking against his own. He knows you’d pull away when you’re ready. 

Grateful for his sturdy body as your weight leans against his, you pull your head back to look up at him. Your arms are wrapped around him, no space between you. You seek comfort in his eyes. “Am I an idiot?” Your lips flatten. “Don’t answer that.” 

His hand is against your cheek now. Your broken heart can only remember your lover doing that. Clark is only reminded of the last time he cupped your face in his hands. How it changed the way he looked at the world. At you. “Come on, let’s get you home.” His thumb is gathering the little bit of wetness underneath your eyes, wiping it away. And he can’t help but think you look just as beautiful as the first time he noticed. The streetlights glinting in your eyes. A slight breeze makes your hair dance. Your lips always seemed fuller after you cried. You lick your lips, wanting to say something and all it does is make his resolve break. He has to tear his eyes away. Because it isn’t the time. 

Clark pulls away, hand instead finding your own as he moves to begin walking you down the street. 

It’s easier to let everything out when Clark is by your side and the streets of Metropolis are under your feet. The relationship was probably doomed to fail, you told Clark. The ex-boyfriend was constantly jealous of your close relationship with Clark, but in the end had been projecting his own secrets onto you. 

All Clark could do was listen and refrain from commenting because he only got angry thinking about how you deserved to be treated better. That no one really deserved you. And really, it wasn’t hard to be good to you. You made it easy. You were kind and funny. Sometimes you’d even do the dishes and cook instead of him doing both every time. You gave thoughtful gifts and always listened with an open heart. Sure, you had trouble backing down from a fight, probably cussed too much, and could get caught up in the small details. You could be on edge when you felt insecure. But Clark had always softened you. Your sharp edges have eroded over time and how dare someone try and take advantage of that? 

There’s comfortable silence on the walk home after you get the rest of your feelings in the open air. 

“Do you ever get annoyed having to walk? You know at a human pace?” He can tell you’re feeling better, but it’s a genuine question too. 

Clark shakes his head, grip tightening on your hand. “No. Especially not with you.” A pause to pass you one of his smiles. He takes care with the question. Clark had struggled with identity for so long growing up and even now. What it meant to be human, how much of him even was? “I mean, I’ve always had to practice ‘normal.’ And my parents never pressured me to hide at home, but I sort of like doing things… normally. Walking, having to hold back my strength. Practicing being gentle even though my powers are the exact opposite.” His eyes flit over to your own. “This wasn’t just another attempt at getting me to fly you home, was it?”

“Now that you mention it…” 

“Still not happening.” 

When you’re finally home, Clark is bringing the covers up over your frame, fingers gently prodding the blanket into your sides. You let him dote on you because Clark is nothing if he doesn’t feel needed. He’s always needed to take care of others. Plus, you knew his mom had taught him how to perfectly tuck a person into bed and there was nothing better than Martha’s advice to cure a break up. You’re sure he’s already called her while you were getting ready for bed. Tomorrow would be movies and ice cream with a signature Kent recipe sent to Clark’s email. 

“Okay?” Clark’s hands smooth down the blanket, concerned eyes rarely leaving you.

You want to laugh only because he’s so serious about the process. “Yes, Clark.” 

“You don’t need anything else?” He doesn’t want to leave your bedroom. He probably should’ve suggested that he tuck you into his bed instead. It was bigger, he had the softer blankets, and he could easily grab you whatever you needed throughout the night. Because it was that serious to him. It wasn’t because he couldn’t remember the last time you shared a bed or that he would give anything to ease the ache in your chest. Or that he wanted you to curl into his side, hands holding onto him to ground yourself through the feelings. But that was selfish. And he wasn’t. Not this time. 

Your eyes catch his before he can make it away from your bed. “Do I say it enough?”

“Say what enough?”

“That I love you. That I appreciate you. That I couldn’t do any of this without you.” And it’s probably a silly image, your head poking out of the covers, the blankets wrapped tightly around you as you pour your heart out to your best friend. Because it was so easy to be open with him. Because he would always do it right back.

“Took the words right out of my mouth, honey.” A kiss pressed to your forehead and a goodnight. He doesn’t linger. 

viii. as we huddle together, a storm raging 

Even after your lease ends, Clark and you see each other weekly. Daily when you finally secure a position alongside him at the Daily Planet. 

Work is over and it’s pouring rain outside the building's doors as you’re about to step out onto the street. 

“Oh, come on! The one morning I didn't check the weather app.” You grumble, tugging Clark’s arm back inside as he tries to brave the storm anyway, but it doesn’t stop him. “Clark! I am not walking home in this.” But he’s not listening as he moves out into the rain. You watch his glasses become foggy, his hair sticking to his forehead seconds after walking out. 

“I have an idea. Come with me.” A hand held out to you. Unfortunately, your best friend never needs to convince you much. 

You're standing in the alley by the Daily Planet. Clark’s arms wrapped around you as he shields you from the rain with his body. “What sort of idea is this?” You grumble, afraid you’d grow cold from the rain, but Clark luckily has always had enough body heat for the both of you. 

“I love you. Don’t be mad.” 

“Why would I be –” But you can’t get the rest of your thought out because Clark is launching you into the air at what feels like break neck speeds (to you, an inexperienced flyer, to Clark, it’s nothing). His hand is holding the back of your head, his other pressed to your lower back. “Clark- Clark.” You’re gasping for breath, fingers clutching onto his clothes, afraid to look around you. Your face is half buried into his chest. How many times had you begged him for this exact thing and now he finally relented? During a rain storm? But by some miracle, the rain clouds are subsiding and the sun begins to peak out the same time you do.

“What do you think?” Clark’s got a stupid grin on his face. You would hit him if you weren’t so afraid to let go. 

“Ever since you became Superman, you’ve been kind of an ass.” His confidence had shot up ever since he started proving himself to the world. (We aren’t in Kansas anymore, he had said to you one day) (You totally stole that, you had responded). You want to stick your tongue out at him, but it’s hard to even fake mad when you can see the city from this angle. 

Your body weight is completely suspended by Clark, body pressed against his in a way he can’t recall ever happening. Maybe he should’ve done this before. The awe in your eyes is enough to convince him of that. Especially when you’re turning your face back towards his and he should kiss you. You aren’t living together anymore and you’re not teenagers and you’re not heartbroken, but he can’t bring himself to do it because how perfect are you like this? 

ix. broken, as you beg me not to leave

It’s a quiet night in your apartment when a muffled bang comes from your fire escape. Then a gentle rap of knuckles against your window. 

“Clark?” You’re already questioning as you pull the window open. On the fire escape stands Superman. “What happened, are you okay?” You’ve never seen him like this as you help him through the window. Part of his weight is leaning against your side as you lead him to the couch. It’s always been him supporting you. Bile wants to rise up in your throat at the thought of having to be the strong one. “Clark, talk to me.” You plead, kneeling between his legs. Hands and eyes search over his suit to find the problem. The area around his eyes is red like a rash, his shoulders slumped. There’s a large gash to his stomach and blood is staining the blue fabric. 

“M’okay.” Is all he can manage.

“Clark, you do not look fucking okay.” Your heart rate is rising as you rustle for something to press to his wound. A forgotten t-shirt and your hands press into his stomach. Clark grunts from the pressure, hands coming to rest over your own. His hands, your hands, stained red. “Please, tell me what to do.” Your eyes are starting to fill with tears, not used to these feelings when it comes to Clark. Clark Kent was the structure in your life, the steadiness of your heart, your rock. “I love you. Please don’t die.” It might have sounded funny in any other scenario, but not when your supposed to be indestructible best friend is bleeding out on your couch. 

“Just need a minute, sunshine.” His voice already sounds stronger, but his eyes are screwed shut from whatever pain he’s feeling. You can’t imagine what it took to get him this way and your stomach sinks. “Just–just don’t leave.” His hands are still holding onto your own, but one moves to intertwine with yours. Blood is already drying between your interlocking fingers.  

“A minute?!” You had hoped your voice would come out level, but it betrays you. “You’re not going back out there, are you?” 

“H-have to.” Clark manages to meet your eyes, wanting to crumble right back into your couch at the concern in your eyes. 

“No. No, you do not ‘have to’.” Your hand pulls away from his own as you begin to pace in front of him. You stop, your stare piercing him to the couch. “Clark, you do not have to do any of this.” 

He frowns, wanting to smooth out the crease between your eyebrows. Clark hates causing you strife. “You know I do.” Clark had come to terms with it a long time ago. That he did not just belong to himself. That his abilities did not just belong to himself. 

Your voice breaks. “Please, don’t go back out there. I can’t- I can’t lose you.” Words fall on deaf ears as Clark struggles to bring himself up from the couch, body stumbling back to the window. “Clark, please. I love you. Don’t do this.” You don’t care if you’re begging. You don’t care about the tears falling from your eyes. You just want him to be safe. Your body moves in front of him, but you don’t stop him. You just move to support his weight as you help him onto the window sill. His body is still pointed in your apartment, but you can tell he’s finding the rest of his strength to return to the fight. 

“I love you. I promise. I’m okay.” He moves his hand from the gash. His skin is already weaving back together. The dried blood is the only reminder. 

Your hands press into his cheeks, tilting his head up to look at you from his seat on the window sill. Clark’s eyes shine, blue eyes pouring into your own everything that was unsaid. The skin held beneath your fingers tingled, when have you ever looked at him like this? “Clark.” The rest of the words you want to say are lodged in your throat. Because expressing what you really need to say to him was impossible so for once, you settle with a kiss. His face between your hands, your body between his legs as you lean down and press your lips to his. Clark’s hands slide against the back of your legs, holding the back of your thighs as he cranes his neck to meet your kiss. 

The kiss is not desperate this time; it is a vow. It means everything the second time around. That everything will fall into place around it. The entirety of your lives seemed to tilt inward to this moment. You know it won’t make him stay. You don’t want him to stay. You knew Clark, knew where his heart lies and that a piece of it now belonged to you, how it always did. 

x. with no space left between us

You’ve grown shy underneath his gaze. Your eyes landing anywhere but his face. 

Clark had come by later in the night to find you still awake. A bedside lamp was left on to call him home. You had followed the rest of the night in front of your television. He had peeled off his bloody suit for a pair of his pajamas that you had kept in your drawer. The bruises on his body had turned from black to a light yellow in a matter of hours. And despite everything he had dealt with in the last few hours, the only thing that remained on his mind was the feeling of your lips. 

“Come on.” Clark offers his hand, that black strand of hair tickling his forehead after his shower. Your room is covered in a soft glow as he pulls you towards the bed. “What changed?” He comments on your demeanor. 

“I–” You start to say before closing your mouth. It’s impossible to articulate. It’s like waking up after a deep sleep or plunging into cold water, but with this familiarity you’ve known your whole life. It’s like finding out a secret that your intuition knew all along. “Nothing.” You decide. Or everything, you might add if his hands weren’t distracting you.

“Exactly.” Clark’s fingers dance against your bare thighs as your skin prickles in their wake. There is something between you that wants to break. A live wire that only Superman could touch with his bare hands. “I love you.” The same words you’ve heard a thousand times, but this time, they immediately bring a warmth to your face. You want to shy away, but you lean in instead, fingers sliding over Clark’s. 

“I love you too.” You clear your throat, bringing his hand up to press against your chest. Over your heart. Clark can feel it underneath his hand. The steady beat of your heart against your ribs. He knows what you’re conveying: that he has a piece of you too and always did. You don’t have to say anything else as you’re closing the distance between the two of you for the second time that night. But you both had hours to sit with the feelings, about what it meant and where it went from here. 

You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.

“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”

You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.

You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.

Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots. 

There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.

“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.” 

You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.

“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”

He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.

“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”

You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply. 

Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent. 

“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”

His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before. 

“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”

Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!

“Was it cherry?”

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”

You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.

When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.

It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.

Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week three

Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.

Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.

At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.

Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.

Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.

 As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.

He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.

 “Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.

Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.

“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.

He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.

“Can I walk you home?”

What is going on?

“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”

You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.

For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.

The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.

It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.

And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.

What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.

“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.” 

Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?” 

He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed. 

“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.

Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.

“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.

It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”

You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.

You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.

“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”

You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building. 

You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.

“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest. 

“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.” 

When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.

This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week five

The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..

Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late? 

Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.

You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward. 

“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”

“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”

As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.

It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair. 

“You look really nice, honey.” 

That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.

“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.

Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”

“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”

As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not. 

Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question. “Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”

There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.

It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.

“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…” 

You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”

Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary. “You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”

You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.

“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”

The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all. 

“Yeah, right.”

“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.” Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning. 

By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.

It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.

“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”

Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice. “Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.” 

The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.

The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“Thank you.” you say quietly.

Clark shakes his head almost immediately.

“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”

Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.

This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week seven

When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?

The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.

 It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy. 

With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–

There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now. 

You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.

The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.

“...For me?”

The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.

“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”

“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”

Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.

“They made me think of you when I saw them.”

Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.

Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.

You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase. 

When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again. 

“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”

You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.

“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”

Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt. 

“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”

“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie. 

When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.

“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”

His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.

“That is relaxing to me.”

“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.” 

“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”

Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.

“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.” 

“Including you.”

All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.

The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you. 

“Oh no.”

You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand. 

The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.

“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”

Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right. 

“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.” 

“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.” 

It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.

“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.

The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides. 

One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.

It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week ten

Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.

He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.

You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain. 

Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically. 

You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.

Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.

“Whats wrong?” he asks.

It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.

His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”

That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.

Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.

There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.

It was a normal Tuesday.

She was in their apartment, hair still damp from the shower wearing one of Bucky’s sweatshirts and sipping coffee like the world wasn’t about to tilt sideways. Bucky was sitting on the couch, barefoot and loose-limbed in a grey t-shirt, scrolling casually through his phone like it was just another day.

He was looking at her.

He had always been the one to initiate; kisses that deepened too quickly, hands that gripped tighter than necessary and moans that begged for release. But right before things tipped over into something raw and feral, he would hesitate.

A beat too long.

A flicker of something behind those ocean blue eyes.

A silent wait.

That day, as naturally as someone might say pass the sugar, he said something. “I want you to take control of me.”

She choked on her sip. “What?” She asked.

He looked up at her, relaxed.

Serious.

A faint grin tugged at his lips, like he had known she’d react exactly like this.

“In bed,” he added. “I want you to take control. I think I’d like it.”

She lowered the mug slowly on the side table, blinking at him like he had grown a second metal arm. “Bucky,” she said carefully, “you want me to… dominate you?”

He shrugged. “I mean... not with... whips and chains unless you’re into that... in that case then we can talk… but yeah. I trust you. I wanna try it.”

She stared.

He stared back.

“I don’t… this isn’t a small thing,” she said, her voice softening. “You were… controlled, for decades. You didn’t get to say no. Or choose what you wanted. And now you’re asking me to do that to you again?”

Bucky nodded once. “Exactly.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does,” he said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re the only person I’ve ever been with who doesn’t want something from me. Not like that. You never tried to fix me or treat me like I’m fragile. You make me feel like I’m just… your guy.”

“You are my guy,” she said.

He smiled. “Right. So don’t freak out when I say this is me choosing it. Choosing you. Choosing to let go because it’s you. I’m giving it to.”

Her breath caught. “I don’t want to mess this up,” she whispered.

“You won’t.”

“You’re Bucky Barnes. Former Winter Soldier... war hero... treated like a human weapon-”

“…and now I’m a boyfriend,” he cut in gently, “...asking his very loving, slightly over-caffeinated girlfriend to tie him to the headboard and ruin him a little bit.”

She snorted, despite the tears pricking her eyes. He was so strong, now, thinking of the past. She wasn’t.

He grinned. “Look, sweetheart,” he added softer now, “I know what it meant when they took control of me. And it’s not what I’m asking from you. They took everything. I’m giving this to you. There’s a difference.”

She nodded slowly, her throat tight. “And if at any point you need to stop…”

“I’ll tell you,” He promised. “We’ll do safe words, check-ins, whatever you need. But, I’m sure. I want this. I want you.”

A long pause. Then she said, “Okay. Let’s talk about it. Rules. Boundaries. What you like.”

His smile grew wide and boyish. “And maybe… when we start, you can call me something? Like ‘good boy’.” 

She smirked. “Get on your knees and ask nicely.”

He blinked. Laughed. “Oh,” he said, eyes darkening. “We’re doing this now?”

She sipped her coffee again. “Don’t keep me waiting, Barnes.”

The first night in control, she led him to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. He sat at the edge of the bed, nervous energy radiating off him, fingers fidgeting in his lap. She stood in front of him, arms crossed.

“Strip,” she said gently but firmly.

He blinked up at her, surprised by the tone, but obeyed. He undid the buttons of his shirt, revealing broad shoulders and the sculpted lines of muscle beneath. She let her eyes rake over every inch of him, and he flushed under her gaze.

“Slower,” she instructed when he moved to undo his belt. He nodded, face pink, and slowed down.

