Because this seemed like every other day. When he'd be walking you home after an overnight shift at the hospital, a scream would rip through a couple of alleys away. You'd give him a kiss goodbye, and he'd watch you walk up to the steps of your front door before ridding the white and black fabric, which were left in a neat little pile behind.

That was what was supposed to happen.

He really should've turned to check if you'd walked up the steps of your apartment.

The very last thing you'd seen was a blurred flicker of his expression — twisted in sorrow. Not knowing what to do, pressing his palm hard into your abdomen to stop the still spurting blood pooling from beneath your scrubs. You felt the warmth of his palm as the rest of your body began to cool.

Clark doesn't recall what exactly happens afterwards.

He never killed another, until now.

Each hit — accompanied by a deafening snap, guttural screams that barely lasted more than a second. Because, regardless of what he'd just allowed himself to do, Superman still showed mercy.

When he comes to, that once great man is nothing more than a hollow casing with intentional red in his ledger.

What he never could've expected is a familiar little grunt from behind him — a wrinkle of fabric and the sound of the trinkets attached to your half-opened purse. Clark turns slowly and thinks he might have seen a ghost.

Because really, what could be the reasoning that explained his girlfriend, who was dead a minute ago, now be standing up with a sour look on her face, muttering a low 'fuck that hurt' to herself, while pulling a dagger out of her own abdomen like it was nothing?

"Y-You're okay. You're…okay?" He couldn't wrap his head around it, lips parted in confusion. You casually walked past him, knife clattering by his feet in a pin-drop clank.

"…Part of the perks…" You mumble reluctantly, knowing it wasn't something you could hide any longer. "I can't exactly…die."

"Y-Y-You didn't think to tell me you were —…i-..im-m..…immortal?!" Clark's voice dissipates into the night as he trails behind you, looking you up and down. Checking, scanning through every layer of your body.

"Wasn't really something I could bring up with pillow talk."

"I told you I was Superman!"

His little shriek of disbelief rang through your doorway as he followed you in, and you placed your purse into his arms to hop out of your sneakers.

"No, you didn't. I found out because you left your 'poncho' in the laundry basket." You bite with a wince, pausing to take a breath.

"It's not a poncho it's a cap —…h-hey! Take it easy." Clark's bigger figure cradles yours instantly when you falter. He carries you, like you were weightless, over to your couch. Kneeling before the couch, unsure.

"Why are you still…" Clark gestures vaguely to your wound, "injured."

You exhale slowly, lifting your scrub top to survey the extent of the wound. "It heals. Just…slowly. Could you —…"

A whip of wind slaps you right in the face when he speeds off, then returns, falling by your knees with a red box.

"…bring me the med-kit."

"Seriously. Why would you keep this from me?"

"I didn't want you to freak out."

"I'm freaking out because you didn't!"

"Oh, give me that!"

You snatch the needle from him that he was waving around like a sword instead of stitching you up — the thin metal sits between your canines, you twirl the string through the edge to suture yourself quickly, but with precision.

"And…you don't have any powers?"

"…Not that I know of."

"How can you not be sure?

"Honey."

Clark snaps up, mid-dabbing a final layer of antiseptic to your wound.

"I've had a long shift. And got mugged, and then died. Can we go to bed? Please?"

His head falls to the meat of your thighs, then finally, he lets out the breath he'd been holding.

"…I thought I lost you."

You hum softly, running your fingertips through the locks of his messy curls.

"Mmhm."

"For…good."

His eyes flutter shut at the soft kiss you press to the back of his head.

—

"You know…I've never really tried to see if Superman could..."

Clark groans.

"Baby."

"I'm only suggesting!"

"Just try laser-beaming me a little."

"No."

"Just a little! I probably won't die, but still."

"No," he repeats, then, "and how'd you figure that out?"

"You don't wanna know the story."

"You're right, I don't." Clark shifts to sit at the edge of the porcelain, wading his fingertips through the shallow waters of the tub in slow circles. "Warm enough?"

A soft hum echoes through your cramped bathroom. Steam and fog curling around you both — smelling faintly of strawberry fizz, wafting from the glittered pool beneath your thighs.

Instinctively, you shift to rest your forehead on the bicep closest to your face. Clark bends over to press a kiss to the crown of your head, then to the side of your head. An instant purrr sounds against his skin in satisfaction.

"How's the wound?"

You leaned back a little to survey your abdomen, pressing on the tender, yet healed-over laceration. "Pretty okay." Dazed, you smile up at him, pecking at the tensing muscle. There's a gentle graze of his fingers up your knees, where you guide them.

He looks over, the tips of his ears turning pink at your insinuation. "Oh, geez…"

Resistance follows, and his digits stop at the apex of your thighs. "We still have a lot to talk about, okay?"

You hum again, sliding back against the cold surface, which was quickly replaced by a fuzzy towel that Clark promptly replaces it with.

His voice reverberated around the ageing tiles, the gentlest murmurs sending chills down your spine, "want me to take care of you, sweet girl?"

"Mm…"

Clark says your name, rolling it softly past his tongue, through the rumble of his throat. His thumb swipes down your pelvis, down your sensitive bud.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs at the sides of your head. Dragging his fingers down your cunt. You tense instinctively, wrapping your fingers around his forearms.

"…rub…ere'."

His fingers slide where you tug him to, the tips of his knuckles grazing the water. Two fingers coax themselves at your entrance, smearing your growing slick upward.

"Here?"

Clark takes in your shallow pants, nudging them gently into you, and back out. Softer moans spill into the curve of his muscles. Canines grazing the tenderness there. You nod quickly, softer, incoherent moans spilling over. "Mm—hmn!"

His eyes flutter shut, letting you rock your hips into the thick intrusion. Focusing his senses to his fingers, letting them tense and quiver, controlling the strength and speed that turned precise, vibrating, almost.

"Clark, I'm —…c'm…in!"

He nods, pushing knuckle deep, edging higher toward the spongy, warm spot that had you clamping your thighs around his hand. Steady washes of your orgasm take you like a calm tide.

You're far too occupied to notice — how Clark was isolating every single sound in the room. The splashes of water, quiet mewl and the steady thuds of your heart whenever he'd let you use him like this.

After all, it was the only sound, only confirmation that you were here, with him. Safe.