Can you do one where you ask Clark for money (as a joke) but he’s so immediately down and also kinda worried? thank you!
Cat Grant loves a good scheme. “I see it all the time online, you have to test him.”
You pick at your sandwich. The Daily Planet’s cafeteria is more of a restaurant. It’s the biggest news outlet in all of Metropolis, with a skyscraper for an office. The cafeteria has to accommodate that. It’s always open, always busy, but you and Cat managed to carve away space at a table in the corner of the room far from the kitchen and all the food laid out across stainless steel bars. “I don’t know,” you say finally. “I don’t want him to think I’m a user.”
“You’re not using. Don’t tell him what it’s for and watch what conclusion he comes to. It’s a good indicator.” She tucks a streak of her blonde hair behind her ear, her hoop earrings giving a gentle clink. “Seriously, boys are evil. You need to know if you can depend on him in your time of need. And I need to know how much I respect him.”
You take a big bite of sandwich to avoid answering while you think, but the thought comes suddenly, “What if he actually gives me money?”
“That’s a win.”
You’ve never asked Clark for anything, as far as you can remember. You’ve been dating for five months and two weeks, which isn’t long, but sort of is? Like, you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him, and he’s so consistently lovely to you that you’re reluctant to ask, ‘cos maybe his answer will affect the way you look at him. Or what if he thinks you’re only dating him for the easy life he could provide?
“We’re basically on the same pay,” you say, “I don’t think he’ll believe me.”
“Sure he will.” Cat smushes the last half of her sandwich with her hand. The chips inside all crunch into crumbs.
You find you’re not that worried. Clark is sweet, and he likes a good joke.
You pull out your phone and take another bite. The sandwich is not good, but you’re hungry.
Clark can you send me some money, you type. You turn the phone to Cat for approval. When she nods, you hit send.
It takes a minute for him to answer. It’s an Apple payment via text for $50. You laugh like a shock.
“What did he say?” Cat asks.
You show her the phone, but Clark is already typing, his messages popping up on the screen in quick succession.
Is that enough?
$50
Is everything ok ? I can send more
“He sent another fifty,” you say.
“Oh my god.”
Your phone starts to ring in your hand, Clark’s profile photo in the middle of the screen: his sleeping face tucked over your heart. You giggle to yourself as you answer, doughy bread in your mouth. “Hi, sorry, I’m chewing.”
“That’s okay, honey,” he says, sounding cheerful and worried all at once, “what’s up? Is that gonna be enough?”
“Oh, er, my card declined. I’m getting lunch with Cat.”
“Downstairs? I can come down, sweetheart, I have my wallet.”
“No, I already paid for it.”
“Aw, great, I was worried for a second there.”
“I can send it right back to you, now,” you say, feeling ever so slightly guilty. You don’t know what you were expecting, but his urgency makes you wanna kiss him stupid, not trick him further. “Thank you, for– for being so quick. You saved me the embarrassment.”
“That’s okay, I don’t need it back–”
“Well, no, I can’t keep a hundred dollars just ‘cos you sent it, baby, I– my card declined, but it was the card reader, that’s all.”
“Just keep whatever you paid for lunch, then, and use the rest for lunch tomorrow.”
“It’s a sandwich."
“Then you can have sandwiches all week.”
You meet Cat’s eyes, failing to hide your unyielding elation. He’s such a catch. “Okay. Clark, I’m sending it back, okay?”
“Don’t tease me, I got so excited.”
You laugh and hang up on him.
Clark texts you ten seconds later: If you send it back to me I’m gonna send it back to you. Have a good break, see you later? <3
“I bet he will,” Cat says, having read the screen upside down.
You text Clark back: Yes!! Can I come home with you?
Yeah honey meet me by the elevators? I’ll be waiting for you
“He is such a dork,” Cat says, eyebrows raised. “But I’m happy for you.”
You’re feeling pretty good about it all yourself. You and Cat finish lunch and head your mildly separate ways. You’re in the print room today supervising, and it stretches into the uneventful afternoon. By finishing time, you’re excited to give Clark a kiss and sneak his hundred dollars back into his pocket somehow, but he’s not waiting by the elevator.
It’s tempting to keep the money. He did sound excited for you to keep it, as strange as that might be. He rejected your offer to give it back, then tried to compromise that you could keep it. He'd pay for your lunch all week.
Would he give you money for nothing at all? He was just worried, right? But when there was no problem, he didn’t want it back.
It doesn’t hurt to poke around a little.
Clark exits the elevator with a blank expression. When he sees you waiting a few feet away with your shoulders on the wall, his face lights up. His eyebrows soften, his lips lift and go white from the force of his smile.
“Let’s go home,” he says, grinning as he wraps his arm around you from the small of your back.
You lean up and kiss his jaw. “Today was long.”
“Too long, bubby.”
Bubby. You give him a harmless shove, but Clark pulls you right back in. Keeps his arm on you all the way home, give the few seconds getting off of the tram, where he offers his hand to guide you onto the road.
“So,” you say, “about earlier…”
“What happened earlier?”
“With the money.”
Clark narrows his eyes at you. “What about it? Honey, I already told you to keep it. It was yours the second I sent it.”
“No, it’s not– Clark. I would much rather you take it back, I really don’t need a hundred dollars for a sandwich I already paid for. It was this–” You pause, giving him a bashful, sorry smile. “Cat wanted me to see if you’d complain or not, I guess. So I lied about my card declining, sorry. I am actually sorry, and I can’t keep the money in good conscience.”
“Ooh, in good conscience,” he murmurs, mirroring your smile, though his is more of a smirk. “Well, that’s okay. If you feel bad about it, send it back to me, no hard feelings.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Thank you, handsome,” you say.
“What else is on your mind?”
“You… this isn’t supposed to sound like you need to say yes, but I guess I was wondering if you would’ve sent me it no matter what? My text literally just said can you send me money. I didn’t even say please, and I didn’t say it’s an emergency or anything.”
Clark shrugs at you. “Yeah, I would’ve sent it to you. I don’t care what it was for.”
“Clark, it was a hundred dollars.”
“Do you think you’re not worth a hundred dollars?”
“Not for no reason.”
“In the moment, I assumed it was an emergency because you never ask me for anything, do you?”
“Not really.”
“Would it shock you to know that I wish you would?” A curl falls onto his forehead, just above his dark brow. “You are the most important woman in my life. A hundred is nothing compared to that. I don’t really care what you want it for.”
You’re pretty sure that’s an I love you. Maybe he’s saving the real thing for somewhere more intimate than the street, but that’s gotta be close.
“Keep the money,” he says, kissing your cheek quickly. “I was still gonna send it back, even if you were just satisfying your curiosity. You didn’t lie to get it, you lied after.”
“You’re such a reporter,” you grumble, secretly very pleased. “Poking holes in my argument.”
(Clark sends you $50 the next day at lunch, with the text: Buy yourself dinner or whatever you want, do not send it back!
Then: Please just take it. For my gratification if nothing else. Please!!
summary: what was supposed to be a gentle evening exposes Clark’s deepest fear: that someone else could give you the life he can’t
warnings: 18+ smut, graphic depictions of sex, f oral receiving, p in v, porn with plot, needy! clark, clark is sad and just wants to make you feel good :(, insecurities, anxiety?
It wasn’t often that Clark made it home before you.
Most nights, you beat him there by hours, the space already warm. Your shoes by the door, the soft light from the kitchen, the sound of you moving around in clothes far more comfortable than those you’d worn to work.
He knew the routine by heart. You’d change the second you got in, slipping out of your work things and into something soft—fluffy socks, an old robe if it was cold, or, his personal weakness, one of his shirts that you found in the back of your wardrobe.
If he was being honest with himself, he’d started leaving them behind on purpose, just for the chance of coming home and finding you wrapped up in something that still smelled faintly like him.
Worth it, he could always buy more shirts.
Worth it every single time.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get home sooner. God, he did. Most days he was already thinking about you before he’d even finished his first coffee at the Planet. Wondering if you were thinking the same thing. Wondering what you were doing, if you’d eaten, if you’d remembered to take your coat when it got cold.
But articles ran long, deadlines moved, and sometimes the sound of something breaking three streets away would reach him through the windows before he even realised he was listening for it.
He hated that the world always seemed to need him most when you were waiting so patiently for him. Hated it even more because you never made him feel bad about it.
But the moment he finally walked through the door always made it worth it.
The hum of your voice from the kitchen, something soft playing through your speakers.
You said you liked to cook for him.
He’d offered a hundred times to pick something up on the way, to make up for his punctuality. To make it easier, faster, less work after your own long day, but you always waved him off like the suggestion was ridiculous.
You said it relaxed you. Said you liked knowing he was eating something you made.
Said it like it was the most normal thing in the world to take care of him like that.
He never quite knew what to do with all your kindness. The small things still caught him off guard, made the warmth creep up the back of his neck before he could stop it.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever stop feeling that way.
He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
Tonight, though, the flat was quiet when he opened the door.
Clark let himself in with the spare key you’d pressed into his hand months ago. The lock clicked softly behind him, and he closed the door gently.
It felt strange, walking into the empty space first. Everything looked the same.
Your books stacked unevenly on the shelf, the plants you swore you remembered to water—even the ones he secretly helped along when you forgot. Your mug from that morning in the sink.
All the usual things. All the proof that this was your place.
And still, without you in it, the space felt incomplete.
If this was how it felt when he got home first, he suddenly wished he’d made it home sooner a lot more often.
He shrugged off his suit jacket and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. You’d texted him a few hours earlier, telling him you were running late, promising you’d make it up to him when you got home.
He’d smiled at the message when he read it. You really didn’t have to make anything up to him. You never did. Just coming home was enough.
If anything, this just meant he had time to do something for you for a change.
Clark made his way over to the fridge, pulling the door open and leaning down slightly as he looked through the shelves, taking stock the way he’d seen you do a hundred times before.
He was careful about it; he didn’t want to use the wrong thing, didn’t want to mess up whatever plan you might’ve had for the week.
He reached for the container of leftovers first, then paused, putting it back exactly where he found it.
Absolutely not.
You’d probably pack that for lunch tomorrow, and he liked the idea of you walking in to the smell of something cooking a lot more than the sound of a microwave.
He shifted things around instead, scanning the drawers until he spotted what he was looking for—a few stray cloves of garlic tucked down at the back of the vegetable drawer, half a bunch of basil wrapped in a paper towel, a lone chilli pepper rolling slightly when he moved the onions.
That would work. That would work just fine.
You always said the simple ones were your favourite anyway.
He straightened up, already thinking it through. There’d be tomatoes in the cupboard. Pasta too, somewhere on the second shelf, the one you kept meaning to organise but never quite got around to.
Perfect. Simple.
Something warm for you to come home to.
And he knew he could make a darn good pasta.
It was one of the first things his ma had ever taught him, standing beside her in the kitchen back home, listening to her explain that good food didn’t have to be complicated, just made with care. He could still hear her voice sometimes when he cooked, telling him to taste as he went, to trust himself, and to always make enough for everyone at the table.
He liked to think she’d smile if she could see him now, standing in a kitchen that wasn’t hers, cooking for someone who had somehow become just as much home. He was pretty sure she’d tell him he’d done well for himself. Say she was proud he had someone at his table worth making dinner for.
He liked to think she’d say he picked right.
That he’d found someone good.
Someone she’d love too.
He set the garlic down on the counter and reached for the chopping board, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows without thinking. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall to his left.
Plenty of time.
He let himself smile a little, picking up the knife. Might as well give you something good to come home to.
You always did the same for him.
Clark was stirring the sauce when he heard the front door open. The tomatoes had burst and cooked down just right, the garlic mellow, the basil already starting to sweeten the air. Another five minutes, maybe less, and it would be perfect.
“Clark?” You call out, tired. Soft, but still tired. “You in here?”
Right on time.
“In the kitchen!” he called back, setting the spoon down and stepping away from the stove. He wiped his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder, already turning toward the doorway before you even appeared.
He could hear you coming closer, the shuffle of your steps, the soft thud of your bag hitting the chair in the other room.
Your head peeked around the doorframe, and the second he saw the look on your face—apologetic, tired, a little sheepish, a small smile you wore when you thought you’d disappointed him—his chest tightened.
“Sorry I’m late,” you said, stepping into the kitchen.
He shook his head immediately, already moving toward you without thinking about it; the distance between you needed fixing as fast as possible.
“Hey, no—don’t do that,” he said with a soft smile. One hand coming up automatically to rest on your arms when you got close enough.
You don’t have to apologise to him. Not for anything out of your control.
You gave him that look again, like you still weren’t convinced.
“I said I’d be back earlier,” you murmured.
He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head as he looked down at you, his thumb brushing absent-mindedly against your sleeve.
“Hey,” he said again, waiting until you actually looked up at him. “It’s okay. Really. You’re here now. That’s all I wanted.”
You nodded, then glanced past him toward the stove, nose twitching slightly as the smell hit you, and your eyes widened just a little.
“…Did you cook?”
He felt the back of his neck warm instantly, that bashful heat creeping up before he could stop it. He rubbed the side of his jaw with his thumb.
“Well… yeah,” he admitted. “You said you were gonna be late. Figured I could manage dinner for once.”
It’s the least he could do.
You stepped past him toward the stove before he could say anything else, leaning over the pot with a small sigh, breathing in the scent like it was the best thing you’d smelled all day.
“That smells amazing,” you groaned, glancing back at him over your shoulder with a grin.
