,,,

[silverfished]

the humble sardine

[the-east-art]

Atlantic Mackerel. Oil Pastel practice fish o7 expect more

[supermenz]

if you're done with your ex, move on to the next!

summary: Being rejected from Metropolis University? Humbling. Your boyfriend of four years dumping you a year later thanks to his dead parents? Even worse. But when your friend tries to get you out of your dorm after two weeks spent bed-rotting and takes you to a photoshoot audition — "Just to try something new!" — you find yourself with a lot of attention you didn't want and a billionaire playboy on your tail.

pairing(s): bruce wayne x reader, (ex) clark kent x childhoodsweetheart!reader

word count: 21.7k (my longest fanfic yet)

warnings: inaccuracies regarding the position of the towns (used this map for reference) and college admissions, if you don't really understand why reader is beware of bruce then you might want to go and read a little sumsum about epstein island (my girl is right not to want anything to do with a billionaire), bruce is so not nonchalant, he's also kinda bi (OF COURSE HE IS HE'S A SLUT!!! AND OF COURSE IT'S WITH HARVEY), no trouple sorry, blood, one (1) gunshot as well as one (1) scott pilgrim reference, bruce and reader trauma bond over their weird exes, merry christmas/please don't call trope, suggestive maybe, swear words, angst and fluff, dick makes an apparition at the end (if there's anything I'm forgetting pls lmk)

author's note: credits to @lovingyoulovinme for the concept, taken from this post! bruce and clark can be imagined as any transposition of their characters, but honestly I tried my best not to think of david corenswet while writing this cuz I'd NEVERRRR let that man go. EVER. english isn't my first language so construcitve criticism is always welcome!!

dividers from @uzmacchiato! <3

You’ve known Clark Kent all your life. 

That happens when he’s the only kid in a three-mile radius near the house you were raised in — and that also happens when your mothers have been best friends for more than twenty years. There are pictures of him, barely one year old, sitting on the couch of your parent’s living room while cooing at the pink bundle in your mother’s arms — you. From then on, it’s unusual to see a photo of the two of you not together. 

He’s there when you start crawling, clapping his hands in encouragement, a picture showing him smushing his cheek against yours in triumph as you smile with the only two teeth you have. He holds you steady as you take your first steps, a bit wobbly himself, and you both fall into a fit of uncontrollable laughter as you crumble down to the floor. He teaches you his name as soon as you start talking, and when he’s over to your farm you end up following him like a lost puppy, chanting ClarkClarkClarkClark! loud enough for your father to take a peek out of the living room to make sure you’re okay. 

You’re four when you participate to your first dance recital, grinning wildly while wearing the pinkiest tutu your father could find at the only costume shop Smallville has, and when you get off stage after a choreography only the parents of the kids doing it could enjoy, you find a red-cheeked Clark holding a bouquet of flowers almost bigger than him. Your parents watch with knowing smiles as you squeal and topple him to the ground, smooshing your cheek against his. 

“You shouldn’t have, Jon,” your mother whispers to Pa Kent, “I know flowers are getting expensive these days.”

He barely brushes her comment aside, “Oh, shut it, woman, he wanted to. ‘Sides, Eleonor from the flower shop already owed us a favour.” he chuckles quietly, “Why, you tellin’ me it bothers you to see her so happy with her itty-bitty pink tutu and her bouquet?”

By this point, both you and Clark are back on your feet, and you’re jumping around — showing off your flowers to the friends you’ve made in the dance class while dragging Clark along by the hand. The kid is as red as a tomato, shuffling his feet awkwardly as you hold the bouquet like it’s an infant. 

Safe to say, you and Clark are thick as thieves growing up: it’s rare to see him around without you and vice versa, aside from school hours — and even then, you’re always together during breaks and such, and given that you take the same school bus and even get down at the same spot there’s never a day where the seat next to you or next to him is empty. 

Since the Kent farm and yours aren’t that far away you’re both often found wandering in the fields between your houses, sometimes even bringing your lunch lovingly wrapped in an embroidered cloth by your mum, who — same as Ma Kent — always packs not one but two meals; one for you, one for Clark. Of course, you both take advantage of the situation and always end up eating the whole feast without leaving a single crumb, only to then pass out for usually two or three hours after the ordeal on your little beaten up blanket. 

When everybody starts picking on him when he gets glasses — horrendous, thick-lenses ones — you just hold his hand while laying together on the hammock that hangs on two of the trees outside his farm, probably older than Pa Kent himself. “Who cares?” you mumble over his muffled sobs, hugging his side tight. “They all suck anyway. Besides, if they think the glasses look bad on you, maybe it’s their eyes that need fixing.” 

You’re nine when you first see him fly. It’s an accident — he thought you were in town with your parents, but opted to stay home instead and went to the Kent farm for a surprise visit — and he doesn’t talk to you for a week, too scared of confrontation. Things slide back in place as soon as Martha understands what happened and gives him a stern talk about friends and secrets; not even an hour later you’re aware of all his history — the meteor shower of ten years ago actually being his space pod entering the atmosphere, him coming from another planet and having freaking superpowers. 

You’ve always known Clark was special — always thought that he was one of a kind, a boy too gentle to be like everyone. You just didn’t know that special would have meant from another galaxy. 

Not a lot changes by the time you start going to middle and then high school — Clark’s one of the few boys in town that growing up didn’t have a phase or permanently turned into a dickhead. The Kents raised him well, making sure he never disrespected anyone without a good reason to, and even then he’s often too nice to act on it — unless it involves someone other than him. If there’s someone who’s being given trouble at school, he always finds a way to help — even if he himself isn’t really one of the popular kids either. 

That’s what you like about Clark. The ability to look bigger than he is if needed to and a heart of gold that would make the nicest man on Earth look pale in comparison. 

Of course, it’s not a surprise to anyone when you two start dating — it was just a matter of time, clearly. The only visible change is the hand-holding and kissing; when you tell the Kents, as Martha squeals and jumps up to hug you, Jon just sits there with a confused look on his face while scratching his chin. “You tellin’ me you two weren’t together this whole time?” 

Those are definitely the best years of your life, you think one summer evening as you lay on the same battered blanket of ten years ago in the same tulip field with the same boy. It’s just that this time he’s double the size and officially your boyfriend, who holds you tight against his chest while basking in the blazing sun. 

“Will you ever take me flying?” you ask, eyes barely open — just what you need to look at him, golden and smiling. He chuckles, “You’d like me to?”

You nod enthusiastically. You’ve rarely ever gotten out of Smallville, aside from school trips and a couple of vacations with your parents, so it’s safe to say that you’ve never even gotten on a plane in your entire life, with the closest airport being in Metropolis. Clark, you guess, is the next best thing you have to a plane. 

“Dunno, sweetheart,” he presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, “If Pa saw me fly with you, he’d yell at me to get down and start a long lecture about being seen and the dangers of it. Maybe when they’re out of town, mh?” 

You hum, almost half asleep, lulled by his hand gently caressing your back under your shirt and the warmth of the sun. “I’ll hold you to that one.” 

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end — and just two years after that conversation in the field you find yourself in Clark’s room, holding back your tears as you help him pack his things for college. You should be happy for him — he’s been accepted into the Journalism course, which has been his dream for years — but you just can’t shake the thought of him being so far away in the big city while you’re still stuck here for another year. 

You like Smallville — you love the farm, the animals and the constant fresh air — but there’s basically nothing there aside from fields and the school. You and Clark have never been so far away from each other for so long — you honestly don’t know how you’ll manage without him around. Sure, you have other friends, but nobody could ever make up for his absence. 

And that’s why you’ve been spending the last two weeks tied to his side — helping him get ready for his move and packing old shirts and jeans. You almost burst out in tears when you see him sneaking an old picture of you in a tutu and a bouquet in one of the boxes. 

He notices you staring  — of course he notices. He’s already noticed how on edge you’ve seemed in these last few months, and if he’s right the dam is about to break in a million pieces right in front of him. 

Clark gets up from his place on the floor, wiping his hands on his jeans, “Everything alright?”

You look at him– really look at him. Your lips tremble, tears begin to form in your waterline and judging by the rapid beats of your heartbeat you’re about to have a complete breakdown. Finally, you whimper, “I don’t want you to go,” 

The dam breaks. You start ugly crying, full-on sobbing as Clark hugs you and holds you tight against his chest, “No– I mean– I want you to go, it’s– it’s a great opportunity– but I don’t want you to leave me here all alone–” your sobs rattle against his chest and your words are barely understandable, but for someone with super empathy — you’re sure that’s a real thing and an actual true power of his — and super hearing it’s pretty understandable. 

His eyes soften. “I wouldn’t leave you here if it was my choice,” he murmurs, “I’d take you with me in a heartbeat, but we’ll have to start somewhere if we want to eventually move out of here together. In a year you’ll finish high school, and until then I’ll still visit constantly.” he smiles sweetly, “You could come to visit me too. Did you know that they just finished building the railway connecting Midvale to Metropolis? How convenient is that?” 

His heart breaks even more when you don’t stop crying. His shirt is damp by now, and you are starting to hyperventilate — sobs becoming more drawn and hoarse. “Hey, hey,” he takes your face in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs, “we’ll be okay, alright? Nothing will change. We haven’t been friends for seventeen years only for things to change because of– what, a hundred miles of distance?” he starts peppering your damp cheeks with kisses, managing to get a strained laugh out of you. “I didn’t come all the way here from another galaxy just to forget about you the second I move out of town.”

You’re back in the Kent’s farm two days later to say goodbye to Clark along with some close friends of his, and you cry more than you’d like to admit — but for now it doesn’t matter, because he’s still here and still able to wipe your tears with a gentle hand and dry the dampness on your cheeks with kisses. The real problems will arise when he won’t be able to do that anymore — and it happens soon after: he and Jon get on his truck and start driving towards Metropolis.

You stay seated on the Kent’s porch until Clark’s truck isn’t visible anymore, and Martha gently puts a hand on your shoulder. “Want a slice of pie? Lemon blueberry tart, your favorite. I made it… well, I kind of knew this sadness was coming.” she gives you a tight-lipped smile, teary herself. “I’ll miss him too. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? It’s just a new beginning. Besides, a couple of months and it’ll be Christmas. And you know we always spend Christmas together, hun.” 

The next few months are spent between your studies for the admission tests for University and hours-long calls with Clark, who’s enthusiastically adapting to life in the big city as you try not to give away too much that you’re rightfully sulking back at home. Christmas is a nice break from your longing, and you barely spend any time apart from each other, but after that it’s back to square one. 

Much to your displeasure, the calls start to become less and less long — and you really don’t want to be the type of girlfriend that stalks her boyfriend’s every step, but you really miss him, and it’s hard staying in Smallville without him when you’ve only known the town with him in it. He’s just starting to make new friends and getting to know the city, and you know that, but you wish you could be there with him instead of being stuck in the middle of nowhere. 

Spring break comes, and with it your train ticket from Midvale to Metropolis and your hunk of a boyfriend waiting for you at the arrival station. You nearly tackle him to the ground — and that says something, because he played football in high school — and kiss him fervently right here and there, not really caring about being in public. He takes your luggage like the real gentleman he is and tries not to laugh when you take his hand and start skipping like Heidi as he leads the way to his apartment. 

It’s definitely the shortest week of your existence — you get to have a preview of the life you’ll have with Clark in Metropolis, but not really the whole thing. You try to forget about how soon you’ll have to be back home as he shows you around and introduces you to his friends, and try to ignore the fact that while you’ve been wallowing in your own pity and having breakdowns weekly he seems to be just fine — peachy, even. As you barely manage to adapt in an environment without him, he’s thriving without you — and you know it’s not specifically because of your absence, but still. It drives you crazy, the way you seem to cling on him for everything as he manages to handle even the most complicated things alone. 

The week ends, and you go back home — maybe it’s for the best, you try to reason with yourself. You’re not sure of how much you could go on without going crazy while seeing him being perfectly fine without you as you’re spending every day missing him, and you’re starting to doubt yourself. Maybe he just doesn’t need you as much as you need him, and that hurts, because you’ve spent all your life by his side and don’t really know how to change that.

You still try to put up a brave face when talking to him on the phone, even though you’ve been counting the days that remain until your graduation — and thus Clark’s next visit — and try to hide your anxiety about your college applications. Veterinary Science, you’ve chosen — pretty predictable for a farm girl who was raised around animals, really. Metropolis is your first choice, of course, but what you haven’t really told Clark are the other options — Gotham University, Central City College, and countless others that you don’t really want to mention to him. 

Truth is, you’re not sure you’ll be accepted into Met U, and even if you did — you’re still not sure it would be the best option. Clark seems to be holding up the fort just perfectly without you — and since you’ve visited him in Metropolis, you’ve had this horrendous itch that you just aren’t able to actually scratch. Would you be able to create the life he’s having, alone? Are you melancholic just because you’re in Smallville, and to you Smallville has always meant Clark Kent? Would it be the same if you weren’t here but somewhere else, like Gotham? 

Graduation day comes and goes, and not even Clark’s presence is able to bring you out of the existential crisis you feel you’re living in — because the thing is, you don’t really know how you would manage in a new city alone. You’ve never explored the idea because you’ve always taken for granted that Clark would’ve been there for you, but seeing the acceptance rate at Met U really gave you a reality check. 

You spend the day throwing mostly fake smiles at everyone that congratulates you and going back to frowning at your shoes once they notice Clark at your side, not able to ignore the pit that’s formed in your stomach at the thought of not being accepted at Metropolis University anymore. But why do you really want to go there, anyways? Because there’s Clark? As much as you love him, you don’t want to live your life tied to his side only to then discover you can’t actually function without him. 

And when, inevitably, the admission letters come back in, you try to act like you can keep it together — like you’re not nearly combusting at the mere idea of opening them. Clark comes over in the evening and you open them together, hearts thumping and feet tapping nervously against the ground. The first one you open, of course, is from Met U. 

Dear miss, this is in regard to your application to the Veterinary Science program at Metropolis University, Delaware; we regret to inform you that… 

You don’t even want to read the rest of the letter, immediately dropping it on the table and getting up from your seat to go take a breath of fresh air on the porch — trying to avoid the inevitable nervous breakdown waiting for you if you dare to look into Clark’s eyes. You don’t want to see the disappointment in them — you know he’d never really blame you, but you’ve been waiting for this moment for a whole year, and despite all your doubts you still wanted to be admitted. It’s, honestly, so humbling. 

Clark is smart enough to give you a couple of minutes to yourself, coming to sit beside you on the porch when he’s sure you won’t burst out crying as soon as he mentions the subject, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “It’s not the end of the world,” he hushers, pressing a kiss to your temple, “you’ve been accepted to GCU, which is still closer to Metropolis than Smallville. Or– or Star City, too, even if that’s a bit far– whatever makes you happy, I’ll support that.” 

You sniffle, rubbing the palm of your hand on your face. “You opened the other letters?” 

