Dead Girl Walking…

You meet Jean Grey on a bus. It’s a really rather crowded bus with seats that are too worn and smell of musk and moldy rot wood. You step onto the bus with your book bag, eagerly waiting for the next stop, wanting nothing more than to be home after the day you’ve had. A day full of rigorous work, classes that never end, and a back that never stops aching no matter how many times you lessen the load in your pack. You have half a mind to pick a seat in the back, it’s always been a place you’ve felt safest. To your luck (bad luck) the back is full so you settle for the only available chair, next to a redheaded girl who looks as uninterested in life as you feel. Her grey hood is pulled over her head, and you can spot the carrot red wisps of hair peeking out from the side, baby hairs that crumple each way.

The girl’s blue eyes flit to yours as soon as you sit down onto the seat, you notice her pale complexion, the way she scoots just a bit closer to the window seat, like she’s trying to put as much space between you and her. You don’t take it personally, you just offer her a kind smile. It’s soft and sweet and perhaps a bit too sweet because the girl’s eyes flit away, onto the coming green trees.

The girl’s clutching a bag to her pale white knuckled fingers, like her life depends on it, her leg shakes, once, twice, enough for you to realize that she’s nervous. Or anxious. You don’t know how it starts, one minute you’re sitting still, eyes bored and downcast, the rumbling of the bus’s wheels sloshing in the rainy weather, when the girl suddenly speaks.

It’s a quiet voice, but firm in the way she speaks, “you look exhausted.” The voice is a bit rough around the edges, like she’s strained her vocal chords, but the edges of her lips lift up in a slight smile, an acknowledgment of the kind smile you had given her before. You blink, once, twice, but then find your footing, moving subconsciously to move your braid to the side and trace your hands down your skirt. “It’s been a long day.” Your voice is truthful, tired, worn down, but still a spark lingers underneath. You think about so many things, recounting your day, waking up at five in the morning, herding your five year old niece into clothes that resemble matching, making oatmeal with chocolate chips (requested by Lily, of course) and then racing her off to drop off at your mom’s before walking the few blocks to ESU. Your feet had been aching the whole way, but you never complained, didn’t complain while all your other friends went off to bars, to parties late at night on campus, begging you with puppy eyes to put down the books, even for a while.

But you never did. Because Lilly would be waiting for you with her soft grey eyes and curly beyond curly blonde hair and cuddles that soothed every ache away. It wasn’t your fault your sister died in a car crash. It wasn’t your responsibility to care for a six year old who was as stubborn as mule, you didn’t have to accept the responsibility, you were a young women with her whole life ahead of her. University, a job, friends, girlfriend, boyfriends, sky was the limit. But you had taken one look at a five year old Lilly, who was shaken and terrified and wanting nothing more than to hold onto you, her aunt, her cool aunt who drove with the music to loud and would scare away monsters at night with dance parties, and you had accepted custody. Your mother bless her, took Lilly during the day when you would attend classes, and nights when you had big finals and your job at the local library . You’d have the apartment to yourself tonight, which you needed, desperately.

“What about you? Long day?”You tilt your head, giving her that lopsided smile, one that comes from lack of energy and genuine awkwardness, and from keeping constant company around a five year old little girl. Jean’s grey eyes seem to crinkle at the edges, her lips moving into a faint smile, like it hurts to smile, but she lets out a laugh, a small chuckle, it makes your heart warm, knowing you can make a stranger smile. A beautiful one.

Jean for her part nods, once, red bangs bopping underneath the grey hoodie, the smile faded as quickly as it had came, “I’ve had better days. Hell…my whole life has been a rough day”. You stay quiet for a second, but then you nod along, eyes far away, clinging to the distance, the rough road ahead of the bus, where salt has just been thrown on the road. “Sometimes life just seems so unfair. Cards are delt wrong. I didn’t think my life would look quite like this” you state.

Jean doesn’t pry, instead her grey eyes seem to flicker over you, eyes set on your face, careful of her movements through the hoodie. Her eyes take in the deep way your eyes are nestled in thought, the slope of your chin, and without much thought, she’s use to this by now, she allows her mind to take over, and seep into your body. It’s just curiosity.

It’s not as forceful as some takeover’s that she’s done before, it’s gentle, like a key sliding into a lock, your breathing gets heavy for a second, and then your eyes remain glossed over and your head briefly shakes forward. Jean feels everything. It’s immediate. The weight of being the sole provider, school which is long and hetic and seems to get worse with every class you take. Formula’s and concepts you struggle to memorize. She feels your body, the way your bones ache, your feet from the cold and the walks to and from campus. She feels the hurt, the dark feeling of something she’s familiar with that sits lodged in your chest like a weight that won’t ever leave. Loss. Grief

It’s a feeling so deep, it tangles along your heart and squeezes, she sees the tears on your pillow, feels the uncertain cries you take in the mirror when you’re alone trying to be tough. It’s emotions she’s much too delicate for in this state-she sees Sara, and instantly she lets you go, for once feeling something like regret for invading your mind. You blink once to break the curse, and then you’re turning to Jean, and for a second, just a second, Jean thinks you’re onto her, that you know what she just did. She’s seconds away from explaining herself, trying to find the words, but you stop her.

“I don’t know why I didn’t ask this before. I guess it must be my brain-you’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bright girl, it’s just lately it’s felt like my head is all frazzled” you begin, but then your eyes catch hers, and it’s like you understand her?

“I should have asked this already” your thumbs twirl, but then you’re meeting her eyes confidently, “do you need a place to crash? I just noticed you’re only traveling with a pack-and I just-I just wanted to know if you’re okay. If you’re hurt or..” the words are soft, said through earnest eyes, and Jean lets them sink down, lets them penetrate her heart enough that she cracks one eyebrow, “and you’re confident I’m not an axe murder?”

Your lips move, like you’re trying to decide if it’s funny or tangible, logical, but the more you look at Jean, at the red bangs below her hoodie, the soft nail beds of her fingers, the converse that are dirty and streaked, crumpled clothes that look far from washed, you know in your heart that she is not an axe murder. “No. No I don’t think axe murders ask their victims that.” The giggle you let out travels, and Jean hates how much she likes it.

Jean nods, every bone in her body is telling her to decline, that she doesn’t need help. She reminds herself of the words she has spoken to Peter Parker just hours before, how people like them, didn’t get to have love, friends, family, and now just a few hours later, here you sat. This kind hearted, hard working girl who had seen her. The real her. And offered her a warm place to stay. ‘It’s just one day’ Jean thinks, justifies to herself. So she says yes. It’s a kindness she doesn’t get offered to her everyday. And it feels different. A good different.

“People aren’t usually kind for no reason” Jean finds herself saying, following you out of the bus, arms folded and clutched to her backpack, still on alert. Something in your heart breaks at that, the way Jean eyes you like she’s grateful, so grateful, but wary,it’s then you know you’re dealing with someone with trust issues and perhaps more hidden beneath her skin. So you settle on a kind smile, sweet, “maybe I’m weird” you offer.

The small walk from the bus stop is calm, you don’t check to see if Jean is behind you, you just stroll the familiar way. The building itself isn’t glamorous, it stands still and looks like every other cement apartment complex. “It’s not much. But it’s home” you utter to Jean. The lobby is warm-the type of warm that Jean is not use to feeling. Being in foster homes, placements, meant you didn’t get to have these luxuries, and even then, her and Sara lived off what they could after they had left. The warmth is inviting and comforting, and the lift is a simple elevator, with silver buttons that you press with ease.

Jean takes the time, the small amount of ten seconds while the lift elevates, to study you. Your frame is smaller than she’s noticed, but you had been sitting on a bus chair. Your eyes are a unique color, mundane to others, but special to Jean, because they now reflect kindness in the purest form. You’re calm, she can tell by the way stand. Your heart is calm, and your mind-

Jean’s jaw clenches, your mind is a mind that’s so unlike any other she’s been in. It’s unique and interesting and inspiring. You thought with such clarity, your empathy was wild and free, and you weren’t afraid of your heart. Others had been, she’s been in enough mind’s to see true selfishness. Yours made Jean want to know more about you. Like an itch that begged to be scratched.

