May I please have a black present, with a bow of your choice? For Pope Cody? Please?
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title; i fixed it
pairing; pope cody x fem!reader
prompt; black present (dark romance) + silver bow (yandere)
a.n; thank you for being my first pope requst but also letting me choose the bow! he just gives off yandere vibes to me??
You never should have come to Oceanside.
That’s what you tell yourself every time Pope Cody’s eyes find yours across a room. That heavy, unblinking stare that feels less like looking and more like being claimed. The rest of the Codys talk too loud, laugh too hard, move through the world like they own it. Pope doesn’t need to. He just watches. And once he decided you were his, the watching never stopped.
It started small. A hand on the small of your back that lingered too long, the way he always seemed to appear when some guy at the bar got too close, or the way his voice dropped when he said your name, like it was something sacred and dangerous at the same time.
You told yourself it was just Pope being Pope—intense, unstable, a little unhinged. The family warning you off only made it worse. They said he was broken, but you thought you could handle broken.
You were wrong.
Tonight the Cody compound is quiet. Too quiet. Baz and Deran are out. Smurf is somewhere dealing with whatever new mess the boys have made. Craig is probably chasing his next high.
Nothing keeping him from doing what he wants, and so Pope is in your apartment doorway, shoulders filling the frame, eyes black in the low light. He doesn’t knock; he never does anymore. Just breaks in or uses the key he had made.
“You’re thinking about leaving again,” he says. Not a question.
You freeze with your phone in your hand, the search history still open; bus tickets, one-way, anywhere that isn’t here. You lock the screen too late. He’s already seen.
Pope steps inside and closes the door behind him with a soft click that sounds final. “You don’t get to leave.”
“Pope-” you say, backing up slightly.
“No.” The word is quiet. Absolute. He crosses the room in three long strides and takes the phone from your hand like it belongs to him. Maybe it does now; everything of yours seems to. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing? Looking at tickets. Talking to that bartender like he could take you somewhere safer.” His mouth twists. “There is nowhere safer than me.”
Your pulse kicks hard against your throat. “You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” He backs you against the wall without touching you, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him. “You should be scared of what I’ll do if anyone tries to take you. Of what I’ll do if you try.” His hand comes up, not to hurt, but to cradle your jaw with a gentleness that somehow feels more dangerous than violence. “I would burn this whole fucking city down before I let you walk away.”
You should push him, scream, do something. Instead, your traitorous body leans into the contact, into the dark gravity of him. Pope’s eyes search your face like he’s memorizing every micro-expression, cataloging fear and want in equal measure.
“I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching,” he murmurs. “You like that I’m like this. That I’d kill for you. That I already have.”
Your breath stutters.
The guy from the bar last week, the one who put his hand on your waist and laughed when you told him to stop, hadn’t shown up for his shift since. No one talked about it. Pope had just shown up at your place that night with blood under his nails and a calm so deep it was terrifying.
“He touched what was mine,” Pope says now, reading the memory on your face. “I fixed it. I’ll keep fixing it. Every single one of them.” His thumb strokes over your lower lip. “You’re not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever. You belong to me, and I will destroy anything that tries to change that. Including you, if I have to.”
The threat should send you running; instead, it sinks into you like a brand. Pope leans in until his forehead rests against yours, breath warm and uneven.
“Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me you’re staying. Tell me you’re mine.”
Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to. “I’m yours.”
Something dark and satisfied settles over his features. He kisses you like a man sealing a deal with blood, hard and claiming, and when he finally pulls back, there’s something almost tender in the ruin of his expression.
“Good girl,” he says. “Now get some sleep. I’ll be right here. I’m always right here.”
He doesn’t leave and he never will. As you lie awake later with his arm locked around your waist like a shackle and a promise, you understand the truth with perfect, terrible clarity:
You stopped being free the moment Pope Cody decided he loved you.
zendaya wearing real 3000-year old ancient iranian earrings with no known track of provenance to the odyssey premiere. nasty work. even worse than the kim kardashian marilyn dress to me. they could have promoted modern greek jewelry designers but chose to do this instead. very tacky at best. especially in this geopolitical climate
obsessed loser Titus Danforth who's been stalking you, a pretty young bachelorette from a lesser family, for months now. enraptured by your beautiful looks as much as he is by your haughty, unholier than thou, demeanor.
your ice-queen self won't even look at him beyond forced tight-lipped smiles and condescending glares. because, yes, he's devastatingly handsome and of better rank in your little satanic circle but he's so....annoying. awkward. peculiar even for a cultist. he downright pesters you at every event you two unfortunately meet at, attracted to you like a magnet despite your rudeness as he attempts to make small talk that you inevitably shoot down by ridiculing him.
one time he brought you the sacrifice's still beating heart and presented it like an otter with the perfect pebble, looking adorably confused when you rejected the slimy, bloodied organ with little more than a huff
and maybe he is a bit endearing, hoofing it to your general direction like a loyal hound at every soiree, gala dinner, and satanic mass. giving you his undivided attention any time you're bored and feel like playing with him through less than innocent touches and coy teasing, delighted by the way he stammers broken flirtations back only for you to disappear moments after.
he'd even taken to leaving increasingly expensive and extravagant gifts at your doorstep that you're quickly running out of space for despite your staunch ignoring. endless flowers, jewelry, clothes, a custom crossbow with his name carved in the handle, a new mare topped with a hermes saddle, a hunting dog... quite honestly the list is almost endless.
but it still doesn't make up for him shooing away any other suitable bachelors that have approached you, ones that you were actually interested in no less! to top it all off, the poor souls that were brave enough to keep buzzing around have been mysteriously dropping like flies...though Titus denies any involvement, obviously. bastard.
you'll come around, Titus knows you will. he has high hopes for the both of you after all. ones that include you as the new mrs Danforth and his heir in your belly, Satan willing.
it doesn't bother him that you sneer at him across your own engagement dinner, knife stabbing into your steak as though imagining it was his neck instead. any other in your place would have been perfectly content while you seethed that this oaf outsmarted you.
he'd been nothing short of elated hearing of your father's acceptance of his marriage proposal from Chester. you, on the other hand, had been furious at your darling papa breaking the news of your impending nuptials by telling you that Titus Danforth was your best option. an honor really that he'd personally asked for your hand at all after everyone else mysteriously abandoned you. the sleazeball. the irritating, persistent, handsome cunt had won your little game of cat and mouse from right under your nose.
"You'll make a lovely Danforth wife," Titus heavily breathes out, all triumphant smiles while you glare bloody murder at him over your meal. "I'm sure we can work on our...relationship. in time."
Ursula chokes in her wine next to him. Titus has the decency to look somewhat embarrassed at his own delusions. your eye twitches.
"oh i'm sure we'll be perfectly happy. the perfect couple." you spit out in return, your tone pure venom. your fork stabs the back of his hand, crimson red droplets blooming as Titus gasps. his fucking cheeks redden instead of him recoiling like the normal individual he isn't. Your fiancé lets out a groan of what is surely sexual pleasure before his tongue laps at the bleeding wound.
"I know," Titus sighs, looking more lovesick than ever when you were aiming for horrified. "I can't wait."
Lucifer help you, it was going to be a long, long life married to this freak. at least his looks made up for it.
eva stratt makes me so fucking unwell because. imagine months of making hard call after hard call because you gotta, because someone's gotta, and this time it has to be you. and she keeps strong despite it, she keeps going. then the fucking pit in her stomach she must have felt, when she realized that Grace was her only option left. the horror of that realization. having to steel herself for the task. only to have him beg and plead and cry. her friend. how did she not throw up. how did she manage it. eva stratt the woman ever, how many people out there would have the sheer force of will, to be able to pull the trigger on their friend to save all humanity. and she didn't even know if it would work. she didn't know. for years. she didn't know if murdering her friend was worth the gamble. she just had to believe in him. fucking hell.
I will never hate her. She went in knowing she was the scapegoat. She went in knowing this would all be blame on her. She would never been seen as a hero.
And she did it anyways. Honestly I bet she did throw up. Alone, away from everyone who could see her.
Pairing: Titus Danforth x f!reader and Ursula x f!reader
Words: 3k
CW: explicit sexual content, nsfw, 18+, mdni
Tags/warnings: the Danforth's being weird af, power imbalance, escort!reader, Ursula being controlling, Titus being a perv, smoking, sex work, voyeurism (both Titus and Ursula watch the other with you), oral (m and f receiving), lowkey D/s dynamics, dom!mommy!Ursula, sub!reader and a little inkling of sub!Titus (you'll get it when you read it), impulse control, dry humping, teasing, reader is a little mean, unprotected piv sex, breeding kink (duh)
Summary: In which Ursula hires you for the week to...satisfy her and Titus becomes obsessed with having you too.
a/n: fair warning, this one's...not for everyone.
Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND OR TO USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI. FUCK AI.
Titus has never considered himself a patient man.
In fact, he's the complete opposite of it. Proudly so.
He's never had to want for anything, for anyone. He wants something? He buys it. He wants someone? He gets them.
He's used to taking.
It's easy, straightforward, especially when he has the funds for it.
But as he stares across the room at you, engaged in conversation with his father, body hidden away in a very conservative cocktail dress, he's certain if he holds himself back any longer he's going to burst.
Unfortunately for him, Ursula made sure to stake her claim the second you arrived at the Lodge and graced him with your dazzling smile for the first time.
Titus was certain he'd seen all the beauty the world has to over. It belongs to him, actually.
But there's something about you that he can't quite figure out, something that grabbed a hold of him and refused to let go, to let him breathe.
You're here for her.
You are...off limits.
This time, he can't just take.
If he wants you, he's going to have to beg.
The first time he accidentally runs into you after you've arrived, you're in the guest room unpacking. You have a habit of leaving doors ajar, just open enough for him to be able to peek through.
And he does. He's not about to miss any opportunity to ogle.
With your suitcase open on the bed, you pull out countless pieces of lingerie, all varying shades of red, Ursula (and his) favorite color.
His sister calls you from the ensuite bathroom and you quickly follow her voice, leaving the lacy, see through pieces on the bed.
He doesn't even think, he just does, feet moving before he can even think to stop.
Not that he would anyway.
He begins to inspect your panties, one by one. He barely tries to fight the urge to bring them up to his nose, ultimately inhaling the scent of your detergent and the lingering smell of you.
He can hear your giggles filling the room with a lightness he's never felt in his life, his chest fluttering at the sound.
He understands why his sister likes to keep you around now.
It's only when your laughter turns into a throaty moan that he snaps out of it.
He shouldn't...he should leave—
"Master Titus?" Saved by the bell. "Lunch is served."
He adjusts his pants enough to be presentable and tucks your panties into his back pocket expertly as he turns to face Pernilla.
"Best give them a minute."
And with that he leaves.
The second time he has the misfortune of accidentally running into you, he's been tasked by his father to grab his sister for a quick meeting before dinner.
Thinking you'd be in your own room getting ready, he doesn't think to check before he swings open his sister's door.
His heart does a leap in his chest at the sight.
There you are, dotingly, in between his sister's thighs, putting those gorgeous lips to good use as you eat her out.
You're completely naked while Ursula remains in her silk nightgown. Titus cannot stop his wandering eyes, hungry gaze raking across your entire body.
You look so soft, so plump — he wants nothing more than to mark you up, leave bruises he knows will take their sweet time healing so he can marvel at the painting he has created.
Ursula's hands are tightly coiled around your hair, fingers massaging your scalp, encouragingly, as press closer into her.
