WARNINGS: Fluff, blood and little bit of violence, kissing, both characters are in high school
A/N: Guys this is my first fic, so please give me help. I did this in like two hours and it is currently 1:53am so that's also why it's probably really bad. I also made this loosely off a dream I had. Anyway sorry if this is absolutely horrible.
It just started as a regular school day. First you had English, then Science which felt like it lasted forever. Third you had Math which you were excited about because it meant you finally were able to have a class with Adrian. Adrian Chase was your best friend and you were his(even though you were his only friend). You did everything together watch movies, play DnD, read comics and a whole bunch more.
After Math you then had your personal favourite class P.E.. Adrian didn’t hate P.E. he just was not good at it, especially compared to you. Somehow no matter what sport you played you’d somehow be amazing at it every time. That was something he admired about you, and recently it seemed he was noticing everything about you way more–like the way your hair would come across your face and shoulders, how you’d play with the dragon fly necklace he’d given you, or even the pout you’d have on your face when you are focusing in class.
He couldn’t help it either and it was driving him nuts. He’d tried to talk to Gut and Chris about it before but they were absolutely no help, just saying he was “in love” in a very high pitched tone.
Luckily for Adrian the teacher let them split up into a competitive side and friendly side for soccer today, now he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of you again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come play with me on the competitive side Adrian?” looking hopeful at him,
“I am very sure. Don't you remember last time what happened when we played soccer, it was a disaster.” Adrian stated while clearly almost reliving what happened,
“Okay fine, only because I actually do care for you and your wellbeing.” you said while holding one hand to your chest and the other in the air, “Come find me after though, okay.”
Adrian nodded as you smiled at him and ran on to the field. Watching you run off laughing with your other friends made something in his stomach flutter, but he carried on and ignored it.
About 20 minutes later Adrian found himself doing absolutely nothing. Well almost, he was watching you run around getting sweaty, it felt like he was in a trance and he couldn't look away.
“Think it’s time to stop staring Chase?”
Adrian's head whipped around to see Joe smirking at him. Joe was just the one of many people that teased Adrian. If not one of the worst. Adrian was used to it at this point, and he knew how to just ignore them. So he did.
“I know you heard me freak, so don’t try and ignore me.” Joe said,
That’s when finally you heard and turned to see Joe inching forward towards Adrian. You knew that people bullied Adrian, you just didn’t understand why. Sometimes it hurt you so bad that people around you couldn’t see what you saw, and in all honesty you were done with it.
“Why don’t you just go back to whatever sewer system you climbed out of Joe.” you yelled over at him, “I think we are all sick of smelling it on you.”
Adrian was happy to see you standing beside him now, but he could see it on your face that you were livid.
“Wow, getting your little girlfriend to come and defend you, very brave of you Chase.” Joe said giving Adrian a pout,
“I don-” but before Adrian could talk back you were already blowing your head off.
“He doesn't need me to come and defend him. I personally am just sick of hearing your stupid fucking mouth talk. I don’t understand, did your parents not love you enough, so now you have to come after people because you think it will maybe grab their attention?” by now a whole crowd of people are hovering around the three of you. “In all honesty I have never met someone in my life as gross and horrible as you. You are a waste of fucking oxygen and you mean absolutely nothing.”
Finally after word-vomiting all over him you stop and look at Adrian behind you, whose eyes have gone wide. But then you see his mouth curve into a smile, and you do too. You turn around fully to follow Adrian when all of a sudden you feel yourself get yanked by your hair. Now you’ve turned back around looking directly at Joe, but before you can even comprehend what is happening you see(well mostly feel)Joe's fist flying straight into your nose. The shock of it knocks you to the ground. You hear gasps and yelling around you, but barely any of it clocks in as you have a fountain of red streaming down your face. As you instinctively put your hand to your nose you feel and something slamming into the side of your ribs.
While behind you and a few feet away is a now enraged Adrian hurling towards Joe, tackling him to the ground. Finally it seems the teacher has caught up and is prying Adrian off of Joe. Yelling at him to take you to the Nurses office.
Adrian looks behind to see a very bloody and in pain version of you.
“Come on, it's okay. Here let me help you.” he tries to comfort the best he can,
As you are trying to stand, you wince at the pain in your side. So Adrian decides to just pick you up bridal style.
“You're okay, come on sweetheart, let's get you looked at.”
Even though there's blood leaking down your face and both the back of your head and ribs hurt, you can’t help but notice how soft and quiet Adrian is right now. His usual bouncing off the walls is gone and the only thing he is focused on is you. The thought soothes you and keeps you grounded. Then you also notice how strong Adrian is, he’s already gone up about 2 flights of stairs and isn’t even breaking a sweat. Before you can ponder on that for any longer you are already being placed on a very uncomfy cot.
“How do you feel?” Adrian asks while holding up a rag to your bleeding nose,
“I feel like I have just been punched and kicked,” you sigh, “and also feel like I could use a nap.”
Adrian chuckles through his chest smiling at you, and you smile back. Then you feel a tear find its way down your cheek.
“What’s wrong, are you still in pain?” his brows furrowed together. He takes the rag away and brings a hand up to your cheek wiping the single tear away.
“I don’t understand.” you respond as your chin trembles,
“What don’t you understand?” he softly asks still very confused,
“Why are they so mean to you?” Finally he understands, and he feels his heart break just a little. Of course the bullying hurts him, he hates it, but knowing it hurts you just as much feels like a gut punch, but he also feels all warm and tingly because of it. “You are so amazing Adrian and it hurts me that they can’t see that.” Now you are sobbing and it seems like there's no end to this rain.
“It’s oka-”
“No! It’s not okay. You don’t deserve that.” more tears flow down and now both of Adrian's hands are holding by your tear stained cheeks, “I care about you so much, okay. I love you Adrian.”
Adrian's heart feels like it is about to leap out of his chest right now, he’s feeling so much and for once he knows he is not the only one feeling it.
Now he’s smiling at you, he leans in and starts kissing away each tear that rolls down. One after the other. Pulling back he responds,
“I love you too.”
Finally you look up to meet Adrian’s green eyes. He’s beaming at you with a huge smile that makes you flutter inside your stomach. Smiling back at him, you take his hand and kiss his palm. You feel Adrian slowly pulling in and you meet him halfway kissing him ever softly. Your hand reaches up to card through his hair, while his is on the back of your head and cheek. He then tilts his head to deepen the kiss more, both your mouths moving together. Once you finally come for air, you're puffing out heavy breaths. Settling your forehead against his.
Adrian's eyes come to yours looking brighter than stars and a boyish smile that could last for days, he says,
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”
You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”
He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”
“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”
“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”
“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”
He winced. “When you say it like that—”
“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”
“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”
And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”
“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”
He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”
“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”
Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”
His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”
He frowned. “I don’t fold.”
“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”
“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”
“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”
Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”
“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”
His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”
“See? Believable and romantic.”
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”
You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”
You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”
You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”
Oh God. Here it was—the test.
Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”
Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”
“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”
You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”
He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”
You grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”
“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”
“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”
Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.
“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”
Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”
Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”
“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”
Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”
Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”
“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”
“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”
“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”
He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”
Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”
When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”
Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”
“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”
Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”
You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”
Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”
“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”
Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”
It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”
Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.
“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.
“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”
Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”
“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”
“I don’t,” he protested weakly.
“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”
“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”
“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”
Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”
You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”
“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”
Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”
The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”
“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”
“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”
The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.
“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”
“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.
“You’re doing fine.”
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.
Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”
“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”
His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”
“She’s married,” Clark protested.
“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”
“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”
“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.
“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”
“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”
Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”
“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”
“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”
Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”
“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”
He glanced back at you. “What?”
“It’s coming this way.”
“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”
“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”
“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”
His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”
That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”
Clark winced. “The cows.”
“The cows?”
“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”
“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”
“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”
“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”
“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.
“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”
“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”
“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”
“About all of it,” he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”
Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”
“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”
That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”
“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”
Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”
“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”
His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”
You blinked. “What?”
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”
But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”
“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”
The women descended like hawks.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely.”
“Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?”
“Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”
“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”
Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”
The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”
The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. “So we…?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”
“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”
But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.
It hadn’t felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”
You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”
For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”
“Right.”
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe… thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.
Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”
Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”
“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”
You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”
His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.
“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”
Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”
Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”
“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”
“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”
Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”
Your heart thudded. “Clark…”
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”
Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”
His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”
You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”
Summary: Three years after you leave Evergreen, Adrian takes a chance and follows you to New York.
Warnings: Childhood bffs to lovers. Cursing, sex mentioned. virginity mentioned. reader is exploring the possibility of being bisexual, drinking, loosely edited.
This is the second part of Landslide.
Based on the song by Taylor Swift
Wk: 3.7k/Part One / Part Three / Masterlist
The subway car was nearly empty when Adrian boarded. A drunkard passed out sat on one end, and Adrian steered clear of him, opting to sit on the other end where a guy had his nose buried in his phone. His watch read 2:35 AM.
Sighing deeply, he rested his head on the subway wall, the rattling of the car soothing the ache in his chest. He was glad it was quiet for once; the bustling crowds of New York had been nearly overwhelming for him. The bottle of champagne he’d bought at an overpriced grocery store sloshed around in his backpack. Staring at his suitcase, he runs a hand through his hair before pulling his phone out to text his mom.
Catching an early flight home. See you around noon.
Adrian is 22 when Chris Smith knocks some sense into him. They’d just finished killing a group of losers who were lining up some big drug shipment and were relaxing in Chris’ trailer.
“So you’re telling me, you’ve got this super hot friend from childhood and you’ve never made a move?” Peacemaker laughs
“I mean. Yeah. But I don't even think she’s into me like that.” Vigilante says, “I mean I’m into her but still-”
“You just said she kissed you before she left town. That’s like the textbook ‘I’m into you!’ language dude!” Peacemaker counters
“It was just like. A kiss on the cheek, though. Not a real one.” He says
Peacemaker turns to Vigilante, giving him a look Adrian can’t quite read.
“Well, I’m sorry not all of us took the masterclass on reading people’s feelings, Jesus!”
“Alright, dude. Look. I’m just saying, next time she’s back in town, take her out on a date. It doesn’t go well, then you know it's not like that.” Peacemaker shrugs, “Just seize your moment.”
Adrian stewed on it for a week. He spends his time at work daydreaming about taking you on a proper date. There weren’t many fancy places in Evergreen, but there was that new Mediterranean place on Main Street.
He couldn’t quite place his finger on when his feelings had gone from strictly platonic to thinking about you every second of his day. Maybe it was after the first holiday break you had. The two of you had spent winter break together, hunkered down in his room playing Nintendo and eating so much junk food that Adrian was convinced he’d gained 10 lbs by the time you went back to school. Or, maybe it was during the long phone calls you made to him late at night. He’d take them during his nights as Vigilante, lounging in his car while he cased a gang’s headquarters or studied a group of human traffickers coming and going. He’d listen to you blab about school, all while jotting down notes about what criminals he’d kill first and how he’d kill them.
Exactly one week after his conversation with Peacemaker, he books his flight. He spends the six and a half hour flight thinking about what New York is like. He’d only been out of Washington once when he was eight and his family went to Disneyland. He didn’t remember much of that, only that his parents had a big fight in the middle of the park, leaving Gut and Adrian to roam around the park alone for a few hours.
Adrian’s always been pretty good at navigation. He patrols the streets of Evergreen regularly, yet nothing prepared him for the sheer skill he’d need to navigate the NYC subway system. He stares at the map on the wall and then down at his phone, trying to make sense of the Google explanation his phone gives. Eventually, he figures it out, pushing his way on only to end up sandwiched between a man who smells like too much cologne and a man who smells like he’d never bathed in his entire life.
Eventually, by some fucking miracle he finds himself outside your dorm building. He has no idea where you might be, only that you don’t have classes on Tuesdays. He can’t get into the building without a student ID, so he figures he’ll have to call you, afterall, he didn’t bring his Vigilante suit, and breaking into a dorm didn’t exactly fit the bill of a model citizen.
The phone rings twice before your voice streams into his ear.
“Adrian? Isn’t it like nine am in Evergreen? What’s wrong?”
“Something has to be wrong for me to call you?”
“Well, no. Normally, you’re snoring into a bowl of popcorn after a movie marathon, not awake enough to even eat, let alone call me.” You laugh
“Yeah, well. Where are you?”
“Um, why?”
“Cuz I’m-”
The loud shout of his name has him faltering. Was there another Adrian being yelled at? Perhaps a messy breakup he could gossip about with you later on?
Adrian turns back to his phone, ready to repeat his question, when he’s tackled to the ground. Well, tackled is a strong word. His months of Vigilante work have built him enough that when you slam into him, he falters and takes a few steps back.
“What are you doing here?!” You gush
“I got bored at home, thought I’d come to surprise you.” He grins as you hug him
“You’re such an ass.” You laugh, pulling back, “You should’ve told me you were coming, I would’ve planned a buncha shit for us to do!”
“I’m only here for a few days. We can just hang out in your dorm, I can follow you to class, maybe absorb some knowledge.” Adrian suggests
You lead Adrian up the many flights of steps to get to your dorm. It’s when you’re fumbling for your keys that he notices the very visible height difference the two of you have going.
“Did you shrink or something?” He asks
“No, I didn't shrink.” You groan,”You’ve gotten like four inches taller since I saw you last.”
“Thats not true.” Adrian hums
“Whatever, dude.” You roll your eyes
You kick your room door open welcoming Adrian into what is essentially a smaller version of your room back in Evergreen.
“Just ignore that. My roommate needs to clean her shit.” You motion to a pile of laundry that sits on the other twin bed in the room
Adrian flops onto your bed and watches as you toss your backpack onto your desk. You shove his body over, groaning as you do.
“Why’re you so heavy?” You ask, settling next to him.
“Oh I’ve been working out a bit. Trying to put on some muscle.” He says truthfully. You can’t know about Vigilante but it’s fine if you know he’s been frequenting the local gym in Evergreen
“Trying to impress a secret girl?” You tease
“No!”Adrian fumbles, his face heating up
“Relax. I’m joking.”
Adrian spends his day in your bed while you sit at your desk finishing assignments and mumbling to yourself over some essay for your English class. Warm afternoon sun falls through the blinds as Adrian takes in your features. The way your eyelashes practically glitter in the sun, the swoop of the bridge of your nose. The way your eyebrows pinch together when you misspell a word.
“You’re staring pretty hard for a guy who said he was going to take a nap to get rid of the jetlag.”
“Technically, the nap would make the jetlag worse.” Adrian hums
“Well. I’m tired of doing homework. Do you have anything you wanted to do while you were here?”
Ask you out. Kiss you. Find out if your bra size has gone up since senior year, when he’d put your laundry away for you.
“Not really.” He lies
“Well, let’s walk around the city a bit. We can grab lunch somewhere and get some coffee.”
Adrian follows you through the city, letting you talk about what shops have the best bagels, what bodegas have the cutest cats, and nicest owners. It’s when he’s munching on a cheap greasy slice of pizza with you that he spots it.
“Hey, that motherfucker is graffitiing that wall.” He grunts
“What?” You look around following Adrian’s pointed finger
“Oh, yeah. So?” You shrug, looking at the brick that's being turned multicolored
“Uh, that’s illegal. It’s not his to draw on.” He grumbles
“Mmhm. You’re staring at him like you want to kill him, Adrian.” You laugh, “It’s just a wall, most of the walls in the city have graffiti on them.”
Adrian thinks of the fools back home he’s killed for graffiti. You’re joking, keeping the mood light-hearted but Adrian scowls at the guy as he walks by the two of you, staring daggers into his head. If he had his damn suit right now-
“Alright, killer, let's go get that coffee and head back to my dorm.” You joke, grabbing his arm to pull him off to your favorite coffee shop.
Adrian sips on an overpriced latte while he waits for you to return from the bathroom. He’s watching over your drink, some iced sugary thing that will have your dentist crying when a stranger slides into what’s supposed to be your seat.
“Hello, I’m Katy.” The blonde says, her lip gloss shimmering in the lights of the cafe
“That seats taken.” He says quickly
“Yeah, by me, silly,” Katy says
Adrian scowls at her, taking in the way she’s leaning across the table to be a bit closer to him. Her hand comes down and gently brushes his. Adrian recoils at the feeling of her skin on his, ignoring the way she frowns at the way his hands dart off the table out of her reach.
“Could I get your number? You’re totally my type.” Katy asks sweetly
“Your type?” Adrian asks
Adrian doesn’t think he’s anyone's type. He’d been told by waitresses that he was cute but the moment he opened his mouth, he lost his appeal. Not like that mattered to him, though.
“Yeah, you got that hot nerd vibe.” Katy flirts
“No, I’m good. I’m waiting for someone else.” He turns her down quickly
Hot nerd? What’s that even mean? Anyone he knew in high school just said nerd, hot was never tacked onto it. Even Peacemaker just stopped at nerd, of course, he hadn’t exactly seen Adrian’s face recently to discern if he was hot or not.
Katy’s perfectly manicured hand darts out, grabbing your drink before Adrian can blink. She reads your name slowly, like she can’t comprehend the letters make up a name.
“I don’t see her.” Katy hums, “You sure she didn’t stand you up?”
Katy raises your drink up to her lip glossed lips, giving Adrian a weird looking smile as she does, “Guess I’ll have to sample her drink for her.”
Adrian’s hand darts out, grabbing the cup before the straw can brush her lips, his voice comes out alot louder than he thought it would “Could you please fuck off? I’m not interested so you can go fuck yourself.”
“Adrian!” You hiss, the entire coffee shop is staring now and you’re rushing over to him
“This bitch is trying to steal your drink!” Adrian glares at Katy, both hands occupied by his drink and yours. If he had a third hand he’d be flipping her off.
“Okay,” You groan, “Let’s just leave.”
You drag him out of the shop and back out onto the sidewalk, pulling your drink from his hands, glaring at him as you do.
“What?” He asks, he doesn’t know what you’re so upset about
“You just called a stranger a bitch in front of that entire cafe!” You huff
“So?” Adrian snorts, “She was being one.”
You groan, “She was flirting with you, idiot.”
“Oh, so just cuz some random bimbo shows up to flirt with me, I should let her steal your drink? That thing was like seven bucks. Stealing is a crime too. You expect me to sit there and let it happen?” Adrian says, You should be thanking him right now.
“Alright, alright.” You roll your eyes, “My savior, Adrian Chase, protector of iced lattes and the forever virgin.”
“I’m not a virgin!” He loudly declares
Five people turn to look at him, and you’re slapping your hand over his mouth, “Don’t say that so loudly!”
“I’m not.” Adrian hums
“And when did you manage to lose your virginity? No way you lost it before me.” You say, pulling him along, arms interlocked the way the two of you used to walk around middle school together.
“Oh, I lost my virginity in a threesome a few months ago.”
You stop dead in your tracks, pulling him to face you, “You what?!”
It’s late at night when you decide to turn in. You’re yawning as Adrian turns off your laptop muttering something about finishing Alien tomorrow morning and about experiencing pregnancy.
Crammed in your twin bed, you turn to face him. Adrian copies you. Setting his glasses down on the desk beside your laptop.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Adrian asks quietly
“You.” You hum sleepily
“Really?” He feels his heart leap into his chest. This must be that moment Chris was talking about. To make his move.
“Yeah and how different you are.” You sigh
“I”m not different.” Adrian says
“Sure you are, having threesomes, calling people a bitch in public, oh, and giving the death stare to graffiti man today.” You say
“She was a bitch. Graffiti is illegal, and the threesome wasn’t technically my idea, so...”
“Mmhm.” Your eyes are fluttering shut. Adrian knows you’re going to fall asleep any second now.
“Actually, I spent the whole threesome thinking about you.”
Adrian looks over at you for a response, but is met with the sound of your nose wheezing in your sleep. He should feel disappointed, but he can’t help the smile on his face.
You wake up surrounded by Adrian. Big arms are wrapped around you, and his face is tucked into your hair. It’s been a while since you’d shared a bed with him like this, your mom had banned it back when you had turned 14, stating that changing bodies meant Adrian got an air mattress on your floor instead of a spot on the bed.
You shift a bit, turning to take him in as he snores. He looks older without the glasses, more manly and less like the Adrian you grew up with. His hair is a mess of curls as you run a finger down the bridge of his nose. You can practically hear him telling you not to do that, stating his aversion for human skin softly touching him, being the worst feeling ever
“Morning.” Adrian mumbles into your face suddenly, “Were you touching my nose?”
“No.” You lie
“Liar.” Adrian says, his eyes flicker open to stare at you
“Whatever, morning breath. Lets get up and get dressed, I’m starving.” You say, moving to wiggle out of his arms
“We can’t just stay like this?” Adrian groans, his arms tensing to keep you still
Damn, when he’d get so strong? How much time did he say he was spending at the gym?
“Because I’ll pee on you if you don’t let me go.” You groan
Adrian relents letting you free, “That’s kinda hot.”
You roll your eyes pushing the bathroom door shut, “You have a piss kink?”
“Nah, just a you kink.”
Your mind swims, trying to decode what he could possibly mean by a statement like that. Adrian was always saying shit that didn’t make any sense but having a ‘you kink’, what does that even mean?
When you emerge from the bathroom, you’re met with Adrian in his underpants, his back turned to you as he rummages through the little suitcase he’d brought with him.
“Dude, you’re still on the tighty whities kick? We’re 22!” You snort
“They’re comfy!” Adrian whines, turning to face you
You’re about to tell him he’s wrong, but you’re silenced by the appearance of a full six-pack in front of you. Beefy biceps that practically scream at you to wrap your hands around have you speechless.
“Are you done with the bathroom? I have to piss like so badly right now.” Adrian asks
“Oh, yeah. Go ahead.” You mumble, mentally scolding yourself for objectifying him.
Later that day you’re in the library with him, trying to cram anything into your mind for the test that's in three days. Your phone chimes softly and you turn your attention to it instead of your flash cards.
“Do you wanna go to a party tonight?”
“People throw parties on Tuesday nights?” Adrian asks
“This is college,” You laugh, “People throw parties every night.”
Four hours later, Adrian is waiting for you on your bed, listening to his favorite Taylor Swift song blare from your speaker as you finish doing your makeup. Eventually, you step out of the bathroom, a tiny skirt and low-cut shirt on your body. Adrian can feel his eyes bulge out of his head as he awkwardly looks away.
“Why’re you dressed like that? You’re like…naked.” Adrian asks
“How else do you expect to get in?” You snort, “Boobs will get you really far in life, especially when it comes to a frat party.”
“Right..” Adrian says skeptically, “You sure we can’t just watch Alien and eat that candy I brought?”
“We can do that when we get back.” You brush him off, “This way I can introduce you to Quinn.”
“Who’s Quinn?” Adrian asks, he hadn’t realized you never introduced him to any of your college friends
“Oh, she’s my girlfriend.”
“Your what?!”
Adrian leans against the wall of the frat house. The too loud music is giving him a headache and the drink he’s nursing doesn’t taste good. He swears even his shoes are too tight as he watches you laugh with Quinn.
What kind of a name is Quinn anyway? Quinn was stupid-looking in Adrian’s opinion. Curly brown hair and silver rings on her fingers. She wasn’t tall like Adrian was, barely reaching over your head, he couldn’t find a single plus about this girlfriend of yours. Adrian didn’t even know you liked girls like that.
He continues to sulk for another hour, ignoring the two girls who approach him, telling them to fuck off and rolling his eyes when they flip him off and call him an asshole.
“Hey!” You call, grabbing him and pulling him towards the dance floor, “Let’s dance!”
“Don’t you have to be dancing with Quinn?” He sneers, looking around for the short, lesbian, best friend stealing piece of shit.
“Nah,” You smile, “Wanna be with you right now!”
Adrian’s never been the best dancer, but he follows your lead, moving along to the shitty music as he stands just a bit too close to you. Multicolored lights flicker as he tries to focus on anything but the way you’re smiling at him.
“So, you’re a lesbian?” Adrian asks over the music, “Why didn’t you tell me when we were younger?”
You laugh and roll your eyes, “I’m not a lesbian! I’m just…I dunno, I only started seeing Quinn like a couple of weeks ago. I’m experimenting! It’s nothing serious!”
Experimenting? What the hell did that mean? Does that mean he still had a chance?
Just seize your moment.
Peacemaker’s voice rings in his head as the gears in Adrian’s head turn. Fuck it, what did he have to lose?
Adrian pulls you into him, leaning down to reach you. He swears his heart skips a beat as his lips brush yours. His head spins as shitty music fills his ears.
Then, as fast as it happens, you’re pushing him off, a dumb founded look on your face.
Shit. Fuck. He fucked this up big time.
He swears he sees you mouth something before darting out of the party and away from him. Adrian follows you, bumping into people who curse at him but all he’s focused on getting to you before you can disappear into the streets of New York.
He yells your name as you get out onto the front lawn of the frat house.
“Just go back inside Adrian.” You call over your shoulder
“No.” He says, catching up to you. He grabs your hand, twirling you around to face him. He has to say this now or he’ll never get it off his chest, “I love you. Like I’m in love with you.”
“Adrian-”
“No. Let me say it and then you can curse me out all you want.” He huffs, " I just…I can’t keep it inside anymore. You’re my favorite person in the whole world, my best friend and I know that kiss back there changed shit, but- shit, I'm rambling. I just-”
“Adrian.” You cut him off, dropping his hand, “I think…I think it’s probably better if you go back home.”
“What?” Adrian hates the way his voice cracks when he speaks.
“Just…I can book you a flight.” You say, “You and I…seeing you like that…I don’t know if I ever will…”
Adrian’s not sure if he’s felt this feeling before. The word he’d use to coin the feeling in his chest right now would be crushed. He shoves his clothes blindly into his suit case, ignoring the way he knocks over a few of your books on your desk. His phone chimes, an email from you with a one way plane ticket back to Evergreen.
Fuck. He wasn’t ready to watch you slip out of his life like this. Yet, he didn’t know what else to do. He surveys the area of your dorm, he has all of his things. As he’s leaving the dorm something catches his eye, a small picture of you in some photo booth. He remembers it was a booth that prom had, you must’ve snuck in and taken pictures by yourself at some point. Acting on pure impulse, he reaches out and snatches it off your corkboard, ignoring the stupid picture of Quinn that hangs beside it. He tucks it into his wallet, a memento of this disastrous trip.
He leaves the dorm room with a scowl on his face, finding you waiting outside it, hand out stretched for your key.
“I’ll uh, see you, I guess.” You mumble
“Yeah, see you,” Adrian grunts, looking down at his worn-out sneakers
You’re opening your mouth to say more, maybe apologize to him, but Adrian is spinning around on his heel; he doesn’t need to hear anymore from you tonight.
It’s only when he reaches the entrance to the subway that he realizes he’s crying.
Oooo I feel evil for ending it like that...
Part 3?
I will be using the taglist below for pt3. Comment to be added if you're not already there 🧜♂️🧜♂️
summary: An off night, a hotel room, a bottle of peach Jim Beam, and Vigilante. What could go wrong?
words: 9.8k
cw: explicit, smut, piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), some dubcon elements, shower sex, praise kink, sub!adrian, technically switch!adrian but (gestures vaguely), alcohol consumption, drunk sex, blood kink, mentions of contraception, cowgirl position, choking, gagging, friends to lovers, character study disguised as smut, james gunn said the visor is prescription and i took that as canon, reader uses prescription lenses, yes i did name this after the pitbull song
a/n: we are so fucking back
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
“Working hours” with this black ops group are loosely defined at best, and entirely nonexistent at worst. And don’t even get started on pay, because you think at this point that you’re only getting comped whatever the pay is for your cost of living, and that’s only really when you’re on the clock. They’ll pay for the hotel room and sometimes the food, but besides that, you’re on your own.
But, back to those working hours. You don’t know when they stopped, but maybe it was around the time your roomie decided to crack open a bottle of whisky and pour out half of it for you into one of the plastic solo cups they provide with the coffee pot. God knows you’re not working anymore, you’re just sort of sitting idle while he rambles about the room, gesticulating with the bottle. Like he does.
(Plus, you don’t think he’s even being paid for this? Adrian is just here for the fun and because he’s available, and the rest of the team just let him tag along because he’s useful. The thought makes you smirk a little bit.)
You admire his profile as he talks, one finger pressed to your smiling lips as your eyes trail him back and forth, thinking he might eventually hypnotize you. He’s so… expressive. And he has dimples and curly hair, which you’ve always been a sucker for. He hasn’t even taken off his suit; blue on silver on black, with a red visor on the mask discarded on the table. You had watched him remove it, and carefully tried to hide the fact that you were staring as he pulled his wire-rimmed glasses out of a hidden pocket.
You’re very pointedly staring now, sizing him up like your next fucking meal (alcohol does that to you), and Adrian keeps on blathering in one long spiel, pacing in circles like hasn’t even noticed your hungry gaze (alcohol does that to him).
“Is that prescription?” you ask, cutting him off in the middle of his sentence, which you’d barely been paying attention to. Something something Twilight, something something cultural reset.
Adrian stops pacing, looking at you with a deer-in-headlights expression. “Huh?”
You nod at the mask laying on the table by the door. “The visor. Is it prescription?”
He swivels to look at the mask, and then back to you with an almost bashful laugh. “Uh… yeah?”
“That’s sick.”
“Really?” Dimples. You take another sip of your whisky to calm yourself, and it burns at the back of your throat. Objectively, you should not be feeling this way about your pseudo-coworker, who also happens to be somewhat of a lunatic. But, y’know, he’s… sweet. To you. Which is the odd thing, but you’ve gone beyond worrying about the details at this point. You’re hunting alien butterfly creatures that live in people’s brains, you can get past a couple character flaws.
“I mean, yeah.” You lick your lips, which have taken on the flavor of the peach liqueur in the whisky. “I wear prescription lenses, too, but they’re a bitch to keep clean on the job. If I could afford prescription hardware, I would. Good on you.”
“Yeah, I mean… yeah, it is fucking cool, thank you!” He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners and making you clench your jaw with how badly you want to reach out and kiss him long and hard at that exact moment. “I was starting to think no one else would notice how genius it is. Y’know, I don’t even think Peacemaker’s noticed, which is totally not very best friend-like of him, but it’s fine, I’m sure he’ll come around eventually, the guy constantly has a lot of shit on his plate. Like I remember one time, me and him got stuck in a Winnebago that was rolling downhill toward a cliff like something out of Looney Tunes because some idiot crack dealer locked us in there with his load, and-”
He’s pacing again, and the amber colored liquid in the square bottle he grips by the neck sloshes against the glass as he continues waving it around emphatically. And you’ve zoned out again, because now you’re thinking about his hands, and how nice they’d feel on your body. You’ve seen him beat the shit out of people, you know he’s packing some major force in those fists, but you haven’t felt them on your own skin, or had the experience of having them wrapped around your throat for yourself.
“-then, y’know, Eagly’s a fucking badass, I don’t know if you’ve seen him in action, but the little dude can take a guy out in like one peck. Like do not get caught on the wrong end of those talons is all I’m saying. Anyways, he swooped in and yanked the fucking wheel, so the Winnebago flipped. I mean, can you imagine! A bald eagle rolling a camper. That shit’s gotta be, like, legendary-”
And his quads as he walks, Jesus Christ. You’ve never been super partial to burly, buff guys (sorry Chris), but there’s something to be said for muscle in the right places. Adrian’s legs are nice, you can tell just by the way the fabric of his pants stretches around them when he turns, and fuck his ass is so tight. You nearly salivate just staring at it, thinking about how much you’d love to dig your heels into it, or squeeze it to urge him on as he fucks you.
Your eyes snap down to your solo cup of whisky, and you frown. When did you drink half of it?
“-but like I’m sure you know Eagly pretty well because he loves you, I can tell. He kind of scooches closer every time you sit near him, it’s really cute actually, I mean, I would scooch closer whenever you sat near me too except I feel like you’d punch me in the dick, good thing my suit’s got a reinforced crotch-”
“Wait, what?” You blink up at him, your brain sort of fizzling out and then rebooting as you stare at him. What did he say?
Adrian doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, the guy who made it was like, ‘That makes no sense, you’re gonna have the worst time trying to take a piss in this,’ and I said, ‘No, dude, have you ever been karate kicked in the nuts before? Shit hurts.’ I still had to pay extra-”
“No, no, what was that shit about scooching closer? To me?” You squint at him. “Babe, are you trying to tell me something?”
He blushes. You know he’s joked about not feeling emotions like other people do, but you wonder how true that really is, because he goes beet fucking red like he’s having trouble breathing as he stares down at his shoes. “I, uh- well, I mean, yeah, I’d scooch closer to you. Theoretically. If- if you wanted me to. And if you weren’t going to punch me in the dick.”
“Why would I punch you in the dick?”
“I don’t know, it’s like… it’s an understandable reaction to someone getting in someone else’s personal space!”
“No, it really isn’t…”
“Well, how was I supposed to know you wouldn’t punch me in the dick?”
You throw up your hand in an exasperated gesture. “When have you ever seen me punch someone in the dick?”
He screws up his face. “UM, I don’t know, you punched Peacemaker in the dick!”
“What? When?”
“When he tried lifting you onto the truck that one time!”
“That was a misunderstanding, I kneed him because he didn’t give me a heads up!”
“But you did it!”
“Well, the last thing I would want to do to your dick is punch it, all right?”
You both stop and stare at each other for a long moment. You think you might have stopped breathing, too. Yeah, you are definitely tipsy at this point, but you raise a slightly shaking hand to take a casual sip of your drink, as if you aren’t staring at him with bulging eyes like you’re possessed.
He opens his mouth and closes it a few times before he comes out with a response. “Okay.”
You blink. “Okay?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, okay. I mean, what other stuff would you do to my dick?”
“Uh… stuff.” You jerkily stand, nearly sloshing your drink as you try to get your bearings. You set the cup down on the bedside table and turn to look at him with the most awkward, pin-straight posture you could possibly muster, like a high schooler trying to pretend they aren’t drunk in front of their parents. “I’m going to take a shower now. Yeah. I am. I’m going to do that.”
“Oh. Okay.” Adrian looks down at the bottle in his hand, and then shuffles a bit to the side so that you can pass him.
“I mean, unless you wanted to shower first?” You pause at the end of your respective bed, and turn to see him turning down the covers on his own by the window. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting in bed,” he says flatly, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He reaches up and undoes a latch on his armor that frees the chestplate, and lifts it over his head in one swift move, leaving him in his tight fitting black undershirt.
You stare at him, scatterbrained until you manage to scowl at him, and the two knives he wears crossed against his lower back. “You’re going to sleep with all your weapons?”
“Yeah.”
“With all the dirt and sweat and fucking blood from fighting?”
“Yeah.”
“You can’t just… you can’t just get in bed with your outside clothes on, dude!” you splutter, leaning your thigh against the end of the mattress before you, and slow your speech carefully as you declare, “It’s… unsanitary.”
“Oh, and who are you, the sleep police?” Adrian turns to sneer at you. “I thought you were going to take a shower.”
“Well I was, but that was before I knew you weren’t planning on it!” You throw your hand out at him. “Why?”
“Because! If I go to sleep with wet hair it dries all weird, okay? Get off my dick!”
“I’m sure you’ll look just as pretty regardless, Adrian,” you tut condescendingly at him, rolling your eyes as you turn on your heels toward the bathroom. “Do what you want, or fucking join me if you change your mind, I don’t care.”
You don’t register the full weight of your words until you turn on the tap. But, by that time, you also don’t get to see the way Adrian stares at the door to the bathroom like you’ve just presented him with the key to the city.
You very rarely opt for lukewarm showers, but you certainly do now. With the way your blood is humming through your veins like electricity, and you feel hot just from the sight of Adrian’s muscles in that tight fucking shirt, you feel a cold shower is in order. Well, colder, anyways.
The water pressure is complete bullshit, of course. It pathetically trickles out, and it takes longer than usual for your body to get completely soaked. In that time, you lean against the tile and hold your head in your hands as the water drips down your face. How the fuck are you supposed to sleep in the same room as this guy? Between the way you’re just aching to jump his bones, and his inability to stop talking, you don’t think it’s a possibility tonight.
You wonder what he would sound like when you ride him. You wonder if he would finally shut up, or if he would switch to talking to you like a lover instead of a drinking buddy. You wonder if he would beg, or if he’s more dominant than that.
You’re imagining his head between your thighs. You’re imagining what he’d look like with your hands tangled in his hair. You’re imagining the feeling of his mouth on your skin, the calloused planes of his palms on your breasts and beneath your thighs. You’re… you’re shaking.
The white shower curtain rips open, and Adrian steps in beside you, naked as the day he was born. “Hey, can you pass the soap?”
“What the fuck?” You turn your head to look at him with a bewildered expression, simply refusing to tear your eyes away from his face because you do not want to cross that line and have the image of his dick imprinted in your brain while you try to get to sleep tonight. “Adrian, what are you doing?”
“Well, you said to join you if I changed my mind.” He shrugs, his smile the absolute picture of innocence, but his eyes still rake slowly down your body before finding your face again.
You blink, searching for a proper response to that. His eyes are green. Jesus Christ, that’s three for three: dimples, curly hair, and green eyes. He’s trying to kill you.
“I was being sar-” you cut yourself off with a sigh, “yeah, you know what, I did say that. Shit. Fucking… okay. Whatever. Here.” You fumble with the tiny complimentary body wash tube and thrust it toward him. “Go apeshit.”
“You have a really great ass by the way.”
“Adrian.”
“What? You do. I’m just being honest. I’m not even saying that because this is the first time I’ve seen you naked, I always thought your ass was nice, there just wasn’t a good time to say it.”
Your face is burning. You turn your back on him and try your hardest not to clap your hands over your eyes or do something equally embarrassing. You don’t think Adrian is even fazed by any of this; he wasn’t wearing his glasses, either, and you don’t know how strong his prescription is. You imagine pretty strong, if he needs it in his visor. Maybe there’s a good chance he can’t see the exact details of your tits. Maybe-
He touches your shoulder, and you feel lather running down your back as he starts massaging circles into your skin.
“Are you washing me?” you wheeze, your voice coming out an octave higher, and you really do cover your face again this time. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, and you can’t focus on anything other than the touch of his hand on your shoulder blade.
“Uh, yeah? I wash your back, you wash mine, right?” He sounds cheery and completely content with everything that’s happening and, despite the sheer oddness of all of it, you don’t really want him to stop. You guess that’s why you haven’t told him to get the hell out, yet.
Maybe you’re just as much of a lunatic as him. “‘Scratch,’ Adrian. It’s fucking ‘scratch.’”
He pauses. “What?”
“It’s ‘I scratch your back, you scratch mine.’”
“That makes no fucking sense.” He shakes his head in your periphery, his hand resuming its circular motion against your back, moving across to your other shoulder. You feel the soft, wet glide like a molten lava trail.
“Of course it makes sense! Why would it be ‘wash?’”
“Why wouldn’t it be ‘wash?’”
“Because it’s about doing your friends favors,” you argue in a wobbly, strained voice as you shiver while his fingers slide down your spine. It raises goosebumps on your skin, despite the heat in your veins and the cool of the water. “Friends don’t wash each other’s backs, genius.”
“So, we’re not friends?”
His hand pauses again just at the curve of your lower back, where it extends down into your tailbone. You bite your lip, and you can feel his eyes on you, the touch of his gaze almost as real as his hand is. Your thighs clench together involuntarily. You simpering little… weak, desperate thing, you are not going to beg for him to touch you. That’s not it. That’s not how this should go.
But, you could turn around and touch him, too. You could probably kiss him, if you were feeling really adventurous. He just basically implied that he wouldn’t be opposed to fucking you, right? That was where the conversation had been going earlier, if you hadn’t been such a pussy. Neither of you is nearly as subtle as you think you are.
You manage to chew your lip enough to tear a gash in it, and salty, coppery blood hits your tongue. You’re losing it, standing on the precipice of something way bigger than the two of you. You’re just an inch away from becoming more than just friends with Adrian, if you don’t reel it in quickly. Your hand comes up to slam against the wall when his fingers, which seem to be discontented to remain idle, start tracing little shapes on your lower back. A star. A diamond. A heart.
“N… No, I- I mean, we are. But I don’t think we’re going to be, if you keep it up.”
He grunts carelessly. “I’m having a hard time not keeping it up, really.”
“What do you mean?” You turn around, and his hand glides across your lower back and to your hip, because he refuses to stop touching you now (not that you want him to stop, either, if you’re being honest with yourself). Your eyes flick down, and you know exactly what he means, because he’s hard as a rock.
And also thick, and long, and veiny, but hey. What did you expect?
Your eyes linger on his erection for a long time, and drag your gaze slowly from the burst of dark hair at the base of his cock, up the line of his torso and to his chest. His pale skin is riddled with little scars here and there, from small injuries that weren’t serious enough to slow him down. He has a faint spray of freckles on his shoulders, suggesting that he spends at least some time in the sun. It makes you inordinately flustered to think of him doing some sort of outdoor activities to get that toned body of his.
You clear your throat as you find his gaze again. “Next dumb question,” you say, and he gives you a wide-eyed, vaguely awestruck look that makes you way more confident than it ought to. “Are you gonna fuck me, Adrian?”
His eyelashes flutter. His cheeks are painted with that sweet pink blush again, like he’s been entirely oblivious to the fact that he’s had you melting for him since he cracked open the bottle of Jim Beam. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I think it’s a fucking fantastic idea, do you?”
“Yeah, I do.” And he grabs you by the face to kiss you, and crowds you back against the wall. You give a surprised yelp into his open mouth, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as your back hits the cold tile. He grunts and brushes his soap covered fingers across your cheeks. “Did you bite your lip?”
“Yeah.”
“...Was that because of me?”
You whimper weakly as he slowly, and very purposefully, traces the length of your bottom lip with his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of your blood. “Yeah.”
“That’s so fucking hot.”
He yanks you up off of your feet, making you squeak and hold in a nervous laugh. Your leg bumps the faucet handle, and the water turns ice cold just as Adrian scrambles to hook your legs around his waist.
“Shit.” Adrian hisses and smacks the wall beside your hip once or twice before he finds the faucet, because he doesn’t stop kissing you. He’s sloppy and rushed and overexcited, but at least he gets the water running warm against as he presses you up against the wall. “I’ve never done this here, have you?”
“Shower sex? No.” You bite his lip as he hitches you up by the back of your thighs, and he groans as his hips jerk up toward yours. “But I think you’re doing a good job.”
“Wait, fuck. Do we need, like, a condom…?” He blinks at you with a glassy look in his eyes.
“IUD. I have- it’s all good, you’re fine.” You knock your head back against the wall with a whimper high in your throat as he brushes his cock against your entrance. You can feel the world spinning as you tangle your fingers in his wet hair, giving it a small but sharp tug. “Now, if you don’t fuck me I’m gonna-”
You choke when he drives the full length of his cock into you, pushing your hips back against the wall. Your nails scratch down his neck and across his shoulder blades as he splits you open, your legs tightening around his waist while simultaneously trying to spread wider to accommodate him. Adrian spits a curse into your neck, his teeth grazing a vein there as he ruts up into you, filling you so completely that a cry dies in your throat.