He huffed out a quiet laugh.
“It’s pasta,” he shrugged humbly. “Kinda hard to mess up.”
You turned, still smiling, and before he could stop himself, he was already moving closer, drawn in by your grateful expression. The domesticity of the moment.
He needed to cook more often.
He closed the distance in two easy steps, one hand finding your waist on instinct, the other brushing down your arm as he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours in a familiar kiss.
You let out a sigh against his mouth, warm and tired and relieved, and it went straight through him.
It was ridiculous, the way one small sound from you could undo him like that.
Gosh, he missed you today.
He smiled against your mouth, one arm tightening around your waist as he lifted you, setting you up on the counter beside the stove as he’d done it a hundred times before.
“Careful,” he murmured, still smiling against your lips, one hand lingering a bit longer than it needed to, just to make sure you were steady.
Not that you ever weren’t. He just liked the excuse.
You let out a small giggle, bumping your knee lightly against his side.
“You’re in a good mood.”
How couldn’t he be?
He shrugged, glancing back at the pot before turning the heat down another notch.
“Got home early,” he said with a shrug. “Felt like my turn to do something for you.”
You gazed at him, smiling at his words.
“So you made dinner for me?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, proud but slightly embarrassed at the acknowledgement of his hard work.
He’d had strangers thank him before, whole crowds even, but nothing ever made him feel this awkwardly pleased the way you did when you looked at him like that.
“Well… yeah. Didn’t seem fair you always do it.”
“You’re trying to spoil me.”
He snorted softly under his breath.
“Pretty sure that’s my job.”
His favourite job.
You laughed at that, and he ducked his head again, turning and stirring the sauce just to give himself something to focus on.
“So,” he added, “What about you, huh? What’d you get up to today?”
You swung your feet lightly against the cabinet, completely relaxed.
Good.
“Nothing exciting,” you said. “Work, mostly. Had lunch with one of the new guys though.”
Clark’s hand paused for just a second.
“Yeah?” he said, keeping his voice easy. “New guy?”
You nodded.
“Yeah, Daniel. He started a few weeks ago. We ended up grabbing lunch together after a meeting.”
Daniel.
The name settling somewhere in the back of his mind, whether he wanted it to or not.
“…Daniel?” he repeated, voice slightly higher. He glanced over his shoulder at you, trying very hard to sound like he was just making conversation.
You tilted your head, thinking.
“I think I mentioned him before? Maybe?”
Your brows pulled together as you tried to remember, then you shrugged.
“We’re the only ones around the same age in the department,” you said with a small chuckle. “Kind of felt natural we got paired up. We’ve been grabbing lunch together the last few days.”
The spoon dragged a little slower through the sauce.
Last few days.
Did you mention that before?
“Oh yeah?” he said, keeping his tone light.
“Yeah,” you went on, still talking easily. “You’d like him, actually. He’s kind of similar to you.”
He glanced back at you.
“…Similar how?”
You smiled, completely genuine.
“He’s just… nice. You know? Always the one who remembers people’s birthdays, makes sure everyone’s got what they need. Stayed late the other night to help one of the interns finish something.”
Clark looked back at the pot, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly, though it didn’t quite make it into a smile.
“Sounds like a real hero,” he said quietly.
You laughed, missing the way his shoulders had gone just a little stiff.
“No, he’s just… thoughtful,” you said. “He actually hung around after work the other night too, when you got held up. I didn’t even realise how late it was until we were the only ones left in the office.”
The other night.
The night he’d been halfway across the city instead of walking through the door with you.
He swallowed, eyes fixed on dinner, which now felt slightly inadequate as the guilt began to gnaw at him.
“…That so,” he said, voice steady, even if his chest felt a little tighter.
You nodded, still oblivious.
“Yeah, he was waiting on some notes from his boss, I was finishing up my draft, so we just… talked for a bit. He’s easy to talk to.”
Easy to talk to.
Clark let out a quiet hum, forcing himself to place the spoon down before he bent the handle clean in half.
Of course he was.
Normal hours. Normal life.
No disappearing mid-sentence because someone somewhere needed saving.
“Sounds like you two are getting along.”
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “He’s been having a bit of a rough time, though.”
He glanced back at you again.
“What happened?”
You frowned slightly.
“His girlfriend broke up with him a couple weeks ago. Knocked his confidence a bit, I think.”
His expression softened automatically. He couldn’t help it.
“Poor guy,” he murmured.
“I know,” you agreed. “I don’t know all the details, but he seemed really upset about it. We ended up talking about it for ages the other day. He just needed someone to listen, I think.”
Clark nodded slowly. Of course you listened, and that was the thing.
You made people feel better just by being there.
Made him feel better just by being there.
He reached across to turn the stove on the lowest setting before facing you once more, slotting himself between your knees. His free hand reached out without him thinking, settling lightly against your thigh where you sat on the counter, thumb brushing once.
“That’s good, honey,” he smiles down at you. “I’m glad you’re not stuck over there on your own.”
Without him.
The words came out quieter than he meant. His tone was small and honest, slipping out before he could stop it.
You didn’t seem to notice anything in his voice, just shuffled a little.
“Yeah. He’s easy to be around,” you said. “And he’s opposite me, you know? Same mornings. We end up hanging out without really planning to.”
He nodded slowly.
Same routine. Same life.
Didn’t have to disappear halfway through dinner. Didn’t have to text apologies from five blocks away. Didn’t have to leave you sitting alone at a table because someone somewhere needed him.
You kept talking.
“He stayed late the other night too. When you got held up? We were the last ones in the office. He didn’t want me walking back to the station on my own.”
It shouldn’t have bothered him.
Honestly, he was glad someone stayed with you. It was a kind gesture by a coworker that stopped you from being alone that late.
He was grateful, but there was something else there too.
His mind immediately pictured you sitting in that office after hours, laughing at something some other guy said, walking out together side by side…
“Clark?” you said, tilting your head a little.
Your voice gently shook him back into the room, blue eyes catching yours as they focused. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for a moment, hands resting on your legs, like he was trying to settle his stomach that wouldn’t quite sit still.
He knew it was stupid.
You hadn’t done anything wrong. You were just talking about your day. But all he could think about was how easy it sounded. How much of your time happened in places he couldn’t always be.
He swallowed, glancing down at the counter while his mind kept circling the same thought.
He couldn’t always be there when you stayed late. Couldn’t always walk you home, couldn’t always make dinner, couldn’t always give you the kind of normal time other people seemed to have without even trying.
His thoughts drifted for a moment.
Dinner suddenly felt almost juvenile compared to what he really wanted to do for you. Sweet, sure—but not enough. Not when you looked this tired.
There had to be something more. Something only he could give you.
He ran through the list in his head without thinking; every little thing he knew made you smile, until one idea settled in and stayed.
Oh.
Oh.
Yeah. That.
That he knew how to do.
He knew how to make you come undone after a long day without you even realising that was what you needed.
Knew the exact places to touch that made the tension leave your shoulders, the way your breath caught when his hands moved across your bare skin, the way you melted into him like your body already trusted him to take care of the rest.
He knew the sounds you made when he took his time.
Knew how your fingers curled into the sheets when he got it right.
Knew how to make you forget about work, about long days, about anyone else who’d had your attention before you walked through the door.
It’s not much, but it would work for now.
“You know,” he said quietly, voice low, a little rougher than before,
“I figure I owe you a better evening than just pasta.”
You blinked at him, caught off guard by the look on his face more than the words. He could hear your pulse quicken at his insinuation.
“Clark, we don’t have to—”
He was already moving before you finished the sentence.
He reached past you without breaking eye contact, turning the stove fully off, the soft click of the burner cutting through the quiet kitchen. He stepped in close again, coming to stand between your knees where you sat on the counter, his hands settling lightly on either side of you, not touching yet.
His blue eyes lifted to yours, soft and searching, asking without saying a word.
You looked tired.
He could see it now that he was close enough. The faint tension in your brow, the way your shoulders hadn’t fully relaxed since you walked in.
That he could fix.
His hand came up slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you wanted to, his fingers brushing along your cheek, thumb tracing just under your eye like he could smooth the tiredness away if he was careful enough.
You let out a breathy sound at the touch, the sound soft and surprised, and the corner of his mouth lifted, the tension in his chest loosening just from hearing it.
There you were.
He leaned in then, slow, giving you time to meet him halfway, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss.
You melted into him almost immediately, arms coming up around his shoulders, and that was all it took for his hand to slide to your waist, pulling you a little closer on the counter without thinking about it.
He deepened the kiss carefully, listening more than leading; he felt your breath change, your fingers tightening slightly at the back of his shirt. He let his mouth drift from your lips to your cheek, then lower, pressing slow kisses along the side of your jaw, down to your neck, unhurried, patient, like he had nowhere else to be for once.
Your breath hitched under his mouth, just barely.
Gotcha.
His eyes closed for a second, forehead brushing your temple as he let out a sigh, one hand sliding around your back, his thumb moving in slow circles like he was trying to work the tension out of you one touch at a time.
“C’mon, sweetheart…” he murmured softly against your skin, almost pleading. “Dinner’s done… missed you all day…”
His lips brushed your neck again, slower this time, listening for every little change in your breathing.
“Can’t I make you feel good for a while?”
Please.
He pulled back to look at you, hands still warm at your sides, waiting.
Your cheeks were flushed now, eyes a little softer at the edges, heartbeat spiking slightly.
He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you again. Just waited until you gave him the permission he was almost desperate for.
“Yes,” you sighed with a nod, arms sliding around his shoulders again as you leaned into him. “Please…” you murmured against his lips.
Finally.
His whole face softened and he let out a sigh that almost sounded like a laugh before his arms wrapped around you properly.
“Okay,” he whispered, more to himself than to you.
He lifted you easily from the counter, holding you close against his chest, arms under your legs, careful even now.
Strong arms stayed steady beneath your thighs as he carried you down the short hallway, your legs tightening around his waist as you went, drawing him closer.
The bedroom door was already half-open; he nudged it wider with his shoulder and didn’t bother with the light switch. The city glow filtering through the curtains was enough—soft gold and silver across your skin.
The way he liked you best.
He lay you down in the middle of the bed like you were something delicate, straightening just long enough to pull his own shirt over his head in one smooth motion.
The fabric hit the floor. His eyes never left yours. You looked up at him with soft, half-lidded gaze, and that was all it took to undo him.
Gosh, how did he get so lucky?
He crawled over you slowly, caging you in with his forearms. One large hand brushed your hair back from your forehead tenderly.
“You gonna let me take care of you?” he murmured, voice low. Asking once again for your consent.
You nodded eagerly, already pawing at his bare shoulders to have his lips meet your own again. He obliged immediately, kissing you slow and deep, revelling in the way you gave yourself to him without hesitation.
When he pulled back, his thumb traced along your bottom lip.
“So pretty,” he whispered, the words impossibly softer than the touch.
You huffed out, slightly flustered by the praise. Your fingers tightened against his wrist as you looked up at him, eyes heavy.
“Please.” You asked from under him, doe eyes almost pleading for him to touch you more.
Oh, sweetheart.
Who was he not oblige such a sweet request?
His fingers were careful as they moved to your shirt, unfastening each button one at a time, slow enough that you could feel the warmth of his hands long before the fabric gave way. Goosebumps followed every small movement, your skin reacting to the light brush of his knuckles as much as the cool air hit your exposed flesh.
You were always so receptive to him, always so open. Taking everything he offered you and more. It made his mind dizzy.
Not that he thought he deserved it.
He shoved the thought to the back of his mind as he continued undressing you, not allowing your pleasure to be sidetracked by his own insecurities.
Tonight, he wanted you to forget everything else.
He pushed the shirt from your shoulders with such softness. One hand slid behind your back, fingers finding your bra clasp without looking. His hands moved lower next, sliding the rest of your clothes away until nothing was left but warm skin under his palms.
He leaned in again, lips brushing over the newly bared areas, kissing along your collarbone, your shoulder, the centre of your chest, taking his time with each touch like he was memorising you all over again.
“Beautiful.” He breathed against your neck as your face heated.
It really was the only way to describe you—soft and pliant, bare and so needy for him already.
He was going to give you everything tonight. Take his time until the only thing left in that sweet head of yours was him.
It felt like he owed you more than that anyway.
His hands settled on your thighs, spreading them gently.
“Need to taste you first, honey,” though it sounds more like a plea. “Just lie back for me, can you do that?”
Let him make you feel good.
Let him make it up to you.
You nodded eagerly, cheeks already warm, no convincing needed.
He lowered himself between your legs, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“Missed taking care of you like this,” he said, mainly to himself, fingers already spreading you open before any words could escape you.
He dipped his head down, mouth closing over your clit, tongue lapping in the rhythm he knew drove you wild.
A small whine pulled from your chest and he hummed in approval, the sound vibrating against your skin. One broad hand stayed splayed across your lower stomach, holding you down so you couldn’t chase his mouth even if you tried.
He needed you just like this, exactly where he could take care of you properly.
As he kept going, a gentle cry burst out of your mouth, your hands coming down to tangle in his hair, pulling him without thinking. He could only groan as he felt you tug him closer.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed, pressing his lips against your thigh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He truly wasn’t.
He was in heaven between your thighs. Your warmth, the softness of your skin as he pulled more sounds from you. The way you tensed, squeezing his head as he sucked harder.
He was taking his time, savouring you, stroking his tongue across every fold, every nerve ending, until he was sure you’d be seeing stars.
