meow

“Perfect. Mind if I hitch a ride until seventy-ninth or so?” 

“Yeah, okay.” He glances at you. “Can I offer you some water for the ride?” 

“Do you have water?” 

His laugh is endearingly awkward, and the nervous energy crackling through you fades to a lower buzz. Like it’s taken on a different frequency, new and intriguing. “No. I don’t, actually, sorry. I’m Peter.” 

You tell him your name in return, sticking out your hand for a shake. 

Peter’s careful to keep the umbrella above you both as he takes it. “Very formal,” he notes.

“Sorry.” The crosswalk changes, so Peter misses your sheepish look as you both step off the curb. “I have a job interview in twenty minutes. I think I’ve practiced my handshake so much it’s taking over. Was it firm?” 

“Super firm,” Peter assures you. 

“Too firm?” 

“The right amount, I guess? I don’t think you have to worry.” 

You push out a breath. “I definitely have to worry. I didn’t check the forecast before leaving, and now I’m going to show up wet and probably almost late.” 

“Isn’t almost late just on time?” Peter muses. He looks at you again, a quick glance from the corner of his eye that threatens to liquefy your kneecaps. “You don’t look that wet. It could totally be worse.” 

It’s a kind softening of the truth. You’d felt the air growing misty enough to collect moisture in your eyebrows when you left your apartment, but your rush made you abandon the idea of going back upstairs for your umbrella and by the time you stepped off the subway it was pouring. Your blouse is clingy and see-through beneath your coat and though you’ve done all you can to protect your face you fear for the fate of your mascara. 

“I feel like this does not give a great first impression of preparedness and competence,” you joke. 

Peter makes a breathy sound of amusement. You turn your shoulder when the crowd thickens for a moment, twisting to stay under the umbrella. He loops his arm through yours and drives you both toward. 

“I don’t know,” he says, “if you show up on time even though you got caught in a storm, maybe that’ll show dedication or something.” 

“That’d be nice. I am going to great lengths.” 

Peter grins. You’ve reached seventy-ninth street, but when you open your mouth to thank him for the help he says, “Where’s your interview?” 

You tilt your head to your right. “Down on first.” You grin. “Figure I can duck under awnings for a couple blocks and make it okay.” 

“I’ll take you,” Peter offers easily. 

“Oh, that’s—” 

“Come on, aren’t you going to be late or something?” He starts walking, tugging you along with him. “I can afford a detour.” 

He’s right; you can’t afford to waste time arguing. You settle for trying to cram as much gratitude into your heartfelt, “Thank you,” as you can. 

“I’m not gonna risk ruining your chances. Besides, maybe I can tell them about how you hijacked strangers’ umbrellas just to get there on time.” 

“Please don’t,” you say. 

It really is only a short walk, but you manage to thank Peter twice more before you get there. You use the couple of minutes you have to spare to take out a tube of lipstick and hastily reapply. 

“Can you be honest with me? Do I look crazy?” you ask Peter, who’s standing by like he can sense that you need the emotional support. “Like, is there mascara running down my face or anything?” 

“You don’t look crazy,” Peter promises you, smiling in the easy way of someone who has no reason at all to be nervous. You envy him. “You look good. Your makeup looks—well, actually…do you mind if I…?” 

“Whatever you have to do,” you say quickly. 

Peter sets a hand on your face to keep you in place, but it’s needless; you go still the moment he reaches for you. His thumb wipes under your bottom lip, at first gently, then with more certainty as he cleans up the lipstick you just applied. You think you’ve stopped breathing. 

The weight of his thumb lingers for a moment after it stops moving before Peter’s hand falls away. “There,” he says. You can only just hear him over the pounding of raindrops around you. “Perfect.” 

“I look okay?” 

“No, you do. Really, you look—” He smiles like it’s reflexive, like he can’t help himself. “You look perfect.” 

When your heart starts beating again, it does so seemingly just to send a rush of blood to your face. “Okay, thanks.” You start backing towards the door. “Thank you so much for this, seriously.” 

“Don’t mention it—hey, wait.” Peter starts digging in his pockets, pulling out something that shines dully in the low light. “Sorry, just one second.” 

“What?” You waver between him and the door as he finds a pen, pulling the cap off with his teeth. You can see the receptionist watching you through the window. Your interview is supposed to start in a minute. 

“I know, I know, one second.” He scribbles quickly, before holding the thing out to you. “Here. In case you need an umbrella service back home.” 

You let him place the thing in your hand. A phone number, written on a crumpled-up gum wrapper. 

“Or if it’s sunny when you leave, or if there’s, like a gust of wind.” Peter shrugs, grinning. “Or if you want food ever, or…” 

“Yeah.” You can’t help smiling back at him, even with nerves buzzing in your fingertips. “Thanks.” 

“It was nice to meet you, y/n.” 

You look up at him. 

Peter leans his elbows on the table, clasping your hands in his and doing that awful thing he does with his eyes. “I’m sorry.” 

You’re a helpless captive to warm, luring, beloved brown. You exhale. “Thanks for getting my drink.” 

Peter grins. “You’re welcome, pretty girl.” 

“Are you going to be nice now?” 

“Nice?” He looks confused, but you know better. “I’ve been being nice. I’m the nicest.” 

You raise your eyebrows. Peter is saved by your names being called at the counter. He gives your hands a squeeze and gets up to claim your drinks. 

“If anything, you’re not being nice,” he decides when he returns. 

You frown, taking your cup from him. “Me?” 

“Yup. The universe keeps giving us signs to kiss, and you won’t do it.”

“The universe,” you say drily. 

“Uh huh. Do you, like, find me disgusting or something?” 

“No,” you say, knowing full well he’s joking and yet feeling the tiniest bit guilty nonetheless. Your voice comes out soft. “You know you don’t need an excuse to kiss me.” 

Peter looks pleased at this, but his determination doesn’t waver. “It’s not just a regular kiss if it’s part of a holiday tradition.” 

“It’s not a holiday tradition if you’re rigging it.” 

“Me?” Your boyfriend puts on a good show of bafflement as he settles the lid back onto his cup, coffee doctored the way he likes. “I’m not doing anything. The universe wants us to kiss. It’s Christmas magic.” 

You roll your eyes as you stand. You stick your gloves in your pocket, trusting your drink to keep your hands warm for the walk to the shops. “Sure,” you say. 

There’s a hasty thwacking sound as mistletoe appears alongside the bell above the coffee shop’s door. Just as you start to open it. 

The bell chimes, and Peter says loudly, “Is that mistletoe?” 

You burn with mortification as people near you look. Peter turns a slow circle, his expression mystified. 

“What?” The word is an exhale, breathy and drawn out. “Who did this? You guys put mistletoe up here? That’s so—” The facade nearly cracks when he sees you, the picture of suffering, standing beneath the festive plant. His mouth ticks. “—cute. Well, rules are rules, so…” 

“I hate you,” you murmur as he takes your waist in his hand. 

You shrug. There's enough light coming in from the windows for you to see with. "I didn't feel like turning anything on."

"How long have you been up?"

"Just a few minutes." Peter nods, twirling a fork before bringing it to his mouth. You don't know what compels you to go on. "I had a dream."

He frowns. "A bad dream?" he asks through a mouthful.

Heat flushes through you. "Not really."

You woke with your heart in your throat and an urgent ache between your legs, blurred recollections of brown eyes and your name uttered by a familiar voice already fading.  You wanted to fall back asleep and see if you could find your way back to the dream. You forced yourself to get up and find a glass of water instead to cool you down.

The corporeal Peter is looking at you strangely, so you try to clarify. "It was just…weird."

He hums. You feel it like a frisson through you, and take another sip of your water.

"So, um, why did you decide to go on a run now?"

Peter shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting self-deprecatingly. "It's cooler at night."

"More dangerous, too."

"Well, I've been told a key quality in any real runner is masochism."

You laugh. Peter's smile widens in response, but you see it flicker at the edges when his gaze drops lower. You follow it, and stiffen. Your nipples are raised and showing through the tank top you wore to bed.

"Who was in your dream?"

You blink, your breath catching. "Huh?"

Peter smiles, but there's something behind it. "I'm just wondering. You don't have to tell me."

You think he knows. And the thing is, you can't even say he's arrogant for having guessed. Something has shifted between you and Peter lately. You don't know how, but you know you've both noticed it. It can't just be you. It's too obvious.

You look at the takeout container in his hand and do your best to ignore the self-conscious prickle going down your neck. "I don't mean to dream about anyone," you mumble.

"Hey, I know." Peter's voice drops into a more sympathetic register. "I get that. It's not like you do it on purpose." He drops his finished takeout in the trash, leaning against the counter next to you. "It's the unconscious mind, you can't help it."

"It's still embarrassing."

"That depends on who it's about," he says lightly.

You lift your eyes, giving Peter a despairing look. His expression sobers. "Don't make me say it."

"Okay," he murmurs, gently now. "It's okay."

His hand finds your arm, squeezing up the length of it to your shoulder. You burn silently. You think maybe Peter’s cheeks deepen in color, but he doesn't look away. And so neither do you, letting him bare witness to your shame.

You watch as brown eyes, even lovelier when you're awake, soften in the low light. Peter is so close you think an inhale could close the distance.

"Hey," he says, nose nearly to your cheek.