When you reached your door, you took the jingling keys out of your pocket, but before you could reach the lock, a pale hand stopped you, cold burning fingers wrapping around yours, the touch was firm and solid, “you’re sure? You don’t even know me”. That was true, you didn’t even know her name, and yet, for some unknown reason, you felt like you did. Maybe you were insane, maybe you were putting yourself in danger at this very moment, but the feel of cold fingers-seemed to crawl inside you.

“I think I’m suppose to know you.” You settled on. It’s ominous and perhaps not quite what Jean was looking for, because she eyed you like you were insane, but you just opened the door.

The apartment smells like pine needles, leftover oatmeal, which is left on the hob still in the pot. Jean allows her eyes to wander, to reach every crevice of space. It isn’t too big, two bedrooms from what Jean can see. The fridge is littered with drawings, little stick figure tigers, monkeys, and Spider-Man. That brings a smile to jean’s face, because the stick figure Spider-Man reminds her of Peter, and she’s hopeful that he’s back on his feet. Her eyes sway from the kid drawings to the crayons littered on the floor, she accidentally steps on one, a snot coloured green. You’re quick to pick up the crayons, blushing, like you wish you’d picked them up before you left, or had Lilly do it.

“My niece” you said gently, eyes creasing, like just the thought of her was enough for heart eyes, “she just turned five”. You scooped up the remaining crayons, “we’re working on being independent and not needing others to fix your messes” you spoke, and Jean almost felt like laughing, because you had said it in such a way that made her believe you were indeed a mother.

Jean moved cautiously to the small picture frame on the wall, hands in her pocket, grey eyes taking in the picture of you, sitting on a swing, Central Park, with a little bundle in your arms. A little girl with a bow tied to her head, smile wide, not more than six month old. It took center stage. For all to see.

“My sister passed last year. Car accident. It was sudden. She died instantly.” The words were spoken fast, like you just had to rip the plaster off, you said it while busily reaching for each toy and putting them in an orange bin. The movement was easy, but the stare was another. Far away. Pain. Grief. Still evident. Still coursing wildly through you. The loss Jean had felt-was the loss of your sister.

It was a gut punch. And Jean had to turn her eyes away from the picture frame, she allowed the grief of Sara to pass through her, just for a moment, and when she met your eyes, she felt seen.

“My sister passed too. Quite recently” Jean uttered, hating the tears that fell, and quickly wiping them away. You didn’t pry, just eyed her with soft eyes and a head bowed, “I’m sorry.” That’s all you said, no how’d she die, or other questions that would have seemed inappropriate to ask.

“You’re raising Lilly then?” Jean found her lips forming the words, inquisitive.

“Trying my best at least” you utter. Trying my best. That’s something that’s never been done before in jean’s life. Her own mother refused to do even that. But to know that a person like you, existed, set her heart aflame. It made her smile, “she draws you a lot” Jean spoke, pointing to a stick figure with your hair color and Lilly’s entangled hands.

Your eyes crinkled, “she’s clingy” you said with a laugh, “I don’t mind”.

Once you’re done settling the toys down in the rightful spots, colored bins kept neatly behind the tv screen, you turn to Jean, “first things first” you move to extend your hand, hoping you don’t come off as awkward or any other adjective that reflects the word, you tell her your name, plain, simple, and Jean immediately, without thought shakes your hand. Her pale fingers extend over yours with a touch so gentle, so soft, it leaves you with a smile. “Jean. Grey. My name is Jean grey” she speaks with a careful cough, the edges of her lips lifting into a smile. Minuscule, but enough it makes your stomach twist.

“Welcome Miss Grey.” You give her a playful wink, a bow that’s thrown half hazardously, with your hair that flops every which way as you stand back up, and you swear you catch the flicker of amusement on her lips. From there you show Jean the tour of the apartment. It’s no bigger than any student in college apartment in New York, cramped, small, but inevitably home. Lilly’s room is next to yours, it’s a room filled with laughter and light. A small toddler bed, pink with polka dots and toys that are neatly cleared away, you’re doing. Jean notices the way the room is spotless, intentionally clean. Your room is freshly cleaned, a king sized bed, large enough for two, and so big for a girl so small framed, but Jean doesn’t question why she thinks about sleeping in the bed with you. It’s perfectly natural to think you attractive. Jean knows that. You were a sweet tempered, hard working, kind, hottie of an aunt who offered her aid because she needed it. so Jean allowed herself to entertain the thought, you, her, the bed, clothes off, enjoying the desires of sexual pleasure. It was a thought, and then like most thoughts it tampered off.

“I only have the one room. Lilly won’t be home tonight, she’s staying over at my mother’s tonight. So if you feel more comfortable I can set up the mattress I have in Lilly’s room. Or the couch, I know it’s not very comfortable-I wish I could offer you more-“ you begin, scratching your head, eyes alight, cheeks red.

jean holds her hand up, silences you, “you’ve been more than accommodating. I’m a bit apprehensive about you offering a random young women off a bus to stay the night with you-please tell me this is not a usual occurrence?” The joke surprises even Jean, the way it falls so easily off her lips, the way your lips lift, a hand covering your face, bashful, it makes jean’s heart race, but also, it makes her smile.

“It’s not a usual occurrence. I just-I like you miss grey. I’ve only known you for about two hours” you count on your fingers, “but I gather you and I-“ you step closer, just a small step, enough that you and Jean are face to face, and Jean’s heart does a somersault, because your eyes are a mound of color, of life, and overwhelming kindness and the power in her yearns to bask in it. For your gentleness, your warmth, your compassion. Being deprived of it for so long makes her feel like a rabid animal.

“Are going to be good friends”. The word friends hangs in the air, settling between you and Jean, and she nods, “I’ve never been very good at friends”. That part is true. Jean’s never been in one place long enough to make true friendships. Never had a person she relied on. Till Peter. Who showed her you didn’t have to bare it alone. And until you.

You feel it too. The pull, the way Jean’s eyes are a swirl of marble, fresh tidal waves that if you look too deep into, they’ll pull you down into its depths. She’s different. Her energy is calming, yet chaotic. Her eyes are deep and mysterious, part of you knows she’s dangerous, that she’s running from something. The chaos that has spread across New York, the people that had been suspended, stopped in their tracks, by this mysterious sheen of shimmering waves. The mysterious people who had done horrible things only to say someone else had done it. Had taken control of their bodies. The suspicion-that the girl in front of you was her. Was loud. But the other part, whispered softly that Jean wasn’t dangerous. She was hurt, in pain, suffering for much of her life. She wasn’t the villain in the story. And you believed it.

“Well I’ll just have to teach you how to be good at being friends. Step one, name exchange is done, so-“ you hung onto the word, let it dance between you, “the next step is to eat delicious food and enjoy the evening. What do you like to eat Miss Grey?” You stomped over to the fridge, “are you a pizza type of girl? A pasta type of girl? Or a protein type of girl?” The last option made your eyes subconsciously scan Jean’s body, through the grey jacket, the t-shirt, and the jeans, you could easily make out the defined muscles underneath her skin, the thought made your stomach drop, hotly, because yes, Jean was undeniably hot. Sexy, attractive, and you were just a young woman with a good heart and a libido that was never satisfied. Which was why when Lilly was away, you’d spend the evening in bed with a few fingers inside you, and a pillow to your lips to muffle your whimpers.

“Um-I guess pizza? You-you like that right?” Jean’s voice was rough, her eyes puppy dog like as she scanned your face, hands in her pocket, and you nodded, “Lilly and I are pizza girls through and through. Now, have you ever made your own pizza before?”

Jean’s eyes widened, and she gave you a blank look, “foster homes aren’t exactly great in the cooking department”. No. The answer was no. “Got it. It’s really rather easy. Here, I’ll show you”.