He owed you that.
Your moans got longer, the feeling of your body unwinding around him, letting him know that he was still good at this. Letting him know that it was only him who would make you come undone like this.
He pressed two fingers inside of you, humming in appreciation as you cried out.
“Ah, Clark—“
He curled his fingers, feeling your walls begin to tighten, throbbing as your sounds grew more desperate, more beautiful.
He swore his name had never sounded so sweet.
“That’s it, angel, almost there.”
Your back arched; he pressed you back down with that hand on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you.
Let go for him.
When you came, it was with a sound that made his entire body tingle. He stayed between your legs the whole time, licking you through every aftershock until you were whimpering beneath him.
Always the prettiest sight he could ask for.
When your shaking subsided, he kissed his way back up your body, careful not to overwhelm you just yet. He pressed his forehead to yours while you caught your breath.
He saw the blissed-out look in your eyes, the hazy smile, the sheepish look as you giggled at him, like he had just given you the world, and he couldn’t help but smile too.
Your hands shifted to the top of his slacks, giving them a small playful tug as you met his blue eyes again.
“Not fair,” you pouted. “Wanna see you too.”
He let out a small chuckle, but he was elated that you wanted more. Wanted more of him.
Always so eager.
“Yeah?” He asks as his nose nudges against your cheek, lips brushing your flushed skin. He smiles when he sees you nod, your face almost desperate.
He leans back to unbuckle his belt, trousers following quickly after as he pulls them down his hips. He can feel your eyes on him as he undresses, his muscles twisting in the dim light under your gaze.
He watches the way your eyes glaze over, your breath getting stuck in the back of your throat, the way your thighs rub together at the sight of him bare before you.
“You’re so handsome, Clark.”
The words stop him in his tracks.
Spilling from your mouth without thought. Like it was the simplest truth. It stuttered his movements as he could feel the heat bloom across his face.
The fact that you still say these things after all this time never fails to make the world tilt ever so slightly. It nearly knocks him off balance.
Focus.
He needs to make you feel good tonight, needs to make you feel good every night.
If making you come over and over was what it took to keep that soft look in your eyes, to keep you reaching for him instead of anyone else, he’d do it as many times as it took.
Gladly.
Every single night.
“Baby…” he breathes, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “You keep talking like that, I’m not gonna last five seconds.”
You glance up at him, a teasing glint in your eye.
“Then I guess I’d better keep talking, huh?”
You’ll be the death of him.
“Sweetheart…” he groans softly. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
You take mercy on him and bite your lip as he drops the last of his clothes aside and begins to crawl back over you, allowing his warm, solid body to wrap around you once more.
He breathes in deeply against the side of your neck, his breath tickling as he leaves soft, open-mouth kisses against your jaw.
The way he is positioned over you, caging you in, not allowing friction in the one place where you really want him.
“Please—“ you wrap your legs around his hips, trying so hard to get him closer. “Clark—fuck—I need more.”
“Language, baby,” he coos, pressing his lips once again on your flushed skin. “I got you, alright? Need you to relax for me.”
You nod, giving him a gentle peck as your hands slide up his bare back. His muscles flex under your palms, shivering like it’s the first time.
He was already hard—aching, really—his cock heavy and flushed against your thigh. He’d barely been paying attention to himself tonight.
No—tonight was about you.
Reaching down between you, he guides himself to your entrance slowly, watching your reaction. The blunt head of him nudges against your slick folds.
So wet, so ready for him.
He pauses there, eyes locked on yours.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers against your lips. “I’ll stop, alright? just say the word.”
Just say, and he’ll stop.
“I need you, Clark,” you plead, “Please, I need you so bad.”
Every ounce of self-control he had went into holding himself together at the sound of your voice, his sweet girl begging him to make her feel good.
He feels you fluttering around his tip, walls trying to suck him in. His chest rumbles as he slowly pushes forward, rolling his hips gently so he fits with little resistance.
“God—“ you whine as your head hits the pillow behind you, nails digging into his shoulders.
“I know, baby—“ he soothes, almost fully inside you. “I know—”
He groans into your collarbone as he bottoms out, allowing himself to look between your bodies. Your arousal is coating the bottom of his shaft. It makes him nearly burst right then.
“So good for me, angel, so good—“
His praise has you clenching as he thrusts into you once more, mewling gently under him.
It begins lazily, savouring every twitch of your body. Long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you, his hips rolling again and again as his breaths get heavier.
Every breath that caught, every time your hands tightened around his shoulders, pulled his focus right back to you, even when his mind kept trying to wander somewhere it shouldn’t.
Gosh, he’d almost forgotten how you looked falling apart like this.
Soft under him, lips parted, trusting him completely.
How long had it been since he pleasured you like this? A week? Two?
Far too long.
His jaw tightened slightly as his hips faltered for half a second before he forced himself back.
“Feel good, honey?” he murmured against your temple, “Tell me I’m doing it right.”
He had to be.
He had to make this good for you.
He shifted his angle just slightly, the way he knew made your breath stutter, pressing his lips to your temple as he heard your sweet voice.
“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”
He really hopes so.
Superman could keep the whole city safe, sure. That was the easy part.
But this? This was the part that really mattered.
It was up to Clark to take care of you. Up to him to make sure you felt wanted, felt seen, felt good.
“Don’t get enough of you,” he admits, voice cracking slightly. “Not nearly enough—gosh—“
You moaned under him again, letting him know he was hitting your sweet spot when you arched up into him, chest brushing against his own.
Yes, just like that.
He needed to see this, to know that he could still do this for you.
“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he whimpers as he can feel you getting closer. “Say it—please angel—gotta hear you say it.”
Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, both of pleasure and pure determination. The kind that made his vision blur just enough that he had to blink them away to focus.
He couldn’t be done with you yet.
He kept moving, steady and deep, listening to every single sound you made. When your nails scraped lightly down his back, he slowed even more, letting you feel every thick inch.
It was then that you looked up at him, concerned eyes completely filled with love.
“Clark… I love you.” You say slowly as you cup his face. “You don’t even have to ask.”
He lets out a choked sound as his movements still, breath catching in his throat.
His forehead drops against yours, eyes squeezing shut. One of his hands comes up to cover yours where it rests on his cheek, pressing into your palm.
“Say it again,” he asks softly. Needing to hear it once more.
There is no hesitation in your reply.
“I love you, Clark,” you say as you squeeze his hand gently. “I’m always yours.”
A soft moan escapes his throat as your words wash over him, the sweetness of your tone spurring him on.
He pulls back ever so slightly, searching your face for any sign of dishonesty. He finds none.
“I love you too,” he says, though his voice sounds sadder than he means. “Just… don’t stop saying that, please?”
He doesn’t give you time to question his statement before his lips are back on yours, hips rolling once again in steady movements, reassured somewhat by your gentle words.
The sweetness starts to fray at the edges as the pleasure builds. His thrusts stay deep but grow a fraction harder, a little more urgent, like the need to prove himself is winding tighter in his chest.
His dark curls begin to drift onto his forehead. His kisses are messier now, almost desperate, tongue sliding against yours as his hips snap forward with a little more force.
He could feel you getting close again, the way you tightened around him, the way your thighs started to tremble. He didn’t speed up. He just kept that same devastating rhythm, grinding deep on every stroke, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit with two fingers.
“Come on, baby,” he coaxed, voice soft and pleading. “Let go for me, I got you—please—.”
“Clark—” It came out broken, desperate, and he felt it like a punch to the chest.
He groaned, hips stuttering for the first time, but he caught himself immediately, forcing the pace back to that slow, worshipful roll.
“Again,” he begs through gritted teeth.
Say his name again.
Tell him it’s only him.
“Clark… oh god, Clark—”
Your orgasm hit you like a wave—long and rolling and endless. He felt every pulse, every flutter, and he kept moving through it, fucking you gently through every aftershock, drawing it out until you were gasping and shaking beneath him.
Only then did he let himself chase his own release, but even that was careful. He buried his face in your neck, lips pressed to your pulse point, and came with a quiet, shattered groan of your name, hips pressing deep and still as he filled you.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your shared breathing, slow and heavy. Clark stayed buried inside you, arms lifting slightly as he held himself up so he wouldn’t crush you.
His chest rose and fell against yours, warm skin caught the faint city light filtering through the curtains. Dark curls messy, and when he finally lifted his head, his blue eyes were soft and a little glassy, still hazy with pleasure and something deeper.
You looked completely spent beneath him, hair a mess against the pillow, lips still parted from catching your breath.
He gently eased out of you, mindful of how sensitive you were. Then he shifted his weight, rolling to the side and lifting himself off you completely so you could breathe easier.
Immediately, he leaned back in, peppering the softest kisses all over your face—your forehead, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose, each cheek, and finally your lips.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice still rough. “Did I—” he hesitated. “Did I do alright?”
You let out a tired laugh, reaching up to push his hair back.
“Clark, you know you did.”
His smile didn’t quite settle.
“Yeah?” he asked quietly, like he needed to hear it again. “You sure?”
You nodded, thumb brushing along his cheek.
“I promise.”
He held your gaze for a second longer, searching your face, checking for any cracks. When he didn’t find any, he leaned down to kiss you once more, softer this time.
“I’m gonna grab a towel,” he murmured against your lips, already starting to shift off the bed.
You let him move for half a second before your hand caught his wrist. fingers wrapping around it gently but firmly.
“Hey,” you said softly.
He paused immediately, turning back to you.
His kind eyes wide and vulnerable as they met yours, his lips slightly swollen from kissing you, and there was a faint pink still high on his cheeks.
“Yes?” he asked, voice attentive. Always ready to give you whatever you needed.
You sat up a little, the sheet shifting, and reached for him again, fingers brushing along his jaw.
“Clark…” you say as you hold his gaze. “Something’s on your mind, isn’t it?”
Darn it. He should have hidden it better.
“Huh?” he says quickly, like he’s been caught off guard. “Nah—no, nothing’s wrong, baby. Honest.”
He tries to smile, tries to make it sound easy, but he can already see the way your brow pulls together, the way you tilt your head just slightly.
“You sure?” you press gently. “I mean… you seemed… I don’t know. Different?”
Different.
He lets out a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice a little strained despite himself. “Was it… was it not good for you?”
He couldn’t stop himself from asking.
He could go again, if you needed him to. Could try harder, slower, whatever you wanted.
Do it better this time.
If you asked him to stay between your legs all night, making you forget, he would. Gladly.
“It was,” you say softly, before glancing down. “I just… I don’t know.”
He swallows, jaw tightening for a second.
He didn’t want this to turn into that kind of night.
Didn’t want you worrying about him or feeling like you had to fix something. He just wanted to give you a good evening. He wanted tonight to be special.
Or at least… as special as he could manage on short notice.
“I just missed you,” he says finally, forcing a small smile as he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.
He bends to grab his clothes from the floor, shaking them out before pulling his briefs back on, then his shirt, movements a little quicker than usual, keeping that little bit busy to ignore any further questions.
“Besides, it’s getting late,” he adds with a shrug, dragging the shirt over his head, voice casual. “Figured I should probably—”
“You’re leaving?”
Your voice is quiet.
Oh, sweetheart, no.
It makes him freeze instantly, one arm still half through the sleeve. He turns around so fast he nearly trips over his own foot.
“No—I—” he blurts, eyes wide. “I’m not. I’m not leaving.”
He wouldn’t do that to you immediately after something like this. He didn’t think he could bear it.
You give him a small smile, already reaching over to the bedside drawer, pulling out one of his oversized t-shirts and slipping it over your head.
“It’s okay if you are,” you say gently, like you don’t want him to feel bad about it. “If you heard something or…”
The only thing he can hear is the tone of your voice. That tiny bit of disappointment you’re trying to hide. It hits him right in the chest.
“No, hey—no,” he says quickly, stepping closer, hands half-raised, not knowing whether to touch you or not. “That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t saying I had to go. I just—”
He stops and exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, cursing the words that don’t come out right.
“I meant it’s late,” he says, softer now. “Like… I should probably serve dinner. Or something. I mean, we haven’t eaten yet, so…”
You blink at him.
“Oh.”
He gives a sheepish shrug, suddenly feeling very big and very unsure, standing there before he sits down on the bed.
“I mean, it’s the least I can do.”
As the words leave him, your expression softens, understanding gracing your features. Everything suddenly clicked into place, understanding before he even said anything.
You stay silent as you look at him, vulnerable atop the mattress. He knows what that silence means, that you want him to say more. That you’re waiting for him to find the right words and talk to you, rather than pushing his own feelings down when they’re inconvenient.
You always make him talk more than he planned to.
He looks down at the floor, then back at you, then away again.
“I just—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head.
“It’s alright, we can—”
“No, it’s just—,” he tries again, a little too quickly. “I just… I don’t know.”
You don’t say anything.
For someone who writes for a living, he sure does struggle with finding the right words when you’re around.
You sit there, watching him, patient as ever, hands folded in your lap, waiting for him to get the rest out.
He lets out a quiet breath through his nose.
There’s no getting out of this.
“…Feels like I haven’t been around much,” he admits finally.
Your face softens even more.
“Clark—”
“I know, I know,” he says, holding up a hand, already rambling. “I know you don’t mind. You always say you don’t mind. You always tell me it’s fine, and I believe you, I do, I just—”
He rubs the back of his neck again, sighing.