The two of you are so into it that neither notice he's standing at the threshold.
You do something with your tongue he can't see since Ursula's leg is in the way but the woman wails in response and you shiver, giddy at the praise.
He quickly steps outside, closing the door again before he knocks, loudly.
"Yes?" Ursula yells in response, seemingly calm and composed.
"Father would like a word."
"Now?"
He thinks for a second, jealousy bubbling in his chest. "Yes, now."
Ursula huffs and Titus beams.
A long second later, Ursula slams open the door, heavy robe around her frame, clearly pissed off at her father's terrible timing.
Titus smirks to himself, trying to play it cool as he watches his sister round the corner before his hungry gaze snaps to you.
You're sitting on the bed, trying to cover yourself with your hands as you struggle to steady your breathing.
His sister truly is cruel, leaving you alone in this heightened headspace.
His hands close into tight fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as he has to practically restrain himself from taking you over his shoulder and kidnapping you to his room.
Instead, he stalks towards you, trying his best to exude a dominant yet protective aura so you won't run away.
Big doe eyes follow his every move as he grabs a hold of the throw blanket at the foot of the king sized bed and gently drapes it over your shoulders.
Up close he can see the wetness glistening over your lips and chin, the way your entire body is flushed crimson in desire and not embarrassment.
His eyes keep yours hostage as he grunts towards your hands to grab a hold of the fabric.
Your fingers brush his, perfectly soft and warm against his rough and cold ones.
Fuck, you are definitely trying to kill him.
The second you're covered, he steps back, dropping to his knees in front of the bed.
Your brow scrunches quizzically and he swallows a moan in response.
You're so beautiful, so innocent, so perfect.
He begins to mimic your breathing, slow and steady, grounding, and you finally understand.
You hum contently and shift on the bed to get more comfortable.
He stays with you for a long time, until your eyes are no longer glazed, until your hands are finally steady, until you smile shyly at him and turn to lie down on the comforter beneath you.
"You should rest, little dove," he coos and you beam. "She'll be gone a while."
You manage a nod, eyelids becoming heavy. The last thing you remember is Titus staring at you, his watchful gaze a comfort as you fall asleep in such a strange house.
The third time he sees you he's accepted his fate.
Their father has just retired to bed and you excused yourself oh so respectfully to go change for a night cap, finally leaving him and Ursula alone.
Titus pulls out his mother's cigar box and preps two Cubans for him and Ursula, expert hands making quick work of the process.
It's Ursula who lights up first, a peace offering so he can sweeten her up before the words practically spill from his lips.
"I want her."
Ursula exhales smoke directly into Titus's face.
"No."
Titus's face contorts into a pout, pathetic and spoiled.
"But—"
"She's mine," she cuts.
Titus is about to whine some more when the door opens again and you step inside.
Both their gazes snap up to yours. The conservativeness is completely gone as you don a pretty babydoll dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.
"Hi," you smile shyly, bare feet shifting as you watch them take you in like two ravenous wolves that want nothing more than to devour you whole.
"C'mere bunny."
The second that Ursula beckons you over, you move, eager and confident.
Titus watches you intensely as he takes another drag of his cigar, slow and obscenely sensual.
It's when he exhales that you audibly whimper, loud enough for Ursula to feel the air shift as you settle on her lap.
The woman laughs under you and you instantly bring your attention back to her.
"Oh you are spoiled, bunny," she mocks. "I gave you clear instructions, do I have to show you just how disappointed I am in you?"
"N-no, no I'm sorry," you whimper. "I didn't mean it—"
"Did he touch you while I was gone earlier?"
"No!"
Titus's heart constricts at your sharpness.
"Good," Ursula kisses just below your ear. "'Cause he wants you."
Your pussy clenches at her words and the older woman can feel it over her pants.
"Ursula—"
"What, little brother?" she snaps. "Because if you don't want her anymore—"
Titus lets out a sharp breath.
He hates this, hates how easy it is for Ursula to rile him up.
"I do." It's barely a whisper but loud enough to make you go still in Ursula's embrace.
You catch his gaze then, pained and sorrowful — pathetic.
You giggle, just enough to be cruel and Titus's mouth hangs open in response.
"He's so needy, mommy," you murmur, pitiful.
Titus Chester Danforth has never been pitied in his life.
A fire ignites in him, sharp and cold, he needs to wipe that stupid smirk off your face.
He's about to leap out of his seat, the air in the room shifting like an omen to an oncoming storm.
Ursula senses it, reacts before he even can.
"Would you like to do something about it?"
You bite your lip, mischievous, and nod.
"Well, what would I get in return?"
Your cheeks blush crimson at whatever thought comes into your head. You hide your face in your hands and she immediately pulls them off, cigar left on the glass ashtray before it burns your skin.
"Tell mommy what you'll give her, bunny."
Titus has been rendered paralyzed as he watches you lean in and whisper something in his sister's ear.
He can barely breathe, can barely think as the possibility of having you is actually becoming a reality.
All he can do is feel the thundering against his chest, the pain against his crotch from the absurd amounts of layers of clothing he's wearing, and the sudden, sweet realization that you want him too.
Whatever you say to Ursula seems to do the trick as she gives your ass a little slap, pushing you off her towards Titus.
You step up to him, shyly, as if you're trying to convince yourself that you're this perfect little angel and not the conniving devil he knows you are.
Titus puts down his cigar, his eyes searing into yours. He's about to pounce when his sister picks up her own cigar and lights it back up.
"You can have her, little brother," she consents. "But you can't touch her."
He audibly groans, a child throwing a tantrum, and you giggle freely now.
You settle between his open thighs, assessing him like you're mentally mapping your plan of attack.
He does the same, but he instead does recon, taking in every single inch of your body.
The babydoll is deep crimson, made of flimsy tulle and lace. There's a matching bra perfectly holding up your beautifully round breasts. But when his eyes wander lower—
"No panties?"
You shrug. "Someone took them."
He blushes at the comment. You knew. You little vixen.
You finally move, gently grabbing his left hand and placing it over the chair's arm rest. You repeat the motion with his right hand as Ursula hums her approval beside you.
Titus wastes no time closing his fists around the velvet lined maple wood until his knuckles turn white.
You smile, satisfied at his reaction, and only then do you bend down, settling on your knees in front of him.
Looking down at you from this angle is definitely messing with his head. You look so beautiful, so perfect, all he wants to do is push you against his raging erection.
But he can't.
He needs to behave.
When he doesn't lose it, you reward him by nuzzling your nose against his crotch, inhaling deeply as you place a soft kiss to the tent that has formed in his pants.
He lets out the most pathetic whimper, causing Ursula to laugh meanly.
"Mommy no!" you sound so small, so fragile as you chide her, effectively putting her in her place.
"'m sorry bunny," she settles back into silence. "I'll behave, promise."
"Thank you."
You look back up at Titus through your lashes and find him looking down at you with what you can only describe as genuine gratitude.
You reward him with a comforting smile, hands softly grazing up his thigh towards his belt.
You take your time undoing it, pulling it out from the loops and throwing it aside, enjoying how he flinches as the metal skids against the cold marble under your knees.
His zipper is much quicker work. You're no longer patient in your teasing. You're hungry now.
It's when you pull down his boxers, just enough for his cock to finally breathe.
He's painfully stiff, tip bouncing off his stomach causing him to wince. You hum at his discomfort, eyes glued to his purpling tip like a psychopath.
Titus's chest flutters. He's never felt this way about someone before, has never had his own darkness reflected back at him, mostly because darkness doesn't have any light, if anything it sucks—
"Jesus fucking Christ," Titus hisses as your lips wrap around him.
"Careful, brother," Ursula teases. "Mr. Le Bail might get jealous."
You hum around him, his abdomen contracting as your tongue swipes over the opening in his tip, eagerly lapping up every drop that has leaked from him.
You start to move down, the back of your throat relaxing around him, taking further down your throat.
He can’t help but stare at you, eyes searing through your skull in what he can only think to be encouragement and devotion.
It’s only when Ursula snaps her tongue that you pull all the way back, finally breathing in, spit dripping from the corners of your mouth down your chin and onto the tops of your breasts.
“He might not last long, bunny.”
You nod, quickly getting to your feet and straddling his thick thighs.
Titus pants desperately beneath you as you bring your hand between your bodies and line him up with your entrance, perfectly wet and lubricated from your spit and his own fluids.
You slowly sink down enough to run his tip through your folds, adding even more slick into the mix.
He groans, eyes glued to the space between your thighs.
You watch him, practically salivating, as you give him exactly what he wants.
You sink down, his thickness splitting you open in a way that perfectly fills you up.
Once you finally settle all the way down, Titus lets out a guttural moan, his fists somehow tightening their grip so much the pain causes a tear to slip past his carefully maintained tough exterior.
You hum again, pitying, only this time he doesn’t feel the blow to his ego.
No, this time he understands you’re doing it because you care.
His theory is further solidified as you lean forward, your tongue gently licking up his cheek to lap up the salty streak.
Your lips press to his cheekbone in a fleeting kiss and he shudders beneath you.
This is what you want. For him to lose control, how him to take what’s his because you belong to him too.
His hips buck upwards, jolting you out of your perceived power over him.
Sure, he may not be able to touch you, but he’d rather be damned than to be rendered nothing more than a whiny toy.
Your hands cling to his shoulders instantly, nails digging into the thickness of his wool coat.
Your moans and whines fill the room as he pistons in and out of you, making good use of just how wet you’ve made the two of you.
Your cheeks are flushed crimson, your body already shivering and quivering, but it’s not enough.
"Mommy—" you whine, desperate. "Need him...to...touch me...please."
Titus turns to Ursula, brows scrunched in agony, pleading.
Her eyes sparkle at the pathetic display before her.
She sighs, anything for you.
"Go ahead."
The second the words process through Titus's mind he becomes ravenous. His hands shoot from the armrests, pressing you even tighter against his clothed chest, as one digs itself into your hip and the other snakes around your neck.
He takes the command as opportunity and wastes no time slamming his lips against yours. You shriek at the intensity but your sounds of protest get swallowed up by his eager mouth, his tongue breaking through your lips to enter as if it's his right.
You become nothing more than a breathing dolly as he continues his relentless thrusting.
"If you don't make her cum first, I won't let you have her again."
Titus growls into your mouth, slowing down his pace but making sure to sheathe himself as far as he can with each thrust.
You’re no longer sharp enough to think, let alone torture him. You’re putty in his hands. His perfect little dove. His, his, his—
"What will you give her?" he grunts in your ear, just for you to hear.
You smirk against his, biting down on his earlobe before you press your mouth over it.
"A baby."
That does him in.
He impales you on his cock, one hand snaking between your bodies to pinch your clit, to force you to come around him as he fills you up with his seed.
You shriek, sparks bursting through you as your core erupts in a tidal wave of pleasure.
You slump down against him, burrowing your nose in his neck. He holds you tightly, possessive and demanding.
"You're gonna look so beautiful all round and swollen, baby" Ursula coos and you clench around Titus, forcing the man to let out a deep groan.
Ursula chuckles at her brother's reaction. You're truly going to milk him for all he's worth.
Because that's all he is to you in that moment.
And to get to do that as much as he needs for it to take?