Jean stood close, too close as you stood closer to the counter, rolling out the doe, her eyes watched as you rolled the doe with nimble fingers, catching the slope of your chin, the dip of your neck. You pretended not to notice the way her eyes ghosted over with something close to desire, because this wasn’t just something you did-giving aid to young twenty year old women with issues-letting them stay and hoping to fuck them-no…this whole situation was new. And so, you focused on showing Jean how to add the tomato sauce. How to add the cheese, the toppings. Jean actually seemed to perk up at that. Yours was a mountain of toppings. Peppers, mushrooms, meats, ham. Jean’s was simple, cheese and meat. Nothing more nothing less.

You sit side by side on the sofa. Just enough room to make it comfortable. Jean took comfortable bites, realizing this was the first piece of food she hadn’t had to mind bend for, like she had been for the past years, using her powers to stay rent free at an apartment . This was something that was freely given. The act of you, showing her with kind eyes and giggles how to make pizza, was simple, yet Jean found it addicting. And it frightened her, because she could get use to it.

“I’m not asking this to make you uncomfortable in any way” you began, wiping your mouth, and putting your pizza down. Your eyes were calm, kind in the way they formed the words, “but I’d like to know, if you’d let me, what you’re running from”.

Jean’s body freezes, and her eyes which swirl with fear, and anger, and grief, manifests itself in a deep snarl, “what makes you think I’m running?” It’s the closest to cruel she’s been with you, besides the mind bending on the bus, and the minute she says it she sighs, “I’m-I’m sorry. I-I’m not exactly a saint most days”.

You just give her a lopsided smile like you’re use to cruel comments, raising a five year old does that, “I’m aware.”

Jean’s nails tap against the paper plate in her hand, and then her blue eyes fizzle to you, and she rips off the band aid, fast and hard. “I have powers that allow me to mind read, to take over others bodies, soul and mind, I can move things with my mind, and I used them for my own selfish gains. My mother disowned my older sister and I when we were young. I was put in foster homes, moved around. Till a few years ago, my sister found me, Sara, and we fled. We lived off our powers. Using them to stay in apartments that weren’t ours. My sister, Sara, died because she was experimented on. I saved Spider-Man’s life recently. He taught me a valuable lesson. You ask why I’m on the run-who I’m on the run from-“ Jean’s eyes moved to yours, swiftly, truthfully, “it’s me I’m on the run from”.

The admission makes you swallow, and Jean thinks in a moment she’ll need to take her things and go, you won’t want her around a little girl, but all she sees in your eyes is-she can’t quite make it out. She wills her mind to read your thoughts, but she stops. Not yet.

“I think you’re brave. And I think you need someone to help you. I don’t care what you did, or how you did it, what I care about is you’re safe. Because you deserve it. So you’re going to stay here as long as you want. You are safe Jean grey”. The admission makes her blink, blue frosted eyes, blinking, and then you’re taking jean’s plate which is empty, she ate four slices in one go, and it tells you she was beyond hungry.

You clean up the small mess of the evidence of the pizza making, taking the small tins and throwing them out, you rinse a rag and clean the counter tops, it’s a usual everyday occurrence. But it feels weighty now, because Jean sits on the couch, grey eyes watching every movement. Like she’s trying to analyze you, to figure you out, like you boggle her. Her gaze is piercing, hot in some ways, the way her head tilts, her jaw becomes defined as she clenches it. You will yourself to stop looking, and finish cleaning. It’s only when you have one more thing to do, take out the trash that Jean stands, “I’ll do that for you. It’s the least I can do” she rises to her feet, takes the bag from you, hands brushing up against you, fingers hot as coals, and you notice the way your breath hitches, and Jean-she smiles. Like she enjoys it. “Tell me where you put the garbage?” She asks, and you stutter, “d-down the stairs.” Jean nods once and descends down the steps.

‘Get ahold of yourself. You’re acting like you’ve never had human contact before. Stupid girl’ you tell yourself. It makes sense, the energy between you two, the push and pull, the day on the calendar on your phone should tell you all you need to know. Ovulation day. It’s a relief, it’s just your body manifesting itself, it’s not truly you. You wipe your face, pull down your hair from its bun, and let the strands fall over each way. Your phone rings, a ringtone you know by heart, and a smile so wide fills your face. You answer, “hello little munchkin. Did you brush your teeth or are you eating sweets with gram?” Your voice is sweet, young in time, mature in words. Lilly’s voice is wild and free, “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet but I lost a tooth!” Your eyes widen, “a whole tooth? Well I bet you’ll get a five, maybe two, a nickel?” It’s said teasingly, and Lilly giggles over the phone, “a nickel can’t buy you a doll”. “Oh you want a doll? I’ll see if the tooth fairy can part with a twenty. You being a good girl for grandma?”

You don’t notice Jean standing just outside the door, the way her stance freezes as she hears you, the maternal way your voice settles, the way the cool sound of your voice bubbles into her chest, she can hear Lilly’s giggles through the line, soft and airy, and undeniably cute. The whole conversation should make her feel angry. Put off. Should make her think about her own mother figure, but instead it doesn’t. It makes her feel-oddly whole? Oddly safe?

The conversation last another minute, you sending hugs and kisses and a “sleep well kiddo” before the call hangs, and Jean allows herself to enter, taking her shoes off and placing them by the door, besides yours. “Sure is a lot of steps. You do that every day?” It’s teasing, but also a real question.

You nod, “it’s good cardio.”

Jean nods, moving to sit down on the couch next to you, “I should wash my hands” she mutters, and then she rises, takes of her grey sweater, and you suddenly have to fight your thoughts. Because jean’s arms are pale, much like her complexion, but defined, muscles that clench subtlety, and it makes your throat dry, and your heart dance, stupid hormones.

“Thanks for taking the trash out Jean. I usually do it in the mornings. I don’t like alleyways. I’ve seen enough dateline” at that Jean chuckles, a soft small thing, and you make the mistake of allowing your eyes to dance over her hands.

It’s a mistake. Her hands are wet, fingers slim and slender, rings adorn her fingers, making the slight blue veins prominent, again you bite your lip, leg moving to quell the unholy thoughts. Jean doesn’t seem to notice, she drys them, them comes to sit back down next to you. She rests her arms on her legs, which are open, jeans that look uncomfortable. You reach for the remote, trying to put something on that will hold the energy at bay. “Do you like sitcoms?” Jean doesn’t say anything, just gives a nod and an approving sound of her throat.

Her eyes dance over your face, your features, your nose, your jaw, baby fat still clings to your face, but it pools at your cheeks and defines your jaw, your lips are pink and moist, you take care of yourself. Applying chapstick or moisturizer every day, jean’s hands twitch as she allows her eyes to selfishly drape down your frame. Your t-shirt dips at the collarbone, and the outlines of your bra is prominent. Jean bites her lip, before pulling her eyes away. She’s not some creep.

Reruns of I love Lucy play in the background, laugh tracks, and Jean watches. You laugh at all the jokes, a giggle here, there, but it makes jean’s stomach open. You’re just a girl. With a responsibility of a life on your shoulders. You get homework done while watching, settling close to Jean, pencil in hand as you work on homework. Jean lets you, she doesn’t bother, she just sits. It’s calm, the most calm she’s had in a while. It’s peaceful.

After the reruns finish and you put down your homework with a yawn, your eyes move to Jean, “shall I help you with your bed? Do you want the couch? Or the mattress in Lilly’s room?” You ask. Jean looks at Lilly’s room, then yours, and decides the couch is farther. “The couch is fine”.

Jean settles into the bathroom, in your room while you get the couch ready, she brushes her teeth, ties up her long strands of fiery hair in a ponytail and puts on a sleepshirt, sara’s, and sleep shorts. When she pads out of the bathroom and into the living room the couch is already made. Soft pillows, silk cool blankets. It’s luxurious. And her eyes find yours as you turn on the air.