Each movement became deliberate, sensual. He slid the belt through the loops, then slightly lift his hips pushing his pants down, until he stood in nothing but his briefs already thigh.

She stepped closer and tilted his chin up. “Colour?”

“Green,” he whispered.

“Good boy,” she murmured, and his breath shuddered at the praise.

“You like that?” She teased. “You like being called my good boy?” He nodded, jaw clenched, trying not to whimper. “Say it.”

“Yes. I like it,” he admitted. “I like it when you take over.”

“I know, baby,” she said. “I can tell. You’ve been holding back. But not tonight.”

She pushed his back onto the bed and climbed over him, straddling his hips. She ground slowly against his cock through the fabric, and he whimpered, his hands twitching beside him. She grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head.

“Can I tie you up?” His eyes went wide, they were seriously doing it, so he nodded immediately. “Use your words, Bucky.”

“Yes. Please,” he said breathlessly. “I trust you.”

She reached into the drawer and pulled out soft restraints not metal, not rough, just fabric and secured them to the headboard. He laid there, gorgeous and vulnerable, looking at her like she had hung the moon. She kissed him then deep, slow, claiming.

“You’re doing so well for me,” she whispered into his mouth. His cock twitched. She kissed down his throat, over his chest, and when she flicked her tongue over his nipple, he gasped. “Sensitive?” She teased.

“Yes,” he panted. “Please, keep going.”

She toyed with him a little longer, watching him writhe before finally slipping off his briefs. His cock sprang free hard, leaking, desperate. She wrapped her hand around him and stroked slowly and firmly. He moaned, head thrown back.

“You’re being so good for me, baby,” she purred.

“Please… please don’t stop,” he begged.

She smiled wickedly. “Oh, I’m not stopping. Not until you ask me to.” His eyes darkened with lust. She pumped him steadily while she kissed and bit at his neck, murmuring praise between every whimper he gave her.

Then she let go.

“Wha-?” he panted.

“Did I say you would come?”

He shook his head, dizzy with want.

“Exactly. You’ll wait until I say so.” She reached between her legs, wet and aching, and slid down onto him without warning. He shouted, hips jerking up, restrained arms pulling instinctively.

“Fuck!” he gasped. “God, baby-”

She started riding him slow and deep, grinding in a way that had both on the edge in seconds. “You feel so fucking good,” she groaned, nails dragging down his chest.

He moaned, eyes rolling back. “I can’t-I can’t hold it-”

“Yes, you can,” she whispered against his lips. “Be a good boy for mommy. Just a little longer.”

“Y/N... please.”

“I said wait.”

And he did. Shaking, trembling, teeth gritted but he obeyed.

When she finally let him come, it was with her hand around his throat and her lips at his ear. “Now,” she growled. “Cum for me.”

He broke. His whole body arched, cock pulsing inside her, the sounds he made utterly wrecked. She kept moving, pushing him through it, riding out her own climax moments later as he sobbed her name.

Aftercare was slow, tender. She removed the restrain, kissed his wrists where the fabric had left marks, and ran a warm cloth over every inch of him. He clung to her afterward, head tucked into her neck like a child.

“You okay?” She whispered.

He nodded against her skin. “That was the best I’ve ever felt.”

She kissed his hair. “You were perfect. My perfect boy.”

His voice was a whisper. “I want more. Next time… can you make me beg harder?”

She grinned. “Oh, baby,” she murmured. “We’re just getting started.”

“That was…” he whispered. “Incredible.”

“You’re seriously okay?” she murmured again.

“I’ve never felt so safe,” he said.

She nuzzled into him, heart full, body humming.

I want more. Next time… can you make me beg harder

His words still echoed in her mind. She was straddling him again but this time, he trembled before she even touched him. The restraints were tighter that night. His arms stretched above him, biceps flexed with tension, wrists bound in black leather cuffs. Being a super soldier would have allowed him to easily break the cuffs, but that night he wasn’t Bucky Barnes the super soldier. He was Bucky Barnes Y/N’s little toy.

She had blindfolded him too because that night, he had wanted more. He had wanted it harder. Rougher. Deeper. And she was going to give it to him. “Colour, baby?” She asked softly, stroking his jaw.

“Green,” he replied, voice already hoarse. “Please, just do whatever you want with me.”

She hummed approvingly and dragged her nails down his chest, slow and cruel, watching the way his body arched to meet the sting. “You want to be used?” She whispered, lips brushing his throat. “You want me to fuck you like you’re just a toy?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes, I want that. Please.”

She slapped his thigh, just hard enough to make him flinch. “What’s my name, baby?”

“Ma’am,” he said instantly. “Sorry... ma'am.”

“Good boy,” she purred. “Now open your mouth.”

He obeyed without hesitation, tongue out like he was worshipping her. She spat. He moaned so loud it shook her spine.

“You’re disgusting,” she said sweetly, wiping her thumb across his wet bottom lip. “I love it.”

He groaned, hips bucking uselessly into the air. “Ma’am, I need-”

“You don’t need anything except what I give you,” she snapped, grabbing his throat not hard, just enough to remind him who he belonged to. “You’re mine. Every inch of you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, already nearly wrecked.

She reached between her legs, teasing herself while he strained against the cuffs, desperate to see, to touch, to feel more. Then she lowered herself onto his cock in one smooth, brutal motion. He screamed. “Shut the fuck up,” she hissed, clamping a hand over his mouth. “You don’t want the neighbours to know how desperate you are, do you?”

He shook his head, hips trembling, cock pulsing inside her.

She started riding him hard. No teasing this time. Just a punishing pace, relentless grind, skin slapping and nails digging into his chest. “You like being used, huh?” she growled. “Like being tied down while I fuck myself on you?”

His muffled moan was frantic. She pulled her hand off his mouth just as he gasped, “I’m gonna come, I-fuck, I can’t-”

She stopped moving entirely.

“Ma’am-!”

She slapped him again. “Did I say you could come?”

“No, ma’am,” he panted. “I’m sorry... I’m so sorry... please don’t stop-”

She leaned in close, her voice low and cruel. “If you cum without permission, I’ll edge you all night and leave you in the cuffs until morning. Understood?”

He shook violently. “Yes. Please. I’ll be good. I swear.”

She started riding him again but slower now. Controlled. Torturously deep. She watched his face twist beneath the blindfold, listening to the little sobs he tried to choke down. He was crying by the time she let him speak again.

“Ma’am,” he begged. “Please. I can’t take it...I need to come..I need to cum for you...”

“You want to cum for me, sweetheart?” She whispered.

He nodded furiously. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

She slid her fingers into his mouth and let him suck on them like he was starved. “You’ll come when I say,” she growled. “And you’ll thank me for it.”

“Y-yes... thank you... ma’am-thank you...”

And then she finally let go. She bounced on him hard, merciless, grabbing his jaw, his throat, anything she could reach as she fucked both toward the edge. “Cum for me,” she ordered. “Now.”

He shattered beneath her. He came with a scream, shaking so violently she thought the cuffs might snap. She rode it out, fucked him through it until he was gasping, sobbing, still hard from how wrecked she had made him.

She leaned down, tongue in his mouth, voice soft again. “You did so good for me, baby. My perfect little toy.”

He whimpered. “Thank you. Thank you, ma’am. I love you.”

She smiled and cupped his flushed, tear-streaked face. “I love you too.”

He was still twitching inside her. His skin was flushed, his breathing shallow, arms boneless at his sides where they now rested free, but not reaching. He didn’t touch her unless she let him. She had ruined him, and he had loved every second of it. And she was still straddling him, her thighs trembling, soaked and sore and aching in the best possible way. But she hadn’t moved. Not really. She was still wrapped around him. His cock, softening, was still inside her and she wasn’t letting him go. Not yet. She leaned down, hands bracketing either side of his head, her breath warm against his lips.

“Don’t pull out,” she whispered.

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy. “Wha-?”

She smiled. “Just stay there. Stay inside me. I want to feel you.”

His pupils went wide again, and the sound he made was somewhere between a whimper and a sob. “You-you wanna just…” he trailed off, blinking up at her like she had handed him the moon.

“Yes, baby,” she murmured, nuzzling into his jaw. “You feel so warm. So full. So mine.”

He shivered. She shifted just slightly, just enough to press him deeper into her, and his breath caught like she had punched the air from his lungs. “Fuck,” he groaned. “I-Ma’am-please…”

“Please what?” She asked sweetly, stroking his damp hair back from his forehead.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, honest and wrecked. “I just-please don’t stop touching me.”

She smiled, tender and possessive all at once. “I’m not stopping, sweetheart. You’re not going anywhere.”

She rolled her hips just once slow and cruel and he jerked, overstimulated, tears still fresh on his cheeks. Her chest pressed to his.

“Too much?” She asked softly.

“Too good,” he breathed. “I wanna take it. I wanna be good.”

“Oh, you are good,” she cooed. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever had.”

She didn’t move again. Not really. She let him feel every inch of her heat around him, soft and slow and pulsing with afterglow. She tilted his face up to kiss him slow, languid, worshipful. And Bucky just lay there, blissed out and pliant under her hands, letting her own him in the quiet aftermath. He didn’t even flinch when she tucked her hand between their sweaty bodies, reaching down to trace a circle over her clit not to come again, just to feel the pressure with his cock still buried inside. He whined, eyes fluttering shut again.

“You’re gonna stay like this for a while,” she whispered. “Let me soak you up.”

He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You like being inside me, don’t you?”

“More than anything,” he said without hesitation. “I’d live here if you let me.”

She grinned. “Maybe I will.”

And she meant it. Because she loved the way he melted. She loved how soft he got after she broke him. She loved the way his hands trembled when they finally touched her, reverent and careful like she was made of stardust. She loved that he had asked for this. And now he was hers. So she held him there, cock still buried deep, heart beating against hers, until they both fell asleep together, still connected, still full. Because that was what he wanted. And she would give him everything.

The morning sunlight spilled through the blinds in soft golden strips across the room. He was still asleep when she woke. His arms wrapped tightly around her, and his face tucked into her neck like he was afraid she might disappear if he let go.

One of his legs was draped almost over her thigh, and she realized with a soft fluttering ache, that he wasn’t planning to let her go anytime soon.

Her body was sore. Deliciously sore. But her mind… was uneasy.

She kept replaying the night before in her head; the slaps, the pressure, the things she had said. The sounds he made when she made him beg. The tears in his eyes. The way he screamed when he came. She had loved it. He seemed to love it.

But what if it had been too much? What if she had missed something?

She brushed a hand through his messy hair, feeling him nuzzle closer, a low hum vibrating in his throat. He was still half-asleep when she slowly slipped him out of her. Still conscious of her presence, even in that foggy haze.

“Why did you do that? You’re not allowed to get up.”

“You’re bossy again now?” She chuckled quietly. “Is that so?”

“Mmhmm,” he mumbled. He shifted and pulled her tighter. “You’re my pillow now.”

“Bucky…”

He paused. She didn’t mean to say it like that, quiet and uncertain. She felt him stiffen slightly. He pulled back just enough to look at her. She already slid off his body. She didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at him. The sleepiness still in his eyes, the red marks on his neck from her finger, the faint fading lines from the restraints on his wrists.

Then she asked, barely above a whisper, “Was it… too much?” He blinked. “I mean last night,” she added quickly. “The slapping. The edging. The cockwarming. The way I talked to you. You cried, Bucky. I-I just need to know it was okay.”

“The cock-what?” He asked, blinking slowly.

“Is… when you were inside me without moving,” she replied a little embarrassed, worried he only cared about the definition. He nodded. 

“So? The other things?” She asked again. He stared at her like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then he propped himself up on one elbow and took her hand into both of his like it was the most precious thing he’d ever held.

“Baby,” he said, voice hoarse and full of heat and tenderness, “that was the most loved I’ve ever felt in my entire life.” Her eyes stung. “I’m serious,” he said, low and warm. “You were perfect. You were careful. You asked my colour. You stopped when I needed it. You touched me after. You kissed me. You... you held me.” Then, his eyes glittering, he added, “Even that cock… something…”

She laughed. “Cockwarming.”

“Yeah!” He laughed too, dropping his head to her chest. “Cockwarming. Definitely ten outta ten.”

She breathed relieved, amused and totally overwhelmed by how much she loved him. “But I slapped you,” she said suddenly.

He smiled. “And I nearly came from it.”

She blinked. “You did?”

“Sweetheart,” he scoffed softly, “you could’ve spat in my mouth and slapped me again and I’d have thanked you.” She flushed. “Which you did... and if I remembered correctly, I did thank you.” He replied, laughing. “But I’m serious,” he continued. “You weren’t too much. You were exactly what I needed. I felt so safe. Seen. So…” He trailed off, breath catching. Then, softly. “I felt yours. And I wanted that.”

She pressed her forehead to his. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” he said fiercely. “You gave me everything I didn’t know how to ask for.” He kissed her cheeks. Her jaw. Her nose. And then he rolled on top of her, not with hunger or dominance, but with pure, desperate affection.

“Can we just stay here?” he whispered. “All day? I wanna hold you. I wanna fall asleep inside you again. I wanna have breakfast naked and have you drag me back to bed before the coffee even brews.”

She laughed against his chest. “I want that too,” she whispered.

“You didn’t scare me,” he murmured. “You made me feel free.”

Her heart clenched. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed,” she said, eyes shining.

He grinned. “Good,” he said, leaning down to kiss her slow and deep. “Then let’s ruin me again tonight.”

The apartment now smelled like coffee, warm maple syrup, and sin. Bucky stood at the stove completely naked, except for a dish towel slung over one shoulder like he’d remembered to be domestic, just not dressed.

His back was all muscle and bite marks, his neck littered with evidence of how the morning started, his hair messily tied up, strands falling over his cheekbones. He flipped pancakes with focus, but not enough to ignore her as she strolled past behind him equally bare, stealing a strawberry from the counter and kissing his shoulder as she did. He made a soft sound something between a sigh and a moan and leaned into her touch like gravity worked differently when she was near.

She then perched on the counter stool legs crossed grinning, as he brought over two plates cock swaying slightly as he walked not caring at all. He set them down and leaned in to kiss her. “You’re really committing to this naked-breakfast thing,” he murmured against her lips.

She smirked. “Oh, I declared it. It’s law now.”

He chuckled, nose brushing hers. “Then I better never wear clothes again.”

Breakfast took a long time. The coffee went cold.

They ate like that, bare knees bumping, syrup sticky on fingers and mouths. She licked it off his thumb at one point and he dropped his fork with a groan. And when he ended up on his knees between her legs again, she decided that naked-breakfast might be the best idea he ever had.

"You made me feel so good," Bucky murmured, voice thick with devotion, lips already ghosting over the inside of her thigh as he knelt between her legs. His eyes, impossibly blue and blown wide with hunger, looked up at her like she was the only religion he'd ever worship.

“I need to return the favour,” he added, tone teasing but reverent, like the act wasn’t just desire, but duty.

A promise.

She didn’t oppose. Didn’t say a word. Just leaned back on the stool, legs falling wider apart as if to say "Yes. Take what you want".

And Bucky did. Not with greed. With purpose.

He turned the stool, so her back was completely against the counter and then he kissed her between her thighs like she was a sacred thing. Like tasting her was a right he had to earn, again and again. His hands slid beneath her thighs, pulling her closer to the edge of the counter. He groaned like her pleasure fed him. And she let go utterly, completely because when Bucky Barnes made a promise, especially with his mouth…

He meant it. In that moment, the submissive Bucky Barnes was long forgotten. But just for that breakfast.

She curled up on the couch, the late afternoon sunlight painting soft gold across the living room. Bucky sat beside her, knees almost touching, fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. There was something in the air, a mix of excitement and hesitation that made her heart skip. He looked up at her, eyes steady but uncertain.

“Hey,” he said quietly. She smiled, waiting.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, voice low. She tilted her head. “I want to try something,” he said. “Something… a little spicy.” She raised an eyebrow.

Were this two days not spicy enough? She thought.

He exhaled, then chuckled nervously. “Like, I want you to control me more. Outside the bedroom.”

She blinked. “Outside? Like, in public?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Like, I want to feel you have that power. Even when we’re not alone.” Her mind raced thrill.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “What do you mean exactly?”

He pulled something small from his pocket a sleek vibrating ring. “I want you to use this on me,” he said, cheeks colouring. “At dinner. Or a movie. Somewhere public. I want to feel you… teasing me. Controlling me. But no one else knows.” She stared at the ring in her hand, still amazed he had even suggested it.

“How do you even know about this?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bucky smirked, a rare mischievous glint lighting up his blue eyes. “Hydra didn’t just break me,” he said softly. “They… experimented. Control... submission... all kinds of things. I learned a few things about what made me tick.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “But this?” She said, holding up the ring. “This was your idea?”

He nodded, voice low. “Yeah. Took me a while to admit it. But I knew what I wanted now.”

