Simon Riley being your cruise ship crush, the one you couldn’t keep your eyes off when you first laid your gaze on him.
It was just as you lost one of those zombie shooting games, a family that wore clothing that screamed nothing but old money and probably generational wealth staring you down. “Do you mind?” To be fair, it was your fifth time playing the game, so you scrambled away fairly quickly to the next closest one. Though, as soon as you landed your hands on the new set of controls, a voice had perked up behind you.
“I.. was actually using that.”
The tall man standing behind you was terrifying to say the least, and you probably hallucinated a glare in his eyes because you stepped back immediately. “I’m so sorry.” Though instead of running away this time, you just stopped and stared, quite literally admiring the view.
He was wearing a hoodie but you could see the ripple of his muscles beneath, and even though he had a cap on his head, you could make out the blonde tufts of hair peeking behind. But what really had you enthralled was how soft his eyes were, velvety and deep though you could bet they’d be like honey in the light.
—-
It’s cooler in the evening, a breeze soothes your body compared to the sweltering heat earlier that day. The kids are in the pool, adults with martinis in hand and a movie is set to play soon. Eventually, you settle on the emptier side of the deck on an unused pool floatie, a glass of juice in your hand; the waiter was nice enough to give you one for free. The movie has started to air, the familiar intro of nearly every Hollywood movie echoing around the top deck of the cruise ship.
“You mind if i sit ‘ere?”
A gruff voice snaps you out of your trance, a familiar one at that too. You look up, recognising the man from before, cap still lowered slightly over his eyes, and you quickly nod, shuffling up. “Yeah, sorry. You’d be doing me a favour actually.”
“How so?”
You look away sheepishly, and then point to that same family a few metres away from him. “I kind of lost track of time on one game and they were staring me down. Just looking at them makes me embarrassed.”
He just chuckles in response to your hushed words, though it’s not like the movie isn’t extremely loud anyway. “You here on your own?’ You blink, suddenly forgetting your entire life when he looks at you like that, eyes directed deep into your own. It takes you a moment to recover before you shake your head quickly.
“My family are here too, but they all have their own plans, so kind of.. Are you?” He probably wasn’t, and his friends would return too, or even his wife– you would be honestly surprised if someone hadn’t snatched him up yet.
“Was supposed to be here with a friend, but we kind of fell out last month. I’m on my own.”
“Oh, that’s rough..Sorry.”
It falls silent, and you decide to not speak any further unless he does. After all, he might just want some peace and quiet, not someone yapping into his ear. As the movie continues, you quietly shift, growing uncomfortable and a little bit bored. You figured whatever movie they put on would be good, but you suddenly feel very antsy knowing this hulk of a man is sitting centimeters away from you. The family from before gets up as their kid starts to grow tired, young enough to act out so they are probably taking him back to their room. You’re debating getting up at the same time as them, so you can make a quick escape and not disturb anyone else around. As usual, you end up overthinking it so much, as soon as you build the courage to stand, they’ve already disappeared.
“What’s wrong?” A cold hand settles on your arm and you almost jump, eyes wide as you look back over to him.
“I was going to go to the bathroom.. But I just lost my chance..”
All of a sudden, he holds your wrist and pulls you up, before promptly pulling you along and out of the crowd through the doors and back to the corridors again. “Think they’re this way.’ With his.. guidance , you make it to the bathrooms and you go inside with a quick thanks for helping you out of that situation. Right, he probably wanted to get out too. When you leave, he’s on the opposite end of the hall, waiting for you to return.
“I wasn’t planning to go back– did you miss the movie to wait for me? I’m so sorry-” You begin but he just laughs again, shaking his head to silence your string of apologies.
“No worries, I hated that movie anyway. I’ll walk you back to your room.”
A small smile graces your lips at his offer, a quiet thump starting to grow louder in your chest with each step you take. He asks you small questions on the way, and you dont complain once, feeling like your mind is floating on a cloud. When you finally reach your room, he stops, letting you tap your keycard against the door. “You wanna hit the pool tomorrow morning?”
“S-sure, what time?”
“I’ll text you it.’
He puts his number into your phone, and you put yours into his, before excusing yourself with red hot cheeks and closing the room door firm behind you. Simon. It was written there in the contact page. You needed to sleep very early tonight.
—-------
A pounding excitement is already in your heart when you wake up, and it only grows bigger when you check your phone for any message from him. You exit onto the outer deck as the sun still barely has risen, noticing the few people loitering around to watch it fully rise. He’s already sat there, lips curving into a smirk as you approach.
From there it’s like all the romcoms you’ve ever watched mashed into one, days going by where you only get closer to one another. Early morning swims become a regular occurrence, and sometimes you even grab dinner with him, though he never seems to be around at lunch. It doesn’t bother you though, because your phone lighting up shows he wants to do the stupid indoor obstacle course and you don't even hesitate to get up and head there right away.
The only times you feel nervous with him is when you get caught admiring him, his head turning and catching you by surprise– he looked pretty damn focused on the setting sun but he always seemed constantly aware of his surroundings. You were on the highest deck, a small viewing point that he had helped you climb the ladder to, grabbing your waist and lifting you up. Now you gripped the railing he leaned his arms on, instead now he was staring directly at you. Just like that first day you were enthralled by the softness his eyes had, no matter how sharp his other features are.
“Y’alright?” He tilts his head, and you nod, looking down at the pool below, where you held your first actual conversation. It’d been two weeks since then, but somehow it felt like an eternity ago and yesterday all at the same time. You snicker as you see that same family as before, the one that had intimidated anyone in their way.
“What’s up with them anyway? They act so posh, you think they own the cruise ship or something?”
His breath hitches for a second, and he looks over at you, that same cap hiding his blonde hair that you so desperately wanted to feel beneath your fingertips. “Uh, yeah– yeah, they probably do. Act like right snobs.”
You snort at that; the conviction in his voice is nothing short of amusing especially since he tended to act pretty calm except from the time a kid knocked the ice cream right out of your hand. “Little shit” he had muttered as he stepped up to buy you another one, not letting you argue your way out of it.
Goosebumps rise on your arms, the last sliver of the sun disappearing beneath the horizon and all of a sudden he puts an arm around your shoulders, and steers you back to the ladder. “C’mon, should go back down now before it gets too dark.”
—--------------
It’s a few days later when the cruise ship finally stops off at its first city, a quaint little town in Italy. You nervously knock at his room door, having finally built up the courage all week to ask him to explore with you. However, you’re met with nothing but silence, and the room door beside his opens. “Already left, heard him on the phone to someone.”
Oh.
You shook any worries out of your head– maybe he was just meeting a friend out there? So you took your own things, and joined the rest of the passengers into the city and the cruise owned tour bus. Though, you couldn't stop yourself for too long, texting him soon after to ask if he'd like to at least grab dinner with you. To your surprise, he doesn't answer until the end of the day, apologising about being very busy with something and he wouldn’t be free for at least another day. So, you reluctantly let it slide, knowing he probably would never mean to cause you harm, or anything of the like. Maybe he’s just feeling a bit ill.
You’re picking at your food at breakfast the day the cruise ship starts moving again, when you feel a palm on your shoulder, and then the chair being dragged out beside you. “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to leave you. Just had some plans already from months ago.”
Love. It was probably unintentional, a pet name that slipped out since he was still waiting for your answer with not even a hint of a reaction on his face. Of course you just shake your head, dismissing any bad feelings that may have swelled up over the past few days. “It’s okay, I should've asked you in advance.”
“You wanna hit the pool again? Missed you this mornin’ “
You were there this morning though– you couldn't sleep, and there was nothing better to do anyway. “I was there.”
“Must’ve been a different one then– c’mon.”
—---------------
Glow in the dark sticks, bracelets, necklaces and even hats– everyone was wearing at least one if not two of them as they entered the dark room. The lights slowly started to come on too, the music already loud drowning out cheers and the clinking of glasses as friends took their first shots of the night. It was disco night on the cruise ship, more for the adults, but kids were welcome to sit in the booths too with some fun mocktails at a discount. You stood to the side, phone nervously in hand as you watched more and more people enter yet still no sign of Simon in the slightest. He confirmed he would come earlier, promised even, but still there was no show of him at all. Even that snobby family was sitting in a booth, the mother sipping her wine and you’re surprised this is even the type of scene for them.
Minutes turn into an hour, and then another, until still he doesn't reply and there’s only an hour left until the bar closes and everyone heads back to their rooms. It’s well past midnight now, and even the woman bartending has been nice enough to talk to you throughout the night. Well at least you made a friend here. Some guy did try to hit on you though, a scot from his noticeable accent and he even told you the guy you were waiting for was probably an idiot. Or you assume he said that– you couldn't exactly understand what he had said over the loud music. Still, you rejected him, nicely of course, and decided to walk back to your room, upset and lonely once more.
“I’m so sorry, I got a really bad stomach bug, and have been in bed for hours. Must’ve passed out. Sorry.”
You sigh as you stare at your phone, feeling guilty for thinking he had intentionally stood you up. Of course he wouldn't, he could never.
You offered to help him the next day, asking if he wanted breakfast dropped off, but apparently the guy next door had been nice enough to bring him some already. Still, you worried about him all day, already forgetting that he stood you up and focused more on his health instead. He assured you he’d be fine though, and insisted you do some activities you wanted to try, so reluctantly you listened.
—-----------
You’re up on that same vantage point when you hear the ladder made a soft creak, the sound of someone likely coming up. It’s been three days, and you’ve been worried sick, but there’s nothing much you can do but wait for him to feel better. In your hands is the small origami bird you made, during one of those silly workshops. It was the one you wanted to go with him, but it’d have to do for now.
You turn, preparing to leave and let the newcomer enjoy their time up here only to be face to face with Simon, his lips pulled into a gentle smirk as he slowly approaches. “Hiding out up here, hm?”
“Well it’s not like you asked me to hang out.” You frown back, but he knows it’s nothing more than a playful jab, his hand gently taking yours.
“Came to collect you, actually.”
Soon enough, he’s pulled you to a little table on the far side of the outdoor restaurant, the chairs set up right against the railings so you can look over at the sea and the horizon beyond. It’s late, probably too late for dinner, but he calls the waiter over anyway, confirming that you’re here.
There are a few other people around, some families, some couples who mirror your exact selves, though you try to not think about that too hard, instead focusing on that posh family from before.
“Really? It’s like they follow us wherever we go..” You groan, stubbornly moving your gaze away from them so they dont haunt you anymore. He just chuckles, though his breath did catch like before, and nods.
“Don’t know how people go on months long cruises–i’d get sick of the same faces.”
Before you can think about it further, the waiter brings over two mocktails, and then some starters. Garlic prawns served with lemon and some courgettes and parsley, and another platter of chicken gyozas. More come until you have at least five assortments of starters on your table, your eyes wide at the professionalism done with each dish. Simon just gestures for you to eat, and so you hesitantly try each one, smile growing bigger with each new flavour that hits your mouth.
Talking with him over dinner like this is more than you wanted, than any disco or any silly city excursion. He makes silly jokes but ones that make you crumble nonetheless, and his intelligence is obvious in every response he gives to you.
“This was soo good, Simon! I didn’t even think cruise ship food could be this good!” You had mainly been eating at a restaurant on the complete opposite side of the ship, so this was a surprise for you to say the least. “I’m stuffed, I think i’ve been fed for three days..”
“Glad you liked it, but you’re not done till I say you are.” He calls over the waiter, who takes his card and processes the payment, even when you try to argue to pay half. Then, as you both stand, he takes your hand again.
-
“Simon.. That damn family…” You groan as he drags you to the poolside, which is far quieter today because of something else happening on the other side of the ship. To be honest, you were going to ask him to go with you, but you figured he’d likely say no again.
“Shh, just ignore them. C’mon we get such a good view from here.”
You lean over the railing, looking out at the sea below, the lapping waves and the darkness beginning to swallow the sun’s last rays of the day. “It’s just the sea..” You mumble, despite loving it nonetheless, the salty breeze and the coolness running up your sleeves.
“No, silly.” He gently grabs your chin, turning your head to look back at the ship. For a moment you’re confused, wondering why you’d even want to look at the ship, until you hear the soft whistle and a shot of white burst into a million different colours in the sky. It keeps on going, getting better with each one that fills the entire night sky. It’s captivating, and romantic, and you don't even bat an eye when that damn annoying family start whispering, concerned looks across the father’s face.
Simon’s arm has settled around your back, settling on your hip as he protectively squeezes you close to him, before kissing you on the cheek. That’s what breaks you out of the trance, your eyes wide when you turn your head just for your nose to bump his unmasked face. He lets out a low chuckle, purposefully touching noses to whisper. “Can I kiss you?”
Another firework explodes in the sky as your hands lock behind his neck, his own hands tight on your waist as your lips lock, entranced by each other.
—-------------
The cruise would end soon. You had one more pit stop, and you were determined to spend this part of the trip with him before the day-long ride back to where you departed. In your hands you cradled a gift for him, fingers running over the ridges of the little clay turtle laying on his back. A pretty cute tray if you do say so yourself, seeing as you made it in a workshop the other week.
You stood in the main hall, closer to the quieter side of deck, after having texted him an hour ago to meet you out here. It was early enough that he surely hadn't left yet, and to be honest, there was something else you planned too.
It’d been a while of knowing him now, and ever since that kiss the other night you were buzzing with excitement. If that wasn't proof enough you didn't know what was. You needed to know how he felt, if he wanted to actually be with you. Hell, you’d be the happiest person alive if you actually got to see him again after this cruise.
As the time passes, you lean against the wall, watching early risers start heading out to where the ship is docked today. Other families had just woke up for breakfast, slowly crowding the halls with hungry kids and sometimes even a hungover parent. Yikes.
You wait longer, and longer, checking your phone only to recieve no notification. A shame really, it probably was your own fault for telling him so last minute. Damnit, what if he had another plan already?
It’s ironic that you happen to see that posh family again, making you roll your eyes. What is even the point of a cruise like this if they look so miserable? The poor kids you think, well at least they got to play in the arcade that one time. It was always a core childhood memory for you too.
You tuck your phone into your pocket, ready to give up when suddenly loud boots echo in the hallways. Confused, you snap your head towards the other side of the long hall, seeing military personnel file in and most surprisingly, the father of the posh family curses loudly and starts to fight one of the soldiers if not for another helping him subdue him. Some of the other cruisegoers flee, and even you back up, terrified by the guns suddenly pointed around the area and the ones strapped on their backs.
“Yer coming with us.” The Scot from the bar is there, dressed in full military gear, his knee on the man's back as another soldier handcuffs him, other members going to escort the mother and child out of the cruise. Then the soldiers start filing in too, strapped and ready and then there at the front of it.
“Good work, Simon.” A soldier and a hat shakes the hand of the man you’ve given your heart for, dressed in the uniform himself. He smiles at the man, pulling up a surgical mask as a rough hand of the Scot pats his back. “We fuckin got em!”
All the weeks you gave up for him, the days you watched his facial expressions change. That damn family always lingered nearby, and whenever you spoke, it was always dismissed just as fast.
You were just part of a cover story, an alibi. A distraction so they wouldn't see the operation going behind it. A fake love, just to dangle you so you’d hide him from view.
The turtle drops from your hands, smashing against the floor at your feet. Simon turns where he stands, looking towards the source of the noise to lock eyes with you. His face is hidden now, but you feel like you’re seeing the true him instead. How ironic.
You should’ve known it was too good to be true, you think, stepping away as fast as you can, and dashing down the corridor as soon as you pass his line of view. You should’ve seen the signs.
Authors Note: You asked, I answered. This is the first part of my ACOTAR version of my ‘Moments’ series. It’s always so much fun to write, I hope you enjoy!
(Thank you to @slytherin-pen for the divider)
The Court of Nightmares glitters with cruelty.
Black marble. Silver goblets. Smiles that mean nothing.
You’re halfway through a polite conversation when an Illyrian lord stumbles too close, leaning closer than necessary. His breath smells heavily of wine, his dark eyes glazed over with arrogance.
“And who do you belong to, sweetheart?” He drawls.
You stiffen.
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
He laughs at that. Actually laughs. “Everyone belongs to someone down here. And a beauty like you will definitely belong to someone.”
You sigh heavily, not in the mood to entertain him. His hand shoots out suddenly as you try to move away with a polite smile, fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist — too tightly.
You try to pull away. His grip only tightens. You try to hide your flinch.
“You should smile more,” he murmurs, trying to draw you back too closely into his space. “It would make you more pleasant to look at.”
Ice crawls up your spine.
The audacity.
“I would suggest,” you say evenly, “that you remove your hand.”
He squints at you, clearly too drunk — or too stupid — to register the warning beneath your calm.
Then someone nearby calls your name.
You straighten instinctively, the lord’s brow furrowing as if he was trying to remember how he knew your name exactly.
His grip loosens just enough for you to wrench free, understanding dawning on his face as you step back into the crowd.
Your heart is racing. Your wrist aching.
You don’t want a scene.
Not here.
Not when Rhysand had asked all of you to be on your best behaviour — as best as you could be in the Court of Nightmares.
You slip behind a column, breathing through the tightness in your chest—
—and thats where Cassian finds you.
He was smiling as he approached, Azriel at his side, laughing at something the Shadowmaster muttered to him.
But the second his eyes land on you—
It drops.
The grin vanishes like it was never there.
His shoulders go very still. His wings shift slightly, posture straightening and becoming alert. His eyes sharpen into something ancient and lethal.
He crosses the rest of the distance between you in three strides.
“What happened.”
Not a question. It’s a demand.
You shake you head quickly. “It’s nothing.”
His jaw tightens.
“Who,” he says quietly.
Behind him, Azriel’s face is sharp, his eyes surveying around the room, his shadows mysteriously absent as they began to weave through the crowd.
“It’s fine,” you insist, lowering your voice. “Rhys wouldn’t want you to cause a scene.”
You subtly try to move your hand behind your back.
Of course he notices.
With gentle speed and precision, not giving you the opportunity to pull away, he grasps your small hand in his much larger one.
His gaze flicks to your wrist.
It’s red.
The air around him shifts.
You feel it — the change. The general. The Lord of Bloodshed. The male who has bathed battlefields in red.
“Who?” He repeats.
Your stomach flips.
You shouldn’t tell him.
You absolutely shouldn’t tell him.
But he looks at you imploringly, his thumb brushes your wrist — so gentle it almost hurts — and something in you softens.
“The Illyrian Lord near the east balcony,” you murmur. “Dark braids. Silver clasps.”
His face hardens.
“Azriel.”
Cassian doesn’t say another word. Azriel dutifully takes a lazy yet protective stance next to you, before Cassian turns and walks away.
The crowd parts for him instinctively.
You watch from where you stand, heart in your throat.
He approaches the Lord slowly. Calmly. No raised voice. No spectacle.
The man turns, smirking at first—
Until he sees who’s standing in front of him.
Cassian says something.
You can’t hear it.
But you see the change.
The colour drains from the lord’s face so fast it’s almost comical. His goblet trembles. His shoulders sag.
Cassian leans in slightly, just enough to make the message intimate. Personal.
The Lord nods. Once. Twice.
Then he practically stumbles backward, turns too fast, colliding with a passing server — red wine cascading down his embroidered jacket.
Gasps ripple through the room.
He doesn’t even react.
Just flees. Gone within seconds.
Cassian watches him go.
Then he turns back to you.
And just like that—
The warmth returns.
The lethal stillness melts into something lighter.
He crosses back to you, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve like he didn’t just dismantle a male’s entire sense of security without raising his voice. Or his fists.
You search his face. “What did you say to him?”
Cassian waves a hand dismissively, sliding his arms around your waist like nothing happened.
“Nothing important.”
“Cassian.”
He pulls you closer, lips brushing your forehead tenderly.
His voice is warm, easy, but you don’t miss the underlining steel.
“No one upsets my girl and gets away with it.”
Your breath catches.
His thumb strokes over your wrist— gentle, where the Lord had been rough.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, softer now. “He’ll think twice now before speaking to you — or anyone — ever again.”
Across the room, Rhys is pretending not to watch.
Azriel slinks back into the shadows, a look of amusement on his face.
But Cassian doesn’t care.
He kisses your temple, slow and possessive.
“Next time,” he says lightly, that charming grin returning fully, “just signal me. I enjoy educational conversations.”
And somehow, in the Court of Nightmares—
You’ve never felt safer.
The door opens well past midnight.
You don’t look up immediately.
You’re perched back against the headboard of your bed, book in hand, fae lights flickering low around the room. The scent of lavender and cedar hangs in the air.
Cassian steps inside — and immediately stops.
He’s covered in the night. Body tense and exhausted. Wind-tossed hair. Dust on his leathers. Shadows under his eyes.
His wings sag slightly as he lays his eyes on you.
“…You’re still awake?” He asks, voice rough with exhaustion.
You stand slowly. “You’re late.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Patrol ran long.”
His bravado fades as he takes note of the scent in the air, noting the soft steam that emits from the adjoining bathroom where a bath has been drawn.
You were clearly waiting for him.
“You drew me a bath?” He asks quietly.
You walk towards him, reaching for the clasps of his leathers. “Of course I did.”
He exhales like everything he’s been holding onto suddenly loosens.
“You didn’t have to,” he murmurs.
“I know.”
You help him out of his leathers and clothing piece by piece, carefully placing his siphons in their spot on top of his chest of drawers. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tease. Just lets you. The general melts away under your hands, leaving only your tired mate beneath.
When you guide him towards the bath, he obeys easily.
“You’re spoiling me,” he mutters as you sit him on the edge and begin removing the bands he’d used to pull his hair out of his face that morning.
“You deserve to be spoiled.”
He glances up at you, softer than he ever looks in public. “Careful. I might start expecting this every night.”
You snort. “You’d be insufferable.”
He steps into the bath with a low groan as the heat hits his muscles. His wings drape carefully over the edge, massive and weary.
You kneel behind him, fingers sliding into his hair, massaging slow circles into his scalp.
He melts.
Actually melts.
A deep, rumbling sound leaves his chest, halfway between a sigh and a growl.
“Gods,” he mutters. “Marry me again.”
You laugh softly, working the soap through his hair. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m serious,” he insists. “If this what I come home to…”
His head tips back to rest against the edge of the tub, eyes closing as you rinse him carefully.
You move to his shoulders next, strong hands rubbing slow circles into the knots there. He hisses at first, then relaxes into it, head dropping forward.
“Easy,” you murmur.