As horrifying as this scene is, I find it hilarious that Ben tried to de-escalate the situation with a simple ‘surprise’ like he really can’t save himself from this, can he?
warnings/tags: 18+, dark themes, DUBCON/NONCON, woc!reader (south asian coded but yk), reporter!reader, jaded!reader, lovesick!Clark, delusional!Clark, obsessive behavior, manipulation, peer pressure, coercion, forced relationship, harassment, coworkers-to-whatever Clark wants, nice guy phenomenon except it's the coworkers perpetuating it, okay sorry Clark is actually a bit of a freak </3, some Lois x Reader implications if you squint, these tags are not exhaustive
wc: 8.5k (asdfj)
summary: You don't like Superman. You like Clark Kent even less. Clark, on the other hand, likes you a little more than he should.
dividers by @/cafekitsune
please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!!
It’s almost humiliating to find yourself in Superman’s arms for the fourth time in as many weeks.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, grinning down at you.
Ice crystals weigh down his lashes. He’s warm against you, suit damp as the ice melts atop of him. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, while he supports your weight. Having done this song and dance three times before, the embarrassment simmers underneath your skin now rather than be the raging boil it was the first time Superman lifted you into his arms. Next time, you might even enjoy the ride, you think wryly.
You peek over his shoulder to see a piece of the building you were stranded in slough off into the waters below. The 5 o’clock news anchor’s voice already echoes in your ears, citing the millions, perhaps billions, of dollars of damage incurred today at the hands of the new mutant threat.
If you get back early enough, you might be able to get a soundbite from one or two city council members before the day ends.
“We have got to stop meeting like this,” you joke, refusing to look at anything other than his face. The first time you stole a look at the earth beneath you, you almost threw up.
His cheek dimples. The sight makes your heart skip a beat. “Somehow, trouble always seems to find you.”
“Don’t I know it,” you say under your breath.
If you were religious, you’d say it was a punishment.
Before the release of Superman’s message from his Kryptonian parents and the subsequent fallout, you were a fan. He was your respite during a turbulent period of your life, a time where you questioned if people were cruel because it was easy or if they were cruel because it was demanded.
He was so good, it helped to think despite the harshness the world can offer, Superman found something worthy in every being to be given the chance for salvation. It made your problems and tribulations seem minuscule in comparison. You took comfort in there being an all knowing being out there, willing to risk it all for humanity.
After his first loss, a chasm of doubt you weren’t prepared for split you in two. The pile on that you now know came from Lex Luthor made way for criticisms of Superman you hadn’t let your mind wander to. It was strange. You had a defense for every critique thrown his way, and your admiration did not waver. You still admire Superman for all that he does and all that he represents. And yet, their words linger in your mind. All the what-ifs, all the things he had done because it was right that ended up hurting more people in the long run.
Most of your life was spent being treated with unintentional cruelty. The lack of malice made it easier to detach yourself from its claws, but it did not change the marks left on you.
You wonder if something similar can be said about good intentions with unintended consequences.
“Now what does Superman have to say about the increased extraterrestrial activity these days?”
At this, he laughs. He says your name, amused. “Are you asking me as yourself or as a representative of the Daily Planet?”
“Myself, of course. Your favorite reporter is somewhere”—you point below—“around there.”
He hums. “My favorite reporter?”
You squint at him. It is a known fact Clark Kent has a knack for finding Superman at the right place and right time. He would have been considered the luckiest man at the Daily Planet had Jimmy not existed. “Never took you as coy.”
“And what do you take me as?” he asks, question weighted heavier than is warranted.
He lands on the ground lightly. He’s chosen to take you to the back of the building bustling with other reporters and citizens. It’s an oddly private space.
You flatten your lips into a line. Honesty is always the best policy when you’re off the clock. “A good man,” you say easily.
For a too long second, Superman observes you. The corners of his mouth can’t help but tick upwards.
“And good men can’t be coy?” he challenges playfully.
Tilting your head, you give him a slow nod. “You got me there.”
Rolling up your sleeve, you check your watch. You have an hour at best to see if you can scrounge up some quotes worthy of being run in tomorrow’s paper. The magnitude of damage will be the focus rather than whatever the fuck is going on this time, so you mentally begin prepping yourself for the logistics hellscape you are about to enter.
“Thanks for saving me. Again,” you say sheepishly. You start backing away towards the door. “It was good seeing you.”
Shutupshutupshutup.
He laughs, scuffing the ground with his boots. His hands go behind his back, and a few pieces of hair drop in front of his forehead. The ice has melted away whatever it is he uses to keep his hair in pristine condition, and you’re struck by how young Superman looks.
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m always happy to help,” he grins.
You match his grin, muscles stretching uncomfortably as you try to find the door handle behind you.
He lingers. At first, you think he’s waiting for you to lead him to Clark until you turn and see his attention is focused solely on you. Expectation furrows his brow, and he waits patiently for you to speak.
Except, you have nothing else to say.
You push the door open, waving. “Same time next week?” you call over your shoulder with a wink.
The awkwardly disappointed closed mouth smile he sends you off with reminds you of Clark, strangely enough.
-
Perry sends you to gather intel with Clark.
Predictably, once the rest of the office catches wind of this, they make your life hell.
“I always knew Perry was a softie,” Steve says, downing his cup of coffee. “He’s even setting up his star reporters, so they can create star reporter babies.”
The pen in your mouth nearly cracks with how forcefully you bite down onto it, but miraculously, the ink stays contained and your molars remain unharmed. You don’t bother giving him the satisfaction of an answer.
Everyone knows about Clark’s little crush on you. He doesn’t seem to mind it being common knowledge, so you ignore it more often than not. Steve, however, cannot let it go for the life of him. Whether it’s that Clark is so unashamed in his affection for you or your consistent lack of acknowledgment of said affection that grinds his gears so deeply is anyone’s guess.
“He’s looking out for the future generation of The Daily Planet,” Ron teases good-naturedly. He places a fresh cup of earl grey tea on your desk with a wink. “Only the best for the best.”
“Thanks,” you mutter.
A non-Steve related headache is brewing behind your forehead, so you’ll need all the comfort you can get before you head out with Clark. Perry hopes to see some concrete evidence of InfiTech’s underhanded funding of a new and upcoming manufacturing plant outside of the city before the end of the week. With the rumors circulating around InfiTech as a company and the suspicious timing of this manufacturing plant being built with no clarification for what exactly it will be used for, many fear another LuthorCorp situation.
Ron glances behind him before pulling his chair closer to your desk. “Steve has a point though,” he whispers. “You should put that poor boy out of his misery.”
Betrayal sears you. Most of the office has decided you have no discernible reason to not at least give Clark a chance. He’s their sweetheart who elicits pity whenever his shoulders droop. You can’t exactly reject Clark in cold blood and move on. You thought Ron of all people understood where you were coming from.
“I have,” you argue, voice equally as hushed. You’ve let Clark down as gently as you can without resorting to flat out telling him you don’t want to date him, now or in the future. He’s a good guy, you know this, but you can’t shake the anxiety that nooses around your lungs whenever you think of him.
“Clearly not if Perry is having to send you two on a date,” he says, unimpressed.
“Okay relax, he’s not sending us on a date,” you say. “And we’ll be working. It’ll be professional.”
“You and I both know that’s easier said than done.”
Tossing the notes you were pretending to look over onto your desk, you lean forward. You spread your hands out. “What do you want me to do then?”
Ron sucks in his cheek. “Just go on one date with him.”
“Oh, come on, man,” you sigh, turning back.
“For what it’s worth, I think you guys would be good together,” he says in that singsong way that raises your blood pressure. “He’s a little awkward and super nice, and you’re”—Ron pushes his lips out and considers what to say next—“well, you.”
Clicking your pen, you roll your eyes. “I think you should set him up with someone who’s more his speed then.”
“I’ve tried.” Ron kisses his teeth meaningfully. “He’s a guy who knows what he wants.”
In hindsight, you should’ve let Lois take the lead on showing Clark the ropes when he first joined. You suspect Clark would have imprinted on her if she had been in your shoes instead.
From behind, you hear someone say your name.
Spinning around in your chair, you say, “Yes?”
Clark stands with a bagel and a half-smile. “Morning.”
“Morning,” you say, reflexively smiling back. You get up and push your chair forward, rolling over Ron’s foot. He yelps. You ignore him. “You’re here early.”
He presents you the bagel, perfectly warm. “I’m on time, though?”
You make a noncommittal noise. Clark being on time is a rare occurrence. Hopefully you’ll be able to put it to good use today and finish off the day early.
“I need to grab a couple of things and then I’ll be ready to go if you are?”
At his nod, you take a deep sip of your now lukewarm tea and grab your bag.
You’ll need to let Lois and Lily know what leads you need followed up in your temporary absence.
Taking a bite from the bagel, you head towards the other side of the office. With how hectic Lois sounded on the phone, you skipped breakfast to get in an extra hour before to help her finalize the layout of the article. You had almost asked Perry to swap Lois for Clark for today’s task, but the dark circles underneath her eyes had you biting back the request. No amount of coffee would keep her from falling into a sleepy slump come 2pm.
“Do you guys have a minute?” you ask, splitting your bagel in half and handing it to Lois.
“For you? Always,” she says through a mouthful of cream cheese.
“Fantastic. I need you guys to call a couple of people. I’ve already sent some stuff to Lily this morning, so I should be good to go for everything needed for tomorrow. But you know, I have my phone on me and my laptop of course, so feel free to call me for anything.”
You direct the last of your monologue to Lily. She’s been interning for four weeks and while she’s adjusted well to the workflow, she struggles with asking for help. What’s important to you is that she knows you’re available, no matter how small the matter seems.
She disregards what you say and slumps over her desk, arms flopped over one another. “Ugh, he’s so boyfriend. I’m so jealous,” she whines.
The piece of bagel you’re eating gets caught in your throat. Tears spring into your waterline at the sudden loss of air. You cough, covering your mouth. “Who?”
“Clark,” Lily says as if it’s obvious. “He’s real sweet.”
“Yeah,” you agree. He is. Albeit to an almost detrimental degree.
“He’s real sweet on you,” she continues, wiggling her eyebrows.
You cut her an exasperated look. She’s right, but you will never add fuel to this particular fire. “If he’s sweet on me then he’s sweet on you.” Clark is a nice guy by default. A real southern gentleman if you had to label him.
Lily smirks, shaking her head. “Not the way he is with you. I can feel the cavities forming every time I see Clark come within two feet of you,” she laughs. “It’s cute.”
“Super cute,” you say flatly. Checking your phone, you grimace at the time. It’ll be lunch before you know it and you haven’t quite prepared yourself for an hour of Clark’s undivided attention. Tucking your phone back into your pocket, you blow a kiss at the both of them. Lois catches it, while Lily flicks it away from herself, sticking out her tongue. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Clark’s waiting by your desk. He has your purse over his shoulder along with his own bag. You shouldn’t find the sight endearing, but it earns a suppressed smile from you anyway.
“Ready?” you ask.
His cheeks dimple as he says, “Always.”
-
You shouldn’t have invited him inside.
The water spills over the side of the cup as you carry it over to him. He’s seated on your couch, strangely stiff as he observes your living room. He thanks you when you hand him the water.
“Thank you for walking me home,” you say, taking a seat.
You resist the urge to lay down on your floor and stare up at the ceiling in despair. Today had been particularly horrendous. Given the situation with InfiTech’s power upheaval is a developing one, your usual sources were more tightlipped than normal. Clark wasn’t able to cajole much out of his sources either, and so the both of you ended the day right where you started: nothing.
He waves off your thanks, quickly swallowing his sip of water. “It’s the least I can do.”
The least he can do is finish his water and go home, but you know that is not in the cards for tonight. He had been reluctant to let the day end, finding any and every excuse to linger. The offer to walk you home was expected at this point, but the request for a drink was a last ditch effort evidenced by his forced, and failing, nonchalance when asking.
