l'entremet, a modern, multi-layered french mousse cake, 'entre mets' meaning between courses. pronounced: lahn-truh-may.

DACQUOISE NOISETTE ⤷ Hazelnut Dacquoise: The Foundation

The crash in the alley was loud. A constant ring taking home in your ears as you lowered the half smoked cigarette in your hand, eyes darting in the dimly lit alley. You saw it then. A dark figure in the bruised indigo of the late night. Slumped sideways on the garbage bags.

Curiosity killed the cat, and you were sure it might end you one day too. You took a few cautious steps towards him, your foot disturbing the serene reflection of the moon in the puddle of water. A wet feeling in your shoe. Fuck, you need shoes without holes.

"Dude, who the fuck are you?"

You were answered with heaving breaths — they sounded louder in the quiet of the night. You licked your lip in contemplation, pausing a few feet away from the dark figure.

You could either be normal, call the cops, and leave the guy be. Or…

"Listen, man, I've had a shit day," you started, throwing your half smoked cig down, putting it out before taking another step closer, "and I wanna warn you, do not try anything with me, I have a pepper spray and karate lessons from like sixth grade, and a hell lot of frustration about my shop closing. I will fuck you up."

To your offense the man laughed — well, kind of, — the laugh turned into a sputtered breath and a pained groan soon enough. Wow, this guy is fucking weird. And hurt.

You bit back the gasp that threatened to punch out of you at the sight of him. He laid there, half leaned on the black bags of trash as if they were his personal throw pillows. Clad in black head to toe, a black cloth covering half his face. Cuts decorated his body, the dark red of his blood melting into the blackness surrounding him.

Your brain scrambled to think of where you might know him from—

"The devil of Hell's Kitchen."

Your hand sprung up to slap itself over your mouth as if you could physically take back the words from the air and shove them into your throat.

The man's head tilted towards you once again a pained grimace spilling across his pink lips. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

The words were whispered into the night, echoing around the abandoned alley. His voice was textured — rough and soft all the same.

"Yeah, well you can't even if you wanted to, devil-man," your words were muffled behind your hand. Sometimes you really did wish you could shut yourself up. You let out a sigh, lowering your hand to your side. Not like it stopped you from saying shit you didn't want to.

He let out another one of those weird laugh-groan things, shifting with great effort to sit up more. You bit your lip, shoe scuffing the ground as you looked down at him. He did promise he wouldn't hurt you. Clearly, he was going to bleed out if you leave him here.

"You need help, devil man?"

"No, I think—" he was cut off by his own groan of pain, somehow trying to stand up before swaying and—

"Woah there!"

Your arms wrap around him in an instant, though the position is a bit awkward you try to maneuver some of his weight onto yourself, helping him stand up. He was warm and heavy against you. Bloody clothes and heaving breaths.

By the time you manage to wrap his big arm around your shoulder, helping him lean on you, the

"You were saying, devil man?" you teased in between huffed breaths.

He just grinned, the corners of his mouth shaky as his head leaned down, finally conceding.

— The repetitive motions of whipping the egg whites and sugar into a meringue lulled your mind into a weirdly calm place. Nothing else existed at this very moment in time. Just you and the tap-tap of the whisk. A metronome to your, for once, stilled thoughts.

knock. knock knock. knock.

The whisk slipped from your hands with all the grace of a fish swimming on land. You let out an indignant huff, hand coming to tap your chest as if trying to get your heartbeat back into it's usual rhythm through sheer will.

"Jesus! Devil man," you mutter, stomping towards the window, unlocking it and stepping aside to let his broad frame in, "you gotta stop with the creepy knocking, man. I could've fucked up the L'entremet. Again."

You'd stuck with the nickname even though you know his name now. Matthew Michael Murdock. Daredevil. One and the same. Or simply (and less dramatically) put Matt.

He sauntered into the kitchen with a soft hum of acknowledgement, making a quick work of his make shift black mask, leaving his hair a puffy mess in its wake. You hated how unbearably soft the sight made you. Him walking around in the warm kitchen lights of your cramped apartment. Hair messy, and eyes glinting. He looked as if he belonged here… or maybe somewhere far away from here.

"You're making it again?" he questioned between greedy gulps of water from the glass you'd kept ready for him before re-starting on your baking rendezvous, "There is already one on the rack."

"Well, yeah," you huff out, walking back towards the kitchen counter, hand fiddling with the whisk, nervous suddenly, "it's not perfect yet, I'd hoped I could do it before y'know — the place closes down tomorrow. But I guess not."

Matt walked towards it. An inquisitive look on his face as he stood in front of your previous failed attempt.

"The hazelnut base is too soft, and the meyer lemon curd is too… acidic? citrus-y," you supplied as he picked up the fork nearby on the counter. Watching anxiously as he cut himself a bite, calloused hands smoothly shoveling a bite up before he shoveled it into his mouth.

"So, what do you think, devil man?"

"It is… perfect. The softness of the base goes well with the crunch of the — what is it? crepes?"

You let out a hum, "French crepes and hazelnut praline paste."

"Yeah, that," he chewed thoughtfully before nodding to himself, "the lemon curd goes well with the rest of the things too, 's not too acidic if that's what you're thinking. You're worryin' for nothing."

You're not entirely convinced. You know that the guy has enhanced senses and yet your foolish brain refuses to believe him. Regardless, your heart still preens at the praise he showers you with, shoulders relaxing just a bit as you leaned back against the counter. The silence feels nice. So you decide to break it.

"You gonna need any stitching up tonight, Matty, or just popped in to steal some desserts?"

"Can't it be both, sweetheart?"

The warmth in your heart — you convince yourself — is from the baking and not him.

CROUSTILLANT PRALINÉ ⤷ Crunchy Praline: The Friction

The bluesy song playing on the speakers at Josie's made your head thrum as if the notes were bouncing around in your fuzzy mind.

The cheap beer was good enough to have you tipsy. Fuzzy brain and warm body.

You'd taken to watching Matt and a lady from the bar — Samantha? — play pool, all wide grins and murmured nonsense. Foggy had retired next to you a while back, claiming to be 'tired of beating Murdock's ass at this'. Karen had followed after him chuckling as her blue eyes glowed in the cheap bar lights.

Your finger followed the path of the condensation droplets on your beer bottle.

"So, how's the search for the new job going?"

The question from Karen seemed to snap you back to the present, eyes darting to Foggy, Karen and then back to your bottle. The answer is loose on your tongue, the beginning of an I don't know, swirls around your mouth. Pungent and bitter in its wake.

Your reply is cut off at the I part of the statement by Matt coming back to the table. Seeing his hand around her waist — Emma? — before was a nice distraction from your melancholy and numbness — a slow burn in your chest, a stinging behind eyes, and green thoughts in your mind. Jealousy.

He picks up his coat with a grin. You don't quiet hear the teasing he's subjected to by Karen and Foggy. Your eyes focused on his rapidly reddening cheeks, and shit-eating grin. The snap of his cane, and the flourish of his coat. Soon enough he's sending a nod your way and passing a pat on your shoulder before tap-taping away to her. Apparently he'd decided to be gentlemanly tonight — choosing to 'drop her off safely' to her place.

She's pretty. You have to admit that. Green eyes glinting like emeralds in the lazy light, hair perfectly falling down her shoulders in a beautiful cascade, outfit just the perfect amount of casual and formal, and a smile so beautiful it managed to steal the air from your lungs. She seemed smart too. And she must be, you think bitterly.

You try not to imagine it — him with her. How she'd maybe invite him up, a soft grin on her pretty lips. And he'd chuckle, maybe even hesitate before he'd accept it. How he'd kiss her, warm, calloused hands around her waist, maybe even on her jaw — pulling her closer to him and kissing her deeper.

You blink back your bitter tears, taking another sip of your now warmer beer. Listening to the ebbing and flowing conversation between Foggy and Karen about some bakery they adore, how they could help hook you up there. You thank them for it and get another drink. And another. And another. And well, one more doesn't hurt.

Later that night, you remember hugging Karen bye a little too tight.

You also remember the worried glance her and Foggy shared as they insisted to get you a cab home.

You also remember sitting at your own doorstep and crying like a kid, eyes staring at the window on the opposite end of the hallway, as if some part of you was still waiting for Matt — your devil-man — to come climbing through it.

You also remember the confusion you felt waking up the next morning in your bed with a splitting headache, and tucked in. A glass of water, and pain meds on your bedside, with a hand written note that stood out to you most.

'Take Care, Sweetheart."

Wonky letters and shaky, unsure handwriting. Matt.

—

The rain continued thundering as you rushed into the building. The warmth of the place seemed to envelope your cold, and shaking body. The sound of the thunder and taps of the rain muffled through the walls.