“I just keep thinking one day you’re gonna…” he breathes in, not wanting to say the next words. “Maybe you’re gonna get tired of that,” he mutters.
You blink.
“What?”
He stills, not meeting your eyes.
“Waiting. Eating dinner by yourself. Me showing up late, or not at all. Falling asleep before I get back.” He lets out a humourless laugh. “Feels like that’s not exactly… boyfriend of the year material.”
You stare at him, completely melted already, but he keeps going, words spilling out faster now that he’s started.
“I mean, you could have somebody who’s actually around,” he continues. “Anybody, really. Somebody who doesn’t disappear in the middle of the night because the police scanner goes off.”
He finally looks at you, and his expression must be worse than he thought. The way your lips turn slightly downward, face looking that little bit sadder.
He never should have started.
This is exactly what he didn’t want.
“I just… I don’t know. Feels like I’m not doing enough for you lately,” he admits. “And I hate that. I hate feeling like you deserve more.”
Deserve more than him.
He hears the rustle of the sheets as you sit up on your knees. You go to wrap your arms around him, but he beats you to it, gathering you up on his lap on instinct. Holding you close to him, allowing him to hear your heartbeat soothes him slightly, but he still struggles to look at you after his admission.
“Clark,” you say softly, drawing him back.
He looks down at you, eyes still a little uncertain.
“You think I don’t know who I’m with?”
He goes to speak, but you beat him to it, silencing whatever argument he had formulated in his head.
“You think I’d trade you for someone who just… makes it home on time?”
“Yeah, but that’s not—“
“You’re the most attentive, patient, ridiculous man I’ve ever met,” you go on, thumb brushing over his cheek. “You take care of me better than anyone ever has.”
He still doesn’t seem convinced. It makes sense on paper—yes—but surely you’re just saying that to spare his feelings. Someone as special as you deserves far more than that, not stolen kisses before he has to take off through the open window.
He shakes his head faintly.
Surely that’s not true.
“I’m not always here to do that.”
“Yes, you are.”
He lets out a quiet scoff, looking away.
“Yeah, right.”
You tug his face again until he looks back at you.
“When you’re out there,” you say softly, “saving the world every day… you’re taking care of me.”
He goes still, trying to understand what you’re getting at.
“You make it safer for me to live here,” you continue, voice warm, smile returning. “For me to walk home. For me to sleep. For me to sit here and wait for you without being scared.”
“You think that doesn’t count?” you whisper.
He swallows hard, not quite knowing what to say, your words settling somewhere in his chest where all the doubts usually lived. He’s waiting for a sign that you’re being dishonest, or being just the right amount of honest to spare his feelings. But there isn’t any.
You just keep looking at him the same way you always do—like none of this is really that complicated at all. Like loving him is the most obvious thing in the world to you.
“…You really mean that?” though it’s more statement than question.
You smile, thumb still brushing along his cheek.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
He huffs out an almost a laugh, shaking his head as his eyes drop for a second.
“Honey…” he mutters, now embarrassed. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you?”
Always know how to keep him steady.
You grin.
“Well, someone’s gotta look after the city’s Superman.”
He snorts softly at that, finally looking back at you, and there it is—that stupid, boyish smile he always gets when you call him that.
“I just…,” he says, rambling now, words coming easier now that he’s started. “Feels like I should be doing more.”
You shake your head immediately.
“I don’t want somebody else,” you say simply. “You’re the one I want. Even when you show up through the window instead of the door.”
That makes him laugh, a real one this time, head tipping forward as he presses his forehead against yours.
“Hey, that only happened twice.”
“Three,” you correct.
“…Okay, three.”
He sighs, eyes closing. He opens them, about to say something else when—
Your stomach growls.
He feels your heart beat speed up as you groan, immediately hiding your face in his shoulder.
“Oh my god.”
Clark stares at you, then lets out the softest, most offended little gasp.
“Well we can’t have that,” he says, like this is suddenly the most serious problem in the world.
You laugh into his chest.
“I’m fine.”
“Nope. Not happening.” He shakes his head firmly, already sliding one arm under your knees. “Absolutely not. I just gave you a whole speech about taking care of you, I can’t let you starve five minutes later.”
Before you can protest, he lifts you clean off the bed, settling you against his chest.
You let out a surprised laugh, grabbing his shoulders.
“Hey!”
“What?” he says, grinning, already heading toward the door. “Doctor’s orders. You need food.”
“I’m not a patient!”
“You are when you don’t eat.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, arms sliding around his neck as he carries you out of the bedroom.
Halfway down the hall you tilt your head at him.
“…Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”
He stops instantly.
“Of course you do,” he says. “You just say the word, I got all night.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“All night, huh?”
He grins, a little crooked, a little bashful.
You snort, and he laughs under his breath as he pushes the bathroom door open. He sets you down gently on your feet, hands lingering at your waist.
“You alright?” he asks softly.
You nod.
He leans in automatically, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then one to the corner of your mouth.
“Clark,” you laugh, pushing at his chest. “Go. I need to shower.”
“Right, right,” he says, but he’s still smiling.
He backs toward the door, hands up in surrender.
You point at him.
“Out.”
“Yes ma’am.”
He slips out into the hall, closing the door behind him, staring at the wood like an idiot.
You really love him.
I mean, he knew that, but the reassurance had eradicated any doubt he held in his chest. He rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself as he walks back toward the kitchen.
He flicked the stove back on, checking the sauce he made earlier, giving it a slow stir.
Still good.
He smiles to himself, leaning one hip against the counter as the warmth fills the room again.
From down the hall, he can hear the shower start. A second later, soft humming.
He turns the tap on, filling a pot with water for the pasta, setting it on the stove, still listening to that faint little tune drifting down the hall.
Tonight was good. Better than good.
And as the water starts to heat, he finds himself smiling at absolutely nothing, already thinking about what else he can do.
Maybe garlic bread. You like the garlic bread. Maybe dessert if he can find something sweet in the cupboard.
He shakes his head, chuckling quietly to himself.
He needs to slow down. Step one: feed his girl.
He glances toward the hallway again when your humming gets a little louder, warmth settling right behind his ribs.
Yeah.
He thinks he can do that.
a/n: first clark fic wooo!
but no, i know im late but i immediately knew i had to write for him after seeing the movie. please let me know what you think, i havent written in months so i still feel im suuuper rusty
there will most certainly be more where this came from if people want so lmk ! <3
summary: you're one of the new, fresh, and young interns of many that were so lucky enough to be chosen for the Daily Planet. a very cute nerdy reporter catches your hungry eye. but he's unsure if bending a few moral rules is a good idea.
tags: 18+ , MDNI , NSFW , smut , age gap (reader is 22 kent is 35) , power imbalance , yearning clark , creampie , eating out , p in v
a/n: wow what an innocent fic
theme: teachers pet (formally inspired by)
"And this," Perry said, stopping just short of Clark's very own cubicle, arm extended, "Is where you will find your mentors."
Yourself and four other interns crowded together, shy, excited, eager.
Your heart did a ridiculous flip when Clark Kent looked up from his typewriter, yes, he still used one sometimes, the endearing dinosaur, and blinked in genuine surprise. He pointed a finger at himself. "Me?"
Perry didn't even glance back. "And Cat and Lois, and whoever else I forgot."
"Rude!" Jimmy called out from behind his own cubicle.
Perry waved a hand without looking. "Olsen, you're taking the one who keeps staring at your blank computer screen. Try not to traumatize her too badly."
Jimmy bounded over immediately, all freckles and enthusiasm, already extending a hand. "Hey! Jimmy Olsen, photographer extraordinaire, your official mentor starting… now. You like darkrooms? I basically live in one. We're gonna have so much fun."
You shook his hand, smiled, said all the right things. But your eyes kept sliding sideways.
The very endearing dark haired man that just radiated some kind of gentlemanly masculinity. Clark Kent. He was already shaking hands and introducing himself to his own mentee.
She was striking. Tall, dark hair swept into a low ponytail, sharp cheekbones, the kind of effortless beauty that made other women unconsciously smooth their skirts.
She laughed at something he said, and Clark ducked his head with that shy half-smile that should have come with a warning label.
Your stomach twisted. Not jealousy, exactly. More like… territorial panic. Like watching someone else hold the thing you'd been quietly starving for. Even though you had no real claim on it.
He glanced up, pure reflex, and caught you looking. You looked away first. Heat crawled up your neck.
Jimmy was still talking. "-so anyway, if you ever need to develop film the old-school way, I'm your guy. None of this digital nonsense. Real photography has soul, you know?"
"Yeah," you breathed out. "Soul. Totally."
The next few days were exquisite torture. You caught glimpses of Clark everywhere.
Leaning over his mentee's shoulder to point at her laptop screen, sleeves rolled to his forearms, voice pitched low so only she could hear.
Carrying two coffees back from the break room. One for her, one for himself, because of course he noticed she took hers black.
And every single time he sensed your eyes on him, he looked. Held the contact a heartbeat too long. Then broke it like it physically hurt him to do so.
You even tried going to him for help more than your own mentor. Which Jimmy quickly caught onto. "You know i'm your mentor, right? Not nerdy old Kent."
You'd forced a smile, mumbled something about "just double-checking facts," but the heat in your cheeks gave you away. Jimmy had rolled his eyes good-naturedly and gone back to developing prints, but the point landed.
Still, you couldn't stop. Clark noticed.
Those stolen glances had turned into something heavier.
"Mind if I…?"
You slid the page toward him without a word.
He leaned over your shoulder and braced one hand on the back of your chair, the other flat on the table beside your elbow. His forearm brushed yours. You felt the warmth of him immediately, the faint clean scent of soap and newsprint and something indefinably him. He adjusted his glasses with a knuckle, scanned the text, then pointed to a sentence halfway down.
"Here. The attribution's buried. Move the quote up, lead with the source. Readers trust names they recognize early."
You tilted your head just enough that your temple nearly grazed his jaw. "Like that?"
"Mmm." He swallowed. "Better."
You didn't make any effort to move away, or move much at all. You just stared up at him through your lashes, catching the sharp line of his jaw, his adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed. You could hear his breathing.
"Kent! You flirting with my intern now?" Jimmy shouted, clapping him hard on the back.
The hand on the back of your chair tightened for a fraction of a second, enough that you felt the wood creak, before he straightened like he'd been caught holding something dangerous. His ears went faintly pink and he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose in that nervous gesture.
Jimmy stood there grinning, arms crossed. "I mean, I get it, she's cute when she's pretending to listen to me. But hands off the merchandise, Smallville."
Clark cleared his throat. "I was just, helping with structure. The lead was weak." He rubbed the back of his neck subconsciously.
"Uh-huh." Jimmy's grin widened. "Real charitable of you."
By nine-thirty the floor was nearly empty again. You'd volunteered to finish labeling a batch of archived contact sheets. Another one of Jimmy's "learning opportunities" that felt more like charity and ended up back in the fifth-floor storage closet.
You were balanced on a short step-stool, reaching for a box on the top shelf, when the door opened behind you.
No knock. Just Clark. He didn’t step all the way inside at first. Just enough to let the door ease shut and cut off the hallway light.
You didn't turn around right away. You kept your arms raised, fingers brushing cardboard, pretending the sudden heat in the room was from the poor ventilation.
"You shouldn't be up there without someone to spot you," he said quietly.
You lowered your arms. Turned slowly.
Shoulders tense. Looking at you like you were the craving he'd been trying to avoid.
"Jimmy's gone home," you said. "Said I could lock up when I'm done."
"I know."
You stepped down off the stool. Lightly brushed off the dust from your palms. "So?" You notched your head to the side.
Clark stayed by the door, one hand still on the knob like he might bolt at any second. "I shouldn't be here," he said. "You're... you're an intern. I'm—"
"Old enough to know better?" you finished for him, stepping closer.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flicking to the floor then back to your face. "It's not just the age. It's the position. Perry would fire me on the spot, and he'd be right to."
You slowly crossed your arms, purposely pushing your chest up with the motion. "Then why'd you follow me in here?"
His gaze dropped to your crossed arms, then quickly, snapped back to your face.
"To check on you," he said. "That you might need help moving the heavier boxes. Professional courtesy."
"And was it?"
"No," he admitted. "It wasn't."
Silence.
"Every time you look at me like that…" He dragged a hand through his hair, mussing the neat part he always tried to keep. "It's like you're asking a question I've spent weeks trying not to answer."
"Then answer it now." You fully stepped up now, right in his space.
He subconsciously stepped back.
"I want to," he said quietly. "God help me, I want to. But you're-what? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? I'm thirty-five. I've spent my whole life trying to do the right thing, and this…" He gestured vaguely between you. "This isn't right."
You looked him up and down, slowly raking your eyes back to his face.
"Twenty-two." You corrected.
Clark's eyes widened fractionally behind his glasses. He took another small step back until his shoulders met the closed door. He exhaled dramatically, "Gosh... That's… barely out of college. You're just starting your life here, and I-"
"And you what?" you asked gently, refusing to let him retreat any further into guilt. "You're going to tell me that makes this impossible?"
He swallowed hard. "It makes it… complicated. Immensely complicated." His voice dropped to something almost pained. "You look at me like I'm something worth wanting. That alone is enough to keep me awake at night wondering if I'm losing my mind."
"You're not losing your mind," you whispered. "You're just feeling something real. And so am I." You flicked your eyes up to look at his. He was 6'4, you were 5'4.
