clark hasnât fucked you since that first timeâjust feels like heâs entitled to do everything but, teasing you until youâre a babbling mess.
Clark Kent still wonât quite give in.Â
(No matter how many times you bat your eyelashes.)
He still maintains the fact that he never shouldâve fucked you in the first place.Â
âIt was a lapse in judgment, and Iâd had a little to drink.â Heâll say. âWasnât thinking straight,â heâll say. âI took advantage of you. Youâre too young for me. Youâre beautiful, honey, what do you even see in an old man like me?â Heâll say.Â
Doesnât matter that heâs a grown man and one beer is like a Sprite to someone his size. Doesnât matter that you yourself were a legal, willing adult. None of it matters to Clark when he truly believes that he has your best interests at heart.Â
But ultimately, jokeâs on him. Because like they say about a gateway drug, one hit and heâs got you hooked.Â
And heâs nothing if not your dealer, enabler: letting you in when you knock, giving you a stool to perch on while he fixes his beat-up old truck.. Paying when the two of you order in, (he wonât take you out for fear of your reputation.) giving you a well-worn flannel when you get cold.Â
Clarkâs not exactly above blame, here, either.Â
After a certain point, some would call that a relationship. Yet your boyfriend, Clark, decidedly wonât.Â
And thatâs not the only thing he wonât do.Â
He wonât let himself kiss you back for too long, wonât let you touch below the belt on his jeans. Wonât fuck you, but heâll happily tease you.Â
Distractedly, obliviously, until heâs looking at the scene before him, ashamed, unable to hide the hard-on pressing against rough denim underneath you.Â
The History Channelâs on, yet youâre unable to give the documentary playing quite the attention it deserves. Why?
Because for the past twenty minutes, Clarkâs been playing with your clit like he just needed something to do with his hands.Â
See, your boyfriendâs weird about history. Heâs super into it, so at first, you thought heâd be some sort of armchair expert. But thereâs huge swaths of human history like pre-1930 that he just knows nothing about.Â
âOver the centuries, many conspiracy theories have come out about the Titanic. One of the most popular all ties back to insurance fraud. The RMS Olympic, another ship owned by the White Star Line,â the narrator drones, voicing over a B-roll of grainy black and white pictures.Â
Your lips are shut tight as the blunt tip of Clarkâs finger dips inside of you, your eyelashes fluttering over the tops of your cheeks as pleasure rolls over you in a wave. Heâs been at this so long, he could probably look at you sideways and youâd come. His thumb swipes over your clit again, lazily, like he still doesnât realize what heâs doing, and a whimper escapes from behind your teeth.
âYâokay?â He mutters, his eyes still never leaving the TV. Youâre about to grab his wrist, the situation just feeling more and more ridiculous by the second. But you didnât fight it as he slipped his hands past the waistband of your shorts, your underwear, and youâre not going to fight it now.Â
And you know, clear as day, if either of you acknowledges it, heâll stop. And youâd do anything to guarantee that he doesnât.Â
âYes, Clark.â You reply, thighs trembling as he adds another finger inside of you, curling them in tandem just like heâs interested in the new sensory experience.Â
âHad no idea people could be conspiracy theorists âbout something like a boat. Seems a bit silly, donât it?â He drawls, and your eyes go upward, pleading with whatever deity thatâs above to give you strength.Â
âP-people are,â you start, sighing as he rubs your clit with purpose now, almost like heâs giving you a reward for your nonchalance. âConspiracy theorists about, just about, everything.âÂ
Youâre pretty proud of yourself for getting that full sentence out. It feels like your boyfriend is too, with the way he pushes his fingers all the way inside of you. The heel of his palm bumps against that agitated bundle of nerves, creating a friction as he fucks his fingers into you.Â
The sweetest torture: the tensing of your muscles as you writhe against the worn leather of his couch, your hand slapped firmly over your own mouth, and the only sign of his possible awareness to the situation being a slight tinge of red across his cheekbones.Â
âOh, shit,â you cry, toes curling. Your stupid, stupid boyfriend. âFuck, Clark!âÂ
Itâs then, then, that heâs startled from a daze, tearing his eyes away from the picture of J.P. Morgan on his television screen to look at you.Â
And what a mess you are: your eyes rolling back into your head, hair mussed, body shaking as you wet the thin skin of his wrist with your arousal.Â
For once, he lets you ride it out, muttering sweet nothings (mainly to himself, since youâre too far gone to properly hear anything) as you clench around his fingers.Â
Itâs impossible to ignore the erection heâs sporting, his thighs widening to give himself more space as you look him over. Itâs a hard goodbye, his fingers leaving your fluttering hole, but itâs bittersweet: Clark brings his hand up to his lips and sucks like heâs starving.Â
âYouâre a jerk.â You snarl, cranky due to the fact that heâs more or less unbothered and you look so desperate for it.Â
His hand grabs your face, rough, fingers still wet against your cheek as he pulls you closer.Â
âA brat wonât tame herself.â He replies, breath fanning over your lips, his just out of reach.Â
I personally headcanon that Ilya was much more verse when he was hooking up with Sasha and it didn't really go well? Sasha wasn't a great top and was more focused on his needs than Ilya's. When Ilya topped, he could go at a pace that was okay for both of them, so he preferred it.
Ilya's not opposed to bottoming, he's just never really had a good time? But Shane wants to try fucking Ilya at least once and who is Ilya to deny him anything
Shane is NOT Sasha. He is so singularly focused on blowing Ilya's mind through his prostate and it's all Ilya can do not to white out from the pleasure and then Shane leans down and whispers "such a neat trick" and that's it, Ilya's gone.
And THAT WAS DIFFERENT, WASN'T IT?
Ilya still prefers to top like 95% of the time, but he's always excited when Shane gets it in his head that he wants to fuck Ilya. It reminds him of their first time, with how gentle Shane always is with him (even when he holds him tight enough to bruise)
âŠClark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main MasterlistâŠ
âŠpairing: Clark Kent x fem!readerâŠ
âŠsummary: There are very few people in the world that Clark truly, deeply, does not like. And you get on his nerves more than anyone else. But hate and love are very close emotions, aren't they?âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: enemies to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, shenanigans, hella smut, lots of porn in this plot (emotional sex, dumbification, dirty talk, inexperinced/sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, squirting, big dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of readerâŠ
âŠwc: 13.7kâŠ
âŠauthor's note: rewatched Bridgerton season 2 and had to enemies to lovers about it. Enjoy! Request from bestie @lilithxlmâŠ
Clark doesnât judge people. Not really.
He was raised better than that. He knows better than that. There are all kinds of things that can affect why someone is grumpy, angry, or acting poorly.
And maybe he judges actions sometimes, but good people do bad things, and annoying things, and dumb things. Kara does dumb things all, and Clark still loves her. Sheâs still a good person. Even Luthor has something in him, that Clark finds redeemable. Heâs very proud of being bald, and he has a passion for his work. Thatâs two, whole things.
Clarkâs never met someone he couldnât find anything good in. Sometimes it is⊠Work. To find the thing. But itâs always there, and that just means the work was worth it.
Then he met you.
You must have something. Everyone has something. But it is impossible to find that something, when youâre always launching LuthorCorp missiles at him and threatening him with lab grown kryptonite. Clark didnât even know that stuff could be grown in a lab, until he landed down in your labs for some run-of-the-mill standoff, and found himself face to face with your pretty eyes, and a gun, loaded with kryptonite bullets.
Not that youâre pretty. Youâve got objectively nice features, and Clark is far from blind, but beauty does not speak to character.
Not that youâre beautiful, either. And even if you are, itâs rotted away by whatever is on the inside. Whatever runs so deep, he canât find that tiny blossom of good, no matter how hard he tries.
âYou donât want to do this.â Heâd told you, that day in the lab.
When youâd smiled, it had reminded Clark of the wolves that used to hunt Ma and Paâs sheep. The ones that hadnât been afraid of him, and had gnashed and snarled until he dropped them miles away from the farm.
âYou donât know anything,â youâd drawled. âAbout what I want to do.â
That had seemed fair. He really didnât. âThere would be a death on your conscious-â
âThis wouldnât kill you, you fucking pussy.â Youâd rolled your eyes, and Clark had blinked.
âThat language doesnât seem necessary-â
âOh, Iâm sorry, boy scout.â Youâd smirked. âIt wouldnât kill you, you flying, caped, monkey-squirrel, sweet baby of justice.â
âI-â That had been strangely hurtful. âIâm just here to turn off Luthorâs reactor, okay-â
âItâs not Luthorâs reactor.â Youâd snapped. âItâs mine.â
âI hate to break it to you, but it kind of says Luthor on the side-â
âIâm well aware of what it says.â Your lip had curled, and Clark had tilted his head.
âYou know, this thing is probably going to blow and take out the whole city.â
Youâd scoffed. âNo, it wonât.â
âI have friends who are professionals in this kind of thing, they say it will.â
âYour friends are wrong.â
Clark had shrugged. âMaybe youâre wrong.â
âIâm never wrong.â Youâd raised your chin, and his lips had twitched slightly. He towered over youâhe towered over everyoneâbut watching you trying to be taller was like some puffed up, feral cat. Heâd pick you up with one hand and not even blink.
Not that heâd try to pick you up. You were a lady, and a human.
Although lady was by the loosest definition.
âEveryone is wrong sometimes,â heâd said gently, and you shrugged.
âIâm not everyone.â
âThereâs nothing wrong with being like other people-â
This had been deeply frustrating. âOkay, just- Look, I really need to turn off your reactor-â
âAnd Iâm really going to shoot you if you do that.â
Clark had rubbed a hand over his face. âI mean- Iâm really asking you not to-â
âThatâs not how shooting someone works. This,â youâd waved your gun. âIsnât a mutually consenting act.â
âItâs- Youâre going to kill thousands of people! Let me-â
âNo.â Youâd hissed when he took a step forward. âItâs perfectly safe, and youâre not touching it.â
âIf it was perfectly safe, would Lex Luthor have funded it?â Clark had challenged, hoping he didnât sound as desperate as he felt. âWould he have really taken a chance on something thatâs actually going to help people besides himself?â
Your eyes had narrowed, and for a brief second, Clark had thought heâd gotten through to you. It had been a glorious second. Heâd decided that you really were pretty, and beautiful, and all the other adjectives to describe someone who had a face like the moon.
Then youâd shot him. Point blank in the chest.
Clark had been shot a lot before. Heâd been exposed to kryptonite a lot before, as well.
That had maybe been the first time heâd thought he was dying. When heâd woken up, Gary told him heâd been groaning a womanâs name in his sleep.
Your name.
Clark had decided he didnât like you. Maybe you werenât a bad personâhe was clinging to the idea that deep, deep, deep down youâd shot him because you were being blackmailed, or were deep undercover, or Lex had you under some kind of mind controlâbut Clark didnât like you. It wasnât even the shooting thing. It was something deeply you, that wiggled into him like a worm in an apple, and made his blood pressure rise at the sound of your name.
And youâd been right. The reactor hadnât blown up. But that was luck from a very thin draw.
Next time, Clark would stop you. Then heâd tie you to a chair and have a very long, in-depth conversation where he figured out something to like about you, then everyone could move on.
Lois has a new informant. She wonât say who it is, no matter how much Clark causally pokes.
âConfidentiality, Kent, you know I canât tell you.â
âYeah, but- Itâs me. You know me, Lois, Iâm not going to tell anyone-â
âIt doesnât matter that itâs you.â Lois sighes, giving him a pointed look. âI promised her Iâd keep it between us, and that doesnât mean turning right around and telling anyone. I worked really hard to get her to trust me. Iâm not blowing that for anyone.â
Clark raises his brows. âSo itâs a woman?â
âI- Yes. But that,â she points a finger sternly, giving Clark a firm glare. âIs all you get.â
âWell, do you at least really trust her?â He braces his hands on his hips. âIf sheâs informing you on Lex Luthor, that means sheâs close, and- You know I think anyone can change, but you should always be careful with Luthorâs people.â
You.