Your heart beats in your mouth. "Yeah?"

"It's okay." His breath tickles your skin. "It really is. Was it a good dream?"

"Yeah." You can hardly hear yourself, but Peter seems to.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, it was nice."

"That's good. Nice, I mean. I'm glad." His lips tick, an almost self-conscious smile. "I think about you too, you know."

You inhale, and he's there, a whisper from you.

"This okay?" Peter whispers.

You nod, and he closes the distance.

It's a soft press of a kiss. Warm enough to melt into, but not hurried. Peter coaxes you to relax into him with nice, inviting kisses, stepping in front of you to hold you steady.

You reach behind you to set your glass of water on the counter. As soon as you're done, his hands are under your thighs, lifting you up beside it.

"Yeah?" he mumbles.

You exhale into his mouth, "Yeah."

Things heat slowly. You have the half-dizzy thought that you might keep from waking up longer if you draw it out, and whatever Peter's motives are he seems to be in agreement. You kiss until you've committed the shape of Peter's mouth to memory and you're beginning to think you really are going to fall asleep, and then Peter diverts his attention elsewhere.

You come instantly more awake as he puts his mouth to one of your nipples, sucking through the material of your tank top. Your legs clench around his waist. One of Peter's hands drops to your thigh, keeping it there.

"Jesus," you hiss.

"Nope, still me." The damp of his saliva begins seeping into your top. "I'm flattered, though."

You hold onto Peter's shoulders as he licks and teases at the bud, devoting himself thoroughly to one before moving to the other. It's then that you grow impatient, but when you start to pull up your top Peter pushes your hands away.

"Okay, okay," he says, like you're really in a hurry. "I've got it."

He says that, but then he doesn't do it quickly. Your tank top moves up inch by inch, Peter kissing every bare swatch of skin that gets revealed as he goes. Your chest is falling in discordant rhythm by the time he makes it back to where he started, a trail of spit going all the way down your abdomen. Peter bunches the fabric above your breasts with a look like Happy? and takes one into his mouth.

It's a thousand times worse than the dream. Everything is sharper, up to and including the ache between your legs, where Peter has nestled so comfortably you think it can't be half the torment for him that it is for you. He rubs up and down your thigh like he means to console you, only stoking the heat.

"God—" you keen.

"Still no."

"—Peter—"

"There you go."

You shift your hips against him, and Peter moans, sucking you deeper into the wet heat of his mouth. When his teeth press into your flesh, you think you whimper.

Pairing: Jeremy Gilbert x fem!reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, weed use, sleep grinding, sexual tension, reader soaking wet from a few lazy ruts, playful biting <3

Word count: 1.1k

Masterlist | Jeremy's Playlist

The two of you were gone.

Not in a dangerous way, just in the way that made everything hilarious for no reason. The TV flickered in front of you, playing some dumb reality show you had started watching ironically but were now deeply invested in. Jeremy was half-sitting, half-sprawled on the bed beside you, a bag of chips balanced precariously on his chest.

“This guy,” you snorted, pointing at the screen, “is the worst liar I’ve ever seen. Look at his face. He’s guilty as hell.”

Jeremy squinted, chewing lazily on a chip. “Nah. He’s just stupid. That’s not guilt, it’s pure, unfiltered dumbassery.”

You gasped dramatically, turning to him. “Dumbassery isn’t a word.”

“Yeah, it is.” He grinned, eyes glassy but playful. “It’s, like, the study of dumbasses. The scientific term.”

You let out a wheezing laugh, shoving at his arm. “Oh my God, shut up.”

He didn’t shut up. If anything, he leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling you a secret. “No, but really, if you think about it, I could totally get it added to the dictionary. I’d just have to prove it's a real word by using it enough.”

“Oh, sure. Go ahead and start a petition. ‘Jeremy Gilbert, founder of Dumbassery Studies.’”

Jeremy’s grin widened. “Professor Gilbert, actually.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile lingered, warmth curling in your chest. You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten until you turned back toward the TV and your shoulder brushed his. Neither of you moved away.

Instead, the teasing continued. Jeremy stole the last chip out of your hand, and you dramatically declared war. He tickled your side in retaliation, and you nearly choked laughing, swatting him away. Then came the absolutely critical debate on whether or not aliens existed, which spiraled into the logistics of living on Mars and somehow ended with Jeremy proclaiming he would be a “space cowboy” if given the opportunity.

“You would be the worst space cowboy ever,” you said between giggles, wiping a tear from your eye.

Jeremy gasped, hand over his heart in mock offense. “Excuse you? I’d be amazing. Riding space horses, lassoing asteroids. I’d be legendary.”

You snorted. “Name one time you’ve even successfully ridden a regular horse.”

A pause.

“That’s not important,” he declared, flopping dramatically against you with a heavy sigh. “You have no vision.”

His weight pressed into you, warm and solid, and your laughter was muffled against his shoulder. “God, you’re such a dumbass.”

“Professor of Dumbassery Studies, actually,” he mumbled sleepily.

Somewhere between the giggling and the ridiculous arguments, the exhaustion settled in. The warmth of the high mixed with the comfort of the moment, pulling you both under. The TV played on, long forgotten as the heavy haze of sleep crept in.

Jeremy was behind you now, his body pressed along yours in a way that had started casual, comfortable, even. Just two very stoned idiots too lazy to move apart. You mumbled something about stealing the blanket, and he grumbled something back, his voice softer now, drowsier. You hadn’t questioned it at the time, just letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back.

But then, he moves.

At first, it was nothing. Just the slow, even rhythm of his breathing against your back. The weight of an arm slung somewhere near your waist, not quite holding you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your shirt.

And then, in the haze of half-sleep, it happens.

The slow, unconscious roll of his hips.

You freeze.

Maybe, maybe, you imagined it. But then it happens again. The heavy drag of his body against yours, slow and unhurried, like his subconscious is guiding him.

Oh.

A flicker of heat curls low in your stomach, unwanted but undeniable. You tell yourself it’s just a coincidence, a random movement in sleep, but then you feel it, him.

Hard.

The thick, aching press of him against the curve of your ass, straining through the thin layers of clothes separating you.

Your breath stutters, sharp and shaky.

It’s nothing. It’s just accidental.

But then he moves again, slower this time, and you swear you feel him throb against you. A deep, dragging grind that leaves him pressed so perfectly against your body, heat bleeding into you like a brand. His hips roll in a lazy rhythm, mindless but desperate, and every inch of him feels hot, heavy, and needy against you.

Your hands clutch the blanket tighter. Your thighs instinctively squeeze together, the friction sending a rush of heat straight to your core. Your body shivers slightly beneath the weight of him, every muscle locked tight, begging you to either move or melt.

God, it’s too much. Too easy to give in. Too easy to imagine what it would feel like if he weren’t half-asleep if he were awake and pinning you down properly, grinding into you with that same lazy, overwhelming need.

Another soft, helpless whimper escapes before you can stop it, the sound barely audible but earth-shattering in the thick silence of the room.

And that is what does it.

Jeremy stills.

The shift is immediate.

You can feel it, the way his whole body tenses, muscles locking up, breathing shifting from deep and steady to something uneven and ragged. The unmistakable twitch of him against you, the way he holds himself too still like he is painfully aware now of what he’s doing, and what he wants to keep doing.

A long, thick silence stretches between you.

Then, his forehead drops against your shoulder, and you hear it.

A low, choked-off laugh, rough and wrecked.

He grins against your skin, slow and lazy, way too pleased with himself.

"Wait," his voice is a rough scrape in the darkness. "Was I just?"

You don't answer. You can't answer. Your whole body is molten, strung so tight it feels like you'll snap if he so much as breathes wrong.

Jeremy shifts slightly, nudging his hips forward again, deliberate this time, and you feel all of him against you, hard and aching like he's daring you to pretend you didn’t notice.

His voice drops lower, barely a whisper.

“Damn.” Another lazy chuckle, this one dripping smugness. “You feel so good.”

Before you can even think of a response, before you can even breathe, he dips his head lower and bites your shoulder.

Not rough. Not to mark you. Just a lazy, playful scrape of his teeth over your skin, possessive in a way that makes your stomach drop.

Then, with a soft, satisfied exhale, he nuzzles into you and falls right back asleep, leaving you pinned beneath the heat of him, completely wide awake.

Oh, fuck.

Masterlist

a/n: <3

Taglist: @imanewsoul @s0urw00lf @bucklebunny8765 @badwicht

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.

•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•

Jason hasn’t been able to see for two weeks.

That’s a little dramatic. He’s been using contacts for patrol but besides that, everything’s been blurry. He actually started getting used to the fuzzy edges and blobs dancing around his vision, managing his life surprisingly well.

It would be a miracle if his eyes weren’t stuck in a permanent squint after this.

It would be simple enough to mention it to Bruce. He’d have a pair by tomorrow morning, that was probably double the amount of his current frames. But he couldn’t confront it, admitting he lost his glasses would be a lie. He knew where they were.

The thin rimmed black glasses were sitting on your dresser. Hell, he could practically see them now. They were stuck in that little crevice between the dish where you display the perfumes you refuse to wear, because they were too expensive, and the jewelry box your grandmother gave you.

It’s his own fault.

It would be an easy fix, really it would be.

He was just too much of a coward to say anything, to call you back.