All that followed was his labored breathing like he just ran five miles. You stepped closer again, caging him against the door, letting one of your hands reach out to touch him, only to be caught by his massive one.
"I can't," he said, so quiet it almost disappeared. "I can't let this happen."
"Clark." You said, almost fed up. "I'm not a child."
"I know you're not a child," he said, barely above a whisper.
You didn't pull your hand away. Instead you turned it slowly in his grasp.
"Then stop treating me like I don't know what I want," you said quietly.
His eyes closed for a long moment. When they opened again they were glassy, conflicted, aching. "I've thought about this more than I should," he confessed, so softly it felt like a secret he’d never meant to speak aloud. "Very not so nice things. Thing's a respectable man should never think of, let alone with a coworker, a younger one."
"Clark," you said softly. "Look at me."
It took him a long second, but he did. Those blue eyes were stormy now, pupils wide, guilt and hunger warring openly.
"I've thought them too," you told him. "About you. About us. About what it would feel like if you finally stopped being so careful and just… took what you wanted."
"You shouldn't say things like that," he murmured, almost pleading. "It makes it so much harder to do the right thing."
"Then don't."
You rose onto your toes, closing the last impossible inch between your mouths.
For a second you thought he might pull away, might open the door and vanish down the hall. Instead he made a small, broken sound in the back of his throat.
And kissed you back.
It was careful at first. Lips moving against yours like he was afraid too much pressure would bruise you. But when you parted for him, when your tongue brushed his in silent invitation, the last thread of his restraint snapped.
He immediately picked you up like you weighed nothing, your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. One large hand came up to cradle the back of your head, the other held the underside of one of your thighs.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against your mouth.
"Dont apologize. Don't stop. Please." You gasped for air, threading your fingers through his dark hair, then down his white button up.
He exhaled shakily and carried you the few steps to the nearest low shelf. Your skirt had ridden up to which he immediately smoothed it back down over your thighs with both hands, like propriety still mattered even now.
Then he sank to his knees between your legs. He looked up at you through slightly crooked glasses. "May I?"
"Yes," you whispered, fingers gripping the edge of the shelf. "Please."
The first brush of his lips against your inner thigh was feather-light, almost chaste. His fingers hooked under the lace of your panties carefully. He slid them down your legs slowly, then folded the delicate material neatly and set it aside on the shelf like it deserved care even in a moment like this.
He parted your thighs gently with both hands, thumbs stroking the sensitive crease where thigh met hip. "You're beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself.
Then his mouth found you. The first long, careful lick made your hips jerk. He immediately steadied you with one broad palm flat against your lower stomach. He hummed softly in quiet pleasure at your taste, the vibration traveling straight through you. Every swirl of his tongue was attentive. H drank in every small sound you made, and adjusted accordingly.
When your fingers tightened in his hair he groaned quietly against you and pressed just a little closer, tongue circling your clit. He never rushed. Never chased anything for himself. Just worshipped you with his mouth until your thighs began to tremble around his ears and heat coiled impossibly tight in your belly.
"Clark-" His name came out desperately.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, lips glistening, expression soft and earnest. "Yeah?"
"Fuck- I didn't tell you to stop."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low.
You exhaled a shaky laugh. "You're killing me with how perfect you are."
He ducked his head but didn't argue. His tongue returned to your clit with the same careful reverence, but now he added the slightest suction, lips closing around the sensitive bud in gentle pulses that made your hips lift off the shelf.
"May I use my fingers too? I'd like to feel you come around them… if you'll let me."
"Yes," you gasped. "Please, Clark-yes."
He pressed one slow, open-mouthed kiss to your clit before sliding two fingers along your entrance, coating them in your slickness. He eased them in, slow, careful, watching your face the entire time. Only when you relaxed did he curl them gently, stroking that perfect spot inside.
Then his mouth returned. The combination undid you. The dual sensation built fast, overwhelming. Your thighs clamped around his head. Your back arched hard against the shelf. Your fingers yanked at his hair as the coil in your belly snapped.
You came over his fingers, his mouth, crying out, louder than you meant to. He kept stroking you through it, tongue softening to gentle laps, drawing out every last tremor until you were whimpering.
Only then did he carefully withdraw his fingers, pressing one last tender kiss to your swollen clit before rising.
"Your turn," you breathed, fingers already fumbling toward his belt.
He caught your wrist. "You don't have to-"
"I want to." You held his gaze.
He only nodded.
The buckle came undone under careful fingers. Zipper lowered with a sound that felt deafening in the quiet room. He let the flaps of his pants fall open, so that you could see the visible print of him through his boxers.
You reached out slowly, fingertips brushing the waistband. His stomach jumped under the lightest touch.
"May I?" you asked, turning the question back on him with a teasing smile.
His laugh was soft, breathless. "You're asking me?"
"I learned from the best."
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. "Yes," he said quietly. "Please."
You tugged the waistband down, freeing him. He sprang up against his stomach, the tip of him flushed and dripping with his own pre.
He involuntarily flinched at his own friction.
"God, you're... huge." You nervously swallowed your fear down the best you could. Although, it was probably more excitement if anything. Your small hand looked delicate wrapped around the base, fingers just meeting.
"I know I'm… a lot," he said quietly, like he was ashamed. "We can stop right here if it's too much. I swear to you. I'd never ask you to-"
You cut him off by squeezing along his base and stroking upwards slowly, flicking your wrist at the very tip.
His hips jerked forward an inch on pure instinct before he caught himself. His hands flew to the shelf on either side of your hips, knuckles white.
"Sweetheart-" His voice cracked, hoarse and desperate. "Please… slow. I-I haven't… it's been so long."
You unknowingly parted your lips, like you might genuinely start drooling. "How did girls survive this? You?"
"I don't know," he whispered. "I really don't know."
You bit your lip, slowly pumping him in your hand again. "Well I think I'm about to find out." You pulled him closer by his cock, notching him right at your pink entrance.
"Sweetheart," he rasped, voice, "I need you to tell me again. Please. I need to hear it."
"I want you inside me, Clark. I want all of you. I'm ready. I’m asking."
A long, shaky exhale left him. "Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
His hips flexed forward, the broad head of him nudging just barely inside you, stretching that first delicate ring of muscle.
"Too much?" he whispered, voice cracking like he might cry if the answer was yes. "Am I hurting you already?"
"No," you gasped, legs tightening around his waist to keep him there. "Don't you dare stop. I want to feel every inch of you. Slowly… but don't stop."
"Okay… okay… I'll go slow. I promise. I promise." The stretch burned sweet and bright. He sank another careful inch. Then another. When he was finally buried to the hilt, he let out a stifled moan and buried his face in the crook of your neck.
"Gosh… sweetheart…" His voice was almost babyish in its overwhelm. "You feel… you feel like heaven. I-I don't know how to be calm right now. I'm sorry. I'm trying so hard."
You threaded your fingers through his dark hair. "Don't be calm," you whispered. "Just move. Please, Clark. I need you to move."
He made another small sound and started the tiniest rocks of his hips. Barely withdrawals. Like he was terrified of hurting you and desperate to feel more of you at the same time.
You arched under him, trying to meet each barely-there thrust. "Deeper," you breathed. "A little harder, please."
A whine caught in his throat. "Harder? Are-are you sure? I don't want to-"
"I’m sure," you cut in, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Please."
He groaned and obeyed. The rhythm stayed controlled but grew deeper, longer strokes that made your head spin. The shelf rattled faintly behind you. A few contact sheets slipped to the floor. He didn't notice. His hands roamed everywhere. Stroking down your sides, cupping your breasts through your blouse with the softest of touches.
"Feels good?" he panted against your ear. "Tell me it feels good, please. I need to know."
"So good," you gasped, clenching around him on the next deep thrust. "You're so perfect, Clark. So big… filling me so perfectly…"
A high groan escaped from him. His hips stuttered, then snapped forward harder before he caught himself with a frantic "sorry, sorry, sorry-"
"Don't apologize," you pleaded. "Do it again. Just like that."
He whimpered, actually whimpered, and gave you what you asked for. Deeper, a little faster, still careful.
One hand slid under your thigh, hitching your leg higher so he could angle deeper. The new angle made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Right-right there?" he gasped, voice cracking again. "Is that the spot, sweetheart? Please tell me-"
"Yes-yes-Clark-don't stop-"
He stayed exactly there, not speeding up, and neither slowing down. Keeping the pace just as you requested.
Pleasure coiled tighter, unbearable. Your thighs started to shake. "I'm-Clark, I'm gonna-"
"Thank goodness," he murmured. "Because I-sweetheart, I can't hold on much longer."
You cupped the back of his neck. "Come with me," you moaned, looking right into his eyes.
A full-body shudder ran through him.
You shattered like tempered glass finally meeting its match, pieces cracking open in one large burst. Your walls fluttered and clamped around him, squeezing and tugging him deeper, if that was even possible.
Clark's rhythm broke completely. His breath came out harsh. His hands flew to the shelf on either side of your head, wood creaking dangerously under his grip.
"Sweetheart… oh gosh… I'm-may I-inside? Please, I'm so close, I can't-I need-"
"Yes," you gasped, legs locking around him. "Inside me. Come inside me, Clark. Please."
His whole body shook as he came, spilling hot and endless inside you, hips jerking in tiny helpless pulses. He kept rocking through it, whimpering your name over and over. Drawing out every tremor until he was trembling and empty and completely spent.
Then, so softly you almost missed it.
"…thank you."
You laughed breathlessly, carding fingers through his hair. "You're welcome."
"Are you… okay?" he whispered. "Did I… was I too much?"
You shook your head with a smile. "You were perfect."
You tugged him back down for one more slow, lingering kiss.
When you finally pulled away, you whispered, "Next time… my place. A real bed. And maybe you can stop apologizing every five seconds."
synopsis: After breaking up with Adrian Chase, you find your dating life thwarted at every turn by Evergreen's own Vigilante.
pairing: adrian chase x reader
tags: stalker vigilante, possessive & jealous adrian (wait maybe this also works for your suggestion @genuinelygemini!), that being said - generally lots of antics and humor, angst, fluff, (but it's adrian so there's still murder), reader kind of matches vij's freak, brief sexual references, language, attempted mugging, gun violence
word count: 9.1k (sorry I got carried away)
note: (Based on this request from @danversxwasabi <3) as I'm not sure what's going on with the tumblr reblog/comments/notes situation this is a reminder that all my work is also cross-posted on my AO3 (I'm actually going to be changing my username there to match here soon!)
You were fairly certain that Vigilante was cockblocking you.
If you were being technical, your suspicions had started a few months ago, when you’d gotten back on the market after a particularly painful breakup with –
Adrian Chase had been…Adrian Chase had been the perfect boyfriend. Until he wasn’t.
You’d met just over a year ago, when Adrian waltzed into your coffee shop just before closing, a gleam in his eye and a demand for “something that’ll keep me awake. For like, a really, really long time. I want to get punched in the face with caffeine.”
It was said with the particular intensity of a man who definitely didn’t need caffeine ever, but you’d indulged him anyway.
“Have you tried cocaine?” you’d asked, a small smirk on your lips.
“What? No! Cocaine is like…” he’d lowered his voice and leaned over the counter, scowling. “Very illegal.”
Then he leaned back abruptly as if burned, and looked you up and down. “Why? Do you do cocaine?”
“Not my scene,” you’d replied, your turn to lean forward conspiratorially. “But I can make you something just as efficient. We’ll have you practically vibrating out of that little dad outfit of yours in no time.”
And that had been all it’d taken. Six shots of espresso and a criminal amount of vanilla syrup over ice with milk. You’d expected to see his face plastered on the morning news for a caffeine overdose. Instead, he became a regular, always in right before closing. Sometimes he’d stay and chat with you until the shop was closed up for the evening and then he’d insist on walking you to your car.
Which became you two sitting in your car and talking for hours.
Which, one particularly cold evening, became you two making out in your car. (You’d finally had to be the one to initiate - Adrian couldn’t pick up on a goddamn signal if his life depended on it.)
Adrian decided you were boyfriend and girlfriend after that, always said with a beam of pride and like it was one big mashed up word: “boyfriendgirlfriend”. As if he was afraid if he didn’t say it fast enough that would be the exact amount of time you’d need to break up with him. You weren’t sure how much say you’d actually had in the matter of becoming boyfriendgirlfriend, but it was weirdly nice, actually. After the last several years of fuckboys and ghosting and “not putting labels on things”. You’d had a gnarly past with dating - you’d probably be a serious contender for Guinness World Record for Most Times Someone Had Been Cheated On. And Adrian knew that. And Adrian Chase was built different.
Until he wasn’t.
At first, that was a good thing.
Sure, he was obsessed with you in a way that was sometimes vaguely disconcerting, but he loved you. Hard. You weren’t sure he knew any other way. He loved his friends hard, too. They were basically all a package deal. You never quite understood how they all became friends? They were like a random grab bag of people flung together by circumstances that were entirely unclear to you, no matter how many times one of them gave you a half-assed explanation.
And really, the problem with Adrian Chase had been a slow build. The issue had always been there, it just became more and more prominent over the year you were together until there was simply no ignoring it.
He had been hiding something from you.
You’d never confirmed he was cheating, not like you had with all the others. There was no smoking gun: no incriminating texts accidentally sent to you, no “hey girlie” DM from some stranger, no friend who’d seen him at the club making out with someone else. There was just...something. Something not right.