It turns out even you aren’t immune to Clark Kent’s puppy eyes.
“I can order us dinner,” you offer, already pulling out your phone. “You’re a breakfast for dinner guy, right?”
There’s a place down the street that made some of the best pancakes you think you’ve ever had. You’re willing to be proven wrong but so far in your quest for pancakes in Metropolis, Backstreet Cafe has been leagues ahead of anything you’ve tried.
He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his attention on you. You look up, thumbs poised to start creating an order. His eyes are nearly black with how blown out his pupils are. It’s a look you’re accustomed to, an age old desire most men have never been able to hide well. A shiver runs down your spine, and you straighten up.
“Um, yeah. I am.”
Wordlessly, you pass him your phone.
He merely holds it. “I can pay,” he says, forehead crinkling with the strength of his frown.
With anyone else, you would gladly take up their offer, but with Clark, you feel the need to tread carefully. Plastering on an easy smile, you prop your chin up and shake your head. “No worries. My treat.”
A refusal sits at the tip of his tongue, but he pushes it down. Either he pushes to pay and irritates you or he places aside his own upbringing to allow you to pay for him. He’s a gentleman through and through, and you know this particular rock and a hard place is rankling his pride. “Okay.”
You add your order, and then note to the delivery man to drop it off at the door.
“Are you still fostering that dog?” you ask, locking your phone.
He blinks at you before a sweet smile stretches across his mouth. “Not currently. But sometimes, he comes to visit.”
“You must miss him.”
He brings his hand up to lay against his lips and looks to the side. You crack up at how he actually seems conflicted.
“Come on, his behavioral issues couldn’t have been that bad,” you say, stretching out on your loveseat.
And so, Clark regales to you the pain and suffering his cousin’s dog put him through the last time he was petsitting. You’re in the middle of laughing at how this dog nearly broke his bathtub when there is a knock at the door. Clark immediately clambers to his feet, face flushed and happiness radiating off him, and offers to grab the food.
You go to the kitchen to refill his water and pour yourself a glass. Something must be wrong with you. Clark is so nice and so cute and yet, you can’t help the discomfort that perches itself on your shoulders whenever you spend any prolonged amount of time with him.
It should be flattering to have Clark Kent of all people pursuing you, but all you feel is a sickening dread.
You have no way of explaining it, the intensity he has when looking at you. How he watches your mouth, the way his own tongue flicks out when you reapply your lipgloss. How every morning without fail you will find him waiting for you, whether at your desk or more frequently, right as you cross the block before the building. He manages to perfectly time his lateness to yours and laugh it off as a coincidence.
He has convinced every around you that he is entirely harmless, and you’re not sure you can argue against it. He is harmless.
(He also makes the hairs on the back of your neck raise.)
“I don’t think I’ve ever tried this place,” he says, eyeing the bag as he walks into the kitchen.
He’s unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves along with the first few buttons of his shirt. His glasses are askew, and he’s too distracted with unpacking the food to straighten them.
He’s hunched over so you take a second to adjust his glasses. It’s instinctual, born of habit from fixing your own, and Clark goes still. You freeze as well, ring finger flush against the side of his frames. A dreamy sort of look greets you, his eyes hooded and dark, and you hurriedly say, “There.”
You busy yourself with tearing open the takeout containers. “I think they have the best pancakes in the city, so I hope you like them,” you say. The words blur together with how quickly you spit them out, but Clark gets the gist based on his quiet ‘hmm’.
“Kitchen or living room?” he asks.
“Your pick.”
He leads you to the living room, fork held between his teeth. You take the seat furthest away from him in a smaller, more uncomfortable chair and shrug off his questioning stare.
“Do you think if Jimmy had gone with us, we would’ve gotten at least something?” you muse. One thing about Jimmy is he will get the results needed but only when driven into a corner.
“Probably.”
You knew you should’ve bribed him to come along. “Perry’s going to be on my neck,” you say, exhaling faintly. You’ll have to find something to placate him in the mean time, you suppose.
“I’m sure he’ll be understanding,” Clark encourages. “He trusts you with the most important stories after all.”
“Not all of them,” you say without thinking. The second that leaves your mouth, you know it was the wrong thought to let loose.
Guilt twists his mouth and you panic, readying yourself to explain to Clark that that is not what you meant to say but he beats you to it.
“I can help get you an interview with Superman,” he blurts out.
The offer is so unexpected, you can’t control how your nose immediately wrinkles with aversion. Quickly, you school your expression into something more neutral, but the damage is already done.
Clark looks mystified. His mouth hangs open, unsure on whether he should take the offer back or question your reaction.
Fuck.
“You don’t like Superman.”
“I didn’t say that,” you defend immediately.
“Well, you didn’t not say that,” he says, equally as defensive. Something sharpened with betrayal flits across his face, but it’s gone before you can take a second look. “He’s a good guy. I think you’d like him.”
“I like him just fine,” you protest.
It isn’t a lie for the most part. You like him as much as is required. His position is so unique and specific that you don’t find it fair for you to hold him certain expectations. There have been plenty of decisions he’s made, shortsighted and farsighted alike, that you do not agree with, but you can understand how he came to his conclusion. His moral code is stringent and while a good thing, it has led him to hyper focus on what he believes is the right choice. Most times, you agree with him. But other times, you worry for the repercussions that will be felt by the people rather than the governments who cause such harm.
“And it’s not that I haven’t had chances to interview him. I just think you do a great job at getting exactly what is needed from Superman when you interview him,” you say, picking at your food. Your appetite wanes.
The world needs someone good to hinge their hopes for a better future upon. It wouldn’t do good for there to be news pieces dissecting his every move and word so they can wrongfully extrapolate from it. Clark captured what needed to be said from Superman in the way the people need in this delicately balanced world.
His questions are admittedly soft, but that is what keeps Superman coming back to him.
Clark flushes. “You think so?”
You nod, unwilling to repeat yourself in fear of Clark internalizing more than what you’ve actually said. “‘Sides, I think I’ve firmly cemented myself in Superman’s mind as a damsel in distress rather than a reporter.”
It ate away at your pride. He remembered your name last time, a testament to how many times you found yourself saved by him due to unfortunate incidents involving the wrong time at the wrong place.
“Six times now isn’t it?” he says thoughtfully.
The reminder makes you groan. The last time, Superman teased he might have to start charging you airfare, and you thought Mr. Terrific was about to shove one of his T-Balls down his throat.
Then you pause. “How do you know that?”
Clark shoves a bite of pancake in his mouth. “Superman and I talked about it last time,” he says once he has swallowed.
You stab at your eggs. This is humiliating. Your misadventures are small talk worthy now.
Clark tilts his head, curious. “Isn’t it good that Superman finds you memorable? You know, shows he cares about the people.”
“I mean yeah, but I’m still embarrassed. I used to have the biggest crush on him, so I’d rather he remember me because I’m a great reporter an not this,” you complain, putting the back of your hand to your forehead. Crush is the easiest way to compartmentalize the strength of your previous ardor for him, but it still sounds silly coming from you of all people.
Clark suddenly begins coughing. You go to get up and maybe smack his back, but he holds his hand up and shakes his head. It takes almost a minute for him to dislodge the food in his throat. His eyes are watery by the time he’s able to get a full breath in, and you hold out his glass, worry making you bite your cheek.
“You okay?”
He nods, sipping the water. “Yeah. Wrong pipe,” he assures you, voice raspy. He clears his throat. “You have a crush on Superman?”
“Had,” you correct automatically. “Kind of. It’s complicated.”
His scrutinizing eyes make you feel as if he’s peeled you back to your core, as if he knows you so well so as to already discern what is about to come out of your mouth. “What can be complicated about liking someone?”
He’s guileless in the way only Clark can be. It’s comforting to know he has not changed this way in the three years you have known him.
“On the record or off the record?”
Bemused curiosity furrows his brows. He must only stare at you for a minute or two but you feel each second stretch inside of you until it feels as if a year passes before he shakes it off.
“Off,” he decides, pitching his voice higher to match your earlier cajole.
“It’s complicated, because he’s Superman.”
Clark waits and when you offer nothing else, he implores you with his intensity alone. You don’t bite.
“On the record then.”
You give him a practiced smile, placing your food on the coffee table to cross your leg over your opposite knee. “Superman is more than a man. He’s a representation of all the good a person can choose to be. Hope is synonymous with Superman. Can you really call it an infatuation if the man in question is akin to a god?”
You relax, dropping the smile. Reverence follows Superman no matter how he tries to burn out his own divinity. All Superman can offer is an altar, and you do not feel much like praying anymore.
-
Something scratches at the edges of your conscious, a misstep you are overlooking. Somehow, you’ve given Clark the wrong impression and now, you are paying for it.
“Oh, look it’s your boyfriend.”
Your head turns before you can think twice, and you see Clark walking into the conference room with Jimmy in tow. He’s been glued to your side since the moment you walked past the nearest coffee shop to the office, so you jumped at the chance to help Lily out before the lunch meeting started. Thankfully, Jimmy dragged him into a discussion about the upcoming sports column he was helping Steve on, and you were left alone for thirty blissful minutes.
“I’m going to kill you,” you hiss under your breath. You shouldn’t have looked, because now Clark is waving you over.
Lily snickers, stapling another stack of papers. “That’s not a denial,” she sings.
You have forgotten how insufferable twenty year olds can be.
“Why would I deny something obviously not true?” you retort.
Lily’s smile only grows larger as she intentionally looks behind you.
“Morning guys,” Clark greets, pushing his hair back.
He stands close enough to you for you to feel his body heat. There’s nowhere for you to go, and so you must bear him crowding you into the table.
He should be too far to have heard Lily but by the pleased look on his face, he’s heard every word.
“Good morning, Clark,” Lily says saccharinely. She glances between the two of you, false sweetness slipping into something more probing. “I see you guys came in together. Again.”
Clark brightens but before he give her an answer that will somehow incriminate you without trying, Perry calls for everyone’s attention.
“I’ve brought lunch,” he announces unceremoniously. “Eat.”
You all grab the lunch he’s provided and make your way back to the conference room. You evade Clark and place yourself between Lily and Lois. Your plan is to somehow wedge yourself next to Lois and whoever else you can corral into the other seat, but it quickly goes up in dust when Clark sits next to you. His thigh is pressed up against yours.
He unwraps your sandwich before you can begin to pick at the foil and places it back on the plate in front of you. He then unwraps his own sandwich and starts eating.
The eyes boring into you are not just from one person.
“Come on, guys. We’re eating here,” Steve says, motioning towards his food. “Save it for the bedroom.”
“Don’t take your dead bedroom out on them,” Ron says, bored.
“It’s not dead!”
Perry snorts but doesn’t say anything.
Sauce spills out of Steve’s burger as he clenches it. He takes a deep breath. And then another. And then tears into his food with the finesse of a child.
“Okay. Anyway. What ever happened to that Hammer of Boravia dude?” Steve asks over a bite of his burger.
You and Lois exchange a repulsed side eye over your own lunches.
“Considering what happened to Boravia…” Jimmy trails off.
“He wasn’t from Boravia,” Lois cuts in, exasperated.
“We don’t know where the guy that can kick Superman’s ass is?”
Clark stiffens. “Superman was at a disadvantage during that fight, so it’s not really that the Hammer of Boravia can kick his ass—”
“He was one of Lex’s guys,” you say, interrupting Clark. You wince at him apologetically when his voice fades away.