He hums low. “You’re so good at this.”
“Years of practice.”
He reaches back lazily as you get to your feet, one large hand finding your thigh. It slides upwards just slightly.
“You know,” he says, voice dropping to a husky whisper, “if you really want to help me relax…”
You slap his hand away without hesitation.
“Absolutely not.”
He cracks an eye open. “Cruel woman.”
“Tomorrow,” you say firmly. “Tonight is about you sleeping before you collapse face-first into the floor. Besides, I don’t fancy being almost smothered again when you fall asleep mid-fuc-“
“One time that happened!” He huffs. “I’m not that tired, I swear.”
He proceeds to nearly fall asleep mid-shoulder rub.
You smile, helping him out the bath once he’s clean, drying his wings carefully — he’s too tired to protest the fussing.
When you finally guide him to bed, he drops onto the mattress like a fallen warrior.
A very large, very dramatic fallen warrior.
You pull the blankets up around him.
He squints up at you. “Are you tucking me in?”
“Yes.”
“I am the Lord of Bloodshed.”
“You’re a baby.”
He opens his mouth to argue — but then you lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.
He freezes.
Then softens completely.
His hand catches yours before you can pull away, tugging you down beside him. Not demanding. Just wanting.
“You don’t have to stay up waiting for me,” he murmurs, half-asleep already as you join him under the sheets.
“I know,” you murmur softly.
You carefully run your fingers through his hair, in the way you know he likes.
His purrs of contentment quickly transform into soft snores as he falls asleep.
He really was your big baby.
You’ve been on the couch since breakfast.
Curled up, sunlight pouring in through the windows, completely absorbed in your new book.
Cassian tried to be patient.
He really did.
At first, he let you be.
He had his own duties to take care of first, but when he returned home and you were still sat in the same position, he proceeded to unwind from his day, thinking that you’d come to him on your own in greeting.
But you didn’t.
He sat beside you, arm draped along the back of the cushions, fingers brushing your shoulder.
No reaction.
He leaned closer. “Whatcha reading?”
“Mhm.”
That’s all he got.
He frowned.
He tried again a little while later. “What’s the book about?”
Silence.
He scooted closer. His thigh pressed to yours.
Nothing.
He leaned over to begin reading with you. “Are there battles? Is there a devastatingly handsome warrior?”
You turned a page.
You didn’t even look at him.
A little while later, he sprawls across the couch like a discarded cloak, one wing draped over your legs.
You adjust the wing without looking up.
He stares at you.
“You’ve been reading all day.”
You hum.
“It’s time to pay attention to me,” he protests.
You flip another page.
He narrows his eyes.
“Oh, so that’s how it is?”
Still nothing.
He sits up abruptly.
Before you can react, he plucks the book clean out of your hands.
You blink up at him.
Cassian stands, holding it high above his head like a prize.
“General’s orders,” he announces. “You’ve been ignoring me for too long.”
“Cassian.”
Gods, he loves it when you say his name like that — like a warning.
“I require attention and love.”
“Give it back! I only have a few pages left.”
“Not until you acknowledge your neglected mate.”
You huff, slowly getting to your feet — you barely reached Cassian’s chin when you were both standing. Despite that, he still lifts your book higher.
“You’re insufferable.”
“I am deeply in love and starved of affection,” he replies dramatically.
You step closer.
He grins down at you, smug.
“Just give up honey, there’s no way you’re getting to it—OOF”.
You tackle him.
Hard.
He yelps in pure shock as you slam into his middle. He was absolutely not expecting you to resort to violence to get your book back.
The momentum carries you both backwards—
—and you crash on the floor in a tangle of limbs and wings.
The book flies somewhere to the side as you proceed to try and use Cassian’s momentary distraction to practically climb him like a tree.
Cassian quickly flips you over.
“You little menace—“ he laughs, trying to pin your wrists as you reach for the book.
You squirm, attempting to roll over.
He’s stronger, obviously— but you fight dirty.
You dig your fingers into his sides.
He jerks a bark of laughter. “Hey! No cheating.”
“You started it!”
He flips you onto your back.
You twist at the last second, sending both of you rolling again until you’re half sprawled on his chest, breathless.
His hands settle instinctively at your waist.
You’re both laughing now.
“I can’t believe you tackled me,” he says between breaths.
“You stole my book.”
“Because you ignored me.”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“I am devoted.”
You try to reach for the book again, but he catches your wrist easily.
“Ah-ah,” he says. “I have terms.”
You narrow your eyes. “What terms?”
“You can finish your chapter,” he says generously, “if you sit in my lap whilst you do it.”
You stare at him.
“That’s your compromise?”
“Yes.”
“That’s barely a compromise.”
“It is to me.”
You huff — but you’re smiling.
“Fine.”
His grin is victorious and far too pleased with himself.
You retrieve the book and settle back against him, sitting between his legs, your back against his chest. His arms wrap around you instantly, wings curving around you both like a cocoon. He presses a kiss to you temple.
“There,” he mumbles. “Much better.”
You open the book again.
“You realise this is exactly what I was doing before.”
“Yes,” he says. “But now I’m involved.”
You shake your head, but your fingers absently trace patterns on his forearm as you read.
After a few minutes, he rests his chin on your shoulder.
“What’s happening now?”
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“I care deeply,” he says solemnly. “Especially if there’s a devastatingly handsome warrior.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean back into him a little more.
“There is one,” you say, amusement creeping into your voice. “His name is Azrie—“
You shriek loudly as Cassian pinches your side playfully.
“Finish that sentence and I’ll throw the book across the room again.”
It started with you very confidently saying:
“How hard can it be?”
Rhysand stops mid-drink. Azriel slowly smirks. Mor outright cackles.
Cassian leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming with dangerous delight. “You want to try Illyrian training?”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
He grins like a male who has just been handed the greatest gift in life.
“Alright,” he says. “But you don’t get to complain.”
—
You regret it immediately.
The training ring is cold. The weapons are heavy. The stretches alone feel like they’ve been designed by someone who hates happiness.
Cassian circles you slowly, hands clasped behind his back like a smug instructor.
“Lower,” he says.
“I am lower.”
“You’re barely bending.”
“I hate you.”
He laughs. “You begged for this.”
You attempt a lunge.
Your legs shake violently.
He steps in behind you, large hands settling on your hips to adjust your stance.
“Wider,” he murmurs.
You glare over your shoulder. “If you grope me under the guise of training one more time—“
“This is professional,” he says solemnly, squeezing lightly before tapping your ass.
“Cassian.”
“Fine. Fine.” He steps back, though he’s still grinning.
You attempt a punch next.
It’s…not impressive.
He catches your fist easily.
“You’re pulling your strength,” he says.
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He steps closer. Too close.
“Rotate your shoulder,” he instructs, guiding your arm. “And commit.”
You do.
You miss.
He kisses your temple. “For effort.”
You shove him. “Stop kissing me.”
“It motivates you.”
“It distracts me!”
“That’s also motivating.”
You attempt a kick.
He blocks it effortlessly.
“Again.”
You groan loudly. “Why are Illyrian’s like this?”
“Superior breeding.”
You swing at him.
He ducks, laughing.
You’re sweaty, breathless and furious.
Cassian is having the time of his life.
“Alright,” he says, finally getting into stance. “One clean hit. That’s all I want.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Full strength.”
“You’ll regret that.”
He smirks. “I highly doubt—“
You swing.
And this time?
You rotate your shoulder. You commit. You put your frustration and entire annoyed soul into it.
Your fist connects sharply with his jaw.
There’s a sharp crack.
Cassian’s head snaps to the side.
Silence falls.
You freeze.
“Oh my gods.”
Cassian sways slightly.
“Oh my gods,” you repeat, horror flooding you as he stumbles to one knee.
You rush forward immediately. “Cassian! I didn’t mean—I thought you were going to block it—are you concussed? Say something—“
You crouch down in front of him.
He lifts his head at the exact moment you lean down.
Crack.
Your foreheads collide brutally.
You both yelp in unison.
“OW!”
“Gods above—“
You fall backward onto the sand, clutching your head.
Cassian tips sideways, laughing in disbelief.
“You knocked me whilst I was down,” he wheezes.
“I didn’t mean to!”
He rolls onto his back, staring at the sky. “That was a good hit.”
You scramble towards him, clutching your forehead, still panicking. “Are you okay?”
He props himself up on his elbow, jaw already bruising slightly.
“I’ve had worse,” he says. “From you? Worth it.”
You stare at him. “You’re insane. Why is your head so hard?”
He studies you for a moment longer. Then he starts laughing harder. “Azriel was right, this was a terrible idea.”
You flop onto your back beside him. “Pfft, what does he know.”
He turns his head towards you, grin wide and adoring despite the swelling.
“I suppose,” he says dramatically, “I’ll just have to make sure I’m always around to protect you.”
You snort. “From what? You?”
“From everything,” he corrects, rolling towards you and tugging you into his chest. “Especially yourself.”
You poke his sore jaw.
He winces. “Mean.”
“You deserved that for almost taking me out with your skull.”
He kisses your forehead over the bruise already forming.
“You hit like a warrior,” he murmurs proudly. “Terrifying. I am deeply attracted to you right now.”
You groan. “We are never doing this again.”
He considers.
“…Maybe not the training.”
His hands slides to your waist, pulling you closer.
“But I’m keeping the hands-on instructions.”
You shove him weakly.
He laughs, wings spreading slightly in the sand.
And despite the bruises, you’re both grinning like idiots.
You’ve always loved how large Cassian is.
It’s practical, for one.
High shelves? Irrelevant. He just reaches over you without thinking.
Crowded markets or events? You can always spot him — dark hair, broad shoulders, wings that part people like the sea.
Danger? Nonexistent. When he stands in front of you, the world feels more manageable.
He makes you feel safe in a way that settles deep in your bones.
You love that.
But what you don’t love is how much space he takes up in bed.
You had thought upgrading to a larger mattress would solve the problem.
It did not.
Because the issue wasn’t the size of the bed.
The issue was Cassian sleeps like a territorial mountain.
He starts on his side, but by the end of the night he ends up halfway on top of you. One wing thrown over you. One arm hooked possessively over your waist. A knee wedged between yours. His chest pressed to your back like you might vanish if there’s an inch of distance.
You love it.
But sometimes you hate it.
Tonight, you’re exhausted.
He’s sprawled diagonally across the mattress, somehow claiming ninety percent of it despite the fact you bought the largest bed available in Velaris.
You attempt to shift.
He tightens his arm around you instinctively.
You try again.
His leg drapes further across yours.
You stare at the ceiling.
“Cassian,” you mutter softly.
He grunts in his sleep and buries his face into your hair.
You try to roll away.
He makes a low, displeased sound and follows you.
You sigh.
Very carefully, you untangle yourself. Slide out from under his arm. Remove the wing from your legs. Inch towards the end of the bed.
He mumbles something unintelligible.
You freeze.
He settles.
You escape into the living room, grabbing a blanket and settling yourself on the couch.
You’ve barely curled up when you hear it—
The faint rustling of wings and heavy footsteps.
Then silence.
You peek over the back on the couch.
Cassian is standing in the doorway.
Hair messy. Naked chest. Bottoms slung low on his hips. Eyes narrowed and very offended.
“…Why are you not in our bed?”
You stare at him. “I couldn’t breathe.”
He blinks.
“I wasn’t suffocating you.”
“How would you know if you were sleeping?”
He walks closer, expression slowly shifting from confusion to mild betrayal.
“You left.”
“I needed space.”
He wings droop slightly.
“You could’ve woke me up.”
“I tried.”
He pauses.
“…Oh.”
You pull the blanket tighter around yourself. “You’re enormous.”
He looks down at himself like this is shocking information.
“I am not that big.”
You just raise a brow.
He sighs dramatically.
Then — without a word — he bends down and scoops you up.
Blanket and all.
You yelp. “Cassian—!”
“No,” he says firmly, already carrying you back toward the bedroom. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping on the couch because I exiled you.”
“I exiled myself!”
He ignores you completely.
Back in bed, he sets you down carefully in the centre of the mattress.
Then he climbs in beside you.
You brace yourself.
But instead of immediately smothering you, he lies on his back. Stiff. Deliberately keeping space between you.
“There,” he says. “You have your room.”
You glance over.
He looks miserable.
Wings tucked unnaturally tight. Arms folded like he’s restraining himself from reaching for you.
You last about ten seconds.
“You’re sulking.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are.”
He stares at the ceiling. “You left me.”
“I was suffocating.”
“I was cuddling.”
“More like crushing.”
He finally looks at you.
“…You don’t like when I hold you?”
The vulnerability in his voice softens you immediately.
“I love when you hold me,” you admit. “I just also love oxygen.”
He huffs.
Silence lingers.
Then slowly, cautiously, he shifts closer.
Not on top of you. Just nearer.
His hand hovers uncertain over your waist.
“Can I?” He ask quietly.
You smile.
“Yes. But no strangling.”
“I thought you liked it when I choked you?”
You roll your eyes. “Not when I’m trying to sleep.”
He huffs a laugh, but pulls you gently to his side. Not crushing. Or trapping. Just warm.
You tuck your face into his chest.
“See?” He murmurs. “It’s not so bad.”
You snort softly. “You’re still too big.”
“Rude.”
“But,” you add, sliding a hand over his ribs, “I suppose you can’t be completely perfect.”
He gasps in mock offence. “I am devastatingly close.”
You laugh quietly.
His arms tighten just a fraction.
“Next time,” he mutters into your hair, “wake me up instead of running away.”
“Next time,” you reply sleepily, “I’ll just suffocate you.”
He chuckles.
But even as you both drift off back to sleep—
His fingers stay hooked in into your shirt, just in case you try to escape again.
can you do a fic where you and spencer get into an argument and he lowk upsets you and then he has to GROVEL just to make you happy again
hanlon's razor | s.reid
summary: spencer has a bad habit of offering advice when it isn't wanted. sometimes all you want to do is vent, but he doesn't seem to understand that.
genre: light angst/fluff word count: 2.2k
note: this ended up being more of a misunderstanding than a full-blown argument, but i hope you enjoy <3
Hanlon's razor: an adage or rule of thumb that states "never attribute malice to that which is adequately explained by stupidity".
It was just one thing, really. One small thing, maybe two…or several. Harmless enough by themselves, but they snowball into something that does more harm than he seems to realise. Molehills that make mountains of themselves over time, and he doesn't even notice.
Spencer Reid is, in your opinion, the perfect boyfriend. You've always had a soft spot for nerds, for men that get unapologetically excited over their interests, for men who talk far longer than they probably should—but you like that about him. You like how he fills the empty space with his words, you like how he always has something new to teach you, always has a fun fact to share.
Spencer always has advice to give, whether it's warranted or not—therein lies the problem. It's a habit that is becoming increasingly evident as your relationship progresses: you say something, air a meaningless complaint about some unimportant aspect of your life, and he treats it like something to be fixed immediately—like you are something to be fixed.
Normally, it's something you can brush off. You know he doesn't mean anything by it; it's just the way his brain is wired. He's solution-oriented, and you like that about him, but sometimes you just want to complain for complaining's sake. Sometimes, it feels as though he doesn't really care about what you have to say, as though his quick-fire fixes are just a way to get you to stop talking. You know that isn't true, obviously, but sometimes…
Sometimes it really, really feels like it is.
Last night, for instance, you had been complaining about your coworker, Sarah. About how she lets food spoil in the work fridge, about how her voice gets on your nerves, and about how she has this terrible habit of answering personal calls at her desk.
"—and I don't want to hear about her uncle's niece’s cousin's pregnancy. No one does. It's just…"
You flop down onto the bed with a dramatic groan, splaying out like a defeated starfish as you close your eyes and play dead.
Beside you, the mattress sinks as Spencer makes himself comfortable.
"If she's causing you this much frustration, it's probably in your best interest to report her," he says.
Frowning, you crack one eye open and look up at him. "I'm not going to—"
"Or confront her discreetly," he adds with a shrug as he opens his book. "If that doesn't work, then—"
You sit up, scooting into your regular place at his side. "Spence, hon, I'm not after advice."
"Oh," his brows twitch slightly as his eyes flit across the page, "then why bring it up?"
It takes you a moment to fully register what he says, because you're sure you've misheard him. Your face contorts in a look of poorly concealed disbelief.
"…what?"
Spencer doesn't seem to notice your reaction—if he does, it doesn't appear to concern him. His gaze remains fixed on his book, his expression a perfect neutral as he says, "it just seems—"
"Please don't finish that sentence," you warn.
He glances at you, confused, as you lie down. "Why not? I was just—"
"Spencer."
"I— okay…"
You turn over onto your side, lugging the weight on your chest with you as you mutter a soft, "goodnight."
—
If Spencer's bad habit is offering unsolicited advice, yours may be letting things fester.
Because you know you shouldn't. You know he didn't mean anything by it—you hope he didn't, at least—but it still gets to you. It's strange, really, how one comment can be enough to throw your entire existence off-balance. It split through your skin, embedding itself deeper and deeper until it lodged deep in bone.
Why bring it up?
Could you imagine if you had said that to him? If he were off on one of his tangents, rambling for minutes on end about quantum physics or something else you barely had elementary level knowledge of, and you had asked him why he brought it up? It would kill him.
You talk at each other, it's just the nature of your relationship; you don't expect him to actively listen to every word you say, nor does he expect you to engage with his abstract concepts—you talk for the sake of talking, for the connection you feel when you hear each other's voices.
Maybe you complain too much. Maybe your bitching and moaning is too trivial for the mind of someone like Spencer Reid. Maybe your problems bore him.
You come home after work the next evening to the smell of your favourite meal. Spencer is playing classical music as he whizzes around the kitchen—the music, evidently, does nothing to ease his chaos. The two of you take turns cooking: you rule over the kitchen on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays whilst Spencer wreaks havoc in there on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, but only if his work schedule allows for it. Sundays, of course, are take-out days, and you're intent on trying a new cuisine every week; Spencer apparently hates repetition, despite adhering to the same iron-clad morning and evening routine day in and day out.
He only asked you to move in with him a few months ago, but this apartment has since become your just as much your home as it is his. Your books are on his shelves, your clothes in his hamper, your toothbrush next to his. Your lives have assimilated to form a complete whole and, despite the current ache in your chest, you still would not have it any other way.
You exchange few words with him until dinner is ready. It isn't an intentional act of avoidance, but it isn't an entirely unintentional one, either.
"How was work?" he asks, trying to probe some kind of conversation out of you at the dinner table.
You purse your lips for a second before muttering, "you sure you want to hear about it?"
Shrugging, you skewer a piece of food onto your fork. "Nothing of note happened," you say, brushing off his confusion, "same old, same old."
You eat the rest of your dinner in this tense, awkward silence that follows you into the kitchen—Spencer follows you into the kitchen. He lingers in the doorway as you wash the dishes; on days where you cook, he cleans, and vice-versa.
"Have I done something to upset you?" he asks, voice quiet and timid. The way it used to be when you first met. His confidence has come on leaps and bounds since then, and hearing him regress back into that tone hurts a little.
But what's worse is the fact that he doesn't even know why you're upset.
—
You are being unfair—mean, even. If he genuinely doesn't know what he's done wrong, you should tell him; it's the right thing to do, there's no denying that.
How can he not know, though? It should be obvious, surely. Even if it weren't, he's a profiler, a genius, he should be able to connect the dots himself.
Even so, you feel your resolve begin to waver as you step into the apartment the following evening, especially when you catch sight of the bouquet of flowers and the chocolate laid out on the table. Pink peonies, and that expensive brand of rich, dark chocolate you've confidently announced you would die for in the past. The ice in your veins steadily starts to melt as you approach the table.
"What are these for?" you ask.
An apology, maybe?
"I just wanted to treat you," he says, smiling, "because you're amazing, and I love you."
…and he still doesn't get it.
It's a blind apology—a meaningless one, really. He's throwing gifts your way in the hopes that it'll make it all better, but how can he find a solution to a problem he doesn't know the cause of?
"Cool," you sigh, nodding slowly as you feel yourself freeze over once more, "I love you, too."
Scooping up the flowers, you turn and make your way into the kitchen. You can hear him follow you as you begin your search for a spare vase. Again, he hovers in the doorway, watching you intently as though the key to the mystery of your bad mood may lie somewhere in your body language, or the way you pull an empty vase—the only one in the apartment—from the top shelf of the cupboard without asking for help.
"Sweetheart, please," he tries, stepping into the kitchen. "I know something's wrong."
You hold the vase under the faucet as he speaks, filling it halfway with water before shutting the water off.
"And— and I know that my not knowing what's wrong likely isn't helping, but—"
"Sarah," you mutter at last as you plop the flowers into the vase.
Spencer frowns. "Sarah your coworker?" he asks. "What about her?"
You set your hands on the counter and shake your head. He truly is clueless.
"What you said," you sigh, "when I said I didn't want any advice, you said 'why bring it up'."
His frown deepens, but only for a moment, before his eyebrows shoot up in a mix of horror and realisation. "I—I didn't mean to—"
You raise a hand to silence him. "I know, which is why I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, but…" you shrug, turning to lean back against the counter as you run your fingers through your hair. "It hurt my feelings, and it made me feel…I don't know, like you didn't care, or— or that what I was saying was…stupid. It made me feel stupid."
You have to look away as Spencer approaches you. His eyes look even bigger than usual, somehow, and his brows are furrowed in an expression so soft it looks almost pained. "No— of course I care, and your feelings aren't stupid. Not in the slightest. I just— I thought you wanted a solution."
"I know," you mutter, "it's fine."
"No, it isn't fine."
Now standing right in front of you, Spencer cups your cheeks. He lowers himself slightly so he's eye-level with you before saying, "the last thing I ever want to do is upset you, even if it's unintentional— especially if it's unintentional. And I need you to tell me when I do."
"Spence…"
"I'm sorry that I made you feel that way," he continues despite your weak protest. He's speaking so gently he's almost whispering. "My first instinct is always to look for a way to fix something, especially if it's causing you stress, and— and I didn't read the room, and I definitely shouldn't have said…that. I didn't think before I spoke and I—" he shakes his head. "Your feelings, and your thoughts, aren't the stupid thing here, I am. I was being an idiot, and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, sweetheart."
Closing your eyes, you allow yourself to lean into his touch. You're relaxing, bit by bit, but your jaw is still tight. He can feel it under his loving palms, you know he can.
"What can I do?" he asks.
His question gives you pause, and you open an eye to look at him. "…what?"