You couldn't help but rush up the stairs, searching for the familiar sign of 'Nelson, Murdock, and Page: Attorneys at Law.'

"She's here!"

Foggy's voice echoed as he rushed up to you, taking the box of baked goodies from your hands as you tried to catch your breath, shrugging off your soaked coats in a rush.

'Oh my god!' you hear Karen exclaim, a thud, and the quick clicks of Karen's kitten heels as she rushed out of the meeting room, Matt following after her in a hurry that matches her.

"How'd it go?" Matt seems to be much calmer in his tone than his partners, though you know him well enough that you can tell he's just as excited, hand shaking slightly around his cane as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, a barely there grin on his lips. And you just know he knows. He always knows.

You swallow back the sudden emotion pushing through the adrenaline rush you'd gotten hurrying here through the rain. Your breaths hitch through your chest, heart refusing to come down from the high of the news.

"I got it," you whisper, barely audible to your own self, eyes staring at all of them, and somehow through them. Head here and everywhere.

And then as suddenly as you'd flown off, just as soon as you're crumbling down, and Matt is somehow right there. Like he always is. Warmth seemed to envelope your cold bones as Matt hugs you to him, unfreezing the numbness you'd surrounded yourself with the past few months after the restaurant you'd worked at basically your whole adult life was closed, leaving you unsure and terrified for the first time. The good and the bad of that old place mixing in your chest till it all turned black. The bad reviews and the good ones. The yelling and the peace. All of it swirling and melting into one big black hole in your being.

"I got the job," you repeat, stronger this time, words muffled against his neck — smelling of cinnamon and cool nights.

You can vaguely make out Foggy and Karen screaming at that, as they hug each other. All of it feels as you were witnessing it from underwater. All you could really feel was him. Matt.

CRÉMEUX AU CITRON ⤷ Meyer Lemon Curd: The Heart

Matt knew that there were only two times in your life where you'd ever considered never baking again. First, when you'd almost lost your mother to a car accident right after a big argument over your career, and second, when you'd gotten your first bad review while working at your old place. You hated to admit how bad it had actually affected you. The words 'There was no art, no thought, no emotion behind the dessert. A pathetic, monotonous attempt at a dessert which works on the symphony of textures,' had bounced around your head every time you even touched the thought of baking.

And these — confessions of sort, had seemed to come out easier for you that night on the roof with him — hazy and warm next to him, the smell of those awful nicotine gums you were chewing a while back still on your breath. He could also smell the thick scent of petrichor and flowers around you, the scent of fancy baking things he could barely remember the names of — though he's sure you've told them all before on the late nights he's spent at yours — the scent of it is addicting, sweet. You.

In turn, he'd tried to think of something to tell you. Maybe about the many times he'd tried to quit being the lawyer, or being the vigilante. Maybe about the few too many times he'd wanted to — tried to — quit being all together. Parts of himself he refused to accept. Parts of himself he had accepted. All mixing together to form him. Would you want this? Him?

It'd have been so easy, just to spill it all out. Keep it all in the open for you to see. And, he thinks, a part of him knows you'd accept it all far too easily. So he doesn't say it at all. Because you know. And he knows.

He had instead somehow found himself talking about his father — those late nights spent patching him up with shaking hands and bit back groans, the lazy Sundays spent with him doing homework and watching trash TV with his dad, the disgusting but full of heart chocolate cakes on birthdays that always made growing up feel better somehow. Then about Foggy and the Columbia days — the drunken laughter and half finished assignments, the 'Avocados at Law' and the half finished internship at Landman and Zack.

It'd all spilled out in a velvet soft touch of your hand to his. Somehow the grief in him balanced by the love in you. Existing. Together. In all of it.

He'd tilted his head, chasing the warmth of you, head poised to 'look' at you. He could hear the wind twisting and playing with your hair. He could feel the heat of the blood rushing to your cheeks as he tilted to face you. His lips a breath away from yours — God, he could almost taste it — the cocoa lip balm, and the cheap nicotine gum.

Thudthud - Thudthud.

Your heartbeat fastening as his hand came up to rest on your pulse. Warm, and sweet under his touch. He'd felt it then, your gaze heavy on his lips, your own hands clenching and unclenching on your sides.

"Matt," you'd whispered then, one of your hands coming to rest on his heart — and then he knew. He knew again. That he l—

"I- I don't think this is…"

You'd trailed off then, and he'd smelled then the salt of your tears, your hand fisting his shirt under your grasp. Somehow both pushing him away and pulling him back in.

Yet again he's stuck in the in between. But at least he's with you this time.

That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye. Like always.

—

"Hello?"

You knew it was wrong before you'd even done it. Matt had forgotten his phone before he'd left with Foggy and Karen for court. You'd reassured Karen you would cover for them — it was your rare day off anyway, not like you'd got anything going on. And you'd seen his phone then, but it'd already been a while since the trio had left. You couldn't catch up to them now without leaving the office for too long. So you'd decided it was not that bad, that you'd texted Karen about it already so it was fine.

"Hi? Who is this?" The voice from the other end was feminine, and gentle. It was that girl — Alexa? — from that night at Josie's. Your heart lurched at the thought of Matt still being in contact with her. Why did he even try to kiss you then?

You mechanically muttered your name, hearing her light up as she said something about remembering you from that night.

"Yeah, yeah," you responded, "so uhh…" Fuck, you don't remember her name.

"Matt forgot his phone at the office, I can give him a message for you if you want," you opted to say instead.

"Oh no, that's okay! Could you maybe ask him to call me back soon?"

"Yeah, sure, yeah, of course."

"Great! Thank you so mu—"

BEEP

…

They'd gotten a bit held up in traffic. Matt knew it was rather childish of him — being so excited to share the win with you, wanting to tell you everything that happened in court as if he were a kid winning his first match at little league. But a part of him couldn't care of how insanely naive he'd look in front of you then. He just wanted to tell you all of it.

What he was greeted with instead was you rushing off with excuses which was sure all of them could tell were lies. The scent of your tears thick in the air. He couldn't help but rush after you, hand darting out to catch your wrist in the hallway outside of the office.

"Sweetheart, what—"

"Nothing, you girlfriend called and asked you to call her ba—"

"Wait, what? Girlfriend?"

The look of total bafflement on his face made you pause, licking your lips in contemplation. He looked panicked, brows drawn together, red lenses glinting under the dingy hallway lights, lips pulled into a frown. Those cute forehead crinkles making their presence known at his stressed face.

"The girl from the bar — Lacy? — I'm not sure, she uhm…" your eyes filled once again, and you couldn't help but chastise yourself for this childish behavior, what was this high school? What the fuck were you even doing?

"She what, sweetheart?" His voice is as warm as his hands which snap his cane shut, curling around your wrists, tracing mindless patterns inside.

"She called you, and uh she asked you to call her back," you blinked back your tears, trying to loosen his hold on your arms.

"Okay, and?"

"Well, aren't you dating her then? If you're still in contact with her," you whisper the words as if they wouldn't be true if you made sure to speak in a low voice.

The confusion just seemed to etch deeper into his face with that, "What? Is that why you're so upset, sweetheart?"

The question is gentle, like him. One of his hands hesitantly reaching to cup your face as he gulps.

"She's… Sweetheart— she's nothing, I mean I haven't even talked to her since walking her home that night—"

"Does she know that, Matt? She… She called you and talked so confidently to me as if it were nothing, like she'd done this a million times before with you," you murmur, face screwing up as you look down at his calloused hand holding your wrist.

"Yes," he murmurs, trying to match the quietness of your voice, hand snaking further down your wrist, gently prying your fist open before intertwining your hands, "nothing happened between us that night, and nothing will ever happen between me and her… I don't— don't like her that way."

"You don't?" you ask, suddenly turning shy, leaning into his warmth now.

"I don't, sweetheart," he echoes, a small smile on his lips now as he squeezes your hand affectionately, "but you know what?"

"What?" you echo back, turning to finally look up at him properly, heart thudding expectantly in your chest again, as if it were trying to break free and rush back to him.

"I like you that way," he murmurs this lowly, face close to yours — enough that he nuzzles your nose gently, enough that you can smell the strong coffee on his breath and the scent of cinnamon that seemed to always follow him.

An apprehensive smile spreads across your lips at that, "Yeah?"

"Yeah, sweetheart," he answers, voice earnest in a way that it rarely ever was.

"Good," you whisper, hand finally curling back around his, pressing your lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss before pulling away just a bit. If it was even possible, his grin turned even more fond than it was before.

That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye. Like always.

Just this time, you both planned a date before he left.

MOUSSE À L'EARL GREY ⤷ Earl Grey Mousse: The Body

Matt wasn't used to this. 'This' being sitting in a bathtub under a shower with someone after having sex.