She studied him. The idea sent a delicious shiver down her spine. “Are you sure?” She asked softly. “It’s a lot.”

He met her gaze without hesitation. “I trusted you. It was a lot back then, now... it's something hot and exciting I want to try with my girl.”

She took his hand, squeezing it gently. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it.”

His smile was shy, hopeful. “Thank you,” he whispered almost relieved.

She leaned in and kissed his temple. “Tonight’s going to be fun.” She smiled, leaning in close. “You’re full of surprises, Sergeant Barnes.”

He grinned, brushing a hand down her arm. “Only for you.”

That night, the small vibrating ring slipped beneath his trousers as they headed out. Their secret, her power and his surrender all wrapped up in one electric thrill.

He stood still in the bedroom, already dressed in slacks and nothing else, his black dress shirt still hanging open. His chest rose and fell slowly as she stepped toward him, holding the black ring between her fingers. His pupils blew wide at the sight of it.

“You remember what this does, right?” She asked, voice soft but firm.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She smirked. “Good.”

He watched her drop to her knees in front of him, his breath catching as her fingers slipped the ring on slowly, deliberately around the base of his cock letting the snug stretch claim him fully. He hissed under his breath, hips jerking slightly as the cool touch gave way to tight warmth.

She pressed the pad of her thumb lightly against the button on the side. It didn’t buzz yet, but the threat of it did more than enough. “You’ll wear it through dinner,” she murmured, rising to her feet, smoothing down her dress. “No complaining. No fidgeting. No coming.”

Bucky nodded quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

She leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “If you behave, maybe I’ll ride you while it’s still on.”

He groaned softly, bit down on it to stay still. She kissed his cheek, sweet and possessive, then stepped back to grab her clutch. “Now be a good boy,” she said over her shoulder as she walked to the door. “And don’t make me press the button while we’re ordering appetizers.”

His cock throbbed inside the ring. And he followed her like he’d been summoned.

The restaurant bustled ambient chatter, clinking glasses, the soft murmur of a jazz band playing in the corner. She sat across from Bucky, her fingers casually wrapped around the stem of her wine glass. His gaze kept flicking to her, curious and tense. Because beneath his tailored black trousers, hidden beneath the table, he wore the small vibrating ring she had slipped on him before dinner.

She toyed with the discreet remote in her pocket, pressing the button lightly. A soft buzz rolled through him. Bucky’s breath hitched just slightly. He cleared his throat, pretending to study the menu. She pressed again. Harder this time. Heat flooded his face. His fingers tightened around his napkin.

She leaned forward on the table, voice low but clear. “Good boy,” she murmured, eyes locked on his. He swallowed. She pressed the button once more. A burst of vibration rocked him. He bit his lip, trying to keep his composure. His pulse thundered in his neck. She watched him struggle silent, obedient. The waiter approached with their food. Bucky kept his voice steady.

“Thank you.”

She smiled.

Later, when the coast was clear, she pressed the button again, this time holding it. Bucky’s hips twitched. His hand twitched on his thigh, but he kept it still. He looked up at her. Eyes bright, pleading.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

She shook her head with mock severity. “Not yet,” she said. She leaned down, her foot brushing his under the table. “You belong to me.”

He exhaled, surrendering. The rest of dinner passed in delicious tension. His control slipping, her power rising.

Later, in the privacy of her apartment, she undid him. His breath caught. “You did so well,” she praised, trailing kisses down his neck. He melted against her, the weight of obedience and trust pressing between them like a secret treasure.

The door had barely clicked shut behind them before she had him against it. Bucky’s breath came in sharp, shallow pants as she tugged at his tie, loosening it with one hand while the other slid down his chest. His shirt was wrinkled, his jaw tense and his cock, still caged in his slacks, was rock-hard and twitching inside the vibrating ring she never once activated during dinner. But he felt it. Every second. Its snug grip. The threat of it. The weight of her control.

“Please,” he rasped, eyes blown wide, hands clenched at his sides. “Please touch me-please, I’ve been so good-”

“I know,” she purred, dragging her lips along the line of his throat. “I watched you squirm through three courses without making a sound.”

She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, fingers quick to undo his belt. The second his cock sprang free, she pressed the button in her clutch.

The ring came to life.

Bucky groaned like he’d been shot, knees buckling slightly as the low hum buzzed around the base of his cock, behind his balls, vibrations shooting straight through him. “Fuck-baby, fuck-”

“Bedroom,” she ordered.

He stumbled down the hall, panting, moaning, too far gone to speak. By the time he reached the edge of the bed, she was behind him again, nails down his spine, mouth at his ear.

“On your back.” He obeyed instantly, cock twitching in the air, the toy still humming around him. She climbed on top, straddling his hips, and reached down to line him up. He whimpered.

“Color?” She whispered.

“Green,” he gasped. “So green, please, I need to be inside you-”

She slid down onto him in one smooth motion, and Bucky cried out. His hands shot up instinctively, but she caught his wrists and pinned above his head. The vibrating ring pressed tight at the base of his cock, amplifying every stroke, every squeeze of her walls around him. “Oh my god-oh my-please, I’m not gonna last-”

His eyes rolled back. She rode him hard fast, deep, controlled. The friction from the ring made every thrust feel impossibly intense, and Bucky was unraveling fast, every moan turning into a choked sob.

“You’re such a good toy,” she whispered, leaning over him. “So perfect like this. Owned. Ruined.”

“Yours,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Only yours-please-please let me cum-”

“Beg.” He did.

Every filthy word, every broken plea. And finally, finally, when she felt him start to lose control.

“Now,” she whispered. “Cum for me, baby.”

Bucky shattered. He came with a cry so loud it echoed, cock throbbing wildly inside her, the vibrations only making it more intense. He trembled beneath her, gasping, helpless, the ring still humming at the base of his spent cock. She stayed on top of him, let him ride it out, let him feel everything. Only when his body went limp did she finally press the button again, turning it off. He blinked up at her, flushed and dazed, eyes glassy with satisfaction.

“I think I saw god,” he mumbled.

She smiled, brushing sweat-damp hair off his forehead. “No, sweetheart,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him. “You saw me.” And he smiled back like that was so much better.

Since Bucky became aware of the toys you could use on him, she decided it was her time to play. The teasing started long before the limo pulled up to the Avengers’ tower. Bucky wore a black-on-black suit that fit like sin. His hair slicked back but still a little unruly near his ears. His metal hand rested on your thigh.

She wore that dress, the one with the slit high enough to kill and not back to speak of. But it wasn’t the dress undoing him. It was the toy. The small, remote-controlled vibrator tucked inside her. 

He knew it was there because he put it in her, right before they left the apartment on her instruction, on his knees, kissing your thighs while she stood over him in heels tall in front of him, already dressed in that backless black gown commanding.

Bucky knelt between her legs, obedient and reverent, his large hands steady as he held the small toy and followed her instructions to the letter. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh then another, higher this time, lips lingering against her skin like he didn’t want to stop. The air was thick with tension, with need, with control.

She didn’t touch him. Just looked down and said, softly, “Good boy.”

And Bucky, hard in his slacks, flushed with submission. Felt pride flood his chest. He slid the toy inside her with care and trembling hands. Then he sat back on his heels and looked up at her like she hung the stars. She hadn’t turned it on yet. Not once. She just wanted him to think about it. So you leaned over in the limo, lips brushing his ear. 

“Be good for me tonight,” you whispered. “Or I’ll make it buzz right when Steve gives his speech.”

He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

You smiled. “Good boy.”

The gala was elegant, classy, and boring as hell. Until she made eye contact with Bucky from across the ballroom and pressed the remote in your clutch. The toy buzzed to life inside her. Just enough to make her legs twitch. He noticed the twitch, eyeing her like an eagle.

Suddenly, he was aware of her movements only, of her perfume thanks to his enhanced sense of smell. He choked over his champagne flute. He tried to pretend everything was fine, but his jaw clenched and his hand tightened around the glass. His eyes burning a hole in your dress.

She raised your glass to him with a smile.

Across the room, he mouthed Please.

She raised the intensity one notch. His fingers twitched. By the time she pulled him into the elevator, his hands were shaking.

He had been hard for over an hour, struggling to focus, fighting the urge to drop to his knees and beg.

“You having fun?” She murmured, pressing him against the wall.

“Ma’am,” he gasped, “please let me taste you. Please. I need to make you cum...please.” She hummed, considering.

Then said, “On your knees. Right here.”

His eyes widened. She hit the emergency stop button and he dropped.

Right there in the Tower elevator, suit wrinkled and tie undone, Bucky pushed your dress up and spread your thighs, devouring you like he was starving.

Like worship.

Like repentance.

Like it was his purpose in life.

She came against his mouth in minutes shuddering and moaning. Her fingers tangled in his hair while the city spun behind you through the glass elevator wall. He was rock-hard and dripping in his pants, panting, looking up at her like he needed her to end him.

But she wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Back in their apartment, she dragged him straight to the mirror in the bedroom. He was still in his suit, shirt open, tie hanging around his neck.

She pushed him into the chair in front of the full-length mirror and straddled his lap. “You’re going to watch this time,” she said, grabbing his jaw.

“W-What?” He stammered.

“You’re going to watch yourself fall apart while I ride you. Eyes open. Hands behind your back. Don’t look away.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he choked out, breathless.

She slid down onto him in one long, slow thrust, and he whined. Her hand clamped around his throat, just enough to hold him still. “Look at you,” she murmured. “Look how desperate you are for me.”

He flushed, panting, trembling under her, watching your body move over his in the mirror.

“Such a good toy,” she whispered. “So fucking pretty when you beg.” She rode him slow at first deep, grinding movements that pushed him to the edge. His moans broke into sobs. “I’m gonna cum-I can’t-”

She squeezed his throat. “No.”

He shook. Whimpered. Fought for control. And she didn’t stop.

“You’ll cum when I say. Not before. Look in the mirror and see what you do for me, baby. Look how perfect you are.”

He screamed when she finally said the words.

“Cum, baby. Cum for me.”

And he did shaking, eyes locked on hers in the mirror, sobbing her name as he came so hard she felt him throb inside you. But she didn’t lift off yet.

She just leaned in and kissed his temple. “Stay there,” you whispered. “Stay inside me, again.”

You both sat there, bodies tangled, still connected, still full.

He closed his eyes and whispered, “I love being yours.”

She kissed his jaw. “I love owning you.”

She hadn’t planned on losing her mind in public.

It started as a normal event, another stuffy Stark-hosted charity gala, another excuse for her and Bucky to show up in matching black and look devastating together. And Bucky? He again looked like sin in a suit.

The dark navy tux hugged his frame like it was made for him, sleeves tight around his biceps, chest mouth-wateringly broad. His hair was tied back, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. He was all smiles and charm, like nothing could rattle him. Until someone tried.

A woman tall, blonde, sharp drifted over during a lull in the conversations. She wore red lipstick and a confidence that read entitled. Her eyes dragged over Bucky’s frame like she was picking something off a menu.

“Oh my god,” she purred. “You’re James Barnes, aren’t you?”

Bucky smiled, polite. “Just Bucky.”

She leaned in, touching his arm, her nails painted blood-red. “Well, Bucky, if you’re not doing anything later…”

She stood right beside him. That woman knew. She didn’t care. Y/N saw Bucky stiffen slightly, polite discomfort but he was still too kind to shut it down cold. And something in her snapped.

Not because she thought he’d cheat. Not because she was insecure. But because he was hers. And someone was touching what was hers like they had a right. Bucky glanced at her, reading your expression immediately. He said nothing but his posture changed. He straightened. Submitted. Even now, in public. She leaned in and took his glass from his hand slow, casual, but loaded with meaning. Then she slid your hand down the center of his back.

“Baby,” she said with a smile so sharp it could draw blood, “can you get me a drink?”

He nodded, instantly. “Yes, ma’am.”

The woman blinked.

Ma’am?

But she was already turning to her. “That’s my boyfriend,” she said sweetly. “And I don’t share.” Her mouth opened to respond. You didn’t wait to hear it.

“Are you mad at me?” He asked quietly some minutes later. She shook her head once, but she didn’t answer. His breath stuttered. The elevator doors closed behind her with a soft mechanical hiss. And she still didn’t say a word. She stood beside him in silence arms crossed, lips tight, her expression unreadable. Bucky shifted his weight slightly.

“Baby…” She didn’t look at him. His voice softened. Careful. Testing. “I didn’t even look at her.”

Still, she said nothing.

She stared ahead at the metal doors, jaw clenched and her heart still hammering with that sick, hot mix of adrenaline and jealousy.

He glanced at her, worry flickering behind his eyes. “Please don’t shut down on me,” he said quietly. “Talk to me.”

She finally spoke with voice low, calm, and sharp enough to cut. “She touched you.” Bucky blinked. “She touched you,” she repeated, turning to face him now. “Ran her hand down your arm like I wasn’t even standing next to you.”

“I didn’t want her to,” he said quickly. “I froze. I didn’t even look at her, I swear-”

“I know,” she said. “I know, Bucky. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He hesitated. “Then why won’t you look at me like you usually do?”

She sighed, long and tight. “Because I’m mad,” she said. “I’m mad that someone else thought they had the right to even lay a finger on what belongs to me.”

His breath caught. And slowly, almost instinctively, he stepped closer. Eyes wide. Submissive. She didn’t touch him yet. But he already looked like he was melting under the weight of her stare.

“You know I’m yours,” he whispered.

“I know you are,” she snapped, voice rising just a little. “But maybe she didn’t.” She grabbed the front of his jacket and yanked him against her. “Never let other women touch you,” she growled.

“I swear it won’t happen again.”

“I know,” she snapped. “You were good. Polite. Too polite.”

His voice was a whisper. “Are you going to punish me?”

She stopped the elevator. “Pants down.”

“Here?”

She arched an eyebrow. “That’s not the first time in this elevator,” she said in a low and dangerous tone. He swallowed and immediately dropped his trousers. They fell to his ankles with a soft rustle, and his cock sprang free already half-hard just from her tone, her silence, her power. She stepped in front of him, pressed her body close. And she wrapped her hand around him. He gasped.

“Color?” She murmured.

“Fucking green,” he said without hesitation. “Please.”

“Good boy.” She stroked him slowly, her fingers gliding from base to tip in tight, deliberate motions. He moaned low, his head dropping to her shoulder, hips twitching forward as he melted into her touch.

“This what you wanted?” She murmured against his neck. “Some stranger staring at your cock like she had the right?”

“No-no, ma’am-I didn’t-fuck-”

She tightened her grip and picked up speed, dragging her fist up and down with a rhythm that made his knees shake. His breath was hot and ragged, lips parted, brow furrowed in desperate pleasure. And just as his moans grew louder, she reached behind him. And pressed the elevator button. The elevator lurched back to life, beginning its slow ascent.

Bucky whimpered, eyes flying open. “Fuck... are we...?”

“Yes,” she purred, lips brushing his ear. “Let’s see how well you behave now.” He trembled. She didn’t stop stroking him.

The lights ticked upward: 9… 8… 7…

He was panting now, cock pulsing in her grip, his voice nothing more than a choked whine. “Please-ma’am-please-someone might-”

She squeezed just under the head, hard enough to make his whole-body jerk. “Oh, now you’re shy?” She sneered. “Where was that modesty when she had her hand on your arm?”

“I-I didn’t want her-I swear-”

The elevator dinged again. Almost at the exit floor. She stopped, suddenly. Just like that. Let go. Stepped back.

“Pants up.” He stared at you wrecked, leaking, panting, eyes wide and dazed. “W-What?”

“You heard me,” she said coolly, fixing her lipstick in the reflection of the steel doors. “Pants up, soldier.”

He fumbled with his zipper, cock twitching uselessly, breath still shuddering in his lungs. Just as the doors opened, he managed to get himself tucked in.

She stepped out first. “Next time someone looks at you like you’re theirs,” she said over your shoulder, “remember what I didn’t let you have.” She heard him groan softly, footsteps slow behind her. And she smiled. Because he was dripping hard in his pants. And still so fucking her.

He was still panting by the time she got him inside the apartment. Now naked, flushed, his cock angry-red and still leaking from the hand job in the elevator, he stood in the middle of her bedroom, trembling slightly, still under the spell of her power. 

“On the chair,” she said calmly.

He moved without hesitation. She watched him sit thighs spread, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling like he had been through a war. She walked slowly to the edge of the bed and slid out of her dress. No rush. She let him see everything. He made a soft, helpless sound when her fingers slipped into her panties.

“Keep your hands to yourself,” she warned. He nodded, biting down on his lip so hard it turned white. She lay back on the bed, legs parted, fingers slipping between her folds as she locked eyes with him. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

His jaw dropped slightly. “Fuck,” he whispered.

She slid two fingers inside herself and moaned, just loud enough to make his cock twitch. Bucky shifted in the chair, his hands still obediently behind his back, but his thighs shook, his chest heaved.