He chuckles quietly, “Wouldn’t rob you of the experience. X-ray vision, remember?” 

A small, broken laugh escapes you. “Oh, you and your outer-world powers.” he shares the laugh with you, the air lightening for just a moment before it goes back to heavy. “I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”

He flinches. “You– oh, sweetheart, no,” you can tell that he’s, for maybe the first time in his life, at a loss for words. “It’s… it’s just a mishap. They happen. It’s not your fault.” 

You hide your face in your knees and hug them tight against your chest. “I was already imagining us two happily living together in Metropolis.” you're now imagining yourself not able to live alone without him and ending up all alone in the new city, whatever one it’ll be. 

“And it will happen,” he assures you, “just, in… a couple of years. As soon as they let you transfer to Metropolis University.” 

Life goes on. You choose to pursue Gotham University, even if your parents are a little worried about the percentage of violent crimes there, and find a little apartment near campus in a complex that’s owned by the School Department and offered to the students for a modest price in one of the relatively safest areas in town. Clark helps you pack and even drives you all the way to Gotham when it’s time for the semester to start, unloading all your things in his truck and carrying them up the stairs to your unit. 

That being said, your roommate’s already there when you enter. “Jenna,” she introduces herself, enthusiastically shaking your hand as you let Clark do all the work in the background. She’s got a shirt with the drawing of a bat on and looks already settled in. “Heard you weren’t from around here, so I got you a little welcome present!” she passes you a glittery pink box with a bow on it, smiling excitedly. 

You blush, hesitantly accepting the gift, “Oh, there was no need–” 

She brushes you off with an easy smile, “Nonsense! Now, open it and tell me if you like it,” she’s buzzing with joy, and Clark curiously joins your side while wiping inexistent sweat from his forehead. You cautiously untie the ribbon, then open the box to reveal the gift, “It’s a…” you’re trying your best not to seem rude, but you’re really confused. “...A weirdly shaped bat?” Clark tries, not unkindly. 

Your roommate doesn’t seem too disheartened by the inexistent recognition of her gift. “It’s a Bat-taser!” she says it like there could be no doubt ever about it. “They’re really popular these days. Trust me, you’ll need it.” a fucking taser. Shaped like a bat–

Clark perks up, “Oh, yeah– is it from the guy that goes around dressed like a bat?”

Jenna claps like he’s won the lottery. “Batman, yeah!” 

You frown, “I’ve heard of him. Guys playing dress-up are getting really popular these days, aren’t they? Heard about a guy floating around in a horrendous green suit in Star City.” you lower your voice, making sure only Clark can hear you, “You sure he isn’t from your planet?” 

“I sure hope not,” he whispers back, “would really taint the whole mysterious thing about being from an unknown planet, you know?” 

Bat-taser aside, you find out pretty soon that Jenna’s actually really cool. She was born and raised in Gotham, apparently, and lunged at the idea of moving into a safer area of the city when given the opportunity. “Things are actually crazy around here,” she tells you as soon as Clark leaves — thank God, because the last thing you want is a far-away worried boyfriend that shriekes in fear every time you have to go out. “Got even crazier when Batman started going around. We’ve got so many insane criminals that a whole island’s basically dedicated to them.” 

“You mean Arkham,” you recall, slouched on the couch beside her, “so the stories about the asylum are true?” 

“Probably even watered down,” she muses, “the city’s had more lockdowns than sunny days these last few years.” 

Well, isn’t that exciting. Something tells you that soon, you’ll learn exactly why Bat-tasers are so popular these days.

You adjust to life in Gotham pretty well — to be back home before the sun sets, to use all the locks on the door even if it’s still just noon and never ever leave a single window open. You and Jenna have the disadvantage of the balcony — a tiny little crane that looks onto the street below —, disadvantage, you learn confusedly, because apparently Batman and his friends (aka the lunatics that he follows around in the city) often swing by those and either break the rails (in Batman’s case) or straight up break-in (in the lunatics' case). 

Adapting to Gotham is hard — but still easier, you must say, than adapting to a Smallville without Clark. It’s a new city, after all, void of any memories and full of new things, and soon enough you’re too immersed into your studies and the new city to constantly miss your boyfriend's presence. 

It’s not that you don’t miss him — you do — it’s just different than in Smallville. It doesn’t feel like something — someone — is constantly missing, and you have enough things on your mind to keep Clark’s absence out of your mind until mid to late evening, when usually one of you calls the other to talk about how things are going. 

Jenna helps, too — you find yourself being more close to her than you could ever imagine. It’s more like having a sister rather than a roommate, really. She manages somehow to get you a job at the same animal clinic she works at, and you've discovered more things that people can do in the last few months in Gotham than in your eighteen years of life, and that’s probably where farm life has stunted you. 

She offers you your first cigarette — not really a cigarette, she specifies, it’s made out of natural herbs that should taste like strawberry or something like that — and soon enough you purchase two ten-dollar fold-in chairs from Target just for the thrill of sitting in your little hazardy balcony while gossiping about the other students or one of her fifty family members. 

“And you?” she asks during a Saturday night in October, spent happily freezing outside while bundled up in a blanket each, “I bet at least one interesting thing happened in your eighteen years spent in your little farm town.”

You think about Clark flying and holding up cows and tractors like they’re berries, “The most interesting thing that can happen in Smallville is a particularly nice harvest. Even though I do recall that the milkman’s wife cheated on him with the mailman a couple of years ago.” 

For Christmas, obviously, you go back home. Jenna tells you that she’ll take care of the plants and make sure that nobody dares to break in, even if she’s back to her parents in Chinatown. Clark picks you up at the Metropolis' train station, greeting you with a tight hug and a loving kiss, and you make the two-hour drive to Smallville together, chatting quietly about how the last few months have been. Not surprisingly, even with the distance between you two shortening to eighty-seven miles rather than the hundred from Smallville, you haven’t really had the time to see each other. 

Something’s going on with Clark. You’re not really sure what it is, but the look in his eyes troubles you. He looks dazed, almost dull, and he isn’t anything like your usual loverboy Kent is. 

“Hey,” you whisper to him on Christmas Eve night, as everyone chatters happily while waiting for midnight to open the presents, “everything alright?”

“Mh?” he looks taken aback. “Oh, yeah, I’m just…” he sighs, slumping his head against your shoulder, “lost in my own thoughts, I think.” 

“Well, what about them?”

His brows furrow. “Not sure yet.” he looks up at you, pretty blue eyes shining under the dim light of the living room, “Do you ever think that my powers should be used for good?”

You stay silent for a moment. “I think you’re too kind to use them in any way but for good. Why?”

“I don’t mean ‘helping my parents in the farm’ good,” he nuzzles his nose on your shoulder, leaving a faint kiss there. “I mean, like, ‘helping citizens during a crisis’ good.” 

You blink. “You’ve got a heart of gold, Clark Kent,” you hush lovingly, pressing a kiss into his curls, “but as much as I love that about you, I don’t think you should put that burden on your shoulders. If you could, you’d help everyone, but that can’t really be possible. There’ll always be an old lady you couldn’t help walking the street, or a girl you couldn’t save from a mugger.”

His eyes are so soft that they might melt you too. “Why are you telling me this?”

You frown in the most gentle way possible. “Because I’m worried that if you start being like Green Lantern or– or Batman, you’ll never be able to come to terms with the people you weren’t able to help.”

“I still could try to help,” he argues without any spite. 

You study his face — oh, your sweet, sweet boy… “Jenna told me stories,” you murmur, “about Batman having to crawl back to his car, bloodied and barely alive, and sometimes even fainting in some God-forgotten alley — saved only because of some good samaritans that helped him get back up on his feet. I… I know that you might feel like you have a mission, Clark, but you have to consider the downsides of it.” you shake your head gently, “I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner.” 

Of course, none of you knows the true extent of Clark’s powers — that happens when someone has to hide them for all of his life. When the winter break comes to an end, you go back to Gotham with Clark like always, but this time the car ride is silent. He drops you off at your apartment, carries your luggage up the stairs and kisses you goodbye like nothing’s wrong — like the air isn’t heavy with something. 

Your days go on like always — you listen to your lessons, study, have a half-decent lunch with Jenna, listen to some more lessons, do your shift at the animal clinic and get back home before the sun goes down. The calls with Clark have slightly lessened, and you’d like to think that the blame can be put on the shoulders of the exam season, which — you are sure of it — is kicking both of your asses. Everything continues just fine until April comes. 

Clark calls, which by now it’s unusual because it’s always you that calls him. “Hello?” Your reply comes after a few rings, because it’s 10 a.m. on a Sunday and you sure as hell weren’t thinking about getting out of bed before it was time for lunch. Silence meets you on the other end. “I said, hello?”

“Hi,” Clark’s voice is the tiniest squeal, a very unusual thing for him — he’s never insecure about something, and when he is, you talk it out like the responsible people you’d like to think you are. 

You sigh softly on the phone, already fighting back sleep, “Hi, baby,” you yawn loudly, “what’s up?” 

“I, um…” he stutters for a bit, maybe unsure of where to start. “I’m in town for a couple of commissions. Are you up for a coffee?” 

Well, if that doesn’t wake you up, you don’t know what would. “You’re here? In Gotham?” 

“Yeah.” you do hear the ever persistent GCPD sirens screech on his end of the line. 

“Not that I’m mad about it, but why?” 

Another weird silence. “I told you, had a couple of commissions to run.”

It confuses you — what kind of job would Clark have to do in Gotham, and why didn’t he even tell you about it before coming here? — but you just shrug it off, taking for granted that he’ll explain everything about it when you see him. You get ready to meet him downtown quite happily, thinking about maybe a surprise, but nothing could really prepare you for what’s about to come. 

“I think we should break up.” 

The words ring in your ears. You’ve never pondered about the option of Clark and you breaking up — honestly, you’ve known him for so long that it just wasn’t even a thought in your head. Ever since you were little, you’d dreamed of the day you’d finally be able to marry Clark Kent and have the life you’d always fantasized about with him. 

The café he told you to meet him in is nice. Not one of the fancy ones in uptown Gotham, but not even one of the worst ones down in Crime Alley. You’re pretty sure you’d actually be able to enjoy it if it wasn’t for the fact that your boyfriend of four years is dumping you in it and you have no idea why. You can’t even form an actual thought, let alone an intelligent one, so the only thing that escapes your mouth is, “Uh?” 

He doesn’t look so comfortable either. It’s your first time getting dumped, but it’s also his first time dumping someone, you guess. “I just think it’s not working anymore between us. That we may need some time to figure things out on our own.” the shock must be written on your face, because he almost flinches. “Don’t look at me like that, please.”

“A cappuccino, an espresso and a croissant,” the waitress pretends not to listen as she brings you guys your order, but you saw her staring earlier. You shake your head in disbelief as soon as she leaves, pinching the bridge of your nose to try to make sense of anything that’s happening right now. “So you mean to tell me that the commission you had to do in Gotham… was to break up with me?” 

He grimaces. “Don’t say it like that,” 

“How else should I put it?” you hiss, “Clark, we’ve been together for four years — friends for all my existence even before that. You’ve been in my life since I can remember and you want to break up with me with the whole ‘I don’t think it’s working anymore’ bullshit? No, my guy, you’ll have to tell me a lot more than that. What is up with you?”

He presses his lips together for a brief moment, “I managed to get my degree earlier than I expected,” he almost stumbles over his words, “I… it was always my intention, but I didn’t think I’d actually manage to do so in such a brief period of time.” 

You blink. “You never told me that.” 

“I– I never told anyone, actually.” now he’s actively avoiding your eyes while nervously playing with his fingers, “Clark, it’s not a thing you just casually avoid to mention. You turned a three to four year program into a year and a half course. That’s a big thing. You should’ve told me– I would’ve done my best to support you.” 

His eyes are shiny, and it’s not just because of the light hitting them in just the right way. “I’m leaving.” 

You blink. “What?” 

He gives you a sad smile — and that makes you shudder, because in your entire life you’ve never ever seen Clark Kent smile like that. It’s honestly scary; he’s made for happy smiles, not for sad half-crapped ones. “I’m leaving,” he repeats gently, “I want to find out more about my biological parents — about my home planet. I think I’ve just found a way to do that, and I don’t know exactly for how long I’ll be gone.” he blinks away the tears, “And I can’t leave if I know that I’ve left you behind waiting for me.” 

“How long will you be gone?” you almost don’t hear yourself asking — it’s like that’s not even your voice. You have no idea how you still haven’t started crying. 

His voice is almost as little as yours. “I don’t know. I’d like to think it could be just a few months, but… something tells me it’ll be years.” 

You’re not sure how you get back home, but you somehow do. Jenna is on the couch, eating ice cream for breakfast, and chirps happily when she sees you. “Hey, I was getting worried! How did it go with Prince Charming?" you make it to your room before you throw yourself on the bed and start ugly crying uncontrollably. 

You don’t know life without Clark Kent. You’ve been inseparable since forever, and you always thought he’d be one of the only constants in your life — turns out, he had other plans. Yes, it’s true that you wanted to experience life in the big city without him, but that doesn’t mean you wanted him completely out of your life — you just wanted to see how well you’d do. (Ditched for unknown and dead parents, by the way? That has to be a new low.) 

Jenna tries her best to boost your morale — even buys you that one Ben & Jerry’s cookie dough ice cream that she hates with passion but that you love— but in the end, everything proves to be useless, and you end up going on with your life while trying to pretend that you have it all together. 

Class. Study. Lunch. Class. Work. Back at home. Repeat. 

Of course, you barely manage to keep it together. Every hour not spent doing the things you have to do is spent in bed contemplating your life and the exact moment where it got real shitty. Somewhere along the first week Ma Kent calls, probably alerted by your mother about the break up, but you really don’t have the heart nor the strength needed to respond to her call. You’re relieved when she avoids calling a second time — probably knowing that you need some space and that she’s not the first person you’d want to hear after something like this — because you don’t really know how you could’ve avoided to reply for a second time while watching her name grace the screen. 

Week two passes and things get even worse for you, so much so that you have to call in sick to work thanks to the sore throat that you find yourself with after crying uncontrollably for almost all night every night. You can tell Jenna’s fed up, because even with all her strength, it seems as if she can’t help you at all. 

“You know, I once broke up with an italian guy over distance,” she tries to reason, sprawled on your bed as you lie face down as if dead — you have yet to actually explain to her why you and Clark broke up, so she’s still thinking that it was because of all the miles separating you. “He has yet to tell his mother– and it’s been two years. She still sends me a whole box of Italian cheeses for every holiday.” she suddenly perks up, “Maybe I’ll be graced with some of the famous Ma Kent pie one day. I hope she sends a piece for your birthday.”

Your hiccup is muffled by the pillow. “Right, yeah, sorry. Not the best thing to say right now. You don’t need to mourn Ma Kent’s pie too. You’ll do that once you’re ready.” 