When you'd said you wanted to take a shower afterwards it was as if it were implied he'd be joining you in there, as if it were just normal, everyday routine. Usually, with the other women he'd slept with, he would just get along with his things and leave, or maybe just fall asleep after helping the woman clean up and cleaning up himself.

There was no reason to stick around. To share nonsensical domestic moments that meant nothing.

So, right now as he sits in the bathtub while lukewarm water falls down on the both of you, he doesn't particularly want to like it. He doesn't want to like this feeling of you in his arms in this cold porcelain tub, the scent of your shampoo strong enough, on him, around him, that he's sure it'll stick to him for days. But it's nicer than he thought it would be. He can't help but think it's nice because of you.

"Matty, tilt your head down?" It's more an order than question. Your voice sounds different under the spray of the water. Acoustics or whatever.

He complies, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head down. He can feel your sudsy fingers work their way in his hair and scalp, and then backwards to his neck. You're humming something, heartbeat steady, and muscles relaxed as you focus on his hair as if you were creating a masterpiece — or baking something you love. It's domestic. And new. And, he thinks he might be a little bit in love with you.

His bones felt dense as his head tilted further down, he was aware of it, but he couldn't stop it. Head coming to rest against your shoulder as your fingers worked in the shampoo, he tilted his head just a bit taking in the scent of you, nosing at your neck. He could hear your heart speed up just a bit at the kisses he left in his wake, his warm breath against your pulse, soft lips pressed into vulnerable skin.

That's when you let out a huff of a laugh, shifting to let him press himself further into your arms. A looseness in his movements he was unfamiliar with — yet appreciated it. The calm you seemed to stamp into his being by just existing with him. The peace you brought to his life, one eternally stuck in the in betweens of existence. And, he knows it's possible he might be a lot in love with you.

The shower washes off the shampoo you'd put in his hair. And he's suddenly taken by this itch —- this urge, really — to do something for you. Maybe he could wash your hair, use all these fancy products you love, or maybe he could wash your body. Perhaps he would be far too clumsy with someone as gentle as you. So instead he could go back down and kiss you up between your thighs, you seemed to like it before — calling out his name as if it were the only name in the world worth something. He loves how you'd said his name, so sweet and airy. He felt unworthy of even his name in that moment, how could it be said so… so lovingly? A name that belonged to him called out with such strong affection?

Because he's too chicken shit to actually say it, he just pulls you closer instead, under the flow of the water, lips slotting sweetly against yours. You seem to be surprised before melting into him, hands twined in his hair still. He presses the words into your mouth, hoping they're half worthy of you. But somehow, he knows you know. Because when you pull away you giggle, the sound muffled into his skin, sticky sweet. He can't help but smile too — he feels his cupids bow stretch, the dimple he's been told he has somehow taking home right under your lips.

He'd felt it then your hands rubbing his neck, cupping his jaw to turn him up before kissing him again. Sticky sweet like your voice, like the desserts you bake late at night, like your cocoa lip gloss.

"I love you," he can't help but spill his secret out between kisses, you somehow always coax it all out anyway.

"I love you, too," you answer back, before pressing your smiling lips to his.

He doesn't need to hear your heartbeat this time to know it's true.

—

The first time Matt visited the new restaurant you were working at with Foggy and Karen, he was surprised.

The place was extravagant, with waiters who somehow knew every good thing that had happened to you, food that had fancy name and fancier plating, and apparently, from what he heard, decorations worth more than his entire savings account.

The dessert though — it was all you, he knew it was. The same sweetness you'd seem to mix into every thing you touched was prominent in it. Warm and homey.

After the service was over, he'd found you at the back door. You were having a panic attack.

Your hands wouldn't stop shaking, as you tried to press yourself further back into the brick wall behind you, somehow resisting the urge to bash your head into it. It was as though your body and soul were trying to separate — trying to break down the delicate muscles and tendons that held you together.

That's when warm hands took your shaking ones, and you looked away from him like a scolded child. It was pathetic, really. You'd had worse services in your life — filled with screaming chefs, and buzzing timers. But tonight… tonight had been much more of a shit show, you'd been asked to make l'entremet for a special guest as a gift. It'd been her, the reviewer from all those years ago. Your body, as silly as it was, couldn't decipher the difference between being hunted for sport and between a reviewer from ages ago trying your desserts again. She'd loved it apparently. And yet… here you were again.

"Sweetheart."

Matt's voice is a rumble against your chest as he pulls you into him. Warm hand splayed across your shoulders as he rubbed absent minded circles there. Your hands trembled where they rested loosely around his waist.

"Jesus, you're still shaking, honey," he pulled away once again to guide your hands back into his, asking you the routine of stating five things you could see, four things you could feel, three things you could hear, two things you could smell, one thing you could taste.

It helped enough that you felt the panic leave — as if it were draining out of your body, leaving you dry, and hollow.

"I'm okay now," you murmur half heartedly, making no move to loosen your grip on his hands.

"No, you're not, sweetheart," he quipped gently, a soft smile bordering on sympathetic, but instead of pressing on it he chose instead to pull you further into his arms, pressing kisses on your head, the smell of cinnamon on his coat was nice, burying your face in it felt nicer, somehow. As if for these few moments the world is pushed away, the only sounds being Matt's heartbeat, and the scratch of his coat against your ear.

With his heart under your ear, and his arms around yours. You let go.

GLAÇAGE MIROIR ⤷ Lavender Mirror Glaze: The Veil

Matt is almost sure he'll die before you do.

Matt thinks you know, too, deep down — you, who's always beautiful and hurting, sweet and bitter, all in one go — you must know, didn't you?

Those late nights he spends curled up around your body, warm body entangled with yours. Bound, yours forever. Forever. It seemed to be such a long time just a few years back. But now as he feels his heartbeat sync up to yours, the feeling of your loose cotton tee under his fingertips, the feeling of your skin so gentle under his callouses. How could any amount of time ever be enough?

It's scary to him. How contagious and hemorrhagic your love is. How faithful and deep it is to a fault. It scares him most times how utterly forgiving you are, holding him up over and over, absolving him with a touch of your hand. No matter the crime, no matter the sin. You guide him back to goodness regardless.

The sticky sweetness in you dissolved into him, and he takes it all greedily. The string of loneliness running through him — the one that burns his soft flesh from the inside — the sting eases just enough. Enough for him to let go of his ache, of his burns and bruises.

In the beginning he'd tried to give you something or the other in turn of this… this kindness you were giving to him so freely. Something perfect in order to make up for the fact it was coming from him, to prove that he too, was worthy of your kindness — of your forgiveness. He often wonders if he succeeded. Part of him thinks he must have because how else was he allowed to keep you here, right next to him. Heartbeats syncing, breaths slowing.

But at the end of it all. All the thoughts, the feelings, the questions pass. And he always ends up right where he started anyway. With you. Always you.

—

You try to be a restrained person.

Otherwise you were sure your heart would race right out of your chest. Breaking past the human, physical barriers of a tender, broken body; spilling into everything you touch with affection — the things you bake, the people you love, the shows you feel with, the songs that soundtrack you, the movies you experience through, the books that break you down and build you up over again, it'd all have a piece of your heart in it then.

Yet, Matt somehow nudges past it all, opening up your chest like an open wound — the vulnerability of it all painfully embarrassing. You'd been taught as a young chef that cooking is art too — self expression, and love, — it too, holds the power of taking a piece of you and sending it along through the food… Through the art.

Yet it'd never managed to make you feel as open as it had with Matt. It was as if he'd chosen to feel, hear, see, all these parts of yourself — some you'd been too ashamed to weave through your food, your art, some you'd been too proud to open and show to others. But somehow, through all of it, he reached over and over again for you. These parts of yourself you marked off as unlovable, he somehow loved more than he did himself.

Those early mornings you spend, tangled up with him under the sleep, and sun warmed sheets all you can think of is wanting this — him — forever.

Forever, something you'd found so baffling as a kid, something you'd found so utterly insane to even think of — suddenly seemed to normal, so easy to desire, with him.

All you want is these lazy mornings. Where he wakes up cozied next to you, and murmurs something about not wanting to leave the bed just yet. Where you look at him, beautiful and good, with a halo of his curls spread out like feathers, and rosy lips pulled into a barely there smile, eyes fluttering, and senses loosened. Where you drink coffee together, barely awake but here all the same.

You want it all. With him. Always him.

taglist: @ace-degenerate-13 @lina-murdock @lambmurdock @vigilantekisser @nohugsallowed @moth-murdock @writing-not-crying @angelmurdock @bex-or-rebekah @beet-schrute @marvlettes @that1weirdweebgirl @obsessedwithfakeguys @thychuvaluswife @silkenmurdock

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i. WORD OF MOUTH

The city of Metropolis had barely roused from its sleepy state, the skyscrapers painted in colours of pink and orange as the sun lazily peered from its slumber beneath the horizon. 