At a disadvantage or not, seeing Superman struggle as he did against the Hammer of Boravia was akin to realizing god is indeed fallible. It shook a core tenet you weren’t aware you held of Superman. Perhaps it was then you realized Superman was much closer to a human than he ever was to a god. And it frightened you.
But that isn’t fair of you to be frightened, you think. Who are you to make a mere man a saint?
“He must be locked up somewhere while they figure out what to do with him.”
“He definitely has to be in another pocket dimension,” Steve declares.
“Didn’t they get rid of those?” Ron asks, mystified.
Steve turns to him, scowling. “You actually believe the government when they say that, man?”
The initial conversation devolves into a discussion on whether Lex Luthor’s code is still in use, and you tuck back into your lunch.
Lois hooks her foot behind the foot of your chair and pulls you a tad closer to her. “So, the gala,” Lois starts, stealing a fry from your plate.
You push the rest towards her. “Yes…?”
“Are you going?”
“She’s going with me,” Clark says without looking up. He’s scratching something onto his notepad.
Lois pauses mid-chew. She gives you a sideway glance before focusing back on Clark. “Really?” Doubt coats that singular word so thickly, you are thankful you are not on the other side of it.
You turn to Clark, disbelief muddling your brain. “When did we—”
“Are you going, Lois?” Clark asks, pointedly ignoring your question. He places his hand on your knee as if it’s some sort of consolation.
Your brain resets. The fabric of your pants is sturdy and thick, but it does against the blistering heat of his hot hand against your skin.
“I am,” she answers carefully. She aims her next comment at you, though her attention flickers to Clark for a brief second. Her expression is unreadable. “Dante was wondering if you were coming.”
Shaking your leg, you try to dislodge Clark, but he’s stubborn and curls his fingers in. The ghost of a touch skims across the back of your knee, his pinky finger trailing over the sensitized skin.
You jerk your chair back, the feet of the chair dragging against the cheap vinyl covered floors. An oily sort of dread snakes its way through your veins, skyrocketing your heart rate and making your palms clammy.
Your knee throbs in the shape of Clark’s hand when his expression becomes stormy.
“Bathroom,” you say, voice carefully measured.
Lois drops her napkin next to her plate and stands up as well. “I’ll go with you.”
It’s a quiet walk to the bathroom. Your stomach churns, and you worry you might throw up what little you’ve been able to eat. The vague taste of bile burns at the back of your throat, and you blink back what feels like an impending panic attack.
The door shuts behind you and Lois. She stands in front of it, her hands hidden behind her back. A myriad of emotions cross her face before confusion wins out.
“Are you and Clark—”
“No,” you shoot down immediately.
Lois narrows her eyes at you. “I didn’t even finish my question.”
“You didn’t need to. I’ve been asked that like seven times already,” you grumble, chewing on your lip.
After Clark had dinner at your place, he’s taken your lenience as permission. His encroachment was subtle and by the time you realized you were loosening the strict professional boundaries you had put into place little by little, Clark had already made a home past the boundary line.
“So you just let anyone touch you like that?” she counters, crossing her arms over her chest.
The blood drains from your face. Nausea crumples your stomach, and you avert your attention from Lois when saliva pools in your mouth.
“No,” you say. Hurt overlays your initial panic at having been seen. A dull pain gnaws at your heart and sneaks in through the hole Lois has unknowingly dug into you. “But if I told him off, you know Steve would’ve said I was overreacting.”
“Who cares?” she says incredulously.
“I care,” you snap. “Ron told me just a week ago that I should go on a date with Clark. Clearly what I want doesn’t matter.”
You don’t think you are on the verge of tears until Lois pulls you into a hug. She murmurs an apology into your hair, smoothing a hand up and down your back until your breathing steadies.
“It’s okay,” she soothes. “It’s okay, I promise.”
And though you know they are empty words, you latch onto them. It is not the first time you’ve found comfort in a lie.
-
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Jimmy’s proud smile fades when your anger registers.
“I thought you’d want him here…”
“Why would I want Clark here if I asked you to come with me for this assignment, Jimmy?” you stress, holding your hands to your temples.
Clark is across the street, backpack strapped to his shoulders rather than his usual satchel. His pants are ironed for once, and the shirt he’s chosen is nicely fitted. Maybe too nicely fitted given how his bicep strains underneath the fabric as he adjusts the straps of his backpack.
You tear your gaze away and focus back on glaring at Jimmy. A tendril of tension based pain snakes its way up the back of your head to settle behind your right eye.
“I figured you asked me to make it look less suspicious,” he says, scratching the back of his neck.
You want to throttle him. “Why would it be suspicious for me to bring Clark? Again, I would’ve just asked him if I wanted him here,” you say with forced patience.
A muscle ticks in his cheek. “Oh come on. I’m not stupid.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” you ask, more than a little annoyed.
Jimmy holds his hands up in feigned innocence. “Right, right. I forgot you guys were keeping it a secret. Conflict of interest or whatever.”
His knowing yet smug cadence has you giving him your undivided attention. “Keeping what secret?” you say sharply.
He shoots you a funny look. “That you and Clark are dating?” The ‘duh’ is implied, but it reverberates in your head as if he had said it out loud.
There’s a faint buzzing in your ears. A bloodless feeling seeps into your fingertips and spreads to the rest of your body.
“What the hell. No, we are not.”
Jimmy groans, scrubbing at his face. “Clark already told me, so you don’t have to keep pretending. Which by the way, the two of you are godawful at pretending. You’re better than Clark but Jesus, learn to—”
“Geez Louise. There was such a long line at the—”
Clark cuts himself off. His head swings from you to Jimmy as he takes in the uncomfortable air that has erupted between the two of you.
Jimmy mouths ‘sorry’ to him before fucking off to the bistro next door.
That apology should be yours.
Tipping your chin up at Clark, you ask, “Why does Jimmy think we’re dating?”
It takes conscious effort for you to keep your voice steady despite the way your blood crashes through your veins. The back of your neck dampens as the heat in your body rises, and your resist wiping it away.
“Because we are?”
He has the gall to tilt his head, expression slack.
Tucking your lip underneath your teeth, you run through all of your options. None of them are pretty, and with the way your blood pressure is rising, you don’t think you are in the right space to make the right choice. You know what choice you want to make, but you cannot afford to be shortsighted in this.
Clark shifts his weight, unsure as your silence lingers. You can’t calm down and the longer you stew, the worse it is getting for you. But you fear opening your mouth, so you physically bite your tongue until blood slips down the back of your throat.
“I didn’t know—I didn’t know we were keeping it a secret,” Clark says miserably.
The last strand of your patience snaps. “We aren’t keeping anything a secret,” you lash out. “We are coworkers, Clark. That’s it.”
“You know that’s not true,” he says, a lick of irritation threading through his voice. One hand goes to rest on his hip while the other scrapes back his hair. “We’re together all the time. And everybody already thinks we’re together. And doing a very bad job at hiding it might I add.”
His mouth is set in a stubborn line. It’s the first time you’ve seen him so frustrated, hurt bleeding through and distorting it in something pitiable.
Your heart twists at the sight, and you know you are out of your depth. He’ll talk you in circles, because what matters is his version of events.
Because at the end of the day, your permission was never in the equation.
-
You call out of work for a week.
Lois blows up your phone, but you can’t find it in yourself to reassure her that everything is okay. Everything is markedly not okay.
You consider tendering your resignation to the Daily Planet. Then you get a grip. Unless you want to move out of Metropolis, you won’t find a better opportunity than the one you have currently.
Reporting to HR won’t get you anything other than dirty looks and whispers. Telling your team will ensure you are on everyone’s bad side sans Lois if you’re lucky. After five days, you still have not come up with a solution that keeps you at the Daily Planet and away from Clark.
It’s defeating to say the least.
You’ve turned in early for the night. And not wanting to think about your next steps, you spent the last hour doing your laundry. Anyone who looks at you knows you are going through hell, and they steer clear much to your relief.
Your key skids off of the lock at the relieved sound of your name from behind. It takes an extra second for you to unlock your door, but that’s all the time Clark needs to crowd you into your own apartment.
Bewilderment filters through your fear. You’re stunned at how quickly he was able to go from the hallway and into your apartment. Your brain reels at his speed.
“How did you—”
He immediately drags you into his arms. His heart pounds underneath your ear, increasing in speed when you look up at him. Somehow, he gets you to the living room while still in his arms, murmuring something soothing to you.
There is too much happening for you to focus solely on how wrong this is. He shouldn’t be here.
“I realized why you were so mad after talking to Jimmy. He said I should give you time, but”—he cups your cheeks with his hands, drinking you in with a relieved breath—“I was too worried about you.”
“You needed to talk to Jimmy to understand why I was mad?” you repeat flatly.
“I can be impatient sometimes,” he admits shyly. “I shouldn’t have brought us up before you were ready to tell everyone.”
Fuck, he still didn’t get it.
You try to push him away. “That’s not why I’m mad, you fucking—”
All at once his tongue is in your mouth. He’s sloppy and unpracticed, tongue scraping against your teeth. You freeze, unable to process the feel of his lips on yours. Dragging you to the couch with ease, he braces his knees on either side of you, urging you to kiss him back.
Your wrists are held together by one of his hands while the other ventures downwards. You buck up your hips, desperate to shift his weight just so to push him off, but Clark only moans wetly into you when you brush up against his cock.
Your stomach drops. He’s only half-hard, but he’s huge.
Your mouth tastes salty. The slide of his lips against yours is wet, aided by the tears dripping from your clenched eyes.
Clark creeps his fingers lower, sliding underneath your shirt to lay his hand flat against your stomach. He’s trembling, you realize.
He breaks the kiss, flushed to his ears. He doesn’t even look winded, though his lips are swollen and red and slick with spit. Your heart pounds as you catch your breath, ears ringing. Every muscle in your body is tensed to a painful degree.
“You don’t have to be so nervous,” he murmurs, dipping his head down again. “It’s just me.”
You move your head so his lips meet your cheek instead. He changes trajectory and trails his kisses down your throat. He nips at a sensitive spot below your ear and an aborted, soft noise escapes you.
You feel his cock harden at the sound.
“Clark, wait, please don’t,” you beg, sniffling.
He softens. “You’re doing so well for me,” he praises, finding the clasp to your bra. He unhooks it after two tries and throws it behind him.
He pushes your shirt up until its over your chest. Your heart flutters against his palm as he inches downwards, cupping you carefully. He thumbs your nipple, eyes growing steadily darker as he watches you bite your lip to stifle yourself.
A reprimand seems to cross his thoughts before he discards it in favor of wrapping his mouth around your nipple. His mouth is hot, and he flattens his tongue against the hardening bud.
You arch your back to try and dissuade him, but Clark pins you down, burying his face further into your chest. He kisses his way over to your other nipple, bringing his hand to tweak at your abandoned one.
Warmth pools in your belly at his persistent attention. You gasp when he bites at the sensitize skin, leaving behind an imprint of his teeth.
His grins against you, pressing a soothing kiss over the mark. It makes the coil in your belly tighten sharply.
You can’t help the whine that leaves you when he tilts his hips into yours. There’s something building under your skin, making your blood feel strange—bubbly and itching to break the surface.
You squirm, and Clark takes that as a signal to drag his hand towards your shorts. He strips you of them. The old elastic makes his job easy and leaves you bare in front of him.
If Clark were anything but a gentleman, he’d comment on the lack of panties but the sight only makes him shudder. He hurries to unbuckle his pants and shuck them down along with his underwear. His cock springs up, slapping against his stomach.