“You want to touch me, don’t you?”

“Y-Yes. Please. I’ve been good. I was good for you-”

“You were,” she hummed. “But this is your reward.”

She circled her clit with slow, steady pressure, letting him see every arch of her back and every twitch of her thighs. She moaned his name. His eyes fluttered. But he still didn’t move. Because she hadn’t told him to. She dragged it out, letting herself fall apart slowly, deliberately, with his eyes glued to her the whole time. When her legs started to tremble and her moans grew louder, she opened her eyes and stared at him.

“Keep watching, baby.”

He whined, desperate and stunned, cock pulsing against his thigh.

And then she came, gasping his name, thighs clenched tight, fingers slick and shaking. He made a soft, broken sound like it hurt not to be touching her. She panted, catching her breath, then sat up slowly.

“Colour?” she asked.

“Green,” he said instantly. “So fucking green.”

She smiled.

“Good.” She walked toward him naked, glowing, slick with satisfaction. Then she dropped to her knees in front of him.

“Now,” she murmured, wrapping her hand around his cock. “Now I’ll let you fall apart.”

He sobbed in relief. She ruined him with her mouth, finger tasting of herself, because he earned it. Because he watched. Obeyed. Surrendered. Because he was hers. She made him stand up, then pushed him down onto the mattress, face-up, spread his thighs, and climbed on top of him. No teasing. No warm-up.

Just her nails raking down his chest, her hand around his throat, her body lowering onto his cock in one slick, deep stroke.

“Fuck!” he gasped, hips jerking. “Keep still,” she growled.

He gripped the sheets. She rode him hard, punishing, hips slapping against his with brutal rhythm. His moans broke into cries needy and high, begging with his eyes even though his mouth didn’t dare speak.

She leaned down, lips at his ear. “You’re mine,” she whispered. “No one else touches what’s mine.”

“No one,” he choked. “Just you-just you, I swear-”

She slapped his thigh. “I know. But I need you to feel it.”

She rode him until he sobbed, begging, coming with her name on his lips like a prayer. She didn’t stop. He whimpered overstimulated, sensitive but she fucked him through it, owning every last shudder.

When she finally collapsed on top of him, both soaked in sweat, her fingers slid up to his jaw, gentle now. “Are you okay?” She asked.

He nodded shakily. “Perfect.”

“Too much?”

He kissed her forehead. “Not enough. Do it again next time someone looks at me like that.”

She huffed a laugh. “You like when I get jealous?”

He grinned, dazed and love-drunk. “I like when you remind me I belong to you.”

She didn’t blame Bucky. She never blamed Bucky. He had stood next to her the entire time, polite and awkward, doing his best to quietly shift away from the woman clearly eye-fucking him across the bar.

She touched his arm.

She laughed at a joke he didn’t even make.

She leaned in, too close, acting like she wasn’t standing right there with her hand around his waist.

And Bucky? He just stood frozen, because he was too good, too careful, too Bucky to snap at a stranger. Too loyal to give her the time of day. But she? She wasn’t built to stay quiet. By the time the woman finally walked away, lips pouted, and pride wounded, Bucky turned to her like he had just stepped out of a minefield. She smiled at him. Sweetly. Too sweetly.

And he knew. “Baby,” he said slowly, carefully, “I didn’t-”

“I know,” she said. “You were perfect.”

He relaxed a little. But that tight, polite smile was still stretched across her lips. And he knew better than to think she’d let it go.

“You going to tell me why you let her put her hands on you like that?” She asked.

His brows lifted, stunned. “I didn’t let her do anything, I didn’t even touch her. I just froze, I guess, when she touched me. I would never cheat on you, doll.”

“I know that,” she said, voice sharp. “I know you would never. But she sure as hell thought she could.”

He blinked. “So… you’re mad at her?”

“I’m furious at her,” she hissed. “For thinking she could flirt with you like I don’t exist.”

Bucky’s breath caught at that.

She paused, swallowed. “I got scared.”

He turned toward her, eyes wide.

“Scared?” He echoed.

She nodded. “Because what if I’m too much?” She whispered. “Too bossy. Too rough. What if you realize you want someone softer? Someone who doesn’t order you around, who doesn’t make you get on your knees in elevators or beg not to come someone who just lets you be?”

There was silence. Then the soft sound of sheets shifting as he pushed up onto his elbows. His voice was ragged quiet, but absolutely clear.

“These last few days with you controlling me? They were the best of my life.” She looked at him, startled. His hair was a mess, cheeks flushed, mouth trembling. “You don’t make me feel small,” he said. “You make me feel safe. You give me the one thing no one ever did.”

“Choice...” Her throat tightened.

“Exaclty. I asked you to do that to me.” His voice broke the silence, low and steady against the top of her head. She lifted her gaze to meet his, confused. He looked down at her like she hung the stars. “All of it,” he said softly. “The orders. The edging. The teasing. The elevator. The way you grabbed my jaw and told me I was yours in front of a goddamn mirror.”

She blushed. He leaned in closer, brushing his nose along hers. “I wanted that. I wanted you. I asked for this. Not because I want to be punished. Not because I feel guilty. Because it feels like freedom.”

Her throat tightened more. He continued, voice barely more than a whisper “I don’t want someone soft. I want someone who sees me. Who knows how to own me without erasing me. Who makes me feel like giving up control is the bravest thing I’ve ever done... and you, baby?” He cupped her cheek, gentle but firm. “You give that to me.”

She closed her eyes, breathing in the safety of him. The weight of his words sank into her bones. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her, slow and tender. “You don’t have to say thank you for giving me what I begged you for.”

She curled against his chest, fingers curled into his skin. “So, you’re really okay?” She murmured.

“Okay?” He echoed. “More than okay.” He added, “I don’t want softer,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. “I want you. I want your orders, your hands, your voice in my ear telling me I’m yours. That’s what I need.”

She crawled into his arms and buried her face in his neck, holding him close.

He kissed her forehead. “You can be as bossy as you want,” he said, smiling softly. “Just never stop being mine.”

She nodded against his chest. “Never.”

Later, when she was curled around him in bed, stroking his hair, he nuzzled into her chest. “You really got that mad over her?” He murmured, soft and amazed.

She hummed. “I don’t share.”

He chuckled, eyes heavy with sleep. “Good,” he whispered. “Because I never wanted anyone else to begin with.”

With your head in his lap, your arm was extended all the way out to reach his mouth. It was not as if you were hiding your curiosity. You pressed on the tooth, feeling the smooth curve and the tiny point that undoubtedly slotted into the lower set below like a puzzle piece when he smiled. The tooth was strong, it did not budge– not that it should, but you were just observing. Cataloguing. 

“I’m feeling your teeth.”

Clark snickered softly and swatted your hand away, making you pout. “I can see that. I’m asking why.”

“You asked what.”

“Don’t be a smartaleck.”

You grumbled softly and let him hoist you up by the hand, and you sat beside him on the couch in his loft, eyes shamelessly redirecting to his mouth again. “I like your teeth.”

Clark’s cheeks flooded with color as you stared him down. He knew very well your predilection for bluntness– being your best friend had helped him build an immunity. But every now and then, your straightforward mouth made him clam up. You didn’t seem to care when the things you said sounded almost… flirtatious. If he could even suggest such a thing. You? Flirt with him? Never. In his dreams, maybe.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you tilted your head, smiling softly. “What, is it so unbelievable someone could find your teeth cute?”

Clark felt a drip of saliva catch the back of his throat, and he coughed softly, flustered beyond his means. “I mean, a little. They’re not exactly straight– wait, cute?”

You shrugged, laughing softly. Your attention drew back to the television for a moment, where Fox Mulder was sticking his finger in some unknown substance on television while Dana Scully judged him from afar. A glimmer appeared in your eyes, and you recited in the best Mulder-voice you could muster: “I think it’s remotely plausible that someone might think your teeth are hot.”

Clark didn’t choke on spit this time. He just choked. “Huh?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved his shoulder, pointing at the television. “Oh, come on! That’s his line!”

“You’ve seen this show way more than I have, how am I supposed to remember?”

“In the first season, remember? When they’re talking about how the Lone Gunmen liked Scully, and he says that same thing to her? It was a famous clip! Seriously?”

Clark shook his head, offering you the same expression he did each time you mentioned a random factoid from some show he never cared enough to watch– two raised eyebrows and a playful purse of the lips, suggesting either a statement of You lost me or Only you would know that. It was almost as infuriating as it was cute. 

“Not only is this show awesome, but I watch it because you are a stupid alien, and it gives me great advice on how to deal with you!”

“They never actually see the aliens on this show, dummy, and I’m not green with big eyes.”

“I’m just saying, it might do you some good to pay attention to–”

“Good lord! All I’m saying is I don’t remember the part you’re talking about!”

“You’ve definitely seen it before.”

“I’m sure I have. Now, going back–”

“Clark, there’s nothing wrong with your teeth!”

The farmboy chuckled and gave a different look now (an Are you serious?) and crossed his arms. “I never had braces. They’re all crooked. Like, they all tilt inward– it’s weird! I’ve always hated them.”

A tiny twinge tugged at your heartstrings. How could Clark Kent hate a thing about himself? Surely he knows who he is and what he looks like. The man has been your closest relationship for too long. All you saw when you looked at him was gorgeous.

“That’s so sad,” you frowned.

Clark laughed awkwardly and scooped up the popcorn bowl from the table, placing it in your lap. He picked at a few kernels. “It’s not supposed to be.”

“Yeah, but it is,” you angled closer again, and Clark had to stabilize the bowl before you capsized the contents all over the couch. 

“Woah! Easy.”

“Your teeth are one of my favorite things about you. How could you hate them?”

Clark crunched cluelessly. “What, I’m supposed to magically cure an insecurity just because you like it?”

“Yes!” you ordered, brushing a piece of hair from your eyes. 

“It doesn’t work like that and you know it. How many times have I told you that you’re pretty exactly as you are, but you still insist that you’re fat?”

A mauve tide rushed your cheeks, and you looked away. “That’s different.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes, it is,” you mumbled, putting the popcorn in his lap so you could tug your blanket higher.

A slow guilt began to bleed in Clark’s gut. He was just trying to make a point, but this was not the direction it was supposed to take. “Hey…”

“Your insecurity is like– it makes you special. Unique. Nobody else can smile like you can. It’s not like that for me. It doesn’t make me special, it makes me… unlikeable.”

Clark didn’t think twice about tossing the popcorn bowl back onto the table and inching closer, collecting your hands in his. The skin was rough from his farm chores. Lucky for your set of chubby fingers, he could still enclose his palms over them like a glove. “That’s not true, bunny. You’re not unlikable.”

“Well, I’ve never been asked out, so I think that makes me pretty unlikable.”

“You’ve never been asked out because I’m always looming behind you like a statue,” Clark chuckled, coaxing your gaze towards him again with a finger under your chin. “Guys aren’t really into potential girlfriends who come with a guard dog attached.”

Your cheeks burned as you mumbled, avoiding his eyes. “I never asked you to do that.”

“It’s not necessarily something I can help. I just… don’t like anybody for you. They’re all stupid. And mean.”

“Real mature,” your lips curled upwards a smidge. 

“You know what I mean. Nobody deserves you,” he explained. “You knock every other girl out of the park. You know you do.”

Inside your chest, your heart was beating rapidly against your ribs. Sometimes you wondered if he knew how inescapable his clutches on you were. Not only was there no getting over him, but you had lost all will to. All you had ever known was what it felt like to be in love with Clark, and it didn’t help when he grew up to be the exact kind of guy you always dreamed he would. It was textbook torture, sitting here with his thoughtful hands stroking your wrist and his gleaming eyes boring into you like magical Kryptonian ice crystals. Stupid alien face– it was so fucking handsome. 

You huffed softly, letting go of the reflexive breath that sucked your stomach in. It was an uncontrollable habit. You saw Clark smiling at you, and for all the embarrassment he made you feel, you chose to pick up the ball. Game on.

“I think your teeth are adorable,” you said. “Y’know, how sharp they are and the way they curve in like that. I love them.”

Clark blinked at you, trapped by the word love. Love, love, love, that was all his heart and ears and lungs and brain were hearing. Love, love, love, she loves my teeth, I love her. 

His hands were still wrapped around your wrists, but you lifted one and smoothed a finger beneath his top row again. You mapped each ridge, collecting a bit of wetness as the pad grazed the thin edges. His breath was warm on your finger. It smelled like popcorn.

“Thanks,” you murmured. 

“For what?”

“Saying those nice things about me.”

Clark nodded softly, smoothing his hand up your arm. He had no idea what he was doing. You could both be affectionate here and there, but not so decisively or slowly. Not so methodically. “They’re true things.”

“You really think I’m pretty?” You blurted. Well, not a blurt. A soft blurt. A low one. A bleat, maybe. Nervous as a sheep.

Clark did not think. He only nodded. 

You brushed your finger over his chin, and with him so close, you could see the way a few of his lashes entwined with each other, clinging together in anticipation. You envied their job. You wish you could brush his eyes, keep them clean, shield them from the sun. They got to live on his face all day. What you wouldn’t give. 

“You really like my teeth?” He asked.

You nodded, too, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I love your teeth. I love a lot of things about you.”

Clark could not help the compulsion. “Like what?”

You would’ve preferred to be more eloquent, but your mind was leaving you at the moment. Clark’s hand was now resting at your side, tucked between the soft rolls of your back and squeezing carefully, as if he was curious about the springiness of the flesh and had been wondering what it felt like for a while. So you rambled.

“Your hair. It sort of flips behind your ears, and I always found that cute. Your nose, too, when you get annoyed with me it flares. Sometimes when you smile really big your hairline moves up, that’s a good one– oh, and when I really piss you off, you kind of do this thing where you tilt your head like a dog hearing a whistle, and every time you do it I can't help but laugh because it’s just so funny! Like that one time we got burgers, and I swore I didn’t want a milkshake so you only got one, but then I begged for a sip and you wanted to kill me? You did it then, and I just wanted to kiss you, it was that cute.”

As you trailed off suddenly, hearing your words echoing back and flushing a medically concerning shade of red, Clark’s ears rang. He felt like he was stuffed full of cotton. I just wanted to kiss you, it was that cute. Love, love, love, love, love…

“Yeah?” was the best he could do. It was breathless and full of disbelief, but he at least said it aloud.

You winced a bit. “...Yes?”

Clark nodded slowly, and then a bit harshly, just trying to be sure he heard you right. He had just heard a few words that, in another universe, he would pay money to hear. No, in this universe. In any universe. He squeezed your side again, and when no response came to him, he just stared at you, brainless and lost. 

You swallowed thickly and reached out again, figuring that if this was the final chance, you wanted to touch those teeth one last time. Your thumb tugged his bottom lip down and you poked your pointer on the tip of his lower canine. What was left of Clark’s dignity leaked out then, and he made the swift decision to kiss your knuckle. And then your wrist. And then your cheek, and your chin, until he was hovering over your mouth, breathing that popcorn breath against your tongue, which would have been disgusting were it not your very best friend Clark Kent who you had been having undisclosed dreams about since age eleven. 

“I like a lot of things about you too, bunny.”

“Like what?” you whispered, not moving an inch. 

“Like the way your nose twitches when you’re nervous. That's why I call you bunny, did I ever tell you that?”

Your eyebrow furrowed, and for a split second, you forgot what was actually happening in lieu of a new image. “It does?”

“Yeah. You just did it just now.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. I saw you.”

“I think I would know if I–”

Clark’s hand slipped under the hem of your t-shirt to feel the burning skin beneath, and the welcome touch had you shutting up in surprise. Your surrendering face exhibited the sign of a tiny little twitch on the right side of your nose, which Clark kissed instantly, as if pinning it down. “Right there.”

“That… isn’t fair,” you wheezed, heart hammering.

“What isn’t fair is that you’re not kissing me,” he whispered against your lips. “I’m waiting, you know.”

Part of you wanted to smack him for teasing at a time like this, but the rest of you was bubbling over with the overwhelming, all-consuming sense of victory. You met him in the space of an inch, pressing your lips to his open mouth, feeling for the very first time what it was like to kiss the love of your life. 

Clark’s teeth were sharp and warm under your tongue. He hauled you into his lap and laughed as your eager hands roamed his face and neck, and it seemed that you tilted your head left to right without any penchant for rhythm or pace, simply smushing yourself against him in a desperate attempt to swallow him whole. He used said teeth to nip at your mouth, making you shiver, and you performed with absolutely zero decorum, swiping your tongue over his canines, tangling it with his own, sneaking your fingers into his hair to tug him closer and threaten suffocation. Every time he squeezed your hips or pressed his palms to your tummy, it spurred you further. It was the best kiss he’d ever had. 