The last time you saw each other was still fresh in his mind. All he did was cook you dinner, and you looked at him in that way he’d always ignored before. In the way that made him think he could actually be worth something. You had a knack for that. For making him think he could be something other than who he was, to be someone he was never destined to be.

It was something that had no name. It was just full of life and the potential for more. The possibility of a love he never deserved.

It petrified him.

He didn’t stay long after dinner, coming up with some half-assed excuse that Bruce needed him.

There was no missing the way your face fell, even if it was for a fraction of a second, he saw the subtle drop of your eyebrows. Yet you recovered quickly enough, masking with an understanding smile.

That was thirteen days ago.

You’d reached out briefly, called occasionally, and hadn’t seen each other since.

The distance was obvious.

You were texting him like normal at first. Then gradually, the replies gained more hours in between, the messages shortened, hearts shrunk, and now you don’t know him anymore.

He couldn’t face the music, the selfish and guilt-ridden part of him didn’t want to. It’s too daunting to dare.

It’s better this way, easier to be unhappy and safe.

That’s what he tells himself anyway. The sentence plays on repeat while he’s on patrol. It’s what echoes behind his eyes as he passes your building. It’s whispered in his ear when he sits down on ledge across the street.

He cuts his comms for a minute. For once, he doesn’t mind how cold Gotham nights were while watching the fairly lights twinkle on your wall. You pulled the curtain but distantly, he can see the small fade and brighten of the bulbs.

The last time he was allowed in that room was a memory he’d die in if he was given the chance.

There was something so perfect about being in your bed and watching you laugh. He got lost just thinking about it. How you throw your head back onto the pillow, the way your eyes squeeze shut with a smile, the giggle you fail to hide when your hand flies over your mouth.

It’s the closest he’s ever been to an angel.

Your hair ended up in your face mid-laugh. Before you got the chance to notice it or be uncomfortable by it, two of Jason’s fingers caressed your cheek. While tracing your jawline his touch was featherlight, almost as if he was scared of hurting you. The tips of his fingers were rough, yet shockingly gentle. He moved the few strands behind your ear without being prompted to.

The rest of the night passed like that. Jason by your side, doing anything to get that sound out of you again. He was greedy, he’d take any of it and soak in it forever. The sight of your smile, the melody of your laugh, the smell of your perfume rubbing on his shirt. It was perfect.

He’d kill for the rest of his life to pass like this, to let the day die with you in his arms.

But Jason Todd was not normal. Jason Todd did not get to have a happy ending. He’d learned that much, and he’d accepted it long before you came along.

It was a momentary lapse.

Four month lapse to be specific.

That was another thing he tried to tell himself on the nights he missed you. The nights when he’d stare at the read receipt in shame. He would spend the whole day curating a message, just for the clock to strike nine and pocket his phone. Saving the humiliation for another day.

His brain hated him. It worked against him most days. When he was with you, living was as easy as breathing. You taught him how to go through life and to treat it as something more than surviving.

And with you? It was that easy.

You were his antidote. He wasn’t sure how, but somehow, you managed to dilute the poison that ran through his veins like blood.

And now here he is, two weeks later, squinting from the outside at the curtains you’d found at some thrift store off seventeenth and Park.

A deep breath fills his mouth before the exhale. Some regret escaped along with it.

You were good for him, too good. It’s why he did the only thing he knows how to do successfully.

Leave.

Maybe one day it won’t be like this. Maybe one day, you’ll dance with him in the glow of the light above the stove. Maybe one day, he’ll get to know the crevices of your life you hid behind your bookshelves.

But for now, this is reality.

And in this reality, Jason Todd was not a man who got peace in the blur of fairy lights.

•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•

Ten days later.

Your ringtone was by far the worst alarm ever.

For the first time in two weeks you’d finally managed to fall asleep at a socially acceptable time. Then, almost as if the universe was against you, your phone rings in the dead of night.

Answering without bothering to look at who you’ll be chewing out later, you bring the phone to your pillow. Your face is still buried in the cotton pillowcase when you decide on a muffled and dragged out “Hello” for your greeting.

A second passes, then two, then ten. Now, it’s been a full minute and the only sound on the other end is a shaky breath.

“Hello?” Trying again, you manage a sorry ounce of energy to turn your face to the side.

Deep down, you knew who it was. Only one person was going to call you at this ungodly hour. The knowledge however, didn’t stop the lurch your stomach gave when the number ending in 8378 shone on your phone.

You’d unsaved his number three days ago.

It was done in a moment of strength. You held this belief that his number would be easier to stomach than his name. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

“Why’re you calling me?” You shouldn’t have asked. A smarter person would’ve hung up the moment they recognized the number. The thing is, there was a small part of you that was so desperate to be loved, you indulged.

You shouldn’t have been surprised when he didn’t answer. Sighing, you flip on your back to stare longingly at the popcorned roof. There was no way you were going back to bed anytime soon. “If you don’t say something I’m hanging up.”

“Please don’t.”

That was all it took. Your eyes squeeze shut as his whisper detonates the room. He shouldn’t have this much power over you, your stomach shouldn’t churn, your eyes shouldn’t water, not over him.

It was embarrassing.

“What do you want?” There was no hiding how wrecked your voice was.

“Can we just,” his voice breaks and you hear him swallow. There’s another shaky breath you pretend to ignore, even if it was followed by your heart shattering. “Can we just stay on the phone for a bit?”

It was selfish. You both knew that. Yet neither of you stopped it.

You didn’t answer. But, you didn’t hang up either.

That was an answer in of itself

Ten minutes passed before another sound came from the speakers. Water from a faucet, he was washing his face. Then a few minutes later the ruffling of blankets gave him away as he got in his bed, the call still going.

In another life, this would have made you smile. Laying in your beds on the phone with each other. The giddy feeling couldn’t rise though. Because now, you were going to have to remember him for longer than you knew him.

“You left your glasses here.”

Your whisper was almost inaudible. For a moment, you thought he didn’t hear. Then,

“I know.” He sounded defeated.

Those were the last words spoken that night. You don’t know who drifted off to sleep first, but you do know the call was still going when consciousness found you again.

The timer was mocking you as each second passed, your phone hovering over your face. The red circle was burning into your retina. It was right there. It’d be so easy to close this chapter of your life. Your thumb hovers over it, mere millimeters from the screen.

When you hesitate for a second too long, you drop it to your chest. It lands with a thump. A groan is let out into your hands as they cover your face.

It was pathetic. You couldn’t hang up.

You couldn’t leave. Which only meant one thing.

He was going to be the one to leave you again. He was going to be the one to hang up the phone and not contact you for weeks. He was going to be the one to call you in the middle of the night when it got to be too much.

And you were going to answer. You were going to be here to help him hold it all. You would be waiting for him to come back, hoping he’ll stay. Hoping that he’ll change his mind.

Maybe one day he will. Maybe a day will come when he’ll plant his feet in a house that will be your home, and he’ll tell you he loves you.

But for now, you’ll learn how to lose.

Because losing to Jason Todd was better than winning against anyone else.

•───────•°•⚯•°•───────•

—

THE DAWN OF DOOMSDAY DOESN’T START with a galactic conqueror or an asteroid. It doesn't even start with Lex Luthor. 

It starts with Superman—dimpled, cheery, annoyingly kind Superman. 

And of all travesties, it also starts with the sore spinneret that’s been bothering you for weeks. 

Which is to say, when you’re swinging above the sidewalk of East Siegel Boulevard with the afternoon wind screaming into your ears, you probably shouldn’t ignore the pain in your wrist and aim at the next scaffold because you’ll probably eat shit on the pavement for the third time this month. 

So here you are: frustrated, face itching from your healing factor, wrists sore with the ailment that’s befallen you. You’re tucked into a serene alcove of brick-walled apartments and bodegas, licking your wounded pride with a hot dog in hand—because Queensland Park hot dogs make everything better. 

Oh, and there’s this group of guys across the street who won’t stop dogging on you for your series of accidents, which unfortunately always goes viral within the first thirty minutes of it happening. 

They’re a picture-perfect fraternity. Fighting the November wind in Met U hoodies and selvedge denim, gathered around the hot dog stand on the cracked pavement of the curb. Your mask pushed up to your nose, feet dangling off a billboard plastered with Zatanna Zatara’s drop-dead gorgeous face and a bunny popping out of her top hat. 

You swear that she winks at you sometimes. 

“You’re that Spider-girl on Youtube, right?” shouts one of the guys. He’s got a smear of mustard on the corner of his mouth. Talks like he’s from Bakerline, which is a long way from Queensland, but the hot dogs are objectively better here, so. “Do the splat!” 

“No!” Your flustered shout is pitched in mortification. Blood rushes to your cheeks, embarrassment nestling behind your ribs. You’re about ready to rip out your hair inch by painstaking square inch. “Come on, man, I’m trying to take a lunch break here.” 

“What the hell’s even up with you, bro?” another one of them asks. 

You work your jaw, temples tight. “It was an accident. God, am I not allowed to make mistakes when I’m stressed out?” 

Which. Yeah, stressed out is the understatement of the fucking millennium. 

Working at a daily paper does that to people. Turnarounds so tight you can hardly breathe before you’re meeting fresh dead ends in sources and opening a new document for an article that’ll only last a day in print. News cycles are fleeting, but the pressure isn’t. 