Clark Kent shared a similar sentiment as the giant ball of gas, his hair mussed and tie not sitting quite right against the crisp white button shirt that took an embarrassing amount of time to iron the creases out of. There was little requirement for him to sleep, aside from maintaining a side of humanity he’d like to keep, but the mental fatigue from the tensions between the US Government and his actions in Jarhanpur had contributed to his flat energy. 

His feet felt like concrete against the stone stairs, one hand on the railing that the paint was peeling off of, his steps echo all the way to the ground floor; where he had every intention to muster the courage to open up his mailbox on the communal postal area for the apartment complex. 

There was never anything bad in there, but when your standard 9 til’ 5 job consists of fact-checking, pitching article ideas and fighting for the hot spot on the front page of the company you worked for…well, the last thing he wanted to do was read. 

Either way, the mailman waits for nobody and it was evident in the papers crammed into mailbox painted with Clark’s door number on it. 

Clark sighs. He got up earlier than usual to do this—and he was sure he’d still be late to work with an extra twenty minutes under his belt. He persists past the procrastination, and slots his mailbox key into the lock; a few envelopes topple out and he bends at the waist to retrieve them from the floor riddled with chewing gum pressed into the material. 

“Oh hey, Clark,” Clark shoots up, the back of his head catching the corner of the small metal door at the abrupt sound of the secondary voice. You—the owner of the groggy voice—wince, “Shit. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

Clark feels his face go pink. You were one of the many residents within the mid-rise apartment complex on Clinton Street in midtown Metropolis. Quick-witted, with a generous amount of extrovert which made the perfect concoction in befriending your neighbour Clark Kent upon his first week in his new pad.

You had believed the dark-haired and bad postured journalist to be a little lacking in the social skills forefront when you had first met him. His skin maintaining a healthy flush whenever you stopped by his door with house-warming plants—that he took incredibly seriously in keeping alive—or whenever you bumped into him around the building. 

(Worst time was in the laundry room, where Clark had missed a pair of boxers with hearts printed on them in the dryer. You were the one to find them and return them to their rightful owner that had written his name in sharpie on the tag.) 

Eventually, you just accepted that was who he was. A six foot something pink man. 

It also didn’t help that Clark found you incredibly gorgeous amongst all the other feelings that bubbled in his stomach when he caught some small talk with you. 

You weren’t as much as the girl-next-door, as you were the girl-one-floor-above.  

Unbeknownst to him; you also felt the same way. 

Clark clears his throat, “Don’t apologise. I should have my wits about me.” he says as he rubs the back of his head. 

“I’ll announce myself by a bell, or something next time.” you joke as you step up to the communal mailboxes and find your one with ease. Your mailbox has the correct amount of letters for someone who checks it daily—unlike Clark—and you begin to siphon through them whilst you speak, “Aside from the headache…how are you?” 

Embarrassed! Publicly humiliated! 

“Swell.” Clark settles for, “And you?” 

You sigh, which can’t be good. “I got let go from my job. I say that term loosely—I got fired.” 

“No kidding?” 

“Turns out you shouldn’t shit where you eat.” you grumble, flipping a pamphlet over in your hand, “Power imbalance prevails, I suppose.” you shrug at the thought. 

Clark pulls his lips into a thin line, the pinky flush slowly dissipating from his face from the distracting subject of your workplace drama. It had been common knowledge between three floors in the building that you and your seedy boyfriend who, also, happened to be the manager at the establishment you had been employed in; had since gone your separate ways after you found several of his accounts on a plethora of dating apps—one app, he had a passport for in order to speak to women across the globe. 

Because his cheating needed to be international. 

Things went sour, like really sour. It wasn’t your finest moment, but Clark reassured you through breathing exercises and a firm rub up and down your back that it was completely acceptable to hold an illegal street bonfire with your ex’s belongings as the kindlings to ignite it. 

(He didn’t mention the part where he was lying about it being okay. Or, the amount of bail he paid to get you out of the local police station.) 

Turns out the retaliation from your ex was firing you. The irony. 

Jackass. 

“I’m sorry about that.” Clark stares at your side-profile with empathy in his blue eyes, “Have you found anything?” 

“Nope.” you emphasis the ‘p’ with a pop, finger peeling a brown envelope open, “So, if you hear anything—literally anything—send it my way. I’m down to scrape the barrel to keep up with my rent payment each month.” 

“You have my word.” Clark promises and then you both fall comfortably silent. Which just means, he was going to admire you for a minute. 

After Clark had heard through the grapevine of your split, he had every intentions to build up the courage to ask you out on a date in the near distant future. It had been nine, torturous months of watching you from afar with a man that Clark Kent knew was not up to par with being able to be with a woman like you. That guy dimmed you down in every single way possible, and Clark had to stop attending neighbour-hangouts as he couldn’t bear to watch your radiance shrouded.

Plus, your ex took a real disliking to Clark after he watched your compatibility with him flourish.

So, when the news broke via—as you graciously called her—Old Woman Jenkins who lived in Apartment 3-B with her seven cats and two budgies; it was safe to say Clark was ecstatic for two reasons. 

1.) You were free from the toxicity, and 2.) This gave Clark the opportunity to show you how a real man should love you. 

Only downside was…Clark wasn’t sure when to approach it. He wasn’t emotionally stinted, so he knew that asking you out within a day, or even a week after your split would’ve just been grounds for a restraining order. On the flip side, he didn’t want to catch a rebound case because his feelings ran a lot deeper than a fleeting, emotional distraction.

Therefore, Clark just never asked. You don’t ask, you don’t get your heartbroken or something like that.

He just couldn’t ruin a good thing. 

You eventually speak again when you close your mailbox, eyes trailing down to the newspaper clutched in your neighbour’s hand, “You a front pager again?” you ask with a smile. 

“Oh—Ah, yes,” Clark flips the folded newspaper open to reveal the front page regarding his recent fight with the Hammer of Boravia. He points to the article, “That’s all me.” 

You peer at the print, “Congratulations again, Clark! That’s a huge deal in journalism world.”

“Oh…I—Thank you.” Clark stumbles through his profound gratitude for your praise. The tips of his ears start to turn pink again. 

You nod and adjust the tote bag on your shoulder, “Seriously, it takes balls.” 

“Yes, that’s why I enjoy the job—” he says at the same time as you speak.

“I mean, making that guy look good? I didn’t think that could be possible.” you add earnestly. 

Clark blinks. 

“…” he breathes a laugh, “I—I don’t follow.”

“Superman? I mean, come on. He is an egotistical white knight that faces zero ramifications from his actions. He only gets away with things because he’s handsome.” you wave off the tail-end of your statement in a flippant manner paired with a roll of your eyes, “I can’t stand the guy.”

You think he’s handsome? Clark has to shake the compliment off like water off a duck’s back. Low priority in comparison to the other things you had just off-handedly stated in your brief rant on the man in red and blue. 

There is part of Clark that almost leaps at the opportunity to get a little bad tempered over it, toss his toys out of the pram from the unwarranted criticism. Superman was good! He was good! 

Instead, Clark compartmentalises his hurt feelings and puts his Pulitzer prize-winning star reporter title to good use. 

“What—What makes you say that?” Clark tucks his chin to conceal the pout on his face, masking it as deep interest to the letters in his hands, “He’s got a glowing track record of keeping the streets of Metropolis safe.”

He was really hoping that he didn’t unearth a Boravian supporter out of you.

Or, that you agreed with the statement that had begun to grow arms and legs about his so-called ‘alien entitlement’ to house himself within Earth’s atmosphere. 

You answer in an unwavering tone of resentment. “It’s a personal grudge that’s grown ever since that fight on Clinton Street broke out—before you got here. I had just paid my car off, and whaddya know? Superman and his body made of steel, totals it alongside his own defeat with whatever shithead guy he was fighting against.” you blurt sarcastically, “He owes me a car.” 

“Oh. That isn’t so bad.” is how Clark responds, without a thought behind it. 

To him, it wasn’t so bad. He felt guilty, obviously collateral damage was something he wasn’t so favourable over.

However, this was fixable. 

Clark’s answer threw you for such a loop, that you almost forgot to answer. “Isn’t so bad?” you repeat, “Under what circumstances does that fall under the category of: isn’t so bad?” 

“No—I, I didn’t mean it wasn’t bad. It’s quite terrible actually,” Clark swallows, the heat capturing beneath his collar as he speaks. “In the grand scheme of possibilities that could have happened, at least you weren’t in your car. And—And, on top of that, he saved multiple citizens from becoming a casualty statistic.” 

“My car became a casualty statistic. Superman fucking sucks.” you state sternly. “Nothing can change my mind about that.” 