Clark is thinking, very specifically, of you.
Because nobody moved on, and Clark has not stopped you.
If anything, heâs found more and more reasons to dislike you. And Lois insists her new informant is reliable, but now Clark is also worried that youâre going to find this mystery woman, and do something to her. Youâre everywhere like that. He thinks you might be more dangerous than Luthor.
And you were always hovering somewhere behind Lex now, pretty and sharp-tongued and annoying. Clark couldnât fight Lex when you were always just there watching. It felt like you were judging him, which he didnât care about, but he still didnât like.
Every time he slipped up in a fight, he could see you in the corner of his eyes, tilting your head like you were about to dissect him. If he was trading remarks during a fight and you were there, it was always impossible to find something smoother and more confident than whatever slipped like music from your lips. When it was your invention he was on, heâd started bringing back up in case you tried to shoot him again, but insteadâin a much more inconvenient fashionâyouâd decided to find a new way to evade him, every single time.
âYouâre five minutes late.â Youâd drawled a few months ago, not looking up from your desk as Clark and Guy landed in your lab.
Usually, by now, Clark had put a villain through at least three lab rebuilds. He liked seeing what they did with the new place, how theyâd improved on it from the old one that heâd either wrecked in a fight, or gotten them kicked out of for committing a multitude of crimes.
Youâve had the same lab, the whole time. He was getting sick of its soft colored walls and clean floors, of all the strange clutter you kept between parts on the desk. It was mocking him.
âI didnât know we were on a timer,â he said your name, and you hummed.
âYou donât know a lot of things, Superman. And I doubt Guy Gardener is going to help you fill in the gaps.â
Next to him, Guy had scowled. âHow the hell did you know-â
âI have security, you know.â Youâd spun in your chair, giving them a flat look. âAnd youâre the only one he hasnât tried to use yet.â
Youâd smiled, and it had been all full-lipped and sweet. Your hair had fallen a little over your face. You never smiled at Clark like that.
Heâd felt kind of sick. You smiling just seemed to have that effect on him.
âI think you know why Iâm here-â
âOf course I know why youâre here.â Youâd cut Clark off with an insulted glare. âAnd you know what Iâm going to say, and we both know how this is going to end. We can catch up first, if you want. Iâve been getting really into baking, since we last caught up.â Youâd spun in your chair, and now you were smiling at Clark, but it was colder. Mocking. âMy friend is having a baby, so Iâm making cookies.â
Guy had frowned. âFor⊠A newborn baby?â
âFor her, dumbass.â
Heâd blinked. âWow, youâre- Mean.â Guy had grinned, and Clark remembered why heâd decided to bring him last. âI like it. Question, what are your superpowers again, and do they come out in any weird sex ways.â
Youâd snorted. âNo.â
âNo, no superpowers, or no sex stuff-â
âYes.â
Guy had frowned, looking down at his outfit like that was why he might be getting rejected. Clark had cleared his throat, saying your name in the way he always forced himself to. Gentle. Like he was talking to a rabid animal.
âWeâre going to take the code to the beacon, now-â
âSupes.â Youâd sighed, kicking your feet lazily. âYou donât need to do the whole thing anymore. Itâs just me.â Youâd smiled. âCome fight, and lose.â
Clarkâs jaw had ticked. You said it so goddamn confidently, and once again, you were right.
He and Guy had given it their all, but youâd been ready. You were always ready, and always smiling, and always right, and it made Clark want to beat his own head against a wall.
âBye!â Youâd waved cheerfully when heâd retreated, beaming all bright and pretty. âYouâll get me next time, big guy!â
There had been a fever like feeling in his body, when heâd flown away. You hadnât even shot him this time.
âWhatâs that girlâs deal.â Guy had grumbled while they patched up, scowling at the air. Heâd gotten the worst of it.
âI donât know. She just⊠Showed up one day.â
And like a weed, he hasnât been able to get rid of you since.
It was driving him out of his mind.
Clark was running out of people to back him up. He was getting more and more distracted by your presence, and he was starting to recognize your smell. There was this cinnamon-apple candle you lit to stem off the chemical lab smell, and you used a similar kind of perfume, and every time he smelled it that fever returned. It got to the point that heâd smell the air for you like a dog, the second he touched down in a fight.
Heâs worried itâs turning into an obsession. He even asked Luthor about you. About where you came from, why he hired you, anything to help him understand exactly what made you so⊠you.
âWhy, Superman?â Luthor had smirked. âYou like something youâre seeing? Because let me tell you, sheâs more than worth the purchase, if youâve got the money. Or you could just pick her up and carry her off, like the ogre brute that you are-â
Clark had knocked him out. He wasnât going to entertain that.
But he still started watching closer, the way you and Luthor interacted. It was more than boss and employee. You smiled at him. Heâd defend you in a fight, which was never a good sign.
Clark didnât think heâd ever felt sicker, than when he pictured you and Luthor.
Together.
You smiling at him. Quipping at him without any venom or mockery in your voice. Tossing your air and batting your eyelashes, and-
He actually had no idea how youâd flirt. Clark pictured it something similar to a predator corning prey, but there was no bigger apex in this ecosystem than Luthor himself.
That was what Jimmy called a power couple.
Clark didnât like it.
He didnât like that, like that weed, no matter how he tried to pick away his thoughts of you they always grew back. You were stuck to him like a plaque, like a moss, like a parasite. You took his attention, his energy, a lot of his pride, every time you knocked him down without lifting one finger, your hair never even getting messed up in the fight.
Clark doesnât like you.
He thinks he might hate you. Heâs never really hated someone before, and he doesnât like that either.
But heâs trying, so hard, to find something for you. And thereâs nothing.
And he hates you even more, for that. For shaking him, and everything he knows. For getting such an iron hold on him without trying, digging your fingers in and leaving marks so deep, they donât even fade when he doesnât see you for months.
He hates that he still looks for you in those months. That itâs not relief when youâre gone, but something cool and light in his chest when youâre back. He tries to ignore it, just like he tries to ignore the fever. Theyâre not useful feelings, in dealing with the everything about you. He thinks theyâre just byproducts of the hate, because he never feels them with anyone else.
Clarkâs a grown man. He thought heâd felt most things.
And now youâre here.
And heâs really never hated anyone more.
âKent.â Lois taps his desk, her voice a hushed whisper. âI need a favor.â
Clark looks up from his desk with a frown. Lois doesnât ask for favors a lot. Lois doesnât ask for anything a lot. âWhatâs wrong?â
âRemember that informant Iâve been working with? The one who helped me break the piece about LuthorCorp and the animal experimentation?â
Clark nods. He remembers that clearly. Just as clearly as he remembers your lab, and all the super-powered bears that attacked him in your defense.
âWell, she told me she thinks Luthor is onto her. And I know heâs onto me.â Lois sighs, glancing over her shoulder. âIâve had someone following me all week. My phone isnât bugged, but I never let it leave my pocket, and- I checked my laptop. Someone installed a malware, itâs been downloading my emails to an off-bank server.â
Clarkâs hands curl on his keyboard. âYou think theyâve gotten to your woman-â
âNo. Sheâs smart.â Lois frowns. âSheâs been using some kind of extra-burner email? I donât know. She explained it, I didnât really follow. Youâll see.â
âOkay, thatâs good.â Clark pauses. âIâll see?â
âYeah. Thatâs the favor.â Lois pats his shoulder. âYouâre taking over for me.â
âLois, I-â
âLook, sheâs got a lot of information. I canât tell you anything specific, but this is the best source Iâve gotten, maybe ever. Iâm not losing her.â
âWell, you and I- Weâre different.â Clark leans back in his chair with a pleading expression. Itâs not that he doesnât want to help. Heâs just worked with Loisâ informants before, and theyâre all very disappointed heâs not Lois. âDid you ask her, if sheâd be fine with me taking over-â
âOh, I told her everything. And donât worry.â Lois smiles. âSheâll go easy on you.â
âEasy?â Clark laughs nervously, adjusting his glasses. âI mean, Itâs just a meeting, right?â
âSure, buddy. Just a meeting.â
Lois is good at a lot of things. She isnât good at being reassuring.Â
But Clark canât say no. Not to her. Not when itâs something thatâs going to help people.
Heâll meet the informant. Maybe sheâll be able to help him take down Luthor for good.
And, a tiny, bitter little voice crows from the back of his head, maybe sheâll be able to help him take you down.
Clark needs to stop predicting things. Heâs bad at it.
He walks into the library at noon on a Wednesday, just like Lois told him to. He sits in the romance section, his posture straight, his expression perfectly approachable as he scans politely over the titles on the shelf. His One Desire. Her Sin. The Roses In Lace. Lost at Sea. Found at Sea. Lost in Him. Found in Him. There seems to be a pattern, and he wonders about the overlap between stories. The informant is running late. Maybe she decided she didnât want to work with him. Clarkâs never loved these romances, but there must be some appeal to them if theyâre so popular. Reading is always good for you, andâas he takes one of the books off the shelfâhe decides there isnât really a better way to kill the time.
Itâs a bit of a drudge. The prose is lacking, and the two characters seem to have less chemistry than the cows back home. Clark re-reads a few sentences over and overâthe word cock is used quite a lot, and itâs starting to sound fake in his headâand the positions theyâre getting into canât be physically sound. Maybe heâs imagining them wrong.
âYouâre amazing.â She whispers, her lips tinkering over the soft, meaty flesh of his ear.
This man must have big ears. And Clark pauses, because thereâs a faint smell of vanilla and apple, and it makes him look up with a frown.
He must be imagining things. Or maybe his brain just associates you with meaty ears. Brains are strange like that. And you are haunting every facet of his life.
âI want you.â He growled. âYou are the sexiest thing Iâve ever fucking seen. My whore.â
Clarkâs frown deepens. He doesnât think this book is for him.
âThat one is bad.â
Clark looks up from the book, and his jaw drops.
Youâre standing across the table from him, your head tilted slightly, eyes locked onto his.
âThe sequel is better.â You hum, pulling out a chair. Sitting down. âI think the author really took the criticism of this one into consideration. She stopped using the word meaty so much.â
Clark blinks like an idiot. He doesnât think heâs ever actually been this close to you before. Youâre wearing normal-people clothing, instead of a lab coat with the LuthorCorp brand logo. Youâve got sunglasses on the top of your head, and your face is open and relaxed, but that might just be your inherent smugness.
Whatever perfume you use is suffocating him. Clogging his thoughts, smoking out everything but the ringing song of your name.
âAre you the bird?â You ask him, still tilting your head, and itâs kind of like how you look at him during fights.
You know. A loud alarm blares in his head. You know heâs Superman.
Clark laughs weakly, adjusting his glass. âI- Uh- Iâm a human man.â
Why the fuck would he say it like that. He never says it like that. Heâs been lying about his identity his whole life, and heâs never been such a fool to call himself a âhuman manâ-
âCongratulations?â You look like youâre trying not to laugh, and Clark feels his face heat.
Thereâs the fever again. Your attention is searing, and itâs winding his muscles so tight his hand has to curl into a fist on his knee. Maybe itâs your perfume. Maybe itâs some kind of secret pheromone.
âAre you, um-â He looks around the empty shelves. âAre you looking for something?â
You tilt your head again. Clark swallows.
âI, uh- I can help you find it.â
âNo.â You lean forward, and Clark is frozen in his seat. âI think I found it myself.â
Oh.
No.
The bird. Lois told him her informant would ask for the bird, and heâd have to say he was still growing wings. He remembers the conversation clearly. He even told Lois he thought that was a little convoluted, and sheâd laughed.