“Man, if I were you, I’d get laid. That shit solves everything.” 

Raucous laughs; the frat guy who said it gets a handful of slaps on the back. You shove the rest of your hot dog into your mouth—salt and sweet bread bursts on your tongue—and crumple the paper tray in your lycra-gloved hand. 

Today’s wind is good for a day of swinging. It’s unfortunate that your earlier incident has made you wary of shooting webs anytime soon. 

It smells like salt and—weirdly—Brylcreem when you come to your feet. The skyline stretches for what seems like miles, stalagmites of Art Deco and Mid-Century modernist buildings cut-and-pasted together. 

Sun’s resting in the sky at one o’clock. It’s about time you head back to work and deal with the rash of red-penned edits on your article, but... 

You’re a little hesitant to leave now. 

Maybe it’s the way the city looks back at you, tall windows winking with sunlight and pigeons cooing from under the eaves. Maybe you want to stay on your little perch for a while, let your heart swell with how much you love the mundanity of home in Queensland with all her bumper-to-bumper streets and quintessential sunniness. 

Or it could be the group of frat guys who’ve elected to stop ribbing you and enjoy their hot dogs. If I were you, I’d get laid and the whole works. They’re kind of right; between cramped articles, malfunctioning drip machines, and patrol, you haven’t found a way to make time for a little action that isn’t web-slinging some mugger to the wall. 

Or…the skyline. Clear and true blue and dotted with clouds you’d only see in an edited sitcom. Cut out by buildings that spell out hope in your heart, the earnest promise of truth, justice, and a better tomorrow. 

Truth, justice, and a better tomorrow. 

The idea crests out of the fatigued and stressed waters of your mind, leaps to your mouth before you’re able to stop it. 

“Superman.” 

It’s quiet. Not in a whispering way. Not even in a way that suggests a secret.  

Just—there. Slightly defeated by the nag of something building up in you, the itch of needing to do something but being powerless to act on it.  

You say it like the solution has fallen into your lap by pure coincidence. Like you should trace your lip with trembling hands after speaking his name. 

The air stills in a slightly odd way, making the hairs on the back of your neck prickle to attention. A shadow falls over you, blotting out the afternoon sun, and the sound of a cape snapping softly in the breeze prompts you to turn around, meeting the eyes of— 

“Holy shit, it’s Superman!” 

The frat guys start scrambling to cross the street, dripping mustard and ketchup onto the pavement, hollering about dude, you’re so fucking cool, can I get an autograph? 

You try your best to frown at Superman, but the glare of the sun peeking out from behind the crown of his slicked-back head makes it hard. You’re pretty sure you just look like you’re squinting to save your life. 

He just grins back at you, puppyish with that signature loose curl falling over his forehead. Stands cardboard-stiff on the billboard’s rusted grate, as if he’s got livewire twined around his bones. 

As if he isn’t actively encroaching on your patrol territory. As if he’s Queensland’s friendly neighborhood hero, which is your title. 

The thing about this is: Superman might have won the hearts of the rest of Metropolis and the world, but this little borough, this little slice of 75-cent hot dogs and bodegas with cloudy windows is yours. 

He thinks it’s his too. Flies over you sometimes, red boots scuffed at the toes, cape rippling in the breeze, smelling slightly like ash and Brylcreem. 

You yank the bottom half of your mask back over your mouth. "Superman.” 

This one is steadier. Colder, like you’ve finally remembered to tighten up and keep your reputation consistent. 

He pinkens a little. Just a faint blush blooming from cheek to cheek, stretching across the bridge of his nose. Darts his eyes down to his feet, then back up to meet yours. 

“You...” Superman makes a face, brow wrinkled and glittering blue eyes squeezing shut as he chooses his next words very, very carefully. More likely than not, he probably remembers the time you shot a web onto his mouth for saying something that was meant to dig under your skin, no matter if he really meant it. 

He decides, while still finding great interest in a painted section of Zatanna’s glossy billboard hair as he mumbles, “You called for me.” 

A heat burns under your mask, smolders in your ribcage. You’re blunt, but it’s a lot better than being sharp enough to prick, “Can we go somewhere more private?” 

You fix him with the best stony look you can muster with dinner-plate lenses. Superman is just watching you with slightly furrowed eyebrows and a tilted head, like he isn’t sure but still half expecting you to say sike or jump at him. 

“Oh,” he says. One short syllable straining under a metric ton of confusion, because you’ve never called for him before and hell, you’ve never been this nice either. “Like, I’ll meet you on the roof of…the Daily Planet, or something?” 

Bad idea. You’d probably keep him waiting for hours while you sort out the trains to keep your glitching spinnerets closed, and you can’t afford to wait that long. 

“No.” You shift on your feet, lycra flexing around your ankles. “Where’s your fortress?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

Frustration bubbles in the hollow of your throat. Hisses beneath your sternum, corroding your chest. “Just—god, I need your tech, okay?” 

The admission swings in the air for longer than you’d like. 

He’s stunned, for one. Eyebrows lifting and mouth corners wilting, blinking a few times to make sure that you’re stone-cold serious. 

Kneads his next words very carefully in the pocket of his dimpled cheek before deciding on, “Is this about your accident?” 

You can’t tell if the flare in your stomach is because you’re miffed or mortified. Superman isn’t supposed to do social media, unless he’s going on the Daily Planet’s account to debunk something with a selfie of himself as proof of identity. 

But he does. And he’s seen you in your most embarrassing, dream-about-shitting-your-pants-at-school, viral moment of stretching out your arm to shoot another web and breaking your nose on the curb. 

Oh god. 

“Well—maybe. Maybe not,” you stammer to the same rhythm of your leaping pulse. 

Superman breaks into a blinding, thousand-watt smile. Shines like you should squint or just stop looking entirely for the fear of being bestowed with something so purely good. 

“I can’t believe it, Spider-girl is asking me for help,” he says, dimples winking at you chumpishly. Does this thing with his hands, shrugging a little before letting them flop back to his sides, like someone’s cracked a joke so unbelievable that he has to react to it physically. 

You make a note to maybe—alright, definitely—be a little less curt with him.  

“Sure,” you mutter, turning to the billboard and slapping your palm onto the glossy surface. It sticks, to your (mild) surprise. Who knows, anything could be happening with your powers. “If you want it that way.” 

“Of course.” He says it with unbridled excitement. It’s definitely cliché, but he’s reminiscent of a kid set loose in a candy store. 

But that’s Superman, isn’t he? The all-American son who comes out every year to root for the Meteors and gets spotted by meta-battle chasers eating a fucking hamburger on the corner of Shuster and Reeve.  

(It’s kind of endearing now that you consider it. Maybe he isn’t so different from you—after all, you sneak out of work to grab hot dogs from Mr. Kreuk’s stand every Monday.) 

“Then I’ll see you in…” you let the wheels in your head grind the math for you, sticking a foot onto the billboard now “…four hours.” 

His face falls as you start scaling the glossy surface. “We aren’t going now?” 

You grunt as you hoist yourself higher, palms and soles peeling and resticking onto the vinyl print of Zatanna’s perfectly poreless face. The breeze whistles softly in your ears, the sound of gulls from the bay singing along with the ever present backdrop of traffic noise. 

“Unlike you, I’ve got a nine-to-five instead of a secret fortress. Rent’s not cheap in Queens.” 

“Ha,” he laughs, though it sounds like he’s just suppressed a snort. “Yeah, I get it.” 

“Do you now?” 

You drag yourself upright, precarious on the beams behind the display. Looking down, you find that he’s still watching you from the grate, cape swaying gently in the wind with the barest impression of his dimple reminding you that he finds all this amusing. 

“Yeah,” Superman stammers. Smiles, a little stilted, like he’s not quite sure of what to do with himself now that you’re leaving. “Midtown.” 

You think it’s a hallucination at first. Maybe it’s a side effect of your broken spinneret. Maybe it’s just the weather, or a bug flying past your ear, or even someone else saying it. 

You’re harsher than you intend to be. “What?” 

“I said Midtown.” He shrugs like he isn’t taking it too personally because he never does, looking almost like some sheepish bastard when he repeats himself. “I live in Midtown. Rent’s a lot more reasonable, but I’d like to live here someday. Just…the atmosphere and general opposition to gentrification, I guess.” 

Your breath stills, if only for a moment. It’s stupid, really. 

How that presses at something in your chest you didn’t expect to be exposed. How that just makes Sense—yes, with a capital ‘S’—and fits right into the neat puzzle of Superman. 

You’re the one who feels like you don’t know what to do with yourself now. 

“Cool,” is what you manage after a stagnant moment, embarrassment’s shadow painting your neck. You jab your thumb over your shoulder in the general direction of the bridge to New Troy. “I gotta—” 

“—oh, yeah, of course—” 

“—get back to work, you know—” 

“I know,” he laughs, hanging his head to hide whatever stupid grin he’s wearing on his face now. “I have a job too, so—” 

You hold your palm out to stop him. “Okay, a little too much information. Don’t go spoiling the movie just yet.” 

“Right.” Superman flashes that oddly charming, upside-down grin, dark hair shining under the afternoon sun and broad palm pressed to his nape. “You know how to call for me in four hours.” 

“Yeah.” 

“In a while, crocodile.” 