Clark frowns, “Nothing?” 

“Nothing.” you affirm, “Anyway, I’ve got a job interview in thirty. I’ll see you around?” 

“Yes. See you.” Clark offers a strained smile as you wave him goodbye and disappear round the corner to exit the building.

He lets out a breath he had been holding since you confessed your acquired distaste for Superman. 

Clark’s gaze drops to the newspaper, his fingers curl tightly into the pages as he decided on the spot; he was going to convince you otherwise regarding the personal vendetta against, well…him. 

ii. WEEKLY PAPER

The art of apologies seemed pretty simple, right? 

A heartfelt card, or a bouquet of flowers could go a long way in the tumultuous events that led up to an apology being a necessity to mending a friendship, relationship or family bond. However, the situation with you was a little different to a petty squabble, despite Clark believing it to be petty to hold such a grudge—he saved lives that day! 

For one, you weren’t aware that there was any mending to be done. Your hatred toward Superman had been cemented the day you returned from work, having decided to walk that particular sunny day, only to find your beloved vehicle crumpled. To you, there was no putting bandaids over wounds, and you certainly had zero forgiveness in your heart for the man that patrolled the skies of Metropolis. 

The whole crux of the matter was, Clark Kent was raised on the rule that honesty was the best policy. Honestly, no, he doesn’t recall crushing your car after being tossed across Clinton Street like a rag-doll. He’s sure he’s crushed a few cars in his time in the city, and he knows he would have felt guilty at the time; but it was better to forgive and forget rather than bottle up all your resentful feelings toward someone who was just trying to help. 

Further to this, Clark wanted to take the chance and ask you out on a date. He really did. Time was a healer, and it had been three months—give or take—since your split from the egotistical cheater, meaning it felt like ample enough time to be justified in his intentions. However, if you despised Superman, you unknowingly despised Clark Kent…and that wouldn’t be something that would sit right on his chest. 

That would take away part of his honesty. If he had to continue concealing his identity behind the glasses to appease your objectifications on Superman. 

(At least it was more a personal issue than a shared thought with the less friendly bunch that lived in Metropolis.) 

So, in conclusion, Clark came up with the bright idea to slowly introduce you to the good side of Superman. You know, the one that saves Metropolis and much further, fetches kittens down from trees, gives back to the community. 

He was basically trying to fill your head with Superman shaped stars. 

The best option came to him whilst he sat at his desk in the bullpen of Daily Planet. Knees touching the underside of his desk, his mind had been elsewhere for the better part of the day; as Clark was more or less sulking over the revelation you shared with him that morning. 

How could he change your mind? Clark had learnt that you were strong-minded to an extent from a personal experience with a fellow neighbour, who had a terrible habit of pausing Clark’s laundry in the dryer and dumping his half damp clothes into a hamper just so they could use that one particular machine. (There were ten in total.) 

When Clark expressed his frustrations to you, he hadn’t expected you to begin a psychological warfare against the neighbour in Apartment 1-D. It was safe to say, you won out of sheer resilience. 

He dared not to share the same fate as Apartment 1-D. 

Then, it sort of went off like a lightbulb in his head. Clark Kent created articles in which he interviewed himself, in order to shed a positive light on his actions. Why not bring those interviews to your doorstep under the Daily Planet subscription service? 

It meant you’d receive weekly newspapers from the Planet, delivered to your home with no extra cost aside from the cheap subscription fee to keep journalism alive and kicking.

Clark would pay for it out of his own pocket, of course. 

Not only were you strong-minded, but you were curiouser than a cat and that meant your interest would pique to flip through the pages of the newspaper and, eventually, read all about the good deeds of Superman. 

Not to mention how charming and handsome he was…but you already knew that. 

It was the perfect idea, with the perfect execution! 

That was, until, you had received the third instalment of your new $3.99 subscription to the newspaper company Clark worked for. 

“Morning, Clark.” you chirp as you reach your mailbox, sparing the male a glance with a pretty smile that had his heart thump a little harder. “This is the most I’ve seen you in the communal mailbox area.” 

(There was a reason for that.) 

Clark hums, “Best to keep on top of my mail, I think.” 

“You’d be right. The shredders are hungry for junk mail.” you had a tendency to laugh at your own jokes with a cute snort. Something that was cut short when you open your mailbox. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“What’s wrong?” Clark asks with his brows pinched.

“I think my ex is tormenting me,” you grouse, “As if I was the one sharing my favourite position on six different dating apps—ugh. He’s signed me up for the Daily Planet subscription when he knows how much I don’t want to read about the brown-nosing of Superman.” you pause, eyes flitting to Clark’s face, “No offence.” 

“None taken.” (A lot taken. All at once.) 

You continue, “I mean—I guess it is a retaliation because I signed his phone number up to receive regular calls for recruitment within Scientology. But, this almost feels worse.” you whine as you toss the newspaper in your tote bag for later shredding. 

“You signed him up to Scientology?” Clark asks and you spare him a shameful glance. He redirects the topic, for your sake. “Is it really so bad, reading about all the things Superman is doing to keep Metropolis afloat?” 

“It’s hard not to hear about it, let alone be subjected to reading it too.” you seethe, “It’s a constant reminder that he wrecked my car, and never had to face the consequences—unlike me. You know, I hate riding the subway? I swear I’m one sticky seat away from contracting a new strain of the plague. He caused that.” 

Clark wants to call you dramatic. 

He goes for, “I hear you.” instead. 

“Do you think you could get this cancelled for me?” you ask as you shut your mailbox, “I want to support you, but, this is like rubbing salt in an open wound.” 

How could Clark say no? He had a firm grasp on boundaries, and part of him felt remorseful over the fact that you believed that his own doings were that of your ex-boyfriend—someone you really didn’t need reminding of. Plus, you were staring at him all glittery-eyed which was part of his weakness when it came to you. 

And your means to be overtly theatrical.

Not only that, but Clark led himself to believe he had crossed a big company no-no by inputting your details into the Daily Planet subscription system and, has since spent every day since unlawfully signing you up to the weekly newspapers, convincing himself he was border-lining on identity theft. 

Clark likes you. He likes the idea of keeping his job just a little bit more. 

He exhales. “Yeah. I will sort that for you. No problem.” 

“You’re a life saver. I owe you one, Clark.” (He owes you a car.) “I’ve got to go. I need to get to Hob’s Bay for an interview with Metro Souvenir.” 

“Good luck. They’d be lucky to have you.” Clark enthuses sweetly. 

You blink at his compliment, a smile growing slowly on your face, “Thanks, Clark.” 

“Anytime.” Clark gives you a lopsided smile, forgetting he’s already ten minutes late to work, being so wrapped up in your addictive presence and all—he’s already forgotten the pit in his stomach over you loathing his true identity. “I’ll catch you later.” 

iii. SUPERSHIT 

Similar to the rest of the population on Earth, Clark Kent had a number of things that got under his skin. The obvious, being that of his own fabrication of an alter-ego in an ill-fitting suit that he hid behind in order to keep those around him safe. It was the finest quality of deception, and Clark found it vexing to upkeep. Then there were other issues, such as: the US Government’s reluctance to side with his good intentions in Boravia, Steve Lombard at times, and the smear campaign against him that had recently gained traction online.  

One specific insult within the smear campaign that tested Clark Kent’s abundance of patience; was Supershit. It was juvenile. Completely undermined his efforts in guiding humanity into a better tomorrow. It was…bothersome to a man like Clark Kent. 

His agitation toward the name had only furthered when Steve Lombard had mentioned it in passing toward the end of the day, leading Clark to trudge home under his own personal grey cloud of discontent. 

The mental fatigue of it all weighed his shoulders down and he took to the three flights of stairs in the apartment like a kicked dog. 

“Whew. Bad day?” 

The grey cloud breaks overhead at the sound of your melodic tone. 

Clark looks over his shoulder to see you with a plastic bag in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “Oh, no. Just a rather long one.” he says in partial dishonestly.

“I hear you.” you take a couple of steps up, “Want to come to mine and wallow over some Thai?” 

When Clark hesitates, you answer for him. 

“It’s free,” you lift the warm bag to wiggle it, “Plus, the cashier asked if I was eating for two…so.” 

Clark’s brows raise at your reiteration of an inconsiderate presumption. “Looks like we both were insulted today.” he murmurs, allowing you to pass him on the stairwell to lead him up to the fourth floor.

You both greet Old Woman Jenkins and her three-legged cat with a taste for ankles on the third floor—she was the eyes and ears of the complex—and then you dip into explaining how the Metro Souvenir interview was a complete bust after you openly belittled the small Superman collection in the corner of the store that was made up of 90% Superman bobble-heads. 