“I’ll never be ready to mourn Martha’s pie,” you groan. You could get over Clark Kent, but not his mother's pies. Your ma's still friends with her, so you doubt that you’ll never eat it again, but you’ll have no reason to come over to the Kent’s farm as much as you did before. 

Two days later, entering the third week post break up, Jenna has had enough — and she barges into your room with a plan. “We’re going out.”

As always, your reply comes out muffled, “Ion wan’ to.” 

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to,” she tears off the duvet from your body and takes a hold of your ankles, literally dragging you out of bed as you shriek, “I just said that we are going out!”

She makes sure you dress up decently before dragging you out of the house and into her car, making sure the child lock is on — wouldn’t want you to jump out of the vehicle as she’s driving — before starting the engine. “I signed you up for an audition.”

You look at her, frowning, pretty sure your ears have betrayed you and made you hear wrong. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her smile is so genuine that it would be hard to find the will to smack her. “I signed you up for an audition,” she repeats without any sign of remorse, “you know Flowers n’ Kisses? The shop uptown? They’re looking for new models to renew the brand, make it younger. And you, my dear, with your little sad eyes and red cheeks from all the crying, will be perfect.”

You stare at her, bewildered. “Are you well?”

“What? It’s true that you look your best right after crying!” 

“Are you saying I should be sad more often?”

“Of course not! I’m just saying that at least one good thing should come out of this situation — besides, don’t look at me like that, you know you’re already sad all the time. I just think that we should take advantage of your puffy, irritated, cute face. Besides, it’s just to try something new! Who knows, maybe you’ll like the lights of the camera and having to pose and all the pretty dresses they’ll put you in.” you highly doubt that, but you let it go in favour of your remaining sanity.

There’s at least twenty other people at the audition when you arrive to the location — and this is only the three PM slot, Jenna whispers to you conspiratorially — and you raise an eyebrow when you see the other girls there, because they’re gorgeous and you’re starting to wonder if there were any demands for this interview. “Jenna, are you sure there aren’t any requirements for this kind of thing?” 

“Oh, there were,” she assures you, “I had to put a couple of your pictures in the form before they gave me a time for your audition. I tried to apply too, but they rejected me.” she sighs dramatically, clinging to your arm, “But if I can’t chase my dream of marrying a ninety-year-old multi-billionaire and living the rest of my life filthy rich, then you might as well follow up for me! And don’t forget about me when you’re going on vacation to Tenerife with your boyfriend’s super expensive and huge yacht…” 

“You’re sick,” you mutter, completely fed up, “and not in the good sense. I’m sure there’s people in Arkham down on the worst levels that are much more reasonable than you.” you sigh, feeling the by-now familiar punch to the gut that follows every single thought about him, “I don’t care about yachts. I would’ve been just happy with a little apartment in Metropolis with Clark.”

She groans dramatically, “Oh, please! What was so great about this guy? Was he the genie of the lamp or something? Was he that good in bed?”

You sniffle. “You’re so cruel. He was my everything.”

“He’s a guy! An average one, at best!” 

“You take that back–” you’re about to strangle her because Clark Kent is definitely above the average male population but get conveniently stopped by the call of your name. It’s the PR manager, you assume, and he smiles kindly at you when Jenna takes your hand and raises it up like he’s a teacher making a difficult question and you’re a student eager to reply. “Please come with me, this way.” 

You find out his name is Roy and he’s better at make up than you are — you stare at his perfect eyeliner with envy as he leads you to a room with a camera set up and a table with other people quietly chatting. You already feel awkward just by standing there, and you’d be lying if you said that you were ready for this thing, so you find yourself thinking about Jenna’s dreams to force yourself to go on. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about Tenerife and a yacht. Think about– 

“So, miss,” a redhead at the center of the table smiles at you, leaning her chin on her intertwined fingers, “are you ready to start?”

You'd be lying if you said that you got out of there without feeling stupid. They made you walk into a straight line with music in the background, asked you to pose, took a few pictures and then just started asking questions about your life, saying something about wanting to know the personality of the candidates. You feel so relieved when you walk out that room that suddenly being single doesn’t look as bad as staying ten minutes more in that hell hole. 

Jenna doesn’t seem to be too worried about your relief about being out of there. “So?” she asks excitedly, “How did it go?” 

“I doubt they’ll call back,” you weren’t that terrible, but you’re sure that much more qualified people auditioned for this thing — and even if they didn’t, you’d seen at least fifteen girls that look like they could rock the style of Flowers n’ Kisses way better than you, “but if they do, I’m not replying. Please don’t make me do that again, like, ever. We don’t need an ancient husband to have a yacht, we can just steal one. Seems way more doable to me.” 

Except that they actually call back. And you hadn’t put into the equation the fact that while registering you for the audition, Jenna was smart enough to put her cellphone number in it instead of yours. 

“You signed me up for another thing?”

“I had to! They were happy about your audition and wanted to schedule the day for the shoot of the campaign!”

“What campaign–”

“The one for the summer collection! Aw, c’mon, they’ll pay you eight hundred something dollars and give you some free clothes too–” 

You want to smash your forehead into the wall — but then again, she wouldn’t let you do that, because your forehead is on your face and your face will be on an ad of some kind. “I wouldn’t risk having a restful sleep if I were you,” you hiss, “because I think that one of these days I’ll become one of the many maniacs that help the violent crimes rate be so high, and rest assured that you’ll be my first victim.” 

Jenna doesn’t seem to worry about that, and as it turns out she’s right to be — because on the day pre-established you still make yourself presentable and head to the studios where the photoshoot’s supposed to be at 7 a.m. sharp like requested. 

The same PR guy you met at the audition greets you first with a smile and a hand shake, “Roy Chamler,” he introduces himself — you only notice you didn’t know his full name when he says it. You were so nervous at the audition that you barely introduced yourself, let alone asked the name of the other people there. “PR manager and guy in charge of the campaign. Is this your first time participating in something like this?”

You cringe. “Yeah, is it that obvious?” 

He shrugs, smiling at you. “I’ve made it work with worse in my hands. You were chosen in the end, weren’t you?” 

The day starts with a worryingly high stack of paperwork in need to be signed. “Your contract,” Roy explains, patting it, “the rights for your image and copyright, parties involved, payment times, everything.”

You frown, “Is it normal for employees to sign their contract on the first day of work?” 

It’s his time to cringe. “No. It’s just that… the owner of the brand — Mrs Livvie, she was at the audition — is a very demanding woman. She called me a month ago about making the campaign and I have barely a week left to organize the rest. So, please, even if the conditions of this job are weird, please bear with me.” 

You sigh. “Alright. Where will the pictures of the shoot be exposed, exactly?” 

He cringes even more. “I… it’s all in the contract. You know, before Mrs Livvie, it was her father who thought about the brand. Then it was passed down and she wanted to do a lot of things, but it’s clear that she still doesn’t really know her way around. So, the thing is, it will depend on how much her and the other owners like the shoot.” he tilts his head, “I wouldn’t say more than a couple of posters around town and maybe some internet ads, though.” 

You sign the contract while not trying to overthink too much about your face being splattered around the internet, and as soon as Roy gets his hands on the paperwork you’re dragged into a room that positively looks like a spa. A girl gets immediately around to work on your hair as another worries about your nails, and you have to admit that if submitting to this thing meant a free manicure and hairdo you’d have gotten here even earlier than needed to. The make-up is the last thing on the list, right after the clothes, and then you’re ready for the shoot.

The whole ordeal lasts about five hours — five grueling hours, during which you have to change outfit, make up and hairdo one time too many for the day to still be considered relaxing. You go back home with your hair still in the last slickback they gave you, mascara a little smudged from all the times you rubbed your eyes during the train ride, and a bag full of clothes to wear this summer. Roy tells you that the ads should be up somewhere between next week and the one after that, takes your actual phone number and promises to call you if any problem with the campaign emerges. 

Meanwhile, you're surprisingly starting to accept the fact that Clark dumped you and probably will never get back with you, that he’s now who-knows-where doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who. Actually, you’re starting to get mad — how dare he not tell you about his plans? For how long was he thinking about just disappearing? You were out there dreaming about a future with him and he just–

“Yo,” oh. Is your mental health that bad that now your dreams are angry about Clark, too? Because you’re in bed, it’s been a little over a week since the shoot and Jenna is shaking you awake. “Yo. You did not tell me the campaign was so serious.” 

Still groggy, you barely find the strength to raise your head from the pillow, “Whatcha mean?”

“The billboard,” she hisses, “you didn’t tell me they were going to put your pictures on a billboard.”

That wakes you up instantly. “They what?” 

Sure enough, there’s a big ass billboard with a picture of you in a strawberry shirt and a pair of low-rise jeans while subtly smiling at the camera from the side (under the brand’s name and motto, of course) right in the middle of Union Square — literally the most trafficked place in all of Gotham. You’re about to slap yourself in the face because there’s simply no way they actually put a whole billboard of you when they said it was gonna be just a couple of ads online and maybe some posters around town. You suddenly fear what they’ll do with the pictures of you in that one blue tankini.

“Dear God,” you utter in disbelief. 

Jenna blinks. “If it reassures you, you do look good. It’s the sad eyes, I think. They give you depth.” 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to show my face around ever again,” you’re on the verge of tears, “how will I manage to get around on campus again? No, Jenna, I’m finding a house in the Appalachians and hiding there for the rest of my life–” 

“But you can’t! This is one picture and you’re really shining in it– why can’t you embrace this? Maybe it’s a good thing! Do you know how much models make–”

“Jenna!” you shriek, “My photo is on a fucking billboard right in front of Wayne Tower! Can’t you understand I just want to bury myself in the ground and die?”

“Well, maybe it’ll make Bruce Wayne fall in love with you as he’s forced to see your face every day.” she jokes, “And then I’ll be able to get my vacation on a yacht–”

“We are not going on vacation with Bruce Wayne,” you hiss, “have you seen one footage of him with any woman? God knows what he puts in their — and his — drink to act like that.”

“I think of him as someone who’s actively drunk all the time without even drinking, and his company is surely not better than him.” she shrugs, “Besides, he’s not that older than you. You would be happier with him rather than with the ninety-year-old billionaire."

You blanch. “I’ll be happy if they both leave me alone.” 

They will, unfortunately, not leave you alone, you find out soon. Because thanks to the spike in sales, not even two weeks after the ads are made public the management of Flowers n’ Kisses organises a gala with all of its associates and investors, and you — just like the other models who do runways and are the face of previous campaigns — are contract-bound to participate, because– well. Your face is scattered all over the city while wearing their clothes — it would be weird if you didn’t show up, no? 

And guess who is one of the biggest associates of Flowers n’ Kisses? Exactly. Fucking Wayne Industries. Guess your dream of not becoming one of Bruce Wayne’s victims as the latest coming model — not that you would describe yourself as one, but you guess that his definition of model is much more wider than yours — in Gotham may be a little more difficult to achieve, since if they could talk, he would probably try to have one-night stands with walls too. 

Roy calls again to arrange for you to get a dress, one from the newest collection that you hadn’t had the chance of trying out, and thankfully he doesn’t seem too mad about the last time you called him — you had insulted him so much about the billboard that you almost discovered new curse words. “You know, I got a few calls about you,” he says, ecstatic, “people love you! I’ve got the list of a few other brands that would like a contract with you–”

You shut the idea before it gets a little too deep into his head. “No. Bye, I have an exam to study for.” 

The event’s in some fancy, fancy rented mansion’s ballroom — incredible that they still have those, by the way — and the timing’s just right, because tomorrow morning you have a test, and you’re already mumbling names and descriptions under your breath before they even get you in that evening dress. And about the dress– it’s dark blue, with little embroidered silver stars around your hips, tight where it needs to be and softer as it reaches your legs. They give you a pair of silver kitten heels to match the stars around the dress, and even if they do kill your feet a little, you have to admit that you look good. 

Getting out of the room where they dolled you up, you immediately notice another woman at the end of the hallway — probably one of the other models of the brand, hopefully one more experienced than you. She seems to notice you too, and waves a hand up to catch your attention, “Hey! You must be the new girl they told me about,” 

She’s stunning, with chocolate skin and honey eyes and a dress that — you guess — is made to be worn right next to yours, because while your gown resembles the night, hers resembles the dawn, with an embroidered red sun on her waist. She offers you her hand, which you shake without any questions, “I’m Kelly,” she introduces herself, “Roy asked me to keep an eye out for you — didn’t want you to feel lost. She knows these types of gatherings can be scary, and I’m happy to help a new recruit out.” Kelly does look a bit older and experienced than you — early thirties, at most, even if she does carry them well. 

“Thank God,” you can’t really hide your relief, “I was afraid I had to do all of this alone.” 

She giggles, “I remember being this scared too. You’re doing it well, though, from what I have seen — you came out perfect in the pictures, I really couldn’t believe it was your first shoot,” 

You feel your face get hotter at her words, “Thanks,” you manage to squeal out as she guides you into the ballroom, where the main event is held, “It’s the sad eyes, I think.” she adds. You’re one more comment about your sad eyes apart from imploding. “I don’t tend to like these events, but usually the food is pretty nice, so that’s a plus. I’d avoid any drink already served if I were you, though,”

Thankfully, you soon find out that you two were put at the same table — great thing for you, because you really don’t want to socialize more than you actually need to. The other people around the table are mostly boring investors and owners of shares, who don’t seem interested in asking anything more than what’s expected in a common conversation — your name, age, what do you do in life. One kind old lady asks you more about university and looks actually interested in hearing you repeat the subject of your exam tomorrow, until you are rudely interrupted by a voice calling out for you just as the dessert is being served. 

“Oh, there she is!” you’ve only seen her once, but you do recognize Mrs Livvie from the audition — you did not forget those striking red hair of hers. Beside her, your latest possible obstacle: in all his striking glory, Bruce Wayne. “This is our latest golden girl, miss…” it’s clear that she has forgotten your name, which you kindly suggest to her, “Right! A real sweetheart. Anyways, this is Kelly Th–”

“I know Kelly,” he interrupts her, giving her and your — hopefully — latest friend a kind smile. “I remember her from the runway for the autumn collection.” he turns his gaze to you, “I’ve never met you, though, which is really a shame because you’re stunning. You know, the billboard with one of your photos is right in front of my office, which is the motivation to get on time around the office I just needed.” well, if this isn’t your nightmare come true. 

“As I’m sure you’re aware,” Mrs Livvie looks at you, “this is Mr Wayne–”

“Please,” he looks directly at you in a way that would normally have you swooning, but that from him just makes you quite worried. “Just Bruce will go.” 

You give him a tight-lipped smile, “Sure.” 

“Weird that I have never seen you before,” he continues, “usually models start young, but I’m happy that Nina found you — you’re a real jewel, miss. May I ask why you — or your parents — never thought of putting you out there?” 

“Well, I never knew about this talent of mine until now.”

He smiles, chuckling quietly, “Well, you don’t sound like you’re from around here, either, am I right?”