"For you," he says. "To make it up to you."
Scoffing, you try to brush it off. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," he insists. "Anything."
You purse your lips, turning his question over in your mind. A million dollars, maybe? That would be more than enough compensation. A week of him cooking for you might be better, though— no, a month.
Eventually, you arrive at your conclusion.
"…let me complain for an hour without you trying to fix everything?"
Spencer's already nodding before you finish speaking. "Of course. Of cour—" his brows snap into a frown. "An hour?"
"What," you ask, crossing your arms. "You think you can't do it?"
"You have an hour's worth of things to complain about?"
"You don't?"
"…no?"
Suppressing a smirk, you don your most exasperated expression. "Oh, so I'm just a bitch, then—"
"No!" he cuts you off instantly, shaking his head so fast you think it may fall off. "I did not mean it like that!"
His voice cracks as he speaks, and that's enough to push you straight over the edge. You try to choke back your laughter, but you can't. It tumbles out of you, uncontrollable, and you cover your mouth, lowering your head until it rests on his shoulder. You hear him huff, but then he presses his lips to the top of your head, inhaling your scent before trapping you in a tight embrace.
"I love you," he mumbles.
"I love you, too."
"And I'm sorry, again."
"It's okay," you say, loosely wrapping his arms around his waist.
He kisses you again—your cheek, this time—before saying, "now we need to make popcorn."
Raising your head, you look up at him, confused. "Why?"
"So I can have something to munch on whilst you complain."
"You mean so you can keep your mouth occupied so you don't give any unsolicited advice?"
He nods. "Yes."
You roll your eyes, but you can't help the smile tugging at your lips as your press your forehead to his shoulder once more. "…idiot."
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦summary: You meet Clark Kent and Superman within the same week. Fall for them at the same time. Then put two and two together, and realize that maybe for once, you can have a good thing.✦
✦warnings/tags: civilian!reader, friends to lovers, insecurity, light angst, fluff, pining, shenanigans, love confessions, shameless smut (dry humping, slight body worship, dirty talk, fingering, p in v), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: This takes place in a alternate world where Clark and Lois just never happened, because I will not stand for girlboss slander. Enjoy!✦
It’s one of those warm night that makes everything wet. Sweat sticking under your clothing and hair to your brow. The ground slick with dew and making you trip every five steps. The fog so dense that seeing more than a foot in front of you is nothing short of a miracle. The city buzzing around you, but in nothing more than a hazy, neon glow.
It’s rarer, in Metropolis, for these kinds of nights to happen. It’s something you’d expect from Gotham, or the upstate country sides.
But it’s here, and you’re going to punch a brick wall.
Walking alone is already something that sucks. Everyone tends to let their guard down and fuck around like idiots, thinking that Superman is just going to fall out of the sky and save them.
And he probably will.
But being saved by Superman is always a whole thing. People post a video of the rescues online if they can get one, and then suddenly you’re getting an exhaustive, unwelcome fifteen minutes of fame. The news wants to talk to you. Brands are reaching out to be sponsored by “Superman”—or at least someone who’s touched him, which they think is enough—and people are recreating your rescue as videos for clicks and likes.
It sounds like a fucking nightmare. At least if you get mugged you only have to talk to insurance.
And you’re not a helpless baby. You’re prepared, and alert, and lived in Gotham. Once a Poison Ivy burst into apartment, told you that your landlord had been secretly using doing illegal things with energy—either stealing it or using it too much, you hadn’t really been paying attention—and for some reason you had to die about it.
Compared to that, one person with a gun and shine of desperation in their eyes wasn’t much to be afraid of.
You’d be fine.
So you walk home from work every night—a hand tight on your bag and eyes scanning around the dark—and it hasn’t gone wrong yet.
But you also haven’t had a night like this one.
And when you hear the click of a gun, from a darker alleyway to your side, you’re more disappointed than anything else.
“Give- Lady, hey-“ A skinnier kid—with his hair ragged around his face and his fingers shaking slightly—slides out of the dark. “Stop walkin’, and give me your money.”
You turn with a sigh, tilting your head at him and squinting through the dark. “Just my money?”
The kid blinks at you. “Yes?”
That’s easy then. “Alright.”
“Alright? You’re just-“ The kid frowns. “You’re going to give it to me?”
“Well, what happens if I don’t?”
“I shoot you through the head and take it anyway?”
You give him a pointed look, and the kid scowls, cocking the gun.
“Are you trying to get smart with me, lady? That what this is? Some fucking mind trick?”
“Me?” You point at yourself in mock innocence, and shrug. “I would never. Do you want the coins as well?”
“I- Yeah.” The kid spits on your feet, and it seems more like a defensive mechanism than anything else. “Yes. Give me everything you’ve fucking got.” Then, as a last afterthought, he adds, “Bitch.”
“Hey.” You frown at him, hand stuck in your purse. “That’s pretty fucking rude. I’m being cooperative.”
The kid stares at you for a second, then shakes himself, raising the gun higher. “You got like a fuckin’ death wish, lady?”
“Not right now, no.”
“Jesus fucking- Stop being a bitch, and just give me your fuckin’-“
You never get to know exactly what the kid wanted you to do, because a lot of things happen at once.
Superman drops out of the sky, landing between you and the kid.
You grab your pepper spray out of the bad, using it liberally on the air and stepping off to the side, behind Superman’s back.
The kid fires his gun with a shout of pain as the chemicals hit him, hand blindly following your path behind Superman.
The shot echoes through the alley, making you wince slightly, but the bullet just crumples against Superman’s chest. The kid has ended up shaking and crying on the ground, the pepper spray quickly dissipating into the thick fog, and you sigh, tucking the empty container back into your bag.
“Alright, buddy.” You step out from behind Superman with a frown, kneeling down at the kid’s side. “Let’s see who you are.”
You roll him over as he whines in pain, and makes a weak attempt to shove you away that you dodge.
“Hey.” Superman’s voice cuts through the air, and it’s somehow deeper and higher than you thought it would be, all at once. You’ve heard him give interviews, in those on the street videos when someone gets lucky enough to corner him and ask for his favorite soup or whatever. In person, it feels slightly different.
Less god-like.
When you look up at him with a frown, he looking between you and the kid like he’s not quite sure what to do.
“That’s pretty rude, trying to hit someone who’s helping you.” He says, taking a step forward towards the kid. “And you,” he turns, his eyes seeming to shine in the low, misting light as they land on you. “Pepper sprayed me.”
You shrug. “And? You’re fine.”
“You didn’t know I would be fine-“
“I didn’t know you’d be here.” You look back to the kid, who seems to have resorted to just curling into a little ball. “And he shot you, if we’re keeping count.”
“We’re, uh- Not.” Superman clears his throat, and you can hear him walking closer behind you. “You can go, ma’am. I’ll take it from here.”
“I’m okay, thanks.” You keep rolling the kid until he’s on his side, and you can pull out his wallet.
Superman freezes. “Miss, if you’re stealing from him I have to-“
“I’m not stealing from him.” You roll your eyes, and Superman pauses, before muttering-
“It sort of looks like you’re stealing from him.”
You hum, pulling out the thick card of the kid’s driver’s license, and holding it up to the light. “That sounds like a you problem.”
Superman coughs, not taking off into the night to look for more crime, for some reason. You’re not really sure what he’s still doing here at all.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to step back, please. This man is in medical distress, and I need to get him to a hospital.”
“Don’t take him to the hospital.” You mutter, and Superman frowns, kneeling down across from you.
“Listen, I understand that he just did something that caused you distress, but he’s still a person. He deserves the same care as anyone else, even if he’s made mistakes-“
“Yeah, I know that, dummy.” You roll your eyes, dropping the ID back into his wallet. “But this is a fake. And he doesn’t have an insurance card.”
Superman stares at you. “And?”
“He won’t be able to afford the hospital. This Fake ID is shit, he probably can’t even afford the pudding in the hospital cafeteria.” You tuck the man’s wallet back into his pants, then wrap your arms around his torso. “There’s a shelter, three blocks down. He should go there.”
You grunt, trying to drag him up, but you barely get him an inch off the ground before Superman’s jumping in, grabbing the man and pulling him into his arms, bridal style.
“Three blocks down?” He asks you, and you nod, wiping your hands on your legs.
“Yeah. Don’t tell them the mugging, though.”
“Why-“
“They’ll legally have to hand him over to the cops after.”
“And you… don’t want them to?”
“No.” You look up at Superman with a tight glare. “Do you?”
He’s not glaring at you. Superman is looking at you with an open, almost curious expression, his head titled to the side and lips in a strange sort of pout.
It hits you a little like lightning, how he does look like only a man—he’s got all the fearless humans have—but there’s something more. His skin is clear, posture perfect, and in the glow of the streetlamps, there’s a strange sort of angelic halo around his body.
And he’s handsome.
You’ve seen photos. You watch the news. You’ve been at work and listened to the interns fawn about how hot Superman is, and how they hope they need help because they’d love to be saved by him, but it’s just different in person. Striking, a little mind numbing, and making your skin buzz because he’s staring at you.
You wish he’d stop. It’s making you dizzy.
“No.” He says softly. “I don’t.”
“Alright then.” You cross your arms, raising your chin at him. He doesn’t just get to make you feel gooey with his eyes. “We’re in agreement.”
Superman chuckles, and that just makes your face heat more. “Yeah, I guess we are. Would you like an escort home, ma’am?”
“A- What?”
“May I walk you home.” He holds your gaze, and you might be about to burst into flames. “We can drop this man off together. I don’t think it’s that safe for you to be walking alone at night, even in a city as nice as ours.”
You swallow. “I have pepper spray.”
“You have empty pepper spray. That can will be useless, and I think you know that.”
“Well, I-“ You scowl, adjusting your jacket and standing up a little. He’s so fucking tall. It’s hard to intimidate someone so stupidly tall. “I don’t live very far. I’ll be fine. Goodnight, Superman.”
He blinks at you, opening and closing his mouth once, then bows his head. “Goodnight, ma’am.”
Part of you wants him to stop calling you ma’am. You’re not a fucking ma’am, even if the gentleness and respect in his voice is making you feel even more lightheaded.
So you turn on your heels, and march out of the alley like nothing ever happened at all.
But you can still feel it.
Superman’s gaze.
When you glance over your shoulder—because you’re an idiot—he’s watching you walk away, the fog almost seeming to part just long enough for your eyes to connect, before he vanishes into the dark.
———
“You can’t say that.” One of your co-workers mutters, crossing out something on the paper before looking up at you with a sigh of your name. “You know you can’t say that. Last time Ms. Lane had to stop you from saying it. Do you know how bad it has to be for her to do that?”
You shrug, rocking the chair the chair your foot is resting on back and forth. “That’s not my fault, I didn’t make her.”
“You’re dodging the question.” Your coworker gives you a flat look, and you just smile in return.
“I’ve never dodged a question in my life.”
She sighs your name again, and shakes her head. “Just- don’t say it. We’ll get sued into the next century, you know that, and Luther doesn’t fuck around-“
“I don’t fuck around.” You mutter, spinning your pen in your hands. “And you know we’d win if we tried. It’s not defamation if it’s true, and his reputation is already so damaged he’d have no proof that my remarks caused his stocks to tank lower than hell-“
“Just don’t say it. Please.”
You roll your eyes. “Fine. I won’t say the factually correct thing about how Luther is such a pathetic man-baby he’s been keeping a harem of ex-girlfriends, and everything he says about Superman is just what’s true about himself, he just can’t see it because whenever he looking in the mirror because he only sees the glare of his bald head.”
Your coworker sighs, right as the door pushes open. “Thank you for not saying it.”
“Listen, I’m so sorry I’m late.” A large, dark haired man with glasses and sharp jawline drops across from you, chair spinning as he gives you an apologetic look. “I just lost track of the time, thought this floor was the next floor, and- Gosh, I’m so sorry, I hope you haven’t been waiting too long.”
You frown at him, opening your mouth, but your words die as he stares at you. He’s acting like he’s looking at a ghost, with wide eyes and a startled flinch. He’s still holding his briefcase, grip white-knuckled, and your frown deepens.
Your co-worker clears her throat, and the man’s attention shoots away from a second.
It leaves you oddly cold.
“We haven’t been waiting long at all, Mr. Kent.” She gives the man a sweet smile, and he returns it in a second. “You actually just gave us enough time to finish our briefing.”
“Oh, well, that’s good, isn’t it?” He looks to you with another nervous expression, pushing his glasses up his nose, and your frown deepens. “Are you ready then, miss?”
“She’s all yours.” Your co-worker beams, shooting to her feet, and right before she leaves the conference room, you get a firm glare and a mouthed don’t fucking say it.
You ignore her. You’re not going to say it. And if you do, it will be naturally in the conversation, wherever it may come up.
The man is fumbling, across the table. Pulling out his notebook and laptop with clumsy hands, clearing his throat and straightening his tie, shooting you an nervous look every few moments, as if you’re going to jump across the table and bite him or something.
You lean forward, tilting your head, and he sits up straight.
“It’s nice to meet you, miss-“
“You’re not Lois.” You say, voice flat, and his ears turn red.
“Lois is, uh- She’s busy.”
“Busy?”
“Sick.” He mutters, pushing up his glasses again. “She caught something, in that bad weather we’ve been having. She’s very sorry she can’t make it, though.” He gives you a small, charming smile. “Gave me a whole speech about how you’re her favorite, and if I mess this up, she’ll strangle me.”
You hum, scanning over him wordlessly. It’s a strategy that works with almost everyone, staying silent until they get uncomfortable and blurt something. Something that, usually, tells you enough about them to sketch out a picture that lets you color in the lines how you want. When you’d used it on Lois, she’d stared back at you before asking if you were trying to intimidate her. When you’d met the Boravian president, he’d asked if they’d sent a mute to interview him and make him look like some sort of fool.
This man—Kent, your co-worker had called him—is just staring at you right back. Not uncomfortably, but silently. He’s fiddling with his pen and holding your gaze, waiting for you to break the silence.
You never break the silence. That’s losing.
Kent doesn’t seem like he’s trying to win, though. He just seems like he’s trying to be polite.
And after about five minutes of staring at each other in silence, he clears his throat, and frowns at you.
“Do you want some water? Or to call Lois? She can vouch for me, I promise.” He chuckles. “Actually, she’ll probably say I’m an okay journalist, and that I’m asking the questions she wrote.” He pauses, then holds up his notepad. “I am asking the questions she wrote. If that makes this better.”
It doesn’t.
But now you know what Kent is like.
Polite, gentle, kind.
You can work with that.
“I’m good, thank you.” You give him a sweet, slightly mocking smile, and he returns it with the same charming grin from before.
It’s throwing you off. You can’t be cool and collected and sharp, here. With Lois it’s like sparring.
With Kent, it’s just making you feel like a bitch.
“Great, then are we ready to- Oh shoot, Wait-“ He reaches back into his bag, then pulls out a tape recorder with a sheepish grin. “Almost forgot. Gosh, Lois would’ve killed me.” He places the recorder between you, and gives you another nervous grin. “Now, are you ready to get started?”
You nod, and he hits the record button. You’re silent as he rattles off the date and time, who you are—top human right lawyer, heavily involved in negotiations with the United Sates government about aide to Jarhanpur and immigration protections of Jarhanpurian refugees—and who he is.
Clark Kent. Reporter for the Daily Planet, sitting down for a conversation about the recent developments with Lex Luther using surveillance technology to tip off Immigration authorities about illegal refugees.
He gives you another handsome smile, before he asks the first question. You just stare at him. He doesn’t get to use his pretty face to throw you off your game.
“So,” he glances down at his notepad, then back to you. “You’re suing the United States government for unconstitutional detainment of Jarhanpurian journalist, claiming they were both complicit in and knowingly funded the unlawful imprisonment that goes against their first amendment right to free press. Is this correct?”
You nod. “Yes, Mr. Kent, it is.”
“Great. Um-“ He flips his notepad, squinting at the words. “The United States had claimed that they had no knowledge of Luther’s methods, and says that they never once paid him to contain a private American citizen. They also stated that, if they did use Luther to hold someone, they were not aware that their funding for his research was helping him to contain people for other countries. So…” He gives you another nervous smile. “What do you say to that?”
“I say that the government is not known for being truthful about their dealings, Mr. Kent.” You raise your brows at him. “At the very least, we know they paid to have Luther contain Superman. That alone indicates that they were aware of the security of his pocket dimension. And I also happen to have several victims of the holding, all legal immigrants from Jarhanpur who were critics of Boravia, who were kept in Luther’s harem jail.”
Kent frowns at you. “Harem jail?”
Shit. “There have been allegations that he used it imprison ex-girlfriends.”
“So you…” Kent’s lips twitch. “Call it a harem jail?”
“Yep.” You give him a challenging look. “And?”
“Nothing.” He looks down at his paper again, ears red. “Just sort of graphic, I think.”
“Graphic-“
“But funny.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass again. “I think it’s funny.”
There’s a fuzzy, warm feeling, over your skin. You don’t fucking appreciate it. “Oh. Thanks.”
He grins. “No problem. Uh- Right. There we were-“
Kent keeps asking you Lois’ questions, and while he doesn’t really have the edge that works you both up until she asks a hard hitter and you knock it out of the park, he’s not the worst to work with. He doesn’t fuck up the questions. He asks a few follow ups about crime rates and the responsibility of the United States to regulate business’. He even asks a pretty good question about the ethics Luther using federal funding when he’s a billionaire, and seems to have come up with it himself.
He’s certainly better than almost any male journalist you’ve worked with. He doesn’t talk over you, or question your qualifications, or do anything but listen and nod like you’re saying something fascinating. You’re really not. You’re using words that are too big and talking too fast and discussing the constitution, one of the most boring topics of conversation.
But he’s still looking at you as if you’re doing Circe de Solie tricks in this bland little conference room.
He laughs at a few of your jokes, and it makes you buzz again.
At one point, you go to the bathroom, and when you get back he’s gotten you both cups.
You lean over it, then look back up to Kent. “What’s this?”
“Uh- Water?” He glances down at the cup, then you. “I figured after going to the bathroom, you might need to stay hydrated.”
That’s such a strangely fucking good thing to do. It’s making your heart beat too fast. “And if I say I just took a shit?”
Kent blinks. “I can get you a snack?”
You snort, and that seems to make him relax again. His shoulder slump and his eyes fucking sparkle like a cartoon character, when you take a sip of his water.
He’s like a fucking puppy turned into a human. You might be able to see his tail wagging.
“Alright, Kent.” You set the water down. “Let’s keep-“
“Clark.” He says suddenly, wincing to himself. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you but- Clark is alright. You can call me Clark.”
You stare at him, and he turns a little red.
“It’s my first name.”
“Yeah, I figured out that one myself.”
“Oh. Okay. Good.” He looks back down to his notepad, adjusting his tie like it’s burning him through the suit. “So- Next question is- Oh this is a good one. I mean, it’s rougher, but Lois told me you’re… Uh-“ He turns red again. “Never mind-“
“No.” You cut him off, leaning forward. “You don’t get to say Lois called me something then not tell me. What.”
He won’t look you in the eyes. “Just that you’re a little bit of a masochist. And that you were going to be… vulgar enough to make me blush.”
You laugh, soft and through your nose, and Clark looks at you nervously. “That’s it?”
“Uh- Yeah?”
“That’s nothing,” you wave him off, leaning back in your chair. “I thought you were going to say she called me a cunt or something.”
Clark gapes at you. “Gosh, no, she adores you. Told me she’d strangle me, if I messed it up-“
“I know.”
He frowns. “How?”
“You told me earlier.”
“Oh. I did, didn’t I. Darn it.” He gives you another nervous smile. “Sorry about that. Did I tell you about how she also said she’d dump boiling soup on me? And that it was the soup I made her.”
You smile, and it feels a little too wide and toothy, but Clark doesn’t move away. “No, you didn’t.”
“Well, she did. And I don’t think she’d ever call you a- That. You don’t seem like one at all?”
You raise your brows. “I don’t?”
“No, you seem like a… Ah- A really lovely lady.”
It’s hard not to laugh at that, even if Clark looks genuinely confused by your reaction.
“Okay, Kent-“
“Clark.” He corrects with a mumble, eyes bright and almost curious on yours, and now you feel warm.
“Clark.” You keep it together. He does not get to fuck you up. “What’s the good questions.”
“Right. Sorry, um-“ His eyes dart down to the notepad. “A lot of people are worried that by letting Jarhanpurian citizens and journalists into the country, we’re taking away jobs away from American’s and giving these immigrants shelter when they only bring danger. What would you like to say, to American’s who believe that?”
“That our country is built on the backs of immigrants.” You answer smoothly. “And the idea that they only bring danger is a frighteningly xenophobic myth that’s simply easy to believe. Lex Luther is an American citizen, and he nearly split Metropolis in half. Superman is, in all essence of the law, an illegal immigrant, and he’s saved countless lives. It’s the person, not their origin or government, who decides what they are. And the Jarhanpurian refugees have come here to be the good, strong and kind people they want to be. It is our job to protect them, and so far, we are the ones who have failed.”
Clark stares at you for a long, strange moment as your answer hangs in the air. For a second, you think he’s going to argue, or offer a counter question.
Instead he just clears his throat, turns off the recorder, and smiles at you.
“Thank you for talking to me,” he says your name with a warm smile, and the air feeling strangely light, when you take his hand.
It’s big and warm.
You have to bit your tongue as he smiles, because it’s making you want to smile back.
And when Clark walks away after a few more formal pleasantries, you’re just standing in the center of the room. He’s said your name in a deep, rich way that made your heart skip and breath hitch. He’d grinned and you’d felt warm, like a fucking idiot. Your goddamn knees feel sort of weak, because you’d been able to feel his heat from across the table.
Or that’s just still in you. Burning up from where your hands had connected, and through your whole body.
It’s a good thing you’ll probably never have to see him again.
You never want to feel that soft and dizzy, for a long, long time.
———
There’s a thud on the pavement behind you, and you don’t think before you react.
Your hand shoots into your purse, wrapping around your pepper spray, and you turn on your heels.
Right before you spray it, a big hand wraps around your wrist, and Superman takes the can from you with a small frown.
“Sorry.” He lets go of your wrist. “You just got it replaced, and I didn’t want you to use it for no reason. I’ve heard those things are expensive.”
They are.
You still scowl at him.
“Are you stalking me?”
He blinks, eyes widening. “No, I’m not. Swear on it. Superman’s honor.”