You swallow over the lump in your throat, fear anchoring itself in your chest.
Clark looks unkempt, eyes wild and his hair mussed. You’ve never seen him like this before. You didn’t realize how much he has been holding back.
“God, I like you so much,” he breathes, dropping back down to kiss you.
His cock leaves a thin, shining trail as it drags against you. He settles between your legs, greedily licking into your mouth. He’s finally released your hands, but you find yourself using them to brace yourself rather than attempt to push him away. You know a losing battle when you see one.
The sound that leaves him when you rest your arms around his neck is obscene and sends a wave of arousal pulsing in your belly.
The slick slide of his fingertips against your clit startles the both of you. It makes you suck in a harsh breath, shocked at the heat brewing within you.
“Shit,” he says, voice rough with desire.
Clark slowly works a finger in, pushing a little further each time until he’s comfortably got one finger in you. Soon, he presses in a second one, your wetness making the glide easy. Instinctively, you clench down around them. Clark huffs out a breathy laugh, an adoring sound that worsens your fraying nerves. At least he’s trying to make this easy for you, you tell yourself and yet, this brings no comfort.
“You’re so, so beautiful,” he says softly. “I’m so lucky.”
He angles his thumb to rub gently at your clit, spreading your wetness. Your leg jerks, and Clark repeats the motion, this time sliding his fingers out and then back in. When you moan at a particular spot he hits, Clark does it again and again, until you’re a teary mess underneath.
The tension in your belly threatens to snap and as if sensing that, Clark takes his fingers back. You clench around nothing, jaw going slack.
He brings his slick fingers to his mouth and licks them off.
“Clark,” you whine, rolling your hips. The pressure of your cunt against his cock soothes you but not enough to take the edge off.
“I want you to cum around my cock,” he says, hitching the leg closest to the back of the couch up. His smile is smug, and you want to claw his eyes out right through his foggy lenses.
He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of your knee. He licks the salt off his lips, resting his cheek against your calf for a steadying second.
At first, all you feel is pressure. The sting doesn’t register until Clark lets out a groan and sinks in deeper. His glasses hang on by a thread, and he shakes them off impatiently.
It’s as if his features sharpen into focus. You can’t pinpoint exactly what has changed, but it distracts you. It distracts you, until Clark bottoms out.
The air is knocked from your lungs once he’s flush against you.
“That hurts, you asshole!” you say through a gasp, tears springing to your eyes.
At this, Clark looks remorseful. He peppers kisses all over your face, whispering apologies to your skin while he waits for you to adjust. He pulls out until he’s no longer skin to skin with you, jaw clenched as he resists from thrusting back into your welcoming heat.
He rocks his hips gently, slowly inching his cock back into you when you relax. He’s looking at you with such unadulterated want, it’s making you wetter.
Your arousal is curdled with something darker, less tangible. It spreads through your blood, infecting you until you’re dizzy with it.
Something in your face must let him know you’re ready because there’s a warm pressure as Clark thrusts his way back inside of you. He drops his head to your shoulder, a groan reverberating through him as you tighten around him. You scrape your teeth against the side this throat, hard enough to leave a mark. His cock twitches and suddenly, Clark sets a brutal pace. He makes sure you feel every inch of him as he fucks you, leaving you a babbling mess as his cock drags against your walls.
He takes one of your hands and brings it to his lips, licking your fingertips. Then he brings your hand down and guides you to touch yourself. He keeps his hand wrapped around yours, helping you circle your clit with the right amount of pressure.
A ragged moan is forced from you. Your hips roll to meet his thrusts as he hikes your leg higher, allowing him in deeper.
“Clark, please.” You beg for an entirely different reason now.
Something shifts and Clark’s thrusts become pointed as if to drive home he’ll be all that you’ll know from now on. “Just a little more, baby,” he promises, purposefully timing his thrusts to keep you from falling over the edge. He slows, savoring the feel of you. “Tell me you love me.”
The haze clouding your brain lifts for a moment. You struggle to focus, convinced your mind made that up in your pursuit of pleasure, but then you see him. He’s serious.
You try to tilt your hips upwards, to test his resolve, but Clark won’t let you.
“Tell me you love me,” he repeats, grinding himself against you. He purposefully keeps his thrusts shallow, a tingle riding up your spine rather than a spark.
You’re so worked up, your building pleasure not subsiding in the slightest as he does the bare minimum to keep the heat smoldering in your belly. You ache with how badly you want to get off.
Clark is looking down at you with eyes too vulnerable for what he’s down to you, slowly sliding his cock along your opening. It does something terrible to you to see how much he wants you to say it.
You place your hands on his cheek and draw him close to you. Your lips brush against his as you say, “I love you, Clark.”
At your exhale, he kisses you, driving into you and fucking you without abandon. It doesn’t take long for that overwhelming pleasure to build to an inferno once again, robbing you of any sense other than the feel of Clark. His rhythm becomes uneven, but you don’t mind. You’re so close, Clark could brush his knuckles against your clit, and you’d come.
Your mouth drops half-open and a whine is ripped from you when Clark does just that. You cry out when you come, burying the sound in his pulse. His hips stutter against yours, and then he finishes inside of you, warmth spilling out of you and mixing with the syrupy wetness already coating your thighs.
Laughably, as your arousal is leeched from you and reality slips through the cracks, your mind wanders to Superman.
He’s more man than myth these days, a celestial being whose wings were shed rather than taken from him. But giving up godhood does not alter your roots.
He’ll always be more than a man. And his steadfast effort to prove being a good person, a good man, is not skin deep has led you to this reckoning.
Despite his good intentions, you were the one suffering the consequences.
this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!
warnings/tags: 18+, dark themes, DUBCON, implied NONCON, woc!reader (south asian coded but yk), office worker!reader, toxic workplace, obsession, manipulation, possessive behavior, forced intimacy, Lex sucks but what's new, implied murder (blink and you'll miss it), workplace abuse, these tags are not exhaustive
wc: 6k
summary: Your job as one of Lex Luthor's corporate drones sucks, but at least the paycheck is steady. So when Lex asks you to care for his newest prodigal monster, you think nothing of it. The thing about monsters, as you come to find out, is they don't only exist in the dark.
dividers by @/cafekitsune
ultraman's anakin allure got me a little bit...
please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!!
Lex asks you to care for Ultraman.
“At least make him think you do,” he says dismissively.
He takes another cursory look over the file in hand before he slides it to you, uncaring of how some of the papers spill out. A photo loosens from the paperclip, and you catch a glimpse of the masked figure that is now slated to be Superman’s rival. Marketing must’ve had a hand in this given the white background and his stiff demeanor. You wonder if he’s smiling behind the mask—if he knows how to smile—then shrug off the thought.
You take the file, straightening the paperwork inside by tapping against his desk obnoxiously. Lex’s left eye twitches, but he says nothing as you shuffle through the admittedly sparse file. It has little past his basic information.
“You want me to be his friend?”
Lex chews over this for a moment. And then he gives you a half-nodding, half-shrugging gesture. “Essentially.”
It is only the two of you in his office. You’re sure that goes against HR protocols, but Lex has never been the sort of boss to give a fuck about proper channels and all that.
“For how long?”
Lex lets out a heavy breath. “For however long it takes,” he emphasizes, glaring at you. “It’s not that hard of a task.”
Years of working underneath and now alongside Lex has taught you how to pull off the illusion of patience. A smile will gain you sharper vitriol whereas any visible dissatisfaction will earn you an increased workload. You press your lips into a line, not because you care to give Lex the impression you are overlooking the venom coating his tongue but because disappointment haunts Lex’s every step, and you love to give him a reminder.
“My apologies for wanting a deadline, Mr. Luthor,” you say flatly.
From how Lex explains it, your new role sounds much simpler than the current one he has you doing. But you’re not sure of the ethics involved in befriending a creation of his and taking a paycheck for it. Nor are you sure you can pull this off.
He presses his fingers on either side of his nose. “Don’t call me that.” It takes concentrated effort for him to loosen his shoulders and unclench his jaw. “I’m sorry. Things have been a little…stressful on the social media front.”
You relax your own defensive stance. Lex is an asshole, but he’s never been unreasonable with you. The history you two share is too storied for him to treat you so carelessly. He’s consumed with not only getting rid of Superman but tanking his reputation, so that all that’s left is a tarnished legacy and a vacuum of power Lex can take advantage of. You’ll cut him some minor slack. You get paid more than enough to do so.
“The monkeys aren’t ragebaiting properly or what?”
His eyes close for a moment and then reopen with a sigh. “They are. But public opinion is still quite high,” he admits.
The dark circles under his eyes are pronounced, and his cuticles have been torn to shreds. The red of his eyes is from days-old exhaustion, but you would not be surprised to find out he cried right before calling you into his office.
“And you think giving Ultraman a friend will help because…?”
“Because he’s a fucking idiot,” he finishes, throwing a pen at the door.
You glance back down at the picture now peeking from the top of the file. No, he doesn’t know how to smile, you decide. With Lex as his creator, there is nothing to smile about.
-
“This is Ultraman.”
It’s strange to say you are impressed Lex has provided him an apartment. It’s within the LuthorCorp campus, and you assume his freedoms are severely limited, but it’s much better than those pocket dimension prisons Lex is entirely too fond of. For as rancorous as Lex has been about Ultraman in the short time you’ve learned of him, he must hold some derivative of fondness for him if he’s willing to also include furnishings to Ultraman’s home.
“Hi,” you greet with a wave.
The man looks to Lex.
“You see what I’m saying?” Lex says out of the corner of his mouth. He clicks his tongue, motioning towards you. “Say hello.”
“Hello,” the man says robotically.
A slight chill touches the base of your spine, sending threads of unease reverberating up your back. His instant obedience is nothing to marvel at, your stomach twisting uncomfortably at the sight.
Lex waits a beat then snaps his fingers. “Be polite. Take off your mask.”
Immediately, he goes to unclasp whatever mechanism connects his mask to the suit. There’s a brief moment where his fingers spasm as if reluctant, but it’s gone before Lex notices.
The file had informed you he is a clone, but you are still not prepared for how much he looks like Superman. His hair is longer and greasier with eyes not quite as bright, but other than these minor differences, he’s an exact copy of Earth’s strongest defender.
“Impressive, right?” Lex says. He’s watching you with rapt interest.
The knot in your stomach begins to crawl up your throat. You thought you’d be able to think of Ultraman as an identical twin of sorts but seeing him in front of you like this is more horrifying than you could have imagined.
Memories are not stored in DNA, so you know without a doubt Ultraman does not hold a single connection to Superman outside of appearance and physicality. Did he wonder what he was rather than who he was when he opened his eyes for the first time? Did he inherently know he was different? Or was that shown to him through whatever cruelty Lex deemed satisfactory as a teaching tool?
“Don’t let Mr. Handsome hear you say that,” you say instead.
Lex scoffs at that, but his lack of argument is telling.
It doesn’t take him long to deem other matters more important and he leaves you with Ultraman, muttering about how he’ll leave a few PlanetWatch members to stand guard outside. His gaze lingers on Ultraman, a frown pinching his brows before he heads back.
You’re left standing in the middle of Ultraman’s living room. You gesture towards the couch, a question in your eyes. He nods, taking a seat on the ottoman opposite of you.
Sweat slicks your hands and you wipe them off, forcing a smile when he continues to sit there. He steals a glance at you. His bottom lip is chewed raw and the hair on the back of his neck sticks to his skin, dampened by sweat.