You nod. “Yessir — I’m from Smallville, a little farm town a couple of hundreds of miles from here.” you hope that being the daughter of farmers will scare off a playboy that is known to socialize with rich people. It doesn’t. 

“Well, if you ever need anything,” he takes out a business card from his breast pocket with a pen and scribbles something on it, then gives it to you, “please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m at your disposal.” 

You don’t reply, getting a weird look from all the people on the table before Mrs Livvie quickly brings his attention elsewhere — hopefully away from you. Kelly looks at you, delighted, “Well, miss girl, that is the offer of a lifetime.” 

You snort, looking unamusedly at the private number scribbled on the card. “I doubt I’ll ever use it.”

Summer break comes a lot faster than you’d expected. 

You’re not sure it’s a good thing. You still haven’t exactly come to terms with what happened with Clark now almost three months ago and the thought of seeing your parent’s farm draped with pictures of you and him from when you two were kids nauseates you. Besides, you just know that your mother talked to everyone who willing to listen about your newfound talent as a model, even if you only did one shoot. It’s also your first time doing the trip from Gotham to Smallville alone, and you opt to just use the train after seeing the whopping prices for a taxi.

Your father picks you up at the Midvale train station, teary eyed and with arms wide open to hug you. “My baby,” he says trembly, once you are in his arms “oh, it seems like it’s been years since Christmas,” 

You laugh tearily. “Oh, trust me, I know.” 

The car trip is filled with conversation and love. “Oh– did your mother tell you we adopted a dog?”

You perk up. “Oh, did you, now?”

Your father nods, “Dunno what kind o’ dog he is. All I know is he’s yellow. We found him on the side of the road to the farmer’s market a coupla’ weeks ago and he won’t leave your mother's side since then. We tried to ask around, see if he was someone’s dog — nobody knew anything, so her resolve was just to take him home.” he looks at you, cracking up with laughter. “You wanna know what she called him?” 

You grin, loving to see your father so serene. “Do tell me.” 

“Batman!” his laughter gets even louder, “Batman, you get it? Said, it’s after the psycho that runs around in a Halloween costume and makes sure that my daughter’s city doesn’t burn down. I really owe him. Have you ever even seen him, or is he just some kind of urban legend?”

You crack up with laughter too, half from hearing him laugh so openly, half for the actual story, “No, no,” you wheeze, “never seen him, but I do know people that have. I just don’t get out late enough for him to be running around yet, I fear.” 

It’s with relief that, once you enter the farm, you notice that all the pictures of you and Clark have either disappeared or been replaced. You know your mother’s too much of a sentimentalist to get rid of them, so they’re probably carefully hidden in some drawer — but that doesn’t mean you don’t appreciate her gesture. She hugs you tightly and kisses you on both cheeks before calling out for the dog — which you find out is a golden retriever — to meet you. 

The next three weeks are spent helping your parents around the farm and bringing Batman — or, as your mother calls him, Battie — in the fields so that he can run as much as he likes. You gotta admit that you also do it to try to form new memories of the place — because you simply can’t spend the rest of your life brooding as soon as you go back there to visit your parents. 

You avoid the old classmates to prevent any questions about Clark. You don’t visit the Kents. You’d like to, but honestly, you are ashamed — ashamed because Martha had called back when you and Clark had just broken up, and yet you never called her back or replied. Or sent a message. Or a postcard. Did you really ghost a nice old lady? Because that has to be some kind of new low.

It’s your mom that tries to get you back to sanity. “Martha and Jon did nothing to you,” she tells you, angered, when you refuse to take the muffins she’s just baked to their farm, “and you are going to say hi to them because they’ve always been nothing but nice to you!”

That’s how you end up at the porch of the Kent’s farm, a tray of still steaming muffins in your hands as you anxiously wait for either of them to answer the door. You almost burst out in tears when it’s Martha that greets you — because, you have to admit, you’ve missed them too. And as she invites you in and calls Jon down to say hi to you too, not mentioning that call you had completely ignored — you thank the universe that at least you didn’t lose them too with Clark. 

You return to Gotham feeling shittier than ever, but, hey! At least you got some nice pie while you were in Smallville, since you can’t really say that you and Jenna cook real food when you have to eat. The University’s not back open just yet, so you spend most of your days picking more shifts at work so that people that actually go on vacation can do it without any remorse or trouble. 

You’re worrying about getting every animal at the clinic fed when the bell of the door rings out in the waiting room. “I’ll be there in a minute!” you call out, petting a cat and putting him back into his carrier as he meowles happily around the meat stick you just gave him — a good enough treat in exchange to being neutered, you hope. 

You exit the backroom and go back to the front desk, “So, how can I help–” your eyebrows raise. “Mr Wayne?” 

In all his glory, surely. He’s right in front of you, smiling, hair slicked back and sunglasses hanging from the neckline of his shirt. “I thought I asked you to call me Bruce,” he says, not unkindly. 

You try not to grimace. The last thing you wanted for him was to find out where you worked. “Yeah, sorry,” you press your lips into a thin line, “how can I help you?” 

“I was thinking about adopting a dog.” this actually surprises you, because you didn’t think billionaires had the time for animals — and even if they did find the time to get them a petsitter, you’d taken for granted that they would buy the fancy breed ones. “I was thinking about getting a german shepherd, I told your friend Kelly at last week’s Prada runway and she suggested coming here since apparently this clinic collaborates with the local shelter.” 

“We do,” you nod, “they’re running out of space and we have a decent sized backyard for them to play in and some rooms for the animals to stay in.” you open a drawer on the desk, taking out a folder with all the registered pets, “We mostly have the injured ones that are recovering, but I’m not sure about german shepherds. I do think there’s a mixed one though– there!” you stop at one of the pages and turn the folder for him to see the picture of a dog with brown fur and a star-shaped white patch on his forehead. 

“This is Ace– he’s a retired K-9, mixed german shepherd. He’s just two, but was shot during an inspection and has been limping ever since. Nobody in the police department could adopt him, so we took him in. He’s been doing well with the recovery and we’re trying to rehabilitate him to normal as to our best abilities.” 

He nods,  “Looks like a cute dog. Can I see him?”

You show him the way to the backroom with all the strays, stopping at Ace’s crate. He immediately raises his snout from his paws, tail wagging as he sees you, “Well, this is him,” you sneak a hand between the rails to give him a pet, “one of the nicest dogs we have here — if you want, you could take him on a walk today or when you want. Usually we ask for at least four outings before permitting the adoption — to see if the owner and the pet are compatible, y’know.” 

He nods, “So, I can take him out today and then come back in the next few days to later on adopt him?” 

You lean your head, “If everything goes well, yes.” 

“Perfect– I’d like to take him on a walk right away, then, if possible.”

You get a collar for Ace and a leash for Bruce after getting the dog out of its crate, then put a couple of treats in a little paper bag with some toys. You attach the leash to Ace’s collar and give it to his aspiring owner with the paper bag, “Wait a moment, I’ll tell my coworker that I’m going out and then we can go,”

Mr Wayne perks up, suddenly interested in something else rather than the dog, “You’re coming with us?” 

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Of course. The outings before adoption are always supervised.” 

You come back after alerting your coworker that you’re going out, then exit the clinic with Bruce — who's handling a definitely too excited Ace — on tow. It’s weird seeing a blue Rolls Royce parked right in front of where you work, as usually the most expensive thing that’s parked there is a FedEx van. “There’s a dog park just around the corner — we often bring customers there for supervised outings.” 

Bruce Wayne looks so out of place in such a funny way at the dog park that you barely manage to keep your laugh in; in his Armani tailored coat as Ace, finally without a leash in the dog fence at the park, looks thrilled to play with him, it’s so obvious that he’s never been in this kind of situation. “Are you sure he’s still in rehab?” he squeals, as the dog tackles him to the ground and licks his whole face clean. “He’s– aargh!– definitely in better shape than me!”

Your laugh finally blesses his ears. “That just means he likes you, Mr Wayne! Be nice to him, or he’ll think you’re friendzoning him.” 

Ace is a good dog. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for bad people — he never barks at kind customers, only at the rude ones, so you guess that’s kinda his talent. And since it’s never betrayed you, you admit that maybe — just maybe — Bruce Wayne isn’t that bad of a person as you thought he would be. 

He comes back to the clinic for three days in a row, just what he needed to be able to adopt the retired K-9. He always suspiciously shows up during your shifts, with mysteriously not a single paparazzi on sight and always the same Rolls Royce. On the second day he got there with brand new toys — some for Ace, some in donation for the other pets awaiting a loving owner — and a new collar with a bone-shaped metal tag with a bold ACE engraved on it.

Saturday’s the last day of the supervised period, and just as the last three days, you find yourself leaning over the railing of the fence that limitates the unrestrained dog area, watching them play like they’ve known each other for years. It’s a rare connection to see forming with a guard dog — they usually need time to adapt to new people, but apparently Ace didn’t. He took one look at Bruce and thought yeah, I want to munch on his atelier shoes for the rest of my life. 

“You know, I think it really was love at first sight,” you tell him as you walk back to the clinic.

Bruce looks at you like for a second he forgot you were talking about his dog. “You really think so?”

You laugh, “Yeah, I mean, have you seen him? He’s wagging his tail like crazy and he met you three days ago. It’s like he knows you’re taking him home today.” 

His shoulders deflate a little as he understands that you’re talking about him and Ace. “Yeah, well, I’m happy that he’s happy.” 

“Why do you want a dog, by the way?” you realise just now that you hadn’t asked, having taken for granted that he just wanted one for show, but now it’s clear that it isn’t. 

He shrugs, “To keep me company. I guess I just want someone other than my butler greeting me at the door when I get home. Besides, I liked playing with him — it’s a win-win: I get to destress about work and he gets to play catch.” he pets Ace’s head as you reach the clinic, “Don’t you, boy?” 

You go behind the desk and immediately get to work, preparing the paperwork for the adoption, “So– here, fill out this form and this one. There’s a ten dollar fee on every adoption, but I guess it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

He chuckles. “I should have a fifty dollar bill in my wallet — you can keep the change.” he coughs a bit as he starts to fill out the paperwork, “You know, I, uh… I didn’t come here just because I wanted a dog. I wanted to talk to you.”

You square him up and down. “Yeah. We talked the last three days.”

“Oh, no, I mean–” he looks honestly embarrassed, “I was… I was wondering why you didn’t call me back after the event.”

You blink — you had completely forgotten about the business card rotting in your bedside drawer with his private number written on it. You must be the first girl that doesn’t call him back after receiving such an opportunity. “Well, you told me to call if I needed anything, and I have yet to be in need of anything.” 

“I–” he sighs, “I was hoping I’d see you at the following Flowers n’ Kisses event, but you weren’t there.” 

You raise an eyebrow in the politest way you can muster up. “Yeah. It was a lunch on a Monday. I had an exam.” you actually started ghosting Roy as soon as he started suggesting coming to events not included in your contract, but that’s a story for another time. 

It seems you aren’t really getting what he’s trying to say, Bruce understands. He takes a deep breath, “What I meant to say is… that I was wondering if you wanted to grab a coffee one of these days.” 

You stare at him, bewildered, then point to yourself. “Me?” 

He looks even more bewildered than you. “…Yeah. Would… would you like that?”

“I mean, I,” you aren’t really understanding if he’s interested you in a romantic sense — which would be absolute bonkers, by the way — or if the conversations of the last few days just made him want another friend. “Sure. As… as friends, right?” 

He winces. “Yeah, of course.” he’s losing count of how many awkward yeahs he’s mumbling. Alfred’s right; he, terrifyingly so, has a crush. 

“Wouldn’t, like, paparazzi follow us?” you really don’t want your face splattered all over the news again. 

“I honestly doubt it.” he wouldn’t waste his little chance because of a couple of gossip-hungry journalists. “When I don’t want to be noticed I use my butler’s car, so that if anyone passes by they think it’s him around rather than me, and the staff of the places I frequent can be very discreet.” he looks down to Ace, “Besides, could you really say no to seeing this cute face again?” 

No, you couldn’t. You do raise an eyebrow, though, “Your butler… owns a Rolls Royce?” 

He nods like it’s the most common thing in the world, “Yeah, it was my gift for his fiftieth birthday.” 

And that’s how you end up having coffee with Bruce Wayne in some high-end uptown cafè two days later. Then two days later after that. Then, someway, somehow— fucking everyday. And thank God that he’s the one paying, because you doubt you can even afford one of the smallest macarons they have on the menu. 

You have to give it to the man — he’s trying really hard to be nice. It’s clear he’s not good at courting — not the kind that doesn’t let him bring a woman into his bed an hour after he met her, at least — but he’s doing that while also doing his best to respect your boundaries. 

“I don’t think it’s really a great time for a new relationship as of now for me,” you explain, a little embarrassed, over the first coffee you share. “I just got out of… one of the most important connections I’ll ever have in my entire life.” 

Bruce isn’t one to give up easily, and surely not on the first person he’s actually interested in since years. Even if it will take decades — and he’ll be just as happy being just a friend during those — he won’t give up. Even if he has to be just a friend for all eternity — you and your accent really did a number on him. 

Just as he promised, no articles come out about you two, even if a couple of curious waiters do ask if you’re that one girl from the billboard in Union Square — much to Bruce’s sincere delight, because it’s probably the first time in his life that he gets overlooked in favour of his date. What’s so special about your ads to overlook a billionaire, you’ll never really understand. 

It goes on for months, and before you can really assimilate it, It’s November and it’s been eight months since Clark broke up with you, seven since the terrific Flowers n’ Kisses campaign and four since you started seeing (you’re not sure how to actually describe it, because you’re kinda warming up to him despite everything) Bruce. 

You cave in to Kelly’s constant nagging, and finally accept her invitation to go out for dinner, just the two of you, to her favourite Thai restaurant down the street from her apartment — even after almost a year in Gotham, you’re reluctant about going out at night, still a bit scared after Jenna’s horror stories about her outings during the evening. 

It’s a fun night — you chit chat about anything and everything and she makes sure you’re updated about the latest rumors going around in the modeling world (apparently, Linda Reynolds is pregnant, and the father is supposedly the son of the sixty-year-old CEO she should be marrying in a few months). You both laugh as a teenager from one of the other tables comes over and asks you if you’re the girl from that one Flowers n' Kisses photoshoot, and you almost forget about the dangers of going out at night as you exit the restaurant because — c’mon, you’re with Kelly, her car’s just a few feet away from you two and she’s Kelly, she just knows how to deal with things. That is, until–

There’s a man. He’s in front of you. He has a gun. You barely even register all that happens next. 

She pushes you behind her as he screams to give him all the valuables you have, gun trembling in his hands — is he drunk or just a schizo? — and just as she reaches for her purse — to take out her wallet, she says as she feels around for her taser — he panics and pulls the trigger. 