He places a hand over his heart with a grin, and you frown at him.
“It’s scouts honor.”
“I was never a scout, miss.” He gives you a small grin. “I don’t want to dishonor their badge.”
“Their scout badge?”
He nods, and you huff in amusement, shoving the pepper spray into your purse.
“Sure. Why not.”
“Well, those boys work very hard-“
“Most of them are rich kids whose parents can afford scouts.” You say dryly, and Superman frowns at the air.
“Huh. I suppose you’re right about that.”
“I know I’m right about it.” You wrap your arms around your stomach, frowning at him. “If you’re not stalking me, what are you doing here.”
“I’m… checking on you.” He gives you a bright, charming grin. “Just making sure you’re holding up well, after last week. Seeing if there’s anything else I can do to help.”
“To help me.” You narrow your eyes, and he keeps grinning.
“I think so. Doesn’t seem to be anyone else.”
You hum, staring at him, and he just stares right back.
It’s too long, that it takes him to break. And he breaks just like Clark Kent did, yesterday. Not with a nervous expression or uncomfortable shift.
Just with worry. Which makes you feel fuzzy.
Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t handle doing this twice.
“Are you feeling safe, walking home? Would you want- Maybe have a driver?”
“Could you get me a driver?”
“No.” He gives you another smile, and now you feel gooey. “But I could walk you home. To make you feel safe.”
“Hm.” You raise your chin, and he quickly adds. “Do you do that for everyone whose muggings you crash?”
“I mean, normally people call it saving.” He frowns, and you scoff.
“You didn’t save me. I was fine.”
“No- I mean, yes, you were, but I still helped.”
“How?”
Superman blinks at you. “I carried the guy. He’s okay, by the way, in case you were worried-“
“I wasn’t.” You shrug, holding his gaze. “I checked on him in the morning.”
“Oh. Good. Of course you did.”
Of course you did.
He says it like it’s a fact. He doesn’t even fucking know you.
“What does that mean-“
“Do you want me to walk- Sorry.” Superman sighs as you speak over each other, bowing his head. “You first.”
You stare at him, scanning over handsome features in the dark, and there’s something. It’s scratching at the back of your head, and it doesn’t have a voice yet, but it’s there. He’s being too kind, it’s odd. And he’s making your head feel a little light, and maybe you need to call the Metropolis facilities department, because there must be something in the water if you’re feeling this way twice in a week.
“Are you actually going to walk me home?” You ask, trying to make your voice venomous, the kind of predator’s warning that makes people back away and leave you to keep walking, alone in the dark.
If you succeed, it doesn’t seem to work on Superman.
“If you want me to, yes, I will.” He smiles at you, and it seems to light up the whole street.
You can’t look at it too long. Your knees will start to feel weak.
“Alright. Fine.” You turn on your heels, not looking back. “Let’s go.”
“Let’s- Okay. Let’s go.” Superman echoes your words, quickly catching up to walk at your side.
You walk in silence for a few minutes, and it’s the kind of silence that leaks. That makes everything else feel bigger and quieter, until your breathing is shallower and your skin is prickling, and if there’s not something to fill up the creaks and horns of the night, you’re going to lose your fucking mind.
Superman isn’t even doing anything to make it worse. He’s just walking at a respectful distance next to you, looking around the streets like it’s all the most interesting thing he’s ever seen, and you want to punch him in the face.
“Is this all you do?” You blurt, and he looks at you with a curious expression.
“No? I mean, sometimes I fly-“
“Not walk.” You sigh, looking back out into the night. “Like- Aren’t there robberies and murders for you to be stopping?”
He pauses, tilts his head, then clicks his tongue. “I can’t hear any, no.”
“Can’t hear any.” You mutter under your breath, and he shrugs.
“Well, I have super senses, including hearing, and-“
“I know about the hearing, Supes. I just think it’s ridiculous.”
Superman blinks at you. “I- Ridiculous seems like a strong word-“
“It’s just- It’s not ridiculous. Well, it is, but-“ You sigh, glaring down at your nails like it’s their fault you’re fucking up your words around the pretty alien. “It’s crazy. To be able to hear a robbery across the city.”
“I can’t control it-“
“I know.” You shrug. “It’s just hard to imagine. I think it would overwhelm me, and I’d put a screwdriver through my head.”
“Oh.” Superman chuckles, and it’s a deep, low sound that feels like it fucking rolls through the night, and vibrates in your chest. “It can get overwhelming, I suppose. It’s just how I always am. Always have been.” He pauses, and you can feel his attention. “For me, not being to hear everything sounds terrifying.”
You hum. “Have you ever heard people have like- The loudest fucking sex?”
He coughs, and when you look over, his ears seem a little red. “Yes, but- I’ve sort of learned to tune out the grosser things.”
“Right.” You pause, then frown at him. “Do you poop?”
“Do I poop?”
“You’re Kryptonian, I don’t know how your bodily functions work.”
“They’re mostly similar to humans.” He says, amusement obvious in his voice. “Almost entirely similar, actually.”
You nod, looking back ahead. “So you do poop.”
“Yes. I poop.”
“Fascinating. I have a reporter friend.” You grin to yourself. “I’m going to sell that fact to her for a million dollars.”
Superman laughs again. He needs to stop doing that. “Something tells me she won’t be interested in that scoop.”
There’s a long beat, and you look back to see him grinning at you, wide and proud.
You groan.
“That’s fucking horrible.”
“You smiled-“
“I did not-“
“Yes, you did. I saw it. It was on your face, and it was a smile.”
“On my face is where all smiles happen- And it wasn’t a smile.” You glare at him, stopping in your tracks. “That was an awful joke. Zero out of ten.”
Superman mock flinches. “Ouch. That low?”
“Yeah. You should be sent to space jail.” You glance behind you. “And- This is me.”
“Oh.” He looks at the building, then back to you. “And you’re not just pretending it’s your building because of what just happened?”
That time, you do actually smile. “No, I’m not.”
He nods, then gives you another one of those knee-weakening smiles. “Well then, have a good night…”
There’s a long silence, and you never told him your fucking name.
You do, with your arms crossed over your chest, and he echoes it back.
Your stupid heart skips.
And he waits for you to go inside, before he takes off. Waits all the way until you’re in your apartment, and you lean out the window to wave at him mockingly, because he can hear you. He knows you’re inside.
He waves, grins at you, and shoots off into the night
You stand stupidly at the window, for a moment.
It’s just bad luck, twice in one week. Kent and Superman, making your breath hitch and body warm. It probably really is just something in the water.
So you close the curtains, and just pray this isn’t the kind of thing that comes in threes.
———
Someone shouts your name, and you’re not fast enough to dive behind the potted plant and make them think you pulled a magic trick.
You don’t want to talk to anyone. It’s too early to speak, too public to have to play nice about everything, too loud to do anything but press yourself against the wall of the little cafe and drink your coffee.
They haven’t even gotten your muffin yet.
You just want your fucking muffin.
Instead you have to just stare at the floor, hoping your lack of acknowledgment will make whoever knows you here think you have headphones in or something.
It almost works.
The person says your name again, then pauses. “I think she can’t hear me?”
“I, uh- I’m not sure.” Another voice—this one sending warm little shivers through your body, and Jesus Christ not again—mutters, a little lower than the first. “I think she just doesn’t want to be bothered, Jimmy.”
“Really? No, I think she can’t hear me.” Jimmy repeats your name, touching your shoulder lightly, and now you have to pretend you never heard him in the first place.
You look up with what had to be a horribly fake expression of surprise, your fingers curling on your coffee cup. “Oh. Hi, Jimmy, when did you get here?”
Fuck, that’s such a bad fucking lie. Somehow, Jimmy, with his million-dollar toothy grin and sweet freckled face, is buying it.
The guy standing over his shoulder, who gave you those stupid shivers, looks a little less convinced. Mostly nervous, like he’s caught the lie but doesn’t really want to fucking do anything about it.
And the good news is, these things don’t come in threes.
The bad news is, they come in two that just keep fucking popping up in your life. Like tall, hot weeds with puppy faces and deep voices and probably abs, given how he’s filling out that shirt.
You stare at Clark Kent.
He stares back at you, face a little red and mouth hanging slightly open.
“Hi.” You say, voice a little blanker and awestruck than you wanted—it doesn’t crack, but it does have a breathlessness that you don’t really fucking appreciate—and his smile is small, but genuine.
Which is really fucking annoying.
“Hey. I, uh- I like your pants.” He pushes his glass up his nose, still smiling at you, and Jimmy groans.
“Jesus, Clark, we gotta work on your compliments, Buddy.” He gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, he was raised in a barn. He only knows how to flirt with like, cows. I’m working on it.”
Clark turns a shade of red that’s almost impressive, right as your face heats, and before either of you can protest, Jimmy’s pushing on.
“We have so much to catch up on, I was going to ask Lois to have you come out with us, but then she went and got herself sick. Which was really annoying because I had to deal with Clark’s twenty questions about interviewing, something he’s supposed to already know how to do.”
“I don’t usually do high profile people.” Clark mumbles, and Jimmy gives him a flat look.
“You interview Superman, dude.”
“Well, uh- That’s different? He’s a chill guy, all he does is like, save squirrels, that’s different than law stuff.” He grins at you again, and it’s still charming and attractive and dumb. “Your stuff is smarter. Above the Superman league.”
You can’t stop from smiling back. It’s not fair, how he does that. Maybe he’s a secretly meta with the ability to make people smile.
“That’s a little better, buddy.” Jimmy claps Clark back on the back, and it somehow manages to make the tower of a man stumble slightly. “See, my classes are working! Soon we’re going to have you on these streets, picking up ladies left and right.”
Clark sighs, shooting you a nervous look. “Jimmy, I’ve told you I don’t- That’s not what I’m trying to-“
“You don’t have to try, Clark. I mean,” he says your name, and it can’t take this long to get you a muffin. “Look at this face. I know I’d kiss it-“
“How do you get your interviews with Superman?” You raise your voice over Jimmy—this really isn’t a conversation you want to have right now—and Clark stares at you.
“What, uh- What do you mean? I just- We’ve built a relationship, that’s it-“
“Like how do you find him.” You keep our voice steady and bored. “Does he just appear on the street next to you? Or have, like- A key to your apartment?”
Jimmy snorts. “I don’t think Clark is dating Superman, if that’s what you’re getting out. Our guy is way out of that Kryptonian’s league.
Clark blushes again “Well, I- Uh- I don’t think that’s true-“
“Do you call for him? Does he have a phone number?” You keep pushing, and Clark shakes his head.
“No- I mean- Yes-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “He doesn’t have a phone number, but I just sort of call for him, and he hears me and shows up.”
Jimmy’s eyes widen. “Oh, cool. Can I be there next time you call for him?”
“Well- He doesn’t like other people being there. For security. One at a time.”
You frown. “He’s bulletproof, why does he need security?”
Clark stares at you. “That’s- A really good question. I’ll be sure to ask him next time.”
There’s a long silence, as you and Clark stare at each other, ended only by the barista calling your name for your muffin.
You promise Jimmy that you’ll go out for drinks with him, before you walk away.
You can feel Clark’s warm, curious stare, all the way until you walk outside.
And it might be branded on you, because you feel it a long while after as well.
———
“Superman?”
You call up to the sky, and you’re met with only whistling wind and the distance sound of car horns.
“Superman!” You raise your voice, wrapping your arms around your stomach to stop the chill of the wind, and still nothing.
You’re alone. You’re calling him, like Clark does. And unless he’s already forgotten you, he has to be at least curious what you’re doing on the roof, calling his name.
But there’s nothing. Not even a whoosh or streak of red in the distance, showing you that he’s busy or circling around you like a bird or something.
“Superman, can you please-“ You sigh. This is so fucking stupid. “Can you come here, please?”
Silence.
You walk slowly to the edge of the roof, frowning out over the city skyline, and nothing’s even attacking right now. It’s not like he has a fucking day job to be occupied with, he’s Superman.
And it’s pretty fucking rude that he’ll show up for Clark and not you.
Your gaze slowly falls down, to the people rushing past on the pavement below you, smaller than ants. And you have an idea. It’s bad idea, and he’ll probably be really pissed at you, but it’s also an effective idea.
You drum your fingers on the railing, trying to weigh how important this is. In the grand scheme of the universe, not worth throwing yourself off a building for. In terms of all the people relying on you to win this case, absolutely worth throwing yourself off a building. And it’s not like you’ll die. Superman will save you.
“Please don’t do that.”
You whip around, squeaking in surprise, and stumble a step back. There’s a split second where your balance is gone, and you’re falling backwards, and God, that was a horrible idea and now you’re going to die because you’re a dramatic idiot-
But there’s a whoosh.
And a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly upright before you can topple off the edge.
Superman grins down at you, keeping you pressed against him, and your hands somehow ended up flat on his chest. He feels strong, under the suit. And you’re really not cold anymore, because he’s like a person fucking furnace.
A furnace with a nice smile and kind eyes and a little curl falling over his forehead that makes him look like an old movie star.
You’re staring at him. Your heart is going to fast, and there’s the buzzing feeling again, and you’re not sure you’re going to be able to keep your balance by yourself. His proximity is making you drunk, and it’s not fair-
“Who’s stalking who now?” He says, voice rumbling through your chest, and you flush.
“Shut up.” You push him away, and he releases you in second.
His hand lingers on your forearm. To help you get upright.
Only to help you get upright. Nothing else.
He does not get to turn you into a fucking idiot, any more than he already has.
“I need to talk to you.” Arms cross over your chest. Chin raised. Voice firm. You’re going to win this conversation.
Superman just nods, still smiling. “Yeah, I think I figured that out myself. You know, you really don’t have to jump off a roof, I was on my way.”
Shit. “I wasn’t-“
“I think you were, but if you say you weren’t, okay. I believe you.”
“Well- I wasn’t.”
“Okay.” He shrugs, still fucking smiling, and he needs to stop being so kind. It’s making you feel more things you don’t have time for. “What did you need me for, so badly you weren’t going to jump off a roof?”
You flush. “I want to ask you questions. About being an immigrant.”
He raises his brows. “Oh? Like what?”
“Your experience. What it feels like not having a home to return to, or being divorced from the governmental ideals of your home. What you’re grateful for, what you’re not grateful. What you wish would change, what you think America needs to improve on. Why you stay here, when you of all people could feasibly go anywhere in the world.”
Superman blinks. “Well, for the last one, this is my home. And it’s not perfect, but I have no wish to be anywhere else.”
“I know that. But a lot of other people are in similar shoes, and having Superman echo their thoughts and sentiments would be good to hear. Plus you hold a lot of public sway.”
“I didn’t know you were a journalist,” he says your name with small laugh, and you shrug.
“It’s testimony. Are you going to answer my questions, or do I need to jump off the roof.”
“I’ll answer them. They’re smart questions, and anything to help people in my position. But…” Superman pauses, watching you with a strange expression, then lets out a long breath. “You never need to jump off a roof for my attention.”
It’s like he punched you in the fucking gut. You blink, pressing your lips in a tight line as your heart stumbles and your breath becomes shallow, the heat moving down to your lower gut. He can’t just say things like that while looking at you and being so kind. You’re not going to jump off the roof, you’re going to do something stupider, like trying to kiss Superman on his pretty, full mouth that says such sweet things.
You need to calm the fuck down. You’ve met him three times, and this is nothing more than a professional interview.
You can’t kiss Superman.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” You drawl, pulling out your phone to record.
He just nods, and takes a step forward. If you wanted to, you could reach out and poke his chest. There’s heat, radiating off his body again.
Calm the fuck down.
You’re not going to make a habit of calling for him. If this goes well, you’ll have everything you need from Superman, and you can go back to living a quiet, long, focused life.
Alone.
Without any stupid, kind puppy-men making you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’d like to let everything crumble down and just be warm.
———
You turn the corner too fast. Slam right into a large, broad chest with a squeak.
A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you quickly to your feet. There’s a strangely familiar feeling to it, that your slightly addled brain—a little from shame, a little from drinking—can’t quite place.
Then you look up, and it would be nice to burst into flames, or melt into the ground.
Clark Kent is blinking down at you, and he looks almost unfairly good in a suit. You don’t know why a journalist works out so much—and he doesn’t seem like the type to be a gym rat—but his muscles are almost pushing out of his dress shirt, and you can feel them under your fingers where you’ve grabbed his shirt, and why are his eyes so blue.
“Hi.” He says your name, glancing down to where your bodies are pressed together, before back to you with a small blush. “You look nice.”
You do look nice. You spent three hours today, making sure you looked nice for the fancy gala. At least five people have told you that you look nice since you got here, because you’d put so much fucking effort into it, it’s a little impossible not to notice.
For some reason, it wasn’t the appreciative look from Bruce Wayne and smirk—his hand brushing over your lower back and eyes hooded with desire—that got your to feel like you were glowing.
It’s Clark, and his stupid, honey-like voice that’s getting under your skin. You look nice. He thinks you look nice. Enough to say it so truly, as if it’s just a fact of the universe. With a gentle element of kindness, like he’s acknowledging all that work it took you to get here.
With his red ears, like you look so nice it’s doing something to him.
Which isn’t fair.
“You look nice, as well.” You manage to get out, and he grins.
“Thanks. I mean, it’s nothing really. Less expectations for me, I think.” He helps you to your feet, before taking a carefully step back. “I’m not giving the big speech tonight.”
“Oh, well- Yeah.” You try to smile back. It’s too easy. “Do you think you could, though? In my place?”
Clark laughs, and there it goes again. Making you feel like you’re fucking shining. “I would, but I don’t think I can trick people into thinking I’m you.”
“Not with that attitude you can’t.”
“I think it’s a little more than the attitude. I don’t have your gravity.” He gives you another small smile, and before you can ask what the fuck that means, he’s holding out your champagne flute. “I caught this, by the way. But- If you’re giving your speech, maybe go easy?” He blushes, shaking his head. “Not that I’m telling you what to do. You- If this is like, your process. Do your process.”
You blink at him, then the champagne. You’re not sure how the fuck he caught it and you, without spilling a single drop.
And when you take it back, you’re fingers brush, and fucking electrically shoots through your whole body.
You down the rest of the champagne in one swig, and Clark gapes at you.
“It is my process.” You mumble, carefully wiping your chin. “It’s called get buzzed so I forget people are looking at me.”
Clark chuckles, glancing at your glass. “Do you, uh- Do you want me not to look at you? While you’re talking? If that helps?”
“Yes. Close your eyes for the whole speech.” You sigh, spinning the flute between your fingers, and Clark nods.
“Okay. But- I think you’re going to great no matter what. You’re good at talking and- Um- Captivating.”
Melting is back on the table. You feel a little dizzy. “Captivating?”
Clark nods, fidgeting with his tie. “I mean, you’re passionate. Makes me- And, uh, everyone else- Makes us like listening to you.”
“Oh.” You swallow. “Okay.”
This is too nice. You’re going to fly out of your skin if you don’t shift it. And Clark is opening his mouth, probably so say something else that’s sweet, so you blurt the first thing that comes to mind.
“Do you have any pets?”
“Uh-“ Clark blinks at you, then nods slowly. “Not really, no. My cousin has a dog that I watch sometimes, but that’s about it.”
You nod, looking down to your shoes. Looking him in the eyes feels dangerous. “Is it a cute dog?”
“Yeah, but he’s also….” Clark pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Rowdy. Do you have any pets?”
“No.”
“Oh. Okay. Um- Do you like pets.”
“Of course I like pets.” You frown at him. “My apartment just doesn’t allow them, so- I mean, I guess I sort of do have a cat, but she lives with my mom.”
Clark’s face lights up slightly. “You have a mom?”
“Yes? Most people do, I think, even if it’s just like a donor-“
“No, I meant like- Do you get to see her a lot?” He clears his throat, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeves. “Like, does she live in the city?”
“No, but- She’s not far.” You pause, and either the drinks or Clark’s presence are loosening your tongue, because you add, “I’m from Gotham. And I’ve told her to come here like- A lot. But she doesn’t want to leave home.”
“Oh.” Clark nods. “That makes sense. Not her refusing to leave but- I mean, that makes sense as well, it is her home, and I don’t think you could drag my parents from their farm. But they don’t live in Gotham, they’re in, uh- Kansas. I’m from Kansas. And you’re from Gotham. Which is what makes sense.”
You stare at him, and he coughs, giving you a smaller, slightly ashamed smile. It’s impossibly fucking endearing.
“It makes sense that I’m from Gotham?” You finally say, and he nods.
“You’re tough.”
That makes you flush. Which isn’t fair. “What’s your cousin’s dog’s name?”
“Kr- Oco.”
You frown. “Kroco?”
“Coco.” He says quickly, taking a small step forward. “What about your cat?”
“Godzilla.”
Clark laughs again. “That’s a good name.”
“Thank you.” You’re smiling again, and you can’t even bring yourself to look at your shoes. “I came up with it.”
“I bet you did.”
You don’t get to know what that means. You want to. So fucking bad. You want to understand why Clark is saying so many nice things and why he’s so handsome and why he’s still talking to you. At no point has he tried to end the conversation and escape. He just kept grinning and talking and saying nice things, right up until one of your co-workers comes up behind you and drags you away for the speech.
And when you’re giving it, it’s impossibly easy to find Clark in the crowd.
Towards the back, somehow shining to through the glare of the spotlights.
Eyes squeezed shut the whole time.
———
You have the willpower of a sheep on cocaine.
Already easy to herd.
Very easily baited by more cocaine.
Cocaine being a handsome superhero, who you haven’t been able to shake since you shouted for him on a roof.
It started the night after the Gala. You’d walked home you with skirt hiked up and jewelry left upstairs in your office—because you’re not a fucking idiot—and Superman had dropped out of the sky with his stupid smile.
“Do I need to wait for you to get mugged again, to say you shouldn’t walk alone at night?”
You’d laughed softly, and kept walking right past him. “Are you going to let me get mugged?”
“No, that’s why I’m here now. Offering my escort services to ladies in need.”
That had gotten you to stop. You’d had to.
You’d started laughing so hard that if you didn’t, you would have fucking fallen over.
Superman had stared at you with a bemused smile, taking a half-step forward, like he was worried you’d been hit with something.
He’d said your name slowly, and you’d shaken your head, still giggling.
“God, that- That’s-“ You’d snorted, and he’d reached for you carefully.
“Are you-“
“I’m fine, dude, that’s just- I can’t believe people thought you have a harem.”