“God, fuck, Adrian,” you sob toward the ceiling, only too aware of him moaning loudly against your skin. He feels better than you had imagined, stretching you out so perfectly that your toes curl as you try your hardest to draw him forward with your legs alone.
“I knew you’d be perfect,” you catch him whispering into the crook of your neck, just barely audible over the trickle of water over your head.
He doesn’t even give you time to adjust before he starts pistoning his hips into yours, jolting you up the wall. Your skin squeaks against the wet tile, and his grunts echo in the curve of your neck. Tears might actually be streaming down your face, but you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart from the warm water coming from the showerhead.
Adrian’s hand comes up to brace against the wall beside your head, and he surprises you. “You really think I’m pretty?” He asks with such a genuine note of hope in his voice that you think he must be serious.
“I think you’re fucking gorgeous,” you breathe, whining when he nips at your jaw with his teeth. You interrupt your train of thought with a series of hoarse cries, because Adrian picks up the pace with less precision, and more just forceful thrusts that drive all the way to the end of you and make you see stars, regardless.
“You’re the most perfect person in the world and I wish I could paint because the only thing I’d be painting is just you over and over and over-”
He’s blathering into your shoulder, his mouth brushing your skin as it moves and his hips slamming yours back against the wall hard enough that you’re definitely going to be feeling it in the morning. Every bit of desire you have for him surges up inside you like an inferno catching on, like every stroke he makes is stoking that fire within you.
“-so pretty everyone wants you I can’t believe you would let me touch you or even kiss you but you’re letting me do this to you and it’s all I’ve wanted to do since I first saw you-”
It occurs to you to tell him that you’d let him do anything he wants to you at this point, as long as he just doesn’t stop fucking you- but that’s yet another line you refuse to cross for the sake of self preservation. You’re already drunk, and confessing the true scope of your feelings to him in this state would just be a recipe for disaster.
Oh god, but he’s like a reckoning. You shake your head to compose yourself and scratch your nails along his neck before you take his face in your hands and draw him up to you. His pupils were already blown out, but you think they nearly eclipse his irises when his hips falter and he sucks in a sharp breath. His dark hair is thoroughly drenched, and water drips down his face in little rivulets that you trace with your fingers just before you draw him to your lips.
You feel his small moan vibrate on your lips, and that’s enough. Your legs spasm, and your orgasm suddenly snaps within you like a rubber band, every muscle in your core tightening down on his cock as you see a burst of white behind your closed eyelids. It snuck up on you just as much as it did him.
“Holy fuck-” Adrian loudly gasps against your lips with a startled jolt of his hips, his full weight crushing you up against the wall. His nose nuzzles yours, so intimate in a way that you hadn’t expected from him, and with a few shuddering huffs of breath you feel him come with a rush of warmth deep inside you.
You’re floating somewhere above awareness when he slouches forward, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes closed as he takes deep, steadying breaths. It takes you a moment to realize that he’s just holding you, with his fingers digging into your thighs like he’s just trying to ground himself in your body.
You raise a shaking hand to smooth his wet hair back from his face. “Earth to Adrian. You still with me, babe?”
He grumbles something entirely non-coherent directly in front of your face, and blinks his eyes groggily open at you.
“The alcohol’s catching up with you, huh?”
He nods.
“Guess I’m washing your back, anyways. C’mon.” You wiggle out of his grip, and you’re only too thankful that you’re smushed up against the shower wall, or else you may have easily slipped and ate shit on the tile. The alcohol is fucking with your head quite a bit now, too, and your movements are a little jerky and uncoordinated as you try to help him get cleaned up.
He’s uncharacteristically quiet. The rest of the shower takes place in complete silence, actually, with the exception of the little grunt he makes when you urge him to bend down so you can get his hair for him. You catch him looking a little dazed as you turn off the water, and he gives you an unfocused stare when you toss a towel at him. You wonder if you actually succeeded in frying the guy’s brains just by fucking him.
But then, back in the room as you clumsily dig through your bag to pull out a night shirt and a pair of underwear, Adrian shuffles directly to his bed and tosses his towel aside before clambouring into it, bare ass to the wind. He flops down face first, and shoves his feet under the turned down comforter.
“Adrian… what are you doing?” You say for what feels like the millionth time this evening.
“‘M going to bed,” he drawls into the pillow. His entire body shakes as he hiccups, and then turns his head to the side to look up at you with his big green doe-eyes that make your heart do a somersault in your ribcage. “You should tooootally join me. There’s-” hiccup- “lotsa room. We could go again.”
You blink at him as you semi-stagger, semi-walk toward the bed, stooping to pick up pieces of his uniform strewn across the floor as he had, presumably, just ripped everything off as he made his way to the bathroom. “Mm, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Uh, you said it was a great idea,” he argues as you toss his clothes into a pile at the end of the bed.
“That was before the whisky kicked in and we were both staggering… fuckin… drunk-” you accidentally whack your foot against the corner of the bed and bite your lip as you fight not to crumble to the floor. “One of us has to be responsible.”
“I’m-” hiccup- “responstable.”
“Uh-huh.” You stop as your eyes land on the mostly empty Jim Beam bottle on the bedside table. You’re almost positive it had been at least quarter full when you left him to go take a shower. “Adrian, did you drink all that?”
He blinks his eyes open and follows your pointing finger to the bottle. “Oh, yeah. Hhhuuuhh… had to… I lost the cap so we can’t keep it.” When you march forward to snatch it off the table, he grunts dismissively. “Gotta… get rid of it.”
“Guess that’s why you’re worse off than me.” You shake your head and drop the entire bottle into the trash bin. “Aren’t you gonna put something on to sleep in?”
“I don’t have anything.”
You snap your head towards his sprawling, naked form. Your eyes linger on his ass for way too long. “You didn’t bring a single thing to wear?”
“Why… why would I bring a change of clothes to kill bad guys?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know! Anonymity!”
He grumbles into the pillow, “I have a mask.”
“Fuck the mask. You can’t sleep in the mask.”
“Sure I can. I fuck in the mask, I can sleep in it. S’a free country.”
You blink, your eyes flicking between Adrian and the mask on the table. “Dude, you fuck in that thing?”
“Hell yeah I do. I could fuck you in the mask. Could do it right now. Go get the mask.” Despite the conviction of his words, he’s slurring them, and his face is still pressed into his pillow as he lies motionless on the bed.
“I… don’t think that’s gonna happen tonight.” You sigh as you toe forward and grab the end of his comforter, drawing it up over his body. “We’re both way too drunk. We probably… probably shouldn’t have…”
Adrian flops over to look up at you as you, essentially, tuck him in. There’s a note of hurt in his voice when he mumbles, “You regret it?”
You pause, staring down at his expression of confusion and betrayal. Do you regret it? You can’t deny that you hadn’t been hesitant to have sex with him for a litany of reasons- one being that you work with him, and another being that he’s a loose cannon on the best of days. Not exactly relationship material, you think.
Or, you thought, but now he’s gazing up at you with these wide, dumbfounded eyes, and you’re tucking the comforter up beneath his chin, and he turns his face down and kisses your knuckle even though he looks mildly hurt. And yes, you liked the sex very much. You liked it so much that you can’t trust yourself not to do it again if you don’t shuffle off to your own bed immediately.
“No,” you tell him firmly, combing your fingers through his wet hair as you draw back. “I don’t regret it, but I think we both need to sleep this off.”
“Okay,” Adrian says quietly, his expression relaxing, but his arms come out from under the comforter and he reaches for you with grabby-hands. “Sleep with me?”
You catch one of his hands and give it a gentle squeeze. “G’night, Adrian.”
You hear him sigh in disappointment when you shut off the bedside lamp. His hands audibly plop down onto the mattress as he rasps, “Night.”
You wake from a dreamless sleep sometime in the early hours of the morning, and your throat is bone dry. Smacking at the nightstand a couple times, your phone manages to illuminate and tell you that the time is only 1:30.
You blink sleep away from your eyes and try to see through the dark as you stumble into the combination vanity, closet, and kitchenette. You knew you brought a water bottle or two, it can’t be that hard to find-
“Hey, what’cha doing?”
You hardly even startle at this point. You’re slowly becoming acclimated to the idea that Adrian is just constantly awake and witness to your every move, which isn’t as disconcerting to you as one might think. “I’m looking for the water. Did you see where I put it?”
“Uhhhhh mini-fridge?”
You reach blindly under the counter and yank the little fridge open, once again smacking around until your hand lands on the shape of a water bottle. “You want some?”
“Yeah, you could spit it into my open mouth-”
“Adrian.”
“What? It would be fucking sexy.” Adrian grunts, and the light clicks on from the main room. Then, he wolf-whistles just before you straighten up from where he’d caught you, bent over in front of the fridge. “Y’know, I was right. You have a really great ass.”
You grumble a half-hearted thanks under your breath as you approach his bedside and thrust a water bottle at him. “I see you’ve sobered up a bit.”
He waves a hand at you dismissively. “Pshh, I wasn’t that drunk.”
“You were drooling all over your pillow.”
“Maybe I always do that.”
“Yeah, okay.” There’s a long pause, wherein you perch on the edge of your mattress and chug an obscene amount of water. Adrian watches your throat work until he, too, succumbs and lifts his bottle to his lips.
An uncomfortably heavy silence settles between you two, only permeated by the quiet sipping of water and the cheap motel AC unit kicking in. It’s entirely unlike him to be silent and still for more than a couple of seconds, but he’s just sitting there looking despondent and running a hand back and forth over the white comforter, periodically lifting his bottle to take another drink. He doesn’t even really look tired, and you wonder if he ever got to sleep in the first place.
You know that the tension in the air is so thick because you have yet to address the giant fucking elephant in the room; and to address it is to have the most awkward and intimate conversation you can possibly imagine with Adrian, of all people. As much as you love his sense of humor, the idea of baring your soul to him is almost enough to have you running into the bathroom again, and locking the damn door this time.
But, in true Adrian fashion (because damn it all to hell if he ever lets something be), he beats you to the punch. “So, are you? Sober now, I mean.”
You chew your lip again, and reopen the gash you’d put there before. “Yeah. I am.”
He nods, pursing his lips as he looks down at his lap. He was right, his hair does dry… well, not weird, but just rather unruly if he goes to bed with it wet. Dark curls stick up at odd angles, a cowlick on the back of his crown standing straight up and begging you to come over and smooth it down. More curls fall across his forehead and nearly touch the top of his glasses. He blinks slowly, and severe shadows from his lashes cross his face in the golden light of the bedside lamp. You snap your gaze away, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.
“So… was that a lie? About just needing to sober up?”
Your thumbs twitch on your bottle. To tell the truth, or to lie? You feel like your mouth just stays dry, no matter how much water you drink. “Look, Adrian, I-”
“Also, I have, like, no pride and a ridiculously thick skull, or- or whatever Peacemaker calls it. So, you don’t have to beat around the bush or anything for my sake, you probably won’t even hurt me-”
“Adrian, I like you too fucking much, don’t you get it?”
That fully shuts him up, and he locks his jaw as he fixes you with a startled look. You suck your bottom lip through your teeth, perturbed at the taste of blood still apparent on it, and dig your heels into the carpet.
“The last thing I want to do is hurt you. You’re… one of my closest friends, all right? But I’m afraid that if we keep going like this, I’m not going to want to be friends anymore. And I think I’ll fall in love with you really quickly, and that might be a really bad idea for both of us. You just…” You shake your head, your voice dipping in volume as you stare bashfully down at your feet, “you have no clue how much I want you all the time, baby.”
“Why would it be a bad idea?” he asks you plainly.
“What?” You pick your eyes up off the floor to squint at him, finding him staring at you challengingly, a flush already on his cheeks.
“I mean, honestly. Name a single reason why it would be a bad idea. Bet’cha can’t.” Adrian throws his empty water bottle across the room, and it makes a gentle tap against the side of the television before skittering to the floor. “I think we’d fuck like rabbits and then I’d wake up every morning and make you pancakes, because I’m really fucking good at those, but you’d have to make the eggs because I always burn them. And I think we’d kick ass together as a cool superhero power couple, and I’d carry your gun for you if you got tired, and I could show you where all my hidden knives are. And you could also do anything you wanted to me, like any time, and I’d be totally fine with it and probably also turned on by it, as long as you call me baby like you just did.”
“Are you serious?”
“Oh, yeah, I’m super hard right now. Probably should’ve warned you, I have a thing about that-”
“No, smartass, I mean are you serious about the other stuff?” You tilt your head at him. “I never really took you for the domestic sort.”
“Tsch- yeah! I’m, like, super domestic. I’m like one of those domestic...ated... cats?” He trails off as you step forward and crawl onto his bed, up his legs to straddle his lap.
“Cats?” you repeat with a raised eyebrow.
“I’m… I…” Adrian’s eyes flick across your face, down to your shirt and bare thighs on either side of his, your knees pressing the comforter taut across his lap and (very prominent) erection. “I don’t know, I have trouble thinking when you’re on top of me-”
Nodding, you reach forward and take his glasses by the wire earpieces, and pull them from his face. He goes stock still, his lips parted in awe as you slide them onto your own face, and give him a sweet smile. “I like your glasses. They look good on you.”
“They look good on you.” His voice cracks. “Can you see in them?”
You blink at him, and then turn your head to look across the room. “A lot better than I thought I would. I think our prescriptions are similar.”
“That means you can also wear my mask.”
You look back at him, and find that he has his million-mile stare on, like he’s completely lost in thought. You smirk. “Do you want me to wear the mask?”
He blinks, and it’s like you’ve flipped a switch and turned his focus back on. “Uh… no. I mean, yes. Maybe later. I want to look at you.” His eyelashes flutter so fast you think he might take flight for a second. “You’re so fucking beautiful I could stare at you all day.”
“You can touch me, too. Don’t be shy.”
He practically vibrates with anticipation as his palms glide up your thighs, hot and big and just a bit rough. His eyes are everywhere at once; your lips, your eyes, your chest, your thighs, where your hips disappear under your oversized shirt. His fingers catch the hem, and he curls it between them.
“You should totally get naked, too. It’s super unfair that I’m the only one naked right now,” he says breathlessly, nodding the whole time like he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.
“So, do it.” You shrug, trailing a finger up his chest. “Take it off, baby.”
Adrian fists the hem of your shirt and rips it in half up the middle with a loud tear. You gasp, shivering as the garment falls from your shoulders and leaves you in just your panties. “Adrian!”
His eyes are trained on your tits. “What? It’s not like you need it tonight, anyways, and tomorrow we’ll be home…”
“What if that was my only shirt?” you retort.
He looks up at you. “Was it?”
“Well, no-”
“Then there’s your answer. Now, can I go down on you? Because I’ve wanted to for a really long time and I think it’s super hot that you’re wearing my glasses so it’s like I’m watching myself eat your pussy.”
He has such a hopeful expression on his face that you have to hold in a manic string of laughter as you nod at him. “Yeah, sure. Are you going to tear up my underwear, too?”
“No, I wanna keep those.”
“That makes perfect sense.” You shake your head before you kiss him deeply, and his tongue dips into your mouth as he rolls over with you, briefly getting tangled in the sheets before he roughly kicks them off.
You run your fingers through his hair, snickering as he climbs between your legs and his hands deftly tug your panties down. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Depends on how incriminating it is.”
“I’ve never come from someone eating me out before,” you admit quietly, a blush furiously heating your cheeks until you fear that if you touch your face you might burn yourself.
Adrian fixes you with a deadpan stare, and a slew of emotions cross his face before he lands on something relatively serene and says, “Okay.”
“Okay?”
He nods and grins, like this is the most casual conversation in the world, and his green eyes bore into yours. “Yeah. You should probably, uh… hold on, though.”
You frown in confusion. “To what?”
He rocks back on his knees, picking up your arms by the wrists, and he very simply places your hands on his head, with a little smile that conveys, ‘it’s no big deal,’ but the tenderness with which he does it sends another message, altogether. Your fingers weave between soft, unruly curls, your fingernails digging in just a bit when he lowers himself down between your thighs, and you come to the conclusion that this is just how he is. Tenderness, closeness, hidden behind casual sighs and dismissive shrugs.
You’re learning. Slowly.
His breath finds you before his lips do, where you’re wet and swollen and slippery like you haven’t been touched in your fucking life. But he has once already, and still his mouth feels like a searing hot brand between your legs. In fact, you nearly jump out of your skin at the first brush of his tongue through your folds, your hands tightening on his hair and tugging as you buck your hips up against him.
Adrian grasps your hips and slams them down against the mattress. Sometimes you forget how fucking strong he is. His slight frame really doesn’t give justice to the force behind those lean muscles, because he holds you in an iron grip that you can hardly wiggle out of. It makes you feel small, in a way, that he holds you hostage to his tongue and won’t let you move away from or towards him.
A long, miserable whine rips out of your lips before you can stop it, and you could blush at how pathetic it sounds, except that Adrian mimics it with a groan against your cunt. Your head is flung back against the pillows, but when you just barely tilt up to glance down at him, you find his green eyes trained directly on you. They start off wide as moons, and then narrow like he’s challenging you to look away as he drags the flat expanse of his tongue slowly over your clit, curling the tip just as it skims the mark.
“Oh, fuck you, Adrian, you’re so fucking good,” you grit out through clenched teeth. Your nails dig into his scalp and he shudders, briefly nuzzling his head up into your touch before he dips down to give you his tongue again. Your breath hitches, and your eyes flutter shut when he sucks on your clit long and hard. “So… s-so good… good boy…”
The moan that Adrian makes is overtly pornographic, and his hips snap once against the mattress so hard that the bed shakes beneath you. He breaks away from you to rest his forehead against your thigh, squeezing your hips tightly in his hold as his hot breath billows across your sweat-damp skin.
You loosen your fingers in his hair to stroke it softly, subconsciously struggling to flatten the cowlick at the back that you’d noticed earlier. Adrian’s eyes are squeezed shut, his shoulders heaving while he tries to steady his breath through his nose. “Did you just come?”
The tips of Adrian’s ears glow pink. He gives you a little nod and then a feeble, “Couldn’t help it.”
So, he can’t just take his praise in stride, he has to react to it with fervor. “That’s really sexy of you,” you blurt out, your voice ragged and just this side of adoring.
He returns with a quiet mmm, rumbling across your skin as he drags his open mouth along the sensitive flesh of your thigh, his eyes drowsily shut. It takes him another moment to catch his breath, but once he does, he’s right back at it again. Dipping his head down and absolutely going for it with no signs of letting up, and you have to suck in a deep stream of air and scramble for a hold on him somehow.
“Oh- oh my fuckin-g god-” your voice comes out without thinking, wrung thin and anguished, as your foot plants itself in his shoulder. Adrian simply grunts, paying no mind to the fact that you’re effectively kicking the living shit out of him as he sucks so hard on your clit that you threaten to break his vise-hold on your hips.
He was right that you needed something to hold onto, because you feel like you might leave the ground. He works at you relentlessly, devouring you with his lips and tongue and teeth like he can’t get enough of you, his fingertips pressing so hard into your hips that his nails are turning stark white.
“Fuck, you’re so squirmy,” Adrian groans when he pulls away from you for half a second, and struggles to hold you down when you try to chase his mouth. “Should I tie you down?”
“Do you have anything to tie me down with?” you mutter breathlessly toward the ceiling.
A beat. “Nope. Stay still.”
You fight not to jolt as the next touch of his mouth on you. He dips his tongue into your channel, seemingly trying to draw your arousal out of you that way. You start whining when he finally nuzzles his way back up, giving you soft, teasing licks to your clit that edge you closer and closer to the release of the swell of heat you feel building in your core. Your volume turns up a notch when his tongue starts drawing little circles around the swollen flesh.
And when his lips come down to latch onto it and gently suck, you know you’re just shy of howling. His soft groans vibrate onto your skin as you scratch at his head and pull on his hair, and you eventually find yourself babbling, “Adrian, please, I’m gonna come, please pleasepleaseplease-”
He sucks harder, moaning like it turns him on just to hear you say it. You heave a few rapid breaths, and then come against his face with a cry that crackles and breaks in your throat as your head arches back, baring your neck forward. Your heels digging into his back, hands scratching, hips flailing like you can somehow escape the barrage of hypersensitivity he’s putting you through.
You really fucking hope no one is in the room next to yours.
His fingertips stick to your skin once he releases his grip on you. He’s practically glowing, grinning from ear to ear at you from between your legs, and it’s a better image than you had imagined.
You drop your head back with a breathless chuckle. “Okay, Mr. ‘I Have No Pride.’”
“I made you come,” he chirps happily.
“Yeah, you did. It was really good, too.”
“So, why didn’t anyone else?” Adrian pushes his head toward your touch when you stroke your hand gently through his hair.
“I dunno. They weren’t applying themselves, I guess.”
“That’s stupid. You’re, like, the hottest person ever. Hotter than Doja Cat,” he grumbles petulantly, and you can tell by the look in his eye that he’s dead serious. “Want me to kill them? I should kill them.”
“No.” You trail your fingers down the curve of his face, going for his chin, but he turns his face and sucks your two fingers into his mouth before you can manage it. You stop dead as the pad of his tongue swirls around the digits, and he blinks up at you innocently, despite the lewd connotations of the act. “N-no, I… hhhhh… you’re distracting me.”
He bats his eyes at you, and he slowly pulls back along your fingers until they pop out of his mouth, covered in saliva. “How am I distracting you?”
“You’re- you… you little shit.” You grab him by the chin and draw him up from between your legs. He clumsily crawls up the length of your torso with his cheeks smushed between your fingers as you hiss, “I’m going to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, I swear to god.”
“You know, that sounds slightly menacing when you say it like that,” he slurs, his jaw working against your hold.
“On your back, Chase.”
He grabs you before you can protest, and rolls back over so that you plop down on top of him, your hand still jammed up against his jaw. A blast of air comes out of your lungs in lieu of laughter, and Adrian snorts, shuffling his hips so that he moves back against the pillows.
“Okay, look, I really really really like you,” he says as you pick yourself up, straddling his lap, “but if you’re too good at this I might accidentally fall in love with you. Just to let you know what you’re getting into here.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“Yeah, and I think I might actually, um, ask you to move in with me, like, immediately. Like tomorrow. Do you rent or own? Doesn’t matter, I can put your name on the lease. Maybe if you own a house it can be income property-”
You cast your eyes down and find him, remarkably, hard and leaking precum as he continues babbling about living situations. You tilt your head, letting him get his stream of consciousness out there in the open, as your eyes catch on a dark wad of fabric beside his pillow. Your underwear, which he’d gingerly set aside instead of tossing across the room like you thought he would.
“Hm, Adrian?”
He blinks up at you, his eyes wide and dilated. “Yeah?”
You pick up the wadded up underwear. “You wanted to keep these, right?”
He licks his lips. “Um. Yes.”
“Hold them for me, then.” You grab his jaw and stuff them in his mouth, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull as he makes a noise of protest, but then actually moans when, presumably, he tastes you on them. “You’re so fucking cute, I haven’t even tied you up. You just want my taste in your mouth, huh?” He nods. “Yeah. Pretty boy.”
He predictably moans again, his hands grasping at every part of you they can reach; your arms, your breasts, the expanse of his palms gliding down the curve of your waist and settling on your thighs. You grab one, lifting it and settling his palm against your throat.
“Hold this for me, too?” You ask him sweetly, giving his bewildered expression a devilish smirk in return. You rock forward, sliding your dripping pussy along his erection, and his hand tightens on your throat just a bit. “That’s it.”
You pick your hips up, reaching between your legs to position him where you want him, and when you sink down onto his cock, the underwear in his mouth does nothing to muffle the obscene groan that he makes. His hand flexes on your throat, and his eyes close and open a few times as he tries to maintain a certain amount of control. Something tells you that he’s not really used to taking it lying down.
You’re already decently sore from the way he effectively fucked your brains out in the shower. This is just ensuring that you’re going to be feeling it for the rest of the week, but you can’t help yourself. You take him in all the way, making agonized noises the entire time, and then jolt your hips down a little more so you can feel him bottom out.
“Fucking hell, baby, you’re something else,” you snarl down at him, and his eyes go wide again as you squeeze him, every bit of your aching strength bearing down onto his cock until he whines loudly through the fabric and his fingers tighten on the sides of your throat. “Oh, god, I could ruin you. You could ruin me. I want you to, it would be so easy for you, I wouldn’t even be able to walk in the morning.”
And you’re moving, picking up your hips and letting them fall back down in slow, deep strokes that have him writhing, his free hand in a death grip on your thigh. You raise your hand to press against the back of his on your throat, your fingers weaving in between his, and he flexes them back a bit to make room.
Even when he’s gagged, he’s noisy. Keening and grunting at you, his jaw tightening every once in a while and the tendons of his neck jumping out at you when your hips meet his. Dark curls hang down his forehead, damp with sweat, and you can’t help but feel like the shower was useless.
No, not useless. It brought you here.
Adrian bucks his hips up suddenly, meeting you halfway when you take a particularly long time on the downstroke. You gasp, tightening your hand on his, and your nails dig into his chest.
“Oh, you want me to ruin you, don’t you?” You murmur at him, baiting him to do it again. And he does, just like you hoped he would. You pick up the pace in retaliation, letting the lewd sounds of your skin hitting his fill the room. “Silly boy, I knew you would.”
He whimpers, blinking up at you slowly, his face screwing up and tightening in earnest when you rake your nails up and down his chest. He makes a couple pathetic, weak groans in the back of his throat like he wants to convey something to you, but he’s not reaching up to remove your underwear from his mouth.
(You wonder if he even remembers that he can.)
“You gonna come for me?” you ask as his whimpers increase in volume. His cock is so hard, twitching and dragging thick inside you, and his chest jumps with every desperate, ragged breath he takes. “Yeah, you are. Go on, baby, make a mess.”
Adrian gives you a curt shake of his head, and paws at your thigh for a second before his hand slides forward, and his thumb touches your clit.
“Oh fuck, Adrian-” you lurch forward, pressing your throat hard against his palm, your legs seizing up on either side of his hips. He makes you come again with a single fucking touch, and it burns through your core like fire, almost more satisfying than the first because you’re able to feel him inside you this time, something warm and hard and thick to come on.
Apparently, that was all he needed in order to let go. His back arches a bit as he jerks his hips up into yours, and he fills your pulsing cunt until his shallow breaths rattle in his throat, his eyes squeezed so tight that you see a tear collecting in the corner of one. He lays with his head driven back hard into the pillow, whimpering and whining like he’s been mortally wounded.
Too sore to move just yet, you pull his hand away from your throat and kiss his palm. Adrian’s eyes flutter open, and he finds you with a glazed-over stare, like he might either see you or see through you. Still letting out soft whimpers with each harsh exhale.
“Oh. Sweetheart,” you giggle, and reach forward to pull the wad of underwear from his mouth. It comes out with a long string of his spit attached to it, and you give him a cheeky smirk as you break the string with your finger and lick it off, rather than wiping it on your skin.
“You… you’re…” You swear his eyes nearly roll back in his skull before he closes them, trying to collect himself. He takes a deep, long breath, and then splutters, “Willyoumarrymeactually?”
You give him your biggest, goofiest grin, a little bubble of laughter wedging itself deep in your chest. “Get a little more whisky in me, and we’ll see what bright ideas I have then.”
“Okay.”
You lift yourself off of his softening cock, and the release comes with a dribble of his cum sliding down your thigh. He groans, but with one look at him you know that there’s not going to be any more action for the rest of the night.
You shift to the left, and his hand smacks down onto your thigh. “Mmmm no, you sleep with me.”
“Yeah, obviously. But you came all over the sheets earlier, genius.”
“Oh.”
He takes a deep breath in and opens his eyes in time to see you taking his glasses off. You blink a few times, your eyes having adjusted to the slight difference in your prescriptions, and refocus on his face to find him gazing up at you adoringly.
“I’m gonna take a guess and say you don’t sleep in these, too?” You wiggle the glasses at him.
He licks his lips. “No, not… not usually.”
You set the glasses on the bedside table, and then slowly slide off of him, off the bed and onto shaky legs. You take his hand and tug just a bit. “C’mon, pretty. Into my bed.”
He follows your lead without a fuss, making the two step journey to the other bed and plopping down face-first.
“D’you wanna get pancakes when we wake up?” he asks around a yawn as you nudge his ass, prodding him to scoot over.
You nod furiously, even though you know he can’t see you as you switch the light off and climb in beside him, curling up against his warm back. “Pancakes sound fucking delicious.”
a/n: I promised I didn't forget about this series! I've been really busy and especially with the holidays coming up. I'm going insane...might be a little rushed soo excuse the mistake.
Sypnosis: After watching your brother, Rick Flag, die at the hands of the man you just started to trust—Peacemaker—your world shatters, but later you’re offered a chance for revenge, you take it without hesitation. But then someone unexpected walks into your life and your vengeance started to blur into something dangerously close to feeling again.
Parings: Adrian chase x grumpy!reader
warnings/Tags: 18+ Slow burn, somewhat enemies to lovers, mutual pining, no use of (y/n), reader is an asshole, stalking, drinking, reader and Adrian basically fight.
Word count: 15,556
chapters: pt.i | pt.ii | pt.iii | pt.iv | pt.v | pt.vi | pt.viii | pt.
(divider credits:@strangergraphics)
It was such a weird feeling, confusing, and completely out of place. That night, after you dropped Adrian off, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Which was insane, because just yesterday, you couldn’t stand him. Now your mind wouldn’t shut up about him.
Apparently, you weren’t the only one losing it. Adrian spent the whole night replaying everything too. God, he was going crazy. He shouldn’t be feeling like that. You were rude, yet somehow still… confusing. Chaotic in a way he weirdly liked. It made his brain spark in all the wrong—or maybe the right—ways.
He wasn’t used to caring about being liked. He pretended it didn’t matter, acted like he was fine being the odd one out. But deep down, he wanted it. Especially from you.
He kept replaying the entire car ride in his mind. The way you looked so serious as you drove. The slight furrow of your brows as you focused on the road. The way your lashes fluttered when you blinked, soft and unguarded. He remembered every detail like his brain refused to let him forget a single second.
While he was replaying the whole thing, you were in your bed, tossing and twisting like you were trying to out-maneuver your own thoughts. Fighting off those sudden, stupid feelings for him. You hated it. You hated him for making you feel something you never asked for.
You’d spent so long convincing yourself you didn’t need anyone—didn’t want anyone. The idea of being with someone made your skin crawl and getting attached wasn't part of the plan.
But Adrian wasn’t even that bad. He was just weird. Strange in a way that didn’t quite fit anywhere—but somehow that was the one thing you liked about him.
And you didn’t trust him. Not yet. He was friends with Peacemaker—your enemy at the moment—and that alone was enough to keep every instinct in you on guard. So no matter how curious he made you, or how close he kept accidentally getting, you weren’t about to let Adrian slip anywhere near your guard. For now.
That didn’t exactly mean you couldn’t dig up his life in the system. If anything, it made the idea feel… necessary. You needed to know everything about him—every detail, every quiet corner of his life he probably assumed no one ever noticed.
But not because you cared. You refused to care. You told yourself it was just curiosity. A simple study of who Adrian was. You’d knit together the version of him you needed to understand—without ever actually knowing him.
Eventually, you gave in your thought of stalking adrians life. So early that morning, you found yourself heading to the video store. The bell over the door gave a faint jingle as you slipped inside. Your bag hung heavy on your shoulder, packed with your work things. The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you in with the quiet.
The room was dark, empty except for the pale wash of streetlight spilling through the windows and stretching long shadows across the floor.
You moved carefully, your boots tapping softly against the tile — the sound sharp in the stillness. You made your way toward the front desk, trying to stay calm, focused—
“What are you doing here?”
The deep voice cut through the dark like a knife. You jumped, heart lurching in your chest. Before you could even react, harsh fluorescent light flooded the room. You flinched, throwing up a hand to shield your eyes. Blinking against the glare, you squinted toward the source.
Economos stood near the light switch, one hand holding a Ziploc bag of Goldfish, while the other still held onto the light switch on the wall. He stared at you with a mix of confusion and suspicion, crumbs dusting his beard.
You let out a sight of annoyance. You rolled your eyes. The place was supposed to be empty — that was the whole point of coming early. “Why are you here?” you asked, dropping your bag on the desk with a dull thud.
Economos wandered over, crunching on another handful of Goldfish, then plopped down at the desk across from yours.
“Uh, I’m always here,” he said flatly, gesturing around the room like it was the most obvious fact in the world. You stared at him with a hard, unamused look, not in the mood for whatever nonsense he thought he was being funny about.
He cleared his throat and straightened up. “I needed to edit a few things on the PowerPoint for the meeting later,” he added, adjusting the bridge of his glasses with a quick, habitual touch.
“At five in the morning?” you muttered, irritation bleeding through every word. Your gaze dropped to your bag as you pulled out your laptop. Honestly, you could’ve done this from home—but the encrypted network Economos had set up here was much safer. If you were going to dig into restricted government files, you weren’t taking chances.
He kept watching you as he chewed, one eyebrow inching up in suspicion. “Uh, yeah. Murn likes to get here fucking early. I need this done now,” he said, crumbs clinging to his beard.
You watched a couple of crumbs drop into it, blinked hard, then finally sat down. “How early?” you asked.
Economos thought for a second, eyes drifting upward. “Six… ish,” he said with a shrug.
You hummed as you opened your laptop. You had exactly one hour to dig into your little “research.” Economos watched you as you started typing rapidly, his eyes narrowing like he was trying to figure out what crime you were about to commit.
You were logging into the system. Honestly, this was the best part of working for ARGUS—you had access to almost everything. Almost. But with your dad being higher up, you had access to even more than you should’ve.
“Okay,” he said eventually, voice slow and lazy. “why are you here? It’s five in the morning. You’re not exactly a morning person.”
You didn’t answer right away — because there was no way you were going to say, “I’m here to get into the government site and dig up Adrian’s entire life.” Instead you dropped your voice into something flatter, more boring. “Work. Just like you.”
Economos stared at you for a long second. He chewed slowly, eyes narrowing like he was trying to line up a glitch in the Matrix. “At five a.m.?” he finally asked, disbelief dripping off every syllable.
You didn’t bother answering. Mostly because you didn’t have one. And partly because you knew he was right—there was absolutely no universe where you’d be voluntarily doing work at this ungodly hour.
But here you were anyway, pretending you weren’t scanning through Adrian’s file. “You sure you’re feeling okay?” he asked. “Because the you I know doesn’t… function until at least Ten.”
You kept your expression neutral, eyes locked on the screen—anything to avoid the possibility of him seeing the real reason you were awake. No, not because you cared about Adrian. You didn’t. Obviously.
You took a slow, heavy breath before finally looking up at him. “Shut up,” you said flatly. Economos froze mid-chew, a Goldfish cracker half-crushed between his fingers.
“I need to focus, okay?” you continued, your tone clipped, eyes narrowing. “So shut up and work on your fucking Power Point.” He blinked at you, mouth still full, then held up both hands in surrender. “Alright, jeez.” He wisely turned back to his computer, the only sound left in the room the faint crunch of crackers and the rapid clacking of your keys.
Finally, the room fell silent. Economos was buried in his Power Point slides and you were lost in your own mission—typing Adrian’s name into every secured database you could access.
And then—bingo.
There he was. His file opened like a neatly wrapped secret waiting to be torn apart. You started small: his birth certificate, the hospital he was born in, the date. You leaned closer to the screen, humming under your breath. Two years older than you. Born and raised in Washington. Never moved or anything. How boring.
You kept scrolling. School records. You clicked on his graduation photo and your brows shot up. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. God, he was a nerd. He still looked like one but better than before.
Economos watched as you laughed to yourself, squinting at your screen like you were trying to zoom in with your eyeballs. He should’ve been focusing on his Power Point, but how could he? You were acting suspicious as hell, and curiosity had him by the throat.
You looked at his employment history, arrest reports, medical data—you opened tab after tab, collecting pieces of him like puzzle fragments you had no business touching.
Adrian’s life was… honestly kind of boring. Clean record—well, except for the arrest from yesterday. He didn’t have much going on in his life besides that his little vigilante secret.
“What are you doing?” Economos asked suddenly, his voice cutting through your focus. You froze, fingers pausing mid-keystroke before slowly looking up. He was already staring at you, eyebrows raised, suspicion written all over his face. “What?” you snapped, a little too sharp.
He squinted, chewing on another Goldfish like it was part of his interrogation process. “Well, you keep humming every few seconds,” he said. “And honestly. I’m starting to think you’re doing something bad."
“What? Economos, focus on your shit. I have work to do.” You turned back to the screen, pointedly ignoring him. You clicked something—anything—just to look occupied. The glow of the screen lit your eyes, and the faint hum of the early-morning office buzzed around you.
Economos didn’t buy it. You could practically feel his stare punching into your skull—like a suspicious dad watching his kid insist they weren’t the one who shattered the living room lamp.
And he knew he shouldn’t do it. He really did. He’d done it once years ago, and the one time he did, he ended up being right. And now? Economos was absolutely about to hack into your laptop to see what you were up to.
He straightened suddenly, shifting forward in his chair and typing with new purpose. You glanced over just enough to see him laser-focused on his screen. Finally, he was minding his own business—leaving you free to continue stalking Adrian’s life without an audience.
You kept digging through Adrian’s files, nosing around more than you probably should’ve—hell, you even poked into his family. Turns out he did have an older brother. The same one Peacemaker used to talk about back in Corto Maltese. You remembered peacemaker griping about how the guy had turned into a total goody two-shoes, getting his life together or whatever.
The timeline matched up: he’d moved out of Washington a few years back, went off to college—something Adrian never bothered with. On paper, his life looked… stable. Predictable. Honestly? Kind of miserable and boring.
You clicked on his picture and raised a brow. He looked like Adrian, sure… if Adrian were a complete dick. Which he wasn’t. Honestly, you could totally see why that guy was friends with Peacemaker.
Economos let out a small, dramatic gasp. Your eyes snapped up at him, but he kept his gaze glued to his laptop screen like nothing had happened. You blinked, irritated, and turned back to your own screen. “Stalking Adrian Chase’s life is work to you?” he blurted.
Your fingers froze over the keyboard. The hum of the fluorescent lights suddenly felt too loud. Your stomach dropped, a cold weight settling there as you slowly looked up at him. His expression was half-guilty, half-incredulous, like he already regretted opening his mouth but couldn’t un-say it.
You stared at him for a long, tense moment, the words catching in your throat before you finally managed to speak. “Please tell me you didn’t hack into my computer just to snoop through my shit, John.” Your jaw was clenched so tight your teeth practically buzzed with anger.
“Sorry!” he burst out immediately. “You were acting so weird, I had to! I’m still traumatized from Vegas when you hacked into mine—by the way, I will never trust you again for that.” He pointed at you like the accusation still physically hurt him. “Never.”
“For fuck’s sake, you moron! That was three years ago—and, by the way, I never told anyone what I saw!” you snapped. Economos shook his head immediately. “No. No, I know you told Harcourt.”
“I didn’t,” you shot back. “ I might be a bitch, but I’m not that much of a bitch that I’d go spreading your business around.” You say as threw your hands up, exasperated.
“Fine, whatever,” he muttered, waving off the argument like it exhausted him. “Why are you looking through Adrian’s file?” he asked, switching subjects so abruptly it was almost whiplash.
Your body stiffened as you sat up straighter. “Um… I don’t trust him,” you lied. Economos raised a skeptical brow. “You don’t trust him?” he repeated.
“Yeah,” you shrugged. “He’s weird, and he’s friends with Peacemaker. For all we know, he could be a rat or something.” Economos nodded slowly at your words, clearly unconvinced—but he didn’t press it, because he knew not too.
“I mean, he showed up out of nowhere during the apartment accident. Then he showed up at the Goffs’… connect the dots, Economos! He’s a rat!” you loudly said.
“Yeah, sure. He’s a rat,” Economos said flatly. “The guy who purposefully got himself thrown in jail to kill Peacemaker’s dad is a rat?” You opened your mouth, ready to fire back, but nothing came out. Mostly because—yeah, okay—that was a good point. Didn’t mean you were gonna admit it.
You lifted your chin instead, doubling down. “People do weird stuff when they’re guilty,” you muttered.
“Right,” he said, nodding way too enthusiastically. You glared at him, cheeks warming. “Shut up. This stays between us, okay? I can’t have the team thinking he’s a rat… not until I know for sure,” you said, keeping your voice steady, feeding the lie like it was truth.
Economos hummed absentmindedly, already half on his phone, his eyes flicking up only once in a while. “Great. It’s 6:10,” he muttered, frowning. “And I didn’t even get to finish my PowerPoint.”
“You would’ve if you minded your business!” you snapped, louder than you meant to. He blinked, taken aback, then went right back to scrolling.
You turned back to your screen, pulse tapping a little too fast. Time had slipped through your fingers—fast enough that it felt like you hadn’t dug up nearly enough on Adrian. Sure, you had information. Plenty, actually. More than you needed. But it wasn’t enough.
You wanted more and you hated that.
﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒
“A year ago, Alan Kupperberg—the billionaire CEO of Waresoft—and pop singer Vandalia died in a plane crash. During their autopsies, a small insect-like, winged creature—presumably extraterrestrial—was found inside their skulls. That’s when we first became aware of the Butterflies,” Murn said.
By now, everyone had finally arrived into the old video store. The meeting was supposed to start a while ago, but Peacemaker was—shockingly—not on time. Again. He showed up eventually, bursting through the door like he was arriving at a party no one invited him to, helmet under his arm, hair a mess, slightly out of breath for no reason he would ever explain.
Now all of you sat in front of the small screen. Murn talked, steady and calm as always, while Economos clicked through the PowerPoint he’d been stressing over earlier.
Peacemaker sat surprisingly straight for once—back stiff, hands on his knees, like he was pretending to be the picture of professionalism. Harcourt, on the other hand, was slouched just enough to betray how done she already was with the day. Adebayo was scribbling notes like she was actually still in class and this was all going to be on a test.
You tried to settle in but the second Adrian walked in he made a straight, painfully obvious beeline for the empty seat across from you. He sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world—like that spot had been waiting for him.
The distance should’ve made it easier. It didn’t.
Every so often he’d glance over at you, like he was checking if you were still there, and that tiny, lopsided smile would tug at his mouth. Not big enough to call attention to, just soft enough to feel intentional—like a quiet little “hi” he didn’t dare say out loud.
You wouldn’t exactly smile back—you weren’t there yet—but you’d give him the tiniest nod. Barely anything. A flick of acknowledgement. But for him? Oh, that was plenty. He’d look away with this stupid, quiet grin like he’d just unlocked a secret achievement.
You’d roll your eyes, all irritated on the outside… but even you knew you didn’t actually hate it. Not even a little. In fact, you kinda liked the way he lit up over something so small.
Economos sighted beside you, as he clicked to the next slide, and a collage of celebrities filled the screen—actors, politicians, CEOs, all the pretty faces the world cared about way too much.