Turns out it was the owner’s daughter’s hobby in her past time. 

Keys jingle in your hands as you pull them from the abyss that was your unorganised tote bag and as you open the door to your apartment, Clark stands behind you with a pout; fiddling with the strap of his work briefcase. 

He was putting it down to mental fatigue or lack of direct sunlight which had instilled the glass half empty mentality into him. Clark couldn’t quite shake off the impending doom of a sharp rejection of, not only a possible blossoming of a relationship, but the friendship you two had made along the way when he eventually takes off the glasses and you’re exposed to the man who wrecked your car. 

(For good reason!) 

The thought stays chewing the back of his mind as he sits on the new sofa—a piece of furniture you decided to invest in after your ex’s body warped a dent in his shape on your old couch—in your apartment, and whilst you spread out the lukewarm Thai food in plastic tupperware boxes; across your rickety coffee table. 

The two of you sit closer than necessary for a four-seater sofa with cushions that felt like the equivalent to clouds from cartoons, Clark had forgone his suit jacket and rolled his ironed sleeves of his white button-up shirt up to rest at his elbows. It wasn’t hard to miss that his suit pants were almost bursting at the seams from being taut against his muscular thighs. 

It was hard not to look at him. 

The friendly neighbourhood heathen. Dwarfing doorframes and, sometimes, having to walk sideways into a room due to the broadness of his shoulders; was sitting flush with your own shoulders and occasionally making eyes with you. 

That’s what you translated it as, anyway—even if he had entered a little broodier than usual. 

Clark eventually strikes up a conversation in between eating, “I actually wanted to tell you about a job going at Daily Planet,” he swallows the chewed up food in his mouth, “Sort of a support role.” 

You perk, “Really?” 

“Yeah. You’d be working under Lois Lane. She’s a good friend and great journalist.” Clark informs, mirroring the excitement that lights up on your face. “I can put in a good word, if you’d like?” 

“I mean…I know nothing about journalism, but it’s a learning curve.” you state. 

Clark bites into a spring roll, the aromatic kaffir lime takes over his senses as he nods into the bite, “You can only try.” 

“Thank you, Clark. I seriously owe you double now.” you pluck a spring roll from the tupperware, “You’ll have to think of something.” 

The idea that crosses Clark’s mind is like a balloon being popped with a sharp needle. His blue eyes shoot to your side-profile, happily dissecting your own spring roll to inspect the food inside. He’s suddenly swamped in those warm fuzzy feelings Ma Kent had told him about during his bedtime stories at a young age. 

Clark didn’t want to detract from the slow process of your own heartbreak over your ex-boyfriend. 

Yes, the guy had shattered the innocence on the idea of love, and how to be loved—he used to turn the TV up to drown out your cries. He robbed nine months of your life with poor judgement that his online escapades with other women wouldn’t see the light of day, he had purposely used his position of power to terminate your employment; leaving you without a job, and zero income to pay for the bills that were on a steep incline from inflation. 

Even with all of this taken into consideration, you were taking your time in experiencing your own version of heartbreak. Because, deep down, you had been naively and so incredibly blindly in love. 

That was something Clark didn’t want to overstep on until the time was right. 

But, on the contrary, when was the timing ever right? It had been three months since you split from your boyfriend, and honestly? Clark wanted you. Heart broken, or not.

He just hoped those feelings would be reciprocated. (Nobody sits that close to you without it being intentional, right?) 

It comes out of him with all the confidence he can muster. “You…you could let me take you on a date.” it almost sounds rhetorical in the way he chose to ask. 

It makes you turn your head, eyes wider as if you were a deer that had just been caught in the headlights. Your cheek swollen with pocketed food, the room goes silent enough to hear a pin drop. 

It makes Clark suddenly regret his decision. 

“I’m sorry—” Clark shakes his head, pink from head to toe, “I don’t, I don’t know why I thought that was acceptable. You’re still going through the process of a breakup. That was all rather silly of me—” 

“Clark.” 

Clark hums, “Hm?” 

“Relax, dude.” you lilt, “I’d like that.” 

“You would?” 

You breathe out a laugh, “Yes. That sounds like the perfect I.O.U.” you bump your shoulder shyly with Clark’s and then mumble, “I knew you weren’t a constant shade of pink around me for no reason.” 

“Yes, well. It was for a good reason.” Clark mumbles and tugs at the collar of his shirt to release some heat that had been trapped beneath it. “A pretty reason.” he says with a smile. 

The night shared in Apartment 4-A would’ve ended perfectly there. Clark had found his voice, and in turn, became more openly flirtatious with you as the pair of you cleaned up the leftovers of the takeaway. The touches became more tactile and it made both of your heads a little fuzzy with excitement. 

His dampened mood from Steve Lombard had shifted, Clark quickly finding that you were a version of sunlight that he could metabolise and recharge on. 

The night should’ve ended there—on a high. 

Then the topic of conversation rolls back around to, well, Clark. 

You take a sip from your water bottle before you speak, “So…I hear your buddy is in some type of hot waters with the government.” you spare Clark a glance. 

“You could say that.” Clark pinches his brows at the thought, “He was just trying to save people—” 

“From a tyrannical president?” you interject, “It’s the one time I’ll give it to him.” 

Clark is surprised, and he struggles to hide that on his expression; so you quirk a brow. He clears his throat, “I didn’t expect you to side with him. Seems like you may be one of the very few people who do.” 

You end up shrugging, “His actions to save Jarhanpur override my personal issues with Supershit.” 

Supershit. You just had to use Supershit.

(Sunlight status revoked.)  The atmosphere shifts and you’re blissfully unaware of the nerve you had hit as Clark shifts beside you. All of the impulsive reactions surge forward in Clark, entangling themselves in the warmth he had felt by being within close proximity with you, making his mood sour like milk left in the sun. 

His nostrils flare from frustration. The tips of his ears are an angry shade of red. 

Clark bores a hole into your coffee table. “I think that’s a little unfair to call him that.” he says lowly. 

“You think that because you’re a good person who sees past all the bad stuff, Clark.” you reason without much deliberation over his defence, “Me, on the other hand—” 

“Should give him a chance, perhaps?” Clark retorts bluntly, leaving you to blink in surprise, “He’s misunderstood. He’s doing what he thinks is right, what is good for the citizens of Metropolis.”

“I’m not questioning if he’s good or not.” you argue back, “It’s just a personal gripe.”

Clark stands, “Oh, come on,” he gravels, “Superman is not your enemy. Supershit is not a fair nickname!” 

“Why do you care so much if I like him or not?” your eyes narrow, “You’ve been selling him to me this whole month. What is that all about?” 

OK, maybe your career in journalism would be a steer in the right direction. 

You sigh when Clark fights for an explanation. “He wrecked my car, Clark. I’m allowed to dislike someone that you favour. That’s just life.” 

Clark doesn’t look at you when he speaks, “Yeah.” 

He backs down after that. Not because he wants to, or that your stare has him pinned to the spot. It was down to the reason that, if he projected anymore resistance against your grievances with Superman; he may be on a slippery slope of a bad-tempered confessional in the middle of your living room.

Clark grabs his suit jacket from the back of your sofa, fiddling with it as he sulks, “I think I should leave. Thank you for the food. I’ll…um, I’ll talk to Perry and Lois about the job.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” you look up at him from your seated position, a little confused by the whiplash from the energy shift in the room. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yeah. Yeah. Tomorrow.” 

iiii. LOIS LANES’ DIVINE INTERVENTION

So…you don’t hear from Clark for three days—aside from a short text giving you the thumbs up for an interview at Daily Planet.

After the blip of Supershit, Clark took the mental load of keeping his distance from you. His patience was stretched thin from outside opinions and he feared with the hard-to-budge bad taste that Superman left in your mouth; that you would be a target of hot-headed retaliation if you utter the word Supershit in Clark’s presence again.

The safest assumption was that he was busy—he was a Pulitzer prize-winner at the end of the day. It definitely hadn’t been in relation to the immediate debate that came after you used the trending, cancel culture-esque nickname, Supershit, on his nearest and dearest interviewee. 

Even with your feelings now left up in the air with a date being strung over your head with zero confirmation of a date or time, you weren’t one to sit and dwell over a man’s fragile ego—for whatever reason Clark’s ego was made of glass, you were unsure but close to figuring out—and put all your energy and abundance of spare time into perfecting your knowledge about Daily Planet prior to your interview. 

The interview process for the support role beneath Lois Lanes’ expertise as a front-runner journalist for Daily Planet had gone smoother than you could have anticipated. To be quite frank, you had little experience in the journalist field, let alone a degree, but you came prepared with a good amount of charm and some background knowledge on the company.