He’d frowned. “Well, I don’t-“
“Yeah, I know.” You’d laughed again, and he’d frowned.
“I’m sorry, I just- I’m not quite sure what the joke is.”
You’d drawn back up, giving him an amused look. “What do you think an escort service is?”
Superman had blinked. “I’m going to walk you home.”
“Wrong. You handsome, sweet alien, that is so wrong.”
He’d—impossibly—stood a little taller. “Handsome?”
Shit. “Yeah, pretty boy. You’ve got a nice face.” You’d doubled down like it was nothing, and it had seemed to be an effective strategy. “You know that. People make thirst edits of you on the internet.”
“They do?”
“Oh.” You’d beamed at him. “I have so much to show you.”
And every night after that, he’d walked you home. It’s an effective system. You show him the online form that’s dedicated to trying to convince to actually form a Harem, and he gets to make sure you’re never mugged. You wave to him from the window—which is far too romantic, yet you can’t stop doing it—and then he grins at you, and blasts up, up, and away. There are a few nights that he misses, but there’s always a sticky note on your fire escape saying dragon trying to burn down the harbor, see you tomorrow, with a little smiley face.
You’re keeping them in your nightstand. And it’s not like anyone is going to find them anyway, so that’s not pathetic.
But it might make you a bad person.
Because you’re putting them right next to the other thing in your nightstand.
The second dose of cocaine.
Clark won’t stop popping up either. And it doesn’t start in the same seeking you out way that it does with Superman, but it builds faster. Into something more. Something bigger than you might be able to handle.
It starts shows up for drinks, with Lois and Jimmy. Which should be nothing.
But the universe is out to get you. So it’s everything.
“I’m so glad he didn’t scare you off.” Lois said with a dramatic sigh, setting down her beer. “You’re my favorite person to interview.”
Jimmy had frowned. “Why, because you don’t get to interview a lot of women?”
“No, Jimmy, I interview plenty of women. It’s just- The unfortunate thing about most of the women in power right now is-“
“They’re all fucking cunts.” You’d finished for her, and Clark and Jimmy had choked on their beers with impressive comedic timing. “Which is mostly an unfortunate byproduct of the system. It’s hard to be in a significant position of power and be a good person.”
“I don’t know.” Clark had frowned. “I mean, there must be a lot of pressure. And I’m sure they’re not happy with compromising their morals, it just- It must be hard.”
Lois had shrugged. “Or they’re all just cunts.”
“That’s- Seems like a harsh word-“
“Once I was at a congress hearing.” You’d said dryly, and Clark had looked at you with his full, unwavering attention. It had made you more drunk than the beer. “And one of the congresswomen asked why I was betraying American women by supporting bringing such violent rapists into our country. Her husband isn’t allowed within a hundred yards of schools.”
“Oh.” Clark had frowned. “Well, I hope she realizes she can divorce him. Or- Maybe something will get her to turn around? Like an- Intervention?”
Lois had snorted. “What, from God?”
“No, not God, but- I don’t know.” He’d looked at you, his tone so fucking sincere. “I’m sorry she said that to you.”
You’d had to look down to hide your flush. “It’s okay. Happens.”
Clark had frowned, like it shouldn’t.
But you hadn’t scared him off.
He’d come to another night of drinks. Then another. Then five more, until Jimmy got sick and Lois had an article due, and it was just you and him, sitting across from a booth so small your knees bumped, and hands brushed with every gesture.
“So, why journalism?” You’d asked. “You don’t seem to have the same passion for it that Lois does.”
He’d chuckled, pushing up his glasses. “No, I guess I don’t. And I don’t know, I like talking to people. Hearing their stories. Nice, stable career, you know?”
You’d opened your mouth, but barely spoken before Clark has shaken his head.
“Wait, you probably don’t know, do you. You’re passionate about everything you do.”
“I- Yeah. I am.” You’d swallowed, and he’d kept saying those things like they were obvious. Looking at you like you’re fascinating. Like he could see right through you, and whatever was in there, he liked. “I mean, I like what I do, but I do it because I want to do more.”
Clark had nodded, taking a slow drink of his beer. “Bigger ambitions, huh?”
“Yeah. Do you just-“ You’d frowned. “Not have those?”
“I hate to break it to you,” he’d said your name with a small grin. “Most people don’t. Almost all the folks I know aren’t necessarily happy with what they got, but they’re not lookin’ to make the Earth spin clockwise.”
You’d blinked at him. “What?”
“Sorry, that’s just- Something my Pa says.” He’d blushed, looking down to the table. “I’m trying to say it’s admirable. To want to change things and actually, uh- Do it.”
“Thanks.” You’d whispered, and he’d grinned.
“No problem. Mind if I guess your ambition?”
Normally, you would’ve minded. But it was Clark. And you’d sort of been desperate to know what he thought of you. “Be my guest.”
“President. Or- Actually.” He’d examined you, slowly and with an element of light, playful amusement that had made you giggle. “United Nations, but maybe still Congress?”
You’d laughed, shaking your head, and Clark had raised his brows.
“Am I close?”
“Maybe.” You’d hummed, holding his gaze as you take a drink. “But I’d rather eat glass than go into politics.”
“Ah, right. Sorry.” He’d grinned. “Just got caught up in the idea of you showing that rude congress woman what a good person looks like.”
Your grip had tightened on your bottle. “You think I’m a good person?”
“Yeah.” He’d shrugged. “Of course.”
Of course.
You let the conversation keep going. Clark had told you about some game he and Jimmy went to, and how he’s pretty sure Jimmy’s sick because a supermodel was slobbering over him all afternoon. You’d told him about how you’d won a big litigation about your case, and smiled at your fingers when he’d made a big, happy deal about it. And the night had flashed by until it was almost two in the morning, and you’d been kicked out the bar.
And Clark had asked if you wanted him to walk you home, and you’d said no.
Not because you hadn’t.
But you’d wanted to see Superman.
Because you aren’t a good person.
That night, Superman had landed on the sidewalk next to you, and you’d smiled at your fingers.
“You’re late.”
“Sorry,” he’d fallen into pace so fast beside you. “Got busy.”
“If people need saving-“
“No, I was just talking to someone important.”
You’d hummed. “Oh? Can you tell me, or is it classified super business?”
He’d laughed. It had been a few months, and it wasn’t making your heart skip any less. “Super business, I’m afraid. Actually, I have a question for you.
“I might have an answer.”
“Alright, well- If you could be a meta, like me-“
You’d mock gasped. “You’re a meta? Why did you tell me?”
“Very funny.” His voice had been flat, but you’d been able to hear the amusement, and it had made you shine. “I just want to know what kind of powers you’d want to have.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I’m curious, is that not allowed?”
“No.” You’d squinted at him in the dark, he’d stared right back, and your heart had skipped a beat. Shit. “It’s allowed. But it’s suspicious.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be less suspicious in the future.”
“Thank you.” You’d paused, thinking about his question, and you’d been walking closers and closer lately. Almost as close as you’d been to Clark, in the bar.
And you’re a horrible person.
“I think I’d like to be able to speak any language.” You’d told Superman, speaking slowly. “But like, any language. Plants and computers and animals, too. Understand and talk to all of them. If it’s communication, I’d be able to do it.”
“Ah. That’s one of the best ones I’ve heard.” Superman had smiled at you in the dark, and you hadn’t even needed to ask. “I might know someone who’d like his power to be knowing the weather.”
“Knowing the weather, like-“
“Just a weatherman. With total accuracy.” Superman had smiled to himself. “I know it’s ridiculous, but it makes him happy.”
You’d kept walking, and talking, and laughing until you reached your apartment. Then you’d waved to him from your window, and he’d vanished back into the night.
The next day, there had been a knock on your door. You’d opened it to find Clark, shifting on his feet with a book in his hands and a nervous smile.
You’d frowned at him. “How do you know where I live.”
“Oh, uh- I-“ He’d cleared his throat, something like alarm flashing over his face. “You’re not going to like it. I, um- I sort of stole your contact from Lois. And she had it, so- Now I have it.”
He’d been beet red, and you might have pushed it if he didn’t look like he was about to make himself pass out.
So you’d just nodded, watching him carefully. “And… Why are you here?”
He’d let out a sharp breath, holding up the book. “Just want to give you this. I don’t know if you have time to take care of a plant- You’re so busy I’m guessing you don’t- Which isn’t bad, but-“
“Clark-“
“They’re pressed flowers.” He’d said quickly, opening the book for you to see. “My Ma taught me how to make them. To celebrate winning your case.”
You’d stared between him and the flowers, your eyes starting to sting because that was so fucking sweet, and you want to sink teeth and claws into his pretty face, or maybe just let him tear you apart, or-
Just keep growing. Up and up, into whatever kinder, softer thing Clark is made of.
That had terrified you.
“I- I won a litigation of my case.” You’d whispered, voice breaking, and Clark had shrugged.
“Still worth celebrating.” He’d said softly, and that had felt like a dose. You never wanted him to go too far, where you wouldn’t be able to find him.
You’d put his flowers in your bedside drawer. And the sticky notes Superman’s been leaving keep building up.
Bar night after bar night, you lose track of time with Clark, because you don’t want him to go, but you still let Superman walk you home.
You stare at the flowers and notes in your drawer, and you might be forgetting how to not smile at either of them.
And worst of all, you don’t really want to remember at all.
———
The world is spinning.
And you giggle to yourself, because the world is always spinning. Always going round and round and right back to where it started, but a million miles away, and now you can just feel it.
Either because of the many, many drinks you’d slammed down in an attempt to soften some sort of self-sharpening edge, or because of Clark’s proximity.
“Oh, gosh.” He catches you around the waist, as you walk up the stairs, and you giggle again. “Let’s slow down, I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Aw.” You smile, wiggling around to face him. “You care about me.”
Clark frowns. “You know I care about you. I don’t think I’ve made that a secret- Woah-“
You fall forwards, right into him, and press your face into his neck.
“You smell good.” You mumble. “Like… rain.”
Clark pauses, hand splayed on your back. “Is that good?”
“I like it.” You whisper, fingers curling on his sleeves. “This jacket is nice.”
“I mean, it’s alright.” He frowns at the jacket, then you. “Do you want it?”
You nod, mostly because your drunken, addled brain isn’t connecting one and one to mean two.
Clark had asked if you wanted it. You’d been staring at where his button up was slightly undone, as if you’ve never seen bare skin before.
Yes, you want him. So bad it’s making your stomach flip, although that might just been the liquor.
It’s a heavy, crushing disappointment like titanium, when he just props you carefully against the stairwell wall, and helps you into his jacket. You pout at the floor, trying to savor how it’s warm and smells like him, but now you’re chasing a painting of a ghost that’s haunting you from a foot away.
You turn, pout deepening, and try to march up the stairs by yourself.
You trip, because the world is spinning and you don’t have any balance.
Clark catches you, because the world is spinning and he’s Clark, so it’s just one of those things that happens.
You fall. He’s there, strong with an arm around your waist.
This time though, he picks you up with a small grunt.
Something distant and vigilant in your head is wondering why he grunted picking you up but never while carrying you up four flights of stairs.
It’s drowned out by how warm he is, and how much you want him.
“Why do people call them guns?” You mumble to yourself, poking his biceps, and Clark frowns.
“Well, if you asked my Pa, he’d make some joke about them being lady killers, then say that we shouldn’t be killin’ ladies. Should be treating them well.” He chuckles, and you stare up at him because in the florescent light of the hallway, he somehow looks like an angel.
“I like it when you talk about your parents.”
Someone needs to put a muzzle on you, before you say anything else truthful and dangerous.
But stupid, perfect Clark always wants to hear what you’ve got to say.
“Why?”
“I dunno,” you play with the folds of his collar, as he sets you down on your couch. “Makes you seem real.”
Clark’s brows furrow. “Do you no think I’m real.”
“I think.” You grab the lapels of his shirt, yanking him down to your eye level. “That you are too good.”
“…To be real?”
“Yes.” To be yours. “And no. Can you tell me your cow’s name again.”
“Bessie. What do you think I’m too good for, if it’s not being real-“
“Shhhhhhh.” You press a finger to his lips, frowning out your window. “Oh. No.”
Clark tenses. “What’s wrong.”
“I can’t tell him I’m busy.” You whisper, tears starting to sting at your eyes, and Clark reaches up to carefully brush them away.
“Tell who, sweetheart. I can, uh- I try to pass on a message. If this guy is important to you.”
You don’t understand the frown in his voice. “No. You can’t find him. It’s Superman.” You whisper the last part, and Clark blinks.
The world is starting to get fuzzy. Everything feels heavy, and it would be nice to maybe go to sleep.
But Clark says your name, so you slump forward into him as your body demands that you listen.
“You- Um- You know Superman?”
“Yeah.” You mumble against him, pulling his jacket a little tighter. “Walks me home. Why I don’t go with you.”
“Oh.” Clark pauses. “And you’d rather have him? Walk you home, I mean?”
“I dunno. But don’t worry.” You yawn, the world slowly falling down into black. “He’s not real either.”
———
It had hit you, with the splitting headache of a hangover. You’d stared at yourself in the mirror, and been unable to get it together expect to form one conclusion.
You love Clark.
And you open the drawer, and see the flowers and the sticky notes, and know that he deserves far better. Not you.
Never you.
Someone good like him. Who does it so easily, and trusts like he does—with everything in him—and can hold his heart in both their hands.
You can’t.
Because you might be a really bad person.
Leaning over the roof of your apartment, breath fogging up the air, you wait. For an answer, that only one person can offer you, even if he doesn’t know.
You’re not sure if either of them know. It would make it a lot easier if one didn’t, and was just friendly.
Or if one felt nothing, and you’d been reading too much into it all.
That would split you in fucking half. But that feels like it’s going to happen no matter what.
At least if neither of them want you, you’ll have both pieces to stitch yourself back together.
But first, you need to know.
“Do I need to tell you not to jump?” Superman says from behind you. “Or are you just trying to talk to me again?”
You smile into the dark, voice a little too soft. “I’m just trying to talk to you.”
“Okay.” You can hear the frown in his voice “And were you going to jump?”
“No.”
“You know, that time I actually believe you.”
You turn to look at him in the dark, and it never fails to stop your heart, when he smiles at you. You thought you’d get past it. Get used to how it seems to light up the dark.’
But there it is.
The little skip that you get high on now, because it means he’s looking at you, and there’s never been anything better.
Or maybe just one thing better.
Or the same.
Jesus. You look away, bowing your head to stare at your hands, and Superman clears his throat.
“Are you feeling okay?” There’s a beat. “Anything I can help with?”
“No. Nothing you can-“ You sigh. “Can I just ask you something?”
“Always.”
You run your fingers over the rough rock of the roof wall, keeping your eyes fixed on everything below. There are shadows moving down there, people walking the streets alone through the dark. That’s where you belong, not up here. Not where the sun would hit you, golden and bright, when it breaks the horizon.
Superman mutters your name, and a warmth heats over your skin.
You push it out, before you can think better.
“Do you think I have bigger ambitions?”
He’s silent for a moment, then, “What do you mean?”
“Like- With my life. I- I know someone who’s happy with everything he has, he- He knows everything he wants to be, and-“ You swallow, your voice starting to hurt. “I don’t know if I am.”
“Is it your job? Or someone doing something-“
“No, it’s me.” You turn to look at him, pressing your lips tight together, because you won’t cry. “I’m doing too much and I- It’s still not enough, and I- I don’t- I don’t know where I’m going. I feel like I’ve been in the same orbit for so, so long and it was fine but now it isn’t and- I don’t- I’m tired.” Your voice cracks, and Superman takes a small step forward. “I’m barely doing anything, and I’m so tired, and I don’t want to be tired anymore but I don’t know how to- I’ve never-“
Your voice dies, because it’s cracking and if you don’t pull it the fuck together soon, you’re going to cry.
Superman moves forward in a blink. Wraps his arms around you, and cradles your head to his chest as the tears start to silently roll.
He just holds you in the dark for so long, and there must be better things for him to be doing, but he’s not trying to move. It’s not until you’re breathing him in at a steady pace, that he loosens his grip enough for you to push back.
And when you do, he holds your face between his hands, wiping the tears slowly from your eyes.
“I think you do enough.” He murmurs, and you sniff. “Don’t argue with me about this one. You do. You tell me about work, and you do good things. Thing most people are afraid to, because you don’t seem to have that setting. Whatever rest you want, you deserve, because you,” he says your name, his gaze locked onto yours. “Do more than most anyone I know.”
You wipe your nose with your sleeve, mumbling into the cloth. “Everyone you know probably penguins or something, with where you live.”
“In the Arctic?” He laughs softly, attention on you still so affectionate and tender. “Yeah, I guess I know a few penguins. They’re good guys. One of them got me an icicle for my promotion.”
You frown at him. “Your promotion? You have a boss?”
“I’m my boss. I gave the promotion to myself.”
“That’s so stupid.” You smile at his shoes, and he slowly tips your gaze back up, right onto his.
“Yeah, but it made you laugh. I’d say it was worth it.”
You take a long, deep breath, and it’s too easy to get lost in him. In this moment. You don’t want to get swept away in it.
So you press your face to his neck, and just breathe.
He smells a little like rain. Feels a little like a home.
And it’s not a question anymore. You have your answer.
You know.
———
You’re clinging to the walls of the room. Gripping your glass like a lifeline and scanning over the crowd, trying to calculate when it’s going to thin out.
When you’re going to be able to escape.
It’s not life or death. You just really don’t want to be here. At the big, important event Metropolis is throwing for the new Bavarian president. You’re not sure if they’re trying to make amends—or a new plan—but you know you’re only here so they can say you’re here. So in the morning they can talk about how they have nothing to hide, and how the tattered relationship of Boravia and Jarhanpur are healing, all because of America.
You’d told your boss that going was a stupid idea.
He said you had to, or he’d replace you on the Jarhanpurian refugee case.
So now you’re standing on the edge of the party, watching it move around you, and trying not to think about anything at all.
If you think about things, you think about ways out of here. Ways like sneaking up to the roof, and asking Superman to get you out. If you’re not thinking about that, you’re thinking about how the buffet table has the exact type of bread rolls Clark likes, because he’s told you about them multiple times.
No matter what, you end up feeling like you want to cry. And you don’t, because you’re a fucking professional, but fuck if you don’t want to.
It’s mostly just lonely. You had a plus one, but you can’t bring yourself to ask Clark if this is anything—not when you’re sort of always looking out the window—and you ended up going alone.
That’s probably how this is going to end anyway.
Might as well get in some fucking practice.
Someone calls your name from across the room, and you brace for the impact of some Boravian diplomat about to berate you or an ambassador who’s going to make stunted conversation trying to convince you that you’re a bad person. You don’t need them to do that—you’re already so fucking good at doing it yourself—so they’re just going to be wasting everyone’s time.
But it’s not a cruel, taunting diplomat.
It’s Jimmy, pulling a nervous looking Clark behind him.
“Hey!” Jimmy stops right in front of you, and it takes a Herculean amount of effort to look at him and not Clark. “Why are you here, I thought they’d be trying to stop you from knowing this is even happening.”
“I think it’s a weird chess move.” You turn your glass in your hands, and measure out the perfect amount of time to wait before you look up and give Clark a smile. “Hi.”
“Hi.” He responds so quickly, he looks a little surprised with himself. “I- Uh- Are you at least liking the food?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “They have the bread rolls you like.”
Clark blushes, fidgeting with his tie. “I know, we- Uh- We’ve been here a bit-“
“Clark ate a whole basket of them.” Jimmy tells you, and you can’t stop your soft laugh. “Then he got upset because he thought he might have taken them away from everyone else-“
“But I didn’t.” Clark jumps in quickly. “They put another basket out- I can go get you one. Do you want one?”
You don’t give a fuck about bread rolls. “Yes, please.”
Clark stands a little taller now that he’s got a mission, and smiles at you before he vanishes into the crowd. He’s left you tapping your nails on your champagne glass, giving Jimmy a tight smile.
“What are you guys doing here?” You ask, and Jimmy shrugs.
“Lois wants this and the protests about this covered. She decided to do the protests, gave me the event. I,” he holds up a press badge. “Am working.”
“You and Clark?”
“He’s interested in this kind of thing.”
“He is?” You frown at the crowd, and Jimmy nods.
“Guess he doesn’t talk about it with you. Invasions and genocide aren’t romantic at all.”
Your heart moves into your throat. “They aren’t- What-“
“Hey, has he asked you his power question yet?” Jimmy cuts you off, mostly looking out at the crowd, and you frown.
“His what?”
“Past few months he’s been asking like, everyone we know what power they’d want as a meta.” Jimmy shoves his hands in his pockets, giving you a curious expression. “Started when he was talking to Lois about if she thought Superman being able to hear everything is weird. Then he asked her what power she would want, then he asked me, then he called his parents or something- I don’t know what’s up it, but it’s a pretty good question.”
“It… is.” You frown, and there’s that thing in the back of your head. The one that had been drowned out by liquor, then pain, but now how nothing but noise around it. And it’s getting louder. “What’s Clark’s answer?”
“Um- I don’t think he’s actually said.” Jimmy shrugs, then gives you a winning grin. “But I’d know the weather. If you want to know.”
“You’d know the weather.”
“Yeah, like a weatherman, but I’m always right.”
“That’s pointless, Jimmy.”
“To you, maybe. I would figure out how to turn it into a fortune.”
You open and close your mouth, the something in your head getting louder, but it doesn’t turn into words before Clark reappears through the crowd, holding two of the not small bread rolls in one hand.
“I got them.” He says you name, and your stupid stomach does a happy, traitorous little flip. “Here, I got you butter as well, in case you want to use that.”
He shoves the rolls into your hands, holding your gaze, and your fingers brush. He’s standing so close, he doesn’t need to be this close, but you never want him to move away-
“Clark,” Jimmy mock gasps. “Did you get two so she could give you one?”
“I- No, of course not-“
“I’m just teasing you, man.” Jimmy claps him on the back, scanning out over the crowd. “Alright, I gotta go do my job, or Lois is gonna crucify me.”
Clark wrinkles his nose. “I think that’s a little dramatic-“
“It’s not dramatic enough, and you know it.” Jimmy grins between you and Clark. “Be safe, kids. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
You want to grab him, before he disappears into the crowd. Not because you don’t want to be alone with Clark, but because you do. More than almost anything. So you need a buffer, before you do something stupid.
But Jimmy vanishes, and you have to stuff a bread roll into your mouth to occupy it. Clark just stands next to, still far too close, making your head fucking spin.