You don’t know when you start screaming, nor register your hands pressing on her bloody shoulder, nor the cashier from the Thai restaurant going out in the street after hearing the shot and calling the police. You barely feel Commissioner Gordon’s hands around your shoulders as he gently pulls you away from Kelly and gets you to his car while two paramedics get a stretcher ready and lift her into the ambulance, nor notice when he pulls a blanket over your shoulders and a mug of hot chocolate into your hands at the police station. “You’re trembling, kid.” you think you started when the man took out the gun, but it could be when he shot Kelly. You’re not sure. 

“Can I call anyone?” 

You snap out of your trance, looking at Commissioner Gordon with eyes that could only be described as haunted. “Huh?”

He presses his lips into a thin line like he’s been in this situation one too many times. “Can I call anyone?” he asks again, not unkindly. “To come and pick you up and stay with you for the night? It would be better for you not to be alone.” 

You blink. “Is Kelly okay?” 

Gordon sighs. “The paramedics said she should recover without any trouble. You can go visit her tomorrow, if you want.” he leans forward, putting a gentle hand on your shoulder, “Can I call someone for you?” he asks for the third time. 

You sniff — you hadn’t even realized you’d been crying. You can’t call your parents — you know they’d drop everything and come here, but you don’t want them to worry. Jenna’s out of the city for a week, having gone to visit a cousin in Blüdhaven, and terrifyingly so the only person who comes into your mind is Clark Kent– wherever he is, he does know how to fly, and if he wanted to he could just zap here. You manage to scribble his number in the post-it that Gordon hands you, and then he’s off to make the call — only to return defeated ten minutes later. 

“I’m sorry, nobody’s replying. Can I call someone else for you or would you like to try to make the call yourself?” 

You try to swallow the lump in your throat, “Can I try? With my phone?” Clark’s never ignored your calls. And, sure, you haven’t heard from him in months, but you don’t think he’d actively avoid you — he has to know that you wouldn’t call unless it was strictly necessary. Besides, he’s never turned you down in the time of need. 

Gordon nods, “Sure. I think I left your bag in the car, though, so I’ll be right back,” 

He brings your purse, and as soon as your phone’s in your hands you press onto Clark’s number and try to reach him. The Commissioner leaves you in his office, probably to try to give you a bit of privacy, and you’re quite thankful he’s not there to witness you start crying as Clark not only doesn’t reply to the first call, but also to the next five you make. 

“Clark, I know that maybe you don’t want to hear from me but — could you just please, take up the phone?” you try not to sob as you leave what must be the third message in a row, “I wouldn’t call unless I really needed you and– and I’m trying my best not to sound hysteric but please, just pick up the fucking phone.” 

You try and try and try, but lo and behold, it always goes straight to voicemail. Gordon knocks on the door of his office, opening it hesitantly when you don’t reply, “I– it’s been twenty minutes.” 

“I,” you huff tearily, slamming your phone on your thigh, “he just won’t reply.” 

You don’t want to look Gordon in the eye, because even now you can feel the pity in this voice. “Is there anyone else you can call? If… if there isn't, I could have an agent escort you home,”

“No, I–” you really don’t want to cry in front of him, even if your cheeks are already tear-streaked and your eyes are puffy, “I guess I could call someone else.” 

You hadn’t even thought about calling Bruce, having taken for granted that Clark would have replied and knowing about the late hour, but it’s not like you have any other choice. Besides, he did say to call him if you ever needed anything. You dial his phone number and have to hold back a sob as he replies in two rings, voice hoarse, “Hello?” 

“Hi, um, I…” you stumble over the words, not managing to hold the tears at bay anymore as your voice breaks. “Hi, Bruce, could you…” a hiccup interrupts you. 

“Hey,” his voice is alarmed even if it’s clear that he either just woke up or is hungover from the roughness of his voice, “is everything okay? Did something happen?” 

“I…” your throat betrays you again as you let out an embarrassingly loud sob. You hear Bruce’s worried questions on the other side of the line, but you aren’t really able to respond to any of his questions, and Commissioner Gordon holds his hand out for you in a way that says ‘If you want, I can talk to him for you,’. You don’t ask many questions and just pass him the phone. 

“Hello, this is Commissioner Gordon from the GCPD…” 

Not even twenty minutes later Bruce rushes into the office, accompanied by Gordon, and holds you tight as you rise from your chair and crash into his arms. You’ve never hugged before, but that doesn’t really matter as of now, because he’s rubbing your back and pressing his cheek on the top of your head and suddenly you feel safe. “I was so scared,”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and something on the back of your mind whispers that it’s not fair to cry to him about your friend getting shot but surviving when he had to watch his parents die when he was just a kid, but he doesn’t say anything. He just holds you tighter, thanking Gordon and leading you to his — his butler’s, technically, as it’s still the blue Rolls Royce he came here with — car. Well, if the media didn’t know you two were seeing each other before, now they probably know, because Gotham’s cops are the most gossip hungry people in the city. 

He helps you get into the car as you sniffle, making sure your seatbelt is on before jumping on the driver’s seat and going back to look at you. “Are you okay?”

You nod. “He shot Kelly on the shoulder. Looked crazy, like a schizo maniac on drugs.” 

He sighs, a bit disheartened, “I mean, does a schizo maniac need drugs to look crazy?”

“I guess he doesn’t.” a beat passes before he reaches over to your side, opening the glovebox and reaching for wet wipes — the kind you use for babies’ butts. “Here,” he murmurs softly, “you might want to get the blood off your face.”

You didn’t even know you had blood on your face. You look at the picture of the newborn on the wipes pack, puzzled, “Is there anything you might want to tell me?”

He chuckles and starts the car. “I told you this was my butler’s car. He carries a pack of those anywhere.” 

You look at yourself in the sun visor mirror, acknowledging the fact that you look like absolute crap and definitely have splatters of blood as well as smudged make up all over your face. “Sorry I made you come all the way here so late,” you mumble, trying to wipe the now dried blood off of your face. 

“Nonsense,” he assures, “Commissioner Gordon said it would be best for you not to be alone tonight — would that be okay for you?”

You nod. “Yeah, my place’s a bit cramped but I can sleep on the couch.”

He frowns, “That’s not a problem, I’ll take it. You need a good night’s sleep. We could always go to the Manor if you want.”

You shake your head, “I need a shower and to eat the leftover ice cream in my freezer.”

Bruce smiles the tiniest bit. “Okay. Where to, then?” 

You wouldn’t say the apartment’s cluttered, but you weren’t expecting any guests over so it’s a given that it’s not tidy either — if Bruce notices it, he doesn’t mention it, something you’re grateful for. Instead, he puts a hand on your shoulder, smiling softly, “You should go take that shower. Don’t worry, I’ll be right here.” 

You take a good look at yourself in the mirror and almost start crying again. You had seen that you were covered in blood, but you also didn’t think it was so much blood — the cardigan your poor mother had hand-stitched for you is awaiting a brilliant future in the trashbin, because there’s no way that the stain will ever wash out. 

The water is soothing, even if it takes you a good half-hour to scrub away all the dried blood from your hair and neck — so much so that the skin is left red and sore. It’s your first time witnessing one of the violent crimes Gotham’s so famous for, and you gotta say, it’s even worse than you thought. 

You put on an old ratty sweater — that after a year of living together neither you nor Jenna are too sure of who it belongs to anymore — and a pair of cozy sweatpants that are definitely Jenna’s, because you would never buy such a thing as yellow pants with the bat signal print on them. 

You exit the bathroom with your damp hair still wrapped in a towel, eyes barely managing to stay open thanks to the aftermath of the shock you had been in. You find Bruce sitting on the sofa, maybe a little too interested in the news broadcast playing on the TV. “And it’s game over for Harvey Dent, also known as Two Face, who was arrested just yesterday by the GCPD thanks to an ambush coordinated by none other than Batman…”

“Wasn’t Dent the district attorney?” you’d lie if you said you were informed about the latest coming criminals of Gotham City. “Man, in Smallville the craziest guy we’ve had was Samuel Comell and that’s just because he ate nothing but corn. We’ve got clinical psychos guiding the law here.” it actually would’ve been Clark if anyone knew he was an alien, but you avoid talking about that. You aim for the refrigerator and take out the ice cream, bringing it and two spoons with you to the couch. “Ice cream?”

Bruce grimaces as he takes one of the spoons, “You couldn’t be more right about madmen in Gotham, but Harvey wasn’t one of them until less than a year ago.” 

You raise an eyebrow at his soft tone. “You knew him?”

“We grew up together.” his face falters, “He was my friend– still is.” 

You blink. “Man, the universe must be laughing really hard right now, because the boy I grew up with is also kinda weird.” sure, not a mass-murderer type of weird, but a little weird still. 

He leans to take a spoonful of ice cream from the tub you’re holding, “What do you mean, kinda weird?” 

“Oh, you can’t even imagine,” you can’t even tell him — you swore to Clark that you wouldn’t have told anyone his secret, and you don’t plan on breaking that promise now. “Remember the guy I told you I was trying to get over?”

“It was him?” 

“Yeah,” you try to laugh it off, “Clark was… pretty much everything for me. Then he dumped me to, I don’t know, disappear to find himself or something like that.” it’s much more complicated than that, but you can’t just tell him that your ex-boyfriend is an alien — he’d freak. 

Bruce’s eyes soften a bit. “Well, it’s always more complicated than that, isn’t it?” this time you can’t exactly handle your emotions well, and sputter as your eyes widen. Did he just read your mind? He laughs, “What? I know a thing or two about relationships. Well, about how they end, at least. You know, uh…” he rubs the back of his neck, “I haven’t really said this to anyone, really, but me and Harvey… let’s say we were more like you and your old friend rather than simple friends.” 

You squint, then force the ice cream tub in his hands. “Here. You probably need it more than me.” 

He stares at the tub. “It’s been years. I’m sure you need it more than me.” 

“Well, my ex hasn’t just been arrested,” your face drops, “for what I know, at least.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at you. “He really just disappeared?” 

You shrug. “Could be in Alaska right now and I wouldn’t know about it.” 

The night starts off easy. You finish the ice cream, then put away the towel you had around your hair and get a blanket because it’s getting a bit chilly, then one thing leads to another and suddenly your cheek is resting on his shoulder as Criminal Minds is playing on the TV. 

“You know,” you mutter at some point, almost half-asleep and too cozy to muster an actual, coherent thought. “You should be detestable. You’re ugly rich, live in a mansion up on the hill and have a butler that has a car that’s probably worth more than my parent’s farm.” you poke his cheek as he turns his head to look at you properly, his arm going around your shoulder, “And instead, you’re nice — and worst of all, relatable.” you raise a hand to curl a lock of his hair around your finger, and he makes that face that men do when they’re about to kiss you — the blank stare that makes them look dumb in the head. “Now, one evil ex’s down. Do I have to defeat the other six or can we just get this over with?”

His lips slosh over yours with unexplainable easiness, like they’ve wanted nothing but to do this their whole life, and maybe you should feel a little guilty about eating Bruce Wayne’s face in your little beat-down couch, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. It’s the first time your mind finally manages to shut down — to stop worrying about anything and everything, and think about just one thing: Bruce. 

Tomorrow, he’ll worry about catching the guy that shot Kelly, he says to himself. Tonight, he worries about you and tries to make sure you’ll be alright. And he does. 

You wake up the next morning with an absolute sight — infamous Bruce Wayne, untouchable playboy and known for his one night stands, standing in your small ass kitchen in a pair of hot pink pajamas — the only thing you had that vaguely fit him — trying to cook pancakes. Key word: trying, because you weren’t woken up by the birdies singing outside of the window, but by the smell of burnt food. Badly burnt food. 

You come up from behind him, hugging his back, “Have you ever even made pancakes?”

He purses his lips like a kid. “No. What is so terrible about wanting to try?” 

You chuckle. “Nothing, nothing,” you tug him down to kiss his cheek, “I just think it’s really funny of you to try to cook when you’ve clearly had problems just with getting the stove on.” 

He rolls his eyes, “Okay, okay, I wasn’t that stunted.” 

He turns to take a good look at you — and apparently, notices your pants just now. “What’s with you and Batman?” he asks, amused. You shrug, ”More like, what’s with Jenna and Batman. When I tell you she’s obsessed with him, dude. She keeps a med kit in the bathroom just in case he falls on our balcony and we have to stitch him up.”

He shudders. “That does sound a bit manic.” 

After a definitely too cheesy breakfast and quickly getting dressed, Bruce accompanies you to the hospital — not before going to the flower shop, of course, to get the biggest bouquet you’ve ever seen and a couple of Get well soon! balloons. 

“What?” he asks. You’re not saying anything, but still clearly judging him, “I thought Kelly was your friend. She has to enjoy the flowers, especially since they’re from you.” 

“Technically, they’re from your wallet,” you retort. He shrugs, “Same thing.” 

Kelly’s still a bit pale, but happy to see you and Bruce. She gives you a look as you apologise for what happened, eyes teary as you remember that she got shot while protecting you. She swats a hand in your way, laugh full of not suggestion but knowledge — absolute certainty. “Honey, if what you two needed to get it on with was me getting shot, I’ll get shot another hundred of times.” she lowers her voice as your face burns red, “Besides, you might want to raise a little that scarf you’ve got — a hickey’s still showing. Just remember me when you’ll go on vacation with his big-ass yacht.” 

What is it with your friends and yachts? You really need to make Jenna and Kelly meet — just kidding, you take that back, the consequences of their team up for your psyche would be devastating.

Time passes quickly when you’ve got one exam after another, and suddenly — before you can actually register it — it’s December, you and Bruce have been together for a month and it’s time for the Christmas holidays. While Jenna goes as soon as she can back to her parents in Chinatown, you, of course, need to go back to Smallville — without Bruce, as it’s still too early in the relationship to meet the parents. He doesn’t look too beaten up about it — just before you told him you wanted to go visit your parents, he had suggested a skiing trip in the Alps in an all-paid-for resort. Poor him, having to go on an exclusive resort with all the comforts in the world all alone! How will he manage without you, you wonder? How will he thrive? 

(Just kidding, of course. You’re pretty sure it’ll take all of his restraint not to go back to his old playboy ways and try to seduce the first female that approaches him. He’ll be just fine.)

There’s two trains for Metropolis on the 22nd of December: you plan to take the first one, the one that leaves Gotham’s station at 8 a.m. sharp — and so you tell Bruce, who unfortunately has a plane to catch and can’t give you a ride — and of course, you just had to miss it. You wake up twenty minutes too late, and by the time you’re at the station the train has just left. 

You go back home to take a nap while waiting for it to be time for the 4 p.m. train, and wake up just two hours later with an emergency broadcast for all Gothamites going off on your phone — God forbid you have a happy holiday in the arms of your loved ones, because the corridor that connects the prison’s main structure to Arkham’s left wing — the one holding captive the major crazed maniacs — has just blown up, and now years and years of captures and police operations have ended up in a massive breakout that will probably pulverize the city in a matter of two days. You’ve never been happier to not be a police officer than now. 