“It gets hot in here at night.” Your eyes scan jean’s legs, her thighs, and Jean notices, notices you noticing, and her eyes darken, but again, she nods, voice gravely, “thank you”.

You move to walk around the couch, “if you need anything..anything at all-I’m-I’m right down the hall.” You offer her a smile, and then move slowly to press a kiss to her cheek, it’s just a kiss, a press of lips to jean’s pale cheek, but still it awakens her veins. And then you move down the hall, closing the door softly.

Jean settles on the couch, it’s soft and plush and comfortable. The urge to read your mind is loud, she wants too, she really does, to be in your head again, but it’s a beautiful place, but she stifles it. Closes her eyes, and sleeps.

When she awakes it’s to soft green eyes. At first Jean doesn’t react, but it’s only when her eyes focus that she notices. A little girl in a yellow raincoat, a smile like yours, and a finger that’s about to poke her cheek, Jean startles, wakes up fully. The little girl stands on her feet, shoulders sluggish, but she smiles. It’s a disarming smile, full of kindness.

“You’re my aunty’s friend” she states, proudly, “I’m not supposed to to wake you up. My aunt said you’re tired. Do you work a lot?” It’s a simple question, and Jean blinks.

“If you consider what I do working”.

The answer makes Lilly laugh, “I like your hair. My friend Timmy has red hair at school and the kids tease him.”

Jean’s eyebrows raise, “that’s not very nice”.

Lilly shakes her head, “no. It’s not. He cries a lot and I sit with him and play”. Kindness must run in the family.

Your door opens softly, and then you’re rushing out, “baby-I couldn’t find your swim shorts-so I got you the Ariel one-“ your voice is quiet, trying not to make noise, and when your eyes catch sight of Jean, sitting up on the couch, and a animated Lilly, you sigh.

“Lilly I told you not to wake Jean up” you state, moving to pick up Lilly and hold her on your hip, “I’m sorry Jean. She’s at that age where everything is Interesting.” Jean watches as you put Lilly down, putting sunscreen on her face, her neck, “now you stay close to grandma at the water park. And at the ice cream shop.”

Lilly nods, “I will I promise”. Then Lilly’s eyes find Jean’s and she’s eagerly hopping on one foot, you don’t seem annoyed by the way she hops, “is Jean staying with us forever?”.

You laugh, “no. Just for a while baby”.

Lilly’s eyes deflate, and Jean finds it cute, so she sends her a wink, “I’ll be here when you get back. Maybe your aunty and I can draw with you. I hear you like drawing” Jean’s never been good with kids, but Lilly’s eyes shine, “yes! Yes!”

The smile you have is not lost to Jean. Once Lilly is done you move to grab a bag, “say bye to Jean. You won’t be back till dinner”. Lilly nods, walks over to Jean, and bear hugs her. Jean stiffens, but ultimately hugs Lilly back, “have fun dude” she says, not sure what to say. Lilly nods, “back at you dude”. For such a small thing her character is large. You laugh, taking Lily by the hand and the bag, “I’ll be back. I’m just going to take her to my mom’s car”.

The door closes and Jean gets up, brushes her teeth. By the time you come back in your making your way to the bathroom, “sorry about Lilly. She’s just really likes you. Already” Jean spits, rinses and spits again, and god help you but you find it so sexy.

“She’s a sweet kid. You’re raising her well” Jean speaks, wiping her mouth. Your cheeks blush, “thanks”. Jean moves out so you can brush, “feel free to shower…if you want..I have extra clothes if you need and the washer and dryer are across from Lilly’s room”.

Jean nods.

She showers, the water is hot, calm, and seems to do nothing for her rapid mind. This whole situation is insane. She’s never done this before. Willingly accepted an offer. Made dinner with a girl before, sat and watched black and whites and watched her do homework because your hair was over your face, and your eyes were beautiful. But yet, here Jean was. Jean brushed her hair, and pulled out another clean outfit from her bag, jeans, and a long sleeve black runner. When she exits the bathroom she finds you sitting on the bed. In your room. On your laptop.

Your eyes catch hers from the hall, “Jean, do you fancy breakfast tacos?” The question catches Jean off guard, but she nods. “Yes”.

“Good. A place opens up in an hour. Can you wait that long for breakfast?” You ask with a tease, and Jean eyes you with a raised brow, “can you?” Jean’s legs take her to your room, even though she screams in her mind not too.

You pat your bed, “come sit for a while”. You say it confidently, and Jean hates the way it comes off more flirty. Jean sits besides you, and you smile at her, sweetly. “I’m trying to decide which courses to take next month.” You tug your lip between your teeth, and suddenly the dam breaks in Jean’s mind. Her fingers slowly move, across the silk bedding, across the chasm of ‘don’t do this’ until her fingers meet your own. Your fingers stop on the mouse, breath hitching, and your eyes scan down to where Jean’s fingers lace with your own.

Jean’s fingers softly take your hand, and move one sneaky finger around the palm, featherlight, still seductive in motion. The way your eyes catch hers, like you’re not sure, but also the way your heart beats against your pulse tells another story.

Jean’s fingers move to lace both hands through your fingers, and then her head tilts, one single strand of red hair from her ponytail coming down, and you gulp, “I-Jean”. It’s a whine, and Jean nearly loses all her footing. Her lips bite down on her tongue at the way it sounds, innocent yet not. Needy yet alive. “I’ve been holding back on not listening to your thoughts”. Jean says it between gravely breathes, her face inches closer, closer, till her blue eyes are a silver of black constellations, till you can see the grey in her eyes.

The admission makes you smile, “it’s a good thing you didn’t. You’d think of me differently”. Jean’s lips move into a predators smile, it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand, but also makes white hot heat flash down your body.

“Not so innocent are you? Offering a stranger on a bus to spend the night?” Jean’s fingers reach your waist, and slowly, like she’s testing, travel underneath your shirt to cup your skin, and immediately you whimper. “Jean-please don’t tease”. It’s said between fast breathes, and you try to inch your face closer, but Jean pushes away, just enough to hover over you.

Her eyes are alight with power, with mirth, and with lewd behavior. It makes your stomach drop, because this was what you thought of last night. Between sheets and your own fingers.

“You’ve been so kind to me. So gentle. Giving me a place to sleep, making dinner with me..such a sweet gesture. Such a lovely gift” jeans fingers move to cup your chin, two fingers hot on your chin, confident in the way they rest, hard in the way they press into your chin, and Jean moves and moves until she’s right in front of you, pink lips, blue eyes hollow, and then she’s kissing you. Her tongue is bitter and sweet, her lips force themselves onto you, not in a way that’s bad, in a way that makes who whine against her mouth. Jean’s lips pull and beg, they plead, you wrap your hands around Jean’s neck, fingers already cupping the back of her neck, indents in her pale skin. Jean hisses, but whimpers into your mouth, “strong girl. Such a needy little thing. I’m going to enjoy this.”

She’s talking from pure desire, and then her lips pass over your neck, moving your head back, and Jean softly places you on the pillow, and you willingly let her, soaking into the bed, even as Jean’s lips pass over your neck. Softly, tender kisses, before her mouth, hot and heady, slip over your pulse point, Jean’s tongue licks over it, then bites, hard.

The whine you let out is nearly pornographic in nature, and Jean’s eyes darken even more, her fingers move to your shirt, “can I take this off babygirl?” She speaks into your ear, and you nod, eagerly, desperately clawing into her. Jean’s fingers are shaky as they lift the shirt, and once it comes off and she’s met with the sight of your bare chest, no bra, Jean’s lips tug into a hard bite. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rises with unsteady intensity, and she looks you dead in the eye.