He clears his throat, voice low enough that only you can hear, and you might be leaning into his gravity.
“You must hate this.” He mutters, and you swallow.
“I don’t like it.” You mumble, and—because now there’s no bread to block your sappy feelings from spilling out of your mouth—add, “It’s better now, though.”
Clark raises his brows. “Yeah?”
You nod, shoving the second bread roll into your mouth, and Clark won’t stop looking at you. Like you’re the sunrise, as your cheeks push out like a chipmunk and your lipstick smudges slightly.
Even his voice has a kind of soft reverence, when he speaks. “Do you like them? The bread rolls.”
“They’re good,” you try to say through the mouthful, but it comes out more of a wordless grumble, and you stare at Clark for a moment before you both start laughing.
It shatters whatever strange tension had just bene in the air. Everything flows smoother, as you talk about the food and drinks and how made up this whole thing is. Clark compliments your dress and you’ve never felt warmer. You think you could go out into the dead, winter night and still feel this warm.
The air is getting lighter and lighter. You might be in danger of floating away.
“So,” you give him a curious look, and he mirrors it.
“So?”
“Jimmy says you’re interested in all these events.”
“Oh. Well- I guess I am, yeah.” He’s watching you carefully, words slower than usual. “I just like to know what’s going on in the world. Part of my job, right?”
You hum. “Aren’t most of your articles about Superman?”
He coughs. “Yeah, well, he’s interested in this too. You know how everything went down, with Boravia. He likes to keep tabs on it. And I like to know what I’m probably going to talk to him about.”
The thing is starting to ring in your ears. “How often do you talk to him?”
“I don’t know, every few nights?” Clark smiles, but it’s more taut than usual. Almost nervous. “How often is too often?”
He’s saying it like it’s a joke.
You’re not sure it is.
“I mean, you talk to him. He’s a great guy to talk to. Right?” He gives you a strange look, and you sigh.
“He is, yeah. But I don’t interview him.”
“Yes you- I mean, you interviewed him for your case, right?”
“Maybe.” You shrug, narrowing your eyes, and Clark coughs.
“Well, I don’t get why it’s a big thing, right. I’m interested in things. He’s interested in things. You’re interested in things. And- Yeah. We’re all interested in the same things, and we talk about them, and- I mean, he must have mentioned to you as some point how he talks to me all the time. Mutual friend.” He pauses. “I’ve told him about you.”
You tilt your head at him, lips pressed tight together. “You have.”
“Yeah? I mean, after we talk shop, sometimes he asks how life is, and- I’ve told him about you, and he- He also really likes you-“
“You really like me?”
Clark’s ears go red, and you feel a little guilty—you’re sort of treating him like a hostile witness—but the thing in your head is so fucking close to piecing itself together, you just need to push a little more.
“Yeah, I like you.” He gives you a small grin, pushing up his glass. “But- Superman does to. You’re the best, and- We talk about you all the time.”
You just keep staring at him, because that should make you feel sick. The two men you love, talking about you without you there, when you don’t even know which one you’d want forever.
But it’s just making you suspicious. Because there’s something so slightly fucking off.
“Superman has never once mentioned you, Clark.” You say carefully, and he winces.
“Ouch. I mean, all is fair in- You know-“
“Love and war?” You finish, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him more nervous. “Which part of this is which?”
He stares at you, mouth hanging slightly open, and right before you’re about to find the words, the world finds them for you.
Clark’s head shoots up, drawing up to his full height, and pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks over the crowd. And there’s this smallest fucking shift in all your thoughts, as if a veil is being lifted.
They have the same fucking face.
You don’t know how you missed it, but they have the same fucking face.
Your mouth barely opens to tell him that you know, before the first gunshots ring through the air. Clark grabs you around your waist, and the world turns into a rushing, cold blur. You’re not even sure what’s happening, besides your arms wrapping around his neck and the air being knocked from your lungs.
Then you’re outside, in the freezing cold. Clark steadies you with wide eyes, pulling off his jacket and dumping it into your hands.
“Put this on and go home.” He mutters, words so fast you almost don’t catch them. “Take a cab, don’t walk. I’ll pay for it, I just- I can’t go with you tonight- I’m sorry-“
You gape at him. “Go with- Clark, what the fuck-“
“I’m sorry.” He repeats, and shoots off into the night.
Flies off into the night.
Leaving you alone, on the cold street, with his jacket strangled in your hands and the world upside down.
———
You’re pacing outside his door. You have been for almost an hour, waiting for him to get home.
He’ll have to be back soon. It’s past five, you don’t think he has plans tonight, and even if he doesn’t he’d probably have to stop back home to get something.
It’s okay.
You can wait.
You have the week off, because your boss feels back for putting you in the middle of a terrorist attack. When he’d told you, he’d looked at you like he expected you to protest.
Normally, you would have. Slowing down wasn’t the thing to do, not when you were so close to the finish line—even if it kept moving further and further away—and a single faltered step or second to breathe might lead to you falling so far behind.
But this isn’t a normal week.
And Superman said you deserve some rest, so you’re listening to him.
It’s just that rest might not mean the same thing to you that it meant to him. Rest meant answers. Rest meant three days combing over older Superman reports, and drawing out a timeline of Clark’s life to see if things lined up, and writing down everything either of them have ever said to you, to see what lined up.
And it did.
Of course it did. It all falls together an avalanche, leaving you standing in to rubble and looking to the sky and wondering how you ever fucking missed it.
He says your name, and you turn to see Clark staring at you from down the hall, grip white-knuckled on his bag.
“Clark.” Your voice sounds faraway and cool. You don’t want to be a bitch to him.
You don’t know how else to be.
“Are you alright?” He takes a half-step forward, and you wrap your arms around your stomach. Of course he’s just worried about you. Asshole. “I wanted to come check on you, I promise. There’s just been a lot to deal with, and- I wasn’t sure if…” He clears his throat, watching you nervously as you just stare at him. “You’d want to see me?”
“Really?” You raise your chin. “Why wouldn’t I want to see you, Clark?”
“Um...” He glances around the hallway. “Why don’t you tell me, and we can see if we have the same reasons?”
“No, I think you should tell me first.”
“It’s just- I don’t think I should, because what if our reasons aren’t the same and mine sounds crazy-“
“Is your reason that I know?” You snap, narrowing your eyes. “Because I know.”
Clark stares at you for a long, wired moment, then lets out a long, defeated breath. “Can we do this inside, please?”
You nod, and step off to the side so he can open the door. Clark gives you another one of his small, nervous smiles as he brushes past you, and it doesn’t feel any different from before. When he’d sat too close to you at the bar.
Or stood to close, on the street.
That’s the worst part of it. Is not you’re not angry, or bitter, or heartbroken. You just feel stranded. Like you’re hanging over a pit and trying to work out if it’s worth falling, or trying to claw your way back out.
Because if you’re right—and you are—you could have something. Everything. What you’ve spent so much time on, convince yourself that it really wasn’t going to matter.
But once you have it, it’s real. Something you can lose. Something you can fuck up or neglect or break.
It’s a good thing.
Clark—taking your jacket because he’s a stupid gentleman and brushing warm hands on your upper arm—is a good thing. He’s the good thing, the one that everyone looks to for hope, that everyone wants. The god among men, who leaves you little sticky notes and fumbles all his words and makes you trust his every compliment because he always says them like they’re just obvious truths.
And you can’t figure out how to hold that in your hands, even if you get to use both.
You don’t know how to wrap your head around the idea that you could just have something good.
“So.” Clark takes a step back, as if he’s trying to offer you space. “You, uh- You know.”
You nod. “Yeah.”
“And I’m guessing you figured it out after…” He trails off, and you sigh.
“After you flew me outside, then took off like a rocket? Yeah, Clark, that kind of gave it away.”
He frowns. “You didn’t know before?”
“I had a theory.” You mumble, and his brows furrow.
“But you didn’t know.”
You shake your head, and he groans.
“Darn it, I- I was really sure you knew. Wouldn’t have done that if- Shoot-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, hugging yourself tighter, and he freezes. “Am I right?”
“Uh-“
“Are you Superman?”
“I-“ He lets out a slow breath, and nods. “Yeah.”
Clark seems to lock your gaze to his as he reaches up, and slowly pulls off his glasses.
It’s such a small shift. He stands a little taller, even as his features remain nervous and weary, and his face seems to almost shift. It’s the same face—you know, logically, that’s it’s the same face—but it’s like your head couldn’t fully connect the two into one, couldn’t hold them at the same time.
But you can now.
And your mouth falls open as Superman stares at you with an almost fearful expression.
“I- How?”
“The glasses?” He glances down to them with a frown. “Well, they’re hypnoglasses, so-“
“No, I mean- How did I not know?” You take a step back, shaking your head. “I- I talked to you every day and every night and it took me months to put it together, and that was only after I realized- Fuck-“
“Don’t- Wait-“ Clark takes a large step forward, arms twitching like he wants to reach for you. “The glasses make sure you don’t know, that’s the point of them, and it’s not like I told you-“
“Why?” Your voice is rising, and you take another step back. “Why are you telling me now, why- Why did you keep coming to me as Superman when I was talking to you as Clark, why- Which one of you is the real one-“
“Both. Both are real, there wasn’t- I’ve always been both- And I just wanted, I guess any reason to talk to you, so I sort off just indulged both, and-“ He takes another step forward, and you take another one back. “Can you please stop walking away? I know that you’re mad at me, and I- I understand, but- Please, just listen-“
“Why didn’t you hate me?” You blurt before you can stop yourself, everything rising so fast up your throat like an eruption, and Clark freezes.
“I couldn’t hate you.”
You shake your head, your back hitting the wall. “No, I- I was talking to both you and- You at the same time, and- I was-“ You cut yourself off, pressing further back, and Clark takes a smaller step forward.
“Are you worried that I was jealous of myself?”
You nod weakly, and Clark sighs.
“No,” he says your name, voice firm, and takes another step. “I mean- No. I mean, I thought about it. Which one would make you happier. But I kept finding that you were always happy, and I- I thought maybe if I told you, you’d be happy. And we could laugh about it, and you’d say something- Uh-“ He stops, barely a foot away. “I mean, it’s kind of stupid now.”
“What?” You whisper, and Clark frowns.
“Do you really want me to say it?”
You nod, and he runs a hand over his face.
“Just maybe- Like- I love you either way. Both ways. I want you both ways, and wow, what a great way this worked out, that I get to love both of you, because you’re the same person. How convenient.” His ears are a little red, and he mumbles. “Most of it was just going to be you saying you love me.”
You swallow. “How do you know I love you?”
“I- uh- I don’t? I mean, I do have a reason, but it might be not- Sound. And if I’m wrong, that’s fine and we can forget the whole thing, but-” He takes a half-step forward. “Your heart. It goes really fast, when I’m near you, and, uh-“ He coughs, eyes darting down your body. “I can- Sometimes- Not that I’m trying to, but it just- It happens, and I can’t control it-“
“Clark-“
“I can smell you.” He mumbles, and your eyes widen. “So- I know there’s something. Might be wrong about love, though.” He looks at you under hooded eyes, and your face might be burning. “Am I wrong?”
You want to tell him that he’s not wrong. To tell him that he’s not wrong, that you’ve loved him for longer than you care to say aloud, and fell for both version because it was him. It wasn’t just a craving not to be alone anymore, it was him. Your heart moved in the same rhythm because it was playing the same song. Love for Clark.
But you don’t want to mess it up. Say it wrong. Open your mouth and just start crying, because it’s so sweet and embarrassing all at once.
So you just push out, in barely a breath. “Do you want to be wrong?”
“No.” He answers so fast, and your nails dig into your sides.
“And- What would you have said?” You blink at him slowly, choosing every word so carefully. “In your… dream scenario?”
“That I love you, too.” He takes another step forward, and you don’t flinch away. There’s nowhere to run anyway. No reason to. “That I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time, because I don’t like lying to you but- I just wanted to make sure.”
“Make sure?” You frown. “What, that I wouldn’t- Turn you in?”
Clark’s eyes widen. “What? Gosh no, I- I just wanted to check that you felt the same and that- I don’t know, it would be worth it. Not that you’re not worth it. That me telling you would just- End in nothing. That I wouldn’t be putting you in that danger just to have gotten caught up in my feelings.”
You swallow, scanning over his open, handsome features. He means every word he says. He always does.
And you have to ask.
“Is it worth it?”
Clark nods, giving you a small grin. “Yeah. I’d say it is.”
You nod, staring at each other in the dark, and the moment maybe drags on for a million years. Or only a second. It doesn’t matter, because you’re here. With Clark standing over you, one of his arms braced next to your head and the other slowly, lightly tracing up your arm. And he loves you.
So you could waste away, and it would feel like you were drowning in daylight the whole time.
“Can I kiss you.” Clark whispers, and you nod.
“Yes, please.”
His hand trails up, sending shivers through your body and making your knees weak, and ends up resting on your face. He stares at you with such open affection and reverence, it’s going to put you in danger of crying again.
When he dips down, he just brush a soft, warm kiss over your cheek, and you grab a fistful of his shirt.
“Sorry.” He tries to lean back, eyes wide. “I- Uh- I should’ve asked you what you wanted, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
“Clark.” You hold his panicked gaze, feeling his muscles flex as his breathing grows heavy. “I want you. Just- Touch me.”
His eyes dart down to your lips, voice hoarse. “Touch you?”
You nod, and his throat bobs.
“How much?”
“All of it.” You try to sound commanding, but it’s just sort of coming off needy.
He doesn’t seem to mind.
“All of it.” He echoes, and slowly leans down to ghost his lips over you. It makes your whole body light up, just from such a light touch, and you try to yank him down but he’s stronger. Doesn’t even budge an inch.
“Clark-“
“Are you sure you can take all of it?” He murmurs, lips still brushing over yours, and it’s not a challenge. It’s just a question of pure, true concern. “I mean, we can try, but if you want to stop, during any of it, you can just tell me and I’m never going to take it personally. Okay?”
You stare at him, and Jesus, you might be about to fall over just from that. He’s so close. He can’t be this close and just do nothing.
“Can you, uh- Just say that you want it, please?” Clark looks a little worried, his thumb tracing over your lower lip, and you smile.
“I want it.” You give him a small smirk. “Please.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes flashing with something dark, and his voice drops to an octave you’ve never even heard it before.
“Alright.” He murmurs, and you suddenly realize exactly how pinned you are between him and the wall. “Whatever you want, baby.”
You barely get a second to process what that means, before Clark’s pulling you up into a long, deep, hot kiss. It’s consuming. Sets of every nerve in your body with how carefully he moves, how deliberately he holds you. How you feel both weightless and burning, in his arms and under his attention. His mouth works quickly against yours, like he’s been starved for it, all as his hands find a respectful place to rest on your body—under your thigh and around your back—and seems to be carefully holding back his weight over you.
It unravels you so fast. Lights a fire in your gut and makes your legs spread. Your hips grind for more friction, broken sounds of need falling from your lips. Clark dips down to kiss your neck and shoulders, and you yank on his hair when his hand on the back of your thigh slowly starts to rub higher and higher.
“Clark- Oh-“ You gasp as his knee pushes up between your thighs, and start to fuck yourself desperately against him. “God, please-“
“I know.” He mumbles, pressing a soft kiss over your lips. “I’ve got you, I’ll make it feel good, just-“ He grabs your hips, starting to drag them as a slightly different, rougher angle, and your head falls back with a moan. “There you go.”
His voice is gentle and deep in your ear, and he keeps kissing you almost anywhere he can reach, as you keep chasing release against him.
A loud, broken whine falls from your lips when he pulls away, right before your release.
“Sorry.” Clark kisses you again, groaning when you try to bite on his lower lip. “Just give me a moment, baby don’t want to do it here, and- Come on-“
He scoops you fully into his arms, bridal style, and you squeak as the air rushes past you. There’s barely a moment to register what’s happening before you’re flat on your back in a soft bed, and Clark is kissing you into the mattress.
His bed.
You’re in his bed.
But somehow, everything that’s happening feels like yours.
Clark is so sweet. With everything he does, he’s just good and sweet, and it’s going to drive you out of your mind. He asks again, before taking off your clothing, and when you nod feverishly, he kisses you again with a smile on his lips.
“You’re so pretty.” His hand rests carefully in your hair, and he pushes the kiss a little deeper. “You’re going to look even prettier when you cum, sweetheart, probably like a painting.”
You flush, a small moan escaping your lips, because somehow Clark just saying something like cum is dirtier talk than anything you’ve heard in your life.
He catches it. Of course he is.
He’s paying such good attention to you, rubbing a hand on your hips and letting you grind up against his bulge. Every few moments, his hand will trail up your side right as the need in pussy starts to unbearably ache, and it will offer a brief respite that just falls into more need.
It’s like he’s trying to learn everything, with almost nothing.
And worst of all, it’s working.
Clark leans up, watching you with a curious expression. “Do you want me to fuck you?”
Your mouth falls open, his words rushing straight into your dripping cunt, and Clark’s nostrils flare.
“Yeah?” He leans down, the hand on your waist slowly moving to draw big circles on your hips. “Do you like it when I say dirty things?” He says your name, voice still so gentle, and you like to sink into the sheets forever.
“Maybe.” You whisper, trying not to squirm as his hand moves slowly between your legs, rubbing against your inner thighs without ever touching where so you desperately need him. “But- I you don’t want to-“
Clark leans down, silencing you with a deep, hot kiss, and devouring your moan as his palm finally presses against your cunt.
He groans over you, starting to rub it back and forth at such a tortuous pace, and your mouth falls open in a long plea.
“Oh my god- Please- I- I can’t- I need more-“
“Relax, baby. I’ll give you more.” He mutters, and when you try to wiggle below him, all it takes a deeper press of his palm, and you’re trapped. “I’ll give you anything, don’t worry about me.”
You hum, and his words are like a drug. You don’t have to worry. You can just relax, because Clark says to, and he doesn’t say anything that isn’t true.
“Do you like your clothing?” He kisses a spot below your ear, words rolling through your body, and you barely shake your head before you hear the rip.
There’s not even a second to feel cold, before all of Clark’s heat is over you. He seems to have taken his clothing with yours—cock pressing against your pussy, back strong beneath your hands as you try to map out his body—and you’re so quickly lost in the feeling of just being close to him. Kisses over your face as he ruts against you and holds you with such care.
You’re going to implode, though, if he doesn’t touch you properly. And you’re about to start begging when suddenly Clark is pulling you both upright, so you’re falling over his chest and sat in his lap.
Clark grunts, as you writhe above him, and your eyes flick down.
You might be drooling. He’s palming himself with strict, controlled movements, his face pressed into your neck as he sucks dark marks on your throat.
“Is it…” You trail off, words broken up by a moan as Clark finds a sensitive spot. “Do- Is that part of Kryptonian- Fuck-“
Your back arches, as Clark’s hand moves to your dripping pussy, slowly sliding two fingers inside and crooking them right against that deep, hyper-sensitive spot.
“Don’t know.” He mumbles. “Never checked. Shit, you’re so soft, and-“ He grunts as you clench around his finger. “I’m going to wreck you, sweetheart, going to play this sweet pussy until it’s soaking my cock-“
“Clark-“ You whine. “Fucking- Don’t just say that-“
“Why not?” He smiles against your skin, starting to kiss his way back over your face. “You like it, don’t you. Want it all.” He pulls his finger out, and before you can grab his wrist, he spanks your pussy. Just once, lightly, not enough to cause more than a sting. But enough to make you yelp a prayer of his name.
“Oh- I-“ You go limp as he does it again, and you meet his hooded, arduous gaze with a soft whine. “Yes, Clark, God-“
He just keeps watching you. Grinding and rolling above him as he traces his thumb around your clit, then drags his fingers through your dripping folds.
He brings you arousal, gathered on his fingers, up to his mouth.
Licks it clean, with a low, guttural sound from his chest.
“So damn good.” He mutters, before pressing his thumb lightly to your mouth. “I swear I don’t think you’re real sometimes, sweetheart, you’re so- God-“
He groans as you suck on his thumb, moaning at the taste of your own need for him, and Clark drags you into a long, rough kiss. Falls flat on his back and starts to jerk his hips up into you, cock brushing torterously on your clit.
“Clark.” Your fingers scratch at his chest. “Please-“
“Right. Uh- C’mon.” He grabs your ass, shifting you so that he can see your puffy, soaked cunt, and nods to himself. “That’s good, yeah- Hold on, baby. Relax.”
You nod, but no amount of sweet words could’ve prepared you for this. How fucking good it feels as he lifts you up like it’s nothing, and slowly drags you down onto his cock. He’s splitting you open and moaning as he does it, looking up at you like you’re an angel while filling you up so good you can’t remember your own name.
He gives you a long moment to adjust, both your breathes ragged, an almost growling noise escaping his lips when you flutter around him.
You pout down at him, trying to drag yourself back and forth for a little friction, and that’s all it takes to get Clark moving.
He’s not going to let you do this yourself. He holds you by your hips and guides you back and forth on his cock, hitting every single spot inside of you, rutting up every few moments to kiss your cervix, and- Fuck-
“God, yes-“ You moan, throwing your head back as your dragged right up to the edge. “Clark- Yes, fuck- Feel so fucking big-“
He groans your name. “Don’t- If you keep talking I’m gonna- Fuck-“
“What?” You giggle breathily, and Clarks hands are going to leave bruises on you in the morning. It’s still not feeling him enough. “Fill me up? Fuck me stupid?”
Clark groans, twitching inside of you. “God, you got fuckin’ how much I- I wanna-“
“You said you’d give me everything.” You whisper, looking at him with your best glossy, needy eye. “I want all of you, Clark, please- Make me feel it, show me how much you- Oh-“
He flips you like you’re nothing, drawing out fully before slamming back in, and swallows the scream of his name with a harsh kiss.
“I’ll make you feel it, pretty girl.” He mutters, setting a rough, unforgiving pace. “Love you so much, I wanted to go slow, but- You want to get cockdrunk, don’t you. Want to stop using that big brain and just feel good.”
You moan, already so close to the edge. “Clark, please-“
“I told you, baby.” The kiss he gives you is almost taunting, with how he’s wrecking your cunt. “I’ll give you whatever you want.”
And he does.