He didn’t give up until the action exhausted you. Having kissed yourself stupid until all you could manage was leaning your forehead against his and panting softly, you began nosing him like a kitten, pressing closer and closer into the hard lines of his body in some pseudo-hug disguised as a selfish need to feel him against you. He laughed sweetly and tucked his fingers into your hair, feeling the strands and tugging, scratching the curve of your cranium.

“If I told you how long I’ve wanted to kiss you, you might kill me,” he teased. 

“Bet it's not as long as I’ve been waiting for you to come around.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, come around? I’ve been in love with you since we were kids!” He pulled back, giving you an incredulous look.

You grinned mischievously and kissed his lips again, much less ambitious this time. You distracted him with, “Bunny, huh? All because of my nose?”

Clark tossed you down on the couch and crawled over you with a big, toothy grin. “Well, that and your body. Bunnies are chubby.”

You flushed profusely. “Clark!”

“What? I love it. I love you.”

As he laid on top of you and began to kiss you into the mattress, you fought against the desire to give right in, hands curling behind his ears. “I was being serious, I’m really insecure about that…” But as he hitched your knee over his hip and sealed your lips shut with a series of hungry smooches and a pair of wandering hands, your protests lost their necessity. 

As he made his way down the curve of your neck, he mumbled, “You like my teeth enough to let me bite you, bunny girl? Won’t hurt you… just a little bite, maybe…”

“Jesus Christ,” you squeaked. The word no suddenly dissipated into thin air, as foreign as a new language, and as ridiculous an answer as anything. “Yes.” Then, you added for good measure, “It won’t turn me into an alien, will it?”

Masterlist.

Notes: Hi! I should really be working on the drafts I have, but this idea just popped into my head and helped me get past a little writer’s block.

You’d been trying to pay attention to Bucky for almost half an hour.

With his usual calm demeanor, he was telling you how that day’s mission with Sam had gone. He talked about a chase that ended sooner than expected, his partner’s constant jokes, and a plan that had gone surprisingly well. You nodded from time to time, even smiled out of sheer habit, but in reality you hadn’t heard half of what he was saying. Your mind was trapped in a single thought that repeated itself over and over, impossible to ignore.

The positive pregnancy test.

The little plastic strip was still tucked away in your sock drawer, as if its mere existence had upset the balance of your entire life. You felt it took up a lot of space, even though it barely took up any at all. Ever since you’d seen it that morning, emotions had swirled inside you in a way that was impossible to sort out: fear, uncertainty, nerves, surprise, and a strange sense of hope that you still didn’t dare to accept.

You had no idea what to do.

During your early dates, the two of you had talked about starting a family. It had been a calm conversation, without arguments or promises. Bucky had admitted that he hadn’t imagined himself as a father and wasn’t even sure he could ever be one; after everything he’d been through, the idea of bringing a child into the world seemed too overwhelming to him. You, for your part, didn’t feel it was the right time either.

And yet, there you were.

Facing a situation neither of you had planned for.

The silence between you began to stretch because you had stopped responding several seconds ago. Bucky finished speaking and waited for a reaction that never came. That was when his senses picked up on what your words weren’t expressing.

Your heart was beating too fast.

The rapid, irregular, and persistent rhythm made him turn his full attention to you. He noticed the slight furrow of your brow, the tension in your jaw, and the way your fingers nervously fiddled with the rim of the cup resting on the table.

His expression changed instantly.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Are you okay?” he asked in a soft voice, full of concern, as he leaned slightly toward you.

His hand sought yours on the table and gently wrapped around it, giving it a light squeeze, as if to remind you he was there.

That simple gesture finally broke down the barrier you’d been maintaining throughout the conversation.

The words slipped from your lips before you could finish turning them over in your head.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

Time seemed to stand still.

A complete silence settled between you, heavy and almost tangible. Bucky’s eyes widened slowly until they were wide with surprise, as the air left his lungs in a held breath. His fingers trembled slightly around yours, unable to hide the impact of the confession.

You lowered your gaze and let out an unsteady sigh, trying to control the lump that had formed in your throat and the anxiety coursing through every corner of your body.

“I took a pregnancy test because my period was later than usual…” you murmured in a low, tense voice, feeling as though every word required an enormous effort. “I thought it would be a false alarm, but… it came back positive.”

As you finished your sentence, silence once again enveloped the room with an almost suffocating intensity. The world seemed to have come to a sudden halt. Only the sound of their breathing broke the stillness, along with the rapid beating of your heart, which Bucky could still hear with absolute clarity. Each beat revealed the fear you were trying to hide behind a serene expression. They both remained motionless, realizing that a few words had been enough to completely change the course of their lives.

“When…?” he whispered, almost to himself, his gaze lost somewhere on the table.

The question didn’t seem directed at you, but at his own memories.

He looked down as he mentally reviewed every moment of the past few months, trying to find an explanation. Then he remembered. His expression slowly changed until it twisted into a small grimace filled with recognition and regret.

That night.

The only time they had both completely cast caution aside, convinced that nothing would happen, letting themselves be carried away by desire, closeness, and the heat of the moment.

In her memory, that slip had seemed insignificant. Now she realized that just once had been enough.

Her fingers tensed slightly before slipping from yours.

You parted your lips shyly, ready to say something—anything—to break the silence or calm the growing anxiety that was beginning to settle in your chest. You wanted to explain that you didn’t expect an immediate answer, that you didn’t know how to feel either, that the two of you could work it out together.

But Bucky stood up before you could utter a single word.

The movement was so sudden that the chair slid a few inches backward, making a sharp clatter against the floor.

He ran a hand over his face, breathing heavily as he avoided looking directly at you.

“I need some air…” he said in a low voice, though the weight of those four words fell on you like a slab of stone.

There was no anger in his tone, nor rejection, but there was no calm either. Just a confusion so deep that he seemed unable to stay another second within those four walls.

You watched him walk with hurried steps toward the apartment entrance. He grabbed his jacket from the coat rack almost out of habit, without bothering to put it on properly, and opened the door.

For a moment, you thought he would stop, that he would turn his head to say something else or to reassure you.

It didn’t happen.

The door closed behind him with a sharp click that echoed throughout the room.

You stood motionless, staring at the spot where he had disappeared, as silence once again took hold of the apartment. The pressure in your chest increased immediately, and fear began to make its way through all the thoughts you’d been trying to hold back.

☆

The faint blue glow from the TV was the only light in the room you shared with Bucky. Images flashed one after another across the screen, accompanied by the distant voices of a show you’d been trying to follow for over an hour without success.

You were sitting on the bed, your back against the headboard and your legs drawn up to your chest, wrapping both arms around them as if that small gesture could hold you together while you felt everything else beginning to fall apart.

Your eyes remained fixed on the television, but they didn’t really see what was happening on it.

Your mind kept returning to the same place over and over.

The positive test.

Bucky’s expression when you told him.

The way he’d let go of your hand.

And, above all, the door closing behind him.

It had been almost five hours since he left the apartment.

Five hours without a call.

Five hours without a reply to any of the messages you’d sent him with trembling hands—messages that had gone from a simple “Are you okay?” to a worried “Just tell me where you are.”

The phone lay beside you on the sheets, completely silent.

You were worried about him.

You knew that the idea of becoming a father had never held an important place in his life. After everything he’d been through, the decades that had been stolen from him, and the burden he still carried for acts he hadn’t even committed while in his right mind, starting a family seemed like a dream reserved for other people.

He had never told you he didn’t want children, but he hadn’t said he wanted them either.

And now the decision had gone from being a distant possibility to an unexpected reality.

Yet, as you thought about him, it was also impossible not to think about yourself.

About what that new life growing inside your body meant.

About how it would change your future.

About whether you would be able to handle it.

About whether you would be alone.

A lump formed in your throat as you tried to hold back the tears that threatened to return.

The only sound that managed to snap you out of your thoughts was the unmistakable turn of a key in the front door lock.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Then came the creak of the door as it opened, followed by the soft thud as it closed again.

And finally, the heavy echo of boots echoing through the apartment.

You lay motionless on the bed, your gaze fixed on the bedroom door, listening as those footsteps moved slowly down the hallway. Each one seemed to last an eternity.

The doorknob turned and the door opened slowly.

Bucky stood in the doorway for a few seconds before entering. For the first time since you’d broken the news to him, his eyes met yours.

Silence settled between you once more.

You couldn’t help but notice the state he’d returned in.

His hair was more disheveled than usual, as if he’d run his hand through it countless times. The shadows under his eyes seemed to have deepened, betraying that he hadn’t found peace during those hours either. His jacket was still on, slightly wrinkled, and his shoulders remained tense.

But what caught your attention most was the expression on his face. There was fear and guilt.

His eyes scanned the room until they settled on the only source of light: the television.

He was silent for a few seconds before speaking, in that deep, restrained voice that barely let his true feelings show.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes like that…”

It wasn’t a rebuke; it was the only everyday thing he could think to say.

He walked over to the light switch and turned on the room’s light.

The warm glow instantly filled every corner.

You winced slightly at the sudden change in lighting and turned your face away a little, too late to hide what was obvious.

Your eyes were swollen and red. Dry tear stains remained on your cheeks.

Bucky stood still, his jaw tightening slightly. He looked down for a moment before looking back at you, as if he’d been struck by a silent blow.

He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t someone who found words easily, but the way he took a deep breath and stood motionless was enough to make it clear that he regretted leaving you alone for those hours.

With slow, measured movements, he took off his jacket, draped it over a nearby chair, and walked over to the bed.

The mattress sank slightly as he sat down beside you, leaving just a few inches between you and turning his back to you.

He didn’t try to touch you, but he didn’t move away either. He simply stayed there, his forearms resting on his legs and his hands clasped, staring at the floor as he searched, unsuccessfully, for the right way to sort through everything going through his head.

Silence settled in again, heavy and uncomfortable. Filled with questions neither of you dared to ask.

Several seconds passed before Bucky slowly exhaled.

“I walked down to the pier…” he murmured without looking up. “Then I kept walking. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere… I just needed my head to stop making noise.”

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and fell silent again.

“I didn’t answer because… I didn’t know what to say.”

The words came out clumsily, forced, as if each one took an enormous effort.

“And because I was afraid of saying the wrong thing.”

You felt a twinge in your heart and could barely manage a shaky exhale as you watched his back.

“I was never good at this.”

He didn’t specify what he meant, and you weren’t sure what he was referring to either. Maybe he meant talking, feeling, imagining a future, or becoming a father. It was probably all of those things at once.

The distance between you was still just a few centimeters, but the real obstacle wasn’t physical.

Your nails dug lightly into your legs before you began crawling toward him to gently take his chin and make him look at you.

He let you do it, and his eyes finally met yours. That blue you loved so much looked different; there was no anger or rejection, only a deep, silent fear mixed with an uncertainty that seemed to have robbed him of his breath.

For a moment, it seemed to you that you were looking at the soldier who had survived a war, not the man who always found a way to protect you.

You traced the rough line of his beard with your thumb.

“What do you want to do?” you asked in a barely audible whisper.

The question hung between you.

Bucky closed his eyes for a second, and his face twisted into an expression that was hard to read—a bitter mix of guilt, vulnerability, and resignation.

He was fully aware that this decision belonged solely to your body and your life. He also knew that he would never try to push you toward a choice that would benefit him over you. Even if he felt terrified, even if the idea of being a father overwhelmed him.

"I'll support you... whatever you decide." His voice was deep and low, almost hoarse.

It was the only certainty he had amid the chaos.

He paused for a moment longer before adding, almost as if he were struggling to get the words out.

"I don't know if I'll do this right... But I won't let you carry this burden alone."

☆

The next day, the uncertainty was still there.

After a nearly sleepless night, you began to convince yourself that maybe that home test had simply been wrong. After all, even pharmacy tests could yield false positives.

It was a possibility, so you clung to it with all your might.

After discussing it briefly over breakfast—if you could even call a cup of coffee you barely touched and the untouched toast on the plate breakfast—you decided to go to the hospital.

An ultrasound could provide answers almost immediately, and you wouldn’t have to endure the endless wait for a blood test.

When they called your name in the waiting room, your stomach turned instantly.

You stood up, your legs trembling, and without even thinking, you reached for Bucky’s hand and gripped it tightly.

He remained seated for another second, motionless, his back stiff and his gaze fixed on the floor. He seemed unable to force himself to walk through that door, not because he wanted to leave, but because he feared what he might find on the other side.

He stood up and walked behind you after you gently took his hand.

The office smelled just like the rest of the hospital: a clean, pungent mix of disinfectant and antiseptic products. However, the atmosphere was different.

The lights were warmer, and the walls were covered with informational posters about conception, birth control methods, fetal development, and drawings showing the approximate size of a baby week by week.

Your eyes lingered for a moment on each one.

Week 4—Poppy seed.

Week 6—Lentil.

Week 7—Chickpea.

Week 8—Cherry.

Week 9—Olive.

And the weeks and illustrations went on.

The illustrations seemed absurdly small for the enormous change they represented.

You swallowed hard as you clung to Bucky’s hand.

Your fingers were cold, and so were his. The slight tremor in his fingers betrayed that he was just as nervous as you were.

He stood beside you with his shoulders slightly hunched, staring at the floor as if he found it impossible to look up at any of those images. His jaw remained tense.

When the specialist told you to lie down on the examination table, you obeyed with slow movements. You lifted the fabric of your clothes just enough to expose your abdomen.

Moments later, the contact of the cold gel on your skin drew a small, involuntary grimace from you. A shiver ran through your entire body.

Without realizing it, you squeezed Bucky’s hand tighter, and he reacted almost reflexively, interlacing his fingers with yours and holding them firmly.

The careful squeeze of his hand was enough to make you understand that, even though he was still emotionally lost and the words remained stuck in some corner of his chest, he had decided to stay with you until he knew the answer.

The room was enveloped in an expectant silence.

The doctor moved the transducer calmly over your abdomen while watching the screen in front of her intently.

To you, that mass of shadows made no sense at all.

To her, every little change seemed to say a lot.

You felt your breathing start to quicken, and Bucky noticed it instantly.

Without taking his eyes off the monitor, his thumb began to slide slowly across the back of your hand—an almost automatic movement that he probably wasn’t even aware he was making.

It was strange and overwhelming for him.

A man who had survived wars, experiments, and decades of violence was completely defenseless in front of an ultrasound screen.

The doctor remained silent for a few more seconds, and your imagination began to fill in the blanks.

Maybe the test had failed after all.

Maybe your period was just coming soon.

Maybe...

“There it is.”

Her voice interrupted the whirlwind of thoughts.

She pointed to a tiny dot on the screen.

“It’s still very early, but we can see the gestational sac.”

You felt the air leave your lungs.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It wasn’t a false positive.

It was real.

Your eyes remained fixed on that tiny image, trying to understand how something so small could change two people’s lives so completely.

Bucky’s hand tightened around yours.

He didn’t say anything and didn’t even blink; he seemed to be holding his breath.

His gaze remained fixed on the monitor, as if trying to memorize every shadow despite not fully understanding them.

The doctor continued explaining a few things about the estimated gestational age, prenatal vitamins, and the tests that would be advisable to perform over the next few weeks.

Her voice reached you like a distant murmur. Neither of you seemed to be processing much; you just nodded.

At one point, the specialist smiled kindly, already accustomed to all kinds of reactions to this news.

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”

You turned your head toward Bucky, who remained completely still.

His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, but for the first time since they’d entered the office, he seemed to lose control of his expression.

He looked completely vulnerable.

And, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head before closing his eyes for a moment.

It wasn’t a “no.” It was someone trying to muster enough courage for something he couldn’t bring himself to say because of the weight of the moment and his fear.

“We… We need to talk about this first,” you murmured, your voice strained by the wave of emotions.

The doctor nodded understandingly, printed out some images, and began wiping the gel from your abdomen before walking over to Bucky’s side, where her desk was.

“It seems to be developing as expected for the sixth week,” she explained calmly. “We’ll schedule another checkup in a few weeks and proceed according to your decision.”

You nodded automatically and slowly sat up on the stretcher.

Bucky remained seated where he was, staring at one of the photographs the doctor had just placed on the desk. He seemed unable to take his eyes off that small gray smudge.

Finally, he stood up and slowly let go of your hand to pick up the image between his fingers with an almost absurd delicacy, as if he were afraid of breaking it. He looked at it for a long moment before carefully putting it away in the folder the doctor had given them along with all sorts of recommendations and informational brochures.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't ask any questions.

He just stayed by your side, supporting you when it seemed like the strength in your legs was about to give out.

☆

The days that followed weren't easy.

Both of you tried to cling to a routine that no longer felt entirely your own, as if pretending nothing had changed might delay the moment of facing reality.

You made a conscious effort to carry on with your usual life. You went to work, tidied the apartment, read, replied to messages, and tried to fill every minute with some activity that would keep your mind occupied. There were moments when you even succeeded. For a couple of hours, you forgot the constant fear that had settled in your chest, the uncertainty about the future, and the enormous decision that was still waiting for you.