“Since then, we’ve found the creature in a handful of high-profile politicians, celebrities, and titans of industry,” he said, sounding way too casual for a guy talking about alien brain invaders.
You’d expected his PowerPoint to be… well, better. Cleaner. Less middle-school-science-fair. But it was complete garbage. Pixelated photos, mismatched fonts And apparently you weren’t the only one silently judging—Peacemaker shook his head at the screen like even he couldn’t believe how bad it was.
Economos kept going. “They enter the human body through one of its orifices and burrow through the brain… where they then take full control of the host.”
Right on cue, the slide switched to a horrifying little animation of exactly that process. The timing was so perfect it almost felt intentional. “They go through the butt?” Peacemaker asked, horrified, as the butterfly insect entered an animated persons ass.
“I think that’s just some, uh… creativity on the part of whoever did the animation,” Murn said, giving Economos a pointed look. Everyone followed his gaze. Economos sighed, shoulders slumping. “The butt is an orifice, okay?”
“That means they’d have to crawl through poop,” Adrian chimed in suddenly, sounding genuinely offended. “Just because they’re aliens doesn’t make them gross. Bigotry.”
You stared at him, eyebrows lifted, then slowly turned your attention back to Economos. “I was gonna fix it, okay?” Economos snapped. “Until someone distracted me with their weird shit on their computer.” He shot you a glare.
You narrowed your eyes at him, a slow, warning squint. Economos looked like he wanted to repeat what you’d said earlier—he wanted to so badly—but the look you were giving him made him rethink every life decision that led him to this moment.
Everyone caught it. The weird tension between you two practically hummed in the room. “Wait, what’d she have?” Peacemaker asked, leaning forward like this was suddenly the most interesting thing in the briefing.
Economos opened his mouth. “Don’t even think about it,” you cut in sharply. “I’ll tell them about Vegas.”
That shut him right up. His lips clamped together so tight he practically swallowed his own comeback. Your threat had the opposite effect you intended—now everyone looked curious. Even Peacemaker perked up like a dog who’d heard the word treat.
But you knew you’d never actually tell Economos’s secret. You wouldn’t want to traumatize anyone else the way you had been traumatized.
“Okay…” Murn said, dragging the briefing back on track. “The Butterflies’ unique genetic structure and chemistry interact with their hosts’ bodies, giving them strength far beyond that of a human being.”
Everyone reluctantly pulled their eyes off you and Economos and focused on the screen again. Economos clicked to the next slide. A human figure stood next to a chimpanzee. Nothing else.
“And what’s the chimp for?” Adebayo asked, eyebrows up.
“Chimpanzees have four times the strength of a human being, so they’re both strong,” Economos explained, as if that cleared anything up.
“Yeah, we’re supposed to get that just by looking at this, Dye-Beard,” Peacemaker muttered. Economos’s jaw tightened.
“I thought the man and the chimp were friends,” Adrian said suddenly, voice completely sincere. “I thought they were about to go on an adventure together.”
Everyone turned to look at him. Every. Single. Person. You stared too, wondering—yet again—if he was sometimes stupid on purpose… or if this was just Adrian being Adrian.
“This viscous amber fluid has been found at the sites of all the dead butterflies,” Murn said, voice steady, though the words themselves made the room heavier. “Lab studies show the fluid’s genetic structure doesn’t match anything on the planet. And…it seems to be the butterflies’ only food source. Which makes what Leota discovered last night potentially significant.”
Economos clicked to the next slide. “This was on the bulletin board at the Goffs’ home,” Murn explained, pointing to a Glan Tai card.
“Leota noticed that this is also where Annie Sturphausen worked,” Murn added, and Economos switched to the next slide, leaving the room silent for a moment, everyone staring at the growing web of connections.
The next slide flashed up, but instead of a normal layout, the screen erupted with a chaotic wave of animated explosions before fading into a clear image of Annie’s work badge.
Peacemaker burst out laughing, slapping the table. “You fucking suck at PowerPoints, Dye-beard!”
“Yeah, well, you can do it next time. It’s not like I enjoy making this,” Economos shot back, voice defensive. “Yeah, you do! It’s amazing,” Peacemaker said, still chuckling.
"The incredible amount of time you put into this presentation... and how incredibly shitty it still is." His jab carried more than just mockery—he was still pissed about Economos putting his dad in jail, and maybe that why he was going at him.
Adrian chuckled along with Peacemaker, and you looked over at him. But the smile vanished the second his eyes met yours. He straightened in his chair, expression dead serious.
“Okay, Peacemaker. Enough,” Murn said, sounding annoyed, trying to pull the team back from the chaos.
“I didn’t mean to put your father in prison,” Economos muttered, avoiding Peacemaker’s gaze. “Then why’d you do it, you fat fuck?” Peacemaker snapped, slamming his fist onto the table.
“Because… I couldn’t think of anyone else—” Economos started, but Peacemaker cut him off, shaking his head. “What about Ariana Grande? Or Drake?” he asked. “What?” Economos snapped, already fed up.
Peacemaker didn’t stop. If anything, he kept going. “Brad Pitt! Or Payne Stewart! Or Doug the Pug? Khloé Kardashian! The Red Tiger from Voltron! Fran Tarkenton! Joe Montana! Joe Mantegna—”
You all sat there, trapped, listening to his never-ending list of random celebrity names. Every now and then one of you would meet someone else’s eyes, and questioning the whole thing.
“Alright, next time I have to fucking frame somebody, it’ll be one of those thousands of people you just mentioned!” Economos snapped back. “Yeah, tell that to my dad,” Peacemaker loudly said.
“Peacemaker, shut the fuck up!” Murn finally exploded, voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Do you all wanna be here till tomorrow?” The room went dead silent. Every single one of you stared at Murn like schoolkids caught passing notes.
Nobody answered. Not until Adrian—of all people—slowly raised his hand next to you, elbow brushing yours. “Do you have cable?” he asked, completely sincere.
Murn stared at him, stone-faced. “So, I don’t wanna stay here overnight if there’s no cable,” Adrian continued, unbothered. “Fargo’s on tonight.”
“It was a rhetorical question,” Murn said through clenched teeth.
“Oh, got it.” Adrian nodded, then smiled, wide and hopelessly earnest. “In that case, I change my answer to just ignoring the question. Not another word.” He zipped his mouth shut with two fingers and pressed them together like it was some solemn vow.
“The point is… the raw amber fluid is potentially being processed and bottled at Glan Tai Bottling Company,” Murn said, pacing like his brain was five steps ahead of all of you. “Glan Tai is in Little Cork about two hours north from here. So you’re all gonna take a field trip and see what you find out. ”
He didn’t even pause to make sure anyone was on the same page. “I’m staying back to deal with the White Dragon situation.”
Nobody argued with that—not out loud, anyway. The room went quiet for a beat, the kind of silence where everyone’s pretending they’re totally fine.
But the mission wasn’t going to prep itself.
So, one by one, you all started moving. You slipped away to the back room, the one where all the weapons were stored. You scanned the room automatically—rows of rifles lined up on the long tables, heavier hardware mounted on the walls, a few knives left in places they definitely weren’t supposed to be. Typical.
With a tired yawn, you headed toward the table with the smaller handguns laid out. They sat in neat rows on a worn mat, each one cleaned, tagged, and ready. You reached for a pistol and lifted it closer, turning it in your hand to get a better look.
It was one of the basic models the team always carried. Not your favorite—kind of boring, honestly—but solid. Light. Reliable. The kind of gun that didn’t surprise you, which made it useful on days like this.
A soft creak from the floorboards snapped your attention toward the door. You looked back, catching sight of Adrian hovering there like he wasn’t sure if he should come in or back away slowly.
“What, Adrian?” you muttered, eyes already dropping back to the pistol. You tried to make it sound annoyed, irritated, dismissive—but it rang hollow even to your own ears. You weren’t mad. You were just trying way too hard to convince yourself you hated him.
“You know… you’re really confusing,” he said. You didn’t bother looking at him. The metal felt cool under your fingertips, easier to focus on than whatever he was about to unload.
“One day you’re nice, and then the next?” He let out a small breath. “It’s like your whole mood changes.” His voice wasn’t accusing—just puzzled, like he was standing in front of a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve. And unfortunately for you, you were the puzzle.
“Yeah?” you said flatly. “Wild how moods work.” There was a beat—small, awkward, and loud with things neither of you wanted to say. He tried again, a little softer. “I’m just saying… it’s hard to know where I stand with you.”
That was the exact sentence you didn’t need. Your stomach tightened; your pulse jumped the way you hated. So you did the only thing you trusted yourself to do—push him away.
“Adrian,” you said, finally turning toward him, “you don’t stand anywhere with me.” He blinked, caught off guard. Good. You needed him off-balance. Far away. On another planet, preferably.
“I’m not your friend,” you added, sharper than you meant to. “I’m not your—whatever you think I am. And I don’t owe you consistency.”
He stared at you, the confusion in his face flickering into something that looked almost hurt. You tried not to care. You tried really, really hard. But your chest still tightened like an idiot.
“I apologized last night, but that didn’t suddenly mean we could be friends.” You kept your tone flat, clinical, like you were diagnosing him with stupidity. “So don’t read into anything I say or do,” you finished. “Ever.”
He swallowed, looking at the floor for a second. “Right,” he murmured. “Got it.”
You expected him to walk away. You wanted him to walk away. Instead, he just stood there for a moment, not moving, not speaking—like he was waiting for you to take it back. You didn’t.
You just reached for another gun, jaw set, pretending your heart wasn’t slamming against your ribs like it was trying to break out. Because you refused to let him get under your skin. Even though he already had.
You kept your gaze lowered, scanning over the handguns like you were judging them in a lineup. Adrian still lingered beside you, clearly watching you think. “I’d choose this one,” he finally said, pointing toward a revolver like he was doing you some great favor.
Your eyes slid to him. You stared a beat too long, wondering why he was still here—why he kept orbiting you like this. Not that you were gonna complain. You always had a weakness for guys who didn’t give up easily.
“A revolver?” you echoed, brow lifting. “What’s so good about a revolver?” You looked away again, sifting through the other options with deliberate disinterest.
“Well, it’s light, and it’s easy to use—but me personally?” He shrugged, a little too proudly. “I’d go for that machine gun.” You followed the direction of his gaze to the hulking weapon mounted on the wall in front of you two. Of course.
“Yeah, because I totally wanna carry around a big fucking gun,” you shot back, turning to face him fully.
Adrian’s eyes widened theatrically. “I mean—isn’t that the point of your job?” he blurted. “You kill people! I mean—bad people, obviously!” He gave you a hopeful smile, the kind that always made you want to smack him.
You stared at him, a frown tugging at your brows. “I don’t kill people for the fun of it, Adrian,” you said, voice flat. “And even if I did, a big fucking gun like that would just get in my way.”
“Oh. I just… would’ve expected you to like your job,” Adrian said carefully. “I mean, the way you killed the Goffs back there—you didn’t even think twice about it.”
“Yeah, because it’s my job,” you replied, unfazed. “And they were aliens, Adrian. Not actual people.” Your tone was clipped, but steady. You reached for the revolver anyway, thumbing it open with practiced ease. Adrian watched every movement—too closely, like he was trying to figure you out again.
The cylinder was full. You snapped it shut with a clean, metallic click and slid it inside the inner pocket of your coat.
“Hey—also, uh… thanks for driving me home last night,” he said suddenly, his voice softer as he changed the subject. “Sure,” you answered, already shifting your attention to the knife resting beside the guns. You ran your finger down the spine of the blade.
“Except for the part where I had to Uber myself back to the police station because my car was still there,” he added. That made you look up. Hard.
“What?” Your eyes narrowed at him. “I thought Murn had moved it for you.” Adrian shook his head, lips pressing together. Your chest tightened. “Oh. I had no idea. I would’ve picked you up myself if you’d called.”
He let that linger in the air, just a second too long. “Right,” he said quietly. “I would’ve… but then I remembered I don’t have your number.”
The room seemed to shrink around those words—not dramatic, just tight, like something unsaid decided to sit between you on the weapons table. And Adrian held your gaze this time—steady, nervous, but definitely intentional—waiting to see what you’d do with that information.
You stared back at him, eyebrows slightly raised. Really? After you’d just snapped at him—that’s when he decides to get bold? Your face twisted into this confused, borderline offended look, like you were trying to figure out if he was joking.
But under all that… yeah. Your heartbeat definitely ticked a little faster than you’d ever admit. Because if he was hinting he wanted your number? He was really smooth with it.
Your lips parted, the beginning of a response catching your breath—something you weren’t even sure you’d planned to say.
But—
“Hey! We gotta go!” Harcourt’s voice sliced through the room from the doorway.
You both jerked your heads toward her. Of course. Of course she walked in right when Adrian was dangerously close to maybe, possibly, actually getting your number. Her timing was just perfect.
“Right,” you blurted, a little faster than necessary. You reached out and grabbed the nearest gun—didn’t even check what it was. Anything to break the moment before your face gave too much away.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Adrian’s shoulders drop just an inch. Not disappointed exactly… more like he’d been mid-step toward something and someone yanked the floor out from under him.
But when you turned to walk out, you felt his eyes still lingering on you—almost like the conversation wasn’t over. Not even close.
The car ride was pure torture. Not just for you, but for Economos, Adebayo, and Harcourt too. Peacemaker had his shitty rock playlist blasting like he was trying to summon a demon through volume alone.
You hated rock. Hated it with the kind of passion usually reserved for paper cuts and people who chew with their mouths open. It made your brain itch and your teeth grind—honestly, if it were socially acceptable, you would’ve stabbed your own ears just to make it stop.
And of course Adrian liked it. Of course he did. He kept hyping peacemaker up, telling him to “turn it higher, man, this is the good part!” like he wasn’t actively contributing to your slow, violent death.
By the time the van finally screeched to a stop outside Glan Tai, you nearly fell out. Thank. God. You were the first to step down, inhaling deeply and letting the breeze wash over you.
“Okay, here’s your earpiece!” Adebayo called, tossing it toward you. You caught it with one hand, clicked it in, and patted yourself down to make sure all your weapons were in place.
“Hey! We’re not even sure there are butterflies in there,” Harcourt shouted from behind Peacemaker, who was already hefting a large gun—the one Adrian had been eyeing earlier.
“So? Better to be prepared,” Peacemaker said, stepping off the back of the truck. Harcourt followed closely, while Economos and Adebayo stayed behind, keeping an eye on the security cameras and comms.
Then—a loud, roaring chainsaw cut through, making everyone jump. All heads turned toward the truck. Adrian stood there, holding the chainsaw like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“No!” Harcourt yelled, her voice barely audible over the engine’s roar.
Adrian just laughed “What?” he called back, tilting his head. “You’re not taking that in there!” Harcourt shouted again.
“I can’t hear you! This thing’s too fucking loud!” Adrian bellowed, revving the chainsaw one more time. The roar finally stopped when he flicked the switch off. Harcourt crossed her arms, glaring. “I said—you’re not bringing that.”
“Hey, I agree with Peacemaker. Can’t go in there unprepared,” he said with a shrug. Harcourt shot him a pointed look. “We don’t even know if there are butterflies in there!”
“Oh, come on, please?” he whined, voice exaggerated. “Ah, fuck… I’m never, ever gonna kill someone with a chainsaw. It’s not fair.”
He finally set the chainsaw down, hopping out of the truck with a dramatic huff before slamming the door shut behind him, leaving everyone staring at him like he’d just lost his mind.
“Okay, Peacemaker, you’re with me. Vigilante, you’re with Flag,” Harcourt said, eyes scanning the group like she was corralling feral cats.
You let out a long, quiet sigh—not because you were stuck with Adrian, but because you needed a way to get Peacemaker alone. Which, of course, seemed impossible; the man always had someone glued to his side.
“You two, check the bays around the back,” Harcourt added, fixing you both with a sharp glance. You rolled your eyes and flicked a glance at Adrian—only to find he was already watching you. No words needed. The two of you just peeled away from the group in perfect sync and headed for the back of the building.
Neither of you bothered to talk. Your footsteps did all the speaking, quiet and quick on the concrete as you took the lead. Adrian kept close behind, practically glued to your shoulder, watching your blind spots while you scanned ahead.
The back entrance creaked open, and you slipped inside. The place was a maze—stacks of cardboard boxes towering everywhere. You both moved deeper in, guns raised, breaths held without meaning to.
Without a word, you holstered your gun and stepped up to the nearest stack of boxes. Your fingers dug into your coat pocket until you found the familiar weight of your knife. A quick flick—shhk—and you sliced through the tape like you’d done it a thousand times.
Adrian hovered behind you, eyes sweeping the area. He didn’t even glance at what you were doing—he trusted you to handle the box, and you trusted him to keep a look out.
You pried the flaps open and reached inside, pulling out a glass jar filled with a thick, weirdly glossy jelly. You lifted the jar, gave Adrian a look, then tapped your earpiece. “Uh, the shit that they eat.... there’s literally thousands of boxes of it in here.”
“Copy,” Harcourt’s voice crackled back, clipped and calm.
You straightened, sliding the jar back into the box just as you felt a light tap on your shoulder. Adrian. You turned to him, and he didn’t even speak—just pointed ahead.
You followed his line of sight. Three men. Moving fast. And before you could process anything else, one of them launched himself from the lower level up to the second floor in a single, unnatural jump.
You and Adrian exchanged a quick look before turning your attention back to the figures above. “Is it weird that I’m excited?” he whispered, practically buzzing.
You shot him a side-eye as you started moving forward, keeping low. “Yes,” you muttered.nHe trailed right behind you, still whispering like he couldn’t help himself. “I mean. I seriously don’t get how you don’t love this job. It’s exciting.” You didn’t even have to see him to know he was grinning.
You took a steadying breath and kept moving, leading the way through one of those heavy plastic freezer curtains. The strips slapped softly against you as you pushed through, and a wave of cold air wrapped around your face.
On the other side, the room opened into a production area. You and Adrian dropped into a crouch at the same time, as you both peeked into the area where the worker—if they were even workers—put the jar under a machine that poured into each jar.
Everything was going fine. Until one of them looked over And looked right at you. His eyes locked onto yours. Your breath hitched, a tiny gasp slipping out before you could stop it.
Then his mouth stretched open impossibly wide and he released a piercing, inhuman screech that rattled through the entire room. “Shit—” you hissed, already scrambling to your feet.
You and Adrian shot up at the same time and sprinted toward the nearest door. You were halfway there when the sharp crack of shattering glass exploded behind you. You risked a glance over your shoulder.
Every single worker had dropped what they were doing and was now sprinting straight at you, jars smashing around their feet, goo splattering everywhere. And they were fast.
You reached the metal gate first, yanking it open just enough for both of you to squeeze through. Adrian slammed it shut behind you and snapped the lock into place. No time to breathe—you both raised your guns in sync and opened fire through the bars.
Bullets tore into the charging workers, but the gate wasn’t slowing them down. One of them scrambled up the metal like a spider, fingers hooking through the grate. Another grabbed the bars and started ripping at them, metal screeching as it bent under his strength.
“C’mon!” you shouted, already backing away.
Adrian flicked a glance at the thing peeling the gate apart and didn’t argue—he bolted after you. Truth was, you had no idea where the hell you were going. You just aimed for the nearest room that looked even remotely empty.
You shoved the door open, both of you darted inside, and you slammed it shut so hard the frame rattled. Adrian twisted the lock, and you barely had a second of silence before the pounding started—fists, bodies, something heavier slamming into the other side.
You both backed up, but your focus stayed on the door. It wasn’t going to hold. Not for long. Every thud and crash made your chest tighten.
Adrian, meanwhile, got distracted, eyes darting over the strange machinery lining the walls like a kid in a candy store. You shot him a sharp look.
“Hey… don’t leave me,” you muttered under your breath, tension threading through your voice. He didn’t hear you, too absorbed in the blinking lights and weird panels, completely oblivious to the door slowly groaning under the pounding outside.
“This place—there’s a factory behind the warehouse,” you said into your earpiece, trying to keep your voice steady despite the chaos outside. “Some butterflies trapped us in what looks like… a computer room.”
“Copy. We’re on our way,” Harcourt replied crisply over the line.
You let your gaze sweep the room again, taking note of every odd panel, every blinking light, every wire that could hide a tripwire or worse. Adrian wandered closer to the equipment. “Hey, look,” he said, eyes wide with fascination.
You glanced over at him. He was staring down at a computer that didn’t look like any normal machine. The screen pulsed with strange colors, giving off… alien vibes. Definitely not standard tech.
You stepped closer, watching as he poked at the keyboard. Nothing happened. The screen stayed the same. “Hey, guess what I’m typing,” he said with a grin, fingers flying across the keys. You looked down at his hands, unimpressed. “I don’t know,” you muttered, tone flat.
He straightened up and turned to face you, and you tilted your head like …what? before a deep, guttural growl rolled through the room. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even close.
Your confusion lasted exactly half a second before you looked past Adrian’s shoulder—then your stomach just dropped. Adrian saw your expression shift and twisted around. “Whoa,” he breathed. “You gotta be shitting me. There’s a fucking gori—” You didn't even get to finish.
The gorilla—easily eight feet of pissed-off muscle—lunged forward and swung a massive arm like it was swatting flies. It connected squarely with Adrian’s side, and his entire body rocketed backward… directly into you.
You didn’t even have time to yelp. Both of you were launched across the room, slamming into the wall cluttered with strange, humming tech. Your back hit first, a jolt of pain exploding through your spine—then Adrian crashed right into you, knocking the air out of your lungs as the equipment behind you rattled violently.
For a second, everything just blacked out in a burst of white pain. You barely registered hitting the floor before something warm and heavy moved beside you—Adrian. He dragged himself across the ground and grabbed you by the waist, pulling you in tight against him just as the first wave of shattered equipment rained down.
Metal panels, loose wires, and some weird glowing cube that definitely wasn’t meant to be unplugged came crashing from above. Adrian curled around you, one arm braced over your head, his body taking most of the impact as debris smacked against his shoulders and back.
Instinct kicked in; you lifted your hands anyway, even though he already had you pinned safely beneath him. Another chunk of tech slammed into the floor inches from your face, sparks hissing across the ground. You felt Adrian flinch, but he didn’t move away—if anything, he held you closer, breath rough against your ear.
“What the fuck—!” you sputtered, adrenaline spiking so fast it made your vision swim. You slapped a hand to your earpiece. “Guys, there is a fucking gorilla in here!”
Your voice cracked halfway through the word, because yeah—fair reaction. The floor vibrated again, like the creature was gearing up for another hit. The comm in your ear buzzed with confused shouting, but you barely heard any of it over the thunder of footsteps in front of you.
Adrian groaned beside you, rolling onto his side, pain etched across his face. “We… we gotta move,” he rasped. “Yeah, no shit!” you snapped.
The gorilla didn’t give you either of you even a second. It barreled forward—way too fast for something that size—its roar echoing off the walls and loud enough for harcourt and peacemaker to hear from the other room.
Instinct took over. You and Adrian each yanked a gun free and opened fire, bullets cracking through the air. The shots tore into its chest and shoulder, spraying blood, but the beast barely flinched—just slowed, eyes burning hotter.
It growled, furious, and lifted its massive hand into a tight fist. “Move!” Adrian yelled. You both dove in opposite directions just as the gorilla’s fist came down. The impact was brutal—metal flooring buckling like foil, sparks shooting up from ruptured cables. If either of you had stayed there half a second longer, you’d be paste.
You hit the ground, rolled, and forced yourself up despite every joint screaming. Adrian was already limping toward the far end of the room, grabbing your arm as he passed.
“Go! Go!”
You both sprinted across the tech-filled space. Behind you, the gorilla ripped its fist free of the floor with a guttural roar, already turning to charge again.
You both took deep breaths, staring the beast down. Even without saying it, you both knew—there was no damn way you could take this thing in a straight fight.
“Where’s the machine gun when we need it,” Adrian muttered, half a joke, half a dying wish. You didn’t even look at him. Your eyes stayed locked on the gorilla, muscles tight, finger ready on the trigger.
Together, you lifted your guns and opened fire. The creature roared, fury shaking the walls, and charged straight through the hail of bullets like they were nothing but raindrops. You kept shooting—rapid, desperate bursts—until—
A violent explosion detonated by the metal door you’d both locked earlier. You didn’t fly—you were launched.
The shockwave tore through the room, hurling you and Adrian backward like rag dolls. Air ripped from your lungs as the impact slammed you into the ground hard enough that your body bounced.
Shards of metal, split wires, burning circuitry—everything became a storm of debris raining past your face. Somewhere in the chaos, Adrian shouted, or maybe that was you, but the ringing in your ears swallowed the sound whole.
The gorilla wasn’t spared. The blast threw it sideways, its massive body smashing into a tower of machinery with a bone-shaking CRUNCH, metal collapsing beneath its weight.
Your ears were still ringing when you forced your eyes open. Reality slammed back into you all at once, sharp and disorienting. You sucked in a shaky breath as the flashback to Corto Maltese punched through your skull—another blast, same pressure, same helpless weightlessness before the ground ripped it out of you.
For a second, you weren’t here. You were there. Rocks under your knees. Smoke everywhere. Rick shouting your name over the loud sounds and then nothing.
Pain pulled you back to the present in ugly waves. Your ribs, shoulder, spine—everything throbbed like you’d been hit by a truck, then backed over for good measure. You groaned, palms scraping concrete as you pushed against the floor. Your arms trembled violently, but you managed to get one knee under you. Then the other.
You stood—barely—and the entire room spun, tilting like the floor was trying to slide out from under you. You lurched forward and grabbed onto a metal table to keep yourself upright. The legs rattled under your weight.
You limped toward the far corner, dragging your foot, each inhale scraping painfully down your throat. Smoke burned your eyes. Sparks snapped overhead, sizzling against the metal scraps strewn across the floor. Nothing in your body felt steady—your legs carried you like they were acting on instinct, not strength.
Finally, you reached a patch of wall that hadn’t caved in, and you let yourself slide down it. Your back hit the concrete with a soft thud, and you let your head drop back, eyes closing as your breath came too fast and too shallow.
Just breathe. Just—breathe.
But your body wasn’t listening. Your hands shook uncontrollably. Your throat tightened. The ringing in your ears fractured into voices—flickering in and out like a weak radio signal.
Harcourt? Economos? Adebayo? Adrian? No. It wasn't neither of them. Its was Rick.
Rick’s voice cut through the ringing—raw, panicked. Yelling your name, calling out to check if you were okay, even while he was bleeding, even while he was the one who needed help.
You flinched, squeezing your eyes tighter as his voice echoed. The explosion that had just thrown you across the room felt like an echo of that day in Corto Maltese, and your brain couldn’t tell the difference. Couldn’t separate then from now.
You knew you shouldn’t have rejoined ARGUS. You knew this job would drag the memories back. And here they were, louder than ever, clawing their way back into your head.
But you didn’t come back for the thrill. Or the paycheck. Or the crazy cool missions. You came back for him. For justice Rick never got.
Your head tipped forward, breaths uneven, throat tight. For a moment, you let the memory hold you—because fighting it only made it worse. Then, through the ringing, another sound surfaced.
A voice. A voice you’d recognize anywhere. Peacemaker.
Your eyes snapped open. The room still spun, shards of metal and sparks glittering in the smoke, but your focus zeroed in. Right—you hadn’t come back for anything else. You had only agreed to come back to kill Peacemaker. The man who had murdered your brother.
Your lungs burned as you finally crawled out from the corner, every movement stabbing through your ribs like hot wire. Dust and smoke swirled in dizzy waves, making the shattered room blur in and out of focus. You staggered upright, one hand braced on the wall, the other gripping your gun so tightly your knuckles had gone bloodless.
Harcourt’s body hit the wall first—hard—her breath punched out in a sharp, ugly sound. Then your gaze snapped to the right.
Adrian.
He was crumpled on the floor, half curled on his side, one hand clamped over his stomach, as he groaned as he tried to push himself up. For a second, your heart stuttered, something twisting sharp and real in your chest,—but instinct took over before emotion had a chance to settle.
Your attention then switched to peacemaker, who was full on fighting the gorilla. That thing had its back facing towars you. it roared as it winged its arm at peacemaker but he dodged it.
You watched as you glanced at the gun that was on the ground. you then reached to grab it.
You lifted it. and pointed it at the back of the gorilla. First you started shooting it. it roared once again as it turned over at you. Peacemaker stood behind him, and your gaze switched to him, you then moved the gun aime at him.
It bloomed inside you fast—a cold, savage clarity. You could end this now. You could end him. One trigger pull. One problem erased from the world forever. The idea slammed into your mind so suddenly it felt like oxygen: Just do it. Kill him.
You steadied your hand, exhaling through gritted teeth. Your pulse didn’t even spike.
Peacemaker’s eyes widened the instant he realized. He froze halfway to standing, staring down the barrel you had aimed squarely at his head. He knew—knew—you weren’t bluffing. That you weren’t warning him. This was a kill shot.
Your finger tightened on the trigger but the thunder of pounding footsteps cut through the moment. The damn gorilla burst forward, sprinting at you with terrifying speed. You whipped your aim toward it, caught off guard by how fast it was closing in—
—and then Adrian hit you. Hard.
He threw himself into you, arms wrapping around your waist as he shoved you sideways with his full body weight. The shot went wide, the recoil snapping your arm back as you were lifted clean off your feet.
You slammed into the ground for what felt like the hundredth time today, air punching out of your lungs as your shoulder scraped across the concrete.
Every inch of your body screamed. Pain radiated from your ribs, your spine, muscles you didn’t even know you had, and for a moment, you swore you heard something snap. Adrian’s weight had landed on you, pushing you further toward the edge of collapse.
Your vision blurred, dizziness washing over you like a tidal wave. The world tilted and shook, and your body finally gave in. Darkness clawed at the corners of your mind.
The last thing you remembered before blacking out was Adrian’s hands, shaking you, urgent, desperate, trying to drag you back from the edge.
﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒
You jolted awake, your body stiff and sore, every muscle protesting as if you’d spent a week in a warzone instead of a few hours. The van hummed steadily beneath you, the soft vibration of the engine oddly grounding after the chaos.
You pushed yourself upright, wincing as your shoulder reminded you just how badly you’d slammed into the concrete. Adrian sat across from you, quietly checking his gear, his eyes flicking up every so often to make sure you were actually conscious this time.
“Oh, look! She’s awake!” Economos said, grinning as he leaned back in his seat. Everyone turned to look at you—except Adebayo, who only gave a quick glance through the rearview mirror as she drove.
Harcourt straightened, setting her phone down on her lap. “Hey!” she said. You blinked at her, your head still pounding, every pulse of it a reminder of the chaos you’d just survived.
“I feel like shit,” you muttered, shifting awkwardly in the seat, trying—and failing—to find a position that didn’t send sharp jolts of pain through your shoulders and ribs. The van felt both too small and too loud, the hum of the engine and the chatter around you pressing against your temples.
“Yeah, because fucking Adrian crushed you with his weight,” Economos laughed, shaking his head.
“Hey! I basically saved her!” Adrian shot back, defensively. Well… technically, he had shoved you out of the way of the gorilla, so he had a point.
They kept going back and forth, voices rising and falling in a ridiculous, almost comical argument about who’d been the real hero. You slumped further into your seat, half in pain, half in disbelief that this was how they were choosing to process everything that had just happened.
Your gaze drifted to the passenger seat. Peacemaker was there, already watching you. His face was stone—serious in that way he always warned people with, the kind of look that made it clear he wasn’t bluffing. From now on, he’d have to keep an eye on you.
But he was the first to break the stare. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the radio and turned the volume up, as if nothing had happened—though you could feel the weight of his awareness lingering in the space between you.
You slumped deeper into the seat as the van rattled down the road. Harcourt sat beside you, arms crossed tight, her jaw ticking with every thump of bass from the ancient speaker system. She was visibly done.
Everyone else? Having the time of their lives.
You stared at Adrian first. He sat by Economos who was still coated in dried blood from who knew where but he was jamming with him—both of them dancing in the seats like idiots.
Peacemaker blasted his shitty rock playlist from the passenger seat, strumming his invisible guitar with way too much enthusiasm. He kept flicking his head like he thought his imaginary hair would blow in the wind behind him.
Adebayo kept driving, shoulders swaying, nodding off-beat but happy anyway, like she was vibing along just enough to tolerate the chaos. Harcourt slighly moved her head to the beat, even though she tried to pretend not to enjoy it. While you Stone-faced. Suffering in silence.
But even with all that happening, your focus drifted back—again—to Adrian.
The easy grin he wore. The way he pushed his glasses up every time he shook his head to the music. The stupid little shoulder shimmy he did when the beat picked up. He was ridiculous. Ridiculous enough to make your mood dip and that annoyed you most of all.
Because no matter how much you tried to stay pissed off at the world, your gaze kept finding him. Again and again and again. You stared at him. Too long. Long enough for the realization to settle in your bones like a sickness.
He was leaning against the wall—helmet off, face still flushed from the fight while he had his hand hands up slighly as he moved them to the sound of the music playing.
And your chest… flipped. No. No, it lurched. Like your heart was tripping down a flight of stairs and dragging the rest of you with it. There was something about him. Something you hated that you noticed.
Maybe it was the way he kept on trying to get on your good side, or the way he had protected you back in Glan Tai and that he was stupid. Painfully, gloriously stupid. He said things without thinking. But the way he spoke—unfiltered, sincere even when he was being idiotic.
You leaned back in your seat, trying to act casual, but your eyes kept drifting to him. His face was flawless, smooth in a way that made your chest tighten. The brown curls fell just right, still somehow perfect even after the chaos of fighting a gorilla.
His silver glasses rested neatly on his nose, fitting him like they were made for him—an effortless, infuriating perfection. You found yourself staring, drinking in the details, until a shiver of awareness ran through you. No. Absolutely not. You wouldn’t—couldn’t—let yourself get lost in this.
Your stomach rolled, nausea crawling up your throat. Oh God. You knew this feeling. That pathetic fluttery nonsense—the one you used to get in high school when some older guy asked you to “hang out” and you thought that meant something.
You wanted to slap yourself. You did not like him.
You didn’t like the way he fought. You didn’t like the way he talked. You didn’t like how he looked in those glasses. You didn’t like the warmth in your chest when he laughed. You definitely did not like him.
Except your eyes hadn’t moved off him. And your heart wouldn’t slow down. You looked away immediately—jaw tight, expression blank, like if you didn’t acknowledge it, it didn’t exist.
Harcourt, sitting next to you, caught the whole thing. She’d already noticed the way you’d zoned out, eyes glued to Adrian like he was the only person in the damn van. And, because she was Harcourt—she lifted her phone at just the right moment and click, captured photographic evidence of your mortifying little slip.
You had no clue, not yet. But she was definitely saving that for later.
﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒⭒﹒
By the time you all pulled up to the video store, it was already night time. The car ride had been exhausting, loud, and irritating—your head already pounding before the music started blaring, and only getting worse from there. Not that being pissed off was anything new for you.
Everyone piled out of the van, wandering inside toward Murn, who stood waiting by the front desk with that stone-faced. But you didn’t follow them. You slipped away the moment their attention shifted, heading straight for the stairs.
The only person who noticed you break off from the group was Adrian. He’d been stealing glances at you the whole ride—catching the way your face tightened, the way you flinched every time you moved your shoulder or breathed too deep. He assumed the pain was his fault.
But he didn’t follow you. Adrian wasn’t stupid; he knew you needed space, and he supricingly respected that. So he watched you go, jaw tight, and quietly let you disappear upstairs.
You trudged upstairs, every step sending a dull ache rolling through your body. By the time you reached one of the spare rooms, your limbs felt like they were filled with wet cement. There was a couch pushed against the wall—old, lumpy, and ugly—but right now it looked like heaven. You practically collapsed onto it, a low groan slipping out as the cushions swallowed you.
Your coat suddenly felt like it weighed thirty pounds. You shrugged it off with a wince, teeth clenching when your arms protested the movement. The bruises along your ribs pulsed angrily beneath your skin.
You tossed the jacket over the arm of the couch and leaned down to grab one of your bags on the floor. Even bending hurt. Everything hurt.
With a long, defeated sigh, you pushed yourself back up. You weren’t sure how you were still functioning, but muscle memory dragged you toward the bathroom across the hallway. The lights flickered as you stepped inside, the sharp smell of antiseptic cleaner greeting you like an old, unwelcome friend. Time to fix yourself up. Again.
Who knew hold long you took In there. Definetly not hours but maybe half. You felt somewhat better, you had wiped off all the dry blood. changed out of yout other clothes and fixed your crazy mess of hair.
Who knew how long you’d been in there—definitely not hours, but long enough for your fingers to wrinkle under the sink water. Maybe half an hour. Maybe more. The bathroom was still foggy from the hot water that was running, warm steam clinging to the mirror in smeared patches where you’d wiped it clean with your palm.
You did feel better—kind of. Clean, at least. But every little throb of pain still sat there under your skin Your body felt… irritated. Like it was punishing you for even standing upright.
You’d scrubbed off every smear of dried blood, wincing each time a bruise protested the pressure. You cleaned the cut on your lip, dabbed ointment over the worst bruises, and did your best not to hiss every time your ribs reminded you they existed.
Your shirt was ruined, so you’d swapped into one from your bag—soft, worn, smelling faintly of detergent.
Your hair, though… that had been a whole separate boss battle. Damp strands kept sticking to your cheek, refusing to cooperate no matter how many times you combed your fingers through them. But eventually, finally, you got it to look presentable.
You stared at your reflection for a long second, shoulders rising and falling with a shaky breath. You still looked bruised and exhausted. And the more you looked, the more your eyes started to sting—memories from earlier crawling back in, that flash of Corto Maltese tightening your chest all over again.
But then—knock knock.
The sound snapped you straight out of it. You blinked fast, wiped your eyes with the back of your hand, forcing the moment down your throat, and unlocked the door.
When you pulled it open, Adrian was standing there.
He immediately straightened like a soldier caught slacking, shoulders snapping back, face suddenly neutral in the most suspicious way possible—because yeah, he had definitely been eavesdropping.
You narrowed your eyes. “Were you listening to me?”
“No—well—not really—I was just—”
You didn’t even wait for the excuse. You brushed past him, annoyed, sore, and absolutely not in the mood to deal with whatever awkward ramble was about to spill out of him. He pivoted to follow you, swallowing hard like he was trying to decide if he should apologize or pretend nothing happened at all.
“Everyone already left, by the way. That’s literally the only reason I came up here—just to make sure you were alive. Nothing else,” he said as he trailed behind you, voice a little too quick.
“Did they?” you muttered, not even bothering to pretend you cared. Your tone made it pretty clear you absolutely did not.
You headed downstairs, and he stayed right on your heels. You walked toward one of the desks, dropped into the chair without a glance at him, and dragged your laptop closer. The familiar clack of the lid opening filled the quiet room.
Adrian just… stood there. He’d expected you to pack up, maybe limp your way home to sleep off the bruises—but instead, you were booting up your laptop like it was any other night. You typed in your password, eyes fixed on the screen.
That’s when you felt it—that prickling pressure of someone staring. You turned your head slightly, and he still stood there.
“What?” you asked. “…You’re not going home?” he asked. You shrugged. "Not in the mood.”
Adrian nodded once. Your attention dropped back to your laptop, fingers moving steadily, jaw set in that don’t bother me unless it’s serious way you had.
He hovered beside your table, hands awkwardly on his side, weight shifting between his feet. He clearly wanted to say something. You could practically feel the words bottlenecking in his throat.
So instead, he just… watched you. The steady clicking of keys.
The faint mumbling under your breath when you reread a sentence.
The light from the screen washing your face in cool blue glow.
His gaze lingered longer than it should have—on the furrow of your brow, the line of your mouth, the way your eyelashes cast shadows down your cheeks.
He looked at you the way someone looks when they’ve finally noticed something that had been sitting right in front of them the entire time. Not some dramatic realization—just a quiet oh… oh.
And yes. You were, without question, the rudest person he had ever met. Top five, easily. Maybe even top three on a bad day.
But somehow? That was exactly what drew him in.
Because you weren’t rude in the empty, cruel way people were just to feel big. You were rude like someone who had edges—sharp ones—and he found himself wanting to see what was under them. He liked the way your guard stayed up like a fortress. He liked that he had to work just to understand you. It made every tiny reveal feel earned.
You were messy and Complicated. And he loved that.
You weren’t easy to read, or predictable, or soft-spoken. You moved like a locked box that dared anyone to try the wrong key. And Adrian—God help him—was obsessed with puzzles. You didn’t look up when you spoke. “Soooo....Are you not going home?”
“Mmh– I— I—” His voice jammed up like his brain had just unplugged itself. You finally turned to look at him, brows drawn in a flat, unimpressed line. In the entire short amount of time you’d known Adrian, he had never tripped over his words—not like that.
You tilted your head. Waiting.
“Do you—do you wanna get some drinks?” he blurted, way too loud for the distance between you. The sentence practically fell out of his mouth and faceplanted. “I’ll pay,” he tacked on, like that might somehow fix it.
You just stared at him. And, unfortunately, your resting face translated that stare into Im absolutely about to punch you. But Inside? You were losing your mind. Because of course he’d ask now, when your brain was already mush and your body was barely held together.
And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong. A drink sounded amazing. You could practically taste the burn already. Even though you’d sworn you wouldn’t let this happen—God, you really did need a drink.
You hadn’t even realized you were just staring at him—completely silent, completely unreadable—while your brain wrestled itself in circles. But Adrian? Yeah, the silence was absolutely killing him.
“Okay—yeah—forget it,” he laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that sounded like it was about to cry. He rubbed the back of his neck and stepped back.
He turned away, walking slow. On purpose. You parted your lips to say his name but closed them again, then you finally took deep breath.
“You don’t have to tell me you’ll pay to get me to go,” you blurted out before your brain could veto it.
Adrian stopped and turned back toward you. His brows pulled together, confused at first—then something flickered in his expression. Because he did remember. That one girl who’d only say yes if he covered everything. The way it made him feel small, like he had to buy his way into being worth someone’s time.
That memory hit him so fast he didn’t even hide it.
You swallowed, feeling your pulse trip over itself. “I mean… if I wanna go, I’ll go. Not because of… that.” Something in his face shifted—relief first, then surprise, then this shy, hopeful pinch at the corner of his mouth like he was trying really hard not to smile too big and ruin it.
”Do you wanna get cleaned up first? I’m assuming you have spare clothes in your car.” you added, arching a brow at him—referring to the little stash he kept neatly folded in the backseat of his car.
Adrian blinked at you like his brain short-circuited. He watched you close your laptop, still processing the fact that you had actually said yes. Like… out loud. To him.
“Uh—yeah! Yeah, I do,” he said a little too eagerly. “Good. I’ll be waiting,” you said, giving him the smallest smile.
Adrian stood there for an extra beat, rooted to the floor as you shifted your attention to your phone, already scrolling, already done with the conversation like nothing.
Meanwhile his brain was doing backflips. You’d actually smiled at him. Not a glare. A real smile—tiny, sure, but still a smile.