What do you even talk about with a man whose entire live revolves around Lex’s next order?
“How has your day been so far?” you ask, infusing cheer into your voice.
He turns to look at you fully. His expression is completely slack, and his hands sit in front of him. He looks neither comfortable nor uncomfortable.
“Okay,” he says.
The corner of your mouth cramps. “That’s good! Have you been to training yet?”
He’s not due back to the lab until lunch, but it won’t hurt to ask. From what you can tell, it is one of the few things he does, so maybe he finds some enjoyment when he is able to go.
His face remains placid. “No.”
Well, you concede, it hurts a little to ask.
“Is there anything else you do other than train?”
And be Lex’s punching bag?
Immediately, you exorcise that train of thought. It’s a right of passage at LuthorCorp. If Lex hasn’t used you to vent out his frustrations, it does not bode well for your tenure at the company.
It takes Ultraman longer to answer this. The silence stretches between you two until it snaps, and you’re shifting on the cushion of the couch. The threads of your cardigan fray further underneath your twitchy fingers, unraveling a seam or two in the process.
“I sit,” he says finally.
You smile freezes in place. Lex is going to hell. He has to be.
“That’s” —you swallow, biting your bottom lip—“that’s definitely something you can do.”
The silence makes an appearance once more, and you desperately scavenge your limited small talk topics. He doesn’t go out often, so you don’t think bringing up the weather will spark any conversation other than a blank stare. You do not want to talk current events with him, and you’ve seen his schedule. He doesn’t do much at all. And you have never been that talented in making conversations out of nothing.
“Do you like being called Ultraman?” you ask without thinking.
You immediately bite your tongue. That is not the question you should’ve asked, but it’s the question that’s been at the forefront of your mind since Lex informed you of your new task.
You close your eyes and reopen them to find Ultraman’s head tilted as he takes in your question.
“I’m sorry. You do not have to answer that. I don’t know what came over me,” you say, holding a hand up. You wrack your brain for some common ground between you guys, but the file Lex gave you was fairly bare. “Um, I heard you—“
“I don’t like it,” he answers quietly.
“It’s a pretty shit name,” you agree heedlessly. For as smart as Lex is, he lacks creativity. And humanity. A correlation exists between the two but finding it won’t mean much in changing Lex. He likes who he is.
“What’s his name?” Ultraman asks suddenly.
You blink. There is no one else inside this apartment other than the cameras as far as you know. “Who?”
He points behind you.
You don’t want to turn around. From his expression, or lack thereof, whatever is behind you should be harmless, but in your line of work, anything can happen. If mutants are real, who’s to say ghosts aren’t? But you are being paid to follow Lex, and subsequently, Lex’s creations so you turn around slowly, eyes half-closed as if to stave off any fear that will close your throat.
Behind you is a picture. It takes up nearly the expanse of the narrow wall and if you were to guess, it’s at eye level with Ultraman. The photo is protected by a sheet of glass with a plain black frame surrounding it. It’s much simpler than you’d think it to be for being the only wall decoration in the apartment.
Superman stares back at you, eyes crinkled and teeth gleaming as he stands amongst the rubble. His hands are on his hips. Small tears rip at his suit, but the ’S’ is untouched, a hint of blood smearing the sharp corners. In the background stand cheering citizens, the sun shining brightly down upon them.
Your stomach churns, queasiness unspooling in your gut. There is too much to unpack here, so you decide to look away. Out of sight, out of mind.
“Superman?” you clarify, jerking your thumb behind you as you turn back to Ultraman.
He nods.
“It’s Kal-El. Supposedly.”
For all you know, the naming conventions of Krypton are more complex and Superman keeps it simple for the sake of it being an easy name on most tongues. It’s not a name used often anyway in regards to Superman. Lex has searched for every anagram iteration of Kal-El to see if it would yield any hints as to Superman’s alternate identity if such one exists. So far, his search has led him nowhere.
“Kal-El,” he repeats slowly. He thinks for a long time. “Can I be called Kal-El?”
This is above your pay grade.
“Do you want to be called Kal-El?” you ask hesitantly.
He studies you, searching you for an answer you cannot provide. Then he shakes his head.
“Is there something you’d like to be called?”
“I don’t know.”
His honesty splits you at your fault lines. There is no weight to his words. He has no opinion which is natural given what Lex has done to him but unnatural to his humanity. And despite how Lex portrays him, Ultraman is as human as you are.
“Would something similar to Kal-El work?” you offer. “We can always change it later. It’ll be like a placeholder until you find a name you like.”
He thinks this over. He looks ridiculous without his mask on in this suit, and the sight touches something tender in you.
“Okay,” he agrees, quicker this time.
Off the top of your head, you cannot think of any names similar to Kal-El. Kal seems too on the nose. Kyle does not suit him whatsoever along with any other K name that crosses your mind.
You settle on one after a few minutes.
“Does Kol sound okay?”
He brightens.
You smile, relieved.
“Kol it is then.”
-
It gets easier the more time you spend with Kol.
He’s not talkative by any means, but he no longer blinks as a response. Getting him to voice an opinion, however, is akin to pulling teeth.
“Do you want to watch one of my favorite movies then?” you ask after waiting a full five minutes for him to speak.
Seeing how regimented Kol’s life is, you opt to give him choices whenever possible. The first few days were incredibly boring given Kol doesn’t have many likes or dislikes and seems disinterested in finding out what those things could be for him. The only interest he has is watching you work, carefully placing himself behind you so he can watch over your shoulder.
He nods, a careful tuck of his chin, and hands the remote to you. You hold you hand out, palm flat and fingers relaxed. Sometimes, when your patience runs thin and you breathe in deeply and repeat your question for what feels like the nth time, Kol’s attention will involuntarily flick to whatever object is nearest to you. His shoulders will straighten slightly, and his jaw will jut out as he bears down on his teeth.
You take to quiet breaths and neutrally asked questions.
“I don’t think I’ve shown you a romcom yet, huh?” you say, more to fill the air than get an answer.
Predictably, he says nothing, but he watches intently as you scroll through the options before settling on a tried and true. You haven’t heard Kol laugh in the few weeks you’ve known him, so you’ll be pleasantly surprised if this movie earns a chuckle from him.
The first ten minutes are slow as the story finds its footing, but Kol’s attention is fully on the TV. At the beginning, Kol expected you to quiz him after each and everything you guys watched together. He’d sit at the dining table with his back stiff and straight against the uncomfortable wood, hands placed in front of him. It was unnerving to look up and find him in that position after throwing all of your things onto your couch.
It took seventeen times before he broke the habit.
Your stomach grumbles, and you place your hand over it. Kol tears his eyes away from the screen.
“Are you hungry too?” you ask sheepishly.
He considers this for a moment and then nods. It takes two minutes for you to order at the Thai restaurant down the strip that he likes so much, and then another two minutes to order some ramen for yourself. Once that’s done, you turn the movie back on and resist the urge to check your phone mindlessly.
The first time you saw Kol’s meal prep in his fridge, you thought he had provoked Lex to punishment. The food was bland, and it was rows of the same thing in his shelves. It took more questions than you expected for Kol to confirm this was how he always ate.
You took it upon yourself to order from every restaurant in a mile radius, curating each dish chosen to what you knew you and your friends enjoyed.
He had been overwhelmed by both the amount of food showing up at his door and the smell of it. It took some coaxing for Kol to eat the food, most of it given to him by your hand, but he seemed surprised by how much he enjoyed it.
It’s easy enough for you to get his meals changed, but he still vastly prefers the food prepared by a restaurant than whoever his personal chef is.
It will take fifteen minutes for the food to be dropped off, and he opts to wait to restart the movie until it does come. His fingers tap against his thighs as you guys wait, eyes flicking to the preview the movie has taken to play. He answers whatever questions you throw his way, but it takes him longer to come up with a response whenever the preview replays the moment when the main leads kiss in front of the male lead’s apartment. The scene cuts right before the male lead drags the female lead into his apartment, hiking her dress up her thigh and slipping his tongue into her mouth.
Kol watches as you unpack the food when you come back after grabbing the delivery from Langdon—your very own PlanetWatch bodyguard. His eyes trail after you, darting to your mouth for a too long second before dropping down to the food you place in front of him.
You don’t want to share your ramen, so you take a seat far from him.
“Ready?”
With his approval, you press play.
As the movie moves into the second act, Kol becomes more invested. He all but abandons the last of his food, leaning in closer as the two leads argue on screen. Worry furrows his brow when it seems the argument is spilling into territory that should be unexplored until the male lead swoops the female lead into a kiss. The fight leaves her all at once, hands going up to pull him closer.
Kol’s eyes widen as their breathing gets heavier. The male lead breaks the kiss just enough for his lips to brush against hers as he whispers something adoring. She smiles, nearly teeth to teeth with him as she teases him.
Having watched this movie more times than you can count, you know this scene is the calm before the storm. It never gets old, but you are finding Kol’s rapture far more interesting.
He doesn’t move until the movie finishes, eyes flitting all over the screen as the credits roll. The couch creaks underneath his weight as he turns to you, wonder making the blues of his eyes especially bright.
You grin smugly. “I have good taste, huh?”
The wonder quickly bleeds into anticipation, and he shifts closer to you. His lips part as if to speak but he remains quiet. Instead, he stares at you, waiting.
You frown, unsure why he has such an expectant look on his face.
“Do you want to watch another one?” you ask, cocking your head to the side.
You turn back to the TV and begin scrolling the available titles.
And if his shoulders slouch, you pay it no mind.
-
Kol begins to look to you for approval.
It’s a subtle change, one you don’t even notice until Lex invites you to observe his training. Kol’s intense training schedule usually left you with two to three hours to yourself during the work day, and you long to tell Lex no, but Lex isn’t asking.
Kol completes the sequence of moves flawlessly under Lex’s orders and immediately looks up to your viewing station. Lex is an arm’s length away from you, fingers curled over the railing until the skin over his knuckles are a bloodless white. He waves his hand towards The Engineer and a new sequence commences.
The kick thrown to Kol’s is dodged once he drags his attention from you which is only done when you nod at him encouragingly.
He reminds you of a dog, you think.
“He’s only good for following orders,” Lex mutters, hand pressed to his lips. He barks out a random assortment of numbers, growing increasingly frustrated as Kol does all of them. “Why can’t he think to do these himself?”
“Because no one is as smart as you, Lex,” you say dutifully.
Your answer doesn’t impress him.
Kol throws a truck at The Engineer. The metal crumples as it flattens her against the wall. A spare part—a broken part from the transmission perhaps—spears into her gut, pinning her to the wall. She spits something out, nanotechnology crawling across her skin to staunch the wound, but Kol’s not paying attention to her. He’s turned back to you. Even with his mask obstructing his face, you get the feeling he wants praise.
You suppose you’d find it impressive if he wasn’t a literal meta human. You count yourself lucky for not having to witness him crush a man’s skull between his hands as Lex had bragged about. Nonetheless, you give him a smile. He turns back, satisfied.
Lex is scowling when you look at him. One of his orderlies takes initiative and begins calling out numbers, but Lex brushes them off.
“What was that.”
The phone in your hand buzzes at that same moment. Helena from HR needs your help drafting an email to Lex about one of his preferred data engineers resigning for an opportunity at InfiTech.
Please, please, please!!!!
I’m scared he’ll throw a stapler at me again
The skin on the back of your neck prickles. Did Lex have undiagnosed phone telepathy?
“What was what?” you repeat tentatively. Is it less suspicious to keep your phone screen unlocked but with your palm covering the bottom half of the screen or lock your phone?