But those moments of calm never lasted long; something always came along to bring you back to reality, and anxiety would wash over you like a wave.

Things didn’t seem any easier for Bucky either.

He kept taking on missions with Sam, though not as often as before. He started turning down smaller jobs and heading back to the apartment as soon as operations were over.

He didn’t say why—and probably never would—but it was clear he wanted to be close to you, even if he still didn’t know how to be there for you.

Many times he would sit on the couch while you read in silence. Other times you simply shared the same space without exchanging more than a few words, finding a strange sense of calm in each other’s mere presence.

It was his way of saying he was still there.

There were days when the tension seemed to grant you a respite, and you looked like yourselves again.

You’d curl up on the couch under a blanket to watch a movie neither of you paid much attention to, sharing a bowl of popcorn while Bucky complained about the main character and you ended up laughing at his comments.

Other afternoons, you’d cook together. He would chop vegetables with precision while you tried to steal a piece of carrot from him before it made it into the pan, causing him to shake his head and hide a barely perceptible smile before kissing your forehead.

They even resumed their habit of going for walks around the city. They wandered through familiar streets, small cafes, and parks where time seemed to move more slowly.

For a few hours, they managed to forget... Or at least pretend they did.

But the subject of the baby always found a way to come back.

It would surface when you caught yourself imagining how his life would change if you decided to continue with the pregnancy. When you wondered if Bucky could ever feel happy with that possibility. If the two of you could truly become a family.

It also came up during those walks when you passed a pregnant woman absentmindedly stroking her belly, a father pushing a stroller while a baby slept peacefully inside, or a little hand clutching its mother’s tightly as they crossed the street.

Then your steps would slow, your gaze would linger a few seconds longer, and the weight would settle back onto your shoulders.

Bucky never made any comments or asked what you were thinking, but he always noticed the change. He saw how your smile faded little by little, how your fingers unconsciously sought to rest on your abdomen, and how the sparkle in your eyes dimmed.

He could only walk beside you, keeping silent as he felt that familiar tightness settle in his chest.

The words remained trapped inside him.

He had learned to survive without uttering a single word for far too many years, and now, when he needed them most, they wouldn’t come out either.

The nights were the worst.

There were times when the weight of the decision would end up crushing you.

You’d wait until you were sure Bucky was breathing deeply before carefully slipping out of bed, leaving behind the warmth of the sheets and the arms that, even in his sleep, seemed to reach out for you.

Silently, you walked with the folder in your hands to the dining room and opened it once more to reread every brochure and recommendation with obsessive attention.

You read about prenatal vitamins, nutrition, hormonal changes, and medical checkups. Then you turned to the pages that talked about abortion clinics and the procedure.

You set them aside and always ended up doing the same thing: you held the ultrasound photo between your fingers.

The corners were slightly bent, and the paper had lost some of its stiffness from all the times you’d held it in the early hours of the morning.

You slipped out of bed again and again to look at that blurry image where you could barely make out a tiny white dot.

That was all.

A tiny speck.

And yet, it already occupied every corner of your mind.

What you didn’t know was that those worn corners weren’t just your fault.

Many nights, when he woke up and found your spot empty, Bucky would wait a few minutes before getting up and finding you sitting at the table.

He didn’t interrupt.

He simply returned silently to the bedroom, and when you finally fell back asleep, he was the one who left.

He stood in front of the open folder for minutes, sometimes for over an hour, staring at the same photograph without moving, feeling a fear and vulnerability that were completely foreign to him.

A silent terror that no mission, no battlefield, and no enemy had ever managed to awaken in him.

He never told you that he also looked at that ultrasound.

He never confessed that he already had it etched in his memory.

You sighed softly as you held it between your fingers. With the tip of your index finger, you slowly traced the tiny, barely visible figure on the paper.

According to one of the posters in the doctor’s office, when you found out, it was the size of a lentil. Now it was close to the size of a cherry.

It was a tiny difference, and yet, to you, it meant that time was still moving forward.

For days you’d tried to imagine every possible scenario and had made mental lists, thinking about work, money, the future, fear, Bucky, and yourself.

You’d tried to make a decision based solely on reason, but, for the first time since it all began, you stopped trying to convince yourself of an answer and simply listened to the silence.

Slowly, you brought your hand to your belly, which was still flat. Yet you felt a twinge in your chest at the thought of it being empty by your own choice.

You closed your eyes as you realized that the fear was still there, but it was no longer fear that was guiding your thoughts.

It was something else.

A small, fragile, and hard-to-explain feeling that had been growing almost without your noticing over those days.

It was hope.

Your lips trembled before forming a tiny, almost imperceptible smile, and tears slowly rolled down your cheeks.

They weren’t tears of anguish.

Not entirely.

They were the silent relief of someone who, after weeks of doubt, had finally found an answer.

“I want to get to know you…” you whispered, your voice breaking.

The decision was made.

The fear hadn’t disappeared; it had simply stopped being greater than love.

☆

When the first rays of sunlight began to filter through the bedroom curtains, drawing golden lines across the rumpled sheets, you slowly opened your eyes.

The first thing you saw was Bucky, who was already awake.

He lay on his side, his metal arm resting on the mattress and his elbow bent to support his head in the palm of his hand. He’d been watching you in silence for who knows how long, with that almost hypnotic calm and intensity so characteristic of him, as if while you slept he were trying to read all the thoughts you were never able to put into words.

You blinked a couple of times before letting out a sleepy sigh.

The sound snapped him out of his own thoughts, and his lips curved into a faint, discreet smile—so small that anyone could have easily missed it.

“Good morning, sweetheart…” he murmured in his deep, hoarse voice.

He leaned slowly toward you. First he placed a soft kiss on your cheek, then another at the corner of your lips, and finally a slow, gentle kiss on your mouth.

“Good morning, Buck…” you replied, your voice barely audible against his lips.

For a few moments, everything seemed to return to normal.

It was the same tranquility as any Sunday morning. Those mornings when neither of you was in a hurry to get up and you could spend an hour or even two under the sheets, embracing without saying much, stroking each other’s hair, sharing absent-minded kisses, or simply enjoying each other’s warmth while the world kept moving on outside the windows.

A sanctuary that had always belonged only to the two of you.

But something in your expression made him slowly step back to get a full view of your face. His blue eyes scanned every inch of your face, searching for that look he knew so well.

It was the look you had when you’d already made a decision and were gathering the courage to say it.

The faint trace of his smile vanished.

The silence in the bedroom was broken only by the distant traffic beginning to fill the streets and the soft rustle of the sheets as you slowly sat up. Bucky did the same.

“I know what I want to do…” Your voice came out almost as a whisper.

Bucky barely looked up, and there was something in his expression that broke your heart. He looked like a wounded animal trying to stay still so no one would notice how much pain he was in.

Your fingers sought his, and you wanted to intertwine them as you had so many times before, but he remained still, his hand unmoving.

You took a deep breath and spoke.

“I want to continue with the pregnancy.”

Your words came out soft, firm, and without hesitation, and yet they seemed to strike the air with impossible force.

Bucky remained completely still.

He didn’t respond.

He didn’t pull his hand away.

His expression didn’t change.

He simply sat there in front of you, watching you as if he needed several seconds to grasp the meaning of those five words.

Then he slowly lowered his head, and his lips parted slightly as if to say something, but nothing came out. He tried again, and only a muffled sound escaped.

His throat moved with difficulty as he swallowed, and his chest began to rise with deeper breaths than usual.

Fear had suddenly taken hold of his entire body.

It wasn’t fear of the baby or of the decision you’d made. Because during those days, as he walked with you through the city or lay awake staring at the ultrasound in the middle of the night, he’d discovered a truth he’d never wanted to admit.

He wanted to be a father with you and no one else.

He wanted that pregnancy to continue.

He wanted it more than he ever thought possible.

He wanted to meet that little life.

He wanted to hear that tiny heartbeat at the next appointment.

He wanted to be with you as your belly grew little by little.

He wanted to hold your hand during every checkup and for the rest of his life.

He wanted to try to be better for you and for that little boy or girl.

He had even caught himself imagining a messy room with toys on the floor, little footsteps running through the apartment, and a tiny voice calling them “Mom and Dad” while they both laughed as they prepared dinner.

He had allowed himself to imagine a home.

And that was precisely why the fear was unbearable. He had never longed for anything so intensely since regaining his freedom, and he had never felt such terror at the thought of not being up to the task.

The questions began to crowd his mind, giving him no respite.

What if he didn’t know how to be a father?

What if he wasn’t truly free and one day lost control?

What if his past caught up with them?

What if she deserved a simple life, far from someone like him?

What if her children deserved a different father?

He looked down at his own hands—the flesh-and-blood one and the vibranium one—and studied them as if seeing them for the first time.

He remembered the wars, the orders, the HYDRA labs, the lives he had taken, and the names he could never forget.

When his gaze settled on the gleam of the dark, golden metal, all he could think of was the gray metal with the red star. An unbearable shame squeezed his chest.

How could he imagine holding a newborn with hands that had been used to kill for so long?

How could someone who still woke up some nights convinced he was still a weapon promise protection?

The weight of each of his thoughts kept him frozen and unable to speak—that was why he was silent. It wasn’t because he rejected your decision, but because he accepted it so deeply that fear had left him speechless.

He only returned to reality when he felt your trembling hands encircling his face with infinite tenderness. As he looked up, seeing the tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks, something inside him snapped, and an unbearable pressure squeezed his chest.

His silence had lasted so long that you began to interpret that absence of words in the worst possible way. You thought he didn’t agree with your decision, that he could never accept that future... That, sooner or later, you would both end up going your separate ways.

That possibility, reflected in the pain in your eyes, was infinitely more terrifying to Bucky than any of the ghosts he carried with him.

For a moment, all the ghosts of his past fell silent.

Now there was only you, crying in front of him, thinking you were going to lose him.

His breath caught.

He raised a hand with obvious hesitation, as if even that gesture cost him an enormous effort, and ended up covering one of yours that you were holding against his cheek.

His fingers held you with desperate strength, as if he feared you were going to pull it away.

He slowly shook his head.

He tried to speak, but his throat kept closing up long before he could utter a single word.

The inability to speak made him feel more helpless than any enemy he had ever faced.

“No…” he finally managed to say, his voice breaking.

He swallowed with difficulty and looked down for just a second before meeting your gaze again.

“Don’t think that.”

His thumb began to absentmindedly stroke the back of your hand. It was a clumsy, instinctive movement, the same one he made every time he tried to calm you down without finding the right words.

“I don’t want… you to leave.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want the same thing you do…”

That confession was so quiet it was almost lost amid the noise from outside.

“I’m scared. Really scared.”

He said it plainly, without trying to hide it; it was a brutal honesty that he was finally letting out into the open.

Bucky looked so fragile and vulnerable, until he finally broke down.

His eyes had filled with tears without warning, and a sob welled up from deep within his chest.

His hands wrapped tightly around your waist—but without choking you—as he did his best not to cry like a little child on your shoulder.

You didn’t hesitate for a second to cling to his body as you let yourself cry after all the fear and anxiety that was beginning to dissipate. You could finally feel relief knowing you wouldn’t be alone.

Bucky let out a brief, bitter laugh, filled with disbelief in himself, and shook his head.

“I’ve been imagining it for days,” he confessed, almost ashamed, his voice breaking slightly. “I see you walking around the apartment with the baby in your arms.”

For the first time, a tiny smile appeared on your face through your tears as you heard him.

Bucky looked up fully. His eyes were glistening with small, unshed tears, and there was an obvious, immense fear, but there was also a certainty he was finally ready to voice.

“I want to meet our little one.”

The words hung between you.

Bucky seemed surprised to have said it out loud and without trembling, as if a weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

“I want to hear his heartbeat at the next appointment.” His lips trembled as a smile full of emotion appeared on his face. “I want to watch him grow…”

His gaze slowly drifted down to your still-flat abdomen, and with reverent slowness, he brought his vibranium hand to rest upon it. The tremor running through his fingers was entirely human.

“And I want to be there when the baby is born.” His voice broke again. “I want to hold him.”

He fell silent for a few seconds to compose himself.

“I still think you deserve better than me.” He admitted in a whisper.

You shook your head quickly. You searched desperately for his gaze as one of your hands reached out to touch his face again, but his metallic fingers gently caught your hand and pressed a kiss against the back of it.

“I’ll probably think that for a while,” he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek. “But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be the man you both deserve.”

You threw yourself at him without thinking, and Bucky barely had time to react before wrapping both arms around you with absolute firmness. You buried your face in his shoulder while he buried his in your hair.

They stayed like that for several long minutes.

Without speaking.

Without moving.

The future remained uncertain, but for the first time since that positive test forgotten in your drawer, the two of you stopped facing it alone.

They would face it together.

When did that "problem" happen? When did that problem decay into the fact that you were actually that problem?

Talking about "it" was uncomfortable. You couldn't tell your mother or your friends. Because how would you just come out and say? You know what? In my two relationships, never, never once did I have an orgasm. And the worst part is that both men told me I was the problem. No, just thinking about it would make you sink with shame. You would want to disappear, to never have opened your mouth. Even worse when you heard everyone saying they had an orgasm with their boyfriend. They commented on it as if it were the most normal thing in the world, as if it were something that always happened. And even though you knew that men only seek their own satisfaction, not yours, you also knew very well, maybe the problem was you. Because two different men repeating it to you, over and over again, had to mean something, right?

"Ah, of course it's not me, you must have problems," one said when you had confessed that you only felt a little warmth, but an orgasm, nothing. He lay there calmly, lying back on the bed, not even looking at you. As if what you had just told him was an annoyance, your own mistake that he didn't have to fix.

"Now you want everything to be dedicated to you, please, you must have a problem," said the other, looking at you with those eyes that you used to like and that now only made you feel small. "I have made thousands of women come," he boasted, crossing his arms as if he were a prize. As if you were the only one who didn't work right.

So you stopped trying. Maybe it was work stress, maybe the nerves of being with someone new, maybe the discomfort of seeing how a man could finish in bed with you, ejaculate and that's it. No more work, no more caresses, no more nothing. Because he had already gotten his part. And you stayed there, looking at the ceiling, wondering what was wrong with you.

But now the fear had returned. You had been two years without a boyfriend, two years without having to worry about this. And when you started dating Clark, you didn't mention it to him. Of course, you were just going on dates, it wasn't anything formal. Besides, he didn't seem like the man who takes you to bed on the first date. He was slow, everything about him was slow: his way of speaking, his way of looking at you, his way of getting close to you. And that slowness also made your heart race. You didn't want him to get annoyed and end up leaving your life like the other two.

Clark was cute. Too cute, even for your taste. You had always said your type were serious men, with few friends, who looked like a block of ice and were intelligent. But you ended up with an intelligent man, yes, but with the prettiest shyness you had ever seen and the loveliest smile anyone had ever given you. A man so tall and so big that to you, who wasn't small, he made you feel protected. You loved holding his hand everywhere, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours. You loved it when he pushed the stray locks of hair behind your ear and smiled at you as if you were the prettiest thing he had seen all day.

But you knew the next step was coming. Or maybe you only thought it one day, while he laughed at something silly you had said. Clark was a gentleman, truly. He wouldn't continue doing something if you told him you felt uncomfortable. Never. That was clear. But interrupting him mid-kiss was awkward. You would make him feel uncomfortable. And he would pull away. Like the others. Or worse, he would stay out of pity.

It wasn't planned. You had only agreed to eat at your apartment, but nothing more. It was after the movie. You kissed him first, almost without thinking, and from there you had been kissing for almost thirty minutes. Your lips were swollen, your breathing uncontrolled, your hands on his chest feeling his heart beat. His curls tangled between your fingers. He was squeezing your waist slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. But then that thought returned. You pulled away to breathe more air. He leaned in as if wanting to let you know he wanted to keep kissing you, but not finding your lips, he buried his face in your neck. You sighed, caressing his curls. You longed to feel him so much, but your fear invaded you. Should you fake an orgasm again? You remembered how ridiculous you felt doing that, those fake moans, that lie that only served to make him finish faster.

"Do you want to stop?" Clark whispered in your ear when he saw that you were only touching his curls without saying anything.

He looked at you. His cheeks were red, but his blue eyes were dilated, dark. Lips swollen like yours. You pressed your lips together. If you were the problem, you repeated to yourself, you'll ruin it. Again.

"No," you said. But you lowered your gaze to his shirt, playing with his button.

Clark tilted his head. He waited for your answer. You knew he didn't want a kiss to continue. He didn't want you to just keep going as if nothing was wrong. He wanted to know why you were nervous. And it wasn't normal nerves, he noticed it. There was something behind your trembling hands, behind the way you avoided his eyes.

"It's just that… I… have a problem," you whispered. And you felt your cheeks burn with shame.