But now youâre in front of him. And you always make hisâincredibly controlledâthoughts all scrambled and messy.
He adjusts his glasses again, clearing his throat. âIâm not a bird.â He says slowly. âIâm still growing wings?â
You smile.
And thatâs not the smile heâs seen on you in the lab, or the saccharine, almost siren-like one you gave Guy.
Itâs real. Itâs a real smile, that makes your eyes shine like stars. The light pours out over you, and you look even more beautiful than before, and Clark didnât think that was possible.
He didnât think heâd find himself leaning forward, instead of away. His body drawing itself forward like a boulder being dragged out to sea. Heâs not a movable man. Heâs trained himself to think and restrain his every movement, every craven or hungry desire, for the safety of everyone around him.
But you smile.
And he canât do anything but move.
âIâm Clark Kent.â He sticks out a hand, and you glance down with an unreadable glint in your eyes.
âClark Kent.â You echo, and he nods.
âSorry Iâm not Lois.â
You smile again, at that. It sends a rush through Clark like a drug.
âIâm not.â
You take Clarkâs hand. Heâd always thought your skin would be cold and scaly, like a crocodile.
Itâs warm. Soft and warm, your fingers brushing over his wrist. His head spins, and he swallows on his own, bubbling, confusing thoughts. Theyâre more bursts of emotion. Sparks youâre making fly through his body, and a sticky feeling over his heart that oozes like honey.
You say your name, and Clark bites down an I know.
I know you. Youâre the bane of my existence, and I think you mightâve put Lois under a spell. Youâre putting me under one now. Let me go, because I know what you are.
Heâs so sure, that he knows what you are.
But you settle into the seat, and smile again, and Clark doesnât think he knows anything at all.
The first interview goes well, if not a little awkward. Clark stumbles over his words, and finds himself staring at you a little longer than normal. Worse, you donât seem fazed by it, just smiling right back and batting your eyelashes like some kind of doe he knows is made of teeth.
Thatâs the truly confusing part. Clark knows you. He thinks he knows you. He was pretty sure, that he knew you.
And the woman sitting across from him at the table is not you. Â
âHowâd you meet Lois?â He asks casually, as youâre wrapping up. Itâs a reasonable question. Naturally curious for anyone, not just Clark, who might have a pit growing in his stomach, that can only be fed by knowing more about you. âI mean- Iâve seen you on the news. Youâre close with Luthor. She said she had an informant-â
âDidnât think it would be me?â You smile again, and he coughs.
âDidnât think it would be anyone close to him.â
âWell.â You shrug, sliding your sunglass back over your brow. âClose is a very strong word.â
You donât offer him more than that. He doesnât get a chance to ask.
When you leave, he stands in the romance section for about three minutes, trying to figure out what just happened. Trying to make sense of a world thatâs flipped, and constant in his life being changed.
He hates you. Itâs been about a year and a half since you showed up, and Clark has become very certain in the fact that he doesnât hate anyone, expect for you. Lois would call that an exception that proves the rule.
And suddenly, youâre splitting the rule clean down the middle, with a single smile.
When he gets back to the Daily Planet, he relays almost everything that happened to Lois. He leaves out how heâd stared, and how pretty your eyelashes were, and how when you laugh for real itâs a musical sound. Like a bird, ringing through the air and calling everything else in response. Clark swore he felt a dizzying cloud form in his chest, when he heard your real laugh.
But thatâs not something Lois needs to know, so he doesnât tell her. He doesnât tell anyone.
He just thinks about it. Over, and over, and over again. He put your next meeting on the calendar. He stares at the date, and finds that pit in his stomach trying to gnaw at time. To get you closer again.
When the day comes, he goes early with an extra coffee in hand. He decides heâs trying to test how much you really trust him. Most villains never accept food or drink from anyone. Theyâre too paranoid.
The first part of his plan goes wrong when youâre there first. Waiting at the same table as before, reading one of the romance books off the shelf. You donât look up, when Clark sits across from you.
His foot bumps yours, under the table. He forces himself to ignore how the small touch shakes him like lightning.
âYouâre early.â You say, and he smiles.
âWeâre here at the same time.â
âI know.â You glare at him over your book. âAnd Iâm early. But Iâm always early.â
âYou were late last time.â
âI was testing you last time.â You shrug. âI wanted to see if youâd give up, and leave.â
Clark blinks. Heâd suspected that. It had been another part of his plan, to try and make you admit that everything you do is calculated and crude in some way.
He really hadnât expected you to just⊠admit it.
âDid I pass the test?â He asks, a little stupidly. You finally set the book down, and smile.
 âI donât know yet.â
âOh.â He swallows. âCan I ask what my grade is right now? If Iâm still being tested?â
Your smile widens. Itâs an enchanting sigh. âIâm still here, arenât I?â
âYeah. You are.â
Clark wishes he knew what that meant.
He wishes his own plan was better, too. He offers you the coffee, and you take it, but maybe you just like free coffee. He did get it from the fairly expensive place down the street.
Your fingers brush, when you take the cup from his hands. Itâs worse than the foot. Heâs almost stunned for a second, his eyes locked onto you like youâre a magnet.
He learns nothing. Youâre just as restrained and open as the first time, when he finally remembers heâs supposed to be interviewing you. He asks about Luthorâs plans down at the harbor, and you tell him about the deep-sea mining and threat to the environment. He asks if Luthor knows about the risks. You laugh, and itâs a little dry, but still one of the most beautiful sounds heâs ever heard.
âYou think he cares?â
Clark knows he doesnât. Heâs just surprised you know, too.
âWell,â he clicks the recorder off, and you raise your brows. âYou do work for him. You know him better than I do.â
âHm.â You take a long sip of your coffee. âI donât think thatâs true.â
âIt has to be, doesnât it?â
âMaybe. But I donât think it is.â
Itâs good to know that, even when youâre being nice, youâre still infuriating. âYouâre the closest member of his inner circle.â Clark argues. âYou have to at least know a little about him. I only interview him.â
âYou interview me. And Superman. Do you not know us?â
Clark swallows. âI know Superman. But- We work closer on things.â
âThings?â
âYeah. I canât say anything else.â He sits up a little. âSuperhero business.â
You just give him another strange look. âDoes he ever talk about me?â
Clark blinks. He thought you just forgot he existed, every time he flew away. âUh- No?â Heâs worried if he talks about you once, heâs never going to shut up. âWhy? Do you- What do you think of him?â
âOf Superman?â
Clark nods, and he has to drag himself back from leaning over the table. He doesnât know why heâd let himself ask that. But itâs too late to take it back.
âI work for Lex Luthor.â You shrug, turning your coffee in your hands. âOpinion is a luxury Iâm not afforded.â
He frowns. âEveryone gets an opinion. You can have it privately, but you still must have one.â You must think of me too.
âMaybe I do.â
âSo you do.â
âMaybe.â
âYou can tell me, if you agree with Luthor that heâs a- a plague sent to destroy humanity-â
âI donât think that.â Your voice is suddenly harsh, and Clark blinks.
âThen what do you think?â
You tilt your head at him, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. Clark snaps a pencil between his fingers.
Your gaze drops down to the fractured pieces, and you smile again. Clark realizes his breathing is shallow, becauseâfor reasons heâd rather not thing aboutâthis matters. You matter.
âI think heâs good man.â You say slowly. âAnd I think heâs a hopeful fool, and- Dangerous. To me.â
Clark swallows. He canât think of anything to say, so he just nods, and goes back to his pre-planned questions.
He thinks about your answer, for the rest of the week. It plays over and over in his mind, and he writes it on scraps of paper at his desk. It should make more sense. He should be able to let it go.
But itâs a part of you. And Clarkâs never been good at letting you go at all.
Clarkâs dependent on the pheromone theory now. Because if youâre just like thisâif you just consume his thoughts and follow him into his dreams, all on your ownâhe thinks he might be screwed.
Heâs screwed.
Clark counts down the days until you meet, and tries to talk to you as much as he possibly can when youâre there. He wants to understand, how you can be the impossibly enchanting woman across from him at the table, and the crude shell of a person who hovers behind Luthor at every press event and meeting.
The woman you are here is good. Amazing. Still made of some barbed wire, but Clarkâs getting better at weaving through it. And itâs not even that heâs uncovering that rot heâd always thought you to be made of. Youâre just⊠Not made of it. Not here.
Here, youâre made of flowers and honey and soft, summer fire. Here, Clark can picture you laughing with wind in your hair, teasing him without any venom all the time. He likes everything he learns about you here.
He doesnât understand how youâre the same person.
âDo you like these books?â He asks, nodding to the shelves of romance, and you shrug.
âSo what if I do?â
âNothing. Everyone- They can like whatever they want. I just⊠Didnât peg you to enjoy The Summer of Sin.â
Your face relaxes slightly. âWhy not? Do I not look like a romantic?â
Clark swallows. He thinks you look like everything. He barely knows better than to say it. âIâve imagined youâre more of a nonfiction enjoyer.â He settles on smoothly.
Thereâs a glint in your eyes. He knows immediately heâs made a mistake.
âYouâve imagined me?â
All the time. Most of his thoughts circle around you, and itâs even worse than before. Clarkâs found himself memorizing every detail about you he can scrape, weaving them together like a gorgeous, puzzled tapestry of a woman he knows heâs obsessed with. Thereâs no use fighting it anymore, when he wakes up and wonders what youâre doing. When he wanders through the day seeing you in every ray of sunlight through the windows and longer shadow on the floor.
Heâs hoped, at some point, that heâd find the string of you that unravels the whole thing. That tells him he was right the first time, and youâre no work of art. Just so shiny heâd been blinded, and everything heâd thought the first time had been right.
But that string isnât coming. And the more Clark learns about you, the more every color heâd painted you with become inverted.
Youâre not shiny up close. Youâre just⊠Glorious. Like water catching on the ocean, exposing the glittering rocks and life below.
âI- I donât- Not in- I think about you, yes, but-â
âWhat do you think about me?â
Clarkâs face must be burning red. He really wishes youâd stop looking at him. âA lot of things.â
That unreadable look flashes over your features. âAre they good?â
Thereâs something oddly heavy, in your voice. Clark can almost feel it in his hands, fluttering and delicate.
âMostly. Yes.â He tries to offer you a smile. âBut you are strange.â
You scowl. âI am not strange-â
âYou like romance books-â
âWhich is very normal.â You raise your chin, and Clark grins. It gets cuter every time. âTheyâre fun, Clark. Sometimes, you just need fun.â
âWhatâs fun about them?â He really wants to know. He wants to understand you.
âI- I donât know.â You glare down at your hands. âItâs escapism. You get to imagine that youâre a princess or something, instead of- Just another fucking person.â
Clark frowns. âI donât think youâre just another person.â
You snort. âYeah. I know.â
âIâm serious, you- Youâre a genius-â
âIâm tired.â You say firmly, and Clark realizes that you are.
There are bags under your eyes, almost perfectly covered by concealer. Your lips arenât chapped, but thereâs a little puff on the lower one from chewing, and your shoulders slumps. He doesnât know how he never noticed before.
Maybe you just never showed him. Never let him see.
âI know,â you speak slowly, not looking him fully in the eyes. âThat these books are stupid. But I like them. They- They help.â
âHelp? With-â
âEverything.â
âOh.â He swallows. âI could help. If you ever- Needed it. With anything.â
And he means it. He really would.
You smile at him, and he wants to ask if you think about him too. Not Supermanâa hopeful fool, dangerous to meâbut just Clark.
Instead, he just smiles back, and reveals in the way he sees your gaze relax. Â
He likes you like this. Youâre really not that different, when he thinks about it, and he doesnât understand how he was ever so wrong.
Clark is beginning to give up on understanding.
He just wants to know you.