He turned to leave and immediately tripped over absolutely nothing, and he pretended it didn’t happen. His heart was pounding, palms sweaty, adrenaline spiking harder than when he’d fought a gorilla earlier. All because you’d said yes. And smiled. At him.
If you could reverse time, you would’ve. Every fiber of you hated yourself for accepting the drinks from Adrian, yet a part of you didn’t want to admit that you were… kinda enjoying it.
You sat shoulder-to-shoulder with him on the bar stools. Neither of you had actually talked much; it was mostly you listening while Adrian spiraled into long, chaotic rants about the random facts he found online.
Normally, people who rambled made you want to walk into traffic, but somehow his ridiculous, over-detailed opinions kept pulling a quiet laugh out of you.
You weren’t sure how many drinks you were in—enough that the ache in your body had dulled, enough that you felt warm and relaxed. Whenever you got buzzed, your mouth got loose. And you hated that about yourself because it always led to saying way too much.
“So… can I ask you something?” Adrian said suddenly, turning his body slightly toward you. His knee bumped yours, and he pretended not to notice, but you caught the flicker in his eyes.
You looked up at him and nodded, a little surprised at your own willingness. He hesitated first—a rare moment of actual caution for him—then asked.
“Okay, um… You never answered my question yesterday. About how long you've been working for you know who?" he said. Right. That question. The one you dodged on purpose.
You froze for a beat, your gaze meeting his. He wasn’t asking like it was an interrogation. He wasn’t even pretending to play it cool. He just… wanted to know you.
His eyes flicked over your face, searching, hopeful in that boyish, painfully transparent Adrian way. And for a second, you could practically feel the weight of his curiosity.
“Right,” you finally said, clearing your throat. “Uh… not long. Maybe four years.” Your eyes slid away from him like the answer weighed more than you wanted to admit.
The bartender returned with your drink, sliding the glass toward you with a soft clink. He gave you a warm, polite smile. You didn’t return it—just stared for a beat, grabbed the drink, and turned right back to Adrian.
“Really?” Adrian blinked, genuinely surprised. “I assumed… way longer. So, what did you do before?”
You let out a short, humorless huff. “Well… I was in the military at first, then worked for the CIA. After that, me and my brother were recruited by Waller for Task X,” you replied, voice even but carrying a subtle edge that hinted at the weight of your past.
Adrian blinked, clearly impressed despite himself. “Whoa… that’s—” He paused, searching for the right words, “that’s a lot. You’ve done way more than most people see in a lifetime.”
You shrugged, trying to make it seem casual, but the small lift of your brow betrayed that you weren’t used to praise.
“Which… you only did all that for your dad, right?” Adrian asked, like he was connecting dots out loud. You tilted your head at him, confused—and a little wary. “How do you know that?”
“I heard you that night at the Goffs! You were telling—”
“Yeah,” you cut in quickly, shutting it down before he could repeat the rest of that memory out loud. Your jaw flexed once, like you’d slammed a door shut inside yourself. Adrian’s expression softened immediately, the realization flickering across his face: he’d stepped onto a landmine he hadn’t meant to trigger.
“I, uh…” You cleared your throat, staring past him before you forced yourself to look back. “I dropped out of college,” you said, the words flat but heavy. “Left so I could join the military. My dad didn’t exactly love the idea of me becoming an animal doctor.”
You huffed a humorless, tiny laugh—more an exhale than anything. “He thought it was a waste. Said I’d ‘grow out of it.’” Your fingers tapped once against the bar, restless, your jaw tightening. “So… yeah. I grew out of it.”
The look on your face made it clear you hadn’t grown out of anything—you’d just gotten pushed out of it. And Adrian saw it.
Your fingers idly toyed with the edge of your glass, your gaze flickering to his face, almost like you were bracing for him to laugh or judge you or… something.
But Adrian didn’t. He blinked at you, surprise soft and warm, his expression shifting in that way he got when something legitimately touched him—a tiny crease between his brows, his mouth parting like he wasn’t sure what to say but wanted to say the right thing.
“You wanted to be a veterinarian?” Adrian asked, blinking like he was replaying the sentence in his head just to make sure he heard it right.
You hummed, lifting your glass and taking a slow sip. “Shocker, huh?”
“No—yeah! I mean—” He paused, hands lifting uselessly as he tried to sort out his own reaction. “I would’ve never thought that. Not in a bad way, just… you’re all badass and intense and—” He squinted at you, baffled in the most Adrian way possible. “You don’t give off those vibes."
You gave him that deadpan stare again, the kind that could stop a grown man mid-sentence. Adrian didn’t even flinch—just tilted his head and asked, “I’m assuming your dad’s a dick?”
You snorted under your breath and shook your head, taking another slow, steady sip of your drink—long enough to dodge the question if you wanted to. When you finally set the glass down, you shrugged.
“No. He just… wanted what was better,” you said, tone carefully even. “Plus he said the pay was better. Which—” you lifted your brows, conceding the point, “it was.”
“So, enough about me … what about you? How long have you been… you know, doing that?” you asked, carefully choosing your words. Adrian’s eyes flicked up, and he didn’t need any clarification—he knew exactly what you meant.
Adrian leaned back slightly, taking a slow sip of his drink before answering. “Hmm… I’d say a couple of years. Not too long,” he said, his tone casual, though his eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary.
“I take it you… enjoy it?” you asked. Adrian nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. It’s fun, exciting… nothing better than taking bad people out,” he added, his voice dropping into a low whisper for the last few words.
You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow. “So… is that, like, what you do besides work and reading random facts online?” The way you said it carried just a hint of teasing—but despite how it sounded, there was no mockery in your tone.
Adrian actually paused to think about it. Which was hilarious—and also exactly what you expected. He searched his brain for anything else he did with his life, but there was nothing. Just work… and the internet, and vigilante, of course. Even you knew that from when you’d stalked him.
“Hm. Wait.” He blinked, realization dawning. “Yeah, no. I actually do just spend my time online and at work.” His gaze dropped to his half-empty beer bottle, shoulders dipping like the weight of that truth finally hit him.
He went quiet, staring into the glass like it might reveal a hobby if he concentrated hard enough. You watched him think, watched his eyebrows twitch in that dorky, earnest way that almost made you smile.
You lifted your glass for another sip, and that’s when you felt it—eyes on you. The bartender. He’d been glancing your way all night, but this time you caught him mid-look.
He was tall, with broad shoulders that hinted at time spent in a gym rather than behind the bar. His dark hair was neatly swept back, a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead. Sharp green eyes met yours, unashamed, almost daring, and a tiny smirk ghosted across his lips before he finally looked away. He grabbed a glass and began polishing it, though it was already spotless, as if the gesture was meant to distract both you and himself.
You leaned back slightly, taking him in. He was… decent-looking, sure. Confident without being cocky, easy on the eyes, and carrying himself in a way that suggested he knew exactly what he was doing. You allowed yourself a brief, silent appraisal before turning your attention back to Adrian, though the impression lingered in the back of your mind.
“I’ll be right back,” Adrian muttered, getting up so abruptly you barely had time to react. You watched him disappear toward the restroom, leaving a little vacuum of silence in his wake.
You turned back toward the bar, your eyes falling on your phone facedown. Lifting it, you unlocked the screen and tapped a notification from a newly created group chat. Harcourt had added everyone.
She’d sent a picture from the car ride back from Glan Tai. You clicked it and scanned the smiling faces, your gaze eventually landing on yourself—zoned out, staring at Adrian with a faint, unintentional smile. Heat rushed to your cheeks. Embarrassment flared, and you were just about to call Harcourt, demanding she delete it, when a glass slid across the polished bar top.
You glanced up and, of course, it was him—the bartender. He nudged a small glass toward you—clear, sharp, unmistakably tequila.
“On the house,” he said, and this time he didn’t bother looking away. His eyes swept over you slow and deliberate, like he was tasting the reaction on your face before the drink even hit your hand.
And with Adrian gone, there was nothing stopping you from noticing every lingering second of it.
“I’m sure your face is probably hurting.” He said slightly pointing at your bruised nose. From the night where Goff had smashed your nose with his shotgun.
“What?” You said.
“Your face.” The guy repeated. “The tequila will take the pain away.” He added. You looked down at the glass, taking it to your hand before you slightly smelled it . The smell of the strong scent burned your nose slightly.
He watched you. “He do that to you?” He asked. Your brows furrowed as you took the shot . It burned your throat but you were already buzzed off the beer that it didn’t really affect you.
“Did who do what?” You reaped as you slid him the empty glass. “The guy. Adrian. I’m assuming that’s his name since I… over heard you call him that.” He said.
You stared at him for a moment. “You just come up to people and ask them questions like that?” you ask, sitting up straight.
“Not usually,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “But a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be treated like that.” He grabbed the glass and refilled it, the motion smooth and confident, and for a moment, the small gesture carried an odd intimacy that made you pause.
He slid the glass back across the bar. “No,” you said bluntly, grabbing it without a word. You downed the shot in one go.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by your bluntness. A corner of his mouth twitched, half-smirk, half-amused. “Wow,” he said, leaning slightly forward. “Rude and gorgeous. I like that.”
“I’m Quinn, by the way,” he added, as if the introduction would soften your edges. You simply stared at him, giving a slow, noncommittal nod—clearly not interested—but he didn’t seem to pick up on the hint.
“So… can I get your name?” he asked, persistent but playful. You shook your head. He leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his eye. “If I give you another shot, will you tell me?”
You let out a dry laugh as you smiled. From across the bar, Adrian’s watched everything. He watched the interaction—the way your smile curved at the bartender, the ease you displayed after just a few hours of knowing him.
A pang of jealousy tightened in his chest. It had taken him days to get a genuine smile out of you, and here you were, flashing one at some bartender after only hours of conversation.
Adrian clenched his jaw slightly, swallowing the bitter taste of envy, while you smiled softly at Quinn’s persistence, completely unaware of the storm brewing in the corner of the room.
“So… what’s your name?” Quinn asked again, leaning a little closer, a grin tugging at his lips.
“Tsk,” you murmured, tilting your head and letting your eyes linger on him. “That’s not how this works. Give me the shot first, then I might tell you.”
You let the words hang in the air, soft but firm, watching as his smirk faltered just enough to show he was intrigued—and a little flustered. You could see the gears turning in his head, calculating whether to give in. Perfect.
Quinn’s smirk faltered, but only slightly. “Fine.” he said, sliding one shot across the bar with a little too much eagerness.
From the corner of the bar, Adrian appeared. His presence was unmistakable—quiet, controlled, but radiating a tension that made the air feel heavier. The moment Quinn noticed him, his confident smirk faltered, then vanished entirely.
You turned your full attention to Adrian, letting your expression soften in his direction. Quinn, finally catching the hint, gave a quick, awkward nod and slinked away, disappearing into the background.
“I got you a shot,” you said, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips as you slid one of the untouched glasses toward him.
Adrian looked at you, his eyes soft but unreadable. You were smiling, but not because you were actually happy—you were just drunk. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like this version of you, reckless and unguarded.
But then your smile faltered as you caught the way he was staring at you. “What’s wrong?” you asked, louder than you meant to, curiosity and concern bleeding together in your slurred voice.
“Nothing,” he said quickly as he took the shot from your hand. You watched him tip it back in one smooth motion. His brows pulled together the second the liquor hit his throat, like it burned a little more than he’d expected.
He set the glass down with a soft clink, but he didn’t look up. His gaze stayed fixed on it, like he could pretend you weren’t watching him so intently. But you were. Hard. Even drunk, it wasn’t difficult to tell something was gnawing at him.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” you pressed, your voice slipping out too loud, too slow, words slightly tangled.
“Yeah. No. I’m fine.” He gave a small shrug, still not facing you fully. “Should I, uh… leave again? So you can get us more shots?”
Your brows knit together. You let out a short, dry little laugh—because obviously he was joking, right? Except when you looked at him… he wasn’t joking. At all.
“Wait.” You leaned in, squinting like he was a blurry math problem. “Is that why you’re pissed off?” You even smiled at him—sweet and teasing.
Adrian finally turned his head, meeting your eyes. “No. Why would I be pissed off?” he said, shrugging so stiffly it looked like his shoulders were trying to lie for him.
You narrowed your eyes right back at him. You didn’t need sobriety to read his face—he was absolutely, one-hundred-percent pissed, and also absolutely refusing to say it. You tilted your head. “Adrian…”
He looked away for half a second—just enough time for the frustration to crack through his careful little mask. Then he snapped:
“Okay, fine! Maybe I am pissed!” His voice spiked—too loud. “Because you’re supposed to be drinking with me, not—” he gestured wildly toward the direction Quinn had vanished—“not him! The bartender guy with the… stupid hair and stupid flirty face!”
You blinked at him, surprised. He kept going, words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them even if he tried.
“You came here with me. We were drinking. Together. And then I walk away for like two seconds and suddenly you’re—” His hands flailed again. “—making a whole… thing with the bartender!”
He crossed his arms, jaw tight, refusing to look at you now. You stared at him, one eyebrow creeping all the way up. Never in your life had you seen a grown man throw a tantrum this… dramatic.
“I got us free shots, though,” you said, reaching out and placing your hand on his shoulder. Adrian froze. Full-body stiffening. Like you’d hit him with a tranquilizer dart and his entire nervous system forgot how to function.
His eyes flicked down to your hand, then up to your face—fast. And then he snapped again, voice pitching high with frustrated honesty.
“See? This!” He flung a hand in your general direction, still weirdly rigid under your touch. “You’re all—smiling at some random guy one second, then touching me and being all soft the next! It’s—” He made an exasperated sound, like a tiny dying engine. “—it’s confusing!”
He uncrossed his arms just to throw them up dramatically.
“You’re mad, then you’re nice, then you’re rude, and I don’t—my brain doesn’t work like that! You’re giving me emotional whiplash!” He finally looked at you, face warm from jealousy or alcohol or both, eyes a little wide and defensive.
“You can’t just… switch moods and expect me not to freak out!” he added, somehow sounding both furious and flustered.
By now you took your hand off his shoulder. You cleared your throat as you looked away from him and sat up straight. “This morning, you told me you didn’t want to be friends,” he went on, voice low but razor-edged with irritation, “and now you’re having drinks with me.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Your chest tightened, a slow squeeze from the inside, and suddenly the warmth from the beer and tequila felt… wrong. Heavy.
That familiar lump rose in your throat—the one that always came with regret and nerves tangled together. And mixed with the alcohol swirling in your stomach, it felt like a warning siren: One more push and you could absolutely throw up all over his dramatic ass.
Not that Adrian seemed to notice or care at the moment. He was too busy freaking out in his own quiet, tightly-wound way.
Your fingers curled slightly against the bar, jaw tensing.
His little tantrum wasn’t helping. At all. But you swallowed hard, blinked through the heat in your face, and tried to breathe evenly, willing your stomach not to revolt.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out at first—just air and panic and the faint taste of tequila threatening to make a comeback. You swallowed hard, pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth like that would magically stabilize your entire life, then finally managed:
“…Dude, what are you even talking about?”
It came out thinner than you meant. Softer. You hated that.
Adrian’s eyes finally flicked toward you, sharp and wounded at the same time. “You said you didn’t want to be friends,” he repeated, voice cracking in that tiny way he probably didn’t even hear. “So, I don’t— I just don’t get what you’re doing.”
Your chest squeezed painfully, heat rushing everywhere—your face, your neck, your stomach twisting hard enough that you had to shift in your seat just to keep steady.
You blinked at him slowly, the room tilting just a little as your mouth worked faster than your brain. “I was just being nice,” you slurred, waving a hand in a vague little circle. “I know you have nothing else to do with yourself, so—I was being nice.”
It came out harsher than you meant. Meaner. And stupidly honest.
Adrian’s head lifted slightly, like the words physically nudged him. He didn’t snap back. He just… stared at you. His expression softened in this helpless, conflicted way—like he wasn’t sure if he should be offended or worry about you more.
He blinked a few times, trying to steady his own vision. He was drunk, sure, but nowhere near the level you were spiraling into. You were the one who’d kept flagging the bartender down, chasing refills like they were oxygen. Adrian had watched you do it with this tense little crease between his brows, sipping his drink slow like he was bracing for impact.
Now he sat there beside you, shoulders slightly hunched, thumb tracing the edge of his empty glass, breathing carefully. Watching you without letting himself… react.
You turned away first. A slow, heavy swivel of your head back toward the bar. Your eyes fixed on the wooden counter like it was the only stable thing left in the universe.
The silence between you stretched—thick, awkward, almost humming with everything neither of you wanted to say. You didn’t look at him. He didn’t look away from you.
You dug into your jacket pocket with shaking fingers, not even sure what you were looking for until you felt the crumpled bills. You pulled out a messy wad of cash—way more than the tab, but you didn’t care. You just needed out.
Adrian’s head snapped up as you pushed your stool back.
“What are you doing?” he asked, voice tight, like he already knew the answer and hated it.
You set the money down beside both of your empty glasses. “I’m going home,” you said.
Adrian blinked at you. “What— you’re gonna walk home?” he asked, disbelief stretching every word.
You turned your head toward him, eyes half-lidded, brows lifted like obviously. “Yes. Yes, I am,” you said, enunciating every syllable with drunk determination.
“But it’s dark out, and you’re drunk,” he said, already snatching up his jacket and trailing after you as you headed for the door.
Outside, the night air hit your face—cool, soft, almost sweet. It washed over you like someone had wrung out all the noise and heat from inside the bar. You closed your eyes for a second, letting it settle into your skin, letting your shoulders drop.
And that’s when Adrian grabbed your wrist.
Not rough. Not forceful. More like… scared you might dissolve into the dark if he didn’t hold on.
You opened your eyes to find him staring at you—really staring. His breathing was uneven, his eyes wide and shining under the streetlights, full of something tight and aching. Something he probably didn’t even realize was written all over his face.
Yearning. Pure, helpless yearning.
“Please don’t walk,” he said, voice low, almost cracking. “Just—don’t.”
His fingers were warm around your wrist—warmer than they had any right to be in the cold night air. You pulled in a slow breath, trying to steady the world tipping lazily beneath your feet.
“Let go,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.
“I will,” Adrian said quickly—too quickly—like he was scared you’d bolt if he didn’t say the right thing. “I will, I just… Can you not walk home? Please?”
There was a tremble under his words. Not fear of you getting hurt—well, that too—but it was something else. Something almost desperate.
You finally looked up at him. His jaw was clenched. His mouth a tight line. His eyes? God. They were a whole mess—soft and frantic at the same time, pupils blown from the drinks and whatever emotion he was trying (and failing) to hide.
“I’m going my separate way,” you said, soft but sharp around the edges. The kind of quiet that hits harder than yelling. You stepped back a fraction, your wrist slipping from his loosening hold.
“Besides,” you added, a humorless little breath of a laugh leaving you, “I’m so complicated it makes your brain hurt—”
“That’s not—” he cut in, shaking his head, stepping closer without realizing it, “that’s not what I meant. You just— you confuse me.”
His voice cracked on the last word. He looked wrecked. Torn up.
Still angry, but more scared than he wanted to admit.
“I bet tomorrow you’ll be mad,” he went on, breath shaky as he gestured vaguely at you. “And I won’t even know why. You’ll just—change Or you’ll ignore me. Or you’ll act like tonight never happened.” He exhaled, frustrated and raw.
“And I won’t know what I did. I never know what I did.” There was no accusation in his eyes now. Just this aching, earnest honesty that made your stomach twist.
“But I really don’t even care,” he added, voice dropping, softer, like he was trying to convince himself more than you. His gaze flicked away, then back. “So please… don’t walk home.”
The edge in his tone was gone now. No anger. Just worry wrapped in exhaustion. “I’ll take you. I’ll walk you. I’ll call a ride. I don’t care what—just don’t go alone.”
He exhaled shakily, chest rising and falling like he was fighting a panic he wasn’t prepared to admit to. His hand flexed at his side like he wanted to reach for you and didn’t dare.
You watched him, and hated that you couldn’t look away. Damn it—he was getting under your skin, getting to you in a way that made your chest tighten and your thoughts stumble. You hated that feeling, hated how much it made your pulse quicken.
“Okay,” you said softly, and he turned to look at you, a flicker of relief crossing his features.
“But I think we should walk,” you added, a small edge of authority threading through your words. “You’re not driving drunk.”
He didn’t argue. Instead, he let out a quiet breath, a flicker of relief softening the tension in his shoulders. For a moment, the night air wrapped around you both—cool, heavy with the towns quiet hum—and nothing else seemed to exist.
You stepped onto the sidewalk, Adrian falling into step beside you. The space between you thrummed with unspoken words, lingering glances, and a weighty tension that made every step feel electric.
summary: what was supposed to be a simple no-strings hookup between best friends turns complicated when feelings inevitably get involved. huh. who would've thought?
wc: 11.4k (i'm just as shocked as you)
genre/tags: fluff/minor angst (miscommunication trope tbh)/smut (TWO smut scenes woohoo!), best friends to lovers, protected sex (condom/bc), p in v sex, oral (fem & male receiving), size kink (clark has a huge dick, but y’all know that 😝), slight praise kink
"just one night," you had said. "no strings. no feelings." you liar.
you were the one who proposed it – all cool and casual, as if it wouldn't ruin you. and now? you can't even get through a bowl of cereal without thinking about the way clark kent sounded when he moaned your name.
it's been a week. one whole week since he wrecked you and then kissed your forehead like it was nothing.
(it was something. it was everything and you hate him for it.)
because now? you know no one else will ever come close.
you scroll through tinder like a bitter old woman; this guy's too short. that one uses the wrong "your." one says their most irrational fear is "women." (kill me.)
all the while, a tiny voice in your brain that you wish would just shut up whispers: clark would never.
and thanks to that voice, you end up mentally replaying that night for the thousandth time – back when it all started. back when it was just popcorn, a movie and a stupid, stupid idea.
– thursday, 9:42 P.M.
it had started the way movies nights at your apartment always did: clark stretched out on one end of your couch, his arm over the back of it, a bowl of popcorn sitting between you, and you on the other end, your socked foot tucked under his thigh, claiming the space like it was normal (which it was). you're halfway through some cheesy drama neither of you were really watching, spending most of the time catching up on life other than the daily planet.
you lean over, tossing your half eaten dragon roll from the takeout sushi platter onto the coffee table, before returning back to slumping against the couch, eyes scrutinizing the t.v.
then came that scene – hot and heavy kitchen counter action, complete with frantic kissing and someone getting hoisted onto the marble and you can tell it's a scene the actors had to practice at least three times by how seamless and graceful it seems.
you scoff, reaching for popcorn from the bowl between the two of you. "god, i miss that."
clark glances over at you, a brow quirking upward. "being thrown onto a kitchen counter?"
you popped a kernel into your mouth. "being kissed like that. hell, being touched like that. my last date ended with a side hug and apple cash request for half the appetizer."
clark winces, face visually contorting. "ouch."
you sigh dramatically, leaning your head back against the couch. "i'm in a dry spell so bad, it's actually concerning."
clark laughs. your transparence was something he had to get used to at first but over time, he realized that's just how you were. unfiltered. bold. honest in a way most people weren't. it didn't scare him. if anything, it made talking to you easy.
he nudges your leg. "join the club. last girl i dated told me i was 'too polite to be hot.' whatever that means."
your brows furrow, internally scolding the woman for ever saying a thing. "it means she had no taste, clark. trust me, you're hot and polite. some of us are into that, y'know."
clark flushes a little at that, lowering his head to conceal his shy smile but you see it anyway.
maybe that's why you said the thing. because of his dumb, stupid, clark smile.
you reach for another handful of popcorn, keeping your eyes fixed on the movie screen even though you've completely lost the plot. you may be blunt at the best of times, but even you have a little shame, so you cover it up well. "you know," you begin, tone softening considerably enough for clark to look over at you again, "we could fix that."
clark tilts his head, confused. "fix what?"
"the dry spell." you glance at him now, meeting his eyes. "you and me. just one night. a mutual exchange."
his mouth parts, just slightly, and then it opens and closes like a blubbering fish. you can practically see the gears turning in his head, the way his jaw flexes before he clears his throat. "are you serious?"
you shrug like it's no big deal, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribcage. "sure. we're both adults. good friends. we trust each other. and we're both painfully single. why not?"
he says nothing for a moment. you can see him doing that thing that he always does: thinking it through, being careful, considering every angle, every potential consequence.
your nails dig into the rough fabric of your couch, dwelling on the proposition you just made. with every second that passes, regret sinks heavy in your stomach.
you open your mouth, ready to backpedal and make a joke of it. you'll laugh it off, blame the movie or your hellish dating era–
clark cuts you off before you get the chance, his voice low. firm. certain.
"okay."
your breath catches, brows lifting slightly.
his eyes are on you now, his expression steady, unreadable but darkened in a way that makes your skin prickles and goosebumps rise on your arms. "if you're sure," he adds, softer this time. "i'm in."
you blink. "yeah?"
he nods. "yeah. just two pals keening for mutual relief." despite the joke in his words, he delivers it a little more seriously.
you nod along. "exactly. just sex. no strings. no feelings. we're still friends after this."
"right," he agrees sharply, adjusting the black frames on his nose. there's something different in his expression now, something unreadable. it's times like these when you wish you could read his mind. you share a planet with a superalien and yet, there's no accessible device you can use to know exactly what clark kent is thinking. pity.
"okay," he says again, resting his palms against his thighs. one of his thighs presses to yours. did he scoot over? "so, when do we start?"
your eyes flutter, startled at the sudden shift.
"um... now?"
and then he looks at you, really looks at you in a way that sucks the breath from your lungs, his gaze drags across your face like he's memorizing every detail he's never let himself linger on too long.
a beat passes.
"now works," he murmurs, nodding to himself and you're unsure if you're seeing things but you think you catch his adam's apple bob in this throat.
he turns to face you and there's another moment of silence between you, darting eyes looking into each other's with neither of you sure how to make the first mood. the tense air falters slightly when you both laugh, visibly shaking as if trying to fray the nerves you feel.
"you're allowed to kiss me, clark." you crack a smile, further easing the tension and giving him the go-ahead.
clark nods, reaching his arm up. his hand comes up gently, fingers brushing along your jaw, like he's hesitant in case you pull away. but you don't. you can't. you're frozen in place, heart pounding in your ears as clark kent, your best friend, your coworker and lunch break buddy, closes the distance and kisses you.
it starts slow and you shouldn't be surprised.
he's soft, tentative, like he's testing the waters, but the second your lips part and your hands slides up the back of his neck, feeling the curls at the nape of his neck, it's like a dam breaks.
the kiss soon turns hungry, almost desperate in a way that makes you feel dizzy.
he groans into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your chest when you gently tug at his hair, pulling him closer to you. his hands find your hips and he grips them tightly as he sits beside you.
your free hand trails down to tug at his shirt. he's quick to lift it off, breaking the kiss for a mere second, tossing the fabric somewhere behind the sofa.
you don't remember how you ended up in his lap, only that you're straddling him now, grinding down over the thickening length pressed against his jeans.
your hands aren't shy in the way they glide across the newly discovered fair skin of his torso. he's on the fairer side but you can imagine the farmer's tan he'd probably sport had he stayed home and not moved to metropolis.
you knew clark was a big guy. everyone did. he's a tower of a man, standing over you at six-foot four-inches, yet with the most gentlest of demeanors.
there's nothing gentle about clark's body though. you have half the mind to ask him when he finds time to go to the gym consistently but the other voice in your head tells you it'd ruin the moment.
clark's hands travel everywhere, too: up your thighs, your waist, your back. he touches you like he's been waiting for this. starving for this.
he hides pent up energy a lot better than i do, you think to yourself.
your teeth scrape against his bottom lip, holding the soft flesh between them and he exhales sharply, like you've knocked the wind out of him.
"bedroom?" he pants against your mouth when you release his lip.
you nod breathlessly. "please."
he stands with you still clinging to him, lifting you like it's nothing (seriously, what can this man bench?), and in a matter of seconds, you're in your room.
it's not the first time he's been in your room. it's not even the tenth. he's helped you assemble ikea furniture in here. he's helped you hang picture frames and fix a broken drawer. he's sat on your bed, fully clothed, eating pad thai while you struggled to find what to wear for a particular date.
but this...
this is different.
this time you're underneath him, flat on your back, watching as he looks at you like he's never really seen you before. granted, he hasn't. not like this.
his hands smooth under your shirt, eyes trained on the faded material. you're about to ask what he's staring at when he murmurs softly, "this is mine."
you glance down, eyeing the oversized fabric plastered with the logo of an indie band you know nothing about. a distant memory flashes in your eyes. "y'gave it me after that big storm," you remind him, your tone matches his. "never asked for it back."
"so you decided to steal it?" he asks, eyes flitting up to yours, a hint of amused challenge in his eyes.
"more like long-term borrowing," you correct him firmly. "i was going to return it eventually," you add.
"eventually," he echoes, like he doesn't believe you for a second.
his fingers toy with the hem of the shirt, brushing along the bare skin of your navel. it sends a shiver across your body, not only by his touch alone, but how he looks at you.
you swallow. "you want it back?"
clark hums, leaning in, nose brushing against yours. "eventually," he teases.
he kisses you again.
it's slower this time, like he has all the time in the world to taste you. his hands skim your sides, pushing the shirt up gradually, savoring each inch of skin he reveals. your arch to help him, letting the fabric slide up off your arms, over your head and get tossed somewhere beside your bed.
clark sits back just enough to look at you, really look at you, and the look on his face makes goosebumps raise your skin. his eyes drag down your chest, still clad in a bra.
"um, may i?" he asks, voice strained.
a smile cracks your features, warmth blooming in your chest at the his display of shyness during your moment of intimacy. you nod with a hum of approval, grateful that the bra you decided to wear today had the clasp at the front between the two cups.
clark breathes out a quiet sound of relief, like he's also grateful for the simplicity. his fingers find the clasp easily, but he doesn't rush. he hesitates for just a second, giving you one last chance to change your mind, even though your body is already arching toward him in invitation.
the clasp clicks open with a soft snap and you bra loosens against your skin.
with a bated breath, you feel clark slide the straps from your shoulders carefully, until the bra has been tossed aside to join your – his – shirt on the floor. you blink up at him as he finally takes you in fully, his breath catches.
"you're beautiful," he says simply, like it's a fact. not a line, not flattery. just the truth.
you swallow hard, unable to speak, so you reach for him instead, pulling him down into another kiss, your hands wrapped around the back of his neck. this one is deeper, messier. your tongue slide together, desperate and hot enough to make your thighs press together.
clark groans into your mouth, feeling the movement of your legs, as if he knows exactly what it means. his hands slide down your sides, settling on your hips, thumbs tracing slow circles, just under the waistband of your sweatshorts.
then he shifts, dragging his mouth along your jaw, down your neck, pressing slow kisses to every inch of skin he can reach. you gasp when his lips find the sensitive spot below the corner your jaw, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucks softly.
"clark," you whisper, barely able to get the word out.
he lifts his head slightly, eyes searching yours. "tell me what you want," he murmurs.
you bite the inside of your lower lip, feeling the heat pool in your lower belly. "i want you to touch me. really touch me."
he lets out a breath, nodding.
clark moves lower, trailing kisses down your chest, pausing to mouth at your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple until you arch beneath him with a croon. you moan softly when his lips close over your nipple, sucking at the stiffened flesh. your eyes flutter shut as his large hand gropes the breast that's not in his mouth, before it begins to trail down.
his hand coasts down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and then he goes lower, beneath the cotton of your underwear.
your breath hitches when his fingers brush over your slit, already soaked and his breath stutters against your skin. he releases from your nipple with a soft 'pop,' eyes meeting yours.
"oh my," he groans, "you're so wet."
you whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate. "yeah, well... you're kind of hot."
he huffs to himself – maybe a laugh, maybe it's out of disbelief – and presses a kiss to the slope of your breast before slipping a finger between your folds, circling your clit with a precision you don't want to know from where he learned. your body jerks at the contact, a soft moan leaving your lips.
clark watches your expression closely, trying to read your pleasure.
"like this?" he asks lowly, swallowing the lump in his throat.
you nod frantically, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pull him closer. "mhm... just like that."
his touch grows more confident, smiling to himself as he coaxes another croon from you when he pushes the finger inside your velvet walls.
you gasp, hands moving to clutch his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut at the slow and deliberate stretch of his digit inside you.
he hums in approval at the feel, like the warmth of you is enough to drive him crazy. his thumb moved to your clit, circling in tandem with the curl of his finger, drawing sounds from your lips he's never heard before. now that he has, he doesn't think he'll ever forget them.
your hips buck up to meet his hand, your breath hitching as his finger begins to move faster and with more purpose. he carefully adds a second finger, watching your reaction closely.
"oh, clark," you pant, voice breaking.
"does it feel good?" he checks in softly, continuing to crook his fingers inside your gummy walls.
"y-yeah, real good," you nod, lashes batting.
your body burns and your pulse pounds in your ears, thighs trembling as he works you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.
"clark, i'm– oh my god–"
you're at the precipice. he can feel it, too.
"mhm, go ahead, sweetheart," he hums against your temple, his thumb circling faster over your clit.
you're unsure if it's his fingers or the pet name that triggers your orgasm but you cum with a sharp cry, legs tensing and back arching as waves of pleasure roll through your body. he doesn't pull his fingers out until you're gasping, twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation.
when you finally open your eyes, you look at his expression: tender. a littler in awe.
you pull him into a kiss before you can overthink it, your lips a 'thank you' for the orgasm he gave you. one of your hands drift down and feel how hard he his through the denim of his jeans.
"your turn," you murmur against his lips.
clark shakes his head slightly, kissing your jaw. "we're not playing a board game."
you arch a brow, still catching your breath. "clark."
he grins softly. "okay, fine. 'm not going to argue with you."
you laugh breathlessly tugging at the loops of his jeans before your reach the button of them. he lets you unbutton his jeans, finding the zipper and pulling it down.
clark hisses when the zipper comes in contact with his bulge, separated by the cotton of his boxers. you glance up at him, eyes flitting to his face, just in time to see him bite down on his lower lip and knit his brows together.
you push the denim down his hips and he helps, standing off the bed momentarily to tug the rest of them down his legs and kicking them aside.
"those, too," you murmur, eyes zeroing on his boxers, more specifically the hard outline behind them.
clark exhales sharply, his cheeks tinting a faint pink as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and leans over to slide them to his legs before stepping out of them and leaving them in the pile on the floor.
your breath catches as he straightens again, fully bare now and yeah... you're in awe.
your eyes roam over him and he shifts slightly under the weight of your gaze. he's not bashful per se, but he's something close to it.
"jesus, clark," you whisper.
"what?" his ears flush a darker pink and that makes you grin because of course he's shy about it. it's so him, it almost makes your chest ache.
"you, clark," you smile, chuckling through your nose. "that," you add, nodding toward his cock, hanging thick and heavy between his legs.
he sucks in a breath and you find his reaction dear. of course the guy with the biggest dick you've ever seen is modest about it. and of course it's clark kent of all men.
"c'mere," you beckon him over, sitting up in your bed. "wanna make you feel good."
he kneels at the edge of your bed, voice strained, raspy with want. "you don't have to," he murmurs but the twitch of his cock says otherwise.
"i want to," you answer softly, gently tugging him by the arm until he's settled against your headboard.
"sweetheart..." he trails off.
there it is again. that damn pet name.
"let me," you ask, practically beg, eyes boring into his with desperation. "please."
his lips purse as if he's holding something in and then he's nodding. "okay."
you wrap your fingers around him, heat returning to your belly when you realize your hand barely encircles his entire circumference. you stroke him once slowly, and clark's eyes flutter shut. his jaw tenses, tossing his head back against the headboard.
"god," he breathes, the sound low and guttural, like the air's been vacuumed from his lungs.
you smirk a little to yourself, tucking the moment away in your memory.
your hand moves again, slow and steady, watching his every reaction. you watch the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now, and the way his brows scrunch together while his lips part with a groan when you twist your wrist just the right way.
"feel good?" you ask.
clark's eyes flutter open, glassy and dark with heat. "yeah," he rasps. "feels... feels great."
you beam at his words, pride filling your chest.
you shift lower on the bed, settling between his legs and placing a hand on his thigh for support. his breath catches when he realizes where this is going and you don't give him a chance to overthink it.
you run your tongue along the underside of his cock, slow and deliberate. he lets out a sound that's part groan and part whimper, hips twitching up instinctively.
he moans your name softly, pressing the back of his head harder against the headboard. part of you wishes you could take a picture.
you hum around the thick head of him as you take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue and easing forward until you feel the weight of him on your tongue, nearly overwhelming in girth. his hands twitch at his sides before one reluctantly moves up to your hair.
clark doesn't push. doesn't guide. he just holds, like he needs something to ground him.
you set a rhythm, bobbing your head and stroking him with one hand what you can't take. you relish in the way his moans grow louder, more broken, a sound you want etched into your mind forever.
"sweetheart," he calls, voice tense with strain. "you have to wait– i'm–"
you glance up at him, eyes wide and pupils blown, trying to read his expression.
"you're going to make me cum," he warns, voice cracking.
why does he say that like it's such a bad thing?
you double-down, sucking harder in response, flattening your tongue along the underside of his cock again, and that's it.
clark groans, loud and low and helpless, as he comes, hips bucking once before he stills them. his hand fists your hair while the other attempts to cover his mouth as if he's afraid of waking the whole building (too late, you think).
you ease off him slowly when his thigh trembles beneath your hand, lifting your head up and wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you look up at him.
he looks completely and utterly wrecked. his hair is mussed, his skin is flushed pink and damp with sweat. his eyes are still dazed, slowly blinking at you as he comes down from his high. he looks... so pretty.
"jesus," he pants softly. "you really didn't have to do that."
"i know," you murmur with a small smile, crawling up his body until you're in front of his face. "i wanted to."
and then he smiles at you, a dazed one that sucks the breath from your lungs that you cant help but lean in to kiss him. he reaches up to cradle your jaw, uncaring at the fact that he can taste himself on you. his other hand drifts to your waist, pulling you closer and against him.
your tongues meet each other's, gliding together in almost a lazy manner. his kiss is languid, almost reverent, like he's trying to memorize the inside of your mouth.
you sigh into it, boneless and content as your body arches into his, bare chests pressing against each other's.
his hand drifts to your hip, toying with the hem of your shorts. "can't believe these are still on," he murmurs against your lips.
"you're the one who fingered me without taking them off first," you remind him with a chuckle.
"mm, my fault," he muses, beginning to tug down the material. you let him, allowing him to slide down your shorts until they're low enough for you to kick off and off the bed. "and these?" he asks, fingers playing with the lacy hem of your cotton panties.
you pull your head back slightly, eyes darting between his. "you want to?" you ask softly.
he swallows as he looks at your face in the dim light, just as flushed as his. "if you want," he answers, fingers still idly pinching the lacy fabric between his fingers.
you nod once with certainty. "yeah," you answer in a breath. "i do."
clark leans in to kiss you again, hands gripping your waist to flip you and ease you onto your back. he pulls away, his hands skimming your sides as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your underwear. his eyes meet yours once more, another silent check.
you lift your hips up in answer.
he slides your panties, soiled from your first orgasm, down slowly, tossing them aside into the growing pile on the floor.
you let him pull your thighs apart, exposing your core to the air and his gaze.
"you're so..." he trails off, but he doesn't finish, like the words fail him.
you look up at him, curious despite feeling so vulnerable before him. "so what?"
he smiles softly as if he's amazed. "just... beautiful."
your breath hitches at his words. it's so clark for him to say; it's so earnest and devastating at the same time, it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
he takes another glance down at your pussy before he snaps out of it, scooting away to reach for something on the floor. "i think i've got a condom in my wallet," he murmurs, a little hurried.
you choose not to dwell on wondering how often clark gets propositioned with sex to regularly carry a condom in his wallet.
it's clark after all.
any woman would be lucky to be with him.
you stop him, your voice calling out, "i've got a box somewhere in my nightstand."
the look on his face as he turns to look at you is boyishly flustered and adorable. you watch him crawl back over to you, hovering over you as he reaches in your nightstand drawer and retrieves a foil packet.
clark kneels up on the bed, leaning back against the back of his calves and carefully opens the packet. he rolls it on his hardened cock and you swear your brain circuits watching him do something so mundane and yet so intimate.
is this how you usually reacted to a date rolling on a condom?
then, he's hovering over you and his hand moves between you both, wrapping around himself and dragging the head of his cock slowly throughout your folds, gathering slick.
you whimper softly, hips twitching instinctively.
"you're sure about this?" he asks through gritted teeth, like he's not pressing his tip against your entrance, his restrain a hairline away from snapping. his glasses are already fogged and you hate to admit to yourself that it's one of the hottest things you've ever seen.
"yeah," you nod, letting out a breath.
he nods back at you, maybe to himself, before pushing inside you.
you cry out softly at the invasion, the head of his cock stretching your walls as he sinks into you. your hands scramble to find something, anything, to hold on to. they end up gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his warm skin as your breath stutters.
clark is big. thick. huge as he fills you in a way that feels overwhelming yet perfect at the same time.
"'s tight," he rasps, staying still as your walls flutter around the two inches he has inside you. "'m sorry."
"don't apologize," you pant, your eyes fluttering. of course he's apologizing for being too big. "i can take it."
he groans at your words, unable to resist pushing deeper inside you, another inch entering your tight walls. "sweetheart, y'sure? i don't have to go in all the way–"
how sweet.
"please," you whine, legs wrapping around his waist and pulling his hips closer to you, not letting him pull out.
he grunts at your eagerness as you urge him in closer, deeper as he sinks another inch into you, the stretch burning just enough to make your toes curl.
"fuck," he breathes, like the sound is punched from his lungs. is this the first time you've ever heard him swear? you think stars form your pupils just because he sounds so pretty when he curses.
you feel so full, so deliciously and impossibly full and yet you still want more, knowing there's a little more of him to go. you babbles something along the lines of 'more' and 'please' and who is clark kent but the man who'd grant your every wish?
with one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out, cock fully seated inside you. he lets out a low groan, feeling his pelvis press against your slick fold. the breath in your throat hitches at the pressure, the fullness you feel.
for a moment, the two of you stay sill like that, bodies locked together and foreheads touching. clark removes a hand from your hips to gently brush your jaw with the pad of his thumb.
"you okay?" he murmurs, voice so soft it makes your chest ache.
you nod, nails pressing into his back, but your grip loosens slightly. "yeah," you manage to say, a little breathless. "just... give me a second."
clark kisses your cheek, then your temple. "take all the time you need."
and so you do. you catch your breath. you adjust, the dull ache between your legs slowly becoming one of pleasure. you give him a nod, tilting your hips, silently inviting him to move and he takes the cue.
he starts the thrust, slowly at first but it's deep. so deep. every movement is unhurried and almost reverent. his gaze remain on you, maintaining an intense eye contact through every thrust, his lips parted as soft groans leave his lips.