“No bra? You’ve been sitting here with no bra? What a naughty girl” Jean hums into your ear, sliding her tongue and kissing the ridge of your lobe, your eyes are closed, enjoying every sensation. Jean’s attention shifts to your chest. It rises fast and the tips of your nipples, peak in delicious red flesh. Large for such a small form, and Jean lick her lips, before placing a soft kiss on your collarbone, Jean traces the bone with devotion, her tongue lapping, she kisses the skin of your neck, your stomach, “your stomach is so cute baby. So cute-so adorable-I could grind on it all day oh god”. She’s slipping, letting her desires come out, her fingers move to ghost over your nipples, and as soon as they ghost, feather like nails, you moan. It’s a sound so hot and wild Jean immediately goes from one to a hundred. Her patients fingers suddenly grab both nipples, soft in touch, but rough in the way they glide over them, rubbing in such sinful ways, a cross between gliding over the Sensitive peaks, and squeezing. Jean’s other hand glides over to cup a breast, and Jean’s eyes meet yours before she allows her pink tongue to sliver over one, and her eyes roll back, and without thought Jean grey begins sucking. She sucks hard and fast, her other hand pinching and abusing your already hard nipple.

The sensations dance across your ribcage, flutter around your heart in a plethora of pleasure, and without much thought you whine and moan and writhe, “yes-yes-“ it’s a whisper, it makes you feel so warm, and when the pleasure swirls in your belly, from just nipple okay alone, you feel it, the heat rising from your cheeks down to your panties. “Jean-“ you utter, a cry in your words, you know it’s coming, “Jean-I-I’m-“ but jean knows. Her pink lips suck harder on your nipple, teeth grazing against a single spot, and fireworks happen between your eyes. Your hips lift, and all you can feel is pleasure. You whine, “Jean-jean-“ and jean grey basks in the way your eyes close, your lips pout in need, and she can feel the way your body responds.

“Sensitive girl. I didn’t know you could come just from your nipples being played with…that’ll be fun for later” Jean says it so casually, her lips are wet, spit that gleams on her mouth, your breast are pink and abused, sore in the most amazing way, and then Jean’s eyes gleam down to your pants, where you’re busy trying to keep pressure.

Jean moves to kiss your lips, once, twice, a deep one that makes you lose focus because her hands cup your cheek reverently, and her red hair and ruddy cheeks make you lose your mind. She’s beautiful.

“I think it’s about time I repay you for your kindness. Don’t you think little one?” She speaks, breath mingling with yours, and all you can do is nod, too far gone, too into her trance.

Jean’s lips lift up and she pressed a soft forehead kiss, something she doesn’t know why she does, but because she can, and then she’s descending with hot fingers to pull down your pants, her eyes meet soft thighs, soft skin that feels hot to the touch. Jean’s eyes appraise your legs, nails gliding from your thighs down to the heel of your foot, “gorgeous girl” she whispers, more to herself than you, and then she’s moving the palm of your hand to your underwear, cupping the soiled stained cloth, your breath hitches and your hips buck, and Jean only watches, “easy babygirl. I’m going as fast as I can. Let me enjoy this too-“ and then her fingers pull down the cloth, all the way down your legs in teasing motions.

Jean’s fingers ease your thighs apart, soft in the way she does it, and when her eyes meet your slick heat, the heartbeat in your pussy gets louder. Jean smiles, the widest you’ve ever seen, “one of the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You should be proud little one” and then her fingers, cold, run over the length of your slit, collecting juices, bringing the lone finger which is gleaming to her mouth, sucking on it with that devilish grin. Before ghosting her fingers across your clit, feeling the blood pool into it and cause a gush of want into her fingers.

She starts with one finger, easing you into it, kissing your hairline, “feels so good to be spread out and used like this doesn’t babygirl? Is this what you wanted when you smiled at me on the bus? This??” Her fingers pistons harder, hitting a spot that makes you nearly scream, “harder Jean! Please” your voice is frantic, and Jean smiles, “of course baby”. She adds three fingers, and soon the pull of her fingers makes you see stars. Jean kisses your lips as you come, whining into your mouth with open mouthed kisses and a tongue that’s curious.

Then what comes next is Jean’s lips, over your pussy, sucking greedily, she uses her tongue, ghost over your wetness, and you come again, and again, and again, it’s as if Jean has some sort of magic to her, or maybe she knew what was going on in your mind, all the obscene mess of your thoughts.

All you know is, your spent. Body used, drenched in sweat, jean seems amused by it, she doesn’t stop kissing you, even well after you had begged her to stop because it was too sensitive, instead she kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck, your nose.

“I think I’m going to keep you little one.” She speaks it against your lips, and when you simply fall asleep she smiles.

You wake up an empty bed, crinkled sheets, and a sheet over your naked body. Your first instinct is that Jean is gone. That she used you, or thanked you for the hospitality and left. But the voices in the other room tell a different story. Your body is covered in bruises, black and wild and thick, but you put on shorts and t-shirt, and immediately walk out of the room.

What meets your eyes makes your heart soar, Jean is sitting with Lilly, a parlor hat on, and a pink tea cup in hand. She looks surprised to see you out of bed, her eyes still have that dark gleam, but it’s more fondness now.

“Out of bed already? I’ll try harder to wear you out next time. Lilly got here a while ago and wanted to play tea party. Care to play little one?” The wink Jean sends makes your body shiver, and you know…you’re in for quite a ride

You’ve never been afraid of death. It’s always been a topic you skirt around, trying not to think too much about. Your mother died in childbirth, you never met her, death had a hand in your life before you even drew your first breath. Yet, it was never something you were frightened of. It loomed in the back behind your shadow, appearing at funerals of your father’s employees or associates.

You always imagined death as a man with a skeleton smile and a sickle. That’s who death was right? But it was never till the moment you were alone..while the glass shattered around you and people screamed and you could feel the white hot heat of a flame on your skin-that you realized death was imminent.

It had all started with your father. You and Kara had been out on the estate grounds, krypto enjoying the fresh air and trying to find a spot to pee. “Dude hurry up it’s getting chilly out here” Kara complained, making a motion to krypto, who as always just sneered and trotted even farther away. Your lips lifted, a chuckle falling off your lips as Kara scoffed, “he’s getting an attitude. Thinks he can do whatever he wants” she spoke, and then her eyes landed on you, where you sat comfy against an oak tree, book on your lap. The next thing you knew Kara’s finger was poking you against your ribcage, then her fingers followed, tickling you. “It’s because of you-and all your spoiling. You give him the food off your plate and let him sleep in your bed when I’m gone and he’s gotten use to a life of luxury” Kara spoke, inbetween hot lovebites she had chased across your neck. You had giggled, wild and free, hand moving to pull Kara closer, “it’s not my fault he’s a spoilt puppy. You’re the one who never trained him. I bet he was this naughty on Argo”

At that Kara pulled away, lips searching from the pinkish spot on your neck, just behind your lower ear, where she had spent many hours sucking and abusing the skin, “don’t tell me you agree with Clark!” She spoke, hand to her heart, wounded. You laughed even more, “Clark knows what he’s talking about! You let krypto run all over you-“ Kara silences you with her lips, which move over your mouth, deepening the kiss, her fingers glide over your arms, then down to where the book is nestled in your hands, it shouldn’t be hot the way she takes the book in one hand, places it on the floor so you don’t lose your page, and then skims the skin of your palm, moving all the way down to skin your skirt. Kara hums in appreciation, “i like this skirt…it’s a new one” she hums.

Yes, you bought a new skirt, one that hugs your frame and is specifically for Kara and the days where you don’t have any functions. Days where you can lay about the estate in nothing but a long t-shirt and shorts, where Kara can spend all the time she wants enjoying you.

Kara’s fingers are halfway under your skirt, nails digging into the soft bedding of your thigh, when a certain clearing of the throat makes you push Kara off you so quick. Kara whines, a pathetic sound, half in agony and half in exasperation, “don’t get all shy on me now princess-“ but it’s only till Kara sees your father standing a few feet away, dressed in his pristine suit. It’s an odd occurrence, one that almost never happens. Your father doesn’t like the estate grounds, but he tends to them because you enjoy nothing more than the fresh air.

kara stands, helping you up, arms wrapping around your waist, careful in the way she positions her hands, she’s on bodyguard mode now, alert, active, supergirl. Your father just chuckles, “forgive me for intruding on your very intimate walk-I thought krypto would like a little treat” he gives Kara a playful wink, that makes her blush and eye the floor.