Heâs back in your lab, for the first time since he took over for Lois. Itâs about the docks, and the deep-sea mining, and the pump that you told himâtold Clark, at leastâwas going to be put in the water. Jimmy found out that the pump was going to be filling the bay with a toxic chemical thatâs been compared to a truth serum.
Clark canât understand why youâd tell him, if it was your design.
And he doesnât understand why youâre just lying on the floor of your lab, scrolling on your phone when he arrives.
He clears his throat, and you sigh, craning your neck to frown at him.
âYouâre here.â
âYou and Luthor are going to pump the water with chemicals that will alter the free will of the people in Metropolis.â Heâd been rehearsing, on the flight over. Heâs trying to sound more heroic, and not dwelling on why. âHand over the pump, and we can do this the easy way.â
Your lips twitch. âYou mean the way where I kick your ass, and then walk away untouched.â
âI donât know if you kick my-â
âYes, I would.â
Yes, you would. âJust- Tell me where the pump is, please.â
âOh, thereâs no pump.â
Clark blinks. âWhat.â
âI donât have a pump. I made that up.â
âWha- Why would you do that-â
âI was testing something.â You shrug, patting the floor next to you. âSit down.â
Clark squints at the floor next to you. Thereâs nothing under it. When he looks at the ceiling, thereâs nothing there either. Youâre just⊠Asking him to sit down.
He pulls his cape behind him, and sits with his legs crossed at your side. You flop back down, your knees pulling up and your arms around your stomach. Clark doesnât expect the silence to last so long. Heâs not sure what to do with his hands, especially as they start to itch. Something about you is magnetic. Thereâs a wrinkle in your brow he wants to soothe with his thumb, but that might end with him getting shot again-
Your eyes suddenly lock onto his, and Clark swallows. In the low light, they glow like gemstones. He thinks he could get lost in them, if he was allowed to. Even if he wasnât really sure what heâd been diving into, heâs come to find that you donât exactly fall into predictably.
He likes trying.
Clark thinks he might want to learn everything about you, until heâs the only person in the world who understands.
âHi.â You whisper, your eyes still locked onto his.
Your voice is softer than heâs ever heard it before. Itâs unsettling, like silence before a storm.
âAre you alright?â He asks kindly, and your eyes narrow.
âShould I not be?â
âI donât know. Thatâs kind of why Iâm asking.â
He tries to smile at you, welcoming and warm. Your lips twitch. Thatâs better than nothing.
Even if you sigh, and look back up to the ceiling. Leaving Clark leaning a little forward, wondering if itâs wrong to lean closer, and try to drag your attention back.
âIs there something you need help with?â He offers, and you let out a soft, huffing laugh.
âNo. Not that you can help with.â
He frowns. âI donât know. I- Iâm actually pretty good.â He clears his throat. âAt helping with things. Itâs my job, in case you didnât know.â
You laugh, and this time itâs a little louder. âYou know what, I think Iâve heard.â
âYou think?â
âI watch the news.â
âAh.â Clark tries to read further into your expression. He doesnât think heâs very good at it. âAnd what do you think, when youâre watching the news?â
âOf you?â Youâre looking at him again. He sits up. He doesnât want you to look away.
Clark nods. âI, um- I know they do a lot of pieces on me.â He clears his throat. âI read the Daily Planet.â
âOh, you read it?â
âIâm not a big TV person.â He shrugs lamely, and you laugh again.
âSure.â
The silence lingers, but itâs not uncomfortable. Just⊠Odd. Clark doesnât think heâd ever been in your lab this long without suffering an injury. Itâs kind of nice. When he looks up at the ceiling, he realizes there are stars painted all over the tiles. That must be new. He wouldâve seen it before, if it wasnât-
âI had a bit of an⊠episode.â You murmur, and he thinks you might be reading his mind. âLast night. I started doing that, and couldnât stop, and nowâŠâ
You trail off, and Clark takes a deep breath through his nose. He can only smell you, and that intoxicating perfume. âYou air out the paint already?â
âI used a spray.â
âThat you⊠invented?â
You smile. âThat I bought from Costco.â
âOh.â Heâs making himself an idiot again. âI didnât know you could paint.â
âI donât anymore.â Youâre silent for another moment, and Clark tracks your every breath. âYou know, youâre from there.â
You point at the ceiling, and Clark cranes his neck to see the sky. Youâre pointing to a cluster of stars a few tiles over, and it takes him a second to understand what you mean. You didnât just paint the sky.
You mapped it. The constellations, accurate to the clear nights in Kansas he remembers so well.
And it feels like you mapped a part of him.
Clark looks down at you, and finds you watching him silently. He lays down slowly, just so your shoulders are brushing. When he offers you another smile, you return it.
He looks back to the sky, and lets himself exhale.
Youâre not going to attack him, and heâs not going to ask why.
Heâs just going to lie here, and watch the unmoving stars.
âI wanted to be an alien when I was a kid.â
Your words are sudden. As far as Clark had known, youâd been talking about LuthorCorp coverups. âHuh?â
âWhen I was like, five.â You cross your arms, leaning back in your chair. âI wanted to be an alien.â
âOh.â Clark blinks. âWhy?â
âBecause I wanted to be something.â
âYou are something.â
âWell, I wanted to be more.â
âWhat, an evil scientist?â
You go silent, and Clark wants to kick himself. That was rude, heâs never rude like that, you just- You do something to him. You make his brain fuzzy and his manners fade, clinging with sunken claws for control of his tongue and hands. Heâs been thinking about touching you a lot. About grazing his hand over the small of your back when you walked by, or hugging you before you leave, to see how youâd fit in his arms.
He thinks youâd fit well. That whatever is making you tired and sad, heâd be able to wrap over you and fend it away. Heâd keep you afloat like a lifejacket.
If you dragged him down with you, he might let you do that too.
He doesnât think you would. Right now, youâre staring at your hand, lips pressed in a tight line, and Clark feels like a jerk.
âI- I didnât mean-â
âItâs okay.â
âNo, Iâm sorry-â
âItâs fine.â You snap, and Clark swallows. âIâm fine.â
âYou, um- You kind of donât sound fine.â
âWell, I am.â
Clark doesnât know how to push against you. He has all the strength in the world, but youâre the most immovable things heâs ever seen. âOkay.â
âOkay.â
Youâre silent again, and Clark adjusts his glasses. Lois is going to kill him, if he just ruined this. And he wonât even fight back. Heâd deserve it, for making you look so sad.
âIâm not evil.â You mutter, and Clark sits up.
âI know-â
âBut Iâm not-â You shake your head, still looking at your hands. âIâm not you.â
Clark frowns. He doesnât understand what that means. âI mean⊠Yeah. Youâre not Lois either. Or Luthor.â
You laugh, but itâs not full. Itâs that hollow laugh you use, when Clark doesnât understand something. âNo. I mean- Yes, but thatâs not what I meant.â
âWhat did you mean?â He asks quickly.
You stare at him. For a long, long moment, youâre looking right at Clark, and heâd swear the world stopped spinning if he didnât feel the ground slipping from under his feet as his body tries to crash, face-first, into yours.
âI donât know.â You say softly. âBut- I wanted to be an alien.â
The words are supposed to mean something to him. He can hear it, ringing in your tone.
But either heâs not smart enough to understand, or youâre too smart, and youâve dumbed it down for him so much it means nothing anymore.
âI didnât want to be an alien.â He says carefully, trying to test the waters. âBut- I wanted to be a farmer. Like my parents.â
You tilt your head at him, and Clark clears his throat.
âI think youâd be a good farmer. Youâd like the sky. The quiet. You- Youâd like it.â
He doesnât think youâd like the bugs or the mud, but he doesnât say that. Thatâs not important.
All that matters is your small smile, and the way you relax again.
And Clark thinks this really might be something big. Bigger than just an obsession.
He feels his whole world ease, when you smile. And he thinks it might be love.
He goes to your lab, for no good reason. Thereâs nothing for him to fight you about, no false plans to investigate. He just wants to see you, and he thinks he might be welcome.
He still hovers outside the window for five minutes, just to talk himself into it. Last time might have been a fluke, and heâs about to get shot again.
Clark decides that itâs worth the risk.
âWhy were you outside for so long?â Youâre lying on the floor again, and Clark sighs.
âCameras?â
âMhm.â
He smiles to himself, sitting at your side. âI was trying to figure out if youâd try to kill me again, if I came inside.â
You scoff. âI have never tried to kill you.â
âI have injuries that say different-â
âIf I wanted to kill you, youâd be dead.â You look right at Clark as you say it, and he balls his hand into a fist.
He wants to trace the line of your teasing smile. He wants to memorize it.
Itâs one of the last things he has to memorize about you. The most forbidden thing.
And he wants it more than anything.
âI believe that.â He says, and your smile widens.
âThank you.â
âYouâre welcome.â Clark lies down, and you turn your head to hold his gaze.
Your breath is warm, fanning over his face. Your hands are crossed over your stomach, and there are tiny little divets in your face that Clark is only able to really notice this close. Your eyes are a little uneven, and your teeth a little crooked, and itâs all perfect.
âCan I ask you something?â You breathe, and he nods without thinking.
âAnything.â
You hum, fidgeting with your fingers as you look back up to the ceiling. âWhat do you think of me?â
Itâs not what Clark expects, but you have such a habit of stunning him, heâs learned to recover fast. Clark clears his throat, watching your profile like if he stares enough, heâll close his eyes and see you clearer than he does in his dreams.
âYou donât have to answer-â
âI think youâre a good person.â Clark murmurs, and you look back to him with wide eyes. âAnd I think youâre angry, and you should be, but- I think youâre a threat.â
âA threat?â Your brow furrows, and Clark shakes his head.
âTo you.â
âYou think Iâm a threat to myself-â
âAnd to me.â
âI- But not anyone else?â
Clark shakes his head. âNo. Not to anyone else.â
You laugh that hollow sound, and look back to the ceiling. âSomeone once told me I was evil.â
Clark cringes. âHe was an idiot-â
âHe was right.â
You look to him, and thereâs something so sad and heavy in your eyes, Clark is sure the only way to get rid of it is to burn it away.Â
But all he can do is shake his head. âNo. He wasnât.â
âIâm a threat to you.â
âI know.â
âYouâre Superman.â
âIâm aware.â
That gets a tiny smile. âHistorically, threats to Superman are evil.â
Clark pretends to consider your words for a second, even though he already knows his answer.
âThere are different ways to be a threat. Thereâs offensive, and defensive, and- Distractions.â
âIs that what I am? A distraction?â
Clark lets himself smile at that. You have no idea.
âIâm here, arenât I.â
You laugh softly, your eyes still not leaving his.
âI read a romance book last week,â he adds, trying to get you to understand without spooking you away.
âDid you like it.â
âIt was enlightening.â
âWhat,â you snort. âAbout sex?â
âNo.â He snorts. âIâm- I know about that.â
âYouâre a boy scout, Supes, itâs not insane-â
âI have everything humans do.â He gives you an amused look, and suddenly, youâre silent, your eyes shining in the dark.
âYeah?â Your voice is barely a breath, and Clark shrugs.
âYep. There were just some things in that book I donât think anyone can do. Or- I guess, but it would take a lot of work. And most human men donât have that stamina.â
Heâs expecting a little, smart remark of and what, you do? But youâre just silent. Gaping at him, your face softly flushed. Clark isnât sure what he did.
But he likes how relaxed you look. If itâs because of his conversation, heâs more than happy to offer more.
âI might read another, if you have any recommendations.â
âReally?â
He nods. âI didnât like it a whole lot, it was very⊠explicit. But Iâd read another.â
He doesnât say for you.
But with the way your eyes widen slightly, he thinks you understand just fine.
âIâll bring you some on Wednesday.â You whisper, and Clark grins. Gifts. Thatâs progress.
Itâs only hours later, when heâs alone in his apartment, that he realizes what he said.