Founded in 1775, globally renowned for its pursuit of justice, home to some brown-nosing of Superman and the Justice League, and the employer of the curly-haired neighbour you had been crushing on for quite some time. (The last two weren’t verbalised as such. Edited version: enthralling interviews that capture the true essence of the city’s extraterrestrial and meta-humans, and the employer of Clark Kent. Your neighbour. Nothing else.)  

Lois likes you. Perry White isn’t easily convinced. She spends the rest of her shift arguing your case—the Editor-in-Chief calls it favouritism for the only woman who applied for the role. 

Before you leave, you are tail-ending a conversation with Lois. She’s the epitome of a thriving journalist in a trim waistcoat and white tee beneath, a mug of hot coffee with at least, fifteen lumps of sugar stirred into the mix.

“You have to make sure you’re not in favour of one particular person that we write about. You know, like Superman is a good guy, but you can’t show bias. Even if Daily Planet have been hit with some accusations of preference.” Lois says in a monotonous tone. 

You nod along, not wanting to ruin your chances by shit-talking one person that brings the money in for the company. “I mean, everyone seems to like him, right? Clark has been fawning over him for sometime.” you prod at her brain intentionally for an underlying curiosity of your own. 

“Clark sees a lot of himself in Superman,” Lois choice of words make your brow quirk—she’s being careful. “He does a lot of questionable things—Superman, I mean, but he saves a lot of lives. They both live their lives to be good, I guess that’s why Clark is drawn to him.” 

“I guess so.” you pause, “You know he totalled my car in a fight?” 

“Clark?” (No, but you were starting to think otherwise.) 

“Superman.” you correct and Lois looks at you as if it isn’t that big of a deal. A major inconvenience at best. “Yeah, he got into a fight on Clinton Street and was thrown into my car that I had just paid off. I was pretty torn up about it…still sort of am.” 

Lois wracks her wonderful brain, “Clinton Street?” you nod, “Yeah—We covered that story. The meta-human he had been fighting was headed for a nursery a few blocks down, for whatever sick reason. Superman diverted him to Clinton Street and saved about fifty kids. He took some punches over that. Anything to keep the guy away from those kids.” 

You blink, “I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“You have to look at the bigger picture, if you’re going to be apart of this world.” Lois smiles, “Although, it doesn’t take away from the fact that your car got ruined. Did you get another one?” 

“Uh…no.” your mind is elsewhere—you kind of feel like an asshole. You shake it off, “Doesn’t matter, though. I like the commute.” 

“Clark mentioned that you had said that you were one sticky seat away from catching a new strain of the plague.” Lois quips and you shrink with embarrassment, the elevator is so close you could just…make a break for it. 

It makes you laugh nervously, “Yeah. Well, that’s the fun part. The risks. Gets my adrenaline pumping.”

Lois really likes you. She decides. 

“We’re all about adrenaline and risks.” 

“Yeah—Well, thank you for giving me an interview. I’ve gotta head, sort of overstayed my welcome.” you express, thumb gesturing over your shoulder to the elevator, “It was nice meeting you!”

Lois bids you a goodbye, her eyes trained on your frame as you press the golden button umpteen times out of impatience to take your leave. She smiles to herself, turning on her heel as the elevator doors peel open. 

Your eyes are cast downward, brain on autopilot over the realisation that struck the back of your neck like the side of a hand. The visit to Daily Planet for the interview had not only been relatively exciting—because you felt like you gelled well with Lois Lane—but it had been incredibly insightful to the incident relating to your deeply rooted dislike for Superman. 

He was saving kids. How could you resent that? 

Perhaps there was an aspect of selfishness on your behalf. Most times you had broken into a rant about the car tragedy of 2024, people have asked you if you knew the reasoning as to why Superman happened to be on Clinton Street, fighting a meta-human. More times than not, you’d shrug. You didn’t care, it was your car that suffered! 

But, now? Lois Lane had smothered that year-long grudge with the missing pieces of the story. 

“Holy shit. Am I an asshole?” you say out loud to yourself. The elevator slides shut and you stare wide-eyed at the golden doors. 

“Pardon me?” 

You turn your head to see Clark Kent clutching into his briefcase as if you were going to bite. You don’t even bat an eyelid as you say, “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Unavailable.” 

“Well, now, I—I can explain my absence—” 

“Can we just bury our last interaction?” you interject with a sharp tone, “I’m feeling a little forgiving today.” 

“Right. Yes, I was going to apologise for how I left—” Clark’s voice trails off as you deadpan at him. He shakes his head, “—All is said and done. Can I ask why you called yourself an asshole?” 

“It’s a long story.” 

“I have time.” 

You peer up at him, “Weren’t you meant to get off on that floor?” 

“Yes. I suppose I should have.” 

It makes you look him up and down. “…Alright, well, I mean I just had this super insightful conversation with your friend Lois about Superman—” Clark visibly winces, “—And the fight on Clinton Street, that ultimately lost me my car. This whole time, I just…I just didn’t care about the details, just knew I was pissed about my car. Then—Then Lois tells me it was collateral damage over Superman saving a nursery from a rampant meta-human. That sort of makes me the asshole in this story, Clark.” 

“You are upset about it, that doesn’t make you an asshole.” 

“No, but it does!” you exasperate, “Sure, it’s been a huge inconvenience to me, and a lot of money lost. But he was putting himself in harms way to save innocent lives. My car doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.” 

Clark wants to argue the fact that Superman has been saving lives even before the incident on Clinton Street. However, the revelation that you’ve been put on track for is at the precipice of a complete 180 in your opinion of Superman; why stunt that growth? 

He makes a note to thank Lois—who is well aware of his secret—for feeding you the breadcrumbs that led to this.

You know…once he takes elevator back up. 

Clark waits for you to breathe. “So, no hard feelings over Superman?” he asks hopefully. 

“He’s still an asshole for wrecking my car.” you retort, arms crossing over your chest, “But, I suppose that’s sort of the closure I needed. I can’t stay mad at a guy for forfeiting his own life to save fifty little ones.” 

“I can work with that.” Clark says without thinking. The colour pink creeps up his neck when you cock your head to the side inquisitively—because, what did that mean? He gulps some air, “I—Can I still take you on a date?” 

“I don’t know, can you get Superman to apologise to me?” you lilt in an unserious tone, essentially throwing a hook with a fat piece of bait impaled on the end.

The elevator reaches the ground floor. 

“I can try.” Clark absolutely would. Without a shadow of a doubt. 

(Hook, line and sinker.) 

“Then yes.” 

+1 APARTMENT APOLOGIES

You had got the job at Daily Planet. It took all of two days, and the persistence of the tenacious Lois Lane for Perry White to accept somebody without even a scrap of journalistic experience onto the team; for you to get the call to start in a weeks time. 

And how you celebrated your elation was by grabbing a greasy pizza en route to your apartment, and watching reruns of Golden Girls on your sofa.  

It was pure, unadulterated bliss. 

That was, until the hairs on your arms unexpectedly stood on end on the last bite of the cheese-filled crust. 

Immediate from this, there’s a silhouette that captures your attention from your periphery on the fire escape outside your living room window. Heart chasing its own beat, you drop the pizza crust into the cardboard box, your hand slowly reaching to curl round the steel bat you kept beside the sofa; the other one was located in your bedroom. 

You didn’t want to engage, or even look. There’s been enough viewings of horror movies to know that the person that is curious, is the person that gets killed. You even think about sprinting out the front door and banging on Clark’s front door on the floor below.  

When your bare foot touches the wooden floorboards, that’s when you hear a groan from just outside your window. 

Your brows pinch from the familiarity. “Clark?” 

It sounded like him. 

Instinctively, you lift your bat as you stand. This was Metropolis after all. You wouldn’t put it past some extraterrestrial visiting the city to mimic the sounds of your neighbour. But honestly, where would they have gotten the sound of Clark in somewhat pain? 

The large silhouette moves when you speak Clark’s name, and you make it to the window in two swift steps; forcing the window up to let in the billowing winds of the city air and noise pollution into your apartment. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“Good evening ma’am.” 

You raise your bat, “Superman?” you waver in your impulsivity to strike him across his head, “What the fuck are you doing on my fire escape? You’re—ugh—you’re bleeding!” 

He peels the palm of his hand away from his torso to reveal a much bigger wound, “Just a scratch. I’ll be alright. May I come in?” 

“No! Crazy!” you argue back, “You’ll get your blood all over my new rug.” 

“I’ll pay for it.” 

You scoff, “Oh yeah? Like the car you wrecked—?” you pause to stare at him, the cogs turning in your mind, “Did Clark Kent put you up to this? Are you—Are you two in cahoots or some shit?” 

“He may—” Superman groans when he shifts from one foot to the other, “—Have mentioned something about a disgruntled neighbour.” 

Oh. He took your joke seriously. 