And like that, the billboard rattles with the force of his takeoff, wind billowing over you like a wave on the days the shoreline gets crowded. His red cape arcs over the blocks, cheers rising as he zooms across the borough and towards New Troy. 

You let out a slow stream of air and ignore the ache rolling through your chest. 

He’s such a cornball. 

— 

“So, Miss Genius,” Cat picks through her words as you plop into a chair and roll toward her without a hitch, “I have huge gossiiiii—oh my god, did the office casual police jump you when you took lunch?” 

You make a pathetic little squeak, tilting your cracked phone screen into the light and catching a glimpse of yourself. 

“Girl, you look like you needed a matcha latte yesterday,” she adds. 

You know you’re feeling a little frazzled, nerves bitten through by your encounter with the weirdly endearing Superman who lives in Midtown and quips cliché phrases.  

But you look the part too: the collar of your sweater bunched up, cuffs folded at odd angles, mascara smudged. It’s a miracle that Cat—sharp eye extraordinaire—didn’t catch on to the glaring edge of your costume’s lycra sleeve peeking out.  

You tug yourself into shape as she waves it off and dives into her next spiel. 

“—and like, they’re so different but I’m kind of starting to see the vision.” 

You clear your throat a little, just to make sure you don’t slip up and say something stupid like ‘I think Superman might really like Spider-girl’ or whatever is on your mind. 

Cat’s got this story on some popstar and her new man. Says it’s groundbreaking because Little Miss Singer has been keeping it secret for months, but she’s got an exclusive interview with said couple, and she’s going to break a love story so sweet and sexy and whatever that the Planet’s entertainment column will go down in history, right next to GQ and People. 

“Right,” you say, tilting your chin up to offset the mild discomfort now settling below your throat. 

It’s not every day you rush back to work with only your wall-climbing powers and shove your clothes back on without changing out of your costume first. You really need to find the time to tailor the lycra again. 

“Oh, hun, are you alright?” Cat’s neatly shaped brows furrow and she smooths her cool fingers over your shoulder. “You look a little ill. Is it stress? I think it’s stress—the news’s been heavy lately, hasn’t it?” 

“Yeah, lots of stuff going on this week,” you eke out. A tingling sensation needles at the apex of your wrists—spinnerets again. 

You massage them over the soft cuff of your sweater. “Think I might be getting some carpal tunnel, too. All these edits.” 

“Oh…” She leans a little closer, whisper conspiratorial, “Is it Clark again?” 

Oh indeed. 

Sweet, helpful, hapless Clark Kent. Who arrives late to work with the same Jitters cup in hand and never fails to smile despite having the misfortune of always catching the train that’s going to be delayed by an hour. 

Smells like newsprint and ink toner and something country-like when he leans in close to point out problems in your proof prints. Writes his edits in the margins of your proofs in blue pen that smudges onto your thumb sometimes. 

“No,” you keep it hushed, pushing down the image of your colleague’s tragically dorky grin, “it’s just stress, like you said.” 

Cat’s look is pointed. “Really.” 

You itch under her gaze, an exasperated frown pulling at your mouth. She always knows. “Alright, it’s Clark again.” 

“Oh, hun…” 

“He just—god, he’s so” —you groan— “ridiculous. He just can’t accept that Spider-girl sucks, so he’s taking it out on me because I’m the only one brave enough to say it.” 

Which, of course, is probably the best cover you have ever thought of. No one would expect some lowly reporter to be Queensland Park’s honorary granddaughter, much less one that campaigns against Spider-girl as much as Lex Luthor does against Superman. 

And alright, being the number one fan of every superhero, Clark Kent is probably less than pleased to have heard your opinions. For god’s sake, his hero tier list has everyone sharing the number one spot—excluding Booster Gold. 

Last week, he said that he was ‘working on that.’ 

So. You’re about ninety-percent sure that he doesn’t like you. As in, vaguely displeased—not hate, because he just isn’t that type of man—with your guts. 

He isn’t necessarily rude. But he does regard you with an air of faint I-don't-wanna-be-here, steels his eyes onto your forehead when he speaks to you and wipes the forever lingering smile off his face. 

Cat’s jaw falls ajar, eyes zoning out to glance at something behind you. 

You force a strained exhale through your nose, the inside of your cheek raw from how hard you’re restraining the urge to gnaw on it. Wheeling around in your chair, you meet the wide, curious eyes of Clark Kent. 

“Hi, Clark.” 

He flashes a sardonic type of smile, all bite and no bark. The kind that means to leave an annoying little papercut on your fingertips. The kind that makes something in your chest squeeze tight, like you’ve unwittingly become a stress ball. 

“Hi.” 

Doesn’t even say your name. Barely stands to make eye contact with you, opting to take the easy path and distract himself with Cat, asking about photo-ops and quotes and pretending you don’t exist. 

So, yeah. You’re definitely sore, and beyond embarrassed at the fact that you are, considering you indirectly brought this upon yourself. 

“Sorry, hun, you were saying?” Cat asks once Clark has cleared his too-large body from her desk, leaving only the faintest whiff of his cologne lingering. 

Smells handsome, and that’s the only word you can muster to describe it. Makes you tilt your head slightly for more until you realize just how strange that is.  

You’ve never chased a scent before. Hell, you make a habit of shutting them out, letting your sight and spider-sense to help you navigate during your vigilante hours.  

But this is different. Addictive different. Dangerous different. Sets slow, dancing bells off in your head, a reckoning. Like you’re bating your breath and waiting for something to come to fruition. 

“It’s nothing,” you tell Cat. She just gives you a polite, HR sort of tight smile. 

When you settle back into your own chair and turn away from the slouched form of Clark’s back, you realize some familiarity to his cologne. 

Brylcreem. 

And when he says goodbye to Jimmy, and Lois, and even Steve, you work the inside of your cheek and stop holding your breath when he passes you without a word. 

For the first time in your life, you’re going to be overjoyed to see Superman. 

— 

An arduous piggyback ride and several skin scrapes later, you’re shivering on the examination table, hard and painfully cold under your ass. 

“It’s fucking freezing,” you chatter, lips now beyond chapped in the five minutes since you pushed up the bottom half of your mask to your nose. Lycra is far from an insulating material. 

The Fortress of Solitude is a huge chunk of crystal stretching toward the clear sky like a stalagmite, every shard refracting with the light of the unforgiving Arctic sun. 

It’s blue in here, the shade that reminds you of good days in Metropolis. When the clouds are sparse and everyone rushes to the verdant parks in droves, a sea of heads trying to find space on the grassy lawns. Or when you step out of the Planet with a freshly published article, which means you have approximately five hours to enjoy your freedom before you start another story. 

A pale blue kind of feeling. Mellow. Peaceful. 

The Superman Robots, as he so endearingly named them, are flitting around you while he fiddles with the workstation’s strange buttons and toggles. 

Superman flicks a switch and a light buzzes on above you, warming the tender skin of your inner wrist. 

Ouch—it’s pretty inflamed by the looks of it. Puffy, so much that you can hardly see the small slit where your web-silk is supposed to eject from.  

A robot prods at it and you hiss.  

“Sorry,” you hear Superman mutter from the console. He twists his mouth, brows furrowed in confusion. “No, that’s not right.” 

Fingers fiddle around the knobs and switches. The pink tip of his tongue peeks out from the seam of his mouth as he dials one last control, and something comes buzzing to life. 

“Oh, that’s it,” he breathes, a relieved smile rising to his face. 

“What’s what?” 

“I synthesized it,” Superman says. “The spider that bit you.” 

You frown, panic skipping behind your ribs. Carefully, like you’re some wounded animal and not a metahuman vigilante, “How’d you know about that?” 

He just tilts his head owlishly, says, “Well, it’s in your genome. Says here that your DNA was introduced to radiation via bite two years ago.” 

“That’s a fucking secret, Superman,” you bristle, sliding your palm over your exposed wrist. 

“It’s really not.” He frowns down at the displays lighting up the console, casually scanning the lines of alien language that leave your truth naked to him. “And you can call me Kal-El. Kal, for short.” 

Is he fucking serious? 

He blinks at you, twice. No change in expression. 

He’s being fucking serious, you realize. And that sinks something heavy in you, the knowing and the guilt. 

That you aren’t a born metahuman. That you, of all people and chances, were accidentally bitten by the radioactive spider that was supposed to save the world. The same spider that contracted some previous pathogen from your blood it hadn’t been exposed to in a sterile lab and according to insider reports, wiped out the entire test-tube-grown population.  

You’re harboring the secret to superhealing that could cure cancer while Luthorcorp sweeps up the last of their failed experiment. And Superman knows and somehow, he can remake the spider. 

You take a steadying breath, arms crossing. It’s a sign of nervousness, but people do it for a reason, and you really need that security when it feels like he can see right through your skin and bone, like he can see the unnatural spider venom fused with your platelets. 

“Aren’t you scared that I’ll find you out with a name like that?” you ask, tone level. Another robot wraps a benign hand around yours, peels it back to expose your spinnerets to the air again. 

You shiver at the cold pressing into the inflamed swells. 

He hums. “It’s my Kryptonian name. Like you said, I’m not spoiling the movie yet.” 

Kal—your brain stutters at the thought of calling him that—turns to face you fully, cape sweeping around his ankles in some way that mesmerizes you. Smiles, soft. Leans back against the console like this is just another Tuesday. 