How, just like always, you scrambled him. You blurred lines.
Superman doesnât know about the romance books. Clark does. But he just slipped into you like always.
Clark doesnât swear, expect under two circumstances.
Sex, and when heâs really fucked up.
And when he realizes heâs all but told you heâs superman, thereâs only one thing he can think.
Shit.
Youâre not there, the next day.
Clark goes to the usual section, and youâre not there waiting for him. He waits until the librarians start to look at him weird, then he sends you a short, worried email, and leaves.
You donât respond. Heâs checking every five minutes, and the hours creep slowly as he refreshes, over and over and over, hoping this time heâll just get a sign that youâre alive.
He doesnât think youâd turn him over to Luthor. Youâve been working against Luthor for a while, with Lois, and even if you wanted toâwhich you wouldnâtâyouâd have to admit that youâd been meeting him as Clark, and letting him into your lab.
Or you could just lie. Youâre quite a good liar.
No.
You wouldnât tell Luthor.
Clark still feels like his skin his trying to crawl off his body, the longer he waits. He considers asking Lois if you ever stood her up, but he already knows the answer.
You know. You know.
And now, youâre gone.
Clark drags his feet home. Heâd flown to your lab after leaving the Daily Planet, and you werenât in your lab, or any of the LuthorCorp building. Some part of him should be glad, if you just picked up and ran. Maybe you can find a farm, far away from Luthor, and live a nice, quiet life.
But most of him just misses you. And is worried, and wants you to come back. It would be creepy, to scour the whole planet to try and find you. And it would probably take a few days, if heâs really looking. But he could do it.
Heâs trying to remember how much PTO he has banked, when he climbs the stairs to his apartment. You canât have gone that far, unless you used a portal. Then you could be anywhere. If youâre on another planet, thatâs going to take weeks, and if youâre in another galaxy that might be months-
Youâre on the couch.
Clark opens his door, and finds you on his couch.
You smile at him, like you didnât just break into his apartment. âHi.â
âI- What are you-â
âI didnât want to show up at the Daily Planet. Would have been asking for open fire.â
âAsking for- What the heck are you talking about-â
You pull up your oddly dirty shirt, and Clark feels his bones get heavy and cold. Thereâs a pattern of deep, purpling bruises all over your stomach.
Youâre hurt. Heâd been so stupefied by your presence, he somehow hadnât noticed you were hurt.
His bag slips from his hand, as he rushes to your side. You wince, hissing through your teeth when his fingers graze one of the marks, and Clark swallows down his blurred anger and panic.
âYou- Who-â
âLuthor.â You mutter. âTurns out he also has cameras.â
Clarkâs gaze shoots up, and he finds you already watching him. âAnd he did this.â
âHe got angry I wouldnât tell him who Superman is.â You say flatly. âWhen we were clearly so cozy.â
His hands fist. If he went now, heâd be back within ten minutes, and Luthor would be chained to the top of the Eiffel tower, his bald head freezing off.
But youâre in front of him now. And thatâs what needs to matter.
âOkay. We- We need to get you in a bath. I have a bath.â
âWow, arenât we fancy.â
He gives you a flat look. âDonât sass me. I can leave you on the couch, you know.â
You tilt your head at him, and smile. âNo, you wonât.â
Clark stands up, braces his hands on his hips, and glares at you. You glare right back, and he doesnât know why he thought heâd ever possibly win this.
He groans, ducks down, and picks you up. You smile at him, and he sighs.
âI know. Donât- You donât have to say it.â
Your smile just widens, and Clark thinks he can lose a lot of fights, if they make you smile.
While you take the bath, he waits in his kitchen. Youâre going to need to ice that, but he doesnât actually have ice packs. Heâs never needed them.
He flies up a little north to get them. Youâll be fine on your own for five minutes, and he doesnât want to accidentally get you ice that melts too fast, or isnât cold enough, or anything less acceptable than you deserve.
Itâs a welcome distraction, too. From thoughts of you, in his bathtub. Naked and breathing slowly, your thighs pressed together underwater, or spread wide, baring you up to be seen-
Clark sticks his face in the snow. This is the last bit of control heâs managed to keep, the last leash heâs still on. He wonât let it slip now.
Youâre wrapped in a towel on the couch, when he gets back. Clark frowns, and opens his mouth.
âIâm not made of glass.â You snap before he can speak, and he sighs.
âI know, but you are injured. Itâs not good to put extra strain, when your body is already trying to recover-â
âAre you a doctor now, too?â
Clark stares at your scowl, and it slides off in a second. You look back to your hands, your voice turning into that smaller one he doesnât think you use with anyone else.
âSorry.â
âItâs okay, youâve had a long day-â
âNo. I- I was- Iâm sorry.â You glare at him again, like youâre challenging him to try and refuse the apology again.
He wouldnât dare.
âOkay.â He approaches you slowly, holding up his makeshift ice. âI- I got this for you.â
You frown at him. âA wet hand?â
Clark follows your gaze, and groans. Heâd spent too long staring at you, and forgotten to wrap it in cloth. The ice melted.
âAlright, Iâll just go get more-â
âDonât you have frost breath.â
Oh. He does.
But he wishes he protested more about that being a bad idea. It means he has to kneel down in front of you, very carefully open up your towel, and pretend he canât see the underside of your breast as he blows on your stomach. Your whole body twitches under his hands, pinning you gently to the couch.
Heâs still in control.
âHowâd you know where I live?â He asks between breaths, and you grunt.
âI looked it up the day after we met.â
Clark looks up at you in surprise. âWhat? Did you do that with Lois-â
âNo. Lois isnât Superman.â
His fingers curl on your sides, and you blink at him with an oddly soft shine in your eyes.
The day you met. The day.
âYouâve-â
âYeah.â
âBut- I was wearing the glasses-â
âI know.â You smirk. âHow ever did I figure it out.â
Clark rubs a hand over his face. âNo, you donât understand, they have this- Itâs like a magic trick, thatâs literally supposed to be impossible.â
âShit.â You laugh weakly, your body curving from the pain. âI think you should ask for a refund.â
Clark chuckles, pinning you a little tight to the couch. He doesnât want you to be able to move too much. You might get more hurt.
âWas it something I said?â He asks, and you shake your head.
âI- I just knew, okay? Thatâs it. It doesnât have to be a big thing.â
Clark thinks it does have to be a big thing. It should be a huge thing, that youâve known the whole time, and just⊠said nothing.
But youâre still injured. And Luthor might be looking for you.
So he just sighs again and blows on your stomach. Your back arches into him, this time. If he couldnât see the flutter of your eyes and ripple of your body under his handsâclearly trying to react as little as possibleâheâd think you were torturing him on purpose.
âYou should stay here.â He mutters. âUntil itâs safe.â
You scoff. âNo. Iâm not doing that.â
Clark frowns. âLuthor isnât going to let up until he finds you-â
âI can disappear-â
âNot right now. Not like this.â He grazes his thumb over your bare skin, and a noise awfully close to a moan escapes your lips.
âClark, fuck-â Your head tips back, your hand shooting into his hair, and that was a really bad idea.
Your moan might be the most addictive sound heâs ever heard. Thatâs a selfish thing for his focus to be, right now.
âYouâre staying here.â He says firmly, then pauses. âOr- Lois can take you. If that would be more comfortable.â
He doesnât want it to be. He wants you here, where he can keep you safe himself, and talk to you all the time. But itâs not about him.Â
âNo.â You snap. âIâll go in the morning-â
âIâm not letting you do that.â
âOh, youâre not letting me-â
âIâm not just- Just going to sit here and let you walk out, only to find out that Luthor grabbed you and now I have to go save you!â Clarkâs voice is rising, but you donât balk. You just roll your eyes, and lean your head back on the sofa.
âPlease. You- You donât have to do that.â
âDo what? Stop you from getting yourself hurt?! You work with Luthor, you know what heâs capable of-â
âYou know what Iâm capable of.â You hiss, and Clark shakes his head.
âAnd I know youâre a better person than he is, you wonât go to the same- The same insane extremes-â
âWonât I? You said it, you said Iâm an evil scientist-â
âYou know I didnât mean that-â
âDonât I?â
âYes, you do-â
âDo I-â
âStop doing that!â Clark shouts, and your mouth snaps shut.
He doesnât know when, but heâd risen up on his knees. Your faces are only inches apart, your eyes wide and lips parted, and for once Clarkâs got you completely quiet. He grabs your knee lightly. He doesnât want you to go away.Â
âYou are infuriating.â He mutters, holding your gaze. âAnd confusing, and I- I donât understand howsomeone so⊠So-â He shakes his head. âSo you ended up with someone like Luthor. But I know that youâre not evil. And I know that Lex- He doesnât forgive grievances. He wonât just let you go, and Iâm not letting you get hurt.â
You stare at him for another handful of minutes. When you speak again, your voice is small. âWhy?â
âWhy?â
âWhy would you care.â You whisper. âI- I know what Iâve done-â
âIt was never really you-â
âThen what I helped do, and I- I was just young, and stupid, and I didnât have a lot of choices and he listened but- I still-â You reach up, grabbing the collar of his shirt. Like heâs the last thing you have to hold onto in the world. âYou stopped. You stopped asking me to stop, and you- I thought you gave up.â
Clarkâs lips twitch despite himself. In way, he had given up.
Heâd stop trying to convince himself there was anything about you that needed to be fixed.
âYouâre not exactly a moveable person,â he mutters your name, leaning a little closer. âAnd I- I guess I just decided I didnât care.â
âYou didnât care-â
âWhat you were doing. Or- Why. I trusted you.â Clark swallows. Your noses are bumping, and your skin is warm under his hands. âAnd I want to help. Let me help.â
You stare at him, and for a second, he thinks youâre going to try and pull away. So he says the only thing heâs been able to think of you, letting it fall from his lips with ease.
âI love you.â Clark strokes his thumb over that furrow in your brow, and your breath hitches. âPlease. Let me help.â
Silence lingers again. Itâs the loudest heâs ever heard.
And this time, you donât break it.
You just nod.
Your eyes fall to Clarkâs lips, then dart back up. Your breathing is coming shallow, and your skin is getting warmer. Clarkâs drowning in you, in being this close, and then he smells it.
Need.
You need him, and he wants to give. To show you that something can be soft, that youâre worthy of every bit of care he has to offer. He leans in, just enough to brush his lips over yours.
You open for him in a second, a moan falling from your lips.
And Clark lets everything in him snap.
He surges up. Grabs your jaw to keep you steady, and kisses you with everything heâs let wind up inside him for months. His lips move against yours in a smooth rhythm, his tongue tracing over the line of your teeth before pressing down your throat. He canât find himself to have enough of you, doesnât think there can be enough. You taste a little salty, and your moans are soft and loud, and itâs just as addictive as the rest of you.
Clark presses over you, careful that his weight doesnât crush you. You tip your head even further back, until your eyes are fluttering whenever he pulls away to catch the shortest breath. The kisses are sloppy, like neither of you can bear to pull apart for a second. His hand on your thigh wanders up, tracing over soft, hidden skin under your towel, and you shiver. For a second heâs ready to pull back, check that heâs not hurting you more, but youâre kissing him with the same desperate fervor as before. You let out a sweet little gasp when Clark squeezes your thigh, and his lips twitch.
You like.
You like this plenty.
Clark tips your head a little to the side, dragging his lips down your throat, letting his hand knead against your skin. Youâre reactive, every light touch making your whole body shake. Clark has to bite down a groan, as the smell of your arousal starts to flood his senses. He nips under your neck, and a breathy whine leaves your lips, one hand shooting into his hair.
âClark- Oh- Oh my god-â
âI know.â He mutters, sucking on the small hurt. âYou got no idea, how long I wanted this. Thought I was going crazy, sweetheart, you have no idea-â
You make a mumbled sound, pulling on his hair, and Clark glances up to find you staring at him with shining, doe-like eyes. It knocks the air out of him, and thatâs not supposed to be possible.