He’d go radio silent for long stretches of time, which was uncharacteristic of a man who often sent you over 100 texts a day. He’d be evasive about what he was up to when he wasn’t with you or at work. Once, you’d gone to Fennel Fields to drop off his jacket that he’d left at your apartment when he left “for work” only to find he wasn’t scheduled at the middling Italian restaurant at all.
The final straw had been when you’d woken up in the middle of the night to find his side of your bed empty. He didn’t come back for three days.
Then he’d shown up at your door in the middle of the night, soaking wet from the rain, his eyes brimming with tears, a set of scratches down his cheek. He looked like some cat that had come skulking back to its owner after discovering the alleycat life wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
And you’d hated that his pained expression made you feel anything at all. That your heart squeezed tight when you looked at him. That his choked, desperate pleas had been almost convincing. But you’d learned your lesson the hard way in the past and you weren’t willing to repeat your mistakes. The risk of Adrian breaking your heart all over again was insurmountable.
Worse still was the fact that the anger never came - only the sorrow and the loneliness. You’d stayed awake for nights after, wondering if you’d made the wrong decision. Because Adrian wasn’t like the others…right? He’d adored you. Worshipped you, even. The way he looked at you like you hung the moon and stars…
Either way, he wasn’t being honest with you. You had to hold tight to that certainty.
Adrian Chase: i’m so sorry please forgive me
Adrian Chase: i can’t explain but I promise i’d never hurt you
So you’d spent an entire weekend drinking Three Buck Chuck (you didn’t give a flying fuck if inflation made it $4.49, it was still $3 in your heart) and repeatedly washing every fabric in your apartment until none of it smelled even remotely like Adrian Chase. You’d stood numbly over the washing machine, bottle in hand, and willed yourself not to cry.
If only it were so easy to wash your brain clean.
Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase): you were right to break up with me
Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase): i won’t bother you again
But time heals all wounds, right? And time was certainly making a valiant effort at it.
Your best friend had made you re-download Hinge, your coworkers at the coffee shop had all consulted on your profile, and you were officially back on the market after much protest and turmoil. Of course, dating would require your heart to be “in it”, which it certainly was not. But some casual dating to take your mind off of things surely couldn’t go amiss.
That was, of course, until Vigilante showed up.
The first time seemed like pure coincidence.
It just so happened that Vigilante was in a foot chase with some low level criminal or another and ended up knocking over the outdoor dining table you had been sitting at with your first Hinge date. That could happen to anyone! Especially in godforsaken Evergreen.
In the end, it was actually kind of fortuitous that Vigilante had shattered a perfectly good table in your lap. Your date had turned out to be some kind of red pill loser who listened to Andrew Tate like it was mindful meditation. He had just been going on about “low value females” when glass and ceramic and wood exploded and spared you from another second of any of that bullshit. You were…weirdly grateful to Vigilante?
He stood up from the table, dusted himself off and held out the purse to a woman standing breathless on the sidewalk a few feet away. He kicked the purse thief in the ribs for good measure, waved at you and started to take off.
“Wait!”
You weren’t sure why you said it. You stooped to collect the hunting knife that’d fallen off his…utility belt?...and offered it to him. He came back and reached for the knife, but for some reason your fingers had been unable to let go. At the time you’d chalked it up to some kind of panic response - your brain synapses simply weren’t firing correctly. Shock. Or something. It was only later that the real reason became startlingly clear.
You’d been struck by the odd desire to keep him close.
“Uh…thanks, citizen?” he said with a clumsy attempt to disguise his voice. You released the knife into his grasp unwillingly.
“Why do you sound like that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Like what? I don’t sound like anything. I just sound like me. Vigilante.”
“No,” you replied, shaking your head. “Why are you doing a weird voice? You sound like Yoda swallowed Kermit the Frog.”
“That’s…no I don’t!”
You paused for a long moment, trying to place the vaguely familiar insistence in his tone. “We’ve met before.”
“N-no we haven’t,” he said lowly, a tremble in his voice. “Because I - I would definitely remember meeting you.”
It was strange, how you felt a little dejected that he didn’t remember that night. In his defense, it had been over a year. Probably a little after you and Adrian had originally started to become friends, actually.
You’d been walking home one night and he’d appeared out of nowhere - handed you the earbud you hadn’t realized had fallen out of your pocket about two blocks prior and then just…stayed. Walked you home in a companionable quiet (which you remembered thinking was weird, because all the reports you’d heard and the late night Reddit posts you’d read about him mentioned how chatty he was) and disappeared the moment you were safely in your apartment with the deadbolt slid into place.
At the time you’d thought: he probably did that sort of thing all the time, right?
Of course, now you knew better.
That first date had ended with your date looking back and forth between you and Vigilante, before calling you a “freak bitch” and leaving you splattered in salad dressing with a check to cover.
What, in all likelihood would have technically been the second time Vigilante crashed your date, you’d gotten ghosted instead.
So maybe you decided to have a drink or two while you waited for what had clearly become a total, radio-silent abandonment. And maybe you’d not eaten anything beforehand because it was supposed to be a dinner date. And you’d fucking driven yourself there but your ass would be walking home.
It was probably for the best - you were pretty sure you’d only matched with the ghoster because he had glasses that reminded you of Adrian.
Of course Vigilante was standing in the parking lot when you tripped out the front door. You walked straight past him and straight past your car and you didn’t even bother to look to see if he was following. Somehow, you knew he was.
He fell into step beside you silently, somehow feeling not like a threat, but a gentle comfort. A wordless offer of companionship.
“I imagine you’re not on any dating apps, Vigilante, so you don’t get it, but it’s fucking bleak out here,” you complained. “There are no good men left on this Earth. I finally had one who was good and he still managed to let me down in the end.”
“How?” came the gruff, muffled, accented reply. You stumbled on the uneven sidewalk and your hand flew to his bicep just as his hands wrapped around your waist. You didn’t pull back, you just stared up at him, hoping maybe your drunk self would see something your sober self couldn’t.
“It’s…hard to explain,” you replied, scrunching your brow as you studied his featureless face, head tilted back slightly to look up at him.
“Try me,” he said, his voice painfully soft. For not the first time you wondered what the man under the mask was really like. You reluctantly released your hold on his arm, and, in turn, his fingers drifted away from your waist. You started walking again, weighing whether there was any harm in unburdening your heart to Vigilante.
“Adrian was the first guy I dated who really and truly made me feel loved? Like I never doubted that he adored me. And I think because of that I was willing to overlook some things for a long time. And then suddenly one day I realized he’d disappear a lot, or be vague about where he was or sometimes he was straight up lying to me. And it didn’t matter how much I thought he loved me because his actions proved that maybe I shouldn’t have been so certain,” you explained, really focusing on your words, wondering in the back of your brain if you sounded like a drunk idiot.
When he didn’t say anything, you continued, “I’ve dated more than my fair share of guys who cheated or fucked around and even though I felt so certain Adrian wasn’t like that, there was still this doubt in the back of my mind that overweighed everything else. Maybe he wasn’t cheating but I’d given people the benefit of the doubt in the past and always been sorry in the end. Cheating or not - which, I’ll be honest, I find really hard to believe he was cheating because of the way he’d…um, actually you don’t need to hear about that! Uh, cheating or not, he was keeping something from me.”
Vigilante’s decisive lack of response kept your drunk mouth running. “I think the worst part is I maybe miss him? Or, not maybe, I know I miss him. I think about him all the time even when I try not to. I even miss his quirks – of which he had many, let me tell you! But I guess that’s what happens when you love someone that much. And now I’m worried maybe that was the best it’ll ever get for me and it’s gone and I fucked everything up forever.”
You could feel his gaze on you but you didn’t indulge it. You were too busy thinking about the thing you knew you shouldn’t say, the most painful, stupid, ugly part of it all. “The worst part is that it makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me? That there’s something inherently unlovable about me baked into my DNA or something. Why else would all these guys cheat on me, or lie to me, or whatever? Like there must be something fundamentally wrong with me. I’m the common denominator.”
You felt his gloved hand scrape at your elbow, fingers pressing into the skin firmly.
“I didn’t know you felt that way,” came his quiet reply finally, his voice strangely ragged. You squinted up at him.
“Yeah, well, why would you?” you asked, genuinely confused.
“I…wouldn’t,” he replied slowly, before nodding emphatically.
“Right…”
“Right.”
You weren’t totally sure if he was being confusing or you were just drunk? Maybe both?
You turned and found yourself at your apartment door. You blinked for a moment - you’d been so preoccupied you didn’t even remember marching up the stairs. Wait, did it mean that he did remember walking you home all those months ago? Or you’d just led him right straight there. Again. A total psycho knew where you lived.
“Good night,” he said suddenly in that stupid put-on voice. Your heart leapt into your throat anyway. Were you that desperate?
“Good night, Kermit Yoda,” you taunted, flashing him a smile as you closed the door and you definitely didn’t wobble on your feet. You made an auditory show of dramatically flipping the deadbolt and sliding the chain lock into place.
“Fuck.” You heard him whisper from the other side of the door in a voice that sounded much more real than the one you’d come to know. There was a small thump and you wondered if you looked through the peephole you’d see his forehead resting against the door.
You decided it was better not to know.
You leaned with your back against the door and pulled out your phone. Against your better judgment, you scrolled through your old texts until you found the Unknown Number (Possibly: Adrian Chase) thread that you’d been so good about not looking at. Mostly. You hadn’t had the heart to block him, but you’d deleted his number to remove the temptation. And true to his word he hadn’t bothered you again.
You dragged your thumb along the edge of the screen as you debated. Maybe there would be no harm in just…checking in on him? You were still somehow unaccustomed to the total lack of him in your life after a year that was so full of him. You’d find yourself missing him in tiny ways over and over again, even if you were loathe to admit it. There was a stupid, Adrian Chase sized hole in your heart.
Your other hand drifted into the waistband of your jeans. What if you opened the door and invited Vigilante inside to fill something else of yours? Maybe you could bite into one of those biceps of his and convince him to let you call him Adrian.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. What the fuck was wrong with you? You pulled your hand from your pants, closed your messages and opened Hinge instead.
The second time (ghosting date notwithstanding) was perhaps the strangest of all.
It was quick drinks at a bar downtown before he suggested you two hit the club. You could tell what he was after the moment you’d laid eyes on him, but you didn’t mind. You’d been meaning to fuck Adrian Chase right out of your system (and apparently Vigilante, too) and your date was easy on the eyes, if a little smarmy. You could deal with that if it meant getting railed so hard you forgot your own name. Though, if you were judging by the rhythm of his hips as he grinded against you, you might be out of luck on that front.
“Club’s a front for drug smuggling!” a familiar voice called as it passed you, so casual your brain didn’t process it until a moment later. You barely had time to react before Vigilante was pulling a gun and executing the club owner right in front of everyone. Your mouth dropped open and for a second you swore he was turning back to look at you, like he was looking for your approval.
Then, the club burst into understandable chaos. People went running for the door, shouts filling the room in lieu of music. Someone knocked straight into you and you hit the deck hard. You managed to get yourself onto your knees (the drink-slick floor was not agreeing with your choice of shoewear) when your date’s hand appeared in front of you. You grasped onto it, grateful for your only lifeline, and opened your mouth to thank him when you realized rather suddenly that the hand was gloved and attached to the rest of fucking Vigilante.
“Are you okay?” he asked, sounding strangely breathless.
You yanked your hand out of his and scowled at him. “That was really fucked up.”
“I thought you said drugs weren’t your scene,” he snipped back. Was that some sort of accusation? It felt loaded with a meaning you couldn’t quite parse. The club music was still blasting and you’d just watched Vigilante kill a man in front of your very eyes. Your brain was…not thinking clearly.
Still, it reminded you of something distant. Or someone.
“What?”
“Nothing!” he exclaimed. Then he looked over his shoulder and you both processed that the dead club owner’s security seemed to be getting themselves together, hands reaching into jackets for what you could only imagine were concealed weapons. He spun you around and pushed you towards the door.
“Oh! I ordered you an Uber: silver Honda Civic, license plate JG8566, Jamil has a 4.9 star rating. Get home safe!” he chattered at you before pushing you out the front door and onto the sidewalk. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind you.
The driver of a small Honda Civic waved at you from across the street. He poked his head out the window. “Uber for Vigilante?”
You looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard him and then with a hearty sigh you stepped off the curb.
The third time was the time that really pushed you over the edge.
Your new date had taken you to one of those trendy places-of-the-week that filled a niche so specific you weren’t sure how they sustained a business on “boutique rice pudding”. As it turned out, they didn’t. In fact, it turned out that Rice to Riches was a money laundering scheme.
A money laundering scheme that Evergreen’s own Vigilante had taken upon himself to break up right in the middle of your date. He’d breezed right in the front door, waving at you as he passed. For a moment you presumed you were actively hallucinating. But the sound of a fight in the kitchen had you realizing otherwise. You listened to the sound of fists hitting flesh over and over and by the time your brain was able to properly have the feeling that you should definitely leave, Vigilante was standing at your table.
“Hey!” He was still doing the stupid voice, apparently.
“Hi?”
“So, just a heads up this place was a money laundering front.”
“Okaaaay,” you drawled, uncertain of how you were supposed to respond to that info. “You know, a heads up usually comes before you murder a bunch of people.”
“Oh, I didn’t murder anyone. They’re just uhhhhh out cold. Tied up,” he replied in a way that was utterly unconvincing.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered. You turned to your date to say something but he was white as a sheet, his fingers still gripping his spoon while his mouth hung open, slack jawed.