"i can feel you everywhere," you whisper, half-dazed. "you're everywhere."
his pace stutters for a beat at your words. he lifts his head to look at you, to really look at them. you think you see a flicker of something raw in his gaze but you can't be sure.
he leans down to kiss you and it's messy, deep, and needy, while his hips roll into yours with a growing urgency. his hips pick up their pace, moving harder and faster now, each thurst enough to make your vision blur with pleasure.
you clutch his back tighter as the coil in your belly gets tighter. your walls flutter wildly around him, desperate for release.
"sweetheart," clark pants, his voice ragged. "i'm so close."
you nod, voice barely a whisper, "me, too."
clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath stuttering as his body tenses. you feel him twitch inside you, his release crashing through you like a tidal wave, your own orgasm ripping through your core in response.
you cling to each other as your breathing slows, skin slick with sweat and hearts pounding in your chests. clark stays inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and you’re both too dazed to say anything.
then he presses a kiss to your forehead.
and that’s when you know.
you’re fucked.
totally, completely, emotionally fucked.
the next morning, you blink awake to an empty bed.
the sheets are cold and tangled where he was only hours ago. the faint scent of his cologne lingers, but the warmth is gone – vanished with him.
your hand instinctively reaches out, only to find the space beside you painfully vacant. no familiar weight. no slow morning breath against your skin.
you sit up slowly, heart hammering in your chest, eyes scanning the room. you notice the faint imprint on the mattress where he had lain, and your hands brushes over the cold sheets.
his clothes are missing too. no sign he'd ever been there.
you swallow the lump in your throat, running a hang through your messy hair and check the clock on your nightstand: 7:02 A.M.
how could he just... leave? no goodbye?
your mind races but you push down the swirl of panic, reminding yourself: no strings. no feelings.
you shake your head bitterly.
but the ache in your chest says another story.
your morning routine is quiet, your mind muddled with the memories of the night prior: the way clark's hands skimmed your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake, the way his mouth moved so smoothly against yours, the way he practically engraved himself in your gummy walls.
you expected some form of conversation when you woke up that morning. then again, what would you even say? good job, clark! maybe too good of a job haha... ha.
maybe not.
but still!
a text. a note. something.
you keep glancing at your phone like it'll buzz with a text from him. but your screen stays blank. almost mockingly silent.
it was supposed to be uncomplicated. it was to just be physical. fun, even. and that's all it was – right? so why does it feel like he permanently carved himself into you and then disappeared, making you feel hollow?
you try not to spiral, really. but it's hard when your body still aches from how he held you, how he was inside you. you continue relaying the night like a film reel with a stuck stop button.
within an hour, you arrive at the daily planet still shaken, though you pat yourself on the back for looking otherwise; your hair is neatly done, lip gloss on and blazer crisp over your shoulders. your stomach is still in knots but you're hoping the distraction of news will take your mind off it.
you half expect clark to avoid you completely, given how he left your apartment. instead, he's there, at his desk (early for once) and as chipper as ever.
"morning," he greets, offering that charming grin that usually makes your chest warm. today, it makes you want to scream.
you manage a polite smile, your throat dry. "morning."
he holds up a to-go tray, offering you the contents in it. "got your usual. extra shot of espresso. thought you might need it – perry's been on edge all morning."
your fingers wrap around the warm cup, but your heart twists at the casual way he says it. thought you might need it. not because of perry, but maybe because he spent the night buried inside you.
he moves on, heading over to jimmy's desk to talk about the recent superman sighting.
apparently there'd been some alien creature on the clinton bridge – some grotesque, hulking thing with four arms and acidic spit, according to eyewitnesses. superman had swooped in early enough before any casualties were made, defeating the alien. you suspect clark is the key reporter on the case, given his connection to the superhero.
still, since when did clark go to jimmy first about stories?
you stare down at the coffee in your cup as if it'd give you an answer.
the morning drones on. perry barks headlines across the office, jimmy's frantically pacing the tiled floors while chewing a pen cap and clark... clark is perfectly normal. he's chatting with interns, bouncing article ideas off perry, tossing you a smile when he passes your desk.
around noon, you're about to get up for lunch when he beats you to it, strolling over with a brown paper bag and a casual, "hey, got you that turkey pesto you like. hope that's okay."
you blink at him, startles as you crane your neck up to look at him. "oh. yeah. thanks." you glance toward the break room. "are you...?"
"nah," he cuts in, shaking his head. "swamped with edits. gonna eat while i finish the luthor piece."
and just like that, without waiting for you to respond, he's gone.
you try to not let it bother you. you try to convince yourself that this is how it was always supposed to be. always supposed to be before your big mouth ruined it.
but all you can think about is how warm he was in your bed. how soft his eyes were in the dark. how different he felt.
and how different everything is now.
what you don't see is the way clark watches you from his desk. how he catches every flicker of confusion on your face, every little sigh when you assume no one's listening.
the weekend creeps by in slow and dragged hours.
with no deadlines hanging over your head (no perry yelling in your ear about headlines), nothing to dive into, nothing to keep your brain from looping over every moment of that night – the silence is so loud.
you try to distract yourself. you do laundry, you achieve some cleaning, all while some old rom-com plays in the background – which just makes matters worse because even that couple seemed to check in on each other the morning after.
clark hadn't.
by sunday evening, you're mostly numb to it. not okay, but dulled around the edges. detached.
if clark could carry on so easily, so seamlessly (as if sleeping with your best friend was no big deal), then so could you. you'd have to.
monday rolls in with a dreary drizzle and a headache you can't shake, despite the two aspirin you'd taken already. when you step into the planet, clark is already at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard with the same focused expression he always wears.
he looks up when you enter, lifts a hand in greeting and gives one of his clark boyish smiles. "hey," he says, like nothing is different. "usual on your desk."
you blink. "thanks," you murmur.
the coffee cup is still warm when you pick it up. the lid has your name scribbled on it in his handwriting – something he does when he picks up coffee for everyone else in order to remember whose is who. your lid was always different – special – though. a smiley face is scrawled beside your name, just like always.
now, the smile seems like it's mocking you.
you shuffle into the morning meeting and take the seat farthest from him. clark barely notices. he doesn't even look at you.
at least not that you can tell.
lunchtime comes and goes. he stops by your desk with a neatly packed container of leftovers. "made extra this weekend. figured you wouldn't say no to pasta."
you look up at him, then the container in his hand. you can smell it from here. you love his cooking and you can feel your stomach rumble at the sight of it.
"thanks, but i brought mine." you give him a pressed smile, pulling out your own container from home. it's got a sad excuse of a sandwich in there but still, you're too proud to accept his.
you see something flicker across his face, so subtle and brief you're not sure if it was ever there at all, but he recovers fast. "oh. okay. cool." clark pats your desk softly before walking away.
by wednesday, your strategy of coping has been reduced to silence and sidestepping. an absolute shutdown.
you haven't looked clark in the eye once.
not really.
you pretend he's not there, except when you have to acknowledge him. and when you do, you do it with the same kind of politeness you'd give a coworker you don't really know.
you've been packing your own lunch consistently now, every day. it's not because you're being petty, but because you can't keep accepting his gracious offers.
today, he hovers by your desk with a paper bag and a hopeful smile. "brought you that chicken teriyaki over rice you like," he says. "figured you might not have had time–"
"i packed something," you cut in, before he can finish. you plaster a polite smile on your face. "but thank you."
you don't wait for his reply, turning back to your computer and after a moment too long, he sets the bag down and walks off.
you don't touch it.
today 7:15 P.M.
and that leads you to where you are now, scrolling on tinder in hopes – desperate hopes – for something, anything to distract you from your mood.
but there's a knock at the door.
you thought, no, you hoped clark would skip movie night. you really did. after days of keeping your head down, of ducking out of rooms the moment he walked in, of dodging any and every attempt at closeness, you figured he'd get the hint.
you freeze on the couch, bowl of half-eaten cereal in your lap and an oversized hoodie swallowing you whole, phone in the other hand, screen still showing off a man’s dating profile. you consider ignoring the door. you could pretend you're asleep, or not home, or–
"hey," clark calls from the other side of the door, his tone gentle. "i brought thai. they were out of the dumplings you like so i got extra spring rolls."
your stomach flips.
you set the bowl down on the coffee table, standing from your seat and slowly pad over to the door, hesitating for a moment before you open the door.
there he is.
normal as anything. stupidly handsome in a soft blue henley and worn jeans, his hair a little messy from the breeze. he holds up the takeout bag with a hopeful little smile.
you can't believe it took you sleeping with him to realize just how handsome clark kent is.
"movie night," he says simply, raising the bag for emphasis.
you blink, mouth opening and then shutting.
"i'm... not really feeling up to it tonight," you say, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "sorry. kinda under the weather."
it's a decent lie. passable. you even sniff for good measure, eyes avoiding his.
clark doesn't say anything right away.
behind his glasses, his gaze dips over you, scanning the faintest tension in your shoulder, the steadiness of your pulse, the evenness of your breath, the warmth of your skin. they're all signs that your body is just fine. signs that you're lying.
he doesn't call you out on it. he just lets a slow nod carry his chin. "okay..." he murmurs quietly, frowning. he hands you the bag of takeout anyway. "you can text me if you need anything, alright?"
you nod and start the shut the door.
he turns to leave, letting the door shut behind him and you move to place the bag on the coffee table.
but then clark stops. you don't even hear his footsteps on the stairs before they pause and double back to your door. the knock is softer this time.
you open the door again, brows furrowed in confusion.
clark stands before you, his own brows knitted. "did i... do something wrong?" he asks, his voice careful.
you freeze.
"what?"
"you've been avoiding me," he reveals gently. "not just today. all week."
your mouth is dry and it takes a second for you to swallow. "i've just been busy. tired," you answer weakly.
clark exhales through his noise, eyes narrowing slightly. he doesn't buy it. you can feel him not buying it. the air between you tenses but he still doesn't push you.
you sigh and rub your hand over your forehead in attempt to buy time and think of some excuse for your detached behavior that doesn't make you seem pathetic.
"i just needed space," you say finally, eyes still averted.
clark shifts his weight. "so i did do something."
"no!" you manage, too fast. too loud. then softer, you force calm into your tone. "no. you didn't... not really."
clark waits. patient. unmoving.
the silence is long enough that your embarrassment starts to rise hot in your cheeks. you should shut the door. thank him for the food. tell him you'll see him at work tomorrow and crawl back into the shell you've spent the last week building around yourself.
but you don't.
you lean your shoulder against the doorframe, staring off to the side.
"i just thought it'd feel different," you admit, voice so quiet and just above a whisper, you're unsure if he hears it.
clark's brow creases. "different?"
"afterward," you clarify. "i thought..." you sigh. "i don't know what i thought." your words trail off and clark doesn't rush you to elaborate.
he waits.
"i guess i didn't expect you to act so normal," you finally settle on. "and then i didn't expect me to care so much that you acted so normal."
clark's eyes darken, and something in his jaw tightens. "i wasn't trying to brush you off."
"you didn't," you say quickly. "that's the worst part, clark. you didn't do anything wrong. you were just... being you. sweet and thoughtful and friendly and perfect."
with a calm tone, he murmurs, "well, apparently not if you're not okay."
you finally meet his gaze, though your head remains slightly tilted downward, looking up at him through your lashes.
"i was the one who said it'd just be physical. i made a whole thing of it. i joked about it. and then i–" you catch yourself. the words tremble on your tongue, about to slip.
clark doesn't look away, his gaze settled heavily on you. "you what?"
you hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat.
"i caught feelings," you admit, the confession dragging out of you like you're wincing. "i said no strings but i lied. not on purpose, but... i did."
a beat passes.
you avert your gaze, too afraid to see his expression.
here's where your mouth moves before your brain can compute, attempting to fill in the excruciating silence.
"i didn't expect to feel this way," you say, quieter now. "but i do. and i just... i don't know how to be your friend and pretend like that night didn't change anything for me. i... i'm just sorry."
clark's eyes search your face, his face unreadable for long second.
then, he finally says your name. and the way he says it is so soft, so full of emotion, it feels like a kiss. he takes a step closer to you, crossing the threshold into your apartment.
"i didn't want to leave that morning," he says suddenly, voice low. "i had to."
that makes your head shoot up. you blink, head shaking slightly. "had to?" you echo.
his eyes flicker, almost like he regrets saying it, but he nods. "there was something... urgent. i should've left a note. i thought i could just... make it up to you. you know, the coffee, lunch, the usual clark stuff."
"i didn't know how to act," he continues, his head tilting down as he looks at you. "i didn't want to assume what that night meant to you since you brought it up in the first place... hell, i even asked steve about hookup culture and what was the appropriate thing to–"
"clark." you snap your head up to meet his eyes with incredulity. "you asked steve? for dating advice?"
clark huffs, shaking his head. "no, not dating advice. hookup advice," he corrects, matter-of-fact-ly.
"oh my god," you mumble to yourself. "you asked steve, the guy who has a horrible track record when it comes to woman for advice."
"well, i couldn't ask jimmy. he'd know it was about you and then i'd never hear the end of it."
you blink, stunned, your mouth opening slightly before you let out a short, surprised laugh. "you are so bad at this."
clark shrugs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "yeah, well. sue me for trying to respect your boundaries while quietly losing my mind."
you're taken aback. "you were losing your mind?"
his hand drops, and he takes another step closer to you. "you seriously can't believe i just walked away from that night and felt nothing," he murmurs, voice quiet and earnest. "i've been thinking about you nonstop. i couldn't be around you for more than a few minutes because every time i see you i..." he trails off, gulping.
"you what?" you ask softly, your breath halting.
"every time i see you, i want to touch you," he says, voice low, almost like he's confessing a sin. "i want to pull you into the nearest room and kiss you. touch you. hold you. have you."
your breath hitches in your throat.
clark takes another step forward, so close now you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. "and it's not just physical. i think about how you laugh when you're half-asleep. how you hum when you're focused. i think about things i shouldn't know after one night."
you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "clark..."
"let me be clear," he says quickly. "i do feel the same. maybe – probably more."
you glance up at him, noting the sincerity in his expression, the barely restrained tension in his frame.
"i'm not going to pretend it was just sex," he says. "not when every second of it felt like something i didn't want to end. not when i still think about the way you sounded – how you looked under me."
your breath stutters, legs nearly giving out at the memory alone.
his voice dips even lower, if that's possible. "not when i've had to physically stop myself from calling you every night since, just to hear your voice while i–" he cuts himself off, swallowing the words.
your stomach drops and a familiar heat grows. "while you what?"
"i think you know."
"every night?" you ask, your voice a small murmur.
he exhales sharply, face flushing but his eyes are still as darkened as ever. "yeah."
your chest tightens at the confession. there's a beat of silence where the air between you feels heavier than ever, thick with things you never thought he'd say. never thought he felt.
"i tried to respect the line you drew," he says softly, almost apologetically. "but i crossed it the second i touched you and i haven't been able to stop wanting you since."
your heart pounds in your ears. you want to speak, say something, but your throat is dry and your mind is racing too fast to catch a single coherent thought.
so you choose to act instead.
you surge up, gripping the collar of his henley, and kiss him.
it's clumsy at first, all heat and urgency and too many feelings shoved into the kiss. his hands immediately find your waist, anchoring you as your fingers tangle in his shirt, wrinkling the blue material between your fingertips. you're already tugging at him. tugging him further into your apartment – he takes the hint and kicks the door behind him.
he groans into your mouth when your hands slide uo under his shirt, palms brushing over warm skin. his muscles twitch beneath your touch, like he's been waiting for this.
he lifts you effortlessly – god, you missed his strength – and your legs wrap around his waist like it's second nature. your back meets the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth never leaves your. it's greedy, relentless. it's like he's making up for lost time. granted, he is.
his hands roam with a desperate urgency, memorizing every curve and contour of you with free reign. the heat between you is palpable, a built up tension bursting at the seams. you cling to him, breath hitching as his lips trail down your jaw to your neck, nipping softly.
"you don't know how much i've missed this," he murmur against your skin, voice rough with need.
you shiver, fingers threading into his hair as he kisses lower, just beneath your ear, along the line of your throat. his breath fans hot against your skin. you're practically melting into him, undone by the weight and warmth of his body.
"i thought about you every night," he confesses, his pressing forward, still hoisting you up against the wall, making your breath hitch. all the while he presses open mouthed kisses to your skin. "your laugh." kiss. "your face." kiss. "your body." kiss.
you whimper, the memory of it rushing back all at once. you feel yourself clench around nothing, the heat in your belly pooling.
the words are stuck in your throat. you're too embarrassed to admit what he already seems to know: it was supposed to be just a hookup and you thought you could keep your heart out of it. but you failed. spectacularly.
so, instead, you lean in, teeth catching his bottom lip in a kiss that's filthy. needy. his groan rumbles against your chest, hand squeezing at the flesh beneath your thighs as he carries you, sliding up to your ass.
"i need you," you whisper finally.
his eyes darken at your words. "you have me," he rasps, and then his mouth is back on yours.
he carries you with effortless strength toward the bedroom, only breaking the kiss to make sure he's not bumping into anything in your hallway. your legs still stay locked around him, arms around his shoulders, fingers still tangled in his hair like you're afraid this moment isn't real. like he actually isn't here.
when his knees hit the edge of the side of your bed, he lowers you onto the mattress with a care that contradicts the heat in his gaze.
"tell me to stop," he murmurs against your lips, his forehead brushing nose, voice barely holding back restraint. "and i will."
you shake your head. "please don't."
and that's his green light.
his mouth is back on yours as his hands trail down your body. they slide along the curve of your waist, the dip of your hips until they find the hem of your hoodie. you easily slip out of it as he helps pull it over your head, tossing it aside. he pulls away for a moment glancing down at the shirt your wearing.
"what?" your question cuts through the tense air.
"you look better in my shirts," he murmurs, pinching the material between his fingertips.
you smile – grin, really – finding amusement in his words. "you should give me some more then," you answer, arms hooking around his neck. he lets you pull him in, smiling against your mouth as you attempt to press another kiss.
his hands grow more eager, tugging the shirt up and over your head in one swift motion.
he lets out a sigh, eyes raking over your chest with reverence and hunger all tangled together. his large hands cup you through your bralette, thumbs brushing over the lace.
you whimper beneath him, fingers tugging at his henley until he stands over you, yanks it over his head. that was hot.
you'd forgotten just how solid he was. all broad chest, sculpted arms. smooth skin over muscle. the kind of body that made you ache.
your hands glide over his chest, fingertips trailing down the dip of his sternum to the line of his abs. his muscles twitch under your touch, and then he's lowering again, mouth hot and wet against the swell of your breast as he works your bra off.
he mouths at you, tongue flicking and teeth scraping enough to make you gasp, "clark." your lashes flutter, fingers reaching to tangle in his curls. one of his hands stay at your chest while the other slips between your thighs, cupping you through your shorts, your heat unmistakable.
he groans, like it hurts. "oh my," he breathes, pressing his forehead between the valley of your breasts for a moment, like he's taking a moment to pull himself together. but then his fingers are moving again, sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear in one slow motion. he drags them down legs, eyes never leaving your center.
you're wet. he sees it. you feel it.
"sweetheart," he murmurs like a prayer.
that damn pet name.
he knows you like it, he can tell by the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest. clark makes a mental note to continuing calling you it.
then he sinks to his knees on your floor between your spread legs, your calves dangling off the edge of your bed. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs brushing reverently along the inside, like he's committing this to memory.
you're also committing the sight to memory. despite the obsceneness of clark kent kneeling between your les, there's still something so pure in his face: the adoration shining in his ocean eyes behind those glasses.
he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then higher and higher.
you suck in a breath when his lips ghost over the skin of your inner thigh and his glasses nudge you slightly. it unintentionally reminds you that it's him, still him, still the clark who holds open doors open and rambles about his dorky interests.
except now his hands are parting your thighs further, spreading you open.
"d'you wanna take off your glasses?" you murmur softly, swallowing thick.
he's quick – almost too quick – to shake his head. "mn-hm, wanna see you clearly," he answers, not revealing the real reason. he exhales shakily, seeing you up closes and the sound alone makes your core throb.
"so, so pretty," he says, almost to himself. he drags his thumbs along your folds, gentle at first. "
you drape your arm over your eyes, too flustered to answer and he smile – you can hear it in his voice, "don't hide from me now."
before you have a chance to answer, his mouth on you.
you gasp as his tongue licks a slow, careful stripe through your slick. when you whimper, hips shifting, his hands tighten on your thighs to hold you steady.
he eats you like he's starving, like you're the only thing he's allowed himself to have after months of being denied. his tongue flicks, circles, presses just right against you and he groans every time your body jerks against his face.
"been wanting to do this," he grumbles against your clit, pressing a chaste kiss to the sensitive bundle of nerves. "thought about it for days."
you gasp, back arching when his tongue plunges into your center, nose rubbing between your folds.
"clark," you whine, nails digging into his scalp as you push him closer to you, keening at the sheer pleasure from his nose and tongue. you don't know how long he's pressed to you like that but you're sure it's longer than a person can be before they need air.
he finally pulls away. "dunno why i didn't last week," he huffs to himself, as if he's scolding himself, breathing a puff against your twitching core, making your walls flutter.
he dives back in. he works you open with patience and purpose, like he wants to unravel you right here, right now, just with his mouth.
and you do start to unravel, your hips rolling and thighs tensing around his shoulders, his name slipping past your lips in broken gasps. you're close.
so, so close.
he pulls back.
your protest is immediate, a whimpering sound of frustration leaving your lips, but he's already climbing up over you, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your lips and murmuring softly, "i know, sweetheart."
you eagerly reach between your bodies, palming his through his jeans. he's already hard, straining, almost painfully so, and the sound he makes is low and guttural.
"clark," you pant, squeezing him through his jeans.
"yeah," he hisses, sucking his lower lip between his teeth. "yeah." he repeats with a nod, reaching down to unbutton his jeans with one hand, the other braced beside your head. you hear the rasp of the zipper being pulled down and then he's fumbling to shove them down just enough to kick off. his boxers follow and you can feel the weight of him slap against your thigh.
"normally, i'd want you to cum before i get inside you," he murmurs through a breath, swallowing hard. "but i just can't wait."
"it's okay," you say quickly, looking into his eyes, heat filling your gaze.
he glances around, reaching for your nightstand drawer and you stop him, grabbing his wrist.
with furrowed brows, he turns to look at you.
"i'm on the pill." you whisper, "and i promise i'm clean."
clark's jaw ticks and then he nods, only once, before you feel the deliberate roll of his hips as he lines himself up.
"you sure?" he asks, voice rough like gravel, like he's barely holding himself back.
you roll your hips back against him, nodding with a soft croon as the head of his cock glides between your slick folds. "y-yes," you breathe out.
"i'll have to go slow because..." he starts.
"–you're huge," you answer for him, a ghost of a smile on your face.
his face flushes. "i was going to say i had little time to properly prep you but i guess that also works."
you giggle, the sound a little breathless, a little wrecked as you lay plaint beneath him as he stands before you. "i mean... both are true."
clark huffs a quiet laugh through his nose but there's a brewing darkness in his eyes. "okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, lowering his voice. "deep breath."
you inhale and then he starts to push inside. the head of him prods against your velvet walls, barely squeezing through your entrance. the stretch is instant. it's hot, thick, overwhelming, just like you remember it but it's oh, so different now without the barriers of latex between you. you feel him more than ever, the bare skin of his cock sliding and rubbing against your walls.
"f-fuck," you whisper, fingers clutching the sheets.
"i know, i know," he pants, lifting the underside of your thighs up to anchor him as he struggles not to shove himself in in one push. "god, you're–" the glasses on his nose, fog up as he pants and slowly sinks another inch into you.
"so good," you whisper, your words a little slurred as you blink ip at him.
clark's jaw is clenched, tendons straining in his neck as he watches your face with utmost focus. it's like he's mapping your pleasure in real time.
"you're doing so good, sweetheart," he croons, squeezing the fat of your thighs. "so tight, warm... christ–"
you whimper, overwhelmed by the stretch and the praise. the way he's only barely in but you already feel full.
it takes a while for him to push himself in, whispering praises and sweet words your way all the while.
then, finally, he bottoms out.
a shaky sound spills from your lips as he buries himself to the hilt, pressing against a spot inside you that has you cumming in seconds without warning.
clark feels your walls spasm around him and he groans, throwing his head back. "shit, baby," he rasps, voice trembling. (mentally, you add another tick to how many times you've made clark swear). "did you just–?"
you nod, dazed, still catching your breath, your whole body twitching from the aftershocks as he stays buried inside you. "i... i didn't mean to," you mumble, blinking up at him, lashes wet.
his smile is crooked and fond as he looks down at you, pupils blown wide. "oh, that's alright sweetheart," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "you okay?"
you hum, looping your arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. your legs wrap around his waist, making his arms move from holding your thighs up to brace beside either side of your body. "better than okay."
he grunts at your closeness, rolling his hips just a fraction. "sweetheart, you're squeezing me s'tight."
"sorry," you whimper, attempting to unclench around him. "y'can move," you add softly.
his eyes soften as he looks down at you. "you're not overstimulated?" he asks.
you must have the kindest man inside you right now.
"i need you more than that," you answer, looking into his eyes with determination.
he sucks in a breath at that, experimentally bringing his hips back slightly before pushing back in. your walls are slick with your orgasm so it becomes easier for him to slide between your walls. at your soft moan and fluttering lashes, he starts to move.
clark pulls out a few inches and thrusts back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips. you gasp, nails digging into his back and he hisses softly.
the rhythm he sets is measured and patient, but every stroke presses right against that devastating spot inside you that made you fall apart the first time. he doesn't look away from your face, like every flutter of your lashes, every gasp and tremble is something sacred.
"you feed so good, sweetheart," he mumbles, dipping his head to kiss along your jaw. "could stay here all night. buried inside you. just like this."
you shudder from beneath him, his words sending another wave of heart in your belly. "you can," you murmur.
"yeah, you'd let me?" he grunts against your neck, needing the confirmation between every slow roll of his hips. his glasses press against your cheek to the point you're worried they might snap.
"mhm, we could'a been doing this every night since last week," you whimper, squealing when he deliberately snaps his hips against yours out of rhythm.
"then, i guess i have to make up for lost time," he murmurs against your skin, picking up his pace.
you cry out, legs tightening around his waist as he begins to fuck you harder. it's still tender but it's deeper now. it's more insistent, like he's trying to imprint himself inside you (you think he already has from the week prior).
“fuck,” you breathe, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist, anchoring him to you. “clark—”
he groans at the sound of his name, mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “say it again,” he pants. “say my name like that.”
“clark,” you whisper, and he gives a sharp thrust in return that has your back arching, the pleasure overwhelming. you whine when he pulls his torso away from you, leaving your hands to grip the sheets beside you instead.
his fingers curl under your knees, pressing them up toward your chest to angle you open for him. the new angle has him hitting that spot with merciless precision, and your moans dissolve into something breathless and high-pitched.
“look at me,” he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with a tenderness that contrasts how deep he’s fucking you. “wanna see your eyes when I make you cum again.”
your eyes flutter open, teary and half-lidded, and the moment they lock with his, noticing his blue eyes blown behind his fogged-up glasses, you shatter.
your walls clench around him, your cry muffled by the way he kisses you through your orgasm. it's the kind of kiss that feels like everything. it feels like home.
“that’s it,” he whispers against your lips. “good girl. you’re perfect. perfect.”
your body trembles under him, but he doesn't stop. not yet. he keeps thrusting through your aftershocks, voice low and ragged. “can I cum inside, sweetheart? please... need to feel it. need to feel you.”
you nod, dazed and desperate. “please, clark. want it.”
with a strangled groan, he pushes deep one final time, hips stuttering as he spills white ropes of cum inside you. he holds you tight, face buried in the crook of your neck, catching his breath.
you don’t say anything for a while, your limbs heavy and boneless as his weight settles over you. clark’s still inside, still pulsing faintly, and your body feels like it’s humming, buzzing with the aftershocks. he carefully pulls your legs back down from your chest, letting them dangle off the bed again.
"you okay?" he asks softly.
you nod, a dazed smile on your face as you look up at him. "yeah."
he cups your jaw, thumb caressing your flushed skin softly. "sorry if i went too hard at the end," he murmurs.
"it's okay," you quickly reassure him, turning your cheek to kiss the palm of his hand.
clark smiles at the gesture, basking in the warmth of you and being inside you. "can i stay over?" he asks, breaking the silence that falls between you.
the way your eyes narrow makes his heart stutter in his chest, second guessing everything that just happened prior. but then you speak.
"are you going to leave in the morning like i was some dirty mistress?" you ask, tone mostly teasing.
his shoulders relax and he laughs through his nose, leaning down to kiss your cheek. "sweetheart, i'm sorry," he apologizes, smiling against your skin. "i swear it was urgent. i didn't mean to do a walk-of-shame on you."
"mm, yeah okay," you hum along as if you don't believe him.
he pulls back to look down at you. "i'll spend the rest of forever apologizing to you for it," he promises.
"you better."
sure, tonight he won't tell you the real reason he left in a scramble and without a word that morning was because of the alien monster wreaking havoc on the clinton bridge that he had to deal with as his alien superhero counterpart, but until then, clark will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.
for now, he'll be right here and by your side until morning light.
ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ
summary: you’re just the new intern at the daily planet—anxious, invisible in your books, and falling for the man who, disguised, saves the world between coffee breaks. he could catch the sky if it fell. but for some reason, he keeps choosing to catch you.
word count: 22.4k (i know it’s a lot but it’s worth it)
warnings/tags: +18 mdni, angst, banter, fluff !!!, clark has a savior complex, friends/coworkers to lovers, intern!reader, slow-burn office romance, lots of feelings and introspection, miscommunication, the reader’s sort of a sensitive and insecure gal at times, clark picks the reader up, mentions of reader's hair, both of them are very awkward at times, idiots in love (proceed with caution), declarations of love, p with plot, fingering (f receiving), handjob, oral (m and f receiving), whiny clark kent !!!, cum swallowing, p in v, missionary, creampie, happy ending.
a/n: first time writing for clark kent!!! to say i’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. i finally got to watch superman last week, and let me tell you: i’ve been obsessed with it <3 i walked out of the theater and pretty much ran home to start writing this fic. so yes, this one’s completely self-indulgent. i just got carried away by the feelings and couldn’t stop writing, hence the length lol. i really hope you enjoy this story. if you do, likes, reblogs and comments mean the world !!!
Sometimes, you truly wished you didn’t have a brain.
It sounds ridiculous, worded like that. You know for a fact you’re not the first person to want a quiet mind, to dream of a day when you’re not held hostage by your own intrusive, spiraling thoughts. You take a look around and realize there are much bigger problems out there in the world.
Scratch that—right here, where every few days, some inexplicable, monstrous creature appears out of the blue and starts tearing through everything that gets in its way, like Metropolis is a giant city made of Legos.
And yet, you can’t help but drown in self-doubt. The worst part is how suddenly it all hits you. There’s no warning or mercy. One moment you’re fine—functioning, even laughing—and the next, something inside you flickers and dies. The illusion of confidence crumbles, and you're left looking for the broken pieces, wondering when you’ll finally figure out what’s wrong with you.
If only there were a way to cut it out, the rot, and replace it with something clean. Something shining. Something better.
The day you’re accepted for an internship at the Daily Planet, you stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror and try to tell the girl in the fogged glass something that sounds like hope:
It’s going to be okay. You’re capable of this. Just show them your potential.
But the voice in your head isn’t convinced. It places an imaginary hand on your shoulder, deceptively gentle, until its fingers dig in, cold and burning all at once. It leans in, just behind your ear, and hisses the thought you’ve been trying to avoid:
It’s only a matter of time before they realize they could’ve chosen someone better.
Just so much for a girl in her twenties.
You squint at the girl on Jimmy’s phone.
She’s beautiful. Blonde. The kind of effortlessly pretty that feels unfair. If you didn’t know her from these selfies, you would’ve thought she was some kind of model. Tall, blue-eyed, glowing with confidence. She even looks like the type of person who’d throw a tantrum if someone accidentally stepped on a cat’s tail.
Picking at your nails, your eyes flick from the screen to Jimmy. Then back again. Jimmy. Blonde girl. Jimmy. Blonde—
“She’s super pretty,” you say finally, handing the phone back to him over the desk divider.
He stands up with a smug little shrug, grinning as if he’s about to accept an award. “What can I say? Ladies just seem to love me.”
At that moment, Lois passes by right on cue, bracing herself on your desk and leaning toward Jimmy with a certain look that usually comes before total verbal destruction. “I’m still trying to figure out why,” she mutters dryly. “Guess I know what my next article’s gonna be about.”
A giggle catches in your throat, too fast to stop, and you mask it with a fake cough.
Jimmy eyes you like you’ve betrayed his loyalty. “You’re supposed to be on my side. Proximity makes us allies.”
“I’m sorry. I just can’t resist a good joke,” you mumble, lifting your hands in mock surrender, earning an exasperated sigh from him.
Lois high-fives you without missing a beat. “You can always change seats.”
With a scoff, he declares, “Traitors. Both of you.”
As he launches into a dramatic defense of his dating history, Lois unwraps a candy bar, taking a bite before giving voice to her thoughts. “Honestly, I don't know why Clark gets away with disappearing for an hour and a half during lunch. I miss one deadline, and I’ve got Perry breathing down my neck.”
“Ever heard of this revolutionary thing called… privacy?” Jimmy asks her, raising his eyebrows in her direction.
She rolls her eyes, gesturing with the candy bar. “If I find out he’s out there eating real food while the rest of us are surviving on vending machine snacks, I’m suing.”
You're about to jump in with an equally sarcastic remark when the elevator dings.
The doors quietly slide open, and there he is.
Clark Kent. Carrying a cardboard tray of four coffees, his tie slightly crooked and hair looking like the wind styled it for him on the way in. There's a coy tilt to his smile, like he knows he’s late but hopes this peace offering makes up for it.
“Hey,” he says warmly. “Thought we could all use a little caffeine. Fuel for the hardest part of the day.”
Lois lifts her chin. “Look who finally decided to rejoin society.”
Balancing the tray in one hand, he straightens his glasses. “I brought bribes.” He hands hers over first, the corner of his mouth quirking up. A second later, Jimmy’s follows, and he gives Clark a quick pat on the back.
Then, to your complete surprise, Clark holds one out to you. No matter how many times he does it, you still get excited by his thoughtfulness.
You blink owlishly. Your name's neatly written on one side of the cup with a permanent marker, just above your order: two creams, two sugars. He still remembers your order and has never gotten it wrong. You take it calmly, like it might vanish if you move too fast, struggling to fight the smile wanting to break free. “Thanks, Clark.”
He bows his head, scratching the back of his neck, and looks up to meet your pleased gaze, studying how your expression softens. “You know there's a legal limit to how many times you can say thank you in a day, right? Pretty sure you’ve already gone over it.”
No clever, witty comeback comes to mind, so you turn back to your monitor, hoping the screen hides the heat crawling up your neck. Still, you can’t help whispering a very soft, “Thank you,” just before Clark turns on his heel and walks away.
He pauses for a split second, long enough to glance over his shoulder. His eyes land on yours again briefly, like he’s trying to find a hidden answer in your features, and he gives the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, continuing toward his desk, the hem of his coat swaying with each step.
Your heart flutters in your chest as you chew on your bottom lip, twisting your ankles together beneath the desk to keep from fidgeting, hoping you’re playing it cool.
“Jeez,” a familiar voice mutters nearby. Jimmy’s shaking his head, arching a knowing brow. “You’re down bad.”
“Shut it.”
“I swear to God, if you’d just admit it—”
You lob a yellow highlighter at him, managing to hit him squarely on the shoulder with a satisfying thwack. He opens his mouth to protest, but you cut him off with a pointed finger. “Keep your voice down. There’s nothing to admit. I’m just happy I have something to sip while I work. That’s all.”
Spinning lazily in his chair, he folds his arms behind his head like a painting of a man at peace. “I’ve got to hand it to you—it’s adorable, watching you try to lie to me. I’ve been sitting across from you for what, a month now?”
A faint line appears between your brows, and you catch the highlighter as he tosses it back your way.
He grins. “I’ve grown familiar with all your faces, young lady. And that dreamy look? The puppy eyes? That little tight-lipped smile?” He props his chin on his hand, his voice descending to a murmur. “Yeah. Those aren’t for public consumption. That’s VIP treatment.”
Fighting Jimmy is pointless. He’s the kind of guy who never loses an argument—mostly because he talks over you until you forget what your point even was.
He just doesn’t get it. You can find someone attractive without liking them, right? It’s just a stupid crush. A stupid work crush, to be precise, which is significantly worse than a normal one, because now the object of your hopeless affection walks past your desk on a daily basis like it’s nothing.
At some point, you stop being sure if you're trying to convince Jimmy or yourself.
Your brain whirs back to your very first day at the Daily Planet. You remember being led around by a chatty woman from HR, who kept smiling at you with what appeared to be feigned sympathy. She pointed out the break room, the vending machine, and in the end brought you to your new, empty desk right across from a redheaded guy who immediately stood and extended a hand.
“James Olsen,” he commented. “Welcome to hell.”
Before you could respond, he waved Lois over from a few desks away. “Lois, come meet the new intern.”
You told them your name, attempting to seem casual while subtly folding your arms across your chest like a human shield. You didn’t mention you already knew who they were, or the fact that you’d read Lois’s columns like gospel. Some things were better kept to yourself.
Then, along came Perry White. The Perry White. It only took you one glance at the man to recognize him: the iconic gruff editor-in-chief with a permanent scowl and a cigar that looked surgically attached to his mouth. He stomped over, barely glancing your way.
“Where’s Kent?” he grumbled, words muffled by the cigar between his lips.
Lois and Jimmy exchanged a look. Silence. Apparently, no one felt like volunteering information.
Kent, as in Clark Kent. The name alone triggered something weird in your stomach. He was the guy who somehow landed exclusive interviews with Superman like it was no big deal, most of which you’d devoured in one sitting.
In the nick of time, as if he’d heard his name from afar, Clark entered through the elevator, brushing his fringe to the side with one hand. Slung over one of his shoulders was a worn satchel bag, and in the other, he carried a cardboard tray, loaded with steaming coffee cups. He spotted Perry and made his way over, towering over pretty much everyone in the immediate vicinity.
“I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Perry,” he apologized, already reaching into the tray. “Maybe a hot coffee will help start your day?”
Perry grunted, took a cup, and walked away without another word. Clark contemplated him as he got farther and farther away, and once he was gone, turned back to the rest of you with a quiet exhale. “Really glad I bought an extra one today.”
Only two cups of coffee remained. He handed Jimmy and Lois theirs, then scanned the tray, his brows snapping together. His gaze landed on you, standing just a little behind the group, hands clasped awkwardly in front of you. That was when it hit him.
“Oh, I’m—” he stammered, fixing his posture. “I didn’t know there would be someone new. I’m so sorry, I would’ve brought you something too.”
“This is the new intern,” Jimmy supplied casually, taking a trial sip of his drink. “Started today. Doesn’t bite, probably. Has a name and everything.”
You offered a nervous little smile, giving Clark your name.
Clark repeated it under his breath, as if he was trying to memorize it. His attention flicked back to the empty tray, later returning to you. “Next time, I’ll make sure to bring you one. What do you usually get?”
Shaking your head, you tried to wave it off. “No, really, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”
But Clark shook his own head right back, stubborn and visibly determined. “I insist.”
Jimmy leaned in, elbowing him. “No, for real—he insists.”
Lois smirked into her cup. “He's going to agonize over this all day.”
Clark’s ears reddened as he cast a glance at you again. “Just... let me know. So I get it right.”
Ultimately, you ended up telling him your order: two creams, two sugars. He nodded seriously, and repeated it: “Two creams, two sugars.”
“Better write it on your arm or something,” Jimmy interjected, sitting down on his chair. “In case it comes up in your next Superman interview.”
The next morning, you were late. Disastrously, embarrassingly late. Not just five-minutes-past-start-time late. More like why-even-bother-showing-up late.
You burst through the front doors of the Daily Planet like a fugitive fleeing a crime scene, lungs clawing for air, sweat clinging to your lower back and pooling around your temples. The last ten blocks had been a blur of dodged pedestrians and half-choked apologies, and every eye in the office felt like it had turned your way.
Avoiding eye contact, you slid into your seat. It was only your second day, and already you’d earned a reputation: the intern who can’t be punctual. What would be next? Forgetting your name? Accidentally setting the printer on fire? Calling Perry “dad”? You were so far inside your own head you barely registered the beverage sitting on your desk.
A lone paper coffee cup. You froze.
It was from the café around the corner, the same one Clark brought coffee from yesterday. An orange Post-it was stuck to the side, curling slightly at the corners, your name written just beneath it.
Hope you have a good time here. The handwriting was clean and tidy, with no signature, though you knew who had written it.
Your fingers brushed the cup tentatively, and the warmth seeped into your fingers, anchoring you in a moment that felt strangely tender. It was a small gesture, but it had found you when you were at your most unravelled, and somehow, that made it hit harder than it should have.
Glancing up, you noticed Clark was already seated at his desk, typing with ease. When your eyes met, he didn’t look away, just lifted a hand in a soft wave.
Before you could even process it, Jimmy bent over the partition, nodding at the cup. “Wow,” he uttered, pressing a hand to his chest. “On day two? Must be nice to be his favorite.”
“Excuse me?”
“Next thing you know, he’s bringing you lunch and rescheduling your dentist appointments.”
“It’s just coffee,” you retorted, but your hands didn’t loosen around the cup, clutching it like it contained the secret to world peace.
“Observe: the flustered intern in her natural habitat, attempting to rationalize a clear romantic gesture—”
“Don’t you have any photographs to take?”
His nose crinkled. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep your tragic office romance off the record. For now.”
To shut him up, you took a long sip, and immediately burned your tongue. Of course. When you glanced over again, Clark was observing you with mild alarm, eyes wide, like he wasn’t sure if he should intervene. But then he returned to his screen, his shoulders just a little stiffer than before, and you looked back down at the cup. The note.
You weren’t saying that was when the crush started. But it sure didn’t help.
Fast forward to the present day, your fingers have been levitating over the keyboard for an embarrassing amount of time, the blinking cursor taunting you like it knows. You just hope nobody’s noticed the light leaving your eyes as you spiraled into a memory that felt much warmer than the air-conditioned newsroom.
You turn your head to the left for what you swear will be the last time today, though deep down, you know that’s a lie. A practiced one at this point. Clark is already typing, posture relaxed but focused, forearms braced against the desk. He’s moved his chair today, and the faint movement of the muscles beneath the back of his white shirt makes you blink hard, as if that might reset your brain.
“Perv,” Jimmy interrupts your thoughts in a sing-song voice, not even bothering to look up from his computer.
You jab the side of his ankle with your shoe.
He hisses, eyes squinting shut. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
You don’t. What frightens you the most is that perhaps he has clocked you right. Straightening in your chair, you roll your shoulders back like you can shake it off. Crushes pass. This one will as well. Maybe by the time your internship’s ended.
Taking a sharp breath, you decide you need to get back to work. You can’t afford another mistake just because Clark Kent exists in the same room as you.