“Great,” you mumble, knowing he can hear it. “Now I have to come up with a fake fake name.” 

An amused scoff leaves him. “Kryptonian,” he corrects. 

“Right.” 

Neither of you say anything for a while. Just let the silence breathe a little steadier than it’s been for years. Let the console trill between beats, something strange happening in a weird prism attached to the metal as Kal synthesizes the spider. 

You remember it. A web-funnel, mutated. Thin legs that hardly grazed your skin before it sank its fangs into the back of your neck. 

You still have the scar, raised and thick, a reminder of the great responsibility that comes with your power. 

Kal forces an exhale through his nose. Tightens his fists and presses them against the metal. 

“That’s weird,” he says, voice rumbling with frustration like a storm on the horizon. Clicks his tongue, dimples flashing as he bites the inside of his cheek. “I can’t print it.” 

Your thoughts screech to a halt. “Print? As in, printing an organism from, what—a scab?” 

“Well—it’s not really a carbon copy.” He tucks his chin in, almost bashful. “Krypton had rules against that kind of stuff. It’s more bits and pieces than a sentient body.” 

“Still,” you say, sitting up straighter, “that’s sick.” 

His eyebrow twitches. Mutters, “Why, thank you,” in a way that’s so stunningly earnest that it makes your chest kick. 

You don’t know why the question comes to mind. You don’t even know why you decide to act on your curiosity. 

“So, do you have any weird alien stuff going on with your body? Other than the flying, obviously.” 

Kal pauses. The loose curl lazing on his forehead sways slightly. 

Quiet, with his eyes fixed on his bright boots, “I…have glands. That secrete…” 

He winces like it’s something to be afraid of. “Pheromones.” 

Your face falls flat. 

“Dude, humans have those too.” 

“I know,” he says, quickly. A little too quickly. Pushes off the console to pad over, hands clutched behind his cape in a sheepish manner. Bastard. “It’s different, though. They’re sensitive to touch and swell up every few months, like yours.” 

Juts his chin out briefly, signaling the undersides of your swollen wrists still turned up to the bleak ceiling. You suddenly feel too exposed, and not exposed enough. 

Kal continues, thumbing the underside of his jaw, where the hinge meets the soft lobe of his ear. “It’s around here.” 

“So,” your start trails off for a moment. “How’d you fix it?” 

You don’t expect him to tell you. You surely didn’t think he would blush scarlet. Almost scandalized, as if you were spreading hearsay on the streets of Gotham, that damn cesspool of rumors.  

And it’s strange, how that sight of his ears and whole face blooming with a pretty color throws your stomach for a loop. 

It’s now that a Superman Robot decides to butt into a conversation it was supposed to be a background in: “Why, it’s relieved due to his cycle.” 

“Five,” he warns, low. 

You swear Five shrugs in exasperation, like a teenager sick of their mom nagging them to clean their room.  

“Cycle?” Your face morphs into one of curious surprise. How interesting, that metahumans have such strange anatomy. “Do tell. Do Kryptonians menstruate?” 

Five creaks. “No, they—” 

“I don’t,” Kal butts in, blush darkening. He averts his eyes, avoidance heavy in his already broad frame. “It’s...” Flicks his eyes to the ceiling like he’s waiting for an asteroid to strike him down. “...sort of like a rut.” 

You blink once. 

Twice. 

“Okay.” You don’t miss the way your own voice squeaks. Like you’re trying to keep it cool. Like you aren’t actively shooting down any thoughts about what Superman in rut looks like. “So, do you secrete fluids or anything?” 

He groans, burying his face into his palms. Almost whines when he laments, “Jesus, no, but I don’t ask if you shoot web fluid from anywhere else, do I?” 

You burn bright. Eyebrows shooting up to a high angle. Yank your hands out of the light and fist them in your lap. “Well, it’s not like I’ve tried.” 

He considers you for a moment. Works the inside of his cheek. Steals a look at the console, which blinks in error-code red. 

Kal sighs, motioning for you to scoot your legs over. You comply, and he perches on the edge of the table, broad hand held out like a white flag. 

“Gimme your hand.” It’s accompanied by the slightest wiggle of his fingers. “Superman Robots, you’re dismissed.” 

You frown, but you’re already reaching for him. Tentatively, of course. You still need to retain some semblance of nonchalance. “Why?” 

His skin is warm. Comforting in a way you didn’t expect it to be. He smooths his thumbs over the delicate skin of your wrist, careful to not press too hard. 

You shiver nonetheless. 

“The synthesizer doesn’t print radioactive material,” Kal explains, under-breath. Just on this side of loud enough for only the both of you as the robots march away. “But if I know one thing about swollen glands, it’s that they’re in need of release.” 

A thrill of frisson races down your spine when he gently, ever-so-slightly brushes over your spinneret. There’s a difference to being touched by another, you learn, instead of yourself or a robot.  

Feels like connection. Like your nerves want to shoot themselves out of the tiny little organs in your wrist and wrap around Kal’s careful fingers. 

“See, when mine get inflamed, I soften the outer edges and progress inwards,” he continues, voice a lull in this too-bright, too-clean room. “That way, everything has somewhere to go.” 

You hum, eyelids fluttering at the sight of his thick fingers soothing small circles on your skin. “You never told me whatever else happens during a Kryptonian rut.” 

He pauses for a split second. Sits a little stiff, but keeps going even though his flush is returning. “I…can take care of myself, Spider-girl. There’s no need to wonder.” 

The double entrende is so obvious that you fear Lex Luthor would outright call him dumb and not some pretentious, poetic word that would otherwise further emphasize naivete.  

A soft laugh escapes you, bitten off at the end because he’s rolling over the tiny opening of your spinneret and god, stars burst in your head. Heat flickers in your cheeks, an unexpected wash of breathlessness sparking against your diaphragm. 

“Funny,” you strain, trying to ignore the slow creep of something now curling in your belly. It’s quiet, and Kal tilts his body toward you just so to hear. And since when did Brylcreem and whole-milk smell like needing to shift your hips? 

You mean for it to be a joke. Just something that had floated to the surface at the last second, and already, it was too late to stop yourself: 

“Y’know, those fanboys were all about getting laid to destress.” 

Kal pauses in his kneading of your wrist. The swelling has decreased, but your skin is still hot—less from the inflammation though, and more from the neck prickling, stomach somersaulting, would-Kal-be-good-at-kissing wrecking havoc on your body. 

He studies you with a look that is just this side of hesitant. Parts his mouth a few times, not sure of what to say. 

It’s now, with a maybe hanging in his shoulders, this slow breath he takes as he weighs his options, that you remember something Jimmy had shown you last week. 

It was Kal, slamming into a metahuman at full-throttle. Jimmy quipped something about taking a punch and Superman unbarring the holds. Despite the gross underestimate you’re mentally trying to calculate, you think you could take it. You could keep up, if he’d let you. 

He might be thinking the same, because he shifts his hold on you and guides your limp, unexpecting hand toward the underside of his jaw. Your fingertips brush against the soft, warm spot he showed you earlier, and he shivers. 

It isn’t one that comes from the cold—it rips down his whole body in such a visceral way that you can’t help but hold your breath. It comes out in a shaky exhale and fluttering eyelids. The gland pulses under your touch, and you can feel how his blood is rushing faster beneath the skin, how the air ripens with a sweet, slightly earthy scent. 

Like cinnamon in oatmeal on a chilly morning. Like an old, threadbare shirt that’s just small enough to be criminal, freshly dragged out of the dryer and warm on your skin. He smells unbelievably good, in a way that sets off a bloom of warmth over the knob of your neck, just beneath your bite scar. 

Hypothesis: you think his pheromones are inadvertently doing something weird to your hormones. 

What’s worse, you think that the seat of your panties might officially be damp. 

“I read,” he starts quietly, voice laced with a rasp. You feel high-octane, an anticipating thrill running circles behind your ribs. “That spider mating season is happening right now.” 

“Oh, yeah?” It comes out shakier than you want it to be. Your foundation’s crumbling, embarrassingly fast. “So you think my problem’s gotta do with not being horny enough?” 

“Maybe,” he rumbles, voice almost a groan. “God, I might have that problem too.” 

Your stomach coils tight, the end of your rope fraying and sparking with electricity. You want to drown in his heavy, homely scent forever. Kal presses down on your spinneret to remind you to respond, and all you can manage is a restrained, “Gonna do something about that, Kal-El?” 

It’s less a snap under tension than a thunderclap of desperation. Kal is bearing down on you in seconds, forcing your back to press into the exam table’s hard surface, and his nose is buried so brutally against the crook of your neck that you’re sure something might bruise. 

You gasp, heart thundering in anticipation. He’s heavy on you, two hundred something of superpowered muscle and sinew. And that wave of pheromones crests over your head, crashes down like vengeance. 

“You smell so good,” he rasps. That sets you off, and you start to shift your hips up slightly, just enough to brush against the quickly growing tent in his trunks. To believe they were silly—now all you want is to peel them off with your teeth. 

He glances up at you, and his eyes are blown so fucking wide that your heartbeat ratchets up at the sight. Barely a touch and you’re both already wrecked, and you’re reaching up to knot your hand in the short strands of soft hair at the back of his head. Kal makes a weak little sound. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, pulling him closer to trace the top of your nose over the swollen gland just under the love of his ear. It’s like something’s taken hold of your body and helping your hormones stage a mutiny. Satiation coils low in your belly, and an uncontrollably coy smile rises to your mouth. “Can’t help myself.” 