“Are you on a date?” he asked flippantly, examining the fingers of his gloves as if he were casually looking at his nails.
“Yes?”
“You sure go on a lot of dates.”
Wait a minute, did Vigilante think you were a slut?
“Three dates is not a lot of dates. And, not that it’s any of your business but…I’m trying to get back out there after a really shitty break up. Is that a fucking crime?”
His sure-fire posture shifted slightly and he crossed his arms over his chest. Your gaze caught on his biceps and suddenly your fingers itched with the memory of them. God damnit. “Maybe it should be.”
Your brow furrowed. Was he fucking pouting? You were indignant, and feeling a little reckless. “Well, then, Vigilante, go on - put that dumbass sword on your back to good use and kill me.”
“Uh…do you two know each other?” your date asked. You blinked at him dumbly - you’d forgotten he was there.
“No!” you and Vigilante snapped at the same time. You stared hard at him, trying to make out anything beyond that stupid red visor of his.
“Look, you seem nice but this has been deeply weird, sooo I’m gonna go,” your date said, but not before taking his rice pudding with him. You couldn’t blame him - for a money laundering scheme the pudding was really good.
You whipped back towards Vigilante as the bell sounded over the front door and the only person with a lick of common sense in the scenario fled the scene.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” you demanded. You clarified before he could shrug it off, “Why are you so hell bent on ruining all my dates?”
He laughed, an awkward, strained sound that devolved into a cough as he clearly tried to disguise the sound. “Um, selfish much?”
“Excuse me?”
“You really think the world revolves around you so much that I’m specifically trying to interrupt your little dates or whatever?” he scoffed, apparently intent on doubling down on his unusual attempt at indifference. “I’m a little busy fighting crime to worry about your inept dating life, dude.”
You narrowed your gaze at him, almost positive he was lying. But the alternative did seem insane. He sighed. “What possible reason could I have for wanting to keep you from dating?”
“I don’t…I don’t know,” you admitted. What else were you meant to say? There was no proof, not really. But you didn’t believe in coincidences.
“Oh, so he’s like…in love with you?” your friend said when you’d finally finished recounting the strangest weeks of your life.
Coffee threatened to spill out of your nose as you choked, “What?”
One of your regulars piped up from their usual table by the counter. “Oh, yeah, no I agree. It sounds like he’s totally in love with you.”
“On what planet is he – oh my god, there’s no way, guys!” you argued, even if the sinking feeling in your stomach said otherwise. Was it possible? And if it was – why? Why you?
You waved them both off. “He doesn’t even know me.”
Even if you were unconvinced of some kind of undying love you were convinced that it was all on purpose. Fate had often been unkind to you in the past, but it was a level of sadism that even you could not believe existed naturally in the universe.
And all of it – the failed dates, the weird, strangely intimate encounters, the skin-crawling feeling of being followed, the gnawing feeling of familiarity – had led you to a totally logical, reasonable plan: set a trap for Vigilante.
So maybe you’d spent maybe a little too much time planning it. Thoroughly vetting the restaurant, the people who ran it, pouring through social media accounts and a background check on your date - certifying that there was no off-hand excuse for Vigilante to crash your date.
No crimes, no drug fronts, no nefarious owners. Just an above-the-board night out with a nice guy. It was your own little challenge to him, a desperate bid to prove your theory right. If he crashed this date you would know for sure that this wasn’t just some weird cosmic intervention and that he was doing it on purpose.
“Are you okay?” your date asked. Alex? Andrew? Adrian? (NO, definitely not.) Fuck. What was his name again? “You seem a little…distracted.”
You dragged your gaze back to him and put on a carefully practiced smile. “I’m so sorry. I am distracted, you’re right. And that’s not fair to you.”
“Anything I can help with?” he offered with a lift of his brows and a small tilt of his head. He took a sip of his drink, waiting for you to fill in the blanks for him. Adam! Adam seemed…nice. And you were…toootally blowing him off. You sighed, defeated, and smiled apologetically.
“It’s going to sound crazy,” you started, raking your hands over your face.
Adam smiled. “Try me.”
You shifted slightly in your seat. “Okay, so you know Vigilante?”
“Vaguely? The costumed maniac who works with Peacemaker and is somehow not in jail?”
You chuckled. “That’s the one. Well, uh, I think he might be – ” In love with me? But you figured that was not the right thing to say on a first date. Was the alternative really much better? “Stalking me?”
Adam choked on his sip of wine. “What?”
“Or it’s total, weird karmic coincidence that he just keeps showing up where I am!” you offered. Adam’s head tilted slightly to the side, bewilderment written across his handsome features.
“How many times has this happened exactly?”
“Four. Give or take. Not counting the time he walked me home like a year ago.”
“Sorry, Vigilante walked you home?” he asked in disbelief.
“Yeah, I know how it sounds.”
Adam’s eyes studied you for a moment before he turned and flagged your waiter down. Damn it, you thought, he doesn’t even need to be here to ruin dates for me. Maybe you’d have to store the Vigilante card in your pocket for some bad date down the line.
But instead, Adam leaned back in his chair and smiled at the waiter. “I think we’re going to need another glass of wine. And what’s the best dessert you’ve got?”
When the waiter disappeared to fetch both things he leaned his elbows on the table. “Okay, start from the beginning.”
Outside the restaurant you two did the awkward dance between lingering and saying good night once and for all. With both your rides ordered the two of you stood waiting, close together. (It was cold! Who could blame a girl?) Adam reached up and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.
“Listen, I’m really hoping I don’t get a visit from Vigilante later for this, but, uh, can I kiss you?” Adam asked. His sandy hair was given an orange halo by the streetlight above you both. He really was handsome in a sort of everyman kind of way. Considerate, kind, easy to look at and not Vigilante – you nodded. His lips pressed against yours gently and something that felt almost like guilt twisted in the base of your stomach.
When his car rolled up first he offered to stay with you but you’d waved him off. “Can’t lose you to Vigilante, now can I?”
He pressed a kiss to your cheek and made you promise to text when you got home safe. The second his car disappeared around the block your driver cancelled on you. You’d already waited an eternity and getting a rideshare in downtown Evergreen on a Friday night was a nightmare scenario. Besides, the walk would be good for you. There was plenty to think about on the way home. Like…
Where the fuck was Vigilante?
Maybe you were back to the drawing board entirely. You’d been so convinced he was doing it on purpose, but maybe you’d been wrong? Maybe it really was just all coincidence? What a weird, specific curse to have upon you.
And then you heard the footsteps behind you.
The feeling of being followed was familiar now, unfortunately expected, but when you whipped around the very clear glint of a knife pointed at you, well…that was new.
“Oh!” you managed to squeak out. It wasn’t Vigilante at all. Instead, you were face to face with some guy who was very clearly trying to mug you.
“Jesus Christ,” you sighed.
“Give me your purse, bitch!”
You raked a hand over your face. “Please don’t do this. I’ve been having a really shitty few months and I’m - ”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Listen, asshole, I’m just trying to warn you. Vigilante has been stalking me so you probably don’t want to fuck with me.”
You didn’t think you’d get to play the card so soon! A strange delight unfurled in your gut. Maybe invoking his name would somehow finally make him appear. Your life in danger would be his very own Bat Signal.
The man faltered slightly before tightening his grip on his knife. “Why would Vigilante be stalking you?”
“You know, man with knife, that’s a really good question,” you said, nodding thoughtfully. The strange sense of calm running through you really should have been more alarming. You felt yourself take a step towards him and his expression shifted into pure confusion. Maybe that was good. Maybe you could actually handle this yourself. Maybe this was like when people gave advice to out-freak your would-be attacker. Maybe –
A single gunshot silenced the rest of that train of thought. Hot blood splattered against your clothes, your cheek, in your slightly open mouth.
“Oh my god,” you managed, frozen for just a moment before bending to spit onto the sidewalk. You lifted the hem of your sweater to your mouth to scrape the taste of blood out of your mouth while you tried desperately not to gag.
“Nice! I’ve been looking everywhere for this guy!” Vigilante cheered, a slight hop in his step as he crossed the street to where you stood.
“Are you okay?” he asked, giving your shoulder a slight nudge with his own. You at least had the good sense to recoil from his touch. His hands shot up to shoulder height, palms towards you in a show of reassurance.
“Sorry! I was running a little late. Did I miss your date?”
“Yeah, you did,” you replied, realizing a moment too late that you sounded a little disappointed. Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with you? “I even got a good night kiss. Which, before you say anything, is not a crime.”
Tension visibly rippled through Vigilante’s muscles. “Was he…was he good to you?”
“He was very nice.”
“That’s it? Just ‘very nice’? Sounds kind of lame to me!”
“Well, he’s not you.”
“Not me good, or not me…bad?” he asked quietly.
You faltered a moment, genuinely unsure. Sure, the stupid, depraved thought had been knocking around in your head for a little while now. That while Vigilante was actively ruining your dating life, at least he was somewhat consistent. At least he showed up for you. And maybe there was something kind of hot about the mask now that you thought about it.
God damnit, you really needed to get away from him before you did something stupid. So, you continued walking towards your apartment, thinking maybe he’d have to stay behind to deal with the body. But instead he just followed along with you like some hapless dog.
“For one thing, he didn’t just murder someone in front of me again,” you said instead of really answering the question.
He put his hands on his hips. “That guy was going to hurt you. You’re telling me you would have preferred I let him stab you in the face over a purse? That would be a total waste of a really good face.”
“No! I’m not saying that, I’m saying…fuck I don’t know, Vij,” you sighed. He froze, a particular tension to his posture. But your brain was busy playing catch up with the fact that he’d said you had a…good face?
“Say that again,” he murmured. Something was so, so familiar about the cadence, the desperation. An impossible thought prickled at the back of your mind and you batted it away.
“Say what again?” you asked.
“Call me Vij. I like it when you say it.”
A shudder rolled down your spine, involuntary and unwelcome. You struggled against the feeling settling in your gut. “Not until you admit that you’ve been trying to ruin my dating life.”
“Why would I admit that?” he scoffed. “Or, um, I mean, uhhh…I told you before, I think that’s a really self-centered way of looking at the world. To assume that just because I happen to show up at all your dates and they happen to be interrupted or end badly while I’m around doesn’t mean that I’m doing it on purpose! And actually, as a feminist, I find that kind of assumption offensive.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really! I think all women should be allowed to date whoever they want!”
“All women?” you asked.
“Mhmm!”
“Even me?” you continued to press.
His shoulders shifted slightly. “Yup!”
“And so I should be able to fuck whoever I want as much as I want?”
His entire body went stiff as he seemingly tried to force himself to nod.
“For sure. Yes! Definitely! Go off, diva! Have sooooo much sex. Like maybe even have too much!” he rambled. You just stared at him with wide eyes. Then he laughed sharply, and the familiarity of it ran through your whole body. There was no way… “I mean, can one even have too much sex? Probably not!”
You tilted your head slightly. “Are you okay?”
“Can I admit something?” he asked, the question bursting out of him like he’d been biting his tongue, his voice sounding strained. He waited for your sharp nod before he continued, “I’ve been trying to ruin your dating life.”
You faltered. “What?”
“Yeah, ha, you totally caught me!” He scratched at the back of his neck and again that sense of familiarity ran through you like ice in your veins.
“You know, my friends think it’s because you’re totally in love with me.”
His head tilted slightly and you would have given anything to see the expression on his actual face. “Oh! Well, probably because I am.”
For a moment you could practically smell the short-circuiting happening in your brain. “You…huh?”
He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other as you both stood at the bottom of your apartment complex stairs. “Sorry, I thought it was obvious?”
“Why else are you doing all this?”
“Is love not enough these days?” he joked breathlessly.
Something like panic started to crawl down your spine. You had, of course, considered the possibility, but faced with the simple truth of it you didn’t know what to do or say. So you did the only thing you could think of in the moment - you turned wordlessly and walked up the steps towards your apartment. You fished your keys out of your bag, fingers brushing over the lock before you turned back around to look at him one more time.
It was a mistake.
You couldn’t believe it. You were about to do something so, so fucking stupid. But the theory brewing in the back of your mind needed to be accounted for.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”
No sooner had you asked then Vigilante ducked his head down and pressed his mouth to yours, fabric scraping at your chin. You made a noise of surprise, muffled against his mask, as he pushed you back against your front door. All you could taste was polyester and sweat and something metallic. His tongue tried to lick desperately into your mouth but was constrained behind the fabric, now wet and sticking to your skin and his. It was entirely unsatisfying, frustrating even, but still you couldn’t deny the warmth spreading in your stomach.
So you slid your fingers up his suit until you were prying at fabric, pushing it up until his hands grabbed your wrists firmly and made you stop. He pinned your arms down at your sides but still you leaned back to examine the small stretch of canvas he’d allowed you, taking in the pale expanse of his neck, the very bottom of his face. Even in the dim light something about it was familiar.
You leaned forward and peppered kisses to his exposed skin until you reached his uncovered mouth and waited. He surged forward, kissing you for real this time - nothing but wet lips and eager tongues and hot breath and his hands fisted into the fabric of your shirt as he yanked you against him and – oh.
You pulled back.
“What the fuck?” you panted. If you’d felt insane moments before, you now felt the Earth had completely flipped on its axis the moment your lips had touched his.
Because you knew that mouth.
“Adrian?”
“Um…who?” he attempted.
“Take the mask off right now,” you ordered, pulling away from his grasp.