But you defy a lot of things, for him. Whatâs just one more?
âYou,â he drops his brow against yours, and your hands press flat on his chest. âYou are beautiful.â
Your lower lip wobbles, and Clark kisses you slowly. Lazily. Heâs got you, pliable and wanting below him. If heâs taking anything heâs offered, heâs doing it for you, not to you.
And it pays off immediately, when you start to work yourself up. Your kisses turn frenzied, your hips rolling up into his hand, and Clarkâs fingers brush against wetness, dribbling down your thighs. He groans against your lips, and is rewarded with another high, breathless plea.
âWant you.â He mutters, keeping his hand firmly planted down, closer to your knee. âIâll be gentle, swear it, just- Want you-â
You nod, your mouth slack, and Clark pulls up with a small frown.
His hand on your head drags down to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing over your swollen lips. They hang open, and he has a feeling if he pressed his thumb forwards, youâd take it with shiny eyes and a moan.
But youâre just staring at him. All your bravado is gone, and youâre just blinking at Clark with a glazed, lustful expression.
âCan you say you want this?â He rasps, pressing his brow lightly over yours. âTell me, baby. I can give you anything, but- You gotta tell me.â
You nod again, and Clark gently taps your lips.
âWords.â
âYes.â You whisper, your fingers digging against his skin. âClark, please, yes. I- I want you, want you so bad, please-â
Clark kisses you again, a little worried if he lets you keep going, youâre not going to be able to stop. You moan happily against his lips, and whine when he pulls away again.
He presses his brow back against yours, and lets his gaze drag slowly down your body. The towel has fully fallen away, exposing you to the room, and he thinks heâd be drooling, if he had a little less self-control.
âHolyâŠâ He drags one hand slowly down your bare side, feeling the blood rush into his cock. âFuck, baby, youâre- Youâre amazing.â
Clark expects a teasing response, about the swearing. Instead he only gets silence, and when he glances back up, youâre staring at him with the widest, most flustered expression heâs ever seen. He squeezes your waist, and your hand flies up to cup his cheek. Clark smiles, and kisses the inside of your wrist, watching your breath catch from such a small touch.
Just to test, he moves his hand from your thigh to just under your breast, cupping your ribs and letting his thumb graze over your nipple. The reaction is immediate. You shudder, eyes batting and a long, musical whine filling the room.
Clark raises his brows, and your flush deepens, your eyes darting away. He canât have that.
He mutters your name gently, and you shake your head, still avoiding his gaze.
âI- Iâm fine-â
âYou donât look it.â He says, rising fully up so no matter where you try to look, youâre going to see him. âSweetheart, I need you all into this-â
âI am all- You know-â
âI donât. And youâre not looking at me.â
You sigh, dragging your face back, but keeping your eyes squeezed shut. Clark frowns, worried that your injuries are worse than he thought, and youâre trying to push through it for his sake when he should be taking care of you and letting you rest-
âIâm notâŠâ You take a heavy breath, your nose scrunched in the most adorable way heâs ever seen.
Clark says your name, and you shake your head, your arms wrapping around your stomach.
âI donât do this.â You blurt, body curling into the cushion. âI donât- I- Sex isnât- I have a job.â
He blinks at you. âI⊠Also have a job-â
âYou have a life.â You cut him off with a mumble. âI- I work. And I go home. And I look at the internet, then I work again, and I- I donât- This.â You gesture between your bodies. âI donât do this.â
Clark stares at you for a second. Your flustered, embarrassed expression, your heartbeat pounding in his ears. âDo you⊠Want to-â
âYes.â Your eyes shoot open, pleading on his. âBut- I just-â
You shake your head, looking back to some random spot on his shoulder.
âIâm not- Iâm not good at it.â Your voice is small. âAnd youâre- Youâre-â
Just to test something, Clark squeezes under your ribs again. A loud moan falls from your lips, your eyes wide on his as your whole body grinds up in response to the touch.
âClarkâŠâ You whine, and he grins, ducking down to kiss you, slow and soft.
You melt right into him, another pretty sound escaping when he moves his full hand to palm at your breast.
âOh- Oh my-â
âIâve got you.â He kisses away your flustered pleas. âI can take care of it, baby, you donât need to do anything.â
Your nose scrunches again, and Clark thinks youâd protest if you werenât already so dazed from light touches.
He needs to work you up as much as heâs allowed. Needs to see what youâre like when youâre nothing but putty in his hands, because he loves your smart mouth, but he also loves the softness that only he gets to see.
This part of you, molten and writhing as the kisses grow more intense, is all Clarkâs.
He drops one hand, keeping the other firmly planted on your breast, and starts to tease over your soaked folds. You arch into him, and he presses back down gently, giving you a stern look.
âIâve got it.â
âClark-â
He kisses your neck and you moan, your fingers tangling in his hair.
âLet me, baby.â He mutters against your skin, his thumb dragging over your clit. âPlease.â
You nod, your body already going limp under his hands, and he grins.
Clark starts to kiss down your body, letting his hand against your core slowly work you up.
âYouâre soaked.â He open-mouth kisses your neglected breast, petting your pussy with two fingers, letting them dip into your fluttering entrance with every touch. âYou like me this much, sweetheart. âCause I know how much I like you.â
He slaps your cunt lightly, and grins at the loud whine of delight that tears from your lips.
âThere you go.â He slides two fingers slowly inside you, biting back a groan at how easy they go in, your walls fluttering around him. âThatâs it.â He licks your nipple, scissoring his fingers slowly, stretching you open. âThatâs a good girl, takinâ it so good for me.â
Oh, you like that. Your clench tight around him, dripping down his fingers, and Clark groans against your skin. Just the smell of your need is intoxicating, he needs to taste you or he thinks he might go mad.
âLookinâ so pretty for me, sweet girl.â He kisses down your stomach, careful of your injuries. âShit, your pussy is tight, bet itâs gonna feel so good âround my cock-â
You moan loudly, and Clark grins, tongue tracing over your hip bone as his fingers drag over your walls, looking for that gummy spot thatâs going to give him what he wants. He finds it fast, and marvels in the way your whole body trembles, your fingers pulling weakly at his hair like youâre not sure what to do with the pleasure heâs giving you.
He watching your mouth hang open, as he crooks his fingers and starts to rub inside of you. Another lewd sound falls from your lips, and itâs the best thing Clarkâs ever heard. He kisses the inside of your thigh, then the opposite thigh, then right over your clit. He keeps himself feather light and teasing, watching your body quiver with anticipation. He presses hard inside you, hovering his lips right over the little button, and grins.
âRelax for me, baby.â He orders, and you whine, but try. Clark can see how much youâre trying, but heâs already wound you up too much.
âI need- Clark-â
âI know. Iâve got you.â He uses his free hand to pull your pussy lips over from your clit, exposing the swollen nerves fully.
He blows on it once, starting to rub his fingers furiously inside you, and thatâs all it takes.
The sight of you coming might be the best thing heâs ever seen. Youâre gorgeous, shaking and writhing above him, the sound leaving you sounding like a siren call, his name the only word possible to make out between your moans. He needs more. He needs all of it.
Clark starts to lick your clit, light and fast, and your orgasm drags on. You wonât stop spasming around his fingers, still working you open, and your eyes get impossibly wide as you realize what heâs doing.
âClark- Fuck- Oh-â Your head throws back, your thighs wrapping tight around his head. âOh- Oh- Oh my god-â
He doesnât need to come up for air. He doesnât need air anymore, not when he has this. He shoves his face fully into your pussy, starting to pump his fingers in time with the work of his tongue, and in no time your thighs are trembling, your body limp from the second orgasm he drags out. Youâre gushing all over his face, your pussy so oversensitive that when he pulls out and just traces his fingers over your hole, your body arches like heâs fucking you into the couch.
Youâre more than ready for him, but he still takes his time. He was right. You taste better than you smell, and he thinks he could get drunk on it. Clark drags his tongue down to your entrance, letting himself lap up your release with a loud moan. Heâs so hard it hurts, and youâre so perfect, he might be about to blow it in his pants.
Itâs an effort, but he pushes himself back up over you. Youâre blinking at him all doe-eyed again, and he smiles. When he leans down to kiss you, youâre somehow more desperate than before.
âThat good?â He asks softly, and you nod.
âSo good.â You moan. âSo- Oh my god-â
Clarkâs fumbling with his belt buckle as you scratch at his chest, and you whimper against his lips as he drags the head of his cock against your puffy pussy. He marvels at the way youâre already trying to relax, your hips angling up to invite him in.
âYou that desperate for some cock, baby?â He teases gently, and you nod like a bobblehead. âYou want me to fill this pussy up, fuck you âtill you canât walk?â
âFuck,â you breathe out, your head tipping back like you donât even have the strength to keep it up. âClark- I- I-â
He kisses you deeply, muttering against your lips. âSay it. Say you want me, sweetheart, beg for me-â
âClark-â
âYou can do it,â he taps the head of him against your clit, and you squeak. âYouâre so smart, you know how to say please-â
âPlease.â You breathe, your eyes glossy, voice barely a breath.. âPlease, please, fuck- please, I love you, I need you so bad-â
Clark slams over you, his head getting clouded as it absorbs your words. You love him. You love him.
Heâd give you the world.
âGood girl.â He grunts, just to see you get all pretty and flustered about it, even as his dick grinds against your drenched cunt. âThatâs my good girl, love you so much- You- Fuck- You have no idea-â
And he feels a swell of pride, at how well youâre reacting just to his words. Youâre restless below him, not taking anything but just silently begging, and heâs going to give you it all.
âLie down,â he kisses you lightly, guiding you onto your back in the cushions, hiking one leg up over his shoulder and pressing the other back into your chest. You pussy is on full display, letting his rub it gently as you settle into the folded position. He looks up to find you gaping at his cock, and he grins.
âYou- Youâre-â
âI know.â He clears his throat. He tries not to think about it. Itâs far from the most important thing about him. âIâm gonna be gentle-â
âI- I donât know- I donât think I can take it-â
âYeah, you can.â He leans down, kissing you sweetly. âYou will.â
You whine doubtfully, but Clark knows what heâs doing. He keeps his lips working against yours, his thumb rubbing your clit slowly as he starts to slowly push himself inside. Your mouth falls into a pretty little O, and he chuckles, kissing the corner of your mouth.
âI know.â He coos, rubbing a little firmer. âYouâre doinâ so good for me, sweet girl, taking me-â He bites back a groan as you wrap around him, warm and gummy and perfect. âYouâre takinâ me so well, youâve got it, almost there.â
You moan beneath him, and the sound vibrates around Clarkâs dick. He has to bite his tongue, to stop himself from coming right there. Heâs really not sure how long heâs going to last, but nobody can blame him.
Not with you, cockdrunk and gaping under him. He lets you adjust, when he bottoms out, and your breathing is shallow and breathy in his ear. He coos the best praise he can, while also trying to drag himself back under control.
When he rises up, dragging his hips slowly back, your arms wrap around his neck, and he groans.
âYou feel so good.â He groans. âSo fuckinâ good, I- Jesus.â
He pushes forward again, and you look up at him like heâs more than a god. More than the hero.
You look at him like heâs the sun itself, and heâs shining just for you.
He thinks he is.
So again, he lets himself snap.
Clark starts his pace slow and lazy, making sure heâs angled to drag over your g-spot with every thrust. He keeps his voice low, kissing all over your face, helping you through it.
âThatâs it.â He mutters. âThatâs a good girl, all pretty and dumb for me, youâre letting it feel good, arenât you sweetheart?â He taps your cheek, pressing forward a little harder, and grins at your whimper. âCome on, youâre so good at telling me what youâre thinking-â
âMore.â You breathe out, and Clark swallows. âMore, Clark, more-â
âYes, maâam.â He grunts, slamming his lips over yours, and maybe another time heâll be able to find it in him to tease you.