An email lands in your inbox. It’s one of many, the kind you handled almost without thinking twice. The task in it was far from difficult: skim the article, fix the typos, clean up the formatting, and make sure the version that goes online looked as polished as something with your name near it should. Routine. Safe.
At first, you don’t even flinch. You’re wearing headphones, the world on mute, until Jimmy taps your shoulder and motions for you to take them off. The moment you do, the noise rushes in. You register the low hum of tension in the room, and then comes the voice of one of your coworkers, shouting across the bullpen that an unedited version of an article had been published.
Silently, heads begin turning to find the culprit. And still, you don’t let yourself panic. Not until you hear the title.
Beneath the Streets, Above the Skies: The Creatures We Can’t Explain.
It’s yours.
Goddammit.
Your stomach flips as you scroll through the now-public piece on the Daily Planet’s website. It’s all there: the all-caps notes left by the writer mid-draft, barking out instructions to a future editor.
[FIX THIS. TOO WORDY.]
[DELETE — USE STAT FROM EARLIER DRAFT?]
[MAYBE CHOOSE A STRONGER QUOTE HERE.]
You’d sent the wrong version. Drafts mixed up, tabs blurred together, one careless attachment. And worst of all? You weren’t the one to catch it. By the time someone did, it had already been up long enough to embarrass the paper.
The article is eventually pulled, of course, but it had already been read by others.
A few people come to your rescue, trying to comfort you with those well-meaning phrases that sting more than they soothe.
It’s fine. Happens to the best of us.
Don’t beat yourself up over it.
It’s just one article.
Lois, in a moment of impossible generosity, offers to buy you an entire chocolate cake if it’ll get you to smile. She says it with a lopsided grin, trying to lighten the mood, but you can see it in her face, the silent sympathy. The confirmation that… yes, it had been bad.
What makes it worse is that it confirms what you already suspected about yourself: you’re not good at this. The little voice in your head, the one that is usually subdued by the clack of keyboards, is now screaming. You can hear going insane it in the spaces between your thoughts and heartbeats.
You had one job. You’ve been here for over a month, and you still managed to screw it up.
Panic blooms in slow, suffocating waves, rising behind your ribs and poisoning your bloodstream. You walk to Perry’s office on numb legs that barely feel like they are attached to the rest of your body. Your name had been called moments before. Knocking once, you step inside, your back flat against the cool surface of the door.
He doesn’t even look up right away. Just keeps reading something on his screen. “Something bothering that young brain of yours?” he asks without turning. “Because if you’re not going to be focused, I need to know. I don’t do hand-holding. This could’ve been a disaster.”
Your heart pounds so loudly you’re surprised he doesn’t pause to comment on it. When he finally decides to spare you a glance, it isn’t anger you’re met with. He looks tired, and even irritated, that he has to explain these things to you at all.
“Don’t be sloppy. I don’t like sloppy. Got it?”
Fervently nodding, you say, “Yes, sir.” You might grant him a smile, or perhaps something close enough to one, anyway. Then you leave, holding yourself together, and storm out of his office.
The newsroom is all windows and noise, impossible to disappear into, but taking the elevator isn’t a viable option at the moment. The stairwell, by contrast, is dim and forgotten, since no one uses it unless the elevators break down. That makes it a perfect place for you to hide.
You sit on the concrete steps and fold in on yourself, allowing yourself to cry. Sweaty palms pressed to your face, tugging at your hair like it might anchor you in your body. Silent sobs wrack your chest, and tears slip down your face, pooling at the edges of your mouth, making their way towards your chin and neck. Your knees draw to your chest, and you let yourself dissolve into shuddering breaths.
You aren’t just crying over the article, or the look Perry gave you, or the shame you saw in every pair of eyes that passed your desk.
You’re crying because at some point, without you even noticing, you’d let yourself believe that maybe—maybe—you were starting to belong here. That maybe you weren’t a complete fraud. It turns out it doesn’t take much to unravel those thoughts. Just one mistake. One article. One email you should’ve double-checked.
A couple of minutes pass, and you hear the door being opened and then shut. You’re too far gone by then: cheeks damp, fingers gripping your knees, shoulders drawn tight toward your ears. The sound of someone’s footsteps approaching you makes your stomach lurch, and instinctively, you swipe at your face, trying to clean yourself up with the heel of your palm as if that could erase the fact you’ve been crying.
You hear it. His voice.
“…Hey.”
Clark.
You rub your eyes, keeping your gaze fixed on a chipped bit of concrete near your foot, your throat too raw to answer.
There’s a pause. You don’t even hear him move, yet you feel him there, not close enough to crowd you, but not far enough either. He waits. It’s his thing, apparently.
Before you can stop yourself, you speak. “I’m fine,” you croak, too quickly. A reflex.
He doesn’t reply right away. A beat slides, and he mutters, “Didn’t ask.”
That earns a weak exhale from you. Not exactly laughter, but akin to it. You rest your forehead on your knees, and because you can’t help it, because it’s bubbling up and there’s nowhere else for it to go, you start talking. More like rambling, actually.
“I was tired, and I was trying to finish it fast, and I thought I’d already attached the right file, and—” You stop, inhaling sharply. “God, I’m pathetic.”
Clark still says nothing. You risk a glance in his direction and find him standing just a few steps down from you, one hand loosely resting on the railing.
You interpret his demeanor as an invitation to go on. “It’s so stupid. Everyone’s supposed to make mistakes. That’s what they say. But this doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels like confirmation. That I shouldn’t be here. That I’m playing pretend, and now everyone can see it.”
It’s only a matter of time before your voice cracks, and you suck in a breath like it might steady you, but it only makes your chest hurt.
Gently, without needing to say anything, he sits down beside you, leaving just enough space so you don’t feel boxed in. You feel the warmth radiating off his body even through the distance. A comforting kind of heat.
“I didn’t want anyone to see me like this,” you croak. “It’s miserable.”
“It’s not.”
You shake your head, and the tears come back again for a second round, your whole frame shaking. More tears. You thought you were done.
That’s when you feel it. The hesitant pressure of his hand between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t move it, just lets it rest there, warm as you continue to cry your heart out. You’re pretty sure he must think you’ve gone mental. Once he notices you’re not backing away from his touch, he begins rubbing your skin in small, slow circles. No pressure. No expectation.
Eventually, after long minutes of trying to even your breath, you shift toward him on instinct, and he opens his arms, enveloping you. You fold into the space he makes for you, still trembling, trying to convince yourself this isn’t humiliating. His chest is solid against your cheek, and he smells like cologne and paper and something sweet you can’t quite place.
You don’t ask why he came. You believe you already have your answer. Lois probably saw you bolt. Maybe Jimmy sent him. Maybe he drew the short straw.
It turns out you say it out loud, because Clark speaks gently into your hair. “No one sent me.”
You choke on your own saliva.
“I just noticed you’d been gone for a while,” he adds. “That’s all.”
Pulling back a little, just enough to look at him in the eye, you find his expression to be unreadable in that Clark Kent way. “I didn’t even realize I was gone that long,” you admit.
He smiles, barely. “I know.”
A long silence hangs in the air between you. Not uncomfortable, but thick with things unsaid.
Then he asks, almost like he already knows what you’ll respond next: “Why are you so hard on yourself?”
You laugh, though it comes out watery and bitter. “I don’t know how else to be.”
He watches you for a moment. The world outside the stairwell feels a thousand miles away.
“I think,” Clark begins carefully, “you hold yourself to this impossible standard. You think if you slip up, everyone will rub it in your face.” You stare at him, swallowing hard. “But no one’s waiting to punish you,” he explains. “They already like you. I already—” He stops himself mid-sentence. “You don’t have to earn that every second.”
His hand is still on your back. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that, so you just sit there with him. With yourself, and with everything you’re carrying. The silence lingers, suspended in time, and you can’t help but sniff after all that crying. You’re certain your eyes must be far beyond puffy and red-rimmed, your face blotchy, and you don’t even want to think about what your mascara’s looking like right now.
“Was it—” You hesitate, keeping eye contact. “Was it a lot? That I hugged you?”
Clark’s brows bump together in a scowl. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You gesture vaguely between your chests. “It was a full, like… torso-on-torso kind of hug. Which feels very much like a panic-hug. And I’ve only been working here a month, and you’re… you.”
His smile widens, carving those charming, endearing hollows into his cheeks. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, but I do. You probably have, like, policies about emotionally unstable interns clinging to you.”
“If there’s a policy, I haven’t read it.”
“Figures. Of course, you read everything except the employee handbook.”
Playfully surrendering, he snorts. “Guilty.”
There’s a beat. He looks like he’s considering something as those blue eyes of his map your face.
“Want to hear something that’ll make you regret hugging me at all?”
You scratch your nose. “Sure?”
“What do you call a dinosaur with an extensive vocabulary?”
“…No.”
He grins, too pleased with himself. “A thesaurus.”
“Oh my God.”
“I warned you.”
“No, but—a thesaurus?”
“What do you mean? It’s a classic!”
“I should’ve hugged Perry instead. Or the janitor. Literally anyone else.”
“That hurts. I opened my arms to you.”
“I did the arm-opening,” you shoot back. “You were just conveniently located.”
He’s chuckling, but his expression softens again when he sees you swipe under your eyes. You try to smile. You try. And it almost works, until your voice comes out small again. “I just didn’t want to mess up. I wanted to be good at this.”
“You are. Messing up doesn’t make you less good. You’d never say that to another human being.”
You look at him. The way he says it makes you understand he believes it. You’re not used to that. Most people say things like that with ifs and buts tacked on. Clark doesn’t. He just lets the truth sit there between you. Pressing your lips together, you gape at your lap, and then back at him.
“…Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay,” he echoes.
A pause.
“Wanna hear another one?”
“Clark, please—”
“What do you call fake spaghetti?”
“I don’t even want to think about that one.”
“An impasta.”
You groan louder, forehead tipping dramatically against his shoulder. “Just fire me already.”
Clark giggles, not moving an inch. “Can’t. I’m just the delivery guy.”
“Of terrible puns?”
“Of coffee and emotional support.”
You laugh, this time for real, short and soggy and kind of breathless. In this tiny stairwell, with your head spinning and your chest still aching, this had been exactly what you needed.
By the time you’re both standing again, your eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed back and forth with sandpaper. You wipe at your face with the sleeve of your cardigan, though Clark hands you a tissue without saying anything. You take it, thanking him while intending to fix your appearance in the reflection of his glasses.
“You always carry tissues with you?”
“A man needs to be prepared.”
He doesn’t rush you, although both of you know that eventually you have to go back. “Ready?” he asks gently.
You nod like a liar, returning to the office. Jimmy spots you the second the door to the stairwell opens. He stands near the copy machine, holding a mug shaped like the Daily Planet’s globe, and raises his eyebrows like he’s seeing something scandalous. Lois leans out of her cubicle and gives Clark a slow look, then swings her gaze to you.
“Well, well,” she murmurs, wrapping a loose strand of hair around her finger. “We thought you’d fled the country.”
Jimmy snorts into his coffee. “I must confess I’ve never tried stairwell therapy. Sounds very promising.”
Clark clears his throat, cheeks just slightly pink. “She was just upset. That’s all.” Inching toward you, he whispers into your ear, “You sure you’re okay?”
You nod, and this time, it’s not entirely a lie. Your chest twists a little: not from embarrassment, but from the warm way everyone seems to be looking at you. You sit back at your desk, and Jimmy passes you a couple of snacks wordlessly, winking at you.
Lois throws a scrunchie at your head, giving you a thumbs up. “Fix your face,” she says. “If you cry again, you’ll dehydrate and die. And I don’t have time to explain that to Perry.”
Your throat tightens again, but for entirely different reasons.
You like Lois.
You really, really do.
She’s sharp-tongued and sharp-minded, the kind of journalist who could scare a senator into answering a question they’ve been dodging for a decade. She doesn’t soften herself to fit the room. If anything, the room adjusts to her. You admire that. You admire her.
You trust her, too, in the weird way you trust people after you decided not to trust them at all.
Which is why it catches you off guard, the quiet pinch in your chest when you see her standing next to Clark, cackling. And him, tittering the way he does when he’s truly listening, the corners of his eyes crinkling just barely behind his glasses.
They look like puzzle pieces that have known each other forever.
In your defense, this was all supposed to be a harmless observation. You’re standing next to the copier, waiting for it to spit out your stack of edited pages.
All of a sudden, the copier beeps, and you jerk away.
“Hey.” Jimmy materializes out of nowhere behind you, nearly making you drop your stack. “You okay?“
You force a laugh, too high-pitched. “No, I was just…thinking. That Clark and Lois would make a good couple. Like, objectively. They’re very…compatible.”
Jimmy blinks.
Then blinks again.
Then tilts his head as if you’re announcing you’re moving to Mars. “What—why would you say that?”
You stare at him, and the weight of what you’d just admitted out loud hits you like a train.
“I’ve picked up this terrible habit of saying my thoughts out loud,” you half-whisper, burying your face in the warm papers you’ve just printed. “You didn’t need to know that.”
“Hold on, hold on.” Jimmy steps in front of you, looking way too interested. “Back up. You think Clark and Lois are compatible?”
The copier makes an unholy crunching noise, and you yank the paper tray open, because you don’t want to meet his demanding gaze. “I meant it like…as a neutral statement,” you lie, badly. “A purely objective, journalistic observation. A general public-interest…thing.”
“Like you’re a neutral third-party scientist, observing the wild mating rituals of the office?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re so not a neutral third party. That might be the worst save I’ve ever heard.”
“Give me a break.”
“No, seriously, this is interesting. Tell me more about this neutral thought process. Was it before or after you began looking at Clark like he personally invented gravity?”
“Drop it, Jimmy.”
Jimmy looms closer the copier, puffing out his chest, looking way too smug for someone who sometimes accidentally deletes half his own files. “Listen. I love Lois. Everyone loves Lois. But Clark and Lois? No way.”
You glanced at him. “What do you mean ‘no way’? They’re…they’re them.”
“You said it yourself. I’ve seen Clark, a grown man, blushing when someone compliments his tie. You think Lois has time for that?”
You don’t answer right away. Your gaze drifts back to Clark, who’s now scribbling into his notepad while Lois steals the last bite of his muffin, and you force yourself to avert your attention from that scene. What you believe to be the truth sits heavy in your stomach, even as you joke around.
Because here’s the thing: this isn’t Lois’s fault. You’d fight anyone who said a bad word about her—so why does it still sting? Why does some ugly voice in your head start listing every way you fall short in comparison? This profound ache that you feel isn’t about her, not really. It’s about you: about how you always seem to be two steps behind the version of yourself you’re supposed to be.
Comparison is a cruel game, especially when the other player doesn’t even know she’s on the board.
Jimmy nudges your arm, the teasing gone a little softer. “Hey. Don’t overthink it.”
You’re fiddling with an old bracelet that dangles from your wrist. “You’re only about thirty years too late.” Gathering your pages, holding them a little too tightly, you take a step back. “I should get back to work.” You choose that to be your response, given it’s easier than saying I don’t want to feel like this, or I wish I didn’t care, or I think I’m falling for him, and I don’t know how to stop.
And because the alternative is staying here and letting Jimmy be right.
Again.
They arrange the plan casually, almost in passing. Someone mentions something about finally clocking out, someone else brings up the bar a few blocks away from the building, and then Lois chimes in with, “We’re all going, no excuses,” unwilling to take no for an answer.
And somehow, that settles it.
The sun dips low as the office empties, everyone spilling into the street with sleeves rolled and voices louder than they’ve been all day. You walk a step behind Jimmy, who’s listing the bar’s drink specials like he’s memorized them for a play he forgot to audition for.
The night has that kind of electricity. The possibility of being something good. Memorable.
The bar’s noisy in the comforting way only post-work places could be: the hum of old songs, clinking glasses, the rise and fall of casual arguments about baseball, or film, or whether Perry White had once owned a parrot (Jimmy swears yes, Lois says no, and Clark just answers “I’m afraid I have no parrot knowledge”).
You don't mean to drink your first cocktail that fast. You just... forget to pace yourself, but it helps, giving you permission to just exist. Laugh at Jimmy’s impressions. Pretend you’re not glancing at Clark more than you should.
The group is gathered near a back booth when Clark slips away. You only notice because it’s like a light flicks off inside you. When you spot him through the bar window—outside, on the sidewalk, phone pressed to his ear, fingers pushing through his hair—you follow without thinking.
You don’t hesitate, slipping through the crowd and nudging the door open, letting it swing closed behind you.
He half-turns at the sound, catching you in his peripheral. A tiny smile lifts the corner of his mouth. He raises a single finger as if to say: One sec. So you lean against the wall beside the door, letting the cool air cling to your skin, internally cursing yourself for not putting on your coat before going out.
“Okay, Ma. Yeah, I’ll give him a call tomorrow. No, I promise, it’s fine. Yeah. Yeah, love you too. Sleep tight,” he says into his phone, ending the call and tucking the device into the pocket of his black slacks. “Sorry. That was my mom. Sometimes she calls without checking the time first. She gets all excited.”
You smile, your mouth twitching. “That’s… adorable.”
He shrugs, glancing down at his feet, almost bashful. “She’s always worried I’m working too much.”
“Well, are you?”
His eyes find yours, and for a second, he doesn’t answer. At long last, he retorts, “Maybe.”
You study him—the way his posture seems to be at ease out here, how the line of his shoulders relaxes in the quiet. There’s something about him that always feels held back, as if he’s managing himself carefully, like he’s afraid of taking up too much space.
Which is funny, considering how much space he’s been occupying in your thoughts lately.
“Are you annoyed?” you ask.
His smile fades. “What?”
“You seemed… I don’t know. Off.”
“No,” he says, seemingly caught off guard. “Not annoyed.” You nod slowly, unsure if that’s a real answer or the kind people give when they don’t want to be asked twice. “I just needed some air. That’s all.”
You let that sit between you. Let the quiet stretch a little. The last thing you want is to pry, but there’s something you want to know. It seems that lately you always want to know more with him, even when you’re afraid of the answers you might receive.
Next thing you know, your brain, being the traitor it is, decides now would be the perfect time to blurt: “So, uh… are you and Lois a thing?” It comes out too fast and loud, way too sincere. You immediately want to grab the words midair and cram them back into your mouth.
Clark straightens so quickly it’s like someone snapped a rubber band on his arm, his jaw clenching. “What?” The pitch of his voice cracks up a little, like his vocal cords haven’t gotten the memo that he’s supposed to be cool and composed.
“You and Lois?” you repeat, trying to style it as harmless curiosity. You throw in a half-shrug that feels more like a full-body spasm. “I mean… it’s not a crazy question. She’s Lois Lane. Beautiful woman, insanely good hair. I’d date her.”
“She’d eat you alive.”
“Yeah, but it’d be an honor.”
“Lois and I are just friends. Really good friends. We’ve been through a lot together, but… it’s never been like that.”
Looking down, you nod in agreement, peering at your heels. Did they always have that much shine? You shift your weight, unsure where to put your hands. “Great,” you reply. “I wasn’t trying to make things weird. It’s just—people talk, you know? Office gossip. Background noise. Someone had to ask.”
Clark cocks his head to the side, his forehead creasing. “Someone?”
“Yeah. I was just the unfortunate soul selected by the people. Took one for the team.”
He smiles then. “The team.”
“Yeah. Julie from Sports. And, uh… Carl.”
“Caro?”
“Yeah,” you say, faking confidence. “He’s new. Big into Hawaiian shirts. You’d remember him if you’d seen him. That dude’s hilarious.”
“Right.” He huffs out another quiet laugh, gesturing vaguely toward the bar. “Wanna go back inside?”
You shake your head. “Actually... I think I’m heading home.”
“Oh. You sure?”
“Certainly. I’m just tired. It’s been a long week. Brain soup.”
“I get that,” he says, softer now. But he doesn’t move. “Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“Relax. I can get one myself. Last time I checked, I still owned a phone.”
He still doesn’t budge. “Or… I could walk you home.”
And just like that, he disappears inside, the door swinging shut behind him with an almost faint thud.
The moment he’s gone, you let your head fall back against the bricks and close your eyes. It hadn’t been in your plans to ask about Lois. Actually, you hadn’t planned for any of this. You just saw him step outside and followed like gravity stopped being theoretical.
But sometimes, he looks at you like he sees something you don’t, which is the part that terrifies you.
The door creaks open behind you. You straighten quickly, trying to shake off whatever expression you were wearing. Clark has your bag slung over one shoulder and your coat draped carefully over his arm. He looks absurdly responsible.
“You really didn’t have to do all that,” you say as he hands everything over to you.
“Too late,” he replies. “Chivalry wins again.”
You walk the first few blocks in companionable silence. The city has started to go quiet, and even though the night is soft, your brain isn’t.
Then, because the world is poetic when it’s inconvenient, your heel catches a crack in the pavement and you go down like a cursed fairytale. “Shit—damn it!”
“Whoa—got you,” Clark huffs, catching you just in time. His hands are at your waist, strong and certain, and you hate how easily your pulse betrays you.
You wince. “Ankle. Ow.”
He guides you down to sit on the front steps of a random building, pursing his lips. He crouches, eyes scanning your foot like he’s searching for something under the skin. “Probably just a twist. You should be alright.”
“How do you…?”
“What?”
“How do you know it’s not swelling?” you ask, scrutinizing him. “You barely looked. Didn’t even check it properly.”
“Just… a hunch, I mean—” His mouth opens, then closes, and then opens again with a whole new sentence. “Look, I didn’t hear anything snap, so... unless your bones are stealthy...?”
“That’s not exactly how ankles work.”
“I mean, you haven’t turned purple. That has to be a good sign.” He laughs, tight and awkward, and you snort despite yourself. His hand rakes through his hair. “Sorry. Just trying to be optimistic.”
“You sure you weren’t a paramedic in a past life?”
“Oh, no. I’d be terrible at that.”
Still, you watch him a second longer. He looks... nervous, like he’s afraid he said too much.
He kneels with his back to you. “Here. Get on.”
“Excuse me?”
“Piggyback. Let’s not make it a thing.”
“It’s already a thing. A humiliating one.”
“Let me reframe it: this is me being chivalrous, and you being temporarily horizontal.”
“That is not how that word works.” You sigh, dramatic. “Fine. Just… please, don’t drop me.”
As you climb onto his back, his hands reach back to catch the backs of your knees, and when his palms find skin—warm where your skirt’s ridden up slightly—it short-circuits something in your chest. It’s not even overtly intimate. It’s just… contact. Unflinching contact. You feel it like a current, a hot spark that rushes up your spine and settles somewhere inconvenient.
“Have I already mentioned this is embarrassing?” you mutter, resting your chin lightly against his shoulder.
“You say that like I’m not honored.”
“I’m a grown woman. You’re carrying me like a backpack.”
“You are basically a human backpack,” he quips back. “And kind of a noisy one.”
You smack his shoulder gently, making him laugh. You let your eyes drift closed for a second, his back is broad under your touch. You become aware of how safe it feels, how easy it is to trust him.
“Clark?”
“Hmm?”
“You didn’t even blink when I said I hurt my ankle. Like you already knew it wasn’t serious.”
He pauses. “I had a feeling.”
You lean back slightly to see his face, though the angle mostly gives you a view of his glasses and the top of his cheekbone. “You’re weird.”
Smirking, he glances sideways just enough for you to catch it. “Takes one to know one.”
You let it drop, at least out loud. But your brain doesn’t. It files this away with the other strange Clark Kent moments—the way he sometimes seems to flinch at distant sirens, or how you’d swear he once turned around because someone two desks over whispered his name.
By the time you reach your apartment, your ankle has started throbbing again, a dull ache radiating up your calf. Clark shifts slightly to let you down as you fumble for your keys.
You aren’t exactly drunk, but your head definitely feels funny. “Here we are,” he says, and you slid off his back and onto the ground like a sack of potatoes with a master’s degree.
“Thanks,” you mumble, trying to stand in a way that suggests grace and control. “You can, um. You can go be normal now.”
He sticks his hands in his pockets. “I was normal before.”
“That’s debatable.” You finally open the door, triumphant, but instead of going in, you linger in the doorway, facing him. “Thanks for the rescue. Again. I’ll see you Monday?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t move, and neither do you. Your fingers tighten around the doorknob.
There’s an unexpected pull in your chest. The way his collar is rumpled. The way his hair curls behind his ears. The way the night had been soft, and the sidewalk felt warmer when he walked beside you, and—
An unbeatable desire to kiss him invades your whole being. You want to touch his jaw and feel the shape of his mouth and know what it would be like to exist under his hands. To be held by Clark Kent.
He finally steps back, appearing reluctant. “You might want to put some ice on it. Maybe take something for the pain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And give me a call if it gets worse.”
“Only if I want to be carried again.”
“Happy to oblige.”
And then—finally—he walks away. You close the door behind you, pressing your forehead to the wood, heart knocking hard against your ribs.
You’re beyond head over heels.
Another Monday at the Daily Planet. It’s 8:56am, and as the elevator doors open with a cruel little ding, you carefully step out, checking your surroundings.
Everything looks the same—the hum of all those computers, some colleague having a hard time with the copier, Perry barking out unintelligible orders in the distance—but you are not the same. Not since last Friday.
Your ankle’s still a little sore, you haven’t been sleeping well, and Clark Kent could be somewhere in this building, existing like a real person with real hands and a real mouth you definitely didn’t imagine kissing at least ten times this weekend.
You weave through desks, praying for invisibility, when—
“Morning, sunshine,” Jimmy sing-songs from his chair, already halfway through a bagel, a smile plastered on his face. “How’s the foot?”
“Clark told you,” you say flatly.
Jimmy gives you a look, his eyes going round with faux innocence. “Who, me? No! I just assumed you mysteriously developed a limp and Clark suddenly discovered how to piggyback people from years of quiet farm strength.”
“I cannot believe he told you.”
“Oh, come on. It’s adorable.” Jimmy leans back in his chair, using his feet to make it spin. “You? Carried through the city like a Victorian maiden? I wish I had footage. I’d set it to music.”
“I hate you.”
He stops spinning to point his bagel at you. “You say that, but I think you secretly love being the main character.”
“Do I look like someone who enjoys attention?”
“Not attention in general. Just his.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. Mostly because he’s not wrong, and your face is already betraying you. Sliding into your chair, you pretend to focus on your monitor like it contains NASA launch codes.
Maybe if you don’t look up, you’ll avoid—
“Morning,” Clark says gently, materializing beside your desk. You look up, and there he is. Soft smile. Soft eyes. Probably soft everything.
You panic and blurt the most neutral, irrelevant thing your brain can conjure: “Did you see that viral video of the goose chasing the guy through Centennial Park?”
Clark blinks. “I haven’t.”
“Crazy stuff. Nature’s relentless.”
“...Okay.”
You clear your throat, willing yourself not to combust.
“Anyway,” Clark continues with his inquiry, “I just wanted to check in. How’s the ankle doing?”
“Fine! Yep. Great. I can do five jumping jacks. Not that I have, but I could.”
He raises his eyebrows, visibly amused. “That’s good to know.”
“Cool,” you reply, cringing on the inside. “Cool, cool, cool, cool.”
And then you both just stand there, marinating in awkward silence. Eventually, Clark raises a hand in greeting and excuses himself to his desk, not before placing your usual coffee next to your keyboard. You thank him without managing to meet his eyes.
Your fingers hover near the cup, though you don’t pick it up right away. The warmth radiates against your skin. You’re aware of everything—your pulse, your breath, the tight flutter in your chest.
You try to return to your work. Really, you do. It’s just that your thoughts don’t seem to line up in a straight line today, and somehow English doesn’t even feel like your mother tongue anymore.
Then Jimmy slides a folder across your desk. “Perry wants you to proofread this by noon. No pressure. Except all the pressure.”
You sigh, taking a sip of coffee and trying to remember how to be a functioning adult. You’ve got a job to do, feelings to repress, and exactly three hours until lunch.
Later that day, after a full shift spent second-guessing every adjective you typed and rereading all those drafts like they were confessionals, you finally make it home.
Shoes abandoned by the door. Work shirt flung somewhere in your hallway. The glow of your laptop waits on the coffee table, your latest half-thought article still open, the cursor blinking, mercifully patient.
You settle into the couch with a sigh and think: this, at least, is something.
And then—you notice it. A crucial absence.
Your charger.
Still plugged in beneath your desk at the Daily Planet like it’s mocking you. Of course. Of course the universe wants you to suffer. As you reach for your phone, ready to spiral, it buzzes in your hand.
Jimmy Olsen.
You answer blandly. “If this is about that goose video again—”
“Relax. It’s not.” He speaks as if he’s chewing something. “Although, side note, there’s a new edit where the goose honks to the beat of Eye of the Tiger and—anyway. That’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then what, Jimmy?” You drag a hand down your face, dreading every second of the call.
“You left your charger here—”
“Don’t even get me started on that.”
“—but I already gave it to Clark.”
Silence. Heavy, jagged silence.
“You what?”
“Gave it to Clark. Figured he could drop it off, since he already knows where you live.” He pauses, then adds, in the world’s most audible smirk: “Wink wink.”
“You didn’t actually wink just now, did you?”
“Oh, I did, physically. With both eyes.”
“Jimmy—”
“You’re welcome. He said he was heading that way anyway.”
The line clicks dead. You stare at your phone for a moment longer, and then, because there’s nothing else to do, you stand.
You wander to the balcony, scanning the street in search of a man you know very well. There’s no way you’re mentally or emotionally prepared for this. Murmuring something unspeakable, you dart to the bathroom mirror. It’s too late to fix anything. Nevertheless, you splash cold water on your face, wiping under your eyes and blinking at your reflection like that’ll make you look alive.
Three polite, measured taps on your door have you looking at the doorway with utter fear, and that’s when you consider faking your death.
In the end, you open the door. Clark’s wearing a big coat that makes his shoulders look broader than human decency allows, holding your charger like it’s something precious.
“Hey. Delivery service. Courtesy of Jimmy Olsen.”
You draw in a long breath. “Thank you. I—I’m sorry you had to do that. He really didn’t need to drag you into—”
He shakes his head before you get to say more. “It’s no trouble. I was happy to.”
You step back, thumb tapping the edge of the door. “Do you wanna come in for a minute? I mean, you don’t have to. Obviously. But if you want water or—tea? Bad tea. That’s all I’ve got.”
He smiles, stepping inside as if he were trying not to track in mud. “Water’s perfect. Thanks.”
You leave him in the living room while you hunt down a clean glass, and as you pour, you curse yourself for the mess of dirty dishes on the counter. Once you come back, he’s not moving. Just standing by the couch, staring. At your laptop.
“I didn’t mean to meddle in your stuff,” he says gently. “But… were you writing something?”
You make your way around the couch. “Oh. Yeah. No. It’s nothing.”
He sits after getting rid of his coat, seemingly not believing your words. “Can I ask what it’s about?”
Placing the glass on top of the table, you take a seat beside him, your knees folding under you, fingers worrying at the seam of your pants. “It’s kind of dumb.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s just—something I started on Saturday night. I don’t know. It’s not an article, really. Not for the paper. Just… thoughts. About Superman. Or not him exactly. More about what he means to people.”
He says nothing. So you keep going.
“I guess I’ve been thinking about why people need something to believe in. Like a… structure. A symbol. Something to hang all their hope on. And for some people, that’s Superman, even if he’s flawed. He gives people permission to believe the world isn’t doomed.”
You pause. “And Perry would throw it in the trash if he ever came across it,” you add, bitterly. “So. Doesn’t matter.”
Clark’s gdoesn’t tear his gaze away from you. “I’d like to read it.”
You blink. “What?”
“If you’re okay with it,” he says, nodding toward the laptop. “I’d really like to.”
Hesitating for a second longer, you eventually slide the laptop in his direction. He adjusts on the couch as he leans forward, careful with the device, treating it as something delicate.
“Brace yourself for excessive metaphors.”
“Oh, I love metaphors. The more excessive, the better.”
And so he begins to read.
You try not to stare. At him, at the screen, at anything. You focus on the ticking of a clock you didn’t even know had batteries, wondering if Clark will also think that what you wrote is too silly. Too emotional or abstract. Perhaps he'll want to know why you were writing about Superman in the first place.
There’s a sudden shift in his demeanor. It’s subtle, barely anything. His shoulders drop a fraction, and when you take in the full sight of him, he’s grinning, reading all the way through.
“This is good,” he says, still concentrated on the screen. “Really good.”
“You don’t have to say that just to be nice.”
He shakes his head once, firm. “No—I mean it. The structure’s clean. You build your argument gradually, but it doesn’t drag. Your transitions are solid. And your tone—” He glares at you now. “—it’s vulnerable without tipping into sentimentality. There’s conviction in it, but you don’t preach. It feels like a conversation.”
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. “It’s not finished yet,” you manage eventually, voice tight. “I still have to go over the middle section. I think I wasn’t that clear once I got into the part about collective memory—”
“Even so. You’re onto something. If you let me, I’d love to help you get it in front of Perry.”
Your eyes bore into his, edging closer to where he’s located. He looks entirely sincere. A sharp pressure envelops your chest, and you want to thank him for his kindness, but what comes out instead is a hoarse: “Really?”
“Really. We could try and talk to him one of these days.”
Before you can stop yourself, you lean in and hug him.
You don’t even think about it—your body just does it, and then you’re flushed against him, arms around his neck, your face tucked against the warm fabric of his coat. He smells like paper and some brand of laundry detergent you don’t recognize.
He hugs you back, and it’s not one of those loose, polite things. His arm curves around you like he means it. You close your eyes, just for a second, just long enough to remember what it feels like to be held like that.
“I keep doing this,” you utter, voice hushed by how near he is. “Randomly hugging you.”
“I don’t mind it. Not at all.”
When you pull back, you’re still half in his space, breathing a little faster than usual. The relief is short-lived.
You ask for the antidote to the ache that keeps you up at night, something to quiet the want that only he seems to understand. “Can you please do it?”
“Do what?”
Does he want you to say it?
You stare at him, and something in your stomach dives. “Please, kiss me,” you plead, your voice barely rising above the hush of breath between you, and yet it seems to echo in the small apartment. Your cheeks feel burning hot, but you don’t, can’t, won’t look away. Not now. Not with him so close you’re convinced your skin might start fusing with his.
That seems to shake something in him. It might be the first time you’ve seen him truly stunned. His lips part slightly, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth, trying to make sense of the fact that this is real. That you want this from him.
One hand lifts reverently and settles along your jaw. The pads of his fingers cradle the hinge of it like you’re beyond fragile, afraid of pressing too hard. His thumb barely skims the corner of your mouth, and you perceive a jolt going down your spine.
His touch is featherlight, but his breathing is not. It’s affected, perhaps as much as yours. “You really want me to?”
You nod. Or try to. It comes out more like an eager lean into his palm, your body already answering before your mouth does. It’s been too long since you’ve been touched this way, like you mattered.
Your thighs press against his, knees brushing the outside of his, as if you were nearly straddling him. When your hands move instinctively to his chest, you see it: the first button of his shirt undone. The faint rise and fall beneath it.
You glance up, asking without words. He doesn’t back away, and you press your fingertips lightly there. His pale skin feels smooth to the touch, and his heartbeat flutters beneath your fingertips, stuttering out of rhythm.
He wants this as much as you do. The human body doesn’t lie. It can’t. It doesn’t pretend to want something it doesn’t crave.
“I do,” you insist, the words catching faintly at the back of your throat, transfixed in a whirlwind of emotion. “I need you to do it.”
A shallow breath leaves him. There’s a thin, glowing ring of blue circling his pupils, his gaze so dark it nearly swallows the light. His other hand slides around to the nape of your neck, achingly gentle.
Clark pulls you in, and his lips meet yours.
At first, it’s a series of tender collisions, just the press and lift of mouths, as if he’s testing the shape of you against him, trying to memorize it in pieces. One kiss. Another. And another. They don’t last long because they don’t need to.
It’s when you tilt your head and open your mouth to him that he gives in. That’s all it takes.
He deepens the kiss instantly, as if he’s been waiting for that signal all along. His mouth claims yours with an urgency that feels both new and inevitable. His lips are plush, cool with mint, probably the vague trace of chewing gum still clinging from earlier.
Your hands fist the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, his glasses knocking into your nose once, twice. Your body shifts, and then you’re fully perched in his lap, thighs spread over his. His arms adjust around your waist, steadying you there, holding you like he can’t bear the idea of you leaving. One of his hands slides to your lower back, while the other, still at your neck, traces along your jaw, then behind your ear, fingers tangled in your hair.
Sighing into him, your breath gets caught in the cavern of his mouth. The world gets smaller, somehow quieter. Just the sound of his breath mixing with yours, the thud of your pulse in your ears, the heat pooling between you like a live wire.
And even through it, he never stops being gentle. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t push too hard, though his body trembles beneath you every time he elicits a new sound out of you.
At some point, your lungs scream for oxygen, having grown unaccustomed to the sheer indulgence of kissing for several uninterrupted minutes. You pull back only enough to press your forehead to his, gasping his name. You’re kissed raw, lit from the inside out, and the only thing anchoring you is the reassuring pressure of his arms, still wrapped around your frame.
Your lips linger over his, and when you open your eyes, you find his still closed. Neither of you speaks for a moment. His thumb traces a distracted path across your lower back.
Then:
“You should start forgetting your charger more often,” he murmurs, voice a little raspy.
That alone has you focusing on evening out the creases of his shirt with your palm, mostly to avoid combusting. “I swear it wasn’t on purpose.” His finger gently lifts your chin, coaxing you to meet his gaze. The quiet ache of tenderness in his eyes nearly does you in. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
The words you’ve been actively trying to cage in for months fall out of your mouth without permission, but you don’t regret them. “I like you.”
He gathers you tighter against his chest. “Well, I can’t say I’m not flattered,” he says, teasing, that crooked half-smile already returning. A laugh bubbles out of him—but it’s giddy, boyish. You cut him off by covering his mouth with your palm.
“Don’t make fun of me. I’m trying to have a moment here.”
He gently peels your hand away, lacing your fingers with his instead, and brings them to rest against his chest. “I’ve probably been dreaming about this since your first week at the office,” he admits.
You glance up and notice his glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose. Carefully, you push them back up with a fingertip. “I was always looking at you, you know,” you confess, quieter now. “Couldn’t help it.”
“You talk like I didn’t bring you coffee on your second day,” he teases, brushing his nose against yours. Leaning back just enough to take you in, his eyes sweep slowly across your face. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”
The words melt straight into your spine, and before you can think better of it, you surge forward and kiss him again. He meets you without hesitation, and when you break away, you leave a trail of humid kisses across his cheeks, down the line of his jaw, until your mouth finds the curve of his neck.
“I think my kissing might be a little rusty,” you croak into his skin. “Could probably use some improvement.”
“You’re kidding? It was fantastic. What are you—oh.” A beat. Then: “Oh. Sure.” He’s grinning like an idiot now, draping an arm around your waist. “I mean, I can help you with that. Practice makes perfect.”
“How noble of you, Kent.”
Your first kiss (kisses, plural—you lost count around the third) marks a shift in the fabric of everything. You’d seen it coming, even gave yourself a pep talk in the mirror that morning.
But then Clark sets a coffee on your desk, just as he always does, and says, “Hope you have a really good day today,” and suddenly your pep talk is useless. You’re smiling like someone who knows something others don’t. Because you do.
Together, you find a rhythm. You don’t talk about what this is—yet—but something’s shifted. No overt PDA. Not even flirtation, not really. Just… little things. Things that no one else clocks. The way he passes you a folder with an unnecessary brush of fingers. The way he saves you a chair in meetings and pulls it subtly closer to his, so that your knees bump under the table.
It’s the kind of thing that would be completely invisible to anyone else, but to you, it’s everything. It’s a love letter made of glances and millimeters, what you replay at night before bed, giggling at your ceiling like a fool.
Weeks pass in a blur of late nights and whispered conversations in elevators, and work has never been this motivating. Even Perry has stopped looking at you like you’re one bad coffee spill away from being escorted out by security.
One of Clark’s articles makes the front page—again—and when Jimmy sees it, he promptly rolls up the newspaper and smacks Clark in the arm with it. “Alright, headline hero. At this point, you’re just showing off.”
Clark ducks his head with a laugh, caught mid-fumble with his bag, a coffee, and what looks like three different folders sliding out from under his arm. You want to help him, but instead you just stand at your desk, watching like an idiot, warm with the kind of affection that makes your hands feel too light.
Lois arrives like she’s been summoned by sarcasm. She chews the end of a pen and corners Clark against his desk, watching him try to stack his chaos. “You know, Kent, I find it fascinating. You always seem to be conveniently nearby when Superman’s handing out interviews like candy on Halloween.”
He doesn’t look up, adjusting his monitor as if that could save him. “What can I say? Maybe I’m his type. We haven’t kissed yet, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
She narrows her eyes. “Don’t try to be clever with me. What do you give him? Why does he only let you interview him?”
“Have you considered he just… likes my writing?”
“So now you’re accusing him of bad taste?”
Jimmy slides into frame, palms raised. “Okay, okay. Time’s up, guys.” He puts both hands on Lois’s shoulders with exaggerated care. “You, my friend, are tense. Breathe. Maybe try yoga. Or tequila.”
Blowing air through her cheeks, she finally peels away, muttering, “I just wish Superman would leave his favoritism aside.” Before heading to her desk, she gives Clark one final, mysterious look.
Jimmy drops into his own chair dramatically, putting his feet over his desk. “Well, at least I tried.”
The day presses on. When lunch rolls around, you’re still grinning. You spot Clark at his desk, half-eaten sandwich in one hand, the other scrolling through something on his monitor, glasses barely askew. You approach with your hands clasped behind your back, adopting a mock-serious tone.
“Mr. Kent.”
His eyes flick up, and he swallows a bite too quickly. “Oh. Hi. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You tilt your chin toward the newspaper near his bag. “Just wanted to congratulate you on the article.”
He lowers his voice until it’s almost inaudible, cheeks going faintly pink. “Thank you, baby. I would've hugged you the second I saw it, but, you know…”
“To celebrate… I was thinking dinner? I could make homemade pasta.”
“Gosh, I’d love that. Your place?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, gaze soft and so full of feelings it nearly unmoors you. “You look beautiful today.”
It hits you in the ribs, the way he says it. You offer him your fist. “Fist punch?”
His smile is half laughter, half reverence. He bumps your knuckles with his own, his fingers linger a beat longer than necessary.
As night folds in around your apartment, you’ve been stirring the sauce for the past twenty minutes, though it’s been done for at least ten. The smell of garlic and basil lingers in the air, the wine is uncorked, and the candles you lit—just two, nothing too obvious—are dripping lazy wax trails down their sides and onto the counter.
Your phone buzzes where it’s propped upright beside the sink.
Clark: Hey, I’m so sorry. Something came up. Can we rain check dinner? Promise I’ll make it up to you.
You just stand there, wooden spoon in hand. No call or explanation. Just the same vague apology he's given you three times now, each time with a different flavor of excuse. Each time with the same effect: you, left waiting with something you didn’t mean to take so personally.