You’re red in the face, not because your father doesn’t know about your relationship, because he approves of it. Immensely. He’s already talking about weddings and what suit Kara would like (Kara’s never been privy to these conversations) but to be caught with your girlfriend’s hand beneath your skirt feels a bit childish.

Your father brings a small tin from his pocket, and opens it with ease, you recognize it as sardines. It’s a food you use to hate as a child, your father always packed them in your pocket when you’d go out to play on the estate grounds. You hated them at first, they smelled like the very bottom of the ocean, and you’d feed them to your dog chuck. But as you grew you found they had a unique taste to them. Krypto came running as fast he could, tail wagging, and your father dropped the sardines to the floor, laughing in that wise old way, before turning to you and Kara.

You were the first to speak, always the first, arms folded, eyes on alert, tension in your shoulders. You knew what this meant. Your father left you and Kara alone in your bubble, he never intervened, unless it suited to him. It was an act of selfishness you always hated about him.

“What’s this about papa? You’re never out here unless it’s urgent” you’re father doesn’t miss the distaste in your mouth, you watch as he swallows it down, either choosing not to get into it, or forgetting it entirely. He simply stands still, hands clasped in front of him, looking old and withered, even though he’s freshly 45. He licks his lips, taking in the fresh breeze, “my dear, you know I would not ask this this if it wasn’t urgent. There is a politician by the name of Clarence Eaglewood attending a gala tonight raising funds for the new bio tech research center-“ you don’t let your father continue, you just let go of Kara’s hand, a scoff on your lips, of course your father would need you. Parade you around. “Papa I have no interest in that boy. He’s as smiley as a squid. We both know that research center is not what people say it is-“ you’re rambling now. Your father sighs, he fixes his suit, the next time he speaks it’s firm, a voice he only uses when he means business. “Perhaps you have no interest my dear, but I do. And you are going to that gala.” You complain the whole walk back with Kara, who for once, stays quiet.

It’s unsettling, so you finally pull back, your arms which are holding fast onto Kara’s coat, pulls back as you stop, Kara stops as well, frame halting, her grey eyes move to you, “am I acting ridiculous?” You say it with a straight face because if anyone will tell you you’re acting ridiculous or spoilt or anything along those lines, it is most definitely your girlfriend. Kara gives you a small smile, it’s soft and light, and then her fingers move to gracefully cup your cheek, loving the way you nestle into her touch, like a little bear.

“I think you’re tired. I think you’re exhausted. And I think you’re just angry at your dad for putting this on the agenda last minute. I don’t think you’re ridiculous. Anyone that thinks that-“ Kara lips tug up, “they’re what you call, on glue”. She taps your cheek lovingly.

It eases you, and you sigh deeply, one that pulls breath from your chest, and causes you to step into Kara’s strong arms, she smells like pinewood and home. Her hands rub up and down your back, calmly, soothingly, “just one more gala babygirl. Then it’s the weekend.” It’s muffled on your hairline, but you just nod. One more.

You feel Kara sigh out, her breath cold on your skin, and you pull away, noticing the tired rims around her eyes, the way she looks minutes away from collapsing. You feel a sudden anger, not at Kara, but at yourself. You’ve been so busy, self centered, having Kara at your side every beck and call, not that she minds anymore, but still. “Baby, when was the last time you’d been to a yellow sun?” The words fly off not quite as authority charged as you’d like, but still Kara shoulders falter, she licks her lips. “A month ago would be my best guess”.

You only eye her with a blank stare, “unacceptable. I demand you go and visit a yellow sun. You’re looking tired honey. Trust me, I can weather one gala alone-“ Kara’s eyebrows rise, and she takes a step to you, arms around your waist in no time, pulling hard, till your lips are inches from hers.

“I can’t just go-this is a high profile event, politicians will be there and what happens if something goes wrong?-“ you see it before you even know Kara’s unsettled. She gets like this when she has no energy, even more neurotic, only it manifests itself in protectiveness. You move to kiss her lips, once, twice, before moving out of her grip.

“I’m your girlfriend and mistress of the manor and I demand you go recharge. Besides you’ll do no good at the gala all tired and unable to protect me” it’s a low blow, you know Kara could just as well protect you without her powers, she’s a warrior, and to the people she cares about, she’s a fighter. Even though inside you want nothing more than to attend this gala by yourself, you’re also working on not being selfish. On putting other’s needs before your own. It’s not easy. But you try.

Kara’s boots kick rocks, she eyes you with her cold stoic eyes, grey in the mist of the estate, marble blue in the sun. You can tell from her shoulders, she’s tense, her hands stay in her pocket, she bites the flesh of her lip, “I don’t like this plan”. It’s said between teeth. Krypto trots back, a ball in hand, laying it at your feet.

It takes everything in you not to meet her expression, because you’ll find her frown, her eyes, which scream, ‘don’t do this’. It’s healthy in a relationship to not need each other so much, space is good, but not to Kara Zor El. She’s had enough space from people she loved. Her world gone, her people gone, her language gone, so when she met you, despite your inability to not be spoilt and you’re rude comebacks and your rich self centeredness, you became her world. It was all about you. And when you both made it official, well that was the cherry on top.

“Of course you don’t like this plan Kara. But-I’m a big girl who can take care of herself for one night. We can’t be together all the time” you offer her a soft kiss on her cheek. Kara’s body stiffens, and her eyes hold a bit of hurt, “you mean you don’t want to be together all the time”. The words hit you by surprise, and you let out a scoff, “Kara you’re angry and you’re being mean. I didn’t say that. I’m letting you go recharge. You’re tired, exhausted, you’re running on fumes.”

Kara sighs, running a hand through her hair, “I’m sorry. I am sorry baby. You’re right. I just-I hate being away from you”. The words hit you hard in the chest, and it comes out a bit uneven on Kara’s lips, like she hates to admit it. Like it makes her weak. But you only focus on one thing. Kara Zor El hates being away from you. Who knew?

“You can’t live without me?” You say it teasingly, moving to pinch her cheek, to which Kara pulls away, pulling her shades down on her nose, “ok-ok you know what screw you” she teased back.

You see Kara off, you hold hands as you walk, Kara holds extra tight, eyes weary, when it’s finally time to let you, you sigh, moving to kiss her, and Kara takes the opportunity to lift you off your feet, her hands moving to cup your body expertly, she’s all eager mouth, hungry in the way she ghosts your tongue with hers. It’s obscene-the noises you both make, the way you hold onto Kara, fingers cascading in her hair, pulling at the blonde strands. It would make anyone in a mile radius uncomfortable. But all that matters is Kara’s hands on you, holding tight. She kisses like she’s going to war, like you’re not going to see her the next day, and it shouldn’t but it makes you on edge.

Kara’s mouth moves from your kiss swollen lips to your neck, sucking, licking, like she’s can’t get enough, “Kara-you have to get going” you sing song, but Kara huffs, “do I? I can’t stay a little longer and make love with my girlfriend?” It shouldn’t be hot when she refers to sex, as make love. In fact you cringe every time, but tonight it feels romantic. The way she says it, with hot mouths and eager puppy dog eyes. But you shake your head, “god you have to call it that-“

Kara laughs, putting you down your feet, gently, hands gentle, “otherwise it’s just sex. What’s the point in calling it just sex? It’s not casual, it’s not something that’s just done, we do it because we love each other. What you want to be 70’s hippies and just say sex is sex.” She gives you a kiss to your cheeks, and you sigh, “alright. If you don’t go now, I won’t let you make love to me when you come back”.