The downside is that the whole city’s on lockdown. Commissioner Gordon appears on TV, warning all citizens to remain home unless strictly necessary and inevitable. A quick call to your parents later you’re fuming about your own stupidity while laying on the couch, wondering why you didn’t just wake up earlier — because now you’re condemned to a Christmas and probably New Years all alone, as all trains and planes are canceled to avoid the passengers turning into hostages or worse, victims. 

Later that night you receive a call from Bruce, voice unusually rough, who says that he’s grateful that you’re already back at home in Smallville and not in Gotham because, if you hadn’t heard, a massive breakout happened. You really don’t want him to worry, so you lie and tell him that you’re relieved too that you took the 8 a.m. train — that your parents say hi and hang up. 

The following days are weird. There’s barely anyone but cops in the streets — you wonder why — and your only interactions with a human are the ones with Nelson, the guy that works at the 7/11 right beside your apartment, and you both try your best to ignore the shotgun he’s keeping behind the counter as he scans your items and wishes you a happy Christmas. 

You spend Christmas Eve eating instant noodles and watching the old Harry Potter DVDs that Jenna left behind — Ron’s just been dragged into the Whomping Willow by Sirius when your phone starts ringing. 

You pause the movie and frown — because you’ve already heard both your parents and Jenna, who could be the only people calling at such an hour. It could also be Bruce, you guess, but you haven’t heard much from him considering the six hour difference between Gotham and wherever he’s staying in the Switzerland Alps. Except when you take your phone, you see an unknown number on the screen. 

“Hello?” you reply tentatively — you really don’t want to be blackmailed by the Penguin or one of his friends on Christmas Eve. No one responds to your hesitant greeting, so you try again, “Hello? Is anyone there?”

You’re about to close the call when you hear it — barely there, the whisper of your name by a voice you know too well. You put the phone back against your ear, eyes already twitching, “Clark?” 

“Hey,” his voice is the tiniest you’ve ever heard from him, “I, uh… wanted to know how you were holding up.”

Your hand starts trembling — if in anger or disbelief, you’re not sure. “You know, you’ve got some fucking audacity calling me now,” you manage to keep your voice steady only by some weird miracle, “when just a month ago I called you about twenty times and cried in the voice messages begging for you to come and get me.” 

He doesn’t reply, but you can almost see him grimacing. “I… I got busy. I’m sorry about that.” 

You pinch the slope of your nose, “Clark, I get it. You need to find yourself and all that but– but I needed you. Like, really needed you. Even if we broke up, I thought you would’ve always been there for me.” a grumble escapes from your throat, “I would’ve always been there for you. But you weren’t there, even with your flying abilities and supersonic speed.” 

He sniffles. God, is he crying? “I just… I thought you would’ve been able to handle it alone. I know you’re strong enough to.” 

“Well, if I call you at an ungodly hour an ungodly number of times then maybe I’m not able to handle it alone. Where are you, anyways?” 

You hear a shuffle on the other end, “Somewhere in the Arctic. Not sure I can exactly tell you where.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure your dead parents would be really offended if you did.”

Ouch. That was a low blow. He says your name as if to try to calm you down, but you shake your head even if he can’t see you, “Why exactly did you call, Clark?”

“I told you, I wanted to see how you were doing–” “Please, we both know that’s just an excuse you invented right here and now. Why did you call me, Clark?”

Silence meets you on the other end. “I… it’s Christmas. We’ve never spent a Christmas apart.” 

You check the hour on your phone, and it’s true — it is Christmas. Has been for only a few minutes, but still. “So what, Clark? It’s not like it was me who decided to break it off between us.”

Another sniffle on his end. “I guess I… I just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.” 

You sigh. “Merry Christmas, Clark. I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.” 

You press the red END CALL button almost as soon as a crash comes from your balcony. You shriek and jump up from the couch, running from your purse and the Bat-taser — finally, his moment to shine. Jenna’s hard earned ten bucks will serve their purpose, maybe. You also eye the metal baseball bat sitting beside the entrance in case you’ll need it, but choose against it in case your opponent is way too strong for you to kick him out. 

You try to peek outside and see nothing but darkness. So, you do the only thing you can think of: hold the Bat-taser in front of you like it’s a gun, slowly open the door to the balcony and yell (probably sounding more shrill than you’d intended to): “GoawayorIswearI’llcallthepolice!” 

A pained groan comes from the ground, “Please don’t.” 

You have to hold onto all the self control you have not to shriek again, “Batman? Is that really you?”

Another pained groan — from the dim light, you notice him holding onto his side and trying to get back up– and also that he crashed one of Jenna’s beloved flower pots while falling here. “The one and only.” 

Now, Jenna had told you about him ending up on civilian’s balconies, but you didn’t actually think he did it. You let the taser fall from your hand and rush to his side, helping him up and then inside the apartment. “What the hell, dude? You scared the shit out of me.” 

He slips from your grip pretty easily — he’s built like a tank, of course he does — and maybe you should worry about getting him back up to his feet, but rather think about closing the balcony door behind you. “Well, my guy, I sure hope you haven’t dragged one of your nemesis right here in my poor little apartment — because I might just lose it.”

He just groans — again. He must be a real sweet talker. “You don’t happen to have something to stitch me up, do you?” 

And that’s how you end up hunched over Batman’s limp body on the tiles of your bathroom floor — you had begged him to at least get there before the living room’s carpet was ruined without any means to salvage it — with an All That You Need If Batman Crashes Through Your Window! medical kit — a wonder that they make these and that Jenna paid a whopping thirty bucks to have it — while watching the shortest video you found on Youtube teaching how to stitch an open wound. Because while you’re a vet student, you still haven’t exactly gotten to this part of the practice just yet. 

“It’s scary that you haven’t even flinched since I started sewing your side close,” you murmur — the first thing you say to him after managing to get him laid down decently. You say it just to try to break the ice, feeling kinda pressured by the awkward silence. “Sorry, man, I’ll have to cut your suit open again. You’ve got a nasty cut on your ribs.” 

“What’s scary is that you’ve got all these Batman themed things,” he replies curtly. “The Bat-taser? The Bat-signal pants? This… abomination of a medical kit? I didn’t even know they made those.” 

You would’ve laughed loudly if you weren’t trying to make the stitches as even as possible. “That’s not on me– that’s on my roommate Jenna. She’s a big fan of yours. I’ll need you to sign her limited edition iridescent Bat-popcorn-bucket before you go, by the way.”

He blinks. “A Bat… what?”

“Bat-popcorn-bucket. It’s iridescent. It makes it look like you’re wearing a rainbow and she keeps it in a display box in her room just in case.” 

You take the scissors and cut away some more fabric, only to stop and squint at his abs. Now, don’t they look familiar… “So, Batsy… how are you holding up in these fantastic days of freedom for all the Arkham prisoners?”

He grunts — does this man know how to start a phrase without an animalistic sound? “Just what I needed for Christmas.” 

You hum, scanning his abdomen as if to understand how to better close the rib wound while you try to understand if your mind’s playing some trick on you or not. “It was just so nice of them to ruin Christmas for everyone, wasn’t it?” 

You dab some hydrogen peroxide on the cut on his ribs, “Don’t you have someone to spend Christmas with, anyway?” his response is kinda quipped, and if your suspicions are true, you might just know why — after all, Bruce does think you’re in Smallville as of now. Who knows what he’s thinking right now. 

You decide to test your theory. “Oh, yeah. My boyfriend’s in the bedroom, he was so tired from cooking all day that he just collapsed after dinner.”

His entire body freezes, and as he tries to sit up, you get your answers. “I have to go,” he mumbles hurriedly, “Scarecrow’s still out there–”

You place a firm hand on his chest, smirking as you inch closer to his face. “Huh-huh,” you tut, his eyebrows twisting in confusion, “where do you think you’re going, Bruce? I just started stitching this cut right here, and you’re not getting out of here unless you take a good nap.”

He raises an eyebrow, “I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

“Please,” you push him back onto the floor, “I would recognise these abs anywhere. By the way, the only thing sleeping in the next room is Jenna’s elderly hamster. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t even have the social skills needed to cheat on someone if I wanted to.”

He sighs, then presses a hand to his forehead and decides to drop the act. “What gave me away?”

“I told you,” you tap his abdomen, “those abs don’t lie. Besides, the way you reacted when I told you my boyfriend was in the bedroom sleeping? Whoof, you slipped right into my trap. Now, can I look into your baby blues or will I have to converse all night while looking at those ugly white lenses?”

He rips off his cowl, rising to his elbows  — and there he is, your handsome, so-tired looking loverboy. “I’m mad at you, by the way,” he says while glaring in your direction, “you told me you were in Smallville. I thought you were safe, and here you are — do you know how many home invasions I had to stop just these last two days in this area?” 

You blanch. “I’d prefer not to, thanks.” but you also raise an eyebrow, because you’re not about to lose an argument to a guy that outed his real identity because of abs and jealousy, “You told me you were in the Alps, by the way. In Switzerland. About… what, four-thousand miles away?” 

Bruce sighs, resigned. “I received word of the breakout just as I was flying above the Atlantic.” 

You tie the last stitch and cut the excess string, pressing a kiss on the wounded skin. “Well, I lost the 8 a.m. train but was too embarrassed about it to tell you. I guess we’re even.” 

You lean down to his level as he holds out an arm to brush your hair off your shoulder, “Oh, sweetheart, we’re always even.” his hand rests on the back of your neck as you two kiss hard, all spit and tongue — so much so that you lose yourself in the moment and press your side a little too hard on his cuts. 

He jumps, yelping in pain as you stare bemused. “Oh, so you do feel pain,” 

He raises an eyebrow, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Thought you were some kind of robot programmed not to feel soreness for a second.” 

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “I’m still mad at you. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“Thank goodness then that the guy crashing on my balcony wasn’t one of the Joker’s henchmen, no?” you frown, “Besides, why did you come here? For all you knew I wasn’t home.” 

“Well, missy, I wasn’t looking for you,” you feign a gasp of disbelief, “I was hoping to find that horrendous medical kid you told me about.”

You pinch his side — one of the parts not wounded, at least. “You were thinking about breaking in? What are you, a criminal?” 

He purses his lips. “I would’ve forced the lock, but I would have repaired it before you got back.” 

“Is that how you spend your fortune?” you murmur, defeated. “Fighting bad guys in your free time? That’s a pretty expensive hobby.” you suddenly remember something you had said to Clark — I don’t want you to be the man lying half-dead in a dark alley while I wonder why you’re so late to dinner. Would you look at that — you ended up with the same guy you told your ex to please not be. You’re not even too surprised about it — because sometimes, it does feel like Bruce is faking being dumber than he actually is. 

You let him go as soon as the sun peeks out from the horizon with a kiss on the lips and the promise of coming back later in the day, to autograph Jenna’s popcorn bucket, and while he later on keeps his promise, he makes sure to make you another Christmas gift other than the too-expensive necklace he already got you — and somehow manages to get all the criminals back in their cells by the time New Year’s Eve comes around. 

The lockdown ends, but all means of transportation are still off-limits thanks to a few well-placed explosions that went off in the last few days. That’s why you’re confused when Bruce tells you to pack a bag and come with him to the Archie Goodwill International Airport. “I mean, Bruce, we should be somewhere opening champagne bottles — not in a completely deserted airport looking for– what exactly are we looking for?” 

He chuckles, going for one of the hangars present at the launch track, the number 18 plastered on it. “Have you ever flown on a helicopter?”

You frown, “I’ve never flown like, ever.” you don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s because your ex-boyfriend knew how to fly and you’d always hoped he would be the first one to take you flying. 

He takes out a key and opens the sliding door of the hangar — revealing, surprise surprise, a helicopter. “Well, get ready for your first flight, then.”

Flying is much more scary than you would’ve thought — especially because you really don’t know if you should trust Bruce at the wheel. All you know is that you’re holding onto the armrest for your life, hoping that he actually got the licence for flying and didn’t randomly purchase it one day. “Wh– where are we going?” you ask him, trembling, not even managing to look down from the window. 

He sends you a look, “Don’t worry, I would never crash the helicopter with you in it. About the place where we’re going, however– it’s a surprise.”

Barely an hour up in the air later you look out the window to see the helicopter landing in a familiar — too familiar — field, with the grass cut weirdly low. “Bruce, are we–?”

“In Smallville? Yeah, we are.”

Your whole face lights up. “No, you didn’t,” you jump on him, kissing everywhere you can reach, “oh, Bruce, thank you, thank you, thank you– mwah! You’re a real sweetheart, I don’t know how I ever managed to think that you were any less of a person than you are–” 

Needless to say, your parents are elated to see you — they did know about Bruce’s plan, hence why the grass was cut so short where you landed: they were his accomplices and made sure the soil was decent to land on. You’re so happy when you take a bite out of your mother’s pie that you could cry, and your boyfriend — is he? You still haven’t really talked about labels and such — looks not too far away from tears either. 

You spend at least two hours chatting away happily with your parents before Bruce coughs, taking his coat back from the hanger at the entrance. “Well, I think it’s time for me to go.”

Your mother raises an eyebrow, “Oh, but you can’t go! I’ve just put the sweet potatoes in the oven– besides, it’s already dark out there, you seriously wouldn’t want to fly that thing in complete darkness!”

Bruce looks at you, waiting for your approval — well, it was you who said that spending the holidays together at your parents’ was a step a little too big for just a month-long relationship — but you nod, smiling. “You were the one who brought me here, Bruce. C’mon, you gave Alfred the week off– surely you don’t want to be all alone during New Years’ Eve?” 

He relents, “Well, if you say so,” 

That’s how he ends up staying at your parent’s house against all predictions — and you won’t forget the kiss he gives you when the clock strikes midnight for a long, long time, that’s for sure. 

You two spend one week at the farm and another one in the Alps’ resort Bruce had planned to spend Christmas in, spending your time either skiing — tripping over the snow, in your case — or, an activity you appreciate much more, cozied up in the jacuzzi of your private suite. It’s also during this vacation that your relationship gets leaked, but surprisingly — apart from a call from an absolutely fuming Jenna (you had somehow managed to keep the relationship a secret from her) and one from a triumphant Kelly — you take the new wave of publicity suspiciously well. 

Because for the first time in months, you’re truly happy.

It’s the summer of the year later when he appears again. 

You’re on one of the Wayne's biggest yachts in Tenerife with Bruce, Kelly and Jenna — just as the prophecies predicted!, the latter had shrieked when you’d shared Bruce’s invite with her — sunbathing on the boat’s deck as your friends play mermaids in the water when you notice an unusual silence from the upper deck. 

You get up from your sunbed, raising your sunglasses up to your hair as you look for your boyfriend. “Bruce? Honey, is everything alright?” 

You find him seated on the plush couch of the lounge room, staring intently at the TV; you hug him from behind, leaving a kiss on his temple, “Did something happen in Gotham?”

He takes the remote and raises the volume, turning to look at you with a puzzled face. “Not exactly in Gotham.”

Looking up at the screen, you frown when you see the broadcaster. “DPN? Isn’t that the Daily Planet News channel?” 