Bottom lip tempting, eyes glimmering with alien stars, he asks with a plea woven into his voice, “Can I kiss you?” 

It’s strange. 

One moment you’re half-ready to use your adhesion abilities to make him stick as closely as possible to your body, and the next, you’re being splashed with the reminder that he’s only ever seen your mouth and he’s asking for that.  

Which is arguably the most intimate thing two people could do. The thing meant for people in love. You don’t love Superman. Hell, before today you hardly tolerated him—but that was before you found out he lives like you, and he’s secretly softer than you ever imagined, and he trusts more than he should. 

And the request lances through the tenderest part of your chest. He’s asking. Not demanding. Not just crashing his lips over yours like the movies, where the dramatic irony is present that these two people really want each other and don’t need words. 

Kal is…hesitant. Gentleness chemically bonded to the calcium in his bones. Consideration glueing together every thought that crosses his mind. 

You hum, the thought of him treating you like a lover settling next to the desire piling in your stomach with uncharacteristic quietness. 

“Wouldn’t that be improper?” you deflect. You betray yourself, though, sneaking a glance at his parted, pinkened mouth. 

He cranes his neck to find a sweet spot you didn’t know you had—just beneath the swell of your throat—and you suppress the choked sound begging to escape from you. 

“Is it?” 

Wry, “You tell me. Kissing on the mouth is meant to be somewhat affectionate. Elicits chemical response, nerve endings, blah-blah-blah, et. al.” 

He smothers an amused huff into your skin, broad, warm hands kneading slow circles over your hips. Smiles against the slope of your neck. Breathes deep, voice hoarse, “‘S there something wrong with that?” 

“You hardly know me.” 

“I know.” Kal pauses to crack a smile. It’s real. Genuine. Makes your heart leap to heights it hasn’t before. “But I admire you. I want to know you.” 

And fuck, if that doesn’t land. He wants to know you. For the first time, the suggestion doesn’t sound half bad. 

Still, you decide to blame it on pheromonal-slash-hormonal mutiny when you tug him closer by the curls to kiss him. 

Kal’s sigh is full-bodied. Tension evaporates from his bones. The sound he makes is less a moan than quiet acceptance of pleasure. 

Sparks fly in your brain, ricochet down to your core. Feeling his plush lips sliding over yours in such a cradling, gentle way does something to you. Placates the storm boiling in your lungs, calms the thundering of your heart. 

Feels almost right, in a way. 

You let your instincts take over. Let one of your hands trail down to find his, guide it to wiggle between the waist seam of your costume. Need pulls at you, sharp and incessant. 

The soft, whispery sounds leaving his mouth between increasingly hungry kisses are getting a little louder, a little more desperate. Wanton. Needy. 

They finally reach a peak when he dips his hand beneath your waistband, nudges aside the thin panties you wear under the lycra. When his fingertips prod at the wet spot in the gusset. When you feel something go pop, or release, or just float away from your skin, and suddenly you can smell something sweeter and familiar mingling with Kal’s scent, and he just grinds his hardness into your thigh without warning or shame. 

“You have glands?” he manages, dipping down to lap at your exposed neck. You shiver when he moves to another spot, his spit drying to the frigid air of the fortress. “No wonder you smelled like heaven.” 

You’re just this side of lucid, but you can tell it won’t be long before you’re lost to delirium. Already your head is cottony, hardly tethered to gravity. 

Another experimental grind into your thigh sends you into near frenzy, nerves going haywire as Kal breathes sweet nothings in your ear, broad fingertips slowly stroking over your cotton-covered cunt. 

Waiting. Biding his time with pupils dilated so wide that they make you feel small. Frisson shoots up your spine when he presses a little hard, toeing the boundary. 

Then it happens. It shouldn’t have been so significant, but here he is, responding to your half-cracked moan with one of his own, punctuated by a rock of his clothed cock. 

You burn. But the desperation is getting to you. Like spinning-vision, chest-kicked-in desperation. The kind that makes you abandon all sense and plead, softly, “Please?” 

Kal hiccups into your shoulder, hips rutting faster onto your thigh as he scoops your panties to the side. He blazes his fingertips through the wetness gathered at your seam—you shiver. Works his index finger in with hardly restrained enthusiasm, and you tighten your legs at the raw stretch. 

He falls into line fairly quickly. Puts his superhuman adaptability to the test, taking only a few rocks and a crook of his finger to find a spot that makes you keen into his soft curls. Fireworks whistle in your core, and you’re helpless to the grind that takes over and makes you jerk your hips to meet the moment he sinks another into your cunt, down to the hilt. 

You feel like a fucking teenager with him at your neck and you buried in his hair. Him throwing his weight behind the dry, wanting thrusts he’s pushing against you and you squirming as he finger-fucks you like a means to an end. 

He rolls his thumb over your clit. 

To clarify: he rolls his thumb over your clit. Fuck. 

Kal responds to your gasp with a whimper of his own, breaths coming short and fast. Teases you again—and then another again, and over and over until the soft sounds leaving your mouth are the only thing you can hear over his low moans—the rough pad of his fingerprint catching on your nerves like a spark lit too bright, burning up too fast. 

You’re at the edge of your wits. 

Then he does the unthinkable. Well, as unthinkable as having his fingers in you, which was unthinkable an hour ago. 

But this is somehow worse, and simultaneously the best thing that’s ever happened to you. 

Kal takes your wrist. It’s terribly unfair, the way his hands are so skillful, gently smoothing his thumb over your still-swollen spinneret while the other does the same to your equally sensitive clit. 

And he brings it to his mouth, scrapes his tongue hot over the tiny slit in your skin. You think you feel a vibration of something—a choked-out moan. Maybe your name, whined quiet like a question. 

You can’t tell. You’re already cresting, mumbles pitched into his sweet-smelling skin, “Kal, Kal—fuck, that’s—” 

He fucks you through your orgasm, even when you’re letting out an embarrassed whine at how the euphoria takes you, how control slips from your grasp for just a second. How he moans loud and searing into the skin of your wrist as a little spurt of web fluid escapes your spinneret. 

And he fucking swallows it. This goddamn freak.  

Your breaths shiver as you float down from your high. Between this moment and the next, Kal has stopped rutting your thigh, and a tacky heat blooms just above your skin. 

Did he...? 

“Shucks,” he gasps, unlatching his mouth from your skin. The sight of your spinneret, clear of any inflammation, greets you like a guilty accomplice. A spidery string of web fluid trails from the corner of his mouth. Repeats himself, a little clearer, “Aw, shucks.” 

“What?” you croak, blinking a few times to readjust your vision. The pale ceiling swims above you. 

“Nothing,” he stammers, shifting his hips guiltily. Slowly works his fingers out of you, coated to the knuckle with your arousal. You long for the ache, even after the sharp pull in your gut has subsided. 

“Come in your trunks like a virgin?” 

“Spider-girl!” He rushes to sit up, facing himself away with his ears tinged in a mortified scarlet. “That’s improper.” 

Hypocrite. 

You wiggle the waist of your costume back over your hips and prop yourself up on your elbows. “So, putting your fingers in your mouth isn’t?” 

Kal freezes, caught. Angles his head slightly to glance at you from his peripheral, and there those skillful digits are, resting on the plush of his slick bottom lip. And if that doesn’t send a sharp sting of need through your chest, you’d be a traitor to human nature. 

“You win,” he mutters, eyes flicking up in a manner so petulant you’re almost endeared by it. “You do taste good. I should collect a sample next time.” 

You’ve half the urge to preen at that. Or smile. Or duck your head down and let the flush come to your cheeks, because Superman is pretty sweet for a guy who doesn’t know how to mind his own fucking business and leave you alone in Queensland Park. 

“Next week, then?” you ask, pulling down your mask. Just to tease. Prod. See if he blushes on command. 

He leaps into some semblance of properness, spine straining like he’s been drawn, quartered, and trying to keep himself together. His blush is blotchy, sitting somewhere between souring from panic and unfurled flustering. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he stammers. Some shy bastard he is. Real slick.  

You’re wry when you counter with, “Well, I did. Your glands are still swollen.” 

Kal considers you for a moment. Really looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out your inner workings. “So you’re suggesting we continue collaborating to offset our unfortunate biological responses.” 

Well, said like that, you’ll admit that you would be floundering for your words too. 

A sudden flare of meekness smokes between your lungs. “Sure.” 

He tucks his tongue into his cheek, a secretive grin blooming at the corners of his mouth. That shouldn’t make something uncurl in your chest. Shouldn’t make your stomach leap like it does. 

“Then next week, Spider-girl.” 

— 

You’re still thinking about Superman when you clock into work the day after. 

How he smiled like you were the only person in the world. How he clutched you so gently when he flew you back to that billboard in Queensland, did a flip in the air when you asked. 

Or how he stopped halfway into the trick, hovering upside-down in the air, cape fluttering right-side-up in the rippling wind. Grinned at you all coyly. Kissed the junction of your neck, right over the same spot he had moaned into an hour earlier. 