Kara’s eyebrows lift, a hint of her teeth, “you evil woman”. Her hands move to give a gentle slap to your ass, and your cheeks turn red, “Kara Zor el-“ but she just giggles and immediately flies off. The wind lifts your hair up and you watch as it quickly dissipates. You turn back on your heel, cheeks red, and make your way back into the estate. You know what’s expected of you. So you, with arms folded move through the corridor walls, past the grand fireplace, pass the first floor of Chandeliers and past the stained glass window up into your father’s office

He sits elegantly, eyes turning up as soon as your in view, his glasses make his eyes look wide and childlike. You sit across from him, “I’m here. What’s expected of me papa?”. Your father’s lips smile, “I know you wouldn’t let me down.”

It’s simple. Easy. You could do it in your sleep.

You’re the charm offense. You represent your father’s company, your job is to make Clarence feel valued, show him the future heiress is competent, and subtly pitch your father’s agenda. To ask him to invest in your father’s shares. It’s easy enough on paper. It’s when you say somewhere between “I’ll need a few bodyguards” that your father sits up straight, “Kara’s not going with you?” He doesn’t say it rudely, but it’s said with a surprised tone. Curious in nature.

“Yes papa, it’s not the news of the century. Kara looked so ragged I told her to visit a yellow sun. She insisted she was fine but I told her no. I’m a big girl-“ your father’s lips makes a noise in his throat, disapproval, your eyes shoot up.

“Perhaps you should have let Kara go with you. This is a very high profile event dear one. This is not the same galas you attend. Politicians will be there. Even governors. High profile individuals.” Your father looks nervous. Pale as a sheet. You don’t say anything, it just puts you on even more an edge.

“I’ll have Simon, Paul, and James with you” your eyes widen. Those are your father’s personal body guards, the ones he uses specially for him. Ever since the accident. The bomb a year ago. “Papa-those are your guards-“

Your father stands, holding up his hand. “You’ll take my guards. Now, go get ready the gala is in an hour. It’s a long drive. All the way to New York”. Usually gala’s you attend are in your radius, Massachusetts. The dress you pick is nothing fancy, and you miss Kara and the way she whistles when you come out in a dress, and even more when it’s just your bra and panties. You sigh out, throwing yourself on the bed. You’re tired, exhausted, between university work, and the gala’s and events you’re smoothed thin. The last thing you want to do is attend a gala event in New York. You feel your bed jump and krypto comes and settles beside you. He nudges your knee, tail wagging. You smile, “want to trade kryp? You can go talk to eaglewood?” Krypto licks your face, and you kiss his cheek before going into your closet and pulling out a black pea coat, holding it out to krypto, “what do you think?”

Your father puts you on a jet. It’s really rather expensive and you feel bad, considering it uses a lot of fuel and energy, but your father doesn’t seem to mind. You’re quite use to flying, have been since you were a little girl, but you haven’t flown in a while. Kara was your ride. Pun intended. You waved off your father with a kiss on his cheek and boarded the plane. It was slick and smooth and exactly what you pictured belonged to your father.

Simon, Paul, and James all greeted you kindly, giving you a snack that consisted of peanuts and water. To them you were still the little girl, and so there you sat in the jet’s seat, strapped in uncomfortably, makeup on, dress perfect, with a bag of nuts and a bottle of water with a pink straw. As the jet lifted off the terminal, you allowed your mind to wander to Kara. You hoped she was getting time to herself. Even though you missed her so much, distance made the heart grow fonder.

The flight was easy, and before you knew it the hour was up. You’re helped off the plane by Paul, who holds your hand gently and immediately escorts you into a black sleek car. You take the time to freshen up your makeup, it’s a new style, the French way which involves a more natural look. Kara had loved it. Sitting you on her lap as she did your makeup. “So, this gala is a bit of what we call a level five security event. They’ll be snipers on the roofs, bag checks, vip entrances” Paul begins to check. It’s only till you get to said event that you realize what a big event it is. It’s a sky scraper. Wide and tall and the butterflies in your stomach only widen. But Paul takes you by the arm and escorts you inside.

It’s a cathedral of glass and gold, every surface polished. You arrive on Paul’s arm, the perfect heiress, the future of your father’s empire. You smile, wide and charming, cameras flash. Politicians shake your hands and offer compliments. Clarence Eaglewood himself greets you with a handshake and a kiss to said hand, which makes you a bit uncomfortable, but you soilder on. You’re use to old men and men in general throwing themselves at you. Frankly, it’s embarrassing. Kara always gets a kick out of it.

Kara’s absence weighs heavy, she had text an hour ago: I’ll be back before you know it.

You told her you were fine, you got this, this was what you were born for.

The gala itself is crowded, security is everywhere. It makes you feel ominous and nervous, but still you perform your role flawlessly. You talk about innovation, philanthropy, the future of the company all with a wine glass in hand. Clarence listens, his eyes eager, impressed. You’re sat next to him at dinner. It takes all the energy to smile and listen to his talk, how he just bought a house on Martha’s Vineyard, his solo trip to Spain, his new mustang he had purchased. But you listen to it all, in between bites of what looks like shrimp in some delicacy sauce.

“You’re father must be very proud of you” Clarence speaks over his wine, his lips pulling into a smile, he is young, a few years older than you, but he seems stable. You realize with clarity, that this is what you would be had Kara not come along and made you feel embarrassed you acted like a spoilt child. Clarence is you, his father built an empire, and now he runs it. He throws galas, is a politician, because that’s what his father chose for him.

“I don’t know proud. But maybe content” you offer. Clarence laughs at that, a boyish laughs, “content is lucky. I’ll tell you what, I don’t do this often, but I’ll write a check for your father as soon as I’m done with this. The work you spoke of seemed so important. And I’m sure my research will benefit” He whispers low, “and I feel as if we are old friends. We are very much alike”.

He gives you a pat on the back, and for once you feel like maybe Clarence isn’t as snobby as everyone says he is. Maybe he’s tired of that, tired of playing the game.

“Now, is it true your bodyguard is supergirl? Because my bodyguard adores Superman and he was hoping Kara would be here for a picture-“ Clarence states, wiping his mouth.

You laugh, “wow. A politician who cares about the needs of his security team”

Clarence raises his hands, “I can be human”.

“Unfortunately Kara is not here at the moment. Though she wanted to be. I can get an autograph for you? Send it in the mail?” You ask over a second bottle of wine.

Clarence nods, “please do! I can pick it up personally” he offers, and it’s there you realize Clarence has a crush on you. He’s too eager, too willing, but you do nothing. Just smile and nod and eat.

True to his word, Clarence sends a check off with Paul, and smiles and kisses your hand, “I look forward to our future meetings. Enjoy the festivity today. God knows we’ve spent a fortune on it”. And then he’s gone. As soon as he’s out of sight you sigh, moving to Paul, “Paul, let’s get home. I’m feeling faint”. Paul nods, taking your arm it’s then a waiter, disgruntled it seems pushes past you and Paul, rude in the way he bumps into Paul, he rams his shoulder into him so fast as he pushes a catering cart behind the large oak door-the door that leads to the glass stage just behind Clarence’s table. You don’t notice him, other than Paul’s annoyed grimace as he fixes his suit.

No one notices him. Not even the security guards, not the snipers on top of the building, and definitely not you. Your feet are hurting, your stomach bloated from the rich food, you want nothing more than to be home in your bed with Kara’s arms around you and Krypto at your feet. That is to say, you notice the waiter a second later, when Paul hits the lift button, and you catch the waiter running out of the side stairs that lead down the emergency exit. A cold feeling welds in your gut-sharp and deep and you lock eyes with Paul, who immediately grabs your wrist, tight. Before he can even say anything the room begins to shake and the glass stage shatters into millions and millions of pieces. Paul immediately grabs you and throws you to the nearest corner, covering your body with his as flashes of white hot heat erupt the room and the skyscraper begins to crack.