Today, he just needs to give.
He picks up pace without any further warning, and finds his own words slipping away fast. You squeeze around him, every time he bullies that soft spot inside of you, and the sound of your breathless gasps mixed with his cock slamming in and out of your cunt is almost too much for him to bear. He busies himself with kissing you everywhere he can reach, letting his hands wander to memorize every spot that makes you arch further into him, making the angle deeper, until heâs pressing against your cervix.
âShit,â he groans, pressing his face deep into your neck. âGonna cum, baby, need- Where do you-â
You donât answer with words. You lock your arms around him tighter, rolling your hips up and keeping him thrusting, shallow and rough, against you. Heâd laugh if his head wasnât fogged with your touch, your body moving so well against his.
Clark pushes his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit back and forth as fast as he can. You shriek, overwhelmed by the sensation, and try to crawl away, but Clark pulls you tight into his chest.
âCanât- Canât take another-â
âYes, you can.â He grunts, kissing your open mouth. âYou can do it, baby, do it for me, come on-â
You cum with a scream of his name, and Clark feels something hot and wet flooding over his dick, as you contract tight around him. Youâre squirting, gushing over his cock, and it drives him right over the edge. He feels himself snap, his balls slapping against your ass as he fucks into your through his release, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
When heâs done, youâre trembling beneath him, your lips brushing over his jaw like youâre trying to kiss him, but donât have enough strength. Clark takes over for you, turning his lips to capture yours in a lazy, loving kiss.
He grabs his shirt off the floor, along with a blanket tossed onto the coffee table, and uses them to cover you while he gets a cloth to clean you up with. Youâre limp on the couch, staring at the ceiling with a dazed smile, and Clark feels that pride blooming back in his chest, knowing he made you feel so good. You donât fight it, when he dabs away your mixed releases, then pulls you into his arms. Brings you to the bathroom, waiting patiently while you pee before carrying you to bed.
If you need, heâll sleep on the couch. But youâre getting the bed.
You sit in his lap, face pressed into his neck, and he drags his hand up and down your spine. Youâre so soft, and his.
Like this, you get to just be his.
âYou really love me?â You breathe against his ear, and he nods.
âYeah. A whole lot, actually.â He pauses, then mutters, âAnd you-â
âReally.â You tilt your head, giving him a tiny smile. âSo much.â
He chuckles, kissing you gently again. Heâs never going to get tired of it. Never going to get tired of you.
âStay here.â He mutters against your lips. âWith me. If- If you want to, of course-â
âI do.â You breathe. âI want to.â
Clark leans back, cradling your face in his hand. âReally.â
You nod nervously, and he grins.
You smile back, tentative but real, and Clark presses back down into a kiss.
He doesnât think thereâs anything thatâs quite as good as this.
As good as you, content and happy in his arms.
âŠEnd note: i'm a little obsessed with them now. thank you for reading!âŠ
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Summary: You get stood up on a date and Frank decides that's unacceptable and you deserve to be taken out tonight. Except it's absolutely not a date, he swears, despite the fact it has all the makings of a perfect first date.
Warnings: Just all the fluffy goodness of friends to lovers. Some swearing because this is Frank we're talking about. Mild alcohol use. Author's questionable understanding of billiard rules.
AN: My first time writing Mr. Castle. I have a headcanon that Bucky goes to Curtis' veteran group therapy and I think he and Frank would be friends from that so both of those guys make an appearance. Feedback is always appreciated!
WC: 2151
The three flights of stairs up to your apartment leave you feeling winded even on a good day, but the complimentary glass of wine the waitress provided after feeling sorry for you buzzes through your system and couples with the twinge of disappointment, making the trek up to your home a feat akin to climbing Everest.
You fumble with your keys, but the knob on your front door gives way, no longer locked as you left it an hour before.
âIf youâre gonna break and enter, at least lock it behind you,â you shout out, closing the front door behind you.
âNot breaking and entering if you give me a key,â a gruff voice answers back as you hang your now discarded jacket on an overcrowded hook in your entryway.
âA decision which I deeply regret,â you reply, entering the living room to find a familiar large man sprawled out on the sofa.
âBetter than me breaking your window locks again âŠâ his response cuts off as you enter the room, giving you a glance up and down. His brow furrows at the sight of you, more overdressed than usual, in front of him.
âWhat are you all dressed up for?â he asks
âI had a date. And it could have been a disaster if it had gone well and I brought him up here only to find my very intimidating and more-than-occasionally bleeding friend on my couch.â You gesture, taking note of the lack of open wounds on Frankâs body.
Finding Frank in your apartment was not an unusual occurrence, though it was always a surprise which state of distress heâd be in - whether he was dropping in for a friendly visit, or bleeding so profusely you werenât sure the whole of the Red Crossâ supply could replenish him. Thank god, you didnât also have to deal with stitching him up tonight.
âOkay. Clearly didnât go well since youâre alone and itâs only 8:30,â he responds, checking his watch.
âYeah well, he stood me up soâŠâ
âYouâre shitting me.â Frank's lips purse and his signature vacant stare glazes across his eyes.
âNope,â you sigh, flopping down beside him. Your relationship with him so comfortable that you donât even register the change in his expression, let alone fear it. You nudge your knee against his, attempting to reclaim some personal space from his massive frame currently dominating your tiny New York apartment. Frank does not yield, too focused on the tale of your love-lifeâs misfortunes.
âWhat a shithead. Whatâs his name?â
âFrank, no.â you say sternly.
âI just want to talk to him.â
âYeah sure, talk to him.â you give air quotes, âTalk to him with your favorite shotgun.â
âPfft donât need a gun to let him know what I think. Fistsâll do just fine.â
âWell if the Punisher is suddenly going after scumbags who stand up women on dates instead of your usual criminals, Iâm happy to provide a whole list.â you say dryly
Frank swallows thickly, fingers mindlessly plucking at his jeans as fury begins to grow inside him.
âReally? Thereâs more than one idiot standinâ someone like you up?â he gestures to how well youâve cleaned up for the evening, letting his gaze linger on the way your outfit clings to your body.
âApparently a very good majority of men in this city,â you respond with a shrug, trying not to notice the way his intense stare follows you to the kitchen as you stand again. Your fridge is embarrassingly empty and you mentally curse yourself for not doing any food shopping this week as a small gurgle rises in your stomach.
Frank cracks his knuckles and shakes his head and you swear you hear something similar to âassholesâ mumbled under his breath.
âYou hungry?â you ask âCause I didnât eat anything at the restaurant while I waited for that jerk, and now Iâm starving. Iâm gonna order something if you want?â
âNah. Donât order in tonight.â he replies, planting his weighty boots on the area rug and pushing against his thick thighs to stand.
âFrank, Iâm starving, why not?â
âCause weâre going out. You got all dressed up and Iâm not gonna let some fucker ruin your night.â he explains, a mischievous spark dancing in his dark eyes.
âI am not letting you take me on a pity date, Frank.â you argue, cringing at the thought
âNot a date. But youâre hungry, Iâm hungry. So letâs go somewhere.â
âFine. Where are we going?â you resign, knowing there is no arguing with him once his mind is made up.
____________________________________
The small windows of the bar are caked in a layer of dust that matches the brown shade of the sticky wood floor Frank leads you across. The chatter from the handful of the eveningâs patrons is punctuated by the occasional glass shattering from a barback tossing an empty beer bottle in the trash and the whack of cue poles hitting pool balls in the corner, where you and Frank are currently locked in a heat battle with two of Frankâs âfellow FUBAR veteran groupâ friends (as he lovingly introduced them.)
Deviating from a normal situation with you two, no one gives a second glance at Frank, worn jacket slung across his large frame and mud-crusted boots not even garnering a raised eyebrow from the several patrons seated at the bar top, all of whom in some way resemble the cast youâd see in b-grade cop show. Your chosen ensemble for your defunct date stands out among the casual crowd, prompting a few glances every once in a while from a passing handsome stranger. Frank does not hesitate to display a particularly harsh scowl, causing them to scuttle away in regret for even looking at you.
Frankâs calloused hands sneak a french fry off your half-eaten plate as you rosin up the cue pole, racking your brain for how youâre going to proceed strategically.
âKay sweetheart, Curt and Barnes are up a point, so all you need to do is sink the 13 or the 9 and we can beat emâ.â
âAngleâs too tight on the 13,â you respond âI think I can make the 9, but Iâm not loving how close the 8 ball is.â
âYou can do it, we just gotta get you lined up right. HereâŠâ Frank ambles over to you, carefully bracketing his arms around you and guiding your hands into position. His broad chest barely sweeps against your back as he leans over you, sending an icy shudder down your spine. Usually so steady and precise, you swear you see his hands tremble for a moment as they rest on top of yours, lining up your shot with his military-trained eye for accuracy.
His breath is hot on your neck as he mumbles âAll youâ into your ear and takes a step back, the nearness of his body to yours stringing tension in thick spider-webbed threads between you.
âKay, 9 ball. Right corner pocket,â you announce, throat suddenly feeling dry. You take a deep breath, over compensating for your current shortness on air, before pulling your elbow back and releasing.
A sharp crack rings out as the cue makes direct contact with its mark. The 9 ball wizzes across the green velvet, narrowly avoiding the 8, before sinking cleanly into the intended target. You jump up with a âwhoop!â as Frank wraps his strong arms around you in celebration.
âAtta girl!â he cheers and youâre buzzing, though whether itâs the joy of victory or the way Frank is currently enveloping you and your senses, you canât say.
Bucky and Curtis groan in frustration. As Bucky steps up to rerack the game, Curtis speaks up.
âYou know you surprised me. The way Frankâs always describing you, had me thinking youâd be more demure and shy. Youâre really more than he gives you credit for.â
âYou talk about me at group?â you whip around to Frank, who stepped toward the back wall to take a swig of his beer.
âMighta mentioned you in passing.â he shrugs, fiddling with the label of the bottle.
âCanât get him to shut up about you.â Curtis replies
âCâmon Curt!â Frank rolls his eyes
âWhat else does he say about me?â you turn back to Curtis and a broad grin spreads across his face.
âReracked and ready for round 2.â Bucky announces
âBarnes has an unfair advantage with that roboarm.â Frank complains, hoping to deviate the current subject away.
âI think Curtis and I are at a disadvantage going up against two of the best sharpshooters the countryâs ever known,â you argue back, Frankâs attempt at changing the subject nearly working to take your mind off Curtisâ comments.
âYeah well, only one of us isnât a hundred.â Frank steps forward to take his shot and Curtis uses it to his advantage, leaning in to speak only in your ear.
âHe says youâre the first thing that makes him feel good about himself since Maria and the kids died. Like heâs got a purpose for himself instead of just existing to be the Punisher. Those of us in the profession like to call that hope.â
Heat rises in your cheeks as Curtis steps away to go order another round at the bar, his words lingering in your mind as you glance over to Frank. His dark eyes meet yours, then he clears his throat, and quickly turns his attention to Bucky, who is circling the pool table with deep concentration. You swear you see a dopey smile growing on his face as he looks at the floor, avoiding your gaze.
____________________________________
The wind is loud in your ears as Frankâs motorcycle weaves and zips through the New York streets. You grip tightly to his back and breath in the hints of his woody aftershave mixed with the remnants of gunpowder still engrained in the fibers of his jacket. The Brooklyn Bridge looms large above as you cross over it, making your way back towards your apartment.
âTonight was fun, Castle. You bring all your first dates to such a romantic spot?â you ask as you and Frank stroll down the sidewalk, stretching out the steps it takes to walk from his bike, which he parked an entire block away in a not-so-subtle act of extending the evening, to your front door.