“And things apparently just keep getting weirder in Metropolis, because after scarce apparitions and helping for some minor crimes the man that the citizens have lovingly dubbed as ‘Superman’ has just shown the public what he’s really capable of by preventing a building from falling onto the passers-by after an explosion cut the structure in half…”

Your heart skips a beat, and suddenly you begin to wonder what you must have done wrong in your life to end up not only with a vigilante boyfriend, but also a vigilante ex-boyfriend. You have to hold back not to slap your forehead in disbelief — really, Clark, and the glasses should be your mask? It’s the stupidest disguise you’ve ever seen, and you have no idea how no one connected Clark Kent — just starting his career as a reporter in the Daily Planet — and Superman — just starting his career as… you don’t know what he’s trying to be. 

You seem to have a magnet for too good-hearted guys, apparently. Bruce presses a kiss on your cheek, “I’ll worry about it when we get back. Don’t think too much about it, okay?”

You’re not ready to tell him your ex-boyfriend is the guy saving old ladies from having to carry their groceries alone — that would be a conversation for almost six months later, when the Justice League is formed — so you just smile at him and pretend to your best abilities that you don’t know anything.

The first time you see Clark Kent again after that morning at the cafè is five years after the start of his crusade as Superman. 

He’s one of the six reporters who were granted permission to be inside of Wayne Manor during the engagement party, briefly interviewing anyone he can talk to and taking notes of everything he thinks valuable on his little notepad. 

You? You’re the one who’s getting engaged. 

You’re wearing a silky white dress that fits you like a glove as you stand next to Bruce, talking to some WE associates, Dick patiently waiting for the conversation to end as he stays glued to your side, hugging your waist and pressing his cheek into your hip as you gently run your hands through his hair. Clark is expecting a one-of-a-kind rock on your ring finger, but is instead surprised with a simple white pearl adorned with two smaller ones on its sides — he did hear something about Bruce proposing with his mother’s ring, now that he thinks about it. 

Lois’ gone off to interview Lucius Fox when you notice him standing awkwardly to the side, scrambling with his notebook and looking around. You excuse yourself from the conversation, giving a little smile to Bruce, nudging Dick with a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to come and meet an old friend of mine, bubba?” he nods, eager to please, and lets your waist go in favour of your hand. 

You approach Clark with the confidence of someone who doesn’t hold any grudges when they should. “Hi, Clark,” you greet him like you two are old friends that meet again — and even if you technically are, you’re also so much more than that. You hold out your hand — again, like you were just good old friends catching up — and he has to force himself to shake it instead of tackling you into a hug. “Have you seen my parents? I’m sure they’ll be happy to see you– it’s been a while.” 

You nudge Dick from behind you, gently holding him by the shoulders in front of you, “Dick, this is Clark, the old friend I was telling you about. Clark, this is Dick, my son.” 

As the child holds out a hand and excitedly says “Hullo!”, Clark tries not to think about how weird it is that he’s still trying to figure out his life while you just have a whole ass kid — adopted, but still. It’s clear how much you have taken into the role of mother. “Hi, Dick,” he says as kindly as possible, not really believing that the Robin who beats up criminals during the night beside the fearsome Batman is the same kid who hides behind his mother during formal events. 

Said kid raises his eyebrows in curiosity, looking up at you, “What kind of friends are you, anyways?” he asks, knowing all too well about your distaste for reporters and journalists alike. 

“The kind that goes way back,” you reply easily with a chuckle, “me and Clark grew up together, bubba.”  

“Oooh,” he ushers, “does that mean you also know nana and gramps?”

Guessing that he’s talking about your parents, Clark chuckles a bit before nodding, “That I do, champ.” 

“Aren’t they the coolest people you know?” Dick rambles excitedly, “last time gramps took me a ride on his tractor and it was so fun! Besides, they have this dog–” he turns to look at you, “Batman’s here, isn’t he?”

Clark’s eyebrows shoot up to his airline. He knew the kid was talkative, but he didn’t think he would be able to out Bruce like that. You laugh, “Yeah, I think I saw him earlier somewhere in the garden with Ace. It’s a miracle the both of them still have their tuxedo collars.” you then look at your old flame, a playful smirk on your face, “Don’t worry, Batman’s my parents' golden retriever.” 

“Ooh,” he sighs in relief, “for a moment there I wondered why Gotham’s most famous vigilante was playing with Bruce Wayne’s dog, and how exactly to phrase it in my article,” a terribly awkward silence follows. 

You shift your gaze to Dick, “Hey, Dickie, why don’t you–”

“Hello! Good evening!” a man with blazing red hair and a whole lot of freckles on his face runs up to the two of you, nudging Clark with an elbow as if clearly saying, please please pleaseeeee introduce me. He’s one of the reporters, you notice, with the press pass and a Canon slung over his neck. He kinda looks like a kid in a candy shop — eyes shining with excitement and almost jumping up and down on his feet. 

Clark sighs, “This is Jimmy Olsen, one of my coworkers from the Daily Planet,” 

The guy grins and holds out his hand, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” his fingers are a bit sweaty, “I’m a great fan.”

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid bursting out in laughter, “Oh, I’m flattered,”

“May I take a picture of the two of you?” it’s clear it was what he had wanted to ask since he saw you and Dick talking to Clark. You look at your son, and he grins up at you with glee. You smile, “Of course,”

You lower yourself a bit and cross your arms over his chest while pressing your chin to the top of his head, smiling widely — and you don’t doubt that he’s smiling with all he’s got too, hands holding your forearms, showing the window his last canine that fell out left. Jimmy snaps a little more than one pictures, but gets interrupted by a voice from behind you, “I hope you aren’t hogging the missus too much, boys,” 

It’s Bruce — of course it is, he’s been staring since you got out of that conversation twenty minutes ago — and he slings an arm around your waist as you rise from your position. Jimmy sits up straighter like his drill sergeant just entered the room — you’re surprised he doesn’t do the salute. “Sir,” he starts, “it is an honor–”

“Clark,” Bruce casually shakes the man’s hand, to his coworker’s utter disbelief. Technically, Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne don’t know each other, but it’s another story for Batman and Superman. “A pleasure to meet you — this pretty girl right here told me a lot of stories about the two of you growing up together."

Jimmy’s mouth falls open. His gaze turns to his coworker with an accusation that could only be described as treacherous. Clark smiles awkwardly, “Yeah, well–”

“You’re a photographer, aren’t you?” the Brucie Wayne persona isn’t trained to hold his attention on just one person at once, so he immediately switches his charming smile to Jimmy, “Why don’t you take a few photos of us? We’re a real nice picture to see,” he draws you closer to him by the waist, “Especially my soon-to-be wife.” 

Jimmy doesn’t let him repeat that, snapping a couple — more like a dozen — of pictures of Bruce holding you close to him while his other hand is as occupied as yours, sitting on Dick’s shoulder as he stands between the two of you, grinning ear to ear. 

“So, Clark,” you start when Jimmy stops snapping pictures, eyeing the other reporter from the Daily Planet — was it Lane? — from the other side of the room, “is that your girlfriend? You two looked pretty close earlier.” 

It’s meant to be a friendly remark, said with nothing but a happy tone, but Clark almost chokes on his saliva. “Oh, I mean–”

You raise an eyebrow, “Please,” you laugh out, “Don’t tell me she’s just a friend, because I’d be nearly as devastated as she would.”

He huffs with a little smile. “I’m… working on it.” 

You smirk. “That’s a good thing. Bruce here has got something for you that could help in your romantic quest.” you nudge your fianceè with your elbow as Dick snickers, “Don’t you, honey?”

He grumbles, looking with a frown at Clark — it’s not that their relationship isn’t good, it’s just that… he wasn’t really the happiest with your decision. “I do, actually,” he takes out an envelope and passes it to Clark with gritted teeth. “I’m… delighted… to invite you to our wedding.”

“As a friend, and with the possibility to bring a plus one,” you add, hand squeezing Bruce’s bicep, “not as press– there won’t be any, by the way.” you roll your eyes towards your boyfriend, “He’ll insist on making you sign an NDA, but I’m sure that you wouldn’t write anything about it nonetheless.” 

He blushes deep red, “Oh, no, no, I would never–”

“Clark.” you giggle as you interrupt him, “It was a joke. Nobody’s going to make you sign an NDA,”

“Yet,” Bruce grumbles. 

You ignore him. “It was a joke between friends,” you aren’t implying anything in your words — you’re sincere. After all these years, that’s what you see Clark as, and it would be sad not having him or his family at the wedding. You’ve already sent the invites to the Kents: only Clark was missing. 

You hold your hand out to him, hopeful. “We are friends, aren’t we?” 

I loved you, and I’ll always love you– but I’m trying to get over you, and you need to understand that. I can’t do that if you call me just now after ghosting twenty of my calls and voicemails. I’m sure we’ll find a balance in some years when you get back — maybe even be friends again — but please… don’t call.

He takes your hand and shakes it with a soft smile. “Friends.”

if you've managed to read all the way down here, congratulations! have some memes:

[archfey-edda]

'Congratulations. From now on, you'll be able to pass as a machine.' - Watcher X

[maiamore]

clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.

cw: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, hate fucking, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of blood & violence, clark has a massive cock (ofc), sexual tension, tummy bulge, multiple orgasms, dub con, clark fucks HARD in this (2.4k wc)

𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE clark kent had only ever dreamt of days where he'd meet his match.

he'd accepted that he was physiologically different that the humans that he kept company with. and that meant compromising. which was a multitude of things. he could only every use one percent of his actual strength in his daily tasks for starters — taking a boatload of mental fortitude to contain himself.

that applied to his sex life. an act he indulged in often.

maybe it was written in his DNA, or maybe having a significantly larger body to muscle mass meant your sex drive left you unbelievably insatiable. he couldn't tell. there wasn't much of a reference point he could compare to.

even then, it was…unfulfilling.

the women he fucked weren't to blame for it. truly. he'd learned after a couple of partners that his cock was disconcertingly massive in 'human' standards. to quote the most recent, he had a 'monster cock.' something he took literal offence to initially, but later learned that was a generic term for far exceeding 9 inches. and that meant only ever being able to fuck barely halfway in before most of them tapped out.

it was okay. he was okay with it. being superman had perks, doing good, keeping people safe. being sexually fulfilled wasn't on the forefront of his mind at all. but that didn't mean he couldn't dream of meeting someone who could keep up with him.

and that was why, clark kent was obsessed with you from the second you threw the first punch to his jaw.

"are you — … are you freakin' smiling?"

you had your knee pinned to his pulse point, knuckles flexed with clark's dried blood. other hand squishing his jaw when his smile tenses against your thumb. bloodied pearly whites peeking through. that wasn't the expression you expected from a man who was panting, bruised, and bleeding from cuts on his lips and nose.

"it hurts," he manages through a laughter of amusement, "like, actually hurts." your brows raise quizzically. it was a no shit sort of moment, because well, you'd swung at his face. repeatedly. but the crooked smile he was giving you, made your cunt clench. "okay. i do not have time to figure out what bullshit you're on. stay out of my goddamn way, superman."

he doesn't chase you when you'd gotten up, free-falling off the museum's building, thumb drive in hand.

after that, getting rid of him was near impossible. he was everywhere you were, disrupting your plans. and for some absurd reason — taking hit after hit, as if testing how much you could deal, and how much he could endure.

the next time you see him, he's skulking in your apartment, rotating a relic that didn't seem like it was from this earth.

"do you have a death wish?"

clark doesn't turn when he hears you approach him, tossing the armored headpiece up and down in his palms. "you're hera," he muses, eyes glinting when your footsteps cease where you stop short of him. the mention of your past alter-ego, sends a dreadful chill down your spine. his gaze drags over your civilian state, formal, a lanyard around your neck, pencil skirt, and a thin black rectangular framed glasses.

you snatch the item from him. dusting it off before putting it back in its' place. "i don't go by that anymore." clark stumbles backward when you shoulder past him. you don't wait before you swipe him clean off his legs, the cement floors crackling beneath his fall. "i'm giving you about twenty seconds to get out before i fuck you up, supershit."

clark reacts to that nickname instantaneously, pointing at you accusatory. "do not —" he grumbles. shaking his head before pulling himself up to his feet. you weren't paying attention to him, wrist twisted to look at the second hand tick on your watch.

"look. miss hera, i'm here to talk —"

"times up."

the force that sends him crashing into your bookshelf cracks the walls of your converted loft. you sigh, unwinding your wrist from hitting that brick wall-like chest. he doesn't want to attack you, and you see it in the way he's standing up, not getting into a defensive stance.

clark raises his palms to surrender. "please, i'm really not here to turn you in." you listen to him for a second, but you wind up to throw another. this time, he catches your fists, a crackle heard before he twists you around, pressing your fist to your back. "would you listen?" you swallow thickly, his voice blooming a warmth in you.

he grunts at you headbutting him, and you take the moment to loop your arm around his, throwing him in the direction of your television console. you briefly hear him mutter a quick 'oh geez that one hurt' in a tired boyish tone. clark looks up to the figure already charging at him. he catches you by your hips when you pounce on him, legs locked around his chest. "ow, ow, ow — i'm serious! just let me talk!"

you huff, holding him in a tight headlock where you were straddled. in the split second you hesitate, he blindly grabs around your back, holding you by the scruff of your neck before slamming you down like he was getting a feral cat off of him.

"that does it." gritting through your teeth, your heels meet the base of his jaw, and it cracks beneath the weight behind the kick. clark whines out loudly, stumbling back. his senses are attuned now, your head whips to the side when he strikes you for real, the glasses you had on flying right off.

"i really don't want to hurt you. " he pants, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. you attempt to knee him, but he catches you, the whiplash of him grabbing you by your throat has your hand grasping around his wrists. his cape flutters when clark catapults onto the other side. you let out a yelp when your back slams into the paintings behind you. he's close now, your chest heaving hard enough to graze his.

you spit out the blood that collects in your mouth, sizing him with a deadly look, "as if you can." clark looks at you intently, gaze flicking to the smear of scarlet on your lips. his jaw tightens, trying to figure out how he could get you to listen to him.

and then — he licks a stripe over your sliced bottom lip.

your whimper ghosts his jaw, and clark holds you still in place by the neck. large hands spanning your entire throat. your eyes dart to his, flitting left and right. his thumbs shift, just slightly, your pulse slowing beneath.

"you done?" he's close enough that you can feel the hum in his voice. your eye twitches at the smug tone.

"the nerve you've got…" you mutter, your own tongue catching your lower lips. he tenses at the sight of you licking over the glossiness he left.

the thrum in your chest is palpable. he feels it, and doesn't let go. the adrenaline of both the pain and closeness turning into something much more twisted.

"you're strong." clark leans close and you tip your head to the side to avoid him. he takes the opportunity to drag his nose down your neck. "as strong as i am." your breath stutters, thighs thrashing helplessly next to his hips.

"so?" you feel him sigh into your collar bone, his forehead rested on the shifted painting behind you.