“I can’t, I, uh, well, I’d have to kill you! If you saw my face! Because, you know - secret identity,” he scrambled. Oh my god. How had you not realized it sooner? You really were a fucking idiot.
“You won’t kill me,” you said firmly, crossing your arms over your chest.
“You don’t know that!”
“I do. And besides, I already know what your face looks like, Adrian Chase,” you snapped.
He looked frantically over his shoulder. “Can we please talk about this inside?”
“Why the fuck would I let Vigilante inside my apartment?” you asked.
“C’mon, please don’t be like that,” he whined.
“Like what? Seriously, tell me why I should let a stranger who is a murderous superhero wannabe into my home,” you said, putting your hands on your hips. “I’ll wait.”
“I don’t wanna be pedantic but you did just let Vigilante put his tongue in your mouth, so, I’m not really sure what the difference is?”
You stood your ground. You just wanted to hear him admit it. Because you knew him and you knew he’d cave.
“Fine! Fuck! It’s me, Adrian!” he exclaimed in a rather loud whisper. You rolled your eyes at him and he reached up to take the mask the rest of the way off.
“Jesus Christ, don’t! Don’t do that out here, you idiot!” you gasped and reached up to stop him. You cursed under your breath as you unlocked your door and then dragged him inside, your fingers hooked under the chest plate of his suit. With the door closed behind him and the lock safely in place, Adrian reached up and pulled the mask off with a gasp.
He stared at you with those wide, bright green eyes of his and smiled from ear to ear. “See, you do care about me still!”
You shifted uncomfortably and avoided his gaze directly. You knew exactly what it was like to fall into those eyes and you weren’t totally convinced you’d be able to climb your way back out.
“No, I care about my nosy neighbors seeing me with a wanted criminal.”
“Sure,” he agreed, clearly sarcastic. He fished his glasses out his pocket and slid them onto his face. For some reason, seeing your Adrian - glasses and all - in the Vigilante suit was more befuddling than it was before. Worse still, it was also strangely arousing.
And then it hit you like running headfirst into a brick wall.
This is what he’d been hiding the whole time.
“Why?” you asked, somehow the only word you could seem to muster.
“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific…”
“Why the fuck were you lying to me about this, Adrian?”
“I mean, not to be technical but I was lying to you about other stuff. You never asked me if I was Vigilante!”
You rolled your eyes and groaned. “Well, pardon me for not thinking to ask if my boyfriend is the psychopath running around Evergreen killing people for minor infractions! Adrian, you’re weird but you’re like…sweet weird. You don’t exactly give off psycho-killer vibes.”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
You punched him straight in the arm. “Please be serious right now!”
“Sorry! I couldn’t help it! That song is so funny. Because like, what is this, you know? They’re really asking the right questions.”
“I cannot believe I spent a year dating you,” you sighed.
“Hey!”
“You don’t get to ‘hey’ me! You’ve been living a double life for…wait, was it the whole time we were together?”
Adrian chewed at his lower lip. “Maybe.”
“Adrian!”
“Yeah, okay, the whole time we were together and also like…for a while now.”
Your mind was reeling, trying to deal with the puzzle pieces and details and – oh yeah, the gnawing of your own presumed morality at the back of your brain. The man you loved was a killer. And maybe you loved the killer, too.
“When you disappeared for three days were you…doing Vigilante shit?”
“Oh, ha! Yeah, I was on a super serious top secret mission,” Adrian laughed. Then he took in your expression and he, too, sombered. “I wanted to tell you then. I wanted to explain. That night on your doorstep I planned to…um, but when I came back…when you told me we were breaking up, that you couldn’t trust me, I…I think it broke something in my brain. But I also realized you were right to break up with me. That actually you’re safer when you’re not dating me. I couldn’t live with myself if someone were to somehow trace me back to you. But then I realized that I could protect you as Vigilante, even if I couldn’t protect you as Adrian.”
“I didn’t want to break up with you, you know that, right?” you asked quietly. Something like a glimmer of hope flashed in his bright green eyes. “But I had to protect my heart.”
“What if…do you think there’s a chance you could let me protect that, too?” he asked, voice quiet and unsteady. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do.”
“Is that what you think you’ve been doing this whole time? Protecting me?” you asked, genuinely trying to understand the way his clearly warped brain worked.
“I know I don’t deserve it, but you do. You deserve the world. Because you’re not the common denominator in a sea of shitty men. You’re like a bright star that everyone is drawn to. And bright lights attract some losers, too and…I think I’m losing track of the metaphor but all I really mean to say is: you’re exceptional.”
Call it weakness, call it stupidity, call it what it was: a kindling breath on a flame you’d tried desperately to snuff out. You loved him.
It was unclear if it was you who leaned forward first or him but either way you found your head pressed against his chest, his arms sure and firm around you.
“I have to ask — how did you know it was me?”
“I had my suspicions,” you laughed. Though clearly not enough. “But I knew for certain the second my lips touched yours.”
Adrian well and truly cackled. He lit up all over, exactly the same man you’d fallen in love with the first time you’d met him. Just with a little…more than you could have conceived of before. Maybe you weren’t ready to admit it to him quite yet, but a part of you clamored to get to properly know Vigilante, too. There was a whole new, strange, thrilling part of Adrian Chase for you to discover.
“I can’t believe you recognized my mouth, dude! That’s kind of insanely romantic if you think about it!”
“Yeah, I’m actively choosing not to think about it, thanks!” you retorted. Then, because for some reason you couldn’t help it, “I mean, I’m very familiar with that mouth’s work, it would be a crime if I didn’t recognize it.”
“Are you flirting with me right now?” Adrian asked, the question half a gasp, half a squeal of excitement.
“No! I don’t know! Maybe a little bit! Fuck! I can’t help it.” You scrubbed at your face with both hands like maybe you’d be able to wipe it all away. “It’s like…in me, you know?”
“What is?”
“Everything about you. I see your face and it’s like you’re hardwired in my skull and in my heart. I could have gone on one hundred dates or none and it wouldn’t have made a difference at all, because none of them were you!” you exclaimed, breathless. You knew Adrian well enough to know you were maybe being too flowery for his very literal brain to fully comprehend.
“Me Adrian or me Vigilante?” he asked, surprising you.
You forced yourself to meet his gaze and then gave a defeated shrug. “Both, I think.”
“Fuck, I think that’s the nicest and the coolest and the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Adrian murmured. He pulled you tight against him by the hips. “Can I kiss you again? I think I need to or else I’ll die.”
You answered him by pressing your lips to his, his chin captured in your hand, fingers pressed firmly into the skin – just enough pressure, not too much or too little for dear, sweet, Adrian. You kissed him hungrily, which seemed to take him delightfully by surprise, if the noises he made were anything to judge by. His tongue scraped over your teeth, and you bit at his lower lip and pulled. His fingers pressed so hard into your hips you thought they might bruise and you also thought you didn’t give a fuck. Adrian’s mouth travelled from your lips to your jaw to your neck. He sucked at the skin just below your ear and you knew he was trying to mark you as his. That was the question, wasn’t it? Were you willing to be his again, knowing what you know?
It was utterly incongruous: your perception of Adrian, the man you’d loved and practically lived with for an entire year versus Vigilante, a man you knew to be a totally cold-blooded, obsessive killer. Did it make a difference if it was in the name of justice? You had seen on the news when he’d been involved with saving the planet from those butterfly alien things with Peacemaker. How was he the kind of guy who could play D&D for hours, and talk incessantly about Pokemon, and kiss you so gently, and also the kind of guy who kicked criminal ass with no remorse and saved the planet from alien invasion?
“What are you thinking?” he asked, pulling back suddenly. He had that gentle, focused look in his eye that you knew all too well.
“I think I should probably be scared of you,” you replied honestly. His tight hold on you loosened almost imperceptibly, but still you felt it. Of course you did.
“I would never hurt you,” he whispered. “Please believe me.”
“I do. And, I also think you’ve permanently fucked up the wiring in my brain,” you grumbled against his mouth.
“Does this mean we’re getting back together?” he asked, and you could practically feel the excitement of the idea thrumming through his body.
“Maybe,” you offered. He deflated slightly. “If we’re going to try and figure this out then there’s no more secrets between us, okay?”
Adrian nodded. “Sick! I mean, now you basically know all my secrets. Except, I guess, about all the drugs and blood money in my basement.”
“The what now?”
He darted forward and peppered your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks with kisses. Somewhere between them all he managed to say, “Thank you for giving me another chance. I’ve missed you so fucking much.”
“Hard to miss someone when you’re stalking them, Adrian,” you reminded him.
“But I miss you every time I blink,” Adrian breathed, wide-eyed and stupidly adorable and achingly earnest. Your fingers itched for every part of him but you refrained, hooking your fingers into the chest plate of his Vigilante armor.
“I need to hear you say it – no more secrets. We are both totally honest with each other, for better or worse,” you demanded.
Adrian nodded, a wide grin on his lips. “I’ll never keep anything from you ever again. You can trust me, I promise. In fact, I promise on Peacemaker’s life! He’s the only thing I cherish in this life even remotely close to you, so you know I mean it. If I was gonna swear on the most important thing, well, that would be you, but I figured that’s a little counterproductive to the whole swearing on something thing.”
When you kissed again it wasn’t hungry any more. It was slow, it was deep, it was an acknowledgment that you had all the time in the world. Your fingers wove into his curls and pulled tightly, just the way you knew he liked. Because you knew him. He groaned his approval into your mouth and he wrapped around you, practically enveloping you. The next thing you knew his hands were under your ass and he was supporting you so you could wrap your legs around his waist. He carried you effortlessly towards your bedroom, pausing along the way to press your back to the wall and kiss you even deeper, his fingers needy and clumsy at the hem of your shirt. His fingers, still gloved, scraped across the skin of your stomach, reacquainting themselves with familiar territory.
His lips didn’t leave yours the entire time, even as he carried you to your bed and laid you down like the most precious thing on the planet. He leaned over you, hands pressed into the mattress, you hooking your fingers into the straps on the front of his suit to try and pull him as close as humanly possible. Things blurred into a hot, slow, haze of Adrian.
Suddenly, you drew back with a gasp, both desperate for air and with another gnawing question on your tongue.
“Wait wait! You didn’t kill any of those guys I went on dates with, right?”
“Only the first one,” he said with a kind of severity that sent a chill down your spine and had you anticipating the feeling of him between your thighs in equal measure. Then you realized, somewhat dreamily, that Adrian already was in between your thighs. So you squeezed your legs around him tighter – you weren’t letting him go again. Adrian Chase really had ruined you forever.
“And what crime did he commit?” you asked against his mouth, your arms snaking around his neck.
“Being an asshole to the person I love most in the world.”
Then he unhooked your legs so he could slide down your body until he was kneeling at the edge of your bed. His fingers made quick work of your pants and yours pressed into the mattress as he made himself at home between your thighs like no time had passed at all.
Adrian watched you sleep for some time, your limbs tangled with his, you asleep in one of the oversized shirts he’d left behind, the poster of Fargo printed across your chest. The evening had gone better than he could have ever planned. And he had done a lot of planning.
Sure, he hadn’t anticipated your date kissing you, but it didn’t even bother him anymore. But he’d heard what that stupid guy had said to you while he was hidden out of sight.
Can’t lose you to Vigilante, now can I?
Now the mugger had been a total coincidence but one that made him look so cool and tough. He’d saved you from death, not just a shitty date with some stupid guy! Extra points for Vigilante! He’d high five himself if he could.
Adrian moved slowly, making sure not to disturb you in the slightest. He got distracted for a long moment just watching you sleep peacefully, a ghost of a smile on your beautiful mouth.
When he slipped back into the bed he had the Vigilante mask on and your phone in his hand. He cuddled up behind you and then tucked his chin into the crook of your neck. He ensured the flash was off and then took a picture. He opened your texts and found Adam (Hinge) with ease.
He attached the photo and then, smiling from ear to ear, typed:
You lose.
breaking up is hard to do taglist: @sideblogmeanz @danversxwasabi @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @bunch-of-bens @lovenerdywhitemen2 @morguegrl89
gen adrian taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase
(if you want to be on my adrian taglist let me know below! x)
JACKIESHAUNA IS NOT BYLER CODED STOP FORCING THE COMPARISON OF A MLM SHIP ONTO A WLW SHIP TO ENGAGE WITH IT STOP CLOGGING THE JACKIESHAUNA TAG WITH BYLER IT’S NOT EVEN THE SAME FANDOM STOP STOP STOPPPPP
I do not play about Jackie being a lesbian who experiences severe compulsory heterosexuality. That is 100% canon to me. She looks absolutely miserable when Jeff asks her to go down on him, she finds every excuse to avoid having sex with him, and when she finally does have sex with a man it’s when she’s passively suicidal, no longer believes in love, and wants to lash out against Shauna. The catalyst for Jackie’s despair and complete loss of hope is discovering Shauna’s betrayal, and when she learns that Shauna and Jeff slept together, her devastation is focused solely on Shauna.
Any time Jackie is with a man it feels like self-punishment or destruction. It’s something she’s doing to herself, not for herself. She is a character suffocated by expectations of perfection and social influence, forced to perform a version of femininity and romance that doesn’t actually fit her. Jackie as a closeted lesbian makes so much sense for her story and her tragic end. Those slumber party make outs were definitely happening.
baratheonpilled
snowghoul
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
janainaart
titsay