There’s an answer teetering on the edge of your tongue. You even type, It’s alright! :-), with the smiley face and all, mostly to seem breezy. Effortless. But your thumb pauses, then backspaces slowly until the message disappears, and you leave him on read. Not as a form of punishment, but because you don’t know what else to reply.
You try to be patient. Try to be the kind of person who shrugs things off, who doesn’t take a rain check as anything more than bad timing. The problem’s that you’re not wired that way: you feel too much. You think too much.
Turns out, keeping your brain from imploding is the hardest part. You’ve even been practicing it lately, this thing of not jumping to the worst-case scenario. Telling yourself not everything is a sign, and that people get busy and have lives.
The thing’s that your brain has a voice of its own. A mean one, which sounds an awfully lot like yours.
Maybe he kissed you because he felt like he had to.
Maybe he doesn’t know how to say it, but he’s changed his mind.
Maybe he never wanted something serious, and you’re the only one building stories out of crumbs.
Dragging your feet back to the living room, you sit down in the nice pair of clothes you’d chosen for the occasion, and blink at the empty coffee table. As your body sinks into the couch cushions, the fatigue of disappointment sinks deeper than any full day at the Daily Planet. The TV throws shadows on the walls, some sitcom playing to an invisible audience.
And when your eyes finally close, you let sleep take the shape of mercy.
The pasta incident, when the spaghetti went cold and your heart even colder, wasn’t the last time he left you waiting.
Almost two weeks later, it plays out again.
The door clicks open an hour and a half past when he said he’d be here. You don’t greet him. Instead, you remain in the kitchen, back precisely angled away from the entrance, pretending to be focused on dinner even though it’s gone cold.
Clark’s footsteps are calculated, a careful shuffle across the living room carpet, testing the silence. He pauses just inside the kitchen's threshold. “Hey, honey,” he says, a little too bright, a little too loud, his greeting threading through the stillness. “Sorry I’m late. There was something I had to take care of.”
You crane your neck slowly. His hair is damp, curling at the edges, exactly as it does after sweating. His shirt is inside out, rumpled, the collar a crumpled mess. His cheeks are flushed, a deep, uneven red, and his chest rises and falls in quick, shallow breaths, as if he sprinted the last few blocks. He looks utterly disheveled.
You don’t ask where he’s been. Not yet. “Your shirt's backwards,” you retort instead, the words flat, neutral.
Startled, he bows his head, looking down and letting out a short, forced puff of air as he rubs the back of his neck. “My bad. I didn’t even notice.” His eyes, meeting yours, hold a flicker of surprise, quickly veiled.
“Yeah. You seem… in a rush.”
He doesn’t contradict you, just watches, completely tongue-tied, his posture subtly tightening. You drop your gaze back to the casserole dish—stuffed eggplants, roasted earlier in the day—and put it back into the oven, hoping it’ll survive the fifth reheat of the night.
Behind you, you feel him inch closer. A familiar warmth spreads across your back as his body presses gently against yours. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands resting lightly on your stomach, chin settling onto your shoulder while he brushes his lips against your cheek. “You’re quiet.”
You lift your shoulder in a half-shrug. “And you’re late.”
His hold around you tightens, rocking both your bodies back and forth before spinning you around to face him. His eyes, filled with longing, seek yours. “I missed you.”
If only that could be enough. You wish you could live off the sound of his voice and the weight of his hands on your body, letting his presence fill all the empty spaces, though you can’t help craving the one thing he won’t grant you: clarity.
Clark kisses you hungrily, a low, frustrated sound catching in his throat the moment you open to him, your tongue clashing with his. His cold hands glide up your back, slipping beneath your shirt to find bare skin, and you gasp as his fingers knead your lower back, the swift curve of your spine.
In one seamless motion, he lifts you onto the counter, and the kiss evolves into one heated and consuming, more of a desperate embrace. It's almost like he’s trying to make up for every second he’s missed, every moment of absence now erased by the force of his presence. Your fingers tangle in the damp hair at his nape, giving it a firm tug. That has him groaning against you, stepping further in between your knees, pressing flush against you.
His kisses deviate, trailing south, turning sloppy. "It’s been two months since our first kiss," he rasps against your throat, lips dragging over your damp skin, leaving open-mouthed kisses and a trail of heat.
For a moment, you let yourself vanish into him, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation, the promise of fleeting oblivion. You swallow hard, a whine bubbling up in your chest as his hips grind into yours with rhythmic pressure.
A sharp sizzle coming from the oven cuts through the haze.
You stiffen, hands finding his chest, pushing against him, breathless. "The eggplants."
He lets out a dazed breath, his forehead still resting against your clavicles before you manage to slide off the counter. You crack open the oven just in time, a cloud of smoke puffing out.
Plating the food, you meticulously avoid his gaze. The comfortable intimacy of moments before has been shattered. “You could’ve let me know you’d be arriving this late.”
“I told you—”
“I know,” you cut in. “Something came up.”
He exhales, planting hands on his hips. His body remains a few feet from you, a physical barrier building. “Okay. So you’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Disappointed, then?”
“Clark, it’s not even about tonight.”
“Then what is it about?”
You hesitate, picking up both your plates. Then: “Where were you?” The silence that follows stretches too long, and he merely stands there, observing you “Right.”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m just… tired.”
He takes a single step closer, his brow furrowed. “You don’t believe me.”
You glance at him, quietly. “Should I?”
That hits him like a slap. “I told you I liked you, that I care about you. About us. I’ve shown you that.”
“But then you vanish,” you say in rejoinder, voice trembling. “You show up looking like you’ve just escaped a fire. You don’t answer calls. You don’t explain anything. Don’t you think that drives me crazy?”
“I’ve been telling you—”
“Clark, it’s not about you saying it! It’s about me believing it. And you don’t exactly make that easy.”
“The real problem here is that you don’t trust me.”
“You think I want to be like this? You think I like doubting people when they’re kind to me? Well, I’m sorry,” you snap, the words coated in sarcasm, a desperate defense. “Would you like me to book a therapy session mid-dessert?”
“Maybe you should,” he agrees—and the moment he does, his shoulders slump, a quiet wave of regret washing over his face.
Biting your tongue, you carry your plates to the table, placing them down on the wooden surface. He stays in the kitchen, breathing hard.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer now. “I just— I don’t know how to do this when you already assume I’m going to leave.”
“I’m not assuming,” you say, barely a whisper, sitting down at the table. “I’m just preparing for what usually happens.”
“You’re staring at me like I’m about to vanish.”
You blink, wounded by his accuracy. “Because people do. They do that.”
“I’m not people!” he exclaims, suddenly louder, cracking with what you perceive as frustration. His fists clench at his sides, knuckles white, though he remains rooted in place. "I’m me. And I’m standing right here, aren’t I?"
“For now. Who knows if something else will come up?”
Something cracks in him then. He exhales a sharp sound of utter defeat. His blue eyes dart around the kitchen, looking everywhere but at you, like he suddenly doesn’t know where to put his hands. With a jerky motion, he turns abruptly and moves to the couch, grabbing his bag, and after a quiet clink, he places the set of keys you gave him—your apartment keys— on the table.
He doesn't look back at them. Or at you. “Okay,” he mutters under his breath. “Okay.”
“Clark—” you start, a desperate plea forming in your throat.
“Thank you for the food,” he says, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’m sure it’s great.”
Then the door clicks again, and he’s gone.
The Daily Planet office, once a source of nervous excitement, now feels like the perfect stage for an excruciating play, where every creak of a chair, every muffled phone call, and every far-off laugh from the newsroom, feels amplified.
One day bleeds into the next. Two become three. Three into four. Time unspools in quiet, colorless strands, and you and Clark don’t speak.
You develop a radar for him. The way his broad shoulders appear in the periphery of your vision when he walks past your desk. The clean scent that lingers for a moment too long in the air after he’s been near. The rustle of his coat, the click of his shoes.
Each tiny signal sends a fresh jolt through you, a cocktail of longing, hurt, and a futile sense of hope that he might just look at you differently.
He never does. His gaze, when it lands anywhere near your orbit, can be described as nothing more than fleeting. His profile, when you cast him a quick glance, is unreadable, stony. He still places your usual coffee beside your monitor. The one you haven’t asked for. The one you don’t touch.
It’s the careful avoidance of two people who know too much about each other, and yet, not enough.
Jimmy, bless his usually boisterous heart, is the first to notice the shift. The absence of his jokes feels heavier than any of his previous teasing. He watches you some mornings when you walk in—does a quick, puzzled double take—then looks away with a frown you’re not supposed to catch.
Your new routine includes staying late at the newsroom. Not because you’re more productive, but because being alone in the office feels better than being alone in your apartment. You stare at the same document for hours while words blur and sentences unravel in front of you.
But when your mind finally stills, it drifts to the article. The one you wrote about Superman. The one Clark urged you to show Perry.
You’d written it during a different time. A better one. It had come from a place of awe, from a belief that Superman was more than a shiny cape and strength—that he was what Metropolis aspired to be: a symbol of better days, of striving, of hope.
Now, hope feels like a language you’ve forgotten how to speak.
Today, you don’t believe in hope. You believe in a man who held you like he meant it, once, and can’t meet your eyes now.
Nevertheless, you print the article, not really knowing why. Maybe because it’s the only thing in this building that still feels like it belongs to you.
Gathering the pages, you breathe in, hold it, let it out. Outside Perry’s office, you linger for a full minute before knocking.
His office is its usual chaos: tottering stacks of newspapers, coffee cups in varying states of decay, and the smell of old cigar smoke clinging to the walls like wallpaper.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” he grunts. “What’ve you got?”
You step inside slowly, article in hand, your grip faltering slightly as you set it down on his desk. “I know this isn’t what I was assigned, but I’ve been… working on something for the past weeks.”
He squints at you. “You been using our electricity for your side projects?”
“No! I—I wrote it at home. I swear.”
He huffs, puts on his reading glasses, and begins scanning the first page. You try not to stare at him, but it’s impossible. Your eyes cling to every twitch in his jaw, every slight narrowing of his eyes.
His face gives away nothing, and you brace for the worst. That it’s too sentimental. Too soft. Too young.
Finally, he leans back, lifting his chin and pinning you with a piercing look. “Do you like it?”
You blink owlishly. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because I want to know.”
“It’s not up to me,” you deflect. “You’re the one who decides if it runs.”
“I know that. But you wouldn’t bring me something you didn’t believe in. So I’ll ask again: are you proud of it? Do you think it belongs in the columns of this paper?”
For a moment, your throat closes up. You hadn’t realized how deeply you’d buried your own opinion. You’d been so focused on disappearing, on not making noise, not taking up space—especially this week—that you forgot to consider what you thought of your own work.
Perry’s looking at you like he’s not going to breathe until you answer.
So you speak, nodding in agreement, and right after adding, “I believe people will find it comforting.”
“Then you know what comes next.”
Your confidence may not be at its best, neither is your hope, but this is enough. At least to keep writing, to walk back to your desk.
It’s enough to make it to tomorrow.
Sleep won’t come.
You’ve tried everything: writing until your hand cramped, scrolling endlessly, even lying on the floor like a starfish, begging the ceiling to knock you out. Meditation felt like self-punishment tonight. Silence only made the memories louder.
So you call him. Once, twice, but you’re met with nothing else than his voicemail. You don’t leave a message. What would you even say? Hi, I know you said you cared about me and then walked out of my apartment looking like you were breaking from the inside out, but I miss you and I can’t breathe right now, and can you please just—
You decide to hang up, tossing your phone onto the couch and flicking on the television. Static. Infomercials. Cartoons. Some old film from the 1940s.
And then—Lois Lane’s voice. The screen flickers to life, showing a live, chaotic feed. A shaky handheld shot from a rooftop shows a scene near Metropolis General Hospital. A glowing creature, a blur of silver and blue and fury, throws what looks like an empty city bus like it’s paper. A streetlamp explodes and sirens scream in the distance.
It all makes you wonder where Superman is.
He’s not flying in for a rescue, not beaming reassuring smiles, not waving at kids from the sky. He’s in the dirt, bloodied at the temple, gritting his teeth as he lifts a half-crushed ambulance off the street.
You sit up straight, your heart climbing to your throat.
Lois’s voice crackles through the footage: “—been a difficult few weeks for Metropolis’s hero. Fans online have pointed out the change in his demeanor: less smiling, more… focused. Almost withdrawn. We’ve reached out to the authorities—”
It’s physically impossible for you to hear the rest because you’re entranced watching him. He’s moving like someone who hasn’t slept in days. Fighting like he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.
You can’t look away.
The camera pans wildly as Superman lunges forward, slamming his shoulder into the creature’s ribs with a sound that resembles crumbling concrete. There’s a fresh gash across his cheekbone, his hair disheveled, not in the windswept, magazine-cover kind of way, but genuinely messy: flattened in places, curling in others, soaked with sweat.
For the first time, you’re not watching Superman. You’re watching someone else. Someone who looks like—
No. No, that would be insane. The idea is so preposterous, your mind rejects it, but the seed of recognition has been planted. It can't be. Not him.
Once again, Lois’s voice cuts through the footage, her tone sharper now, edged with that reporter’s concern she usually hides under cool professionalism.
“Superman was spotted fighting alone for nearly half an hour before backup arrived. And while officials say the Justice Gang is expected to contain the situation soon, many are asking the same question: what happens when Superman is no longer invincible? What happens when he burns out?”
Staring at the screen, you contemplate his eyes flickering up for a second—just a second—like he’s heard something above the noise. And they’re blue. The exact kind of blue that’s filled your mornings for the last three months.
Your breath stutters. The camera angle shifts. This time, it shows his jaw flexing as he takes another hit, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand.
You’ve seen that gesture. Too many times. “No,” you whisper out loud. “No, that’s not possible.”
You’re already moving, with your heart in your mouth. You don’t even know what you’re reaching for at first, until your hand brushes something at the back of the drawer beneath your TV. It’s a pair of old prescription glasses you never quite got used to, the ones you always said gave you headaches.
Holding them up, you hover them in front of the TV, and your world rearranges itself.
There he is.
Clark.
Clark, with that same square jaw, that same tilt of his mouth when he’s gritting through something.
Clark, who stammers when he’s nervous, who brings you coffee even when you won’t drink it.
Clark, whose shoulders you could rest your whole weight on—not only because he’s strong, but because he’s been carrying the sky for so long and somehow still made room for you.
Clark, who sat next to you on the stairwell that day when you felt like quitting.
Clark, whose kindness never felt performative, who looked at you like you were worth listening to even when you were barely making sense.
Clark, who vanishes into smoke and ash and headlines. Who leaves through the fire escape and returns hours later. Who smiled at you across the office like it meant something, and maybe it did, maybe it always did—but now you know the cost of that smile.
If you lower the glasses, he’s Superman again.
If you lift them… it’s the Clark you know.
They’re the same man. Two halves of a single truth.
“Oh my God,” you whisper again, this time not out of disbelief, but something much deeper. Something hollow and shattering.
Lois’s voice keeps going, but it’s background noise now, a murmur beneath the ringing in your ears.
You sit back on the couch, eyes locked on the screen, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Every memory starts to rearrange itself, clicking into a terrifying, undeniable pattern. His sudden disappearances. The uncanny way he knew you weren’t hurt that night at the bar. The tension in his voice each time he apologized for being late. The way he’d always kiss you like it was the last time he’d ever get to.
The truth has slipped through a crack you never saw until now, and there’s no unseeing it. He was lying to you, but not in a cruel way. He was just trying to protect you.
The monster finally goes down in a shuddering collapse of concrete and bone. The camera shakes violently, jolting as dust swallows the scene, and then steadies just in time to catch Superman—or Clark—landing hard on one knee.
Green Lantern, Mr Terrific and Hawkgirl all converge around him, bruised and dust-streaked, checking in on each other. But your eyes won’t leave his face. There’s a scratch across his brow along with many others. His mouth twitches into a faint smile as the crowd outside the hospital begins to clap, nodding at them. He doesn’t need to say anything, at least not right now.
For one suspended second, his gaze falls directly into the camera lens, and it’s not the kind of look meant for press or headlines or statues carved in his honor. It’s private, and heavy, and it feels like he’s looking straight into your apartment, straight through the screen.
Straight through you.
Lois’s voice snaps back into focus: “Metropolis, you can rest easy tonight. For now, Superman and the Justice League have subdued the threat.”
You press a hand to your mouth, the glow from the television casting his silhouette across your walls, larger than life, yet so impossibly familiar now it almost hurts to look.
He steps away from the others. Sirens flash red against his suit, casting ripples of color through the smoke. A few children break from the crowd, darting past yellow caution tape, their small arms wrapping around his legs in awe-struck gratitude. He kneels momentarily, accepting their hugs with the kind of gentleness that breaks you open.
You can’t hear what he says to them, but it softens their faces. One of them gives him a flower. Another just holds his hand.
Then, without fanfare, he lifts off the ground, launching himself into the sky. The wind kicks up rubble, camera crews duck, the picture shakes, and he vanishes into the sky like he was never really there.
Gone.
You stare at the empty space he left behind on the screen, breath snagged in your lungs.
“Where are you going?” you mumble, reaching for the screen. “Where are you—”
The muted clatter of ceramic on concrete interrupts your rambling.
Slowly, you turn your head to your balcony, afraid of what you’ll find. Out past your window, a potted lavender plant lies cracked and wilting. Clark’s standing there, just outside the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice muffled, wincing is he gestures to the shattered pot at his feet. “I didn’t calculate the landing right.”
Rooted to the floor, as if your feet have been sealed to the carpet, you stare at him through the glass as if he’s a hologram. A turbulent mixture of strange feelings clashes inside you, and you fight them back, stepping to the side as you open the window. His boots scuff against the floorboards, dragging slightly as he steps inside
At first, he can’t seem to bring himself to look at you directly. He paces around the living room, running his hands through his hair, sighing like someone who’s rehearsed this moment a thousand times and still doesn’t know where to begin.
“Clark—”
“This is why I disappear all the time,” he blurts, abruptly stopping in front of the television. “Why I cancel our plans. Why I show up late, or leave before I’m supposed to, or text you lame excuses like ‘Sorry, got held up’ when I’m halfway across the planet.”
It’s hard to make the connection. The leap between the man who fumbles with his tie and tells bad puns over takeout, and the mythological figure on screen who bends steel and outruns storms, whose every move seems broadcast across the globe.
They’re two versions of a whole you never imagined could overlap. And yet… it makes sense, somehow. Of course Clark would be Superman. A man so genuine, so generous, who expects for nothing and finds the way to see beauty in rusted scraps and broken things—who better to carry the weight of hope?
“I should’ve told you sooner. God, I meant to. I wanted to, I swear. I was going to, that night after I read your article. You were sitting there, talking about Superman like he was some kind of miracle and I just—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It got too easy to pretend I could have both. Be with you. Protect you. Keep it all going without having to risk what we had.”
Interrupting him now would feel like an act of pure cruelty. You see the disoriented anguish in his gaze, the way his fists clench and unclench with each passing second, how desperately he seems to need to unburden himself.
You wonder what would’ve happened if, instead of crashing onto your balcony and shattering a pot in the process, he had simply returned to his own apartment. Would the love you hold for him feel so present in any other scenario?
“I know this is a lot to process, but I came to understand something about you.” His voice holds such certainty it frightens you, because lately it feels like everyone else can decipher what’s happening to you except for yourself. “You think you’re just this temporary thing, because you don’t see yourself the way I do. That’s why you’re always bracing for things to fall apart.”
You want to explain yourself, to give a reason for your not-at-all-desirable behavior, but you realize you can’t in this moment. Not when honesty radiates from him like heat.
In the blink of an eye, he’s holding your hands in his, his grip gentle yet firm, and he brings them to his lips to press a short, tender kiss to the back of them.
“I can’t seem to make sense of it. I’ve tried. But it’s been impossible for me to find a single reason why you should believe that about yourself.” You brush a tentative finger along his injured cheekbone, stopping just before you swipe dried blood, though he still offers a soft smile. His gaze is so profoundly tender you wonder if this is the first time you're truly contemplating the depth behind them. “I’m in love with you. And if I could show you your reflection through my eyes for one day, you’d understand why you’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing before I fall asleep.”
You never thought this type of experience could be granted to you. The belief that such moments were reserved for certain people feels now demystified. Perhaps no other moment in your life could’ve prepared you for this.
Of all the unrealistic scenarios you'd concocted over the years, mostly in your adolescence, when fantasies of a pure and overwhelming love did nothing but numb you, you never would’ve imagined someone would love you in this way, declaring their love for you so sincerely.
The need to get rid of the blood on his face gnaws at you, and you find yourself gently tugging him towards the kitchen, neither of you saying a word. You search for a clean dishcloth in some forgotten drawer, holding it under the faucet for a few seconds. Once it’s dampened, you press it softly against the bruised areas on his lip and cheek.
He tries not to move, placing both hands flat on the counter behind you, caging you with his whole frame. This scene reminds you of the last time you were both here, the day that marked two months of seeing each other.
A day to forget, actually, because it devolved into a complete disaster.
“I got used to living with this voice in my head that sabotages me. I don’t know when it started. Part of me thinks it’s always been there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Other times, it’s so loud I can’t think straight. But I’ve never been able to shut it up completely.”
You take a shaky breath, putting down the cloth once it’s no longer useful. Clark doesn’t pull away, nor does he move closer. He remains right where he is, poised, his entire being waiting for what you’ll say next.
“I never feel like I deserve the good stuff that happens to me. I wish I did. God, I do. Perry even said he’s publishing the article I wrote and I still have to convince myself he’s not just doing it out of pity—”
His eyebrows lift, and he can’t help but cut you off. Wait—really? He’s publishing it?” A broad, genuine smile blooms on his face, almost illuminating the dimness of your apartment. “That’s amazing!”
“Thank you. I was planning on telling you, but—you know.” Your gaze drifts to the symbol on his suit, and you trace it with a tentative finger, the synthetic material feeling utterly strange under your touch. “The thing is I overthink everything. Always have. And I don’t know if you’ll think I’m crazy or exhausting or whatever, but I can’t control it. I wish I could. So every time you went away, when you started canceling plans or looking at me like you were somewhere else entirely, I got scared.”
So this is what it feels like to truly open your heart to another soul.
“I thought that voice was right, and that you were pulling away because you regretted it because you’d realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. And maybe you just didn’t know how to tell me, since we work together, and we share the same friends. Plus, things between us have been—” Once again, your words tangle, and you internally blame the raw emotionality of the moment. “I can’t get away from myself, Clark. But other people? They can walk away. And I thought that’s what you were doing.
There’s a pause, and his advice seems to be: “Don’t trust your brain.”
“What do you mean—”
“Don’t believe everything it tells you. I mean it. If you need me to tell you I love you, I will. If you need me to tell you how beautiful and sweet you are, I’ll do that too, and happily. Because I want to help you. It’s not like I can spare you from those thoughts—believe me, I would’ve if there were a way. The least I can do is make you realize that voice in your head isn’t always right.”
Some things cannot be put into words, and you simply have to act in their name. You kiss him, your arms finding their way around his neck, pulling him as close as possible as you smile against his lips, trying not to generate any pressure where he’s hurt as you say, “Shit, I love you so much.”
It’s incredible how one can transition from immense sadness to something that must closely resemble the deepest tranquility ever known to humankind. He holds your face between his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks with such fondness it could make you sick. You don’t know how someone can look so happy and so overwhelmed at once. “Say that again.”
“I love you.”
“Again. Please.”
You kiss him between each word, letting them stretch longer and deeper until your mouths can’t bear to part. “I. Love. You.”
He tilts your face toward his, his hand cradling the back of your head as if he’s afraid you’ll float away. “Please tell me your brain’s not saying anything right now.”
“It’s been surprisingly quiet.”
“Then let’s keep it that way.”
You make a strangled noise as the kiss turns fierce, not knowing exactly where to put your hands. There’s so much you want to do, so much of him you want to touch and skin to trace with your fingers. That simmering desire had grown between you both, never quite breaking through the surface. Not because you didn’t one want it, but because you'd asked him to hold back.
Remember that tiny voice in your brain? The mean one? That one had told you several times that you had to wait a certain amount of time before sleeping with him. Because if you didn’t, if you got too close too soon, he might realize he wasn’t into you. Physically speaking. And you had done just that: waited.
But now, all patience shatters. There’s no room for cautious stretching of things anymore, not when the man you love, the one you’ve been pining for months, stands before you
He doesn’t get the hint when you kiss back or when your teeth nip at the skin of his throat, not until you take his hands, which are resting politely on your lower back, and push them lower, guiding them up to cup your ass through the layers of clothing.
You hear the way he breathes out, a grunt caught somewhere between surprise and shock, as you shift even closer and speak softly over his lips. “I want to do it. Tonight.”
“Are you sure? Because we could totally—”
“Clark, stop being such a gentleman.” You tug him toward the couch and fall back onto it, kicking your shoes off without grace or ceremony, your heart gallops with anticipation as you stretch out, swallowing hard.“I’d like you to touch me, then I’d like to return the favor, and then I want you to fuck me. In that specific order,” you admit. So as not to lose the habit, you whisper the word that never fails to soften his expression: “Please.”
You notice the impressive bulge straining at the front of his suit, and he nods his head in earnest, one of his large hands pushing your thighs open. “Yeah. I can do that.”
Electricity now runs through your veins, each part of you igniting under his hands as he touches you. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t rip your clothes off or fall into cliché. He wants to take his time with you, grazing the soft curve where your neck meets your shoulder. As his hair slips through your fingers like silk, you clutch at him, sighing into his touch. Your eyes flutter open to ask him: “Does the suit stay on?”
“Well, that depends,” he replies, lifting his head and meeting your wanting gaze. “Does it—turn you on?”
A low fire spirals in the pit of your stomach, your chest heaving with a shaky inhale. “It’s certainly doing the job.”
“So first you write about Superman like a professional journalist…” he trails off, his palm smoothing his palm over your stomach to undo the button of your jeans with ease, lowering the zipper of your jeans millimeter by millimeter, “... and now you get wet for him?”
Wiggling your hips to help him peel off your pants more easily, you gape at the ceiling momentarily. “I’m sorry. Do my inappropriate thoughts bother him?”
“I actually believe he’d very pleased, to be fair,” he murmurs, settling on the couch beside you. His hand returns, slower this time, tracing over the cotton that clings to your heat. “You see, he’s a simple man. Safe to say he’d really like you.”
Clark teases his thumb to your clit through the cotton and your back arches from the couch. “Clark, I—”
“I’ll go slow.” He presses his lips against yours briefly, running the length of his nose along yours, your skin buzzing where it brushes his. “Do you trust me?” You nod, unable to speak, struggling to keep your eyes open. He presses against you again, this time with purpose. Slow, deliberate circles over your clit, his free hand curling around your waist to keep you steady as you writhe beneath him, holding you down to the earth. “Then relax. I’ve got you.”
You weren’t a virgin, but he’s making you feel like one. Or maybe something even more tender than that, like you’re being touched properly for the first time in your life. Every graze of his fingers sends heat crawling under your skin, his ministrations alone having you whimpering into his neck, tugging at his hair.
“Take them off,” you beg, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing his hand every time he attempts to pull away, needing more. It’s more of an instinct at this point.
He doesn’t make you ask twice, your underwear being gone in a flash and ending up dangling from one foot. He parts your folds, and you see his eyes darken with unfiltered awe, staring for a beat longer than expected. “Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You’re gorgeous
Clark spreads your slick across your swollen flesh, his long fingers reverent in their exploration, never faltering. When he circles your clit again, raw and bare now, you jolt, the pleasure pulsing bright and fast, like you’re going to blow up at any given moment.
He seems to enjoy watching you squirm, listening to the whimpers torn from your throat. “You’ve got no idea how hot you look right now,” he pants beside your ear, voice ragged and affected by the noises he keeps pulling out of you. His own hips grind lazily against your thigh, the pressure of his cock unmistakable, rock hard behind the fabric. “I want to see you come.”
“Just—keep doing whatever you’re doing,” you gasp, clinging to his arm and biting back a moan when he kisses you languidly. A new wave of warmth runs under your skin, and you swear you can feel your blood rushing south. “Clark, I’m—don’t you dare stop.”
Your words spur him on, and he tightens the circles, faster now, his other hand closing around your inner thigh for leverage. That ache in your belly sharpens to a desperate pressure, and your whole body looms into him as if drawn to gravity itself.
“Oh my God—Clark—” You grip his shoulder, nails scrapping against the harsh material of his suit. It’s too much and not enough, and every time he flicks just right, you’re launched impossibly higher. You’re a panting mess, legs starting to tremble as pleasure coils tight in your gut.
“Come on, you’re almost there,” he encourages you, kissing your sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so good. Let go, baby.”
You break. It starts at your core, deep and volcanic, spreading like a spark catching on dry leaves. Your thighs clamp around his hand, head thrown back as the orgasm ripples through you, crying out his name with a sound borderline raw and unrestrained. He doesn't stop until your hips stop jerking and your back settles against the couch again, twitching with aftershocks.
You’re left gasping, eyes blurry, vision haloed in white. “I—” you try to speak, but your voice fails, coming out broken. Instead, you let out a sigh. “Jesus.”
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then slowly works his way up to your mouth. “I came as well. Mentally.”
A disbelieving laugh bubbles out of you, and you swat at his face, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re about to sit until you feel his breath ghost across your belly, shoving your shirt further up. You rake your hand through his fringe, brushing it back, hissing when his lips graze the patch of skin just above your clit. “Are you—”
“It’d be stupid not to take the opportunity.” He finds your legs and places them over his shoulders, effortlessly dragging your body to the edge of the couch, kneeling by the carpet and between your thighs, his large hands framing your hips.
Clark licks a broad stripe up your folds, collecting your arousal on his tongue, and you cry out, shoulders slumping forward from the overstimulation, still sensitive from your first orgasm. Yet he peers up at you with feigned innocence, kneading the flesh of your thighs. “I can stop if you want me to,” he says, a husky edge to his usual tone.
“Don’t want you to,” you purr, guiding his mouth to where you need him the most. “Make me feel good.”
Devotedly, devastatingly even, he takes your words to heart, lapping at your clit with careful, coaxing pressure, sometimes flicking with the pointed tip of his tongue, sometimes flattening it to trace languid strokes. He groans at the taste of you, sinking a finger into your heat and making you clench instinctively around the intrusion.
“It’s tight in here,” he ponders aloud, not sparing you a single glance, much more preoccupied with the way you’re squeezing him. “We’ll have to see if I’ll fit.”
You mean to laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob the moment he adds another finger to the equation, and you can hear every single squelching sound your cunt makes in response to his movements.
“God, it feels—” Your voice cracks as his lips seal over your clit again, drawing firm circles around it, the pacing of his digits inside you forcing you to alternate your attention. “So good, Clark. You’re being so good to me.”
It’s not that you’re just saying these things out of pocket. You’ve noticed he likes it, likes being praised. Not only in this context, where he has his head buried between your legs, but it usually happened whenever he did something right, and you would be there, praising him, telling him he’d done a great job.
His pupils would dilate a little, and he’d always shut you up with a kiss, but he can’t right now. He seems to be destined to hear and acknowledge your words, nearly rutting into the edge of the couch the more you say. His desperation sets something alight in you, and it only makes you want to explore that side of him even more.
“If you make me come again, I’ll suck your cock,” you mumble, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp. You don’t miss how his shoulders stiffen through the suit, and he pushes his face deeper into your core. “I can’t wait to have you in my mouth,” you add, smiling through the haze.
“What’s got you this chatty, huh?” He pumps his fingers deeper, faster, a relentless rhythm designed to shatter your composure. His teeth scrape along the inside of your right thigh, seemingly enjoying the noise that reverberates in your chest as he bites gently on it. “You have Superman right here with you and all you do is talk.”
Three of Clark’s fingers stretch you out and you can’t no longer think straight. Neither can you breathe, having utterly forgotten how consonants and vowels combine to form words.
This, it seems, is precisely what he intended: to have you reduced to a writhing, desperate mess that can’t stop mewling his name over and over. The questions, the teasing, all of it is obliterated by the rising tide of pure sensation as your world narrows to his touch and everything it means.
When you tell him you’re close, the ache coiling tight in your belly for the second time in the night, every nerve in your body lights up. He’s a man on a quest, who whimpers in unison with you the more your breath staggers.
He asks you to come on his tongue, because he wants to know exactly what it tastes like. Because he simply must. He’s been fantasizing about this, he confesses, about touching himself thinking of you, about how soft your skin looked in your work clothes, about—
Your orgasm tears through you, fast and overwhelming, and you cling to his shoulders, riding out the tremors. His fingers remain deep inside you, and he curves them to hit that sweet spot one last time before you tell him it’s too much. His hair is mussed where your fingers yanked it, his chin glistening with your essence, and you tug him closer to kiss him, tasting yourself in the aftermath.
Somehow, without even breaking the kiss, he manages to peel the suit from his body, letting it fall in a heap beside your shoes on the floor. All that’s left is the snug fabric of his underwear, and the sight of him nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
You trail a hand down his abdomen, fingertips brushing along the faint trail of hair beneath his navel until they meet the solid outline of his cock. You palm him softly through the fabric, feeling the twitch of need under your touch.
Now that he’s bare before you, no more slouchy coats hiding him away, you take in the rest of him. The defined lines of his chest, the softness at his waist, the tension coiled in his thighs. It takes everything in you not to outright stare, not to drool, although your mouth waters anyway.
By the time he’s lying back on the couch, you’ve taken his place, kneeling between his legs. He laces his fingers behind his head, muscles taut like he’s trying to anchor himself there, to stop his hips from jerking up on instinct.
You start slow, teasing. Your fingers wrap around his shaft, stroking him lazily as your lips press hot kisses to the tip. You circle your tongue around it, dipping into the slit just to hear what kind of sound you can pull from him.
He exhales like he’s in pain. Beautiful, tortured pain. You hesitate for a split second, uncertain—was that too much?
“Do it again,” he breathes, voice wrecked, his chest rising in uneven pulls of air. “Please… that—Jesus, that feels really good.”
And you want to please him. You want to give him everything, so you do it again.
The head disappears past your lips. He groans as you sink down a few inches, his hips tensing immediately, and you hum in satisfaction at the sharp hiss he lets slip. You take more of him, then a little bit more, until you’re jerking the rest of him off with your hand, saliva slicking your chin, your throat fluttering and eyes stinging every time he brushes the back of it.
Swallowing around him, your nails scratch the line of dark hair that leads below his navel. There’s nothing delicate about this. Not right now, not when he’s chanting your name like a prayer, not when you’re dizzy from the taste of him. His breathy moans echo in your ears, more intoxicating than anything else you’ve ever heard.
At some point, you glance up, and the eye contact nearly undoes you. Clark looks ruined, entirely entranced. His brow is furrowed tight, a deep crease between his eyes that might’ve read as frustration if you didn’t know better.
To some stranger, he might even appear to be angry. His jaw is clenched, lips parted as if he’s struggling to form coherent thoughts. His hips tremble under your palms, twitching like every nerve in his body is firing at once. He’s holding himself still with impossible effort, his thighs taut, hands clawed into the couch cushions to stop from thrusting up into your mouth.
“Perhaps—” His voice is hoarse, and he swallows hard. “Perhaps we should stop.”
You slow your pace but don’t let go.
“I don’t want to finish yet,” he groans, neck strained, his composure cracking under the tension. “Not this fast. I want to last. I want—” He cuts himself off with a hiss when you press a wet kiss to the flushed head again, pulling back the foreskin. “God, I just want more time with you like this.
You keep your hand wrapped around him, dragging your palm slow and tight from base to tip, letting your thumb swirl over the sensitive slit. His hips twitch again, betraying how close he really is.
“But can’t Superman come twice?” you ask, tilting your head to the side. He blinks, dazed, not fully registering the meaning of your words at first. You give him another firm stroke and watch his brows knit in pleasure. “It’s been a hard day.”
“Baby, I swear—”
“Didn’t you save an entire hospital tonight?” you whisper, leaning in to mouth at his hipbone. “Kept it from collapsing?”
“Yeah,” he grunts. “Yeah, I—yes.”
“Then you deserve it.”
“But twice?”
“You heard it right. Once in my mouth, just like this, and then again inside me.”
Clark makes a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a whimper. His arms collapse from behind his head, hands flying to his face, shielding himself from how hard words just hit him.
“Oh my God,” he mumbles, palms pressed to his eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” you inquire, jerking him a little faster now. “You’re blushing.”
“I’m not—” he lies, breath catching when your lips part around his cock once again, still not getting used to the feeling. “I just—I’m so close.”
One of his hands finds your hair, smoothing it back from your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. He cups the back of your head as if he’s holding something sacred, brushing his thumb along your temple as his other hand clenches the couch cushion.
“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your movements, still stroking your hair. “You don’t—you don’t even know what you do to me. You’re gonna be the death of me.”
Your hand tightens around his base just a little, urging him closer to the edge. He grits his teeth, unable to hold on any longer.
“I’m sorry—be careful, I’m gonna—”
He empties his load into your mouth, hips stuttering in jerky thrusts. His entire body tenses beneath you, trembling as the pleasure crashes through him, head tipped back against the couch. Clark comes for what feels like ages, pulse after pulse of heavy release filling your mouth, and you take it all, letting the salty taste land on your tongue and flood your senses.
Shortly after, everything moves in a blur. Clark insists that the couch isn’t ideal for what’s about to happen. Something about angles, support, long-term consequences for your spine. You, naturally, insist you’re perfectly fine where you are.
In the end, the one with super strength settles the debate. Which is to say: he wins. He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and carries you to the bedroom like it’s the most obvious solution. The couch had been fine. Serviceable, even, but it was time for an upgrade.
Now, sprawled across your bed, you kiss beneath the warm press of blankets. Pre-cum smears over your stomach, leaking from him in needy dribbles as he hovers above you, holding his weight on his forearms, cradling your face between his hands.
His voice is low. “Just to be clear. We’re not using a…?”
“Condom?”
He nods, cheeks flushed. “Yeah.”
“I told you you could come inside me.”
That stuns him into silence. “Are you sure? Want me to—go buy some?” he manages, faltering a little.
“Some?” you echo, amused. Your gaze dips down his body, landing on the leaking head of his cock, his hips twitching as if straining to stay still. “I’m on birth control,” you murmur.
He blinks, his Adam’s apple bobbing. You can almost hear the gears in his head grinding, trying to decide whether or not you’re serious.
“I mean it. It wasn’t for sexual purposes in the beginning. I’ve been on the pill for years. But if it makes you uncomfortable—”
“What exactly makes you think I don’t want this?”
“Say that to your face. You’re looking at me like I just proposed a blood pact.”
Huffing a breath, he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “So… we’re doing it. Like this.”
“Yes.”
“Bare.”
“Would you like to see my birth certificate?”
He lets out a strangled laugh, one hand sliding down to part you gently. His fingers glide through your folds, collecting your slick to lube himself up. Just as he’s about to wretch your entrance, he pauses, brows drawn tight. “Ready?”
“I’ve been ready since we left the couch.”
“You can’t be joking when I’m this close to being inside you.”
“Clark,” you plead, lifting your hips. “Please, just—”
He pushes in.
At first, it’s just the tip. The stretch is instant, unavoidable, and you throw your head back, nearly knocking into the headboard.
“Easy,” he grits out. “Be careful.” His thighs tremble where they cage you in, and he slides in another inch, groaning through clenched teeth.
“Th-that’s—fuck—” Your mouth hangs agape briefly before you shut it again. You can’t even think, eyes landing on where your bodies meet, and his whole frame looks huge on top of you, the sight alone making you whimper. “Clark, please—”
“Wait.” He stills, tearing his gaze away from you, squeezing his eyes shut. “I need a second.”
“Want me to kiss you?”
He lifts his head slightly. “Are you the devil?”
You bite your lip, fingers digging into the muscles of his lower back. “What are you doing? Counting?”
“To a million.” He buries his face in your neck, forehead damp against your skin, feeding the rest of himself into you in shallow thrusts, and the final stretch burns as he bottoms out. “You’re impossible sometimes,” he growls against your skin, groaning as you clench around him. “Jesus, you’re still so tight. I don’t even—I don’t know how to move.”
A desperate sound slips from your lips when his mouth brushes behind your ear. His hand strokes up your thigh, bending you slightly beneath him, folding you open. “You’re so big.”
His arm trembles beside your head. A bead of sweat trails down his temple as you comb your fingers into his hair. “Don’t say that,” he pants.
“Why not?”
“Because—” he pulls back, just the head left inside, “—you’re playing with fire.” And then he slams his hips forward, hard, drawing a strangled cry from your throat. “I usually like how you always have something to say, but right now? I just want to fuck you. If that’s okay with you.”
It’s official: your long, unplanned celibacy ends here. Courtesy of Superman himself.
As if he’s learning you by heart, each thrust is measured and unhurried, his hips rolling into yours with a careful intent and setting their own tempo, savoring the way your bodies fit, the subtle give and take of your curves.
Your breath hitches when he finds it: that angle, that precise, exquisite spot inside you, and your legs instinctively tighten around his waist in response. A groan slips from him when your walls flutter around him in gratitude.
He starts to unravel. His body writhes against yours with an instinct he hadn’t dared show before now, his muscles working as he moves deeper, hungrier, shedding the last vestiges of his gentle restraint. You press your chest to his, fingers splayed across the flex of his back, memorizing the slope of his spine, the tremble in his arms as he struggles to hold himself back. Every sound he makes, every choked whimper, every whine he later tries to mask, you trap in your memory like precious treasure.
The moment he buries himself to the hilt, you swear you’re going to snap in half. The fullness is dizzying, and you cry out his name in a quiet plea. His lips graze your cheek, his hand smoothing your hair as he whispers something you can’t quite catch, lost in the roar of blood in your ears.
It’s not rushed at all. He’s learning you second by second, mapping your responses, and each time he shifts the angle or tilts your pelvis just so, it steals another moan from you. He knows now. Where to press, where to grind, where to thrust until your feet curl and your throat aches from trying to hold in the sounds.
“Clark,” you mewl, voice torn and trembling. A strand of his hair, dark and damp, sticks to the shell of your ear. He shifts to kiss you there and then stills, forehead resting against yours.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he chokes out, the words raw and fragile in comparison to your heated skin.
The confession pierces you with more precision than anything else tonight. Your body is still pulsing around him, hips still twitching and asking for more, but your heart stutters, aching with sudden clarity.
You don’t know if he means that night you stopped talking, the agonizing silence between you. If he means the days you went quiet and he watched from afar. You cradle his face in both hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones, forcing him to peer down at you. His pupils are blown, his mouth swollen from all the kissing, and you feel a pang in your chest because he’s never looked so vulnerably human.
“You didn’t. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
His throat bobs, and pushes in again, quivering, a silent affirmation of your words.
It’s like something breaks open inside him. The last of his control gives way.