Clark fucks into you like he’s trying to leave a mark. Every kiss on your lips and face and neck seem made to brand you, and his hand worship your body with such care, but every touch is firm and certain. He maps your body with his hands and thrusts into you with such borderline fervor, you don’t think you’re ever going to feel anything but Clark again. It’s the only word you know. The prayer that falls from your lips, over and over until you’re shaking and burning like a live-wire, desperate for just some release.
Before you can even beg for it, Clark’s thumb finds your clit, and starts to rub it at an inhuman speed.
“Cum for me, darling.” He almost growls in your ear. “Show me how good it feels, fucking say my name-“
You scream, just as he wanted to, and almost white-out as your orgasm wrecks through your body. Your pussy squeezes around Clark, overwhelmed and dripping with his perfect abuse of your pleasure, and he moans in your ear as he cums. You might have passed out for a second, from the feeling of him holding you so tight, fucking you through both your orgasms and muttering your name, over and over as you float down.
He helps you clean up. Of course he does. Uses a warm cloth on the mess between your thighs, before carrying you to the bathroom. Starts the shower as you pee, then coaxes you into the warm shower, because you’re going to be sore in the morning.
You have to convince him to get in with you. You’re pretty sure trying not to make assumptions, or take advantage of you.
So ask him if you can stay, and try not to feel too big when he nods eagerly.
But you have him.
All of him.
And you’ve maybe never felt more peaceful than when you’re folded back in his arms, just resting in his bed.
“Was that good?” He mutters in your ear, and it’s not fair. How perfect he is.
You nod weakly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Yeah, did you-“
“It was amazing.” He turns his head to kiss your cheek, warm breath fanning over your cheek as he laughs. “Probably should’ve told you sooner, if this is what it got me.”
“Maybe.” You whisper. “But we’re still here, right?”
“Yeah.” Clark hums. “And I- I think I’m just happy I get to love you at all.”
You push on his chest to look at him, and when he smiles, you smile right back.
“I’m happy, too. And I- I do love you.” You lean down, letting your nose bump against his. “So much.”
Clark grins, pulling you down into a full, slow and lazy kiss, and you bask in it. The warmth on his body, and the light, happy feeling in your chest. Sinking deeper and deeper in, making you know that you don’t really need to see through the dark of Clark’s room.
You have him.
And that makes everything clear.
✦End note: Superman brainrot got me. guys✦
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summary: spencer accidentally let it slip that he has a wife, but he thought that they knew
The bullpen is louder than usual.
A case just closed — messy, exhausting, emotionally draining — but closed. And that always brings a certain kind of restless energy to the team.
“Alright,” Derek announces, spinning slightly in his chair. “We deserve a drink. Real one. Not whatever’s been fermenting in the break room coffee pot.”
Emily snorts. “Seconded.”
“Thirded,” JJ adds, already grabbing her bag.
Spencer doesn’t look up at first. He’s reorganizing his go-bag with that meticulous focus he gets when he’s trying to decompress.
Hotch gives a small nod. “One hour. Then home.”
Morgan leans back in his chair and eyes Spencer. “You in, Pretty Boy?”
Spencer finally looks up, blinking like he just remembered he’s in a room full of people.
“Oh, um.” He glances at his watch. “I actually should probably head home.”
Morgan frowns dramatically. “Since when do you skip celebratory drinks?”
Spencer shrugs. Casual, almost too casual.
“My wife doesn’t love when I get back too late after a case. It messes with our routine.”
Silence.
Not the normal end-of-shift shuffle silence.
The kind where the air changes.
Emily freezes mid-zip of her purse. JJ slowly turns around. Morgan’s smile drops.
“…Your what?” he asks carefully.
Spencer blinks at him, “My wife.”
Morgan stands up fully now. “Your what?”
Spencer looks genuinely confused. “My wife? Why are you repeating it like that?”
“Reid,” Emily says slowly, “you don’t have a wife.”
Spencer stares at her, “Yes, I do.”
JJ’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”
Spencer’s forehead creases like they’re the ones being ridiculous, “Since 2012.”
Morgan’s mouth actually falls open. “Two thousand and— Reid that was years ago.”
“Yes,” Spencer says patiently. “That’s generally how time works.”
“Spencer,” JJ says gently, “we would know if you were married.”
Spencer’s lips press together in mild disbelief, “I assumed you did know.”
“How?” Morgan practically shouts.
Spencer gestures vaguely. “I wear a ring?”
All of them look down. He does. A simple silver band. Always has. They just never clocked it. It blended in with his watch and the ink stains and the everything else that is Spencer Reid.
Emily steps closer. “You’re serious.”
Spencer exhales softly. “Of course I’m serious. Why would I joke about that?”
Morgan runs a hand over his head. “Okay, okay. Hold up. You’re married. To who?”
Emily crosses her arms. “So let me get this straight. You’ve been married for over a decade and we’ve never met her?”
Spencer blinks. “Well… yes.”
Morgan points at him. “That’s insane.”
Spencer looks offended. “It’s not insane.”
“It’s a little insane,” JJ says gently.
Spencer shakes his head, standing now, suddenly protective in a way they’ve never seen before.
“She’s not a secret,” he insists. “I just… I don’t bring her into this.”
Morgan narrows his eyes. “Why not?”
Spencer goes quiet for a moment.
And when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Not defensive anymore. Just honest.
“Because this job takes things.”
The room stills.
“She met me when I was just starting at the BAU. Before any of the… really bad stuff.” He swallows. “She’s seen what this job does. To all of us.”
Emily’s expression softens.
Spencer continues.
“She was there when I couldn’t sleep after my first execution-style case. She sat with me and read out loud because I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”
JJ’s eyes glisten.
“She was there when my mom’s condition got worse. When I didn’t know how to handle it. She learned about schizophrenia just so she could understand what I grew up with.”
Morgan shifts, quieter now.
“And when I—”
Spencer stops.
The prison memory hangs heavy in the air without him even saying it.
His jaw tightens.
“When I was in prison,” he finishes softly, “she visited every week. Even when I told her not to.”
Emily inhales slowly.
Spencer’s voice steadies, “She wrote to me every day. She memorized the visitor protocols. She advocated for me when no one else could. She never once doubted that I’d come home.”
Morgan’s teasing expression is completely gone now.
“She kept our apartment exactly the same,” Spencer continues, almost like he’s replaying it in his mind. “She said she didn’t want me walking into something unfamiliar.”
JJ wipes at her eye discreetly.
Spencer looks down at his ring, “She’s been there for every version of me. The anxious twenty-something. The grieving son. The addict. The inmate. The profiler who can’t always leave work at work.”
His lips twitch faintly, “She’s the only constant I’ve ever had.”
The room is completely silent.
Morgan finally speaks, softer than they’ve ever heard him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Spencer hesitates, “Because this job makes enemies,” he says quietly. “And I could never forgive myself if something happened to her because of me.”
That lands harder than expected.
Hotch nods once. He understands that logic more than anyone.
Emily steps forward slightly. “So you just… what? Go home every night and we never knew?”
Spencer gives a small shrug, “Yes.”
Morgan exhales slowly. “Reid, that’s not something small.”
Spencer tilts his head, “It’s not small to me.”
There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
“She makes me dinner when I forget to eat. She leaves sticky notes in my books when she knows I’ll be stressed. She reminds me that I’m more than my IQ and my trauma.”
His voice softens again, “She married me when I was still figuring out how to exist in the world. That’s not small.”
JJ smiles through tears. “Does she know what you do?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s okay with it?”
Spencer nods, “She worries. But she says she’d rather love me in a dangerous world than not love me at all.”
Morgan shakes his head slowly, “Reid, that’s real.”
Spencer frowns slightly. “Of course it’s real.”
Emily laughs weakly. “We just didn’t know you had that.”
Spencer looks genuinely confused again.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
And there it is, the quiet confidence.
He doesn’t see himself as someone unworthy of love because someone has loved him consistently for years.
Morgan finally smirks faintly. “Alright, so when are we meeting her?”
Elle Elle Elle Elle Elle how fucking funny would it be for one of the bat boys’ mate to have never seen or interacted with Ilyrians before, haven’t even heard real credible info about them, just exaggerated battle stories turned fairy tales. So when they meet their mate they are so spooked bc the whole bat wing thing has been turned into misinformation/tall tales that they’re vampires. So they’re freaking out bc how tf does this work how are they in the sun do they need anyone’s blood or just mine, where tf am I gna keep all this blood in the house, do I even want to accept a bond with a vampire, how am I gna offer them food to accept the bond can I just give them my blood I guess technically I made it in my body, damnit I really love garlic this is gna be so hard to give it up
pfffft I love it. also, I ended up straying away from the vampire part of it and I think it ended up less funny because of it so I'm sorry if I ruined it! thanks for the request though, I had a lot of fun with it. [also couldn't help but daydream about poor terrified reader finding out she's not only mated to one Illyrian, not only mated to two Illyrians, but mated to two of the most feared Illyrian's in all of Prythian hehehe]
Cassian x fem!reader who doesn't know a lot about Illyrians [2.9k words]
CW: rumours of cannibalism, describes child abuse [but it doesn't actually happen], reader is in the Winter Court, meet ugly [do I ever write anything else?], fluff / hurt comfort
“You might want to bring a blade with you,” Kallahan snickers, carrying on even when you shoot him a lethal glare. “I’ve heard they travel in packs.”
“Fuck off, Kal,” Ellora sneers.
“I’m just trying to help,” he plays coy. “You know they eat their young, right?”
“Why are you even here right now?” You groan, brushing your dress down for the umpteenth time; you’re sure there are visible drag marks down your skirts by now.
“The ones who they deem too weak are put into their stew,” Kallahan continues as though you said nothing at all.
“They do not,” Ellora argues, though she shoots you a look saying she’s not entirely convinced of the fact. “Besides, they probably won’t even be here.”
It’s true; while you’re not one to frequent diplomatic meetings hosted in your court, you’ve only ever seen the likes of Morrigan haunting the halls of Dawn’s central building on Night Court business.
You won’t mind talking to Morrigan you don’t think; she’s polite, finely dressed, and always wears a smile.
And you’re quite sure she doesn’t hail from the race of fae who allegedly eat their young.
She doesn’t have the wings for it.
Unless-
“And they rip the wings clean off of females’ backs to keep them subservient to them and their whims.”
“Kallahan!” Ellora finally shouts. “Don’t listen to him. Seriously, you have nothing to worry about.”
“It’s your funeral,” Kallahan shrugs. “But maybe Ellora’s right, maybe you’ll be fine…so long as there are no Illyrians in there.”
The door to the hallway you’re haunting finally opens, a sentinel nodding at you expectantly.
“They’re ready for you.”
You suck in a breath and give Ellora a tightlipped smile, ignoring Kallahan’s sing-songy good luck before you follow the guard towards your impending doom.
You weren’t sure who to tell when a strange male approached you in the woods along the edge of Dawn Court a few days ago, only that you ought to tell someone.
You’d been collecting ingredients in the boggy lands bordering your home court and The Middle for medicinal supplies when you realized you weren’t alone.
A male with pale—nearly grey—skin, blonde hair, and brown eyes crept up on you where you were harvesting ieiunium mushrooms, blocking the light of the sun and forcing you to look up at him.
He was…handsome, you supposed, as most high fae are, but the sight of him had something heavy settling in your stomach, had a tickle at the back of your neck telling you to tread carefully.
He asked what your opinion of the Night Court was.
He asked how you felt about Night’s High Lord; about their new High Lady.
He asked how you felt about a regime change.
You’re not sure why he decided you were the perfect soundboard for his musings that day, save the fact that you were the only one around to listen. You’ve never been to the Night Court, have never spoken to anyone from the Night Court, can’t imagine a time you’d ever be invited to the Night Court.
Turns out that the bad feeling you had about the male was more than just a bad feeling; it was evidence. And now you’re being called upon to answer questions about what exactly you saw in the woods that day.
“Only answer questions that you know the answer to,” the guard directs you severely. “Don’t make anything up, don’t try to fill in any gaps. Just tell them what you know. If you don’t remember, just say that.”
You nod, clearing your throat when you realize he can’t see your response from where he walks a few steps ahead of you. “Right, yes. Okay.”
“Thesan will be there as well, if you need anything.”
“Okay.” You feel a touch more relaxed knowing you’ll have a familiar face there. “And is it, erm, Morrigan who will be questioning me?”
The guard pauses with his hand on the door to the conference room, brows furrowing at you.
“The High Lord and High Lady have come to question you themselves.”
You hardly have a moment to swallow past your gag reflex before the doors are swinging open and exposing the grand room before you.
The captain of Dawn’s guards and your High Lord’s partner, Sylvan, stands at the ready behind his High Lord looking ever the stern soldier, but your High Lord graces you with a warm smile and a dip of his chin.
You don’t manage to summon up a smile of your own in return, not when you’re so focused on keeping your knees from buckling.
“Y/N,” Thesan greets kindly. “Thank you for joining us today.”
“Of course, my Lord,” you all but whisper, swallowing thickly and dipping your head in deference.
“These here are my friends, the High Lord and High Lady of the Night Court.”
“Oh, none of that,” the High Lady chuckles. “Rhysand and Feyre are fine.”
Yeah right, you think to yourself. They’ll be lucky to get a single word out of you today let alone the sound of their given names.
You feel increasingly self-conscious that your fear might end up being interpreted as disrespect, seeing you lift your head and forcing yourself to look at the visiting High Fae.
Your breath catches.
Not because of the beauty of the High Lord and High Lady—Rhysand and Feyre—of the Night Court, though they’re undoubtedly so. But because of the silhouette of the being behind them.
Illyrian.
The statuesque male seems to recognize your attention being focused on him, which sees his giant, bat-like wings twitch behind his shoulders.
Blue siphons pulse on his chest and shoulders and a few shadows stir at his side. The Shadowsinger…the Night Court’s Spymaster.
A disbelieving breath sounds from your right and distracts you from the fearsome male stationed behind the rulers of the Night Court, finding you turning in its direction only for the ground to finally buckle beneath your feet.
What you thought might have been anxiety, indigestion, your stomach trying to flee to safety via your esophagus, turns out to be a golden string of light once loosely spooled and hanging uselessly behind your ribcage pulling taught and connecting your soul to that of the Illyrian general standing beside the female you thought—hoped—you were going to be questioned by.
Your knees are screaming and you realize belatedly that your legs have well and truly given out on you, seeing them meeting the marble floor beneath you with a crack.
“It’s okay,” Rhysand states suddenly, holding out a hand to Sylvan who now has his weapon drawn. “It’s…it’s a mating bond.”
“Y/N,” Thesan ventures calmly.
The Illyrian—your mate—makes a devastated sound as though the syllables of your name make the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. He’s larger, somehow, than the Shadowsinger, and his siphons—plural—glow an ominous red as he dares a step towards you.
You go scrambling backwards.
Thesan tries your name again.
“You have nothing to worry about with Cassian,” Feyre supplies quickly.
You don’t believe her, don’t believe any of them. You know exactly why Thesan has guards lining the doors; know why he has his own winged partner standing guard behind him with his weapon drawn.
It’s because the Illyrians eat their young, isn’t it? Because they rip the wings of their females right off of their back.
The Lord of Bloodshed, your mind supplies. That’s what they call this Cassian—your mate. General of those Illyrian brutes who have loyalty not even to their own kind let alone the fae around them.
What would happen to you as the mate of an Illyrian? The blades strapped to his side could probably gut you before you even blink. You’d be used as target practice, a sparring dummy, some kind of weird monkey-in-the-middle game that sees you being tossed from Illyrian to Illyrian while hundreds of feet in the air.
By the Cauldron, you’re going to throw up on Thesan’s marble floor.
A hand lands on your shoulder and you startle, letting out an inelegant squeal and turning on the hand only to come face-to-face with Sylvan.
You give him a look that you hope translates to don’t let them take me; don’t let them turn me into stew.
“You’re safe here,” Sylvan tells you slowly. “The Night Court’s Spymaster and General are honourable fae.”
“I promise they look scarier than they are,” Feyre offers gently, shooting you an understanding and sympathetic smile. “It’s by design.”
“While I’m glad to hear their reputations precede them,” Rhysand adds with a feline smirk flashed at Morrigan. “I am sorry they scared you.”
Your eyes flick to the Spymaster behind him, arms no longer crossed and his hands now tucked behind his back as if trying to make himself appear smaller.
Then your eyes stray back over to where the other end of the bond vibrates with barely controlled restraint to find Cassian on his knees too, holding Morrigan’s hand like it’s the only thing stopping him from crawling to you.
“Can I help you into a seat?” Sylvan asks lowly.
You can’t even nod your head yes before a lethal sound vibrates out of the Lord of Bloodshed.
“Cassian, stand down,” Rhysand warns.
The Spymaster disappears from behind his High Lord and Lady and reappears in front of Cassian which is not appreciated by the war general.
“He’s touching my mate,” Cassian growls in response to whatever soothing words the Shadowsinger tries offering him.
Thank the Mother for Sylvan, though, he doesn’t loosen his grip; you’re quite sure he’s the only thing keeping you from sinking to the floor completely at this point.
“You need to control yourself, brother,” the Shadowsinger says. “You’re scaring her.”
“Breathe,” another voice soothes, surprising you at its proximity until you look over and see the High Lord of Night staring at you intently; his lips don’t move when he continues. “Just keep breathing.”
You didn’t realize you aren’t; don’t know when your breaths started coming out in short, panicked spurts that do nothing to quench your thirsty lungs or provide nutrients to your brain.
The room sways.
Thesan calls your name firmly this time, standing from his chair which sees Rhysand and Feyre doing much the same.
“Cassian,” Rhysand growls darkly.
And then the room goes black.
You wake to the sound of graphite against paper and the smell of lilac and pears.
Your lashes feel like they’ve gained several hundred pounds since you last closed them, and a scratchy groan escapes your lips at the effort it takes to open them.
You squint at the brilliant dusk light pouring in from a window of whatever room you've been placed in to find the High Lady of Night—Feyre—at your bedside.
“You’re awake,” she greets, wincing when this causes a crash to sound from the other side of the door, followed by frustrated hissing before silence returns to the room.
“Sorry about him,” Feyre continues, looking actually contrite on her companion’s behalf. “He…cares more than he knows what to do with.”
You swallow thickly and twist the fabric of your blanket between your fingers.
“I’m not sure what you might know about Illyrians,” she continues, worrying you that she might actually know just how much you know—or have heard—about the race. “But Cassian—and Azriel—are two of the most wonderful males I have ever met.”
You let out a sigh, suddenly feeling disturbingly close to tears. Feyre’s eyes dart towards the door.
“Do-” you pause to clear your throat. “-do you still want to question me?”
Her face falls soft and sympathetic. “No, I think you’ve been through enough for one day.”
“I…I can. I can tell you what I saw.”
“Cassian would like us to let you rest for today,” she admits then, choosing her words carefully. “He doesn’t want us to upset you… more.”
A tear finally slips.
“May…I tell you something?” she asks then, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, sketch forgotten in her lap.
With a nod of your head, you feel a gentle caress of your mental walls.
You decide to take the leap and let her in, immediately flooded with images of Cassian playing with a babbling winged babe, him carrying a very drunk Morrigan home, him helping a limp-winged female up from the ground before holding his open palms up and smiling as they resume their sparring, holding a little winged male up in the air as he flaps his tiny wings and shrieks with joy, him and Feyre drunkenly decorating a massive home with Solstice decorations.
“There are some…terrible males in the Illyrian camps,” she ventures, watching your face carefully. “None that turn their young into stew, as far as I know.”
You burn with shame, wishing you weren’t too embarrassed to pull the blanket up over your head.
“But Cassian is certainly not one of them.”
“I did not mean to bring any disrespect to your court, my Lady.”
“Of course; we know that,” she tells you, eyes narrowing playfully. “And I thought I told you to call me Feyre.”
You manage a gentle laugh. “Sorry.”
“Enough of that,” she laughs in turn. “Now, I’m sorry; I have to ask but you don’t have to oblige.”
You return your gaze to her blue-grey eyes. “Can Cassian come to see you? Make sure you’re okay for himself?”
You can’t help the way your heart rate picks up and you wince when you find Feyre looking at you apologetically.
“You don’t have to say yes,” she reminds you.
“I…I- yeah, he…he can come.”
She searches your eyes for a few moments before nodding at you.
“We’ll check back in tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it? For our rescheduled meeting.”
You nod at her and flash her a wan smile as she lets herself into the hallway.
You hardly blink before a towering Illyrian—your mate—ducks into the room.
It suddenly feels infinitely smaller now that he’s in here and you don’t miss the way he subconsciously steps sideways through the door, clearly forgetting that your court has winged soldiers to accommodate as well.
“Hi,” he begins awkwardly, clearly unsure of himself as his eyes flit over your form, the bed you’re laying on, and then the small—tiny, compared to him—chair that Feyre just vacated.
“Hi,” you return equally as awkwardly. He doesn’t seem to mind though; his wings lift in time with his hopeful smile before he realizes what he’s doing.
Cassian shrinks back in on himself when your eyes dart to his wings, almost like he’s trying to make himself appear smaller. It’s nearly comical.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the chair you doubt he’ll fit on.
You nod your head yes, if only just to see him try.
He just barely manages to fold himself into it, massive wings splayed awkwardly behind him.
“How are you feeling?” Cassian asks eventually, gesturing at the bed you’re currently laying on and reminding you that you’re just lying prone in front of-
You lurch upwards, the task more difficult—more disorienting—than you were prepared for.
Broad, warm hands land on your back and your bicep, finding your entire body seizing.
“I- I’m sorry, just…are you okay?”
You will your heart to slow its stampede, force your muscles to relax as you allow Cassian to maneuver you into a comfortable seated position.
He’s painfully gentle.
“Thank you,” you manage when Cassian reluctantly releases you and sinks back into his ill-fitted chair.
“I’m sorry. For earlier,” he manages then. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
You smile ruefully. “In fairness to you, you didn’t even really have to try.”
He tries to chuckle, though it seems to take a great deal of effort. “I don’t want to scare you.”
“You don’t, you won’t- I…I’ll be okay,” you stutter, fiddling with the bedspread again.
“Maybe you just need some exposure therapy,” he offers carefully then, smiling hopefully when you look up at him. “Baby steps but, perhaps I can come…visit you?”
You grin at him; the first real one all day. “Well, I do think your court has some business scheduled here tomorrow.”
Cassian nods quickly. “Yes, yeah. We do- I- it does. Uhm…would it be alright if I came?”
You laugh. “It’s not my court, I’m not in charge of who comes and goes.”