Said goodnight, Spidey with a silly little wave and dimples winking at you, as if he was oblivious to the heat starting to simmer in your core again. Maybe he was. You like to think that he wasn’t. 

“Woah,” Cat says, the click of her Louboutins grinding to a full halt. The ice in her matcha latte—oat milk, jasmine syrup, 60% sweetness, and it's already beading with condensation—shifts by a hair before falling still. “Well, Miss Genius, I’d say you have a glow about you.” 

You flash a nervous grin, trying not to reveal too much. God knows how bad the gossip bug infects Cat Grant when she notices someone is just a sliver off from yesterday. “Is that so?” 

“Yes,” she ponders. Nods slowly, hair bobbing along with her. Purses her lips in that hint-hint, nudge-nudge way she does, trying to be inconspicuous about her interrogating. “Did you and Clark manage to sort things out somehow?” 

A flash of cold sears down your spine. “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, hun, he’s positively bioluminescent.” Cat tilts her head like a—well, a cat, as she is so aptly named. You’ve half the mind to quip something about curiosity killing, but you follow the angle of her head and oh.  

Clark is positively bioluminescent. As in, the sun is filtering in from one of the high windows, and he’s bobbing his head to a song only he knows like a metronome, and are his feet fucking swinging under the desk? 

What the fuck’s got him so cheery? 

“So how was it?” 

Cat’s wearing her Cheshire grin like a vintage fur coat found in new condition, eyes wide and imploring behind her huge glasses. You stuff down the panic gripping your heart and turn back to your article, fraught with annotations from the layout editor—because of course your shit doesn’t fit in the page without needing to fuck with the VA. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you breathe, propping your elbow against your desk so you can tuck your mouth behind your hand. “I’m a little too busy to be sorting anything out, especially with Clark Kent.” 

“I’m talking about sex. And I’m gonna find out who the hell it was that’s got you badly hiding a lovesick grin—yes, I can see it—behind your hand.” 

“Jesus, Cat, can’t I come to work with a little pep in my step?” 

“No, you can’t.” She throws her head back with a mini cackle, heels resuming their usual chic click against the bullpen floors as she struts back to her desk. “I’m onto you, genius!” 

“Good to know!” you call after her, heart still racing. Fucking hell. 

Someone lets out a soft snort from across the room. You zoom in with your hearing, the hairs at the back of your neck prickling—it's Clark. A barebones grin rests on his lips as he shakes his head in slight amusement. 

Whatever. It’s not your business, especially with a guy who seems to dislike you so much for a simple opinion. 

It doesn’t matter that Cat thinks he’s wearing the same post-sex glow you’re wearing. Really. It doesn’t. 

And it doesn’t matter that you can smell the faintest thread of Brylcreem either. Or that his hair is strangely familiar now that you’ve seen Kal’s curls in wrecked disarray. Or that the bow of his lip weirdly, uncannily known to you.  

You grumble and wretch your screen to obscure your view of him. 

Right. You have work to do, articles to finish, layout editors to argue with. And you have another date with Superman in one week. 

So whatever Clark is up doesn’t matter. 

Seriously. 

"That's because you're in the shade," you point out, hands on his hips so that you can shuffle the both of you around and switch places with him. "Here, stand in the sun."

"I don't care about the sun," he sighs, but still, he's pliant in your hold, letting you move him however you please. "I care about being back in bed, asleep, with you."

"I'll come back to bed," you assure him. "In just a minute. Close your eyes."

It's difficult, you think, not to laugh at him when he closes his eyes, so willing to follow wherever you go, so ready to do whatever you ask. You take his face gently in one hand, squishing his cheeks together and angling him to stare up to the sun.

"There," you say softly. "How does it feel?"

"Unnatural," he mumbles, his face still held in your hand.

"Unnatural?" you laugh in shock.

"Mhm. It's weird for it to be sunny in Gotham."

"The sun has to shine everywhere eventually," you murmur, moving your hand from his face, finally, so that you can trace the streaks of sunlight across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. "Even if you're not used to it."

"I think you might be making that up," he says, his breath coming out in a big exhale, and you laugh.

"Maybe. Does it still feel wrong?"

Jason thinks that maybe he just shouldn't answer you, shouldn't tell you that it all feels wrong - the unnatural beat of his heart, the body that he dragged out of the grave, the stark white streak of hair that you thumb between your fingers now.

"Do you know what I think?" you continue as you sweep it out of his face, white bleeding into black until he's almost recognizable again.

"What?"

"I think that sometimes… um, you know - feeling weird is how you know you're still alive," you say slowly, your hand slipping down his front until it rests against his chest. With just a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, the sun spreads over his shoulders and torso and warms him in a way that feels a bit too strange to be real. 

Your hand travels further, pressing against his pec and tapping, with one finger, the steady beat of his heart. 

"Baby, I think -" You catch yourself, pressing your lips together like you're not sure you should say it. That, in itself, is troubling to him - the idea that you might have to bite your tongue around him. 

He reaches his hand up to yours in reaction, squeezing your fingers gently in his own until you hold his hand back, still tapping that rhythm against his palm.

"I think maybe… if we wait to do it until it feels normal, or good, then we'll never really get there."

Jason squints against the sun, tilting his head down to look at you as you stare up at him. He keeps his hand in yours, letting you tap that endless rhythm against his palm, and his other hand brushes some of your hair out of your face.

"That doesn't seem sad to you?" he murmurs. "To keep trying, even when…"

"When?" 

"I don't know," he murmurs. "To live even when it's wrong."

"Jason," you say, your voice uncharacteristically sombre as your brows furrow. "There is nothing wrong with you being alive."

"It wasn't supposed to happen," he counters, blinking his eyes open wider as the sun slips behind a cloud, washing the two of you in a cooling shade.

"Wrong," you say firmly, but then you sigh, rocking back on your heels a bit as you give him some space - an act of kindness from you, but not one that he wants. Jason slings his arm around your waist and tugs you closer, his hand pressing your palm against his chest over his heart.

"I know we don't… talk about it very much," you begin again, quieter now - breathing out in a big sigh against him. "Maybe we should, I don't know -"

"I don't want to," Jason says abruptly. "I don't… You know, I'm - I'm alive now, aren't I?"

"You are."

"I don't want to spend every day pretending I'm dead," he blurts out, and your fingers stop tapping against his chest so that you can press your hand against his skin, instead.

The sun breaks out from behind the clouds again, beaming down towards the two of you until he closes his eyes against the onslaught. You inhale deeply, shifting the two of you around again so that his back is to the light, and as he opens his eyes again, the sun haloes him from behind like something holy. 

"Then don't," you say gently. "Don't. You don't have to, anymore."

"I'm not sure I know how," he admits, and you take his hand in yours to press it over your own heart, letting him feel and tap out the beat of your own life.

"I'll help," you murmur, and he's not sure he has any choice but to follow wherever you lead.

"Baby, it's over," Jason says tiredly, throwing a blood-soaked towel into the bathtub and watching as red splatters against the white porcelain.

"It's not over," you retort. "You're -"

"I'm fine," he says firmly, crouching down in front of you while you sit on the edge of the bathtub. "Hm? C'mon, baby, look at me - I got a little banged up, that's all."

"More than a little," you respond sternly, but your resolve is starting to waver under the kiss that he presses against your forehead. 

"Talk to me, hm?" he coaxes gently. "What are you thinking about?"

"You," you retort.

"Flatterer," he murmurs against your forehead, but then he pulls back slightly to really look at you. "I'm ok."

"You weren't," you say flatly, and he sighs as he takes your hands in his, rubbing circles onto your palms with the pads of his blood-stained thumbs. "It just scares me, you know."

"I know, baby," he murmurs, and then he tugs one of your hands closer to press against his chest. As you feel his heartbeat, steady and ever-present against your skin, he taps out the rhythm on the back of your hand. 

"I really don't want you to die, Jason," you say bluntly, and he huffs out a half laugh.

"Yea, I… really don't want to die, either," he responds.

"Well," you murmur, your eyes trained on your joined hands over his heart. "At least we can always agree on that."

"I'm not dead," he reminds you firmly. "I'm right here."

"But what if -"

"Hey," he says sternly. "I'm right here. And I've…"

"What?" you murmur, because, really, you think you need to hear him say it tonight - just this once.

"I've spent enough time being dead," Jason continues slowly, tripping a bit over his own words, like the confession is foreign to him - like the hope that's carving itself into his chest is new to him. "I'd like to be alive now. Don't… baby, I love you. I'll let you deal with this however you need to, you know that."

"I know, Jason," you say honestly.

"But please don't mourn me while I'm still here. Please don't act -  just don't… don't think like I'm still dead, yea?"

"Yea," you sniff a bit, and his hand finds your cheek while his other keeps your palm pressed firmly to his chest. You tap your fingers against the skin there, steadily on beat with the rhythm of his heart and the sound of his life.

"It's scary, being alive - isn't it?" you murmur. "Gives you something to lose."

"Gives you something to live for," he counters, and you huff out a laugh.

"You should live for more than just being loved by somebody," you say softly. "Not that it doesn't matter, but it can't be… all."

"Yea," he muses, and you quirk a brow - because you realize, just a bit, that maybe he's finally begun to think about this the way that he should. "You know -  the sun is nice, too. I wouldn't mind living another day, if it means I can stand out in the sun again tomorrow morning."