Your eyes open with bleary movements, one blink, two, before your lungs heave air, but what meets you is smoke. Harsh, fast, and hot smoke that envelops your senses, it’s hard to breathe, your lungs are burning and you watch as the room is filled with flames. Your eyes tear around the room, heart fast and flighty. You want to run, to leave, flight or flight responses. The people you came with, some hands you shook just an hour ago are either injured, burned, or shattered with glass shards. Clarence is gone, whisked away by his security team, and Paul is passed out beside you.

As soon as you meet Paul’s glass shattered face, you immediately feel frightened. Like a little girl, because you are in a way, you’ve never been afraid of death before, but here, in a skyscraper above the world it seems, with hot flames that reach above the building, climbing fast, scorching your lungs, screams of people trapped, Paul passed out, because he saved you, threw you the ground like you were his own daughter, you’re beyond frightened. Your pulse is through the roof, you close your eyes. Willing yourself to stay calm. You think of Kara- the girl who took one look at you upon meeting you, and you, stupidly had walked right past her handshake. The girl who had the patience of a saint, and the hands of an angel. The girl who you trusted with your life-the girl who mattered the most. You thought of her now, even with the flames, even with the smoke, even with the chaos of the others, you thought of her. And willed yourself up. You moved to shake Paul, hands moving to his neck, where his pulse was still active and free.

The laugh you let out was one of relief, “Paul-paul-“ you shook his shoulders, “we got to go. The building’s going to come down”. The structure was already beginning to crack. Paul’s eyes opened, Forrest green, and when his eyes met you, they widened, taking in the blood on your cheek, where glass had kissed your cheek, the way you coughed, vile and gruesome, but yet strong. You pulled Paul by his arm, hoisting him over your shoulder, carrying his weight. You were a girl of small stature, but you carried him anyway, as best as you could.

Security was helping the others as best as they could, sirens were already ringing down the flight of stairs, and you grimaced, “we’re going to have to take the stairs.”

Paul gritted his teeth, his side littered with blood, which he assured was a flesh wound, “let’s go kid” he simply gritted out. You were nervous, even as you descended down the steps, one foot, then the other. One step, then the other. One pull of Paul’s arm, then the other. The smoke was billowing now, harsh, Paul didn’t seem to mind it, but you did. Your lungs began to protest, leaving a residue in your throat, leaving your skin hot. You coughed and coughed and coughed till your stomach clenched. Paul noticed, trying his best to go faster.

You lost count of how many minutes it took-more than thirty, to just reach the ground floor. By the time you reached the ground floor, paramedics were already on standby, as soon as you saw them you immediately flagged one down, “this man has a wound. It’s bleeding a lot-“ you spoke over the cough. One paramedics man immediately took Paul away, and another immediately took you by the arms, helping you into the gurney. “What’s your name? Who else is in attendance at the gala? Did you see the bomb?” The questions were rapid, and you only shook your head, light flashing in your eyes, and suddenly everything felt heavy.

When you wake up, it’s to hospital lights that are too bright. The headache that billows behind your eyes causes you to groan, and then the sharp spike of pain across your wrist, that you realize your wrist is hooked up to a IV. “Don’t move. You need the fluids”. Your eyes struggle to focus, but you know the voice. The way it settles, the way your heart sings. Kara. Kara’s fingers are wrapped round your wrist, soft in the way they cup your wrist, stopping you from moving, from hurting yourself. She looks well rested, the yellow sun doing its job. Her hair is golden in the hospital light, her coat ratty and brown, but her eyes-they’re red. Red rimmed, like she’s been crying. Her fingers move to cup your cheek, brushing the skin lightly.

“I heard as soon as I got back. I saw the news. Your father was-“ her lips tremble,before she licks them and stares back at you with strong willful eyes, “he was worried you’d died. The whole skyscraper was blown in. A lot of people died-“ Kara’s lips halted, “and you-“ she says the word like it hurts, but then a smile moves on her lip, an undeniable unbelievable smile, half in awe, half in guilt, “you dragged Paul out. You saved him. He has a puncture to his side, would have bled out, but you-god you’re amazing” she’s saying, and then Kara is kissing you.

She’s wrapping her whole hands to cup your cheek, lifting your chin up, lips soft yet harsh, like she doesn’t want to hurt you, and then tears, thick and hot, slide down your skin, and you realize it’s Kara’s. She’s holding tight, “the one time I don’t go with my spoiled girlfriend. The one time I don’t do my job-“ it sounds self depreciating, and you won’t allow that. “Kara-“ it’s the first word you’ve spoken since the accident. It comes out harsh and rough. You cough, and Kara immediately looks worried, brows pinched, eyes looking wild, “it’s ok-I’m ok.” You start, trying to settle your breathing. Kara’s eyes glow red x raying your chest, and immediately she gets up, shoulders rigid, “I’m getting the doctor. Your lungs look exhausted-“

Kara stays by your side through it all. Never far. She stays while the doctor explains that your lungs have been hit the most. Though it could be worse, much worse, the recovery would take weeks. Your lungs are irritated, the smoke had made the job hard. But with rest, the swelling would go down. You were prescribed medicine to help the process faster.

“How many times does she take them?” Kara surprised you the most. She asked every question under the sun, one hand holding your palm, calmly rubbing, like she would in bed, and her eyes on the doctor, listening, taking in every word. It made your cheeks blush. And it made you grateful. Grateful to have a girlfriend who loved you so deeply.

The recovery process was a rough one. The first week was one of the worst weeks of your life. You were happy to be home, surrounded by the manor, the estate, the fresh air, but everytime you’d close your eyes you’d dream. Of the fire, the flames, the screams. You’d wake up without breath in your lungs, with tears down your eyes, and Kara would immediately wake, “hey, it’s alright my love. Let’s take deep breathes” she’d sooth, moving to hold your hand, taking deep breathes with you, eyes a blue storm of love, “there we go. Deep breathes babygirl.” Kara would give you your meds, make sure you never took them on an empty stomach. She’d watch you while you slept, eyes watching the way you’d breath, she’d count your heart beats, just to make sure you were ok.

You took walks every morning. Kara would hold your hand, palm rubbing gently over the skin of your fingers, she’d read to you by the oak tree, trying to get you back to normality. Whatever normality was at that point. There were times you’d feel so helpless. Human. And you’d cry, and Kara would hold you and whisper it was all going to be ok.

Slowly, you started to feel like yourself again. The perhaps over annoying, spoilt, cheeky girl who Kara loved with her whole being. Your lungs started to get better, less irritation, and you begun to enjoy your life again. Enjoy the simple things like college classes and Kara waiting for you like a puppy dog. Then came time for your first date, the first date you and Kara planned since everything. Being shut up in the manor was tough, but you’d done it. And so now, Kara had gotten all done up, suit and all, blonde hair wavy, all for you. You had decided on a flowery dress, with a smart necklace. Nothing too fancy, but simple enough. Kara’s eyes had widened upon seeing you, that dopey grin on her lips. “Absolutely beautiful baby” she had hummed, kissing your cheek, her fingers gentle as she took your chin in her fingers.

You danced, laughing when Kara would twirl you, loving how she would hold you close and ghost her lips over yours, her eyes hazy, filled with devotion and lust. You had eaten enough greasy pizza to make your stomach hurt, in the best way. And the night had ended with Kara in your bed.

Lips that spoke of devotion, hands that were heavenly. Kara with her fingers inside you, slow, forehead to forehead, lips open as she’d breath into you, moans cascading around, frantic squeals that would turn into earth shattering moans. Kara’s mouth as she’d descend and cup your ass, pulling you into her, mouth teasing, sucking on your clit like you were a delicacy. It was all the pent up months coming to fruition. It was gentle, and soft, and sexy.

It was everything you needed. And more.

And then the day had come. You and Kara had been on the way from university, you laying on Kara’s lap, buckle over you, talking a mile a minute about your day while Kara nodded along, feeding you your snack, when the call had come in.