His thrusts get rougher, more insistent, his mouth finding yours mid-moan, and you kiss him through the frantic rhythm, through the way his hand slides between your sticky bodies to circle your clit, hoping to make you fall apart. He needs this—needs you to come around him, to feel you clench and call his name and prove to him you’re his. That you chose him. That you’re still here. That you're real.
You’re close. So close that the precipice looms. “Don’t stop,” you gasp, clawing at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.
“I won’t. I won’t—” His groan catches in his throat, escaping as a raw whisper. “You feel so good. You’re perfect. Can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”
The pressure builds so fast it becomes borderline unbearable. Heat coils in your belly, every muscle taut as a bowstring, straining toward release.
“I—Clark—I—” Your body arches, back lifting off the bed.
“Come on,” he begs, short of breath, his hips grinding relentlessly. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”
And when it hits, it crashes. Your orgasm blindsides you, flashing behind your eyelids, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream, body trembling violently under him as incandescent pleasure tears through you like a searing current. Your walls spasm around him, squeezing, and he cries out a primal sound of absolute abandon before surging forward with a final thrust and spurting his release inside you.
It’s messy. It’s beautiful and overwhelming and glorious.
He collapses, half on top of you, still deeply buried, his body spamming in unison with yours. You’re both left shaking and sweating, but in the most magnificent way.
Clark plants a series of tender kisses to the valley between your breasts, the soft underside of your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” he murmurs, awe coloring every syllable.
You press your nose to his hairline, drawing in the scent of him. “Me neither,” you reply, contentment curling in your chest.
He simply stays there, wrapped around you, his weight a comforting anchor. The moment stretches and neither of you dares speak too loud for a while. It’s the kind of silence that means everything.
Eventually, he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze. His lashes are damp, a quiet sigh leaving him, and with an almost reluctant pull, he finally shifts, easing himself out of you. The sudden emptiness is palpable, an ache that makes you want to reach for him again, but he’s already moving, surprisingly graceful as he rises. He glances around your bedroom, then towards the bathroom.
“Want me to get a towel?” he asks, gesturing vaguely between your legs. “A wet one, ideally.”
You blink, chest lifting with a giggle. “Oh, right. Yeah, bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf.” You watch him disappear, the absurdity of the moment deeply endearing. He emerges a moment later, a small hand towel clutched in his fist, already damp, and he kneels back between your legs, cleaning you.
The warm cloth against your skin sends a fresh shiver through you, but it’s his focused, unselfconscious tenderness that melts your insides. He looks up, an apologetic grimace on his face. “I just realized I don’t exactly have a change of clothes on me.”
You trace his jaw, the curve of his ear. “Well, I mean,” you muse, a playful smirk tugging at your lips, “we could always see how you look in my pajamas. I’m sure my oversized college sweatshirt would be… form-fitting.”
“I don't think you’re ready for that sight.” He pats your inner thigh, then rises, tossing it to the side. “Come on. Let’s get into bed.”
You slide under the blankets, the silk against your bare skin a welcoming sensation. He joins you immediately, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulls you close, your bodies spooning, limbs tangling. His arm finds its way around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach. Your fingers twine with his, and your leg hooks over his, pressing your hip to his.
There’s a moment in which you turn your head on the pillow, meeting his eyes in the dim light. He now lies on his side, facing you, one hand tucked beneath his head.
“I love you,” you say again, the words unbidden.
A smile spreads across his face, lighting up his tired eyes. He pulls you impossibly closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then looks down at you. “You know those people who use songs as their alarm?”
“What does that have to do with what I just said?”
“They say you should always choose a song you’ll never get tired of. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of hearing you say those words.”
“That… was a weird route to get there.”
He kisses the tip of your nose, lingering on your lips shortly after. “I’m just saying. You could say it every day. Every hour. And I’d never get sick of it.” His thumb strokes your hand and you melt into him, every molecule of your being sighing in tranquility. “By the way,” he says, his tone sounding hesitant, “I told my parents about you.”
You pull back, just slightly, enough to stare up at him, your eyebrows shooting to your hairline. “Wait. What?”
“It was like a week ago.”
“We weren’t even speaking.”
He lets out a small, sheepish chuckle. “I know. But I still thought about you all the time. My mom scolded me through the phone for not telling you the truth sooner.” His nose crinkles, probably remembering the call. “They said they’d really like to meet you someday.”
“So, our first trip together is going to be… Kansas?”
“Smallville,” he corrects proudly. “What can I say? I’m a traditional guy.”
“Well, to be a ‘traditional guy,’ you haven’t even asked me to be your girlfriend yet.”
“Oh. Right. I guess I—”
“Are you going to?”
“I—would you want to?”
You laugh, pulling him into a kiss. “You’re such a dork.”
When you break apart, he’s smiling—really smiling, the kind that lights up his whole face and carves deep dimples into his cheeks.
“So is that a yes?”
“Yes, Clark. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“Okay. Good. Because I’m already very emotionally invested.”
At that moment, you snort into his chest. Sleep begins to pull at your limbs, heavy and soft, and your eyes flutter closed without resistance. His arms tucks your head beneath his chin, his breath steady against your hair, and for the first time in what feels like forever, your mind is quiet. No anxious spirals. No fear of him vanishing now that you’ve let your guard down. Just stillness.
Maybe it’s true, what the wise ones say: you’re never too much in the hands of the right person.
cw: bf! clark kent x f! gf! reader, pre established relationship, mdni (18+) glasses wear kink, heavy explicit sexual content, m! and f! rec. (oral), unprotected sex, (please pratice safe sex!) praising kink, daddy kink (consensual; like once) marking kink (biting, hickeys) lightdom and sub dynamic, power play,
clark kent being ridiculously attractive in his glasses!
word count: 2.9k
now playing: baby by madison beer
you never thought you'd be that girlfriend that got turned on by the sight if a man in glasses. until your boyfriend clark kent, the charming shyly polite kansas farm man came into your life. you had just celebrated your year and a half a few days ago. you noticed that over time you've developed this kink by simply falling in love with the small things clark would do for you. which is considered 'princess treatment' to any normal man clarks age vs. how it was with clark.
he would always, make your coffee with at least 3/4 of creamer, and mix it with at least half cup of oat milk due to the dairy making you queasy. he'd add ice to it as a 'homemade latte' he'd say. his voice soft as he kissed your cheek with it in hand passing it off to you. there even times you come home to your apartment where he'd be there already willing to rub out the soreness of your calves as you've been walking in heels all day.
silently moaning out in pleasure as the ache of a long day was long forgotten. his finers working diligently into the aches and pains of your muscles. he'd hum as he breathed your pleasure like he was breathing fresh air for the first time again. another example is when he'd take you out to eat at your favorite resturant out on in metropolis.
letting you take your time in getting ready and making the reservation for hours ahead of time. he'd sit back and watch you curl every strand of hair you unraveled. every small swipe of blush or eyeshadow you'd put on. his eyes never leaving you as he scrolled on his phone through emails for work. occasionally letting out a slip of praise, "you look so beautiful sweetheart, so darn beautiful." his knuckles lightly knocking your jaw, out of admiration.
currently you were sitting next to clark on other couch, clark clad in his date attire a navy blue button down, his sleeves now rolled to his forearms showing off his veins and his light tuffs of brown hair on his arms. his glasses slipping down, you urge them up as your breath catches by the sight alone. a tingle runs through your bones, and then you look at him with heart eyes.
"what?" his lips pulled into a sly smirk, cause nothing passes over clark. he knows everytime he wears those hypo-glasses that your heart picks up in pace. that you have a tremble in your fingers whenever you adjust them for him. your breath catching by how his icy blue eyes look at you over thr rims of the frames. lips parting in invitation as you lick them.
"uh... nothing, just was uhm... going to..." you trail off as your heart is in your throat looking at him. a ache rushes over your chest and your core. sparking a flame, one that only clark, youur eager to please boyfriend can only put out. his eyes tease as he mumbles a small, "going to what?" his eyes don't dare to leave yours as you swallow, and let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.
"i was asking if you wanted to change out of your shirt clark." your voice cool, with a slight tremble in it. clarks eyes softened out of that heated gaze they were in. you looked at clark while he simply stood, reaching his hand out to help you up. you took his hand as he laid a hand on the small of your back guiding you towards your bedroom. your shared bed, rose petals laid atop them softly, as clark was starting to unbutton his navy shirt. your watched as he guided you to sit down on the edge of the bed.
his muscles relaxing once the tight dress shirt was off his chisled torso, your mind short circuiting as he stood before you like a greek dream and your lip bewteen your teeth. his glasses low on his nose and he pushed them up and decided he'd give you a show of him in just his black slacks and dress shoes. you watched as he smiled getting down onto his knees.
his glasses brushing agaisnt your inner thigh as he crooked his head towards your heated core, moisture causing them to fog up slightly, his gaze hardened on your white lace panties. the sight before you did something as it drew more arousal to your already slicked heat. his glasses, on his soft face, stubbble scrapped along your inner thighs as he blew gently on your core. your eyes rolling back as your head dipped back onot the soft grey pillow case. hands fisting the sheets in anticipation.
you closed your eyes remembering the first tme clark made your knees weak with his hypo-glasses. it was your second date a little date at a small diner that he said, "reminds me of my ma's home cooking almost." his lips in a small pout as he felt the ache of being home-sick. you noticed how the glasses made his jawline look so sharp you wish you could brushed your fingers along it.
even his blue eyes that any girl would've wished to see closer without them, which you adored clark without his glasses too but you loved the way he looked with glasses. you finally had a hot nerd that genuinely liked you, flaws, and hyper fixations, thus included superman at the time. you had every article on him in a scrap book for safe keeping, and when clark revealed he was superman, you screamed without the s. literally.
you looked down at clark, glasses askew, as his tongue lapped at your slick heat. your fingers clawing at his scalp, but you found yourself tapping him with your french tiped manicured nails. "honey, oh fu- claaarkie." you huffed as he stoped, big blues looking at you. he came up to your face, lips slicked with your arousal and tasting like you, all you. "yes sweet girl?" he cooed, his voice soft and husky all in one. "kiss me."
you begged as he gave into you, giving you just that. his glasses bumped along your cheek as you suckled onto his tongue, tasting yourself. you moaned casuing him to groan as you slid from under him to side onto your knees, you pushed him back gently. "wanna- uh," you moaned as his eyes styaed stuck on you. 'wanna suck you off first honey.' your voice soft and sexy as velvet. clark hummed as he watched you pop open his slacks, taking his belt off.
moaning in return as you watched his lenght tent even further in his slacks. a dribble of pre-cum staining his boxers, those red and blue ginham pattern ones that you loved oh, so much. you slid them just enough for his balls the be under the waist band. taking his length and pressing feather light kisses to him, your lips moist with want. your lips wrapped around his tip, the beautiful angry pink tip leaking with pre cum.
you licked all the way down to the base tracing along the veins and with a pop of your lips, you hollowed your cheeks as you began to suck him off into your mouth. your hands coming to the base to twist him as you didn't completely fit all of clark into oyur mouth. his groans stared out soft and light but as you continued to suck and make a mess of salvia and pre-cum down to his balls he groaned like he never had before.
your hands sped up as you continued to jerk him off, your lips moved to speak, "hmm feels good doesn't it daddy?" clark guffed at the name as he took your head ans guided it towards his cock. "c'mon baby you can make me cum." he mumbled as he guided you to bob on his girthy length, up and down, over and over again. "j-just like thattt sweet girl." he moaned as his eyes behind the lenses rolled inot his head.
you took one hand off of him and started to rub at your hot bud, inside your panties. "oh baby, please, wanna feel you." you moaned as you lifted yourself up onto him, clark gladly setting you onto his torso. "c'mere baby," his voice hoarse and husky all in one, making more slick collect on his very well ruined and soaked panties. clark moved you over his face as he pushed them to the side, your thighs right by his head straddling it.
you moaned, almost pornographically as his tongue entered your sweet hole, clenching at each lick and swipe of his tongue. your fingers curling into his hair as you tugged causing clark to moan, the vibration of it rumbled onto oyur clit as you hummed. your neighbors would definitley hate you after this, but that was the last of your worries right now. "oh, oh my gosh! clarrrrk!" you gushed as your voice almost child-like in babble as you came on his tongue.
clark smiled, glasses covered in your slick. "gonna have to clean these up beofore work but i'm okay with it." he hummed as he moved you, holding your body to him as he shifted you onto the bed. in one go, you held onto his neck as he laid you onto your soft plush blue comforter. "hmm, clarrrk." you moaned as your clit brushed against his ab muscles. "oh, baby i know." he cooed as he kissed your cheek.
he slipped his slacks off and boxers in one go as he lined himself up with your entrance. "you can give me one more honey, can't you?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. you moaned as he dived right in, the mushroom tip pushing along your inner walls, clenching and pusling around his length. you moaned almost frightfully loud as clark continued to pound your dripping hole. "shh-shh, quiet a bit sugar." he cooed as he abused your spongy spot inside you.
you caught the way you looked into his glasses, the ones that were low on his nose, almost falling off. you pushed them up as you took sight of yourself, mascara smudged on your lower lash line. your lips plush and bruised. you moaned louder, music to clark's ears. you pulled him in by his neck and kissed him harder than you did before. the glasses bumping against your cheek, your nose. your moans returned back to being pornographic and you felt in utter bliss as he continued ot bully that spongy spot inside you.
you felt like you were in the middle of the universe in between the stars and it was just you and clark on earth. the headboard knocking repeatedly, made you aware that wasn't the case as you saw clark's hands grabbing the headboard, his strength slitting it in half. you gasped and then laughed as he continued to fuck into you. he nibbled along your neck, as he did so you gasped as you began to moan again, and if possible louder, and with a final thrust inside your abused pussy.
you came, pulsing and clenchinf clark's cock with each hiccup of a breath. his own breath anormally normal, his kyrptonian stamina having no need for him to break a sweat. you babbled his name as you came down for your high, as clark continued to thrust into you reaching his own high. his groans causing your eyes to cross as you came again shortly after. he kissed you feverishly as you both just relished in the feeling of one another.
he pushed his glasses up with his pointer as he pulled out slowly, a hiss from your lips causing you to wince. "i, i know sweet girl. i'm so-so sorry, heck you feel good." he cooed as he really looked at you. your mascara ruined, lips swollen from kissing, your dress bunched around your hips, with oyur panties dreadfully ruined by the friction and combined cum.
clark kissed your nose, his glasses skew once again. your eyes caught his as you kissed his lips a final time for tonight, your lips on fire form all the kissing. "gonna go grab a wash cloth and help you to the bathroom okay?" he said, getting up and carrying you to the bathroom, "mkay." you hummed, sleepiness settling in your bones. "not yet honey, we need you to go pee, so you don't catch a uti." he stated as he knew it was best to help you as your body was like a rag dolls. "you always take care of me clarkie." you beamed as he cleaned you up, and let you do your business.
while you did, he swapped the sheets out for some white ones, and grabbed your makeup remover and placed it on your bedside as you padded back into the bedroom. "here honey, c'mere." he moved you in between his lap, he wiped gently at your face, the cotton pad gaining the nude, pinish and black colors onto it. clark's touch gentle compared to how it was less than fifteen minutes ago.
you hummed as you nuzzled onto clarks shoulder, clark helped you into a new pair of panties, helping you dress in your blue matching silk pjs. clark guided you into the bed, hair soft and swept out of oyur face. clark decicded he'd have a quick shower as he prefered to be clean before bed and after such activities. he saw you eyes slowly closing as you mumbled a flirtatious, "goodnight clarkie." clark smiled to himself as he mumbled a 'goodnight sweet girl' in return.
he wrapped his arms around you scooting you close to his warm body, your legs wrapped around his plaid pj bottom covered legs in return as you both fell asleep against each other. snuggled into each other, clarks glasses stained with your slick as he went into work the next day before jimmy pointed out clark had somethinf liquid on his frames before he blushed a deep shade of pink.
all he thought about was your date night and how you graciously rode his face with his glasses included and forgot to clean them. oops. well better you thsn anyone else he thought as her excused himself and rinsed his glasses in the privacy of the empty bathroom. all traces of your slick gone, but the reminder was there for the next time 'maybe take them off' he shook his head as if you'll ever let that happen. he laughed as he went back out to work the bull pen.
david corneswet the man you are! also based on how he looked at lois over his glasses when they debated on if superman got his ass kicked. Jesus!!!
hi lovelies i decided to spoil you a little with two day, almost three in a row with posting! so i hope you enjoy it as this is the mosot explicit and smuttiest one i have ever written lordddd i need some holy water. but also we're all in this together cause who doesn't wanna have sex with clark in his glasses.
dont forget you can support me by re-bloging, commenting, and liking and even click that follow button to see more works from me! thank you all so much! until tmr with pt 3 of mr. super-mom.
this is dedicated to C @theworstwolvie who's been around since an independent woman — i remember i messaged you very sheepishly about whether you'd be willing to give the series some feedback, and now our chats are just clark kent tiktoks and southernisms. thank you for being a friend, and i hope you have a wonderful birthday <3
clark kent x f!reader, 0.7k
⚠️ 18+ SMUT MDNI, dry humping with the suit on
"Can't believe this was what you wanted..."
Dinner was beautiful and so was the cake—he cooked and picked your favorite flavor. But then he asked you what sort of gift you'd like for your birthday (aside from the pendant necklace he already got for you anyway), and you murmured admissions you never thought would see the light of day.
But who is Clark Kent if not a dutiful boyfriend?
"Feels like it's my birthday instead," he adds, voice hoarse.
Because you're naked on his lap, watching as the blue in his eyes slowly gets swallowed by pupils. He's in his suit, sitting on the couch, strong hand groping an exposed tit, the other guiding your hips into his—specifically towards the bulge underneath fabric. You feel his eyes travel, studying the slow circles you make, inching up past your stomach and onto your chest, where he lingers before finally witnessing your face.
He looks lost.
In all fairness, you do too. And it's only been, what, minutes since you told him you wanted to grind on him with his suit on?
Yet there's already a smear of something sinful across the tent of him.
You. Wet, ready, deliberately restraining desire. Your boyfriend also does the same—you can tell by the flex in his jaw, how his chest heaves. Eyes bore heat onto your body, helpless to the thing that's making it so hard for him to be good.
Friction catches at your clit just right, and it sends your head lolling forwards.
"Clark," you whimper, and he's on you like you need saving, lips moving against yours to devour your sounds.
"I'm here," his reply is strained, "what do you need, sweetheart?"
You shake your head, not because you don't need anything, but out of reflex for how perfect he is even in times as depraved as these.
"You, more—" is all you can muster. Enough for him to move.
The hand that guides your hip now grips your waist, slipping easily from a suggestion to a command. His other hand joins, the both of them caging your sides, and then you feel your body move.
Not out of your own volition.
He's moving you, directing your pussy over the rigid line of him just right, like he knows you better, and maybe he does, because the drag lights up your nerve endings like an electric shock. Clark lets out a long groan, eyes leaving your face only to snap down to watch the way you're leaking all over him.
"So pretty," he murmurs against your ear, hands maneuvering your body up and down his length. It's dizzying, how he crowds your senses. "You're gonna finish like this, aren't you, sweetheart?"
The knot tensing low in your stomach makes it known to you and you nod into the crook of his neck. One hand shifts to the hinge of your jaw, directing your line of sight to collide with his.
"Wanna see your face when you do," he has the audacity to smile. "Let go for me."
It's his fault. Those words, the curl of his lips, kind and cruel, and the pressure he adds with every slide of you against him that sends you toppling over the edge. You moan something that vaguely sounds like his name littered with oh, god, f-fuck. He allows himself one of that last expletive, quiet and gritted through teeth at the sight of you undone.
Your spasming body is one thing. Your dazed face is another. Clark burns it into memory: the shape of your parted lips, the look in your eyes, the hitch in your voice as you call out for him through the waves taking over you.
Then you limp on top of him and suddenly he's overcome with thirst.
The world spins. You feel the texture of the couch fabric on your naked back in between your vision returning from dark edges. Hands part your legs.
Two blinks later and his face is between your thighs.
You almost scream his name when his tongue licks a broad stripe up your folds, sob when he sucks on your clit.
"Gonna take care of you, baby," he murmurs into you, and you shiver, "just come lots and lots for me, m'kay?"
Clark gets more well-acquainted with Bruce Wayne's sister — covering a gala following the death of Gotham's mayor.
cw: 18+, smut, reader is batman's sister, millionaire heiress!reader, sexual tension, public indecency, clark gets a princess diary-style makeover, clark fucks her in 'air', library sex woohoo, f!recieving oral, p-in-v, creampies (4.7k wc)
PART ONE | PART TWO
The rain hadn't let up since the morning.
A darkness took hold over Gotham's skyline, skies mourning, leaving her people drenched to the bone in her torrent. Black umbrellas acted like grim flowers across the funeral garden, glinting with fresh rainwater dripping onto the marble and mud.
The mayor's casket finally lowers into the shallow grave, but no one wept. Not genuinely, anyway. Nearly half of the city was relieved at his death, but the other half stewed in uncertainty over the lawlessness that had taken out a man in such power.
Aubrey James' death was a warning for anyone who dared to step out of line.
You were standing alongside Bruce, your lace veil dampened against your cheekbones, heels inching deep into the slick grass. Glancing down, your expression twisted, pulling the silvered daggers out and onto a much more even surface.
Larissa, your lady maid, rose back up to her feet after having laid out something for you to stand on. You nod at her appreciatively, turning to Bruce — who suddenly wasn't there.
You found him standing at the far edge of the cemetery, following a path to the willow trees. Another man stood before him, much taller and bigger, it didn't take a genius to figure out that the frumpy little interviewer from Metropolis had come sniffing around.
Even from a distance, you could see how ill-fitted the suit was on Clark. Far too earnest, a bright red patterned tie sitting on his chest. A man who'd obviously been unaware of how to fold himself into the shadows of Gotham. He leans down lower with his shoulders hunched, and Bruce actually places a friendly pat on his arm.
You knew Bruce, he'd never touch just anyone. Which meant Clark was no stranger.
"…and my sister?"
Clark stumbles over his words, loosening his tie, "she — ah…Miss Wayne — was very…professional. Very…direct." He pauses, and Bruce nods, as though agreeing with Clark's perception of you. "The interview uh — didn't finish."
Well, he did.
Bruce's silence was more unnerving if anything, and Clark couldn't tell if he bought it. But he then claps Clark's shoulders, a quirk of a smile on his face. "I'll see you around, Kansas," leaving him standing there awkwardly.
"So you do know my brother."
Clark spins around abruptly, startled — amusing you in the process. His gaze snaps towards you, and in that moment, you catch a flicker of recognition, a memory of your last encounter. It passes through his face in real time, morphing into the flustered-ness you were starting to find endearing.
You didn't speak when he'd so obviously ogled at you — trailing down your satin parasol, to the sheer gloss of stockings against your skin, black blouse clinging to your waist, tucked neatly into your skirt.
His jaw tenses, his dark, damp curls sticking to his forehead. With a clear of his throat, he finally speaks, "I was just…looking to get a quote from him. You know — following the mayor's death. My condolences. I read that you were 'close'. From the…tabloids."
You tilted your head, veil shifting at the movement, disgust evident in your tone, "I never slept with James." It was obvious he knew which buttons to press exactly to derail the topic. "But lying to me is pointless."
Clark froze, "I'm — I'm not."
Your parasol twists in your hands, the lace trim bumping his forehead as you approach. He mutters an soft ow before ducking a little, grabbing the handle from your gloved hands when you shove it to him.
"I live with a liar." You murmur, grabbing the knot of Clark's tie, earning a swallow from him, "I know one when I see one." He chokes when you tighten it too tightly on his adam's apple.
There wasn't an answer that was believable enough he could give you, so he opted to just dumbly stare down at the way you ran your fingers down his chest to soothe his tie. (Definitely not at your cleavage.) Your touch had him reeling back at the memories, cock twitching to life under his slacks.
"Anyway. I'll see you at the Wayne manor, then."
Clark looks at you confusedly, letting you snake your parasol out of his hands, about to step away.
"I — " He points at himself, shaking his head as he trails after you for a few steps. "I wasn't invited, I'm not going to that." And of course he wasn't, they didn't just invite nobodies to the inauguration for the filthy rich.
You stop in your tracks, looking over your shoulders. Casting a judgmental look at his current suit.
"Now you are."
His mouth opens, then shuts.
Shoot.
Now he really needed a new suit.
A black glittered box had arrived at the concierge for Clark — looking far too out of place, where he had it perched on the cheap laminate of a desk in his Daily Planet-funded hotel room. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it like it might evaporate into gold glitter if he so much as blinked.
The satin ribbon tied neatly was mocking, he got up to undo it, popping the box open. Inside was a suit, folded so crisp that it looked carved. Muted charcoal, with a tie that wasn't the clown-like red he had stocked in his duffel, but in silky midnight. Tucked neatly below sat a perfumed card, with an ensign of the Wayne Family crest.
'Wear this to the mansion. Alterations appointment at eight, do not be late.'
It was hand-written, elegant as who he knew the sender of it would've been.
Ohhh gosh.
DAY OF GALA
Clark was halfway into the suit. Trousers on, double-breasted vest unbuttoned still — then he hears a knock. He shuffles towards the door, cursing to himself when he realises his socks are mismatched.
"Mr Kent," a man greets smoothly, stepping in without hesitation while holding a leather case much bigger than Clark's entire torso. "I'm Alfred. Miss Wayne sent me to help you get ready."
He pauses, looking at Clark, who's staring, holding a finger up, "…uh.."
Alfred was already setting his case down, pulling out combs, hair products, cuff links — the whole ensemble. Within minutes, Clark found himself being herded into a chair while Alfred did his magic. Slicking his curls back neatly to bring out his face more. He pulls back, appraising, "much better. A suit should never wear a man, Mr Kent."
Clark blinks at Alfred as he sets down a smaller container. "…This is.."
He was already packing whatever he came with, gathering engraved metal in his gloved palms. "Contact lenses. Specially made. You wouldn't need your hypno-glasses. Courtesy of Wayne Tech."
Clark stands up slowly, frowning. But Alfred holds up a palm, "Miss Wayne wasn't the one who sent it. I'm aware who you are." He smiles, slipping cuff links into Clark's suit pocket. "Let her."
He didn't have time to press for what that meant before he was being shepherded into a limo parked out back.
—
Clark scrolled absentmindedly on his phone. Sitting stiffly in the back of a limousine that was probably more decadent than his own bedroom.
The streets of Gotham whizzed past until it cleared, turning into a beaten off path in a forested estate. He turns his attention back to the device when it buzzes. A new message from Jimmy Olsen from back home. Clark groans out loud at the article attached to the thread.
HOT IN GOTHAM: WAYNE HEIRESS + NEW MYSTERY MAN?
The attached video was unmistakably from your exchange at the mayor's funeral — fixing his tie all too intimately and, oh good gosh — him looking all wide-eyed like a catholic school boy seeing tits for the very first time.
Clark shuts his phone immediately. He threw fists onto his lap with an exaggerated slump back to the backrest. This was gonna be a pain when he headed to the Planet tomorrow.
The limo doors open far too quickly into his meltdown, and he was far from ready.
Wayne Manor glimmered, glowing like a cathedral. Chandeliers sparkled overhead, flickering in the arched windows. The front steps were filled with Gotham's Elite making their way up the carpeted stairs. Silk gowns, fur, and diamonds that could very well feed the entire city for a month.
Clark draws in a slow breath, feeling sick to his stomach. Not just at the morbidly obscene disparity in wealth, but the fact that he'd felt painfully out of place. Every head turned to look at him, probably because they'd sensed an intruder, he thought.
And he wasn't entirely wrong, of course. Everyone knew everyone in the room. Assessive gazes of businessmen, down to doubtful stares of politicians — but the most unnerving of it all, was the predatory sweep that he was subjected to by Gotham's mob wives and their daughters. Their eyes trailed over him like he was tomorrow's candy, wrapped in the expensive suit you'd picked out for him.
Clark clears his throat, loosening his suddenly too-tight new tie. "Should've stayed in Metropolis..." He mutters to himself, taking a turn at the ballroom.
He hadn't meant to stare. But subtlety had left him the second he'd spotted you across the floor. Wearing a gown that sat on your body perfectly, in a deep shade of red that made your eyes sparkle even more. His eyes dipped, breath catching at the deep V plunge neckline of your dress, exposing skin that made it feel far too uncomfortable for him down south.
His gaze finally stills at the deep slit that revealed itself when you shifted your stance, teasing the length of your leg, accentuated by your heels. Every single detail of the sight of you devastated him — down to your hair done up in decadent, Hollywood curls, rubies dangling from your ears and everything that shimmered on your wrists and neck.
You were designed to undo him, that much he knew.
The champagne tray quivered when Clark reached to grab two, downing them in quick gulps. Mentally groaning at how it did nothing for his nerves, but at the very least, it quenched the thirst building in him.
He was mid-stare when a wall of black silk stepped before him.
"Clark," Bruce announces, "I didn't know you were coming this evening."
Clark jolts, nearly fumbling his glass. He choked, coughed, and floundered all in the span of three seconds. "Miss — Miss Wayne…asked me to come for a proper interview." He lies, coolly.
Bruce's gaze flicks over his shoulder from you, and back to Clark. "Right." But the suspicion was riddled in the silence, "she's over there. I'll be around." Clark nods at him before Bruce disappears back into the crowd of Gotham's Aristocracy.
Clark lets out a prolonged groan, dragging his hand down his face. He just hoped he hadn't messed with a very important friendship by getting involved with their family.
He thinks about leaving just then, when he sees him.
Aubrey James. Very much alive, smiling all too wide and shaking the hands of dignified businessmen, dressed in thobes & ghutras.
Clark's blood ran cold as he staggered back, muttering, "that's…impossible." Before he knew it, his feet carried him, weaving left and right through the glitter and nauseating perfume, until he was barrelling right at you, pushing at your arm gently to get your attention.
You excused yourself with a strained smile from some oil baron's story about buying a new yacht, staring at Clark's grip over your arm and then at his face.
"…The nerve of you." You muttered in a hushed whisper, ready to lay it into him for his impropriety.
"G-Gotham's mayor," he blurts, leaning down to your height while he looked around like a lunatic, "he's not dead. He's right there, what the heck is going on?!"
"…Come," you nudge your chin toward the hallways, turning heel without waiting for him. The crowd clears a path for you as you walk, heels announcing themselves first.
Clark shoulders past the sea of socialites, murmuring apologies as he made himself known to follow you down the candle-lit halls. The marbled tiles eventually blended into wood-panelled floors. He looks up, a grim feeling builds in his chest as he walks past portraits of all the Waynes' six-feet-under, whose eyes seemed to follow him as he perused.
You stop at a pair of double doors, unlatching the ornate copper to step in first, moving towards a wall sconce to flick it on — a warm amber glow filling the room.
His breath stills at the renewed sight, shutting the doors behind him, stepping into what seemed to be a library. It was massive, to put it simply — two stories of towering shelves stretching nearly four meters high, smelling of aged leather-bound books.
The most impressive sight was still you. Standing in the middle of the room, pouring yourself a drink from a decanter. With light illuminating the dust particles that floated around, casting amber glows on you like something ethereal.
Your head lolls to the side, taking in his breathless state. Lash lowering when you get a good look at him this time. The suit fit him way better than you'd imagined. Alfred even managed to tame the curls nicely, even though a rebellious one fell on his forehead beautifully.
Clark grits his teeth, lips twitching, attempting to stop a flutter in his heart. "You still…haven't explained how on earth Gotham's Mayor was raised from the dead."
You don't answer him, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. Loosening the gel so his slicked back curls fell a little more naturally. Clark stills, eyes fluttering at the softness of your digits carding his locks, then, down at you, who was rifling at his suit pocket for the cuff links you knew Alfred had placed there.
You lift his wrists, unhurried, securing the monogrammed W onto his sleeves.
A faint flush creeps to his jaw at your actions, looking all too smitten at you. "Oh…you already knew."
You flick your gaze up to meet his when he finally drew to the correct conclusion, "deaths are like vacations in our world. He'll be operating in the shadows until someone else wears the strings."
Clark looks down at your handiwork, his entire look being completed with the final jewellery fix. The look you gave him wasn't one he'd seen before, satisfied, and smiling.
Oh.
"Alfie did a wonderful job on you."
He huffs out an ill-timed airy laugh at your praise, awkwardly dragging his hand down his jaw. "G-Gosh…I see why you were…so over the top with the presents. Not that I don't appreciate it!" He says suddenly, raising his palms when you shoot him a look. "Just…Gotham really is a whole circus, huh."
Your brow arches in scepticism. "A circus is far more preferable to Metropolis' masquerade. At least we're honest in our corruption. Your city hides behind glass towers and smiling false-gods. Like sparkling Superman saving squirrels off the pavements while the rot festers from behind your governance."
Clark's eyes snap to yours, narrowing as though offended, "he does do good."
"For whom precisely?" You counter, words cutting. "He's a puppet. A cuddly teddy bear to distract the masses from what goes on in little pocket universes."
"I'm no one's puppet," he retorts, voice cracking.
That caught your attention, and you really take a good look at him, "you?"
"He," Clark corrects quickly.
You step closer to him, deliberately, clack of your heels significantly dulling under the parquet. You lift the glass in your hands, swirling the contents before you bring it to your lips. Taking an elegant sip, setting it down on the shelves behind him.
He shifts backwards when you drag down his tie, untucking it from his vest. "Whatever…you're thinking — " he tries, sucking his stomach in, not daring to take a breath, "this — I didn't come here for that."
"Oh?" You hummed, fingers dragging down his cheekbones, it wasn't a sight you'd managed to study this closely. But this frumpy reporter was actually…pretty attractive. "Yet, here you are. Having followed me into a locked room."
Clark swallows. She had a point.
"Either way, it's really not a good idea."
For one, Bruce would throttle him for snogging his younger sister.
Clark grabs your wrist, but not exactly pulling away. You don't relent, popping open the buttons of his vest, slowly, each one making him jolt.
The room was far too quiet, the domed ceiling acting like an echo chamber to every little noise, the shuffle of fabric or faint creaks of wood. You slid your hand up his chest, up to the back of his neck, sending chills down his spine. Clark's gaze dropped, fixed on your softer features.
"…Miss Wayne —"
You'd leaned forward to kiss him first, and Clark gave in instantly.
Both of his arms quickly close around you, one circling the small of your back, the other around your shoulder blades. He lifts you with ease in a gentle embrace.
The sound of wood creaks under the strain of your weight when he sets you down on the steps of the rolling library ladder.
His touches were far too polite, it'd begun to drive you crazy, the way they lingered at your shoulders, skirting around the strap of your dress.
"Quit doing that."
He peers up at you, head tilted, "huh?"
"Being gentle."
Clark huffs out a hesitant laugh at that. "What I — …I wouldn't do that to you."
"Either do what you want, or don't. I hate it more when you're being half-assed." You grabbed at his jaw to enunciate your point. Clark nods as best as he can with his cheeks squished.
He pulls at your wrist to press a gentle peck on your knuckles before he holds it on his face. Letting you hold him while he lowered his head, pressing a kiss on your sternum. Eyes still locked onto you.
You watched him with bated breath, lips grazing the bare outline of your tits. Your free palm bunches up the fabric of his suit as he trails lower, fingers parting the slit of your dress.
The corners of Clark's lips quirked up at the quickening beats of your heart. You would never admit it outright, he supposed, this was the closest he was getting to getting you flustered.
You part your legs further, letting the fabric dent between them. Clark leans down to kiss your knees and your ankles. You were about to toe your heels off when he grabs you tightly at your ankles.
"No," Clark lifts one of your thighs over his shoulder, shuddering at the feeling of the daggers dragging down his back. "Keep them on."
The fabric of your dress parts at the new position, and he groans at the sight, pulling back to look up at you. "Tap me if you're uncomfortable…?" He murmurs.
You don't respond to him, edging your hips higher for him as he slides the flap off your legs and ruches them up your hips. Clark kissed your wrist, still resting at the back of his neck, and dived right in.
Placing a peck on your mound and around the sides of your thighs. That earned a reaction from you, thighs jumping, threatening to clamp down on him. Your feet dragged down his broad back, soft gasps leaving you as he turned bolder.
You squeak, uncharacteristically, when Clark tugs at the gusset of your panties, pulling it away with a string of slick following the path. "Do you like it better when I'm like this?" He says, cutting through the syrupy tension.
"…C-Come again?" You manage, blinking at him.
Clark doesn't answer you, offering it in a wordless action. You moan out loud this time when he licks a stripe up the folds of your pussy.
You liked it when he just took whatever he wanted.
And he'd be damned if he didn't get to hear more of you.
Clark's grip around your hips tightened, tugging you flush onto his face as his tongue probed into you, teasing your folds.
The echos of your mewls were beginning to make you all too self aware, and you attempted to covering your mouth loosely with your fists.
He wasn't having it though, because before you could even realise, his hand blind snaps up to your wrist, making sure both your hands sat on the back of his neck.
"Wait!" You try, but Clark doesn't pull away, and all you can do was curl your fingers tighter around his hair.
He hums low into your cunt, nudging his nose higher to rub at your clit. "Nngh—!" You drag hum closer, chasing the insistent probes of his tongue dipping in and out of you, zig-zagging and pulling out for messy, hard sucks on your clit.
"C-Clark!" You pant, whispered, thighs beginning to shake at the wake of the relentless, sloppy way he was eating you out.
Clark gaze flickers up to check on you, and he pulls away with a stuttered gasp. Your hair has fallen to your cheeks, all messy and damp from sweat.
"You're….so beautiful…" He chokes through a stutter, lips still glossy from your slicks.
His genuineness briefly catches you off guard, and your lips part, unable to say a word. The moment is cut short when the latch slips under Clark's weight on it, and the ladder you were on skids. "…!"
"Miss Wayne!"
You were wide eyed when Clark super-speeds to you, grabbing the ladder to stop it. Your dress fluttering pathetically at the gust of wind that followed.
"How — did you…"
Clark chooses not to answer, opting to slow it down until it latches at the end of the room, where a balcony nook overlooked into the estate.
"Are you alright?"
You purse your lips, ticked at his evasion, but you let him lean in to offer you a apologetic kiss anyway.
"Talk about a total mood killer." You muttered with a exhale, tucking your hair behind your ears.
Clark's head lowers with a shake. "Not exactly."
He holds your hand, guiding it lower until you're met with his still rock hard erection.
"…Oh.."
His brief slip was long forgotten with how easily he'd distracted the narrative, your eyes are back on him when his palms drag up your hips, thumb hooking at the neckline of your dress to pull it apart. Your tits spill out without warning and you gasp.
Clark leans in to kiss the fat, mouthing at them, with his warmer palms cupping beneath, the cold shock dilutes to pleasure in seconds.
The sound of his belt unbuckling reverberates loudly into his room, followed by his zipper, you grab around his shoulder tightly as he lifts you with scary ease, pressing you into the book shelves.
"Wouldn't want you to get away from me again." He offers lightly, your lips quirk at the attempt at humour. You clench on instinct when you feel his thick, mushroom head probe at your folds.
Clark halts in his movements when he hears footsteps outside. Looking back at you defeated. "Shoot…maybe we shouldn't be doing this here."
Your eyes glint in annoyance, leaning in at the side of his head. "If you even think about stopping now, you'll never have the privilege of touching me. Ever."
He knew you'd stay true to his words. So he nods, glancing out at the doors. "Stay…quiet for me." Clark hikes you up higher, angling himself properly at your entrance.
It'd be fine. He told himself. Just….fine.
A sharp groan leaves the both of you when he re adjusts you in his hold, sheathing you fully on his length. "Oh—my…god." You manage, in between pants.
You hold Clark in place at the base of his neck, and he looks at you, making sure you were responsive and okay before he bounces you once.
"Mmh!"
His gaze is transfixed at your lips. Then he bounces you again, the tip of his cock slamming deep into your cunt. Pulsing around him tighter.
He does it, over and over, bouncing you up and letting gravity slam you back down; an effort strong enough for his balls to start slapping the base of your ass.
Clark was far too lost in it, watching the broken, babbled moans that slips out of you lips while he's practically using you as a fleshlight.
"H-Hrk! O-Oh —" The squelches that fill the library was borderline pornographic, mixing in with the slaps of his heavy balls and the squelch of your pussy creaming around his cock.
Clark's hand around your hips tighten, and the movements turn much more frantic, hips snapping into you like a man possessed. Your pussy was clenching him so goddamn right, his eyes threatened to roll back at every thrust.
"S-So….m…uch…better…—" He thrusts up, hard, thighs shaking at just how good you pulsed on him, "t-than I'd ever… —" Clark stumbles back with you, gripped onto the shelf with a splintering hold. "G-Gosh. Oh gosh."
He groans. Head tipped back as he fucks you harder. The shelf behind throwing books off at the force of his movements. "Clark —!"
His eyes damn near roll back, and he grits his teeth. "Say…say my name. Just….just like that." He blurts out, frantically.
Your eyes are unfocused, grabbing around his shoulders, whatever you could hold, hips jumping and trying to get him to slow down. "Fuck —…Clark…please —"
He snaps out of it momentarily, gaze finding yours in concern, "s-should I stop? O-Oh gosh. Please don't tell me you want to stop…" It was clear he was getting in all the thrusts he could, with the way half of the books on the shelves had been on the ground around his feet.
Your eyes nearly roll back. And you shake your head, tugging at his hair painful, "I'm — gonna cum. Do it…like earlier…"
He breaths a sigh of relief, nodding, "okay, okay…" Clark nods, and then with a steady palm on your hips, all while bracing himself with a secure stance, he jolts you, having you bounce up and back down again.
The weight of his thrusts like this was far too fucking good, and you could feel yourself losing it. Clark moves back, stepping away from the shaky shelf all while bouncing you on his cock, one of your heels thudding to the ground in the process.
Hot flashes come in far too quickly and all at once, your legs tense mid-air, and you whimper into his neck, pussy kegeling around his cock. "M-My gosh that feels — you're…" Clark pants into your neck, "I'm gonna — I-I'm…so sorry I need to — ugh! " His hips tenses in jolts, and he pumps his load into you, slow and in jolts.
It'd occured to you then that his hot, thick cum was spurting deep in you, raw, but you couldn't care less. Letting him continue to fuck his spend back into your fluttering cunt.
Your cheeks lay flush on his shoulder blades, far too fucked out to lift a finger.
Clark stays in you for a while, letting you come down from your high. Plugging you up with his cum at the nook he sat on, you draped over his lap.
"….There's…towels upstairs." You finally manage, and he nods, setting you in a much more comfortable position as he bolts, while tucking his cock back into his pants.
You huff out a laughter this time, and then look down to your fingers, particularly at the ring that sat there.
With a twist, you pressed the button tucked to the side. Bringing your lips to it. "Larissa."
A brief static sounds, and her voice rings through the tiny speaker.
"Bring me a fresh change of clothes to the library."
You pause, glancing up at the heavy frantic thud upstairs.
"And get me the security footage of the library from about an hour ago. There's something I need to…verify."