"Problem?" said Clark. He moved on the couch to see you properly. Very carefully, he moved the lock of hair that covered your face and put it behind your ear. "Is it serious?" he asked, and his voice sounded genuinely worried.

"No… no… nothing like that," you said quickly, shaking your head. "It's just… well… I have problems with… that." You made a vague gesture with your hand, not daring to look at him.

Clark frowned, confused.

"I… never… well…," you tried to say, but the words got tangled.

"Hey, pretty, it's okay," he said, and his voice was soft, calm. He caressed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "Do you want to tell me? Go ahead. If you don't feel ready, nothing will happen." There was no anger in his eyes, no contempt. It was just Clark smiling with those dimples that appeared on his cheeks.

"I've never had an orgasm," you finally said.

You watched him blush. He nodded without saying anything. And your heart sank. You thought he would start to hate you. You thought you should have kept quiet and just faked it like you had done so many times before. The silence grew long, too long.

"No… but it's my problem," you blurted out, the words coming out fast, barely breathing. "I really enjoy it, it's just that… I won't reach that point. But we can keep going, don't worry about me." You said all that with the intention of making him forget, of him kissing you again and that's it.

Clark looked at you fixedly. "Not worry about you?" he asked, as if he hadn't understood correctly.

He guided you onto his lap gently. You sat on him. The friction was evident, noticeable, but he was focused on you, not on himself. His hands remained still on your hip, not squeezing, just resting.

"It's not just your problem," he said slowly. "Is it a problem? I mean… why do you say it's a problem? Did a gynecologist tell you that?" he asked, and he said it wanting to understand, not to judge.

"No," you played with his shirt again, not looking at him. "It was the… people I was with before," you said, and the word people tasted ugly in your mouth.

"Or they were the problem," Clark said simply.

You looked at him. How could he say it like that, so easily, as if it were obvious?

"But it's two people saying the same thing," you said, and you felt your throat close up. "Two, Clark. It's not a coincidence."

Clark nodded. He had left his glasses on the table an hour ago, since he started kissing you. Now his blue eyes looked at you without a filter.

"We can try it right now," he said simply, like someone says let's have a drink or let's watch another movie. He looked at you with that calm that only he had. "And we'll check if it's true or if you just had two people with low resistance next to you." He smiled a little. "You know I'm very resistant, don't you?" Clark asked.

And you, despite the fear, despite the shame, smiled blushing.

And then you kissed him.

You didn't think anymore. You didn't give yourself time to think. You just leaned your face in and your lips found his again. Clark made a small sound, a low moan that was lost between you two. Your hands went up to his neck. You felt his hot skin, his rapid pulse under your fingers. His hands were on your hip at first, still, as if he was afraid of squeezing too hard. But then they went down to your thighs and there they did squeeze, with desire. He went back to your neck, stopped kissing your mouth to go down to that soft spot right under your ear. He stayed there for a while. Just kissing, just sucking a little, just breathing against your skin. You felt him so good that you moaned uncontrollably. It wasn't a low or subtle moan. It was a moan that came from deep within, without you being able to do anything to stop it.

"Oh, Clark!" you said. And your hands clenched his curls tightly, as if you were about to fall and he was the only thing holding you up.

You took off his shirt. It wasn't easy because he wouldn't stop kissing you, but you managed. The fabric went up his back and he let go of your lips just long enough to take it off completely. Then you took off yours with his help. His hands were large and trembled a little as they unbuttoned the buttons. You didn't know if it was nerves or desire, maybe both. When your shirt fell to the floor, Clark looked at you for a second. Just a second. His blue eyes ran over your face, your neck, your shoulders. And then he kissed you again as if he had been waiting for days to do it.

Clark took your waist and sat you on the couch. But he didn't sit next to you. He did something strange. He crouched down, lowered his body in front of you. A movement you didn't understand. What did he intend to do? He pulled away from your lips, very slowly, as if it cost him effort. He kissed your neck again. Then went lower. He kissed your chest, the top part, right where the heart beats strongest. Then lower down. He kissed your abdomen, right in the center, and you felt your skin pucker from how soft it was. You looked at him. The living room lamp let you see little, just shadows and glints. But the sighs came out of you as soon as you felt him remove your pants. He unbuttoned them, lowered them slowly, looking at you as he did so. Then he took off your panties. Also slowly. His fingers hooked the fabric and lowered it down your legs. Your hands were trembling. Everything was trembling.

His huge hands parted your legs. Gently but firmly, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. You opened your legs more for him, without thinking. Your pupils were so dilated you could barely see. But when you looked at his face, he was looking directly at your center. You threw your head back. You couldn't look. You were embarrassed and yet you didn't want to stop looking.

"Clark," you moaned. His name came out broken, like a long sigh.

He leaned in. He kissed your vaginal lips as if they were your regular lips. With the same softness, the same calm. Your mouth fell open. You couldn't believe what he was doing. No one had kissed you there before. No one had taken that time. You felt his tongue lick your line, that little opening you had been so afraid to show. Then he opened it more with his tongue, carefully, and even penetrated you a little with it. The sounds coming from below were wet, lewd, shameful. But you didn't want him to stop. Everything was different. Everything was so strange and so good at the same time. Your hands tangled in his curls again. Your hips lifted on their own, as if your body came to life and wanted more from Clark. More of his mouth, more of his tongue, more of everything.

"Do you like it?" you heard him say. His voice came out hoarse, low, and he was still between your legs. "My pretty girlfriend, you taste so good," he said. Then he pulled away slightly. You looked down and saw a line of saliva hanging from his lips to you. You smiled, blushing, and thrust your hip towards him. He understood. He didn't protest. Oh, he never would. Clark found that exquisite, you could see it in his eyes. To see how his mouth could melt you. He just thought how you must have felt when they pointed out that you didn't have orgasms. When they told you that you were the problem. Surely they were the problem, Clark thought. And he set out to do it the second you told him the reason for that fear. He would show you. He would show you they were wrong.

"Oh, Clark!" you said again. But this time it wasn't just pleasure. It was something else. A strange tremor ran through your body, started in your belly and went up your back. Your legs contracted on their own. Your hands in his curls pushed his face further against you, even though he didn't need you to push him. "God, I… no… Clark," you said. And then it happened.

A strange sensation ran through your entire body. It wasn't like anything you had felt before. It was as if something inside you broke but in a good way. As if you let go of something you had been holding onto for years. Slow spasms, undulations that went up and down your legs, your belly, your chest. You breathed as soon as you could, but it was hard. The air didn't come in well because your whole body was shaking. Clark approached slowly. He kissed your thigh, then your abdomen, then your neck. He kissed softly, very softly, while your body still shook a little.

"My beautiful girlfriend was treated so badly," he said. He gave you kisses on your neck, one after another, while you recovered from the previous wave. You didn't have the strength to even speak. Then he kissed you on the mouth. His saliva and your juices mixed with your own saliva and you didn't care. Nothing mattered more than continuing to feel what you had just felt.

Clark pulled away just enough to take off his pants. He lowered them quickly, this time without calm, and kicked them off completely. He looked at you. His eyes were dark, almost black with desire.

"I don't have a condom," he whispered. And his voice sounded almost apologetic.

You shook your head. "It's okay," you nodded. You said it so fast you barely thought about it. You were lost. Needy for him. Not just anyone. For him.

Clark smiled looking at you. "Good," he whispered. But nothing happened. Not at first.

Until you felt something enter you. You moaned, brushing your lips against Clark's. It wasn't what you thought. It wasn't him. It was his two fingers. He inserted them slowly, one first, then another. He needed to stretch you a little more so you would adjust to him later. But the simple position had already warmed you up more than you thought. His swollen lips close to yours. His hand working below, inside, moving with a rhythm you didn't know. His other hand on your waist, squeezing gently. Your hands on his shoulders, clinging to him. The closeness of his face, the warm air coming from his mouth mixing with yours. The dilated pupils of both of you, so large you could barely see the color of his eyes.

You opened your lips to say something but no words came out. He moved closer, their teeth clashed a little, and he kissed you. It was a messy kiss, wet, with both of them breathing poorly. They moaned between kisses. His fingers entering and exiting you, faster each time. Your tongue playing with his. A third finger entered and you felt everything stretch down there. You closed your eyes tightly. You pulled away from his mouth just to breathe, just to not suffocate. He took your neck with his free hand, very gently, and pulled you close again. And then…

"Damn it… again," you said. Your voice trembled. Everything trembled. "I… oh," you said. You couldn't finish the sentence.

Your body shook entirely. A new wave, stronger than the first, shook you from head to toe. Your hands squeezed Clark's shoulders as if you were sinking. Your legs trembled uncontrollably. Clark held you tight, pressed his chest to yours and held you while you shook. You breathed with difficulty, your face buried in his neck. He didn't move. He just held you. With one hand he massaged your leg with fingers stained with you, and that soft caress helped you come back. Little by little. Very little by little.

And then he carried you.

You didn't even have time to say anything. Clark put his arms under your body, one behind your back and the other behind your knees, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. Your arms circled his neck by reflex, and you pressed your face against his shoulder. You felt his hot skin, his smell, his agitated breathing. He walked towards your room. He knew the way. He had learned every step of your house when he came to visit you and helped you leave something in your room. A jacket, a bag, a book. He always noticed everything, even if you didn't realize it. He knew where the bed was, where the door was, where the lamp was. When they arrived, he entered without bumping into anything. He placed you on the bed gently, as if you were something fragile. The sheet was cold against your back and that contrasted with the heat of his body on top of you.

You felt his member brush against your entrance. Barely touching you. Just a graze. And you, without thinking, lifted your hip towards him. Your body moved on its own. You were no longer afraid. You no longer wanted to hide. You just wanted to feel him inside you.

"That's it," Clark said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. His member became stained with your juices as he rubbed against you, barely entering and exiting, just the tip. You moaned every time he brushed against that place that needed him so much. "We're going to show them who the real problem was," he said. And then he gave you a kiss on the jaw, right where your face ends and your neck begins. That kiss was soft, but he said it with a certainty that made you believe him. That was enough for him to insert himself into you. Not all at once. It was slow. Very slow. You felt him fill you little by little, centimeter by centimeter. You opened your mouth but no sound came out. Just air.

Then the thrusts began. Slow at first. Very slow. Every time he entered, your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his movement. They went up and down like small waves. Clark's lips went straight to them. He kissed the tip of your nipple, which was already hard, very hard. He kissed it softly, with closed lips, then with his tongue. His mouth was hot and wet. Your hand tangled in his curls again, squeezing gently, pulling a little. His hot breath lingered on your skin every time he parted his lips to breathe.

"Oh, Clark," you said. Your voice came out choppy, broken by moans. "You feel so good," you admitted. It wasn't a lie. You had never felt anything like it. He filled every empty space you had inside.

"No," Clark said, shaking his head while continuing to move inside you. "You are the one who feels so good." He bit your nipple carefully, barely a pinch with his teeth. "So adapted to me," he said, and then he took your entire nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, playing with his tongue around it.

You stayed underneath him on your back for a good while. Then he turned you over gently and you were face down. He penetrated you again and again, from behind, and you buried your head in the pillow to keep from screaming too loudly. Clark's fingers dug gently into your hip, guiding you, moving you to his rhythm. Then he took you and arranged you on top of him. You sat on his stomach and he looked up at you from below. You set the pace yourself. Your hands trembled as they rested on his chest. You bent down from time to time to kiss him, and he took that moment to grab your buttocks with his large hands. He gently spread them to sink deeper into you. That made you moan louder. But you kept your rhythm. Your hips made slow circles. Your breasts moved in a back-and-forth sway, left and right. Clark squeezed them with his hands, massaged them while you moved on top of him. You moaned, but this time it wasn't just any moan. You were almost singing to him, letting your voice out with each rise and each fall. You felt so close. Clark noticed it because your rhythm began to get slower, clumsier. You were tired but you didn't want to stop.

"I… Clark, help me," you whispered. Your voice was barely audible.

He didn't need you to repeat it. You leaned on his shoulders and he lifted your body with force. Clark began to penetrate by lifting and lowering his hips. He led the rhythm now. Both moaned together, at the same time, as if their bodies were one. They were both so close. Clark grabbed your bottom with one hand, with the other he grabbed your hip, and penetrated deeper. Your eyes became moist. You didn't know if it was from pleasure or something else. You looked at him blurry, because the tears hadn't fallen but they fogged everything up. Clark's senses heated up seeing you like that. You breathed so fast you almost felt dizzy. And then you trembled. In the last thrust, your body contracted entirely. You trembled like a leaf in the wind. And you felt Clark fill you, hot, inside. Enough for you to fall onto his chest without strength. Still trembling. Still shuddering when Clark's arms hugged you tight.

He didn't let you go. He didn't push you away. He didn't turn his face to the wall like the others did. Clark kept you on his chest, with an arm around your back and the other hand caressing you gently. He waited for your breathing to normalize. He didn't speak. There was no need. He just held you. And you sank into his chest tired, happy, calm. Hugging him too. With your eyes closed. With a smile he couldn't see but surely felt.

"Confirmed," Clark said after a while, his voice still hoarse but with a laugh hidden in the words. "You are not the problem."

You laughed. A small, trembling laugh, but real. He felt your laugh on his chest, the vibrations of your throat against his skin. And he also laughed. His laugh was low, soft, like everything about him.

You pulled away slightly, just enough to look at him. You gave him a short, quick kiss on the lips. And then you hugged him again, burying your nose in his neck.

"I really like you, Clark," you admitted. Your voice came out small, as if you were still embarrassed to say it.

Clark blushed. You felt him get warm under your lips. "I am in love with you," he said. He paused, as if thinking the word embarrassed him too. "A lot," he added, so there was no doubt.

You hugged him tighter, not looking at his smile, but you knew it was there. You felt it in how his chest moved as he breathed.

"Let's clean ourselves up," Clark whispered after a while, running a hand through your messy hair. "We'll take a shower."

Clark did it. He got out of bed, took your hand and led you to the bathroom. He turned on the hot water tap and waited for the temperature to be right. Then they got in together. You curled up against his chest, stuck to him as if it were the safest place in the world. He soaped your hair first, carefully, undoing the knots with his fingers. Then he soaped your body, slowly, running the sponge over your back, your shoulders, your arms, your legs. There was no hurry. The water fell over both of them and the bathroom filled with steam. Then he soaped himself, with your eyes watching him. In the end they dried off with a large towel that Clark ran over your body first before running it over his. Then they went back to bed, still with damp skin and the smell of soap.

Clark already had his purpose for every night. He wouldn't let you think again that you were a problem. He would show you whenever necessary. With kisses. With caresses. With patience. With that very way of his of looking at you as if you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. That night, when he turned off the light and hugged you from behind, with his nose buried in your nape and his arm crossed over your waist, you knew you weren't alone. That you would never have to pretend again. That Clark would stay. And you, for the first time in a long time, closed your eyes and felt calm.

you peer at him over your book. you sigh a little. it’s hot out today, so he’s in a white vest and these navy shorts. biceps golden and thick. thighs thick and golden. he’s perched his black designer sunglasses to the top of his head which only pushes all of his hair back with it. he’s devastatingly gorgeous. his forehead, pretty nose and pouty lips. he’s frowning at whatever he’s reading, leaning his elbows onto his knees so he can get to typing. a huff at the end.

“is that the berry blast? i was thinking of getting that one?”

you look towards the voice, landing on a handsome guy standing on the opposite side of your table. he’s just walked in, also dressed for the weather with his cap, basic white shirt and shorts.

you’re still unsure if he was talking to you and you see bakugou, out of the corner of your eye, look up to the man.

“is it nice?” he repeats. the man is slightly shy, scratching the back of his head. he’s clearly nervous now he’s got your attention as he shuffles from foot to foot. keeps crossing his arms then lets go. you can tell he’s around your age and he’s not not your type. but also you’re not sure if he’s flirting with you or not. can he not see your boyfriend right there?

“oh, yeah it is. it’s my first time trying it,” you reply dryly, pressing your thumb in between the pages of your book so you don’t lose your spot.

the man’s eyes light up at your response and now bakugou looks at him directly. is this random man flirting with his girlfriend in front of him? is he invisible? does he look like a fucking dickhead?

the man nods in response to you, paying bakugou no mind. he’s so enamoured by you he doesn’t feel the boiling confusion brewing beside you.

“ah cool. i think i’ll give it a try,” he sniffs, looking at your book, then your dress. you can see him figuring out what to comment on next.

bakugou adjusts his posture. leans back in his seat, spreads his legs and holds up his smoothie.

“this green shit is good too. you should give it a try,” katsuki pushes and as if the guy is just finding out he’s there, he rapidly nods his head. looking from you to bakugou and trying to bring the conversation back to you and him.

“right, thanks man.”

then he’s looking back at you, giving you all his attention completely. 

you hear bakugou swear under his breath. it all makes you want to laugh at his expense.