âTold you sweetheart, that wasnât a date. And no, I got a little more class than that,â His hands shoved in his pockets as the crisp evening air stings against a still healing bruise on his left cheek bone.
âSo where do you usually take your first dates?â you ask
âItalian. There was a little place in Hell Kitchen that I used to take Maria to, but itâs been closed for years now. Gotta find a new spot.â
Frank has never shyed away from bringing up his family with you. You love that he feels comfortable enough with you to do that and heâs made it clear one of the reasons he keeps you around is because you donât âget all weirdâ around him when it does come up.
âWell this is my building.â you say with a nod of your head towards the front door. He knows that and you know he knows that, but still you werenât quite sure what to say as the evening is clearly coming to itâs end.
Deep, dark eyes meet yours and you both stare for a moment, before he cups your jaw and draws your face close to his. His lips are soft, even hesitant as they meet yours gently. He doesnât linger, but pulls away just enough to give you the choice about what happens next.
âYou kissed me,â you comment, lips still hovering inches from his as a giddy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
âYeah, thatâs what you do at the end of a date when it goes well. Know Iâve been outta practice for a while now, but didnât think that part changed much.â The boyish charm you know hides behind such an intimidating man now appearing behind his soft stare and lopsided grin.
âI thought this wasnât a date.â
âShit. I did say that, didnât I?â
âI like Italian.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â you respond nodding your head âSo take me for Italian. On an actual date. And if it goes well, kiss me again.â
âTomorrow?â
âTomorrow.â you confirm with another soft peck on his lips.
And for many years later, the number one argument in your relationship is which evening actually counted as your first date and which day your anniversary actually is. Frank lets you win that argument every time though. As embarrassed as he is when you tell people your first date was at a âseedy, Brooklyn dive bar no rational girl wouldâve called him back afterâ (instead of the very romantic Italian spot he picked the next night,) it meant that you were his and thatâs all that mattered.
Dean winchester and his girl best friend that hates men <3
Dean loves her. He knows it. Not always â there was a time before her, long ago. Dean canât remember exactly when, but it was when Sammy was still shorter than him and had a little height on her. But since then, heâs loved her.
Heâs glad to have met her so early in their lives; heâs glad to have had the chance to cling onto her for so long that she doesnât have any other options but staying at his side, now. Now, Dean doesnât think sheâd even give him a glance.
Not because itâs him, or anything, but because heâs a dude. Probably, also because of him, honestly. She puts up with a lot of his gross man stuff because heâs Dean. At least, thatâs always her excuse. Sheâll complain about some guy, and scoff under her breath about âmenâ, and Dean will look a little offended, so sheâll pat on his arm and say, âNo offense, you donât count, De.â
He used to actually get kind of upset because he is a man. Heâs very manly, and very much a guy. Now, he just pretends to be so he can ask, âThen what the hell am I?â, so he can hear her say, âYouâre my Dean.â
She doesnât really willingly talk to guys that arenât Dean or Sam. Ever. Every bar, she rolls her eyes at free drinks, but takes them anyways, and turns back to finish her conversation with Dean about what famous cowboys they would be. Heâs Clint Eastwood, unless sheâs there in this universe, then he has to be the Wild Bill Hickok to her Calamity Jane, obviousy. Having a smoke outside, she refuses a guys lighter and looks to Dean by her side instead, and continues talking about how she would join the Dark Side, but only if Darth Maul asked, or Dean had already joined. Dean, who doesnât smoke, but carries the lighter he took from Bobbyâs for her.
Never once has Dean seen her enjoy a conversation with a man outside of himself, Sammy, or Bobby. She always looks to him for saving, too. He loves when she does that. Loves that she knows heâs always there for her to do that, even if itâs just throwing an arm around her shoulder to give some guy a hint. He loves getting to throw an arm around her shoulder.
He does it a lot, too. Not just for that, either. They sit in the same booth at every diner Dean pulls the Impala into, whether Samâs there to take up the other side or not. They share beds, definitely just because itâs cheaper, and maybe even cuddle sometimes, when Dean somehow magically pulls her over to replace the pillow he usually holds. They watch cable screenings of movies together, on shitty leather couches, and always end up toppled over eachother with the comfy blanket she brings on every hunt. He likes when she folds first, and crawls onto his chest and in between his legs, but heâll never complain about resting his head on her chest.
They touch a lot. They giggle and shove, and rub backs, and squeeze arms, and twirl hair, and grab waists, and maybe even hold pinkies and interlock legs under tables. And heâs allowed to have all of that with her cause heâs her Dean. Even all Sammy gets is a side hug and a high five here and there.
She doesnât have much family left, and she doesnât talk to whoever is. Her neighbor, though, some old lady with a husband she hates and an oddly large amount of grandchildren, loves her.
Sheâs never home much with hunting, but when she is, her and her neighbor will smoke a cigarette on the porch together with a cup of coffee. The first time Dean met this lady was interesting. When he pulled into her driveway the sun was barely up, but it was already glistening against the skin of her legs, and the rest of what was peaking out from under her silky robe.
She grinned, and took a drag, smoke pooling from her lips while he walked over.
âLook at this handsome man,â Her old neighbor chimed, waving a finger. âThought you didnât have no boyfriend.â
âI donât,â She laughed right back. Heâd been close enough to touch then, so she gave his forearm a little squeeze. âHi, De.â
âHey, Sweetheart.â He grinned back down at her, eyes rimmed red and sleepy from the long car ride, but still just happy to take in the sight of her.
âSounds like boyfriend talk to me, there, honey.â The old lady sipped on her coffee, eyeing him.
âNah,â Her hand moved up further, giving his bicep a pat. âThis right here is why is donât need one. Not that I ever really wanted one in the first place.â
He thinks about that a lot. And about afterwards, when she called him baby, and stood from her patio furniture to lead him inside. How her hand was warm on his bicep, and rubbed his back to sleep while she read a cheap novel until he woke back up.
She makes loving her easy, but Dean would still do it if it was hard. She never asks for much, but he always knows what she needs. When they get back to the motel room after a long day, and she flops on the bed on her tummy, Dean knows she wonât want to eat anything but pretzels or crackers, sometimes toast, for a while until her stomach will feel better. Heâll tell her heâs going for a drive and show back up five minutes later with a Ginger Ale.
When she scrolls through the TV channel guide before pouting and tossing the remote in his lap, he can tell there arenât any Dr. Sexy reruns on, so now itâs up to Dean to find an acceptable movie. When a hunt goes bad, and her eyes go all spacey, Dean knows itâs time to go lay in bed. Not necessarily go to bed, just be in bed. With Dean. To lay together, under her huge, comfy blanket. She likes watching cartoons, then, or just talking. The two of them, they can talk about anything for hours.
Sometimes, she likes to lay on his chest. Dean will already be in bed, channel surfing, when she strolls from the bathroom in his old hoodie and soft pj shorts. Sheâll crawl into the bed, and curl up with her head on his abs, facing the TV.
Once, halfway through an episode of Scooby-Doo, she shuffled around to face him.
âDo you think itâs weird I never try to get with guys?â
It threw him off pretty bad. Never once, has he ever really thought about it. She justâŠdidnât do that, and that was that. End of story.
âNo. Why would I?â
âI donât know,â She shrugged. âJustâŠwhen we went to the Roadhouse awhile ago and I was hanging out with Jo, she wanted to talk about boys and stuff. I told her youâre the only guy I tolerate â besides Sam, obviously, but â she kinda made fun of me a little. She was just joking, yâknow, but I guess it just made me think.â
âWhat did?â His eyebrows were crinkled, and his pretty green eyes showed just how truly lost he was.
âI just never realized that it wasnât normal for that to not be appealing. The wholeâŠsleeping with a random guy thing. Thatâs probably why iâve never had sex.â She said it like it means nothing, like itâs the most normal thing in the world.
ââŠYouâre a virgin?â His eyebrows moved all the way up, and his mouth didnât gape, but it was still open when he finished. The prettiest, smartest, most hilarious woman heâs ever known â is a virgin.
âWell, yeah,â She shrugged again. âWhy would I wanna have sex with some random dude who wonât even get me off? Iâd rather just do it myself. Besides, Iâd want it to be someone I trust, and I only really trust you that much.â Then, after staring him in the eyes and spilling the one thing he didnât know about her in the most casual tone possible, and saying, out of anyone in the world, sheâd only want to have sex with him, she turns back around and watches the rest of the Scooby episode until she falls asleep. Her head is still on his tummy, moving up and down with his breath, and her hand lays in front of it, a little too close to his waistband.
Theyâve been different after that. Not much, but enough for Sam to notice. Jo, Ellen, and even Bobby, notice, too when theyâre around.
All their soft, small touches that couldâve maybe passed off as just something sweet between good friends now linger. They fully hold hands, all the time. No more pinkies linked under tables, but now, swinging hand in hand everywhere they go. Kisses on the cheek are mandatory when one is leaving for more than five minutes without the other, whether itâs to a different state or the next room over. Hugs are constant and never ending. She receives a minimum of four Dean Winchester given piggybacks on a weekly basis. Playful pushes turn into tickles and giggling and careful tackles onto beds and big bear hugs. Basically, theyâre just fucking insufferable.
They say I love you, like theyâve been doing it for centuries. To Dean, it feels like they have. Everything is just so easy with her, that thereâs no way he canât say it back. Itâs not like heâs lying, either way. It kinda scares the shit out of Sammy, though, the first time he catches it.
Dean and Sam were just going to the library, she was staying back in the room with an upset stomach because Dean wouldnât let her go. Heâd had gotten her Goldfish and a Ginger Ale already, had her propped up in bed with the best pillows in the room and Cake Boss ready to shine (Dr.Sexy wasnât on).
Sam had already been waiting by the door, annoyed and impatient when it happened. He was about to start sighing and grumbling for Dean to hurry up when the older brother leaned back into her side, after just finally being convinced to leave it, and pressed a kiss to her temple.
âCall me if it gets worse or somethinâ, alright? Weâll be back in a minute.â Her hand curled up, into his hair, basically petting him.
âI know, De,â She kissed his cheek. âThank you.â
âNothinâ to thank me for.â He got all bashful, grinning like he was on top of the world.
âAlright, get out of here,â She laughed, and gave him a push. âStop making Sam wait.â He moved away, finally, and just as the two were about to shut the door behind them, she shouts for Dean. âLove ya!â
He sticks his head back in, grinning so fucking sickly sweet it almost made Samâs stomach start to hurt too. âYeah, love ya, girl,â He closes the door, turning back to Sam. âHurry up, Sammy, weâre running late.â
Yet, both of them will still claim theyâre âjust best friendsâ. What absolute bullshit.
heated rivalry really saw the discourse that sex scenes don't add anything to media and said fuck you, I'm going to tell a story through the medium of sex scenes and it's going to be beautiful
victor wears white in his youth. victor's clothes are stained by his mother claire's lifeblood from her dying in childbirth. claire wore red and only red, the color of life itself. claire was covered in a white coffin, locking her color away in a white expanse for all eternity. victor wears a red neckerchief around his throat for years afterwards, like anger, or penance, or grief. it wasn't in memory of life, but in memory of death.
two women, played by the same actress, both die at the hands of those who claim to love them, a father and son who were both performing masculinity (fatherhood as an act of imposition on a woman's bodily autonomy, and the importance of surgical greatness on the part of leopold, fatherhood as violence against one's child, and romantic love as a form of protection from percieved harm on the part of victor) and in the process staining pure white clothes blood red with waning life.
victor never wears red again save for his own blood as he roams to the end of the (white, frozen, dead) earth in his white wedding suit, a fitting end for a man stained by women's blood twice over in a cycle he never recognized he followed his own father through until lying on his deathbed, coughing up red and begging his child for forgiveness.