“Why did he do that?” Lex says. Each syllable sticks to the roof of his mouth.
It’s very rare for a competing firm to offer a salary higher than LuthorCorp or a benefits package as comprehensive, but you doubt either of those contributed to him leaving. Working for LuthorCorp as a whole is like any other large corporation: long hours, pay that sounds good on paper until they make you work for every cent, catered lunch, bullshit performance reviews, and the like. Working directly under Lex poses a different challenge and while many believe they welcome it, the reality of it is much worse.
Platitudes skitter around in your mind, too slippery for you grab onto one and hope for the best. Fuck, his nostrils are flaring.
“Why was Ultraman looking at you like that?”
“He wasn’t looking at me,” you deny reflexively. Then you process his question and its implications and amend with, “Maybe a little bit.”
“What did you do to him?” Lex snarls. He takes five fast and sharp steps towards you, chin tipped upwards and lips curled.
“What you asked of me,” you say evenly.
Your chest aches with how quickly your heart races. Luckily, he ignores your shaking fingers, entirely too focused on seeing if you’ll cower.
“I did not ask you to make him even more useless,” he says excruciatingly slow. His hand lashes out quicker than you can react, and he has your face between his boney fingers, turning your head to look down. He pushes your cheeks in harshly, forcing the soft flesh into the grooves of your teeth. “You are to be a companion. Nothing more.”
You meet his stare, trying not to blink too much. You’re hyperaware of your breathing and slow your breaths to match every second beat of your heart.
Lex tilts your head slightly and then seemingly appeased, he lets you go.
“He’s not human,” Lex says, stretching his fingers. He glances at you out of the corner of his eyes, bordering on dismissive. “Don’t think that you can make him one.”
-
“You won’t be needed today.”
Langdon holds his hand out to bar you from the entrance. His mouth twists uncomfortably as he relays to you Lex’s latest order.
“Mr. Luthor needs you to go over some videos of Superman.”
“Does he now?” you ask, intrigued.
You touch your tongue against the roughened imprint of your teeth on your cheek, mentally rolling your eyes. Yesterday must’ve done a number on his pride.
“He’d prefer if you worked from home today as well,” Langdon carries on, adjusting his watch. “As a precaution, of course.”
“Of course,” you parrot back, a disbelieving amusement weaving itself through you. He won’t even risk the chance of seeing you. All because Kol wanted some encouragement while he was working. Unbelievable. “I’ll see you later then Langdon.”
He rearranges his stance so his helmet obstructs his mouth from the cameras. “Good luck with Lex.”
A wry smile curls the corners of your mouth. “Don’t I need it.”
-
“You want to try a matcha?”
Kol rolls the syllables on his tongue, raising his eyebrows at you when you say nothing else. He’s been attached to your hip since you were allowed back. He follows you around the apartment like a duckling as if fearing you’ll disappear the moment his eyes aren’t on you.
Your stomach swoops uncomfortably when you catch the moments of relief that cross his face when you are exactly where he expects you to be. As the only person who he sees outside of his mandated training and missions, the last few days must’ve been gut-wrenching. But perhaps it was a good thing. Codependence is good for no one.
“It’s a drink,” you explain.
You don’t think he’ll like it, but you’ve learned to not inject your beliefs into what you say even accidentally. Kol will act accordingly because he thinks it’s what you want rather than go along with his own tastes.
“Okay.”
You go to grab a hat and face mask for him. He spends so much of his time suited up, and you loathe to add to it, but his face is too recognizable to risk for an outing. You hand him the mask, laughing when he goes to tuck the strap behind his ear and gets confused when there is no hair to keep it from chafing against the thin skin.
You offered to trim his hair when you came back, having spent your unexpected week off watching videos on men’s haircuts. He had acquiesced, sitting motionlessly on the edge of his bathtub as you took careful snips of his hair. When you trimmed off the front pieces, he stared unapologetically at you to the point where you were beginning to feel shy.
You did a decent job considering your inexperience. Now that it has been a couple of days and his hair has grown out, the haircut is looking a lot better.
Not that Kol cares.
It’s a ten minute walk to one of your favorite cafes, and you talk his ear off the entire way. He’s unfamiliar with the area and will likely continue to be, so you try to give him a glimpse of the world outside of the small one Lex has provided him.
He doesn’t say anything, but he keeps himself angled towards you as he walks. It’s nice. You’re almost tempted to tell him about how much Metropolis Generals are pissing you off and genuinely ruining your day by killing their chances at the playoffs but keep it to yourself. Just because he’s a willing participant doesn't mean you should take advantage.
You leave Kol to loiter outside, unsure of what sort of reaction a small and crowded space will cause for him. When you turn to check on him after ordering, he’s nearly pressed up against the glass window staring at you, face shadowed by his hat. You make a subtle motion for him to back up, a quick flick of your fingers, but he remains where he is. Two passersby slow their gaits and exchange looks with one another as if trying to decide if something should be done.
Luckily your name is called and with two drinks in hand, you meet Kol outside. The passersby wait for a moment longer and you meet their curious stares over Kol’s shoulders with a small nod.
You hand Kol the matcha, amused by the gleam of distrust in his eyes when he lifts the drink up.
“It’s green,” he says.
“Pretty, right?”
He flattens his mouth into a line and then takes a long drink from the cup. When he finishes swallowing, he immediately hands it to you and takes the pineapple juice from your other hand. You’ve taken one sip but not nearly as a large of a one as Kol.
“That bad?” you laugh, accepting the trade.
He wrinkles his nose. “Grassy,” he grumbles, sticking the straw in his mouth.
“It can be an acquired taste,” you admit. “But I’m glad you tried it. Maybe we’ll try a papaya next.”
You lead him towards the park and sit yourselves on a bench. It’s a pleasant day with clear skies and no monsters in sight. For once, Superman is taking a break, so Kol hasn’t had to work at a breakneck speed. It might be nice for him to feel the sun on his skin and the breeze through his hair.
Kol sits close to you, ignoring the other side of the bench. His thigh is flush against yours. You move an inch over, and he follows you. You don’t know how to feel about it, so you choose to ignore it. It doesn’t work quite as well as you hope.
Moving again so you can brace your hand in the space you’ve forced, you lean back on the bench. “Being stubborn won’t get you what you want with Lex,” you say, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. The matcha goes down easy.
He sips the juice, lips wrapped around the straw. When he releases it, there’s the tiniest smattering of your lipgloss in the center of his lips. It’s so out of place, you can’t help but stare. You quickly look away from his mouth when he looks down at you, confused.
“He won’t bring me back to training just because you don’t want to impress him anymore,” you clarify. “He doesn’t believe in rewards.”
Charles, Langdon’s replacement after a sudden transfer, had let you know Kol threw his version of a tantrum the first day you were absent. He was less obedient than usual, and it sent Lex into such a rage Eve had begged you to let her crash at your place. You obliged, obviously, and lent her your phone, so she could spend the night with that Jimmy guy she’s been talking to.
Charles was reluctant to let you know of anything else no matter how much you pestered him. You can only assume Kol was difficult enough to warrant Lex giving you a thoughtful look when you dropped by his office. He had said nothing inflammatory nor insulting. His ‘welcome back’ hadn’t even been sarcastic.
Kol reaches out, brushing a knuckle against the phantom bruise Lex has left behind on your face. He’s gentle, exceedingly so, but you flinch before you can stop yourself. His mouth twists, eyes downcast as he keeps his hand still.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” he says. His voice is barely more than a breath.
“Lex shouldn’t do a lot of things, and yet he does them anyway,” you shrug.
It’s a tale as old as time.
Nothing will be done to change it.
-
You wake up to an arm around your waist.
It’s early, so your brain is foggy and unable to process the strangeness of your situation with the urgency it necessitates. The weight around your waist is a chain, pinning you to the mattress when you try to shake it off.
Fear skitters throughout you immediately, your heart rate rising into something you almost can’t feel with how quick your heart flutters in your chest. You twist to try and loosen yourself from their grasp but find yourself in the same predicament no matter how you move.
They allow you only enough space to turn around.
“Kol?”
Your heart pounds heavier when you realize who it is in your bed. Something tight curls around your throat, preventing you from getting a full breath in.
He mumbles in his sleep, wrapping his arm tighter around you and dragging you to his chest. His bare chest. Which you do not have enough bandwidth to be thinking about, so you focus on what you can. His breaths are even, but you aren’t fooled.
“Kol, what are you doing here?”
In my bed.
He cracks open an eye, gauging how serious you are before committing to waking up. “I missed you,” he says, tender and terrible all at once.
“Kol,” you groan, bringing a hand up to press the inner corners of your eyes with your knuckles. It somewhat alleviates the pressure accumulating in your head. “That doesn’t mean you sneak into my bed.”
“I’m not in your bed,” he says plainly. “I took you home.”
“What.”
He adjusts you, so you are on top of him. There is a red crease line on his cheek and his hair is messy having grown out significantly in the past two weeks. His skin is hot, branding you where your shirt has ridden up. And alarmingly, he looks happy.
“Your bed is too small,” he explains. “I thought you’d be more comfortable at home.”
You sit up. He allows this but moves his hands upwards so they rest on your hips. You try to slide off of him, keeping the movements contained, but Kol catches on quickly and adds pressure until you are flush against his stomach. His expression hasn’t changed, but his fingers dig into you warningly.
“I was home,” you say slowly. “And I would like to go back home.”
“But you’ve already been away for three days,” he says, almost whining. “Charles said you’d be gone for another two.”
“Because I am on vacation, Kol,” you say, fighting to keep yourself calm. You are trying to keep your breaths measured but failing spectacularly at it. The room feels hot, your vision narrowing in until all you can see is Kol. Everything else is blurry and smudged.
“I missed you,” he says, disregarding what has just come out of your mouth. He tilts his head, eyes rounded out innocently. “Didn’t you miss me?”
“Okay, we need to talk about boundaries,” you say lightly. You blink away the spots dotting your vision and take a deep breath. It resets you just enough to focus. “You can’t just kidnap me, because you missed me.”
“I didn’t. I took you home,” he repeats. He loses some of that innocence, eyes hardening. “Didn’t you miss me?”
“My home is my apartment. This is your home,” you say. Bringing your hands down to one of his, you try to pry his fingers off of you.
“No. Your home is here,” Kol states firmly. He traces his name against your hipbone. “With me.”
Your breath does not seem to fill your lungs. You struggle to swallow over the lump in your throat as your fear swells. A shuddery breath is all you can manage as Kol stares at you, unyielding.
“Lex gave you to me,” he continues.
Bile burns at the back of your throat. As awful as Lex is, you do not think he would tell Kol as such. It goes against his plan to humanize Ultraman.
Right?
You shake your head, hand tightening on top of his, but Kol doesn’t stop.
“His gift to me for being good, for listening,” he stresses. “Superman will never have you.”
“Kol, I’m not—you can’t just—” Your tongue twists uselessly in your mouth. The thoughts scrambling in your brain are incoherent, and you can’t grasp at a single one to drag to the front. They fracture even further when Kol adjusts his hips slightly, and you feel how hard he is.
His hands then move, trailing up your body, reveling in all the places he has not yet written into memory. His touch steadily grows more bold as you still.
“Lex does whatever he wants,” he reminds you, his fingers tracing the underside of your chest. There is nothing human left in his eyes when he looks up at you.
“Why can’t I?”
this fic is finished. there will never be a part 2. thanks!
origamiaround
gamechangershow