“i came in here and i had to talk to you, i thought you were gorgeous. i love the dress,” he rushes, “i was wondering if i could get your number or insta?”

you give him a sweet smile, shaking your head lightly. you point your thumb in the direction of bakugou, “that’s my boyfriend. sorry.”

bakugou raises his eyebrows at the man, holding up his hand with a sarcastic wave.

“i don’t let her give her number to men that want to date her.”

you giggle at your boyfriend’s stupidity, your first giggle of the day actually and it causes the corner of bakugou’s lips to quiver with the urge to smile.

though looking back at your new admirer, you both slowly see the light drain from his eyes. his shoulders slump next. he’s obvious in the way he stares at bakugou’s arms and he blinks as if he might recognise him from somewhere.

“oh shit… i didn’t think… loads of people on this table and i thought everyone was sitting alone. fuck, sorry guys.”

bakugou’s gritting his teeth, “no fuckin’ social awareness.”

you kick his foot under the table, “no it’s okay, thank you though!”

once the man apologises again, spinning around to leave the shop completely, bakugou has already dragged your chair beside his, metal chair legs clacking together. he shoves his phone in his pocket and takes your hand with his now free one.

you giggle at the touch. there’s no way anyone doesn’t think you’re a couple now. in fact, you get a few stares from the other smoothie drinkers on the table.

“i’m sorry for the shit earlier,” he blurts, “i’m not all over you for a minute and someone already tries to take you from me. what the actual fuck?”

bakugou huffs to himself, practically trying to pull you to sit onto his lap so nobody can mistake what you are to each other. what else does he need to do? tattoo you on his arm? he’s already done that actually. your eyes, your name, your birth flower.

“i’m sorry too but we were seated far apart, doing separate things and not talking.” you grin at him and he just looks at your lips. it’s been far too long since he’s kissed them. “fair assessment i think.”

“‘course you think that. gonna stamp my name on your forehead,” he mutters, kissing the corner of your lips. 

bakugou’s not one for pda, but it’s needed when people are trying to drag you from under his nose.

“this should keep you on your toes. remind you that everyone wants me,” you joke but bakugou blinks at you. looks at you then looks away. 

he agrees, in fact, it makes him sit up straight and kiss you on your mouth again, in the middle of this random smoothie shop.

“i said i was sorry,” he huffs, holding your hand to his waist. “wanna try mine?”

you nod, “i’ve been waiting for you to ask!”

you put the straw to your smoothie by his lips so he can try yours.

“yours is better than mine,” you whine and bakugou chuckles.

“wanna swap?”

“you sure?”

“y’know i don’t mind.”

you take bakugou’s green smoothie while he holds your pink one. you eye his throat as he tajes three big gulps, the smoothie sinking away faster than your previous sips.

“thanks for buying them, ‘ki.”

bakugou smiles at you, gold tooth shining in the sunlight pouring through the windows. “i wouldn’t have heard the end of it if i let you pay while we were fightin’.”

you huff, “we weren’t fighting! it was a disagreement in communication styles.”

“yeah, we had a fight about that,” then he looks at your outfit with warm eyes, ones you welcome, unlike the random guy before. “your dress is pretty, baby. you look pretty today. i didn’t say that before.”

“thank you. you look sexy, always do.”

you swipe his sunglasses off his head, plopping them onto your face. 

“you’re gonna have to give them back when we get outside,” he tells you but he can’t help his grin, now unable to see your eyes.

“i forgot mine because you were rushing me!” 

bakugou rolls his eyes, albeit playfully. “look in your bag.”

“i didn’t put them in here,” you say but still you do. you unzip and pull it open, dipping your hand in and immediately frowning, “did you put them in here or am i going crazy?”

“you’re goin’ crazy,” bakugou stands up, brushing off his shorts and reaching for your hand. you stay seated in his sunglasses, your designer ones he bought you for your birthday in your hands.

“katsuki!”

“you’re not crazy, i put them in there when you were shoutin’ that you didn’t wanna go out with me anymore,” he nudges his head in the direction of the door, “let’s go, ‘wanna walk in the park.”

“you’re so annoying,” you tell him but you love it when he interlinks his fingers with yours, letting you walk out the shop first, smoothie in hand.

“love you too. now pass my glasses.”

It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow. 

It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides. 

But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall. 

Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.

And he probably will.

But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes. 

It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance. 

And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it. 

Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of. 

You’d be fine. 

So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet. 

But you also haven’t had a night like this one. 

And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else. 

“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.” 

You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”

The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”

That’s easy then. “Alright.”

“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”

“Well, what happens if I don’t?”

“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”

You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun. 

“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”

“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”

“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”

“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”

The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”

“Not right now, no.”

“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“

You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once. 

Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid. 

You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.

The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.

The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag. 

“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”

You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge. 

“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different. 

Less god-like. 

When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do. 

“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”

You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”

“You didn’t know I would be fine-“

“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”

“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”

“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.

Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“

“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-

“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”

You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all. 

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”

“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you. 

“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“

“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”

Superman stares at you. “And?”

“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”

You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style. 

“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs. 

“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”

“Why-“

“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”

“And you… don’t want them to?”

“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”

He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout. 

It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body. 

And he’s handsome. 

You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you. 

You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy. 

“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”

“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”

Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”

“A- What?”

“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”

You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”

“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”

“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”

He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”

Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded. 

So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.

But you can still feel it. 

Superman’s gaze. 

When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.

———

“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”

You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”

“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.

“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”

She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“

“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“

“Just don’t say it. Please.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”

Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.” 

“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”

You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens. 

Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second. 

It leaves you oddly cold. 

“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”

“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”

“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it. 

You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.

The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something. 

You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight. 

“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“

“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red. 

“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”

“Busy?”

“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”

You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool. 

This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence. 

You never break the silence. That’s losing. 

Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite. 

And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you. 

“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”

It doesn’t.

But now you know what Kent is like. 

Polite, gentle, kind. 

You can work with that.

“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before. 

It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring. 

With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch. 

“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”

You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is. 

Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees. 

He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game. 

“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”

You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”

“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”

“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”

Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”

Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”

“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”

“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”

“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”

“Graphic-“

“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”

There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”

He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“

Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself. 

He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation. 

But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room. 

He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again. 

At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.

You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”

“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”

That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”

Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”

You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water. 

He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging. 

“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“

“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”

You stare at him, and he turns a little red. 

“It’s my first name.”

“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.” 

“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“

“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”

He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”

You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”

“Uh- Yeah?”

“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”

Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“

“I know.” 

He frowns. “How?”

“You told me earlier.”

“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”

You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”

“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”

You raise your brows. “I don’t?”

“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.

“Okay, Kent-“

“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm. 

“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”

“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”

“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”

Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question. 

Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you. 

“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand. 

It’s big and warm. 

You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.

And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table. 

Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body. 

It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again. 

You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.

———

There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.

Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels. 

Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown. 

“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”

They are. 

You still scowl at him. 

“Are you stalking me?”

He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”

He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him. 

“It’s scouts honor.”

“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”

“Their scout badge?”

He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.

“Sure. Why not.”

“Well, those boys work very hard-“

“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air. 

“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”

 “I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”

“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning. 

“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”

You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back. 

It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift. 

Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy. 

Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice. 

“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”

“Could you get me a driver?”

“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”

“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”

“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff. 

“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”

“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”

“How?”

Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“

“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”

“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”

Of course you did. 

He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you. 

“What does that mean-“

“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”

You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week. 

“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.

If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman. 

“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street. 

You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak. 

“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side. 

You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind. 

Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.

“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.

“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“

“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”

He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”

“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs. 

“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“

“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”

Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“

“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”

“I can’t control it-“

“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”

“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”

You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”

He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”

“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”

“Do I poop?”

“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”

“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”

You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”

“Yes. I poop.”

“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”

Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”

There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud. 

You groan. 

“That’s fucking horrible.”

“You smiled-“

“I did not-“

“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”

“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”

Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”

“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”

“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”

That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”

He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”

There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name. 

You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back. 

Your stupid heart skips. 

And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside. 

He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night 

You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment. 

It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water. 

So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.

———

Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.

You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee. 

They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet. 

You just want your fucking muffin. 

Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something. 

It almost works. 

The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”

“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”

“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place. 

You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”

Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it. 

The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it. 

And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes. 

The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt. 

You stare at Clark Kent. 

He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open. 

“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine. 

Which is really fucking annoying. 

“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans. 

“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”

Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.

“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”

“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look. 

“You interview Superman, dude.”

“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”

You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile. 

“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”

Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“  

“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“

“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.

“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“

“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”

Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league. 

Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“

“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head. 

“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”

Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”

“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”

You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”

Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”

There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin. 

You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away. 

You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside. 

And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well. 

———

“Superman?”

You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.

“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing. 

You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name. 

But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.

“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”

Silence. 

You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman. 

And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.

Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.

You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you. 

“Please don’t do that.”

You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot- 

But there’s a whoosh. 

And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge. 

Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace. 

A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star. 

You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-

“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush. 

“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second. 

His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright. 

Only to help you get upright. Nothing else. 

He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has. 

“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation. 

Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”

Shit. “I wasn’t-“

“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”

“Well- I wasn’t.”

“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”

You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”

He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”

“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.” 

Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”

“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”

“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug. 

“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”

“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”

It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things. 

You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.

You can’t kiss Superman. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record. 

He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again. 

Calm the fuck down. 

You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life. 

Alone. 

Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm. 

———

You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place. 

Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground. 

Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue. 

“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”

You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice. 

For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing. 

It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here. 

With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him. 

Which isn’t fair.

“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins. 

“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”

“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”

Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”

“Not with that attitude you can’t.”

“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”

You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop. 

And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body. 

You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.

“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”

Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”

“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods. 

“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”

Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”

Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”

“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”

This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind. 

“Do you have any pets?”

“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”

You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”

“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”

“No.” 

“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.” 

“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”

Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”

“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“

“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”

“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”

“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”

You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing. 

“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods. 

“You’re tough.”

That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”

“Kr- Oco.”

You frown. “Kroco?”

“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”

“Godzilla.”

Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”

“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”

“I bet you did.”

You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.

And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd. 

Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights. 

Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.

———

You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.

Already easy to herd. 

Very easily baited by more cocaine. 

Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.

It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile. 

“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”

You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”

“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”

That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to. 

You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over. 

Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something. 

He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.

“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully. 

“Are you-“

“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”

He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“

“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.

“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”

You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”

Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”

“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”

He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”

Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”

“They do?” 

“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”

And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face. 

You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic. 

But it might make you a bad person. 

Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand. 

The second dose of cocaine. 

Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle. 

It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing. 

But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything. 

“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”

Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”

“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“

“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”

“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”

Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”

“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“

“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”

“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”

Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”

“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”

You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”

Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t. 

But you hadn’t scared him off. 

He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture. 

“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”

He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”

You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head. 

“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”

“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”

Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”

“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”

“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”

You’d blinked at him. “What?”

“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”

“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned. 

“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”

Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”

“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”

You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.

“Am I close?”

“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”

“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”

Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”

“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”

Of course. 

You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.

And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no. 

Not because you hadn’t. 

But you’d wanted to see Superman. 

Because you aren’t a good person.

That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers. 

“You’re late.”

“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”

“If people need saving-“

“No, I was just talking to someone important.”

You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”

He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.

“I might have an answer.”

“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“

You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”

“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”

“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.” 

“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar. 

And you’re a horrible person. 

“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”

“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”

“Knowing the weather, like-“

“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”

You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night. 

The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.

You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”

“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”

He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out. 

So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”

He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“

“Clark-“

“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”

You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or- 

Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.

That had terrified you. 

“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.

“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him. 

You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.

Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home. 

You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them. 

And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.

———

The world is spinning. 

And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it. 

Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity. 

“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”

Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“

You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck. 

“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”

Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”

“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”

“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”

You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two. 

Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.

Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor. 

It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away. 

You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself. 

You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance. 

Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens. 

You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.

This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt. 

Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs. 

It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him. 

“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns. 

“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel. 

“I like it when you talk about your parents.” 

Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous. 

But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say. 

“Why?”

“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”

Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”

“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”

“…To be real?”

“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”

“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“

“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”

Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”

“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.

“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”

You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks. 

The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep. 

But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.

“You- Um- You know Superman?”

“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”

“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”

“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.” 

———

It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion. 

You love Clark. 

And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you. 

Never you. 

Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands. 

You can’t.

Because you might be a really bad person. 

Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know. 

You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.

Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all. 

That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what. 

At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together. 

But first, you need to know.

“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”

You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”

“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?” 

“No.”

“You know, that time I actually believe you.”

You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’

But there it is. 

The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better. 

Or maybe just one thing better. 

Or the same. 

Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat. 

“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”

“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”

“Always.” 

You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon. 

Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin. 

You push it out, before you can think better. 

“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”

He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”

“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”

“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“

“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“

Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry. 

Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll. 

He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back. 

And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes. 

“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”

“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”

You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”

“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”

“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his. 

“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”

You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it. 

So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.

He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home. 

And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer. 

You know. 

———

You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out. 

When you’re going to be able to escape. 

It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America. 

You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea. 

He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case. 

So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all. 

If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times. 

No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to. 

It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone. 

That’s probably how this is going to end anyway. 

Might as well get in some fucking practice. 

Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time. 

But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.

It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him. 

“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.” 

“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”

“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”

Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“

“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“

“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”

You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”

Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile. 

“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs. 

“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”

“You and Clark?”

“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”

“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods. 

“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”

Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“

“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown. 

“His what?”

“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”

“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”

“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”

“You’d know the weather.”

“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”

“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”

“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”

You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.  

“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”

He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-

“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”

“I- No, of course not-“

“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”

Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“

“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid. 

But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin. 

He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity. 

“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow. 

“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”

Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”

You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly. 

Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”

“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing. 

It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm. 

The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.

“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it. 

“So?”

“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”

“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”

You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”

He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”

The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”

“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”

He’s saying it like it’s a joke. 

You’re not sure it is. 

“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.

“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”

“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”

“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs. 

“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”

You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”

“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“

“You really like me?”

Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.

“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”

You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever. 

But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off. 

“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and  he winces. 

“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“

“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”

He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you. 

Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted. 

They have the same fucking face. 

You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face. 

Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs. 

Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands. 

“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“

You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“

“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night. 

Flies off into the night. 

Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down. 

———

You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home. 

He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.

It’s okay. 

You can wait. 

You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest. 

Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind. 

But this isn’t a normal week. 

And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him. 

It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up. 

And it did. 

Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it. 

He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag. 

“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him. 

You don’t know how else to be. 

“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”

“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”

“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”

“No, I think you should tell me first.”

“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“

“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”

Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”

You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar. 

Or stood to close, on the street. 

That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out. 

Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter. 

But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break. 

It’s a good thing. 

Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths. 

And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both. 

You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.

“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh. 

“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”

He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”

“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow. 

“But you didn’t know.”

You shake your head, and he groans.

“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“

“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”

“Uh-“

“Are you Superman?”

“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.” 

Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses. 

It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time. 

But you can now.

And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression. 

“I- How?”

“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“

“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“

“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“

“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“

“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“

“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes. 

“I couldn’t hate you.”

You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.

“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”

You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.

“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”

“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.

“Do you really want me to say it?”

You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.

“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”

You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”

“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“

“Clark-“

“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”

You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark. 

But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once. 

So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”

“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides. 

“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”

“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”

“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”

Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”

You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does. 

And you have to ask. 

“Is it worth it?” 

Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”

You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you. 

So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time. 

“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod. 

“Yes, please.”

His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again. 

When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt. 

“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”

His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”

You nod, and his throat bobs. 

“How much?”

“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy. 

He doesn’t seem to mind.

“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.

“Clark-“

“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”

You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.

“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile. 

“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”

He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before. 

“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”

You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you. 

It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher. 

“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“

“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”

His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him. 

A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release. 

“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“

He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.

His bed. 

You’re in his bed. 

But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours. 

Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips. 

“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”

You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life. 

He catches it. Of course he is. 

He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need. 

It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing. 

And worst of all, it’s working. 

Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare. 

“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever. 

“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“

Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt. 

He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea. 

“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“

“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”

You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true. 

“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip. 

There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.

You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap. 

Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down. 

You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat. 

“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“

Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot. 

“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“

“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“

“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name. 

“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“

He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.

He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth. 

Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest. 

“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“ 

He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit. 

“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“

“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”

You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name. 

He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him. 

You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving. 

He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-

“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“

He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“

“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”

Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“

“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“

He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss. 

“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.” 

You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“

“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”

And he does. 

Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release. 

Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed. 

“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“

You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down. 

He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning. 

You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you. 

So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly. 

But you have him. 

All of him. 

And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed. 

“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is. 

You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“

“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”

“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”

“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”

You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back. 

“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”

Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room. 

You have him. 

And that makes everything clear.

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.”