“But it’s your bond,” he counters earnestly, not a lick of teasing detected in his voice. “You’re in charge of the speed that progresses, if it progresses at all.”
“I-” you’re stunned, honestly. You weren’t expecting him to be interested in pursuing anything with you—not after your cowardly display in the conference room earlier. You also didn’t expect him to hand the reins over to you so…seamlessly. “-really?”
“Yes,” Cassian agrees readily, leaning forward in his chair. “Yes, absolutely. This…this is up to you, I- I’m okay—happy—with whatever you’re willing to give me.”
You search his face—very handsome, now that you’re getting a good look at it—for any signs of deception.
You don’t find any.
“Okay,” you agree then, watching his wings twitch in anticipation. “Tomorrow, then.”
His responding grin is nearly blinding, brightening his entire face—and perhaps even the room at large—as he beams at you.
Summary: When you get sick, the entire Kent household goes into panic mode.
Dad Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
even more kent family adventures here! (pt 2 of the masterlist)
You woke up already knowing something was off.
There was a dull heaviness in your limbs, a persistent warmth beneath your skin, and a bone-deep exhaustion that made even sitting up feel like effort. You brushed it aside the way you always did. There were breakfasts to make, lunches to pack, small socks to find, and two little humans depending on you to start their day.
Clark noticed. He always did.
“Hey,” he said softly, kneeling beside the bed. He pressed one hand to your forehead, the other brushing your hair back. His brows knitted together in worry, “You’re warm.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically. “Probably just tired. I didn’t sleep great.”
He didn’t look convinced. “You feel warm,” he insisted softly. “And you’re moving slower than usual.”
You tried to smile. “I’m allowed to have slow mornings.”
“Not like this.” He sighed, pressing a kiss to your temple, lingering there. “Let me stay home.”
You shook your head gently. “Clark, you’ve got work. I’ll be okay, I promise.”
Clark studied your face for a long moment, searching for something, before nodding reluctantly. “If you start feeling worse, you call me. Immediately.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
You rolled your eyes fondly. “I promise.”
Only then did he stand, smoothing your hair back with gentle fingers before turning toward the hallway where the kids were getting dressed.
Unbeknownst to you, his voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper.
Leia stood very still, hands clasped together at her chest, her serious face tilted up toward her father. Jon, barely three, bounced slightly on his toes beside her, already sensing that something important was happening.
“Okay,” Clark said quietly, kneeling so he was eye level with them. “I need your help today.”
Leia’s eyes widened. “Like… a mission?”
“Exactly like a mission.”
Jon gasped softly. “A real one?”
Clark nodded solemnly. “A very real one.”
Both kids leaned in closer.
“Mommy isn’t feeling very good today,” Clark explained gently. “She says she’s fine, but I can tell she’s not quite herself. So while I’m at work, I need you two to help keep an eye on her.”
Leia straightened immediately. “I can do that.”
Jon nodded vigorously. “Me too.”
Clark smiled. “I know you can. Just… ask her how she’s feeling sometimes. Make sure she drinks water. And if she starts looking really tired or sick, you tell me. Okay?”
Leia placed a hand over her heart, nodding solemnly. “I promise.”
Jon mimicked her, though his tiny hand barely covered the logo on his pajama shirt. “I pwomise.”
Clark hugged them both, kissing the tops of their heads before standing and heading into the kitchen, where you were making yourself something hot to drink. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“I’ll check in,” he murmured.
“Go,” you said softly. “We’ll be fine.”
But as the door closed behind him, two small sets of eyes immediately locked onto you with new purpose.
Ten minutes later, you were rinsing your cup at the sink when Leia appeared beside you, pretending to inspect a magnet on the fridge. “Mommy,” she said casually, “Are you feeling okay right now?”
You glanced down at her, amused. “I’m okay, sweetie.”
Leia nodded thoughtfully.
A few minutes after that, Jon toddled into the room with his stuffed animal. “Mommy,” he said quietly, “Are you sick-sick, or just little sick?”
You crouched down to his level, brushing his hair back gently, “Just a little tired, Jonny bear.”
“Okay,” he said, satisfied. For now.
The kids hovered nearby all morning, inventing subtle excuses to check on you. Leia asked if you wanted a blanket. Jon brought you his sippy cup and insisted you take a sip “just in case”. They both watched closely as you moved around the house, their concerns transparent despite their efforts to act normal.
When you finally sank onto the couch, fatigue catching up to you, Leia was there instantly, tucking a pillow behind your back, clearly mimicking the way she’d seen Clark do countless times.
“Do you want water, Mommy?” she asked.
“That would be lovely,” you smiled gratefully.
She and Jon returned with a glass, Jon eyeing the glass warily as Leia held it with both hands. Leia and Jon watched as you drank, before Jon climbed up beside you, pressing his warm little body against yours.
“Mommy, rest.” He said.
Throughout the afternoon, they kept asking gentle questions, bringing you snacks, and sitting close whenever you looked especially tired.
By the time the front door opened that evening, you were dozing lightly on the couch. Leia was curled beside you with a book, and Jon was sprawled across your lap.
Clark stood in the doorway, taking in the scene.
The three people he loved most in the world, tangled together.
He exhaled, relief washing over his face.
Later, when the kids were distracted, he knelt beside you.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You smiled. “Your tiny security team took their job very seriously.”
He laughed quietly. “I knew I could trust them.”
You squeezed his hand. “Thank you for worrying.”
He kissed your forehead gently. “And I’ll always worry,” he said. “That’s my job.”
-
Your family settled for the night.
And Clark noticed that you weren’t fine.
You moved more slowly, spoke more softly, and leaned more heavily into the couch cushions. But every time Clark asked, you gave him the same answer. “I’m okay.”
He didn’t believe you.
By the time Leia and Jon were in pajamas and brushing their teeth, he could feel the heat radiating from your skin. It was subtle, but he knew your body better than anyone else.
He pressed his palm to your forehead again.
“You’re hotter than before,” he murmured.
You sighed. “It’s probably just a mild fever. I really don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
He frowned, eyes full of concern. “You don’t have to make a big deal out of it for me to care.”
From the hallway, Leia paused mid-step.
She tilted her head slightly, eyes unfocusing the way they did when her senses shifted.
“Mommy’s warm,” she said quietly.
Jon toddled closer, pressing his tiny hand to your arm. His brow furrowed in serious concentration.
“Hot,” he confirmed solemnly.
You looked between them, a little startled. “Okay, that’s a little unfair. I’m the only one with non-Kryptonian DNA here.”
Clark exhaled through his nose. “See? Even they can tell.”
“I’m fine,” you insisted gently. “Just tired.”
But none of them were buying it. They exchanged looks.
And then suddenly…
“I’ll get tea!” Leia announced, already turning toward the kitchen.
“I get medicine!” Jon declared, running off in the opposite direction with surprising determination.
Clark blinked. “Okay…Jonny, maybe don’t—”
Too late.
Leia climbed onto a chair, carefully reaching for the kettle like she’d seen you and Clark do a hundred times. Jon reappeared, proudly holding up a bottle of Children’s Tylenol that was almost bigger than his hand.
Clark just stood there for a second, shocked, before taking over the kettle gently, guiding Leia down. “Good instinct, sweetheart. Daddy’s got it.”
He crouched to Jon’s level. “That’s the right idea, buddy…but let me handle the medicine, okay?”
Jon nodded seriously and handed it over.
Within minutes, the kitchen was warm with steam and soft light.
Clark made tea the way you liked it. Leia stood on a chair watching like an assistant chef, while Jon sat on the counter swinging his feet, occasionally announcing, “Stir it, Daddy,” as if Clark had forgotten how.
They brought everything to you together.
Clark knelt, holding the mug carefully. Leia handed you a blanket. Jon offered the medicine with both hands.
“You have to take it,” Leia said firmly.
“Please,” Jon added.
You laughed weakly. “Thank you all, my loves.”
Clark kissed your knuckles.
Tea first. Then medicine. Then blanket. Then Clark gently guided you toward the bedroom despite your protests.
“Clark, it’s really okay. I can do it on my own.”
“I know, but I insist,” he said softly but firmly. “Bed. Now.”
You had barely settled into bed when Leia climbed up beside you without hesitation.
Jon followed immediately.
“We’re sleeping here,” Leia said matter-of-factly.
“Just in case,” Jon added.
Both kids pressed close to you instinctively, like gravity pulled them toward your side.
Smiling, Clark tucked blankets around all of you, adjusted pillows, dimmed the lights, and climbed in on the other side, carefully creating a protective cocoon around the entire pile of bodies.
Leia was curled into your side. Jon was sprawled half on your chest, half on Clark.
Clark wrapped one arm around you and one around both kids, his palm resting gently against your back, feeling your warmth, your breathing, your heartbeat.
“I’m really okay,” you whispered, guilt creeping into your voice. “I don’t want everyone worrying.”
Clark kissed your hair.
He kept his senses trained gently on you, your temperature, your heartbeat, your breathing. He could feel your fever, mild but persistent.
Leia’s breathing evened out first, followed by Jon’s.
Eventually, you drifted too, your body relaxing into his, trust woven into every inch of your posture.
Clark pressed his lips to your forehead, then to Leia’s hair, then to Jon’s curls.
-
Jon woke up with a heavy feeling in his stomach.
There was soft, yellow light spilling through the crack of the bathroom door. Sounds. Low voices. Running water. Noises that made his tummy feel funny, even though he didn’t know why.
He blinked sleepily, confused.
Mommy wasn’t next to him. Daddy wasn’t either.
He pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes, curls sticking up in every direction. Across the bed, he saw Leia sitting up too, her face serious, her head tilted toward the light.
“Leia?” he whispered.
She didn’t answer right away. She was listening.
Then she slipped out of bed, moving carefully so she wouldn’t make noise, and padded toward the door. Jon scrambled after her, small feet silent against the floor, heart starting to beat faster.
They stopped just outside the bathroom.
The door was open.
And inside…Mommy was bent over the toilet.
Daddy was kneeling beside her, one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other holding her hair back gently. His voice was low and soft, full of worry and comfort.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
Jon froze.
He had never seen Mommy like that before.
Her shoulders shook. Her breathing sounded wrong. Her face looked pale and wet and tired and nothing like the warm, smiling face that kissed him goodnight and made his favorite pancakes and tucked him in every evening.
Something cold and heavy dropped into his belly.
“Mommy?” he whispered.
Clark looked up instantly. “Hey, Jonny–”
But it was too late.
Jon’s lip started to wobble. Then the tears came.
Big, sudden sobs that burst out of his chest before he could stop them.
“M-Mommy!” he cried, little hands reaching up for you. “Mommy’s hurt!”
His three-year-old mind couldn’t understand sickness, fever or nausea. All he saw was his mommy bent over, looking like she was in pain.
Something bad was happening. Something scary.
Leia reacted immediately, kneeling in front of him, wrapping her arms around his small shaking body, and pressing his face into her shoulder.
“It’s okay,” she whispered fiercely, stroking his hair the way you stroked hers. “It’s okay, Jonny. Mommy’s okay.”
“She’s not!” he sobbed. “She’s…she’s—”
“I know it looks scary,” Leia said, her own voice trembling just a little, “but Daddy’s here. He’s helping her. Mommy’s just sick, not hurt. She’s not going anywhere.”
Jon clutched her shirt, crying harder.
“But she looks bad,” he whimpered. “What if she…what if—”
Leia shook her head, running her hand across his back to calm him.
“No,” she said firmly, with the kind of certainty only a big sister could muster. “Mommy will get better. Remember when she had the bad cough? And the fever? She got better.”
Jon sniffed. “She did?”
“She always does.”
Clark finished helping you rinse your mouth and gently guided you back upright, keeping an arm steady around your back. Then he turned to both kids standing in the doorway, with Leia holding Jon tightly, and Jon’s face wet with tears.
His heart clenched.
“Hey,” he said softly. “Come here, buddy.”
Jon hesitated, eyes darting back to you, fear still burning bright in his chest.
You looked up, eyes tired but full of love. “Hey, Jonny bear,” you whispered. “I’m okay.”
Your voice was weak, but it was still your voice.
Jon took a shaky step forward.
Clark scooped him into his arms, holding him securely against his chest, rocking slightly.
“Mommy’s just sick,” Clark murmured gently. “It’s uncomfortable, but it’s not dangerous. I promise.”
Jon clung to his father’s shirt, hiccupping through his sobs. “I was scared.”
“I know,” Clark said softly. “It scared me too, a little. But Mommy’s strong. And she’s got us, right?”
Leia moved close to you. She took your hand carefully, her small fingers wrapping around yours.
“Mommy’s okay,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
You squeezed her hand. “I am. I promise.”
Jon leaned over in Clark’s arms, reaching for you with one small trembling hand. You reached back immediately and clasped it.
Your touch was warm.
His breathing slowly steadied.
The fear didn’t disappear completely, but it softened enough for him to breathe again.
Clark carried him back toward the bedroom, Leia trailing close behind, not wanting to be far from you.
“I want to sleep with Mommy,” Jon mumbled sleepily.
“You will,” Clark promised. “We all will.”
When you finally returned to bed, wrapped in blankets and held between Clark and the kids, Jon curled as close to you as he could physically get one tiny hand clutching your arm.
Every few minutes, he lifted his head just to check that you were still there.
Mommy was still there. Relief washed over him anew.
Mommy being sick was the scariest thing he had ever seen.
And he never, ever wanted to see it again.
-
The fever had finally broken sometime before dawn. Clark had felt the gradual cooling of your skin beneath his palm. He hadn’t slept much, but knowing you were getting better carried him through the rest of the night.
When Jon woke up, it took him a few seconds to remember.
The light in the bathroom.
Mommy bent over.
The scary sounds.
His eyes snapped open.
He pushed himself up carefully between you and Clark, his curls messy, and cheeks still creased from sleep. The room was soft with early morning light. Leia was sprawled on the other side of you, one arm flung over your waist protectively even in her sleep.
Mommy was still in bed. But she wasn’t moving.
Jon’s heart began to thud.
He crawled closer.
“Mommy?” he whispered.
You didn’t stir.
His small hands reached out, patting your cheeks gently.
“Mommy,” he tried again, a little louder. “Wake up.”
Clark opened his eyes, staying still as he watched.
Jon’s tiny palms framed your face now, his voice wobbling just slightly.
“Mommy, please.”
You stirred. You let out a hum as your brows knit together. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, blinking against the light.
“Hi, baby,” you murmured, your voice sleepy.
The relief that flooded his face was immediate and overwhelming.
“Mommy okay,” he breathed.
You smiled softly. “I’m okay.”
He leaned forward instantly, wrapping his arms around your neck and pressing his face into your cheek.
“I got scared,” he mumbled into your skin.
You pulled him closer, kissing his hair over and over. “I’m so sorry, Jonny. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Clark finally moved, propping himself up on one elbow. The tension that had lived in his chest all night eased completely at the sight of you awake, lucid, and smiling.
“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.
“Tired,” you admitted. “But much better.”
Leia stirred at the sound of your voice. She blinked once, then twice, before lifting her head.
“Mommy?” she asked quietly.
“I’m here.”
Leia didn’t say anything else. She just scooted closer and wrapped both arms around your waist, pressing her forehead against your shoulder.
Clark leaned in too, his large hand cradling the back of your head as he kissed your temple.
“You’re cooler,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles across your cheek. “Fever’s gone.”
“Told you I’d be fine,” you teased weakly.
He gave you a look. “We’re still allowed to worry.”
Jon pulled back just enough to look at your face, examining you with serious concentration.
“No more sick?” he asked cautiously.
You smiled gently. “No more sick.”
He studied you for one more second before nodding firmly, satisfied.
Leia tucked herself against your side. Jon sprawled half across your chest, trapping you with his body so you couldn’t disappear again. Clark wrapped his arms around all three of you, effectively sealing everyone into one warm, tangled bundle of limbs and blankets.
You laughed softly. “I can’t breathe.”
“Yes you can,” Leia replied confidently.
Clark pressed another kiss to your hair.
Jon began peppering your cheeks with tiny, determined kisses. “Kisses. Kisses for Mommy,” he announced.
Leia joined in, giggling as she kissed your forehead.
Clark followed, slower and softer, his lips lingering just a little longer.
“You scared us last night,” he admitted quietly against your skin.
You reached up to touch his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Just… don’t do that again.”
You smiled. “I’ll try.”
Jon rested his head over your heart, listening carefully.
It was steady.
He sighed contentedly.
“Mommy okay,” he declared to the room.
Clark smiled. “Mommy’s okay.”
Leia squeezed you tighter. “And we all slept here to make sure.”
You smiled, heart almost bursting with the knowledge that you were watched over by three hearts that beat just a little louder whenever yours faltered.
Jon drifted back into a satisfied doze on your chest, Leia at your side, and Clark’s arms were firm around all of you, and you knew you would never have to face a hard night alone ever again.
Being married to Rugby!Simon means having mega scary dog privilege.
After the bombshell of your existence drops, Simon quickly makes it clear to the reporters and commentators that wifey is off limits. If you're not in the room, he's not saying shit. Simon's never once spoken for you or controlled how you present yourself publicly and he's not about to start now, especially not for the insufferable twats online who wouldn't know basic manners if it were a bullet in their head.
The boys on the team know that they will talk to or about you with respect or not at all. It's not a difficult task for them, they respect Simon (and are maybe just a little scared of him) and they know how much he loves you. They care about their teammate so it's always a good sight to see how happy you make him. It also doesn't hurt that they genuinely like you. Being married to rugby!Simon means you've got a whole rugby team of incredibly athletic brother-in-laws who would go to battle with you should the need ever arise.
You will learn, however, that that scary dog privilege translates onto the field as well.
It's inevitable, with Simon's global popularity paired with his seemingly fully redacted personal life and background, that something like you would end up being the only thing available that could get to the seemingly unflappable Simon Riley.
It starts off with a comment made offhandedly on some podcast by some cocksure player on a different team. The conversation was about social media and how fan interactions with the sport have changed. It naturally led to discussing some of the biggest names currently in rugby, which of course brought up Riley. And by bringing up Riley, it brought up you.
The comment wasn't long, it wasn't anything that too much time was spent on. But it was dropped with a clear intent. One that made the recording booth break out into dirty snickers, a throw-away comment that they would brush off as locker room talk before quickly moving on to a new subject.
And then word got around to Simon.
To the outside eye it would seem that he would do nothing about it. No retaliation was being made on his part, he refused to comment back no matter how many times he was goaded into it. But the entire time he wasn't doing nothing. He was waiting. And your Simon is a patient man.
That patience pays off on match day when he steps onto the pitch and the name of that idiot pops up on the opposing team's starting lineup.
The game starts off as it always does, and still Simon waits. He doesn't have to for long until the ball makes into the one pair of hands he's been waiting for.
The impact is so hard it gets picked up on the ref's mic. The ball shoots from his hands as Simon tackles him backwards a couple meters. The take down to the ground sends a loud, unified wince roaring through the stands and the commentator box.
The ball is loose, Riley's teammate snatches it and the play continues. Simon leaves the idiot flat on his back where he lay. Try is scored while medics pile over the melted remains still scoped and dropped in the middle of the field.
The referees go over the tackle, the TMO looking over it frame by frame, scrutinizing even the most minute positioning of Simon's body. They end up finding nothing. The tackle was legal. Brutal, but legal.
As the player is taken off the field to find out he's got cracked ribs and in fact won't be back for a while, all one commentator says on it is:
"Well that one felt a little bit personal, didn't it?"
Simon stands frozen in the corridor outside the break room, coffee mug forgotten in his hand.
Inside, you’re laughing with Gaz and a couple of the intel girls, voice bright and careless.
“You can all keep your nonchalant men,” you say, stirring sugar into your tea with unnecessary violence. “I want a chalant one. Someone who texts back fast, who stares too long, who gets excited over nothing and tells me about it. I’m so bloody tired of guessing.”
Gaz snorts, arms crossed casually. “Good luck finding that in this unit.” Meanwhile, Simon’s ears are already burning under the mask. Of course, Gaz has to talk shit now in that smooth London–accent of his.
Simon has spent the last four months being meticulously, painfully nonchalant.
He times his arrivals so he’s already at his desk when you walk in with the morning briefings (never early enough to seem eager). He limits himself to one greeting per day, gruff and quiet. When you wear the burgundy skirt that hugs your hips so perfectly, he stares at the computer screen so hard the pixels blur.
Simon deletes half the texts he types to you before sending (the ones that say things like you looked nice today or missed your presence in the briefing).
He once almost asked if you wanted to grab coffee after work and instead muttered something about ammunition counts and walked away.
He thought he was being careful. Respectful. Professional.
Turns out he’s been doing the opposite of exactly what you want in a man.
Simon’s heart—old, rusted thing that it is—starts hammering like he’s twenty-five again and spotting a pretty girl across the mess in Hereford for the first time in years.
He retreats to his office, shuts the door, and spends ten full minutes staring at the wall.
Existential crisis is too small a word. It’s a full-system reboot.
By 1700 hours he’s still there, mask off, running a hand over his jaw, rehearsing sentences in his head that sound nothing like the Ghost anyone knows. At 1712 he gives up pretending to work, and he finds you at your desk in the outer office, packing up for the day.
You look up, surprised to see him lingering.
“Captain wants the revised sit-rep on his desk by 1800,” he says harsher than intended. It’s a lie. Price is off-base until tomorrow.
You nod, already reaching for the file. Simon clears his throat. Once. Twice. Swallowing too thickly both times.
“Actually,” he says, voice still embarrassingly rough, “I was wonderin’ if you’ve eaten yet.”
You blink.
“Because I haven’t,” he continues, the words tumbling out before he can stop them, “and there’s a decent Indian place fifteen minutes away. If y’like curry. Or if you don’t, we could find something else. I don’t mind. I just—I’d like to buy you dinner.”
He stops, mortified at how loud his pulse is in his own ears.
You stare at him for a long second, lips parted. Then your face softens into the kind of smile that makes his chest hurt like he’s been stabbed.
“I love curry,” you say quietly, and Simon exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months. “Good,” he manages awkwardly. “That’s... good.”
He hovers while you grab your coat, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to help but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.
As you two walk past Gaz (who just happens to be there) toward the door, the Sergeant grins into his fresh cup of coffee, murmuring: “Took you long enough, sir.”
Simon shoots him a swift glare and follows you out, ears still burning, but for the first time in years the silence around him feels hopeful instead of deafeningly safe.