Your fingers shift around the metal bat. “Yeah, that would be me.” you watch as a loose curl flops down onto his forehead, familiarity spreads across your chest, “Look. You can just let me hit you over the head with my bat. Once. Then, all is forgiven.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t.” 

You sigh, “Worth a shot.” 

Superman’s lips quirk into an amused smile, “Please? It will only be for a moment.” 

“…Fine.” you drop the bat down to your side and step back, “Only step on the wooden flooring, and just head to the bathroom. I’ll get you a wet flannel.” 

A red boot swings over the threshold and suddenly, Superman is standing in the middle of your apartment at full stature, bleeding from the wound on his torso. He’s handsome, you’d give him that. In an omnipresent superhero type of way. He gives you a strained friendly smile, his dimples deep whilst his forehead creases from the sharp pain that elicits from the wound site. 

Without further instruction as to where your bathroom was located, Superman makes a beeline down the hallway, breadcrumbs of blood leading you to him after you wet a spare flannel beneath the kitchen sink tap. His familiarity with your apartment only worsens your suspicions. 

You find him dwarfing your toilet with the lid down. He has a handful of toilet paper stuffed against the bleeding gash, lips parting momentarily to exhale intermittently as he applies pressure with the worst gauze replacement to soak up the excess blood. 

Pieces of tissue paper break apart from the saturation of blood and Superman—without thinking—gives you a clumsy smile. Lopsided and without confidence to fuel the curve of his lip. It is sort of vexing for you, coming from a place with purposefully minimal knowledge, these so-called ‘Protectors of Metropolis’ exuded self-righteousness because they needed to have a strong backbone to be a public figure. The man who sat on the lid of your toilet, in a vibrant red and blue suit that clung to his muscular physique presents nothing of the sort. 

You wish you could approach it differently. This rare moment captured in time, where you come face to face with the destructor of your beloved vehicle and you had asked for permission to strike him across the head, rather than just doing it; as you had practiced multiple times in your head. 

He wouldn’t even flinch, you suppose. 

Further to this, if Lois Lane hadn’t intervened with her sharp memory of the Clinton Street incident, then Superman wouldn’t have been able to step foot into your apartment. Then again, you were stood at the threshold of the bathroom questioning his identity altogether. 

“I don’t bite.” The male informs on borderline playful. 

You don’t budge—a prisoner in your own home.

“I’d rather not take any chances.” you quip, tossing him the wet flannel because watching the pieces of tissue paper fuse to his wound was near painful. You observe him for a moment, “Clark sent you here?” 

He hums lowly. 

You continue, “When…did you see him? Usually he catches you at the scene of the crime, so to speak.” you tilt your head when Superman lifts his gaze to look at you, “I didn’t see any fights break out on the news today.” 

“He called in a favour.” Superman responds with faux-innocence, “By phone.” 

“Right, right.” you fall silent to watch him dab at his injury with care. There’s a deep inhale before you speak again, “You guys are close?” 

“You could say that.” he mumbles, “Is there a problem?” 

Your eyes narrow, “Is there a problem to be addressed? Other than the wreckage of my car, but, y’know, you already knew about that coming here. Did he give you my address?” 

“No.” Superman jumps to Clark’s defence because giving a stranger—let alone a so-called enemy—your address without consent was a downright breach of your privacy and safety; let alone dangerous. He then adds, “He wouldn’t do that.” 

“So you just happened to know where I live in a mid-rise apartment complex with eleven floors?” you take a step into the bathroom to goad him, “Is that part of your superpowers? Being a creep?” 

“What—?” he flaps, “No! Nothing like that.”

“A woman alone in her apartment at night and you’re watching her from her fire escape. That’s pretty creepy, Supe.” you point a finger in his direction, essentially pinning him to the spot. 

“I just came to apologise. Okay?” Superman takes a deep inhale in mild panic, “I never intended to destroy your car. But, if you ask me, I’d do it a hundred times over if it meant I saved those kids that day.” 

“Why does it matter if you apologise to me or not? You must have damaged thousands of cars by now.” (Try hundreds of thousands.) 

Superman huffs, “It matters to Clark. He—uh—Forgive me if this isn’t common knowledge, but he likes you. Truly likes you. He sees a future with you, and then you had mentioned that if he were able to have me apologise to you…then perhaps you’d proceed with the date.” 

Oh, boy. 

“I was joking when I said that.” you state, “Can you not tell the difference between a joke and a serious request, Clark?” 

“Clark?” the tips of Superman’s ears go pink. Dead giveaway. 

You throw a hand in his direction. “Oh, come on, Clark. It’s obviously you. You’re Superman. You think I’m dumb enough not to catch on when you’ve been fighting his corner for the past couple of weeks?” 

Superman—or, Clark to you—gawks, “I’m not quite sure what you’re implying here.” 

“What I’m stating is, that you are Superman. You just so happen to be able to interview him every single time and shed a positive light on his actions, you were unbelievably mad after Supershit—” Clark’s eye twitches, “And, what, Superman just so happens to know what apartment I’m staying in without any information handed out? Don’t even get me started on the glasses.” 

“The glasses?” 

“Well, you mentioned once that the glasses were for short-distance reading. You never took them off after reading the letters in your mailbox.” you shrug as you explain your theory, “Plus, you’re not wearing them now so you obviously don’t need them. You just wear them for a whole identity thing.” 

Clark is struck silent. You were good. Like, incredibly observant. 

“Did you get the job at Daily Planet?” when you nod, he proceeds to talk, “Good. We’ll need someone like you.” he pauses, “Are you mad?” 

“No, I’m not mad.” you deflate a little, “I would have been if my theory was wrong and you did happen to hand out my address to some random man without my knowledge.” 

Clark gives a feeble nod, “I’m a little shellshocked that you figured it out.” 

“I’ve never seen you two in the same room, I guess.” your joke makes both Clark and you smile widely at each other. The break of tension allows you to move closer to him as you bend at the waist to look at his injury. You hiss at the sight of it, “That looks sore.” 

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.” Clark gives you a dopey sort of smile when he catches your eye. “I didn’t intend to get hurt on the way here.” 

You nod, taking the sodden flannel from his grasp in order to dab at his torso, “Superman sells me a sob story and bleeds out on my fire escape to get me to like him. That would have been dramatic.” 

“You’re not mad?” Clark asks again for reassurance—his confidence since shaken from the rise of resistance in the Metropolis community in regard to his presence within the city. 

With a shake of your head, you meet his blue eyes again, “No. I mean, we have a lot to talk about. But that’s what first dates are for, right? Getting to know each other?”

“So, the date is still going ahead?” (Gosh. He sounded so insecure.)

“Oh, I’m not sure. Clark Kent might have an issue with it.” you joke, “He called first dibs.” your playful tone ebbs along with your smug smile when Clark’s brows pinch and he swallows deeply. His eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes. “Are you about to kiss me?”

“Is that okay?”

“Again, Clark Kent—”

Your repetitive joke is smothered when Clark captures your lips with his own. He cradles the back of your head to keep you in position, his head tilting in one direction to refrain from your noses being pressed together. Your stomach is splattered with a heavy warmth as your fingers curl around the bluish fabric of the suit he wears. The room falls into a blissful silence aside from the occasional smacking of lips when Clark deepens the kiss with a sense of heated desire—the innocent kiss soon turning open-mouthed and desperate. 

The signals of it allow you to climb onto his lap, wet flannel disregarded behind you as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer into his arms that begin to circle your frame. Your hips tilt and press downward and Clark responds with a faint whimper that makes you smile against his lips. 

There’s that sensible part of your brain that screams for this to come to a screeching halt. No first date and you’re practically dry-humping Superman? Of all people? But the way he pathetically whined beneath you; that was all Clark Kent. Your neighbour that you had been crushing on for the better part of a year, even when you had been dating your ex-boyfriend, the poorly-postured, socially inept male had always been in your peripheral. (Turns out he had just been biding his time.) 

You feel him shift beneath you and the memory of an open-wound that your all of a sudden flush against is thrown to the forefront of your mind. It makes you pull back promptly, Clark’s face written with concern—his lips all puffy and wet. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“Your wound, Clark.” You lean back and Clark’s hands hold your weight for you. “It’ll probably need stitches.” 

He frowns, “No, it won’t.” he leans in to press another kiss to your lips with less eagerness than before, “I can heal easily without human intervention.” 

“Are you serious? You just wanted some attention?” you tug at the grown out curls at the nape of his neck and laugh. “You have so much explaining to do.” 

“Of course.” Clark smiles against your lips, quickly making you forget your train of thought as he stands with a grunt with you bundled up in his arms. He speaks between hungry kisses, “But first, I have a destroyed car and a year of apologies to make up for.” 

You giddily laugh as he carries you to your bedroom.