"so…you can take it. take…me."

your brows furrow at that, but the answer comes in the form of the monstrosity pressed up against your abdomen, that was twitching. "is…is that what this is about? you needed a super-powered criminal fuck buddy?" the deliriousness in your tone is evident, and it seems to embarrasses him.

"this isn't ideal," he snaps in a hushed whisper. pulling back enough to turn your jaw to face him. "i know you want it too. i can…i can feel your heart rate picking up." he points out.

his face is laughably apologetic considering the span of events so far. "well, it's a given with you humping me."

clark's jaw flexes, "gosh you — the mouth on you." he sputters, the grip around your neck tightening a fraction. "you're so damn crass. this is ridiculous. what am i doing?"

you laugh in his face, and he perks up, staring blankly at just how pretty you looked when you smiled. "are you joking? you have your dick pressed onto me and you're questioning my language?"

clark winces, hips bucking into you when you point out the irony in the situation. "don't…talk like that," he's trying not to acknowledge the fact that he was quickly hardening, but your entire presence was a catalyst. "talk like what?"

he's almost certain you're being obtuse on purpose, but in the off-chance you weren't, "saying stuff like dick, and…humping so brazenly." a smile curls at the corner of your lips, and your hand drops, two of your fingers spreading apart to trace over the outline of his bulge.

"o-oh geez," he gasps, followed by a breathless "give-me-a-goddamn-warning."

the hold on your throat loosens. so you grab around his cock firmly, thumbing where his tip would be. "you're here to fuck me, right? so act like it."

clark looks to you, brows pressed into a knit. his arm snakes around your hip, "…very well, then."

you gasp at the shift in positions, where he now had you pinned on your unmade bed.

his hand curls around your wrist, slipping them underneath his suit bottom. clark jumps when your softer hands grip his bare length, it surprises you "oh."

"i-it's…not exactly small," he grits, panting into the side of your head when you stroke him with his guidance.

"no kidding. you're hung, big blue."

clark grunts at that, breaths turning heavier the more you're dry rubbing his cock. "like that. yeah... that's good."

you hum, lifting your hips to accommodate his bigger frame while he tugs his suit off. the impressive size of him comes to your view, and you let out a stuttered breath. your pussy clench almost as a pre-warning.

he drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. "g..osh.." he mutters, looking up to see that you've unbuttoned yourself enough to reveal the curvature of your tits beneath a lacy blue bra.

"like that we're matching?"

clark huffs out a strained laughter, head dropping lower. "that's not funny."

the smirk on you turns to a gasp when he drags his thumb over your panties, wetness slowly blooming where your slit would be. your hips tilt to his touch, and he hooks his thumb around the edge of the fabric, letting his finger dip into you just enough. you moan brokenly, looking down at the erotic sight before you.

his body was definitely as formidable as his cock, biceps visibly flexing at your ministrations. "the point…of this is so you can do what you want. right? just stick it in then."

the tremble in your voice gives away your nervousness.

clark rolls his shoulder, pushing a finger into your cunt, sounding unintentionally smug, "to fuck you…without tearing you. i need you to take at least four fingers." you clench, on instinct, when he says that. it seems to draw a cocky smile from him.

you aren't sure how long had passed.

somewhere between your second and third orgasm, you lost track of time. clark had his mouth latched around your breast, plunging his fingers deep into you, relentlessly pulling whimpers out of you.

"enough — fuck." you claw at his back, slick with sweat sticking to your cheeks. "just do it already." clark's still diligently stretching you out, marvelling at how your pussy accommodates his digits.

"okay, okay…"

you feel the loss of him all at once and with a flutter, his thighs pushes yours further apart where they were hoisted beneath your thighs. clark angles his thick tip at your entrance. "take a deep breath for me" he whispers, easing himself into you while thumbing at your clit. the reaction was immediate, you squeeze around him, hips already attempting to squirm away.

clark holds you down, feeding you his cock inch by inch and all you can do is brace yourself. "you feel — so.." he groans out, lips pressed at the corner of your parted ones. you're letting out choked, heavy breaths into his mouth, rendered mute, "so soft, a-and wet." you're teary, blinking through the blur that prickle the corner of your eyes. he feels your it wet his cheek, and he pulls back, like he'd been burnt.

"sorry, i'm sorry." his hip still. and somehow, the sting grows even more painful when he isn't moving. "are you okay? should i stop?"

your nails dig into clark's arms, dragging them down his bicep, leaving angry red marks behind. he doesn't expect it, when you grab around his neck, flipping him beneath you. you steady yourself on his chest and fully sheath yourself. the two of you groaning out in unison.

"fuck. oh fuck." clark gasps when your hips lift, and snap back down. he grabs around your thighs, stabilising you as you bounce on his cock.

"god, oh my god, it's like, you're in my…throat.." you're whimpering into his mouth, body falling limp after your brave showing of just having him fully in you. clark holds you up your jaw, drowning your moans in his mouth. his other hand slides down your ass, parting them with a finger, hold firmly around the fat. he takes takes charge to thrust up into you, deep.

"mm—ff..i-i know. it's a lot." he's blabbering in your lips, securing his hold, feeling your tight hole clenching when fingers spanning enough to graze past it, the tip of his finger rubbing where his cock meets your pussy.

it's too much, and clark knows. "y..ou're doing so g-good."

your breath stutters in his mouth, drooling into him helplessly. fuelled by the praise he gives. "so goddamn good." your cheeks presses onto his, panting when the white hot flashes take you to what's now your fourth orgasm.

it comes with no warning. he jolts once, heaving, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into you. never-ending, seemingly. clark turns you over in a fluid motion, cock still pulsing into you with deep spurts. he presses his hand flat onto your abdomen, where the outline of him pokes at your belly.

he's in awe, fully in the depths of a newfound pleasure. a heavy palm swiping the sweaty strands of your cheeks.

clark readjusts his hold on you, a finger tearing your blouse fully apart. you jolt when the buttons clatter to the ground. you gasp out when he presses deeper into you. his palm cradling your jaw.

"wait...what are you…—" he tuts, pressing a kiss on your parted lips.

"i haven't even begun fuckin' you yet."

[scarletmika]

The Wonder of You : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Reader

Summary: Over your four years working for Reed Richards, you'd given yourself one job: you can be his friend, but don't fall for Johnny Storm's charms. Too bad you had already failed that mission before it could even begin.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (making out, unprotected sex, p in v, nipple play, oral f. receiving, temperature play, creampie, aftercare), porn with a LOT of plot, slight hint of some angst, fluff, friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, mutual pining, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, female reader but no characteristics described, mentions of parental loss, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 17,433 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“We need to adjust the parameters for this. There’s a few more levels that I want to adjust, to ensure that we’ve scanned the baby for all possible anomalies,”

Years ago, when you had miraculously been offered the position as Dr. Reed Richards assistant, it was a dream come true. The smartest man alive, holding 18 Doctorate degrees himself, choosing you out of the thousands of applicants to be his assistant was a ‘pinch me’ moment. Of course, he didn’t want an assistant, it was thrust upon him by his wife, but you liked to think after all this time you’d wormed your way into his heart.

Working with Reed…was something else entirely. It was a learning curve, understanding just how the man’s brain worked. Even to this day, you weren’t sure you understood it. Even when things went perfectly, when test runs on prototypes worked out better than you could’ve ever imagined, Reed was never satisfied. Something could always be better, be improved, as if his brain was factoring in the hundreds of thousands of possibilities that could occur and alter your data. You made it work, though–with patience and understanding–you managed to find the best way to work around Reed’s faults and work with him, to support him.

What was supposed to be just a job in the Baxter Building became so much more. Through it, you gained a family you never thought quite possible.

Reed’s wife, Susan Storm, was another one of the brightest minds that you had ever encountered. Kind, compassionate, but fiercely loyal and unafraid to step up to the plate when a challenge arrived, when the people she loved were threatened. You admired her and everything she stood for, the way she carried herself day in and day out. And since the day you had arrived at the Baxter Building, she welcomed you with open arms, as if you had always been part of the family.

Ben Grimm was the most talented pilot you’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. The perfect counter to Reed and his panicky mind at times, having known the man long enough to understand his quirks in a way you could only hope to. Ben was always kind, always open, always ready to lend a hand or be a shoulder for anyone that needed to listen.

Johnny Storm…was the bane of your existence, in the best way.

“Wrong address, sweetheart. The modeling agency is two blocks down. I could escort you over there, if you’d like?”

Those were the first words the hot-headed younger brother of Sue Storm had said to you, passing by you in the lobby of the building on your first day, a wink thrown in for good measure when he’d spoken.

Having followed Dr. Richards' work long enough, which meant knowing bits about his personal life, you were well aware of the reputation that Johnny Storm carried. The papers and magazines, talk shows and gossip blogs, all called him a playboy simply because he’d never been in a long-term relationship but was still a ladies man. You never saw him like that, though. All you saw was a brilliant guy, a lover of space, even if that passion of his was sometimes overlooked because of his ‘love for women’.

And, oh, how you wished his empty, blatant flirting with you didn’t bring a blush to your cheeks every time, or make your heart skip a beat, but it did. Every single time, it did. You weren’t blind: Johnny Storm was objectively handsome and much too charming for his own good, and you decided right then and there that you would use every ounce of your willpower to ignore his empty flirts. You didn’t need to become another girl hopelessly in love with the heartthrob of the Fantastic Four, even if your heart ached when you saw him with anyone else.

Those four had become important to you in ways that you would never be able to describe, but Sue always described it best: a family. 

That’s why when four of the closest people to you in life went up into space for Reed’s exploration mission, and came back cosmically changed forever, you never left their sides. They were your family, and family stuck together, no matter what.

“Reed,” your comment was cautious, hands stilling at your work station in the lab of the Baxter Building. Glancing over your shoulder, Reed was hunched over the machine he’d built in just a day, specifically to monitor the health of the baby growing inside of Sue’s stomach, as Herbie rocked back and forth beside him. “You’ve scanned Sue a thousand times at this point-”

“That’s an exaggeration. I’ve scanned her 123 times-”

“That’s not the point,” he glanced over at you then, looking away the second he saw the pointed look you were throwing at him. With a sigh, you abandoned your work, leaning back against the table behind you to watch him fret over the device. “We have run every test possible, scanned for every data point that links back to the fluctuations in your DNA from the cosmic rays we noted years ago, and we’ve gotten nothing. Your baby is okay.”

“There are still more tests to run,”

Another sigh escaped past your lips, and you allowed yourself to hang your head with a shake.

Since the moment Sue had announced her pregnancy, he’d been like this: even more on edge than usual. Baby-proofing the kitchen, smoke detectors in every single room and hallway, baby gates around every corner, it was getting insufferable. A sweet gesture, overall, and a testament to how much he loved and adored Sue, but exhausting to everyone else that had to be in his presence.

“Fine, but I’m not breaking the news to Sue that you want to scan her…again,”

“I already told her to meet me down here before dinner for another scan. We can adjust the parameters tomorrow. I want another data set from today’s scan at the current parameters to compare the changes with,” Reed never looked in your direction, still fiddling with the machine in front of him. “You’re staying for dinner, yes?”

“I’m making it,” was the response you shot back to him, powering down your workstation in the lab and rising from your chair, crossing the room to stand in front of him. “Apparently Sue has been craving spaghetti, and requested my family recipe.”

“You can’t argue with a pregnant woman,” Reed muttered, just loud enough for you to hear, but he still never looked up. “I’ll see you up there for dinner, then. There’s a few more tests that I want to run.”

“You also have a meeting at 5:45 and one at 6:15,” you shot back to him as you turned to leave the lab, checking the desk calendar lying beside your work station. There was a hum from the man, the smallest acknowledgement you were going to get, so you set your sights on Herbie and waved him forward. “Come on, Herb. An extra hand in the kitchen is always nice.”

As much as you thought of the Fantastic Four as your family, you never stayed for dinner often. You always tried your hardest to uphold the lines between your work life and personal life, not wanting to blur them completely (though, you were sure you had already blurred them enough for it to be too late). There had been plenty of times over the years where you’d stayed for dinner, usually once a month at this rate.

Sue always invited you, and you never wanted to disappoint her, and you gave in often. Ben had a way of wrangling you into saying yes before you were ever given the chance to speak at all. Reed had only asked once, asking you to stay back for the dinner months ago in which they announced to you that Sue was pregnant.

Johnny asked every day. You said no, most of the time, but when you did stay for dinner it was usually because those captivating, bright blue eyes were staring into your soul and pleading with you to stay.

Speak of the devil: there he sat at the dining room table. Clad in a white t-shirt with their logo resting over the pocket and the blue pants of his suit, a weird sight given that you had been in the lab with Reed all day and didn’t think any of them had left to attend to any ‘hero’ work.

You didn’t say a word as you strolled past him into the kitchen with Herbie on your heels, simply plucking the box of Lucky Charms from his hands as you swooped past. It was impossible not to smile to yourself at the scoff of indignation he let out at your actions.

“Hey-!”

“You’re going to spoil your appetite,” you shot back at him, throwing him a smirk over your shoulder before slotting the now closed cereal box into the cupboard where it usually sat.

Herbie beeped out a set of beeps that, over the years, you had come to understand. This time, he was agreeing with you, pointing out some facts about how eating out of the box lacked moderation, and would in turn actually spoil his appetite. You gave the little robot a fist bump for that, something that Johnny shot the little helper a glare for.

“Come on, Herbert, you’re supposed to take my side on these things!” There was no real malice in his words as he got up from the dining room table, rounding into the kitchen as you took the pots and pans that Herbie had gathered for you, setting them out along the counter where you needed them. “Baby, you didn’t tell me you were staying for dinner.”

When you told yourself that you weren’t going to fall into the trap that was the charming and charismatic Johnny Storm, you weren’t prepared for two things.

One: when he got comfortable around someone, he could be an even bigger flirt. Pet names were constant. Baby, sweetheart, honey, doll, love…you name it, Johnny called you it. Constantly. So constantly you were sure the blush on your cheeks was a permanent staple. He’d even once called you his little flame–that had been met with the tip of your heel being dug into his foot.

The second thing you weren’t prepared for: touch. Johnny Storm didn’t understand personal space, not when he was comfortable around you. If you were in the room with him, he was standing less than a foot from you, and you always knew because you could feel the warmth that radiated off his unusually hot skin. His hands would always rest on your arm, your elbow, right at the bottom of your lower back.

Moments like this in the kitchen were normal, and yet they still fried your brain. That simply little pet name, and Johnny’s warm hand ghosting over your lower back, before coming to rest on your hip. Clearing your throat, you gently pried his hand from your body, shooting him a look as you moved around to get the ingredients for dinner, hoping your flushed cheeks didn’t give you away.

“When your pregnant sister has cravings for my personal family recipe spaghetti, I’m required to oblige her,”

“I asked you to make this for me two weeks ago and you refused,”

Johnny followed close behind you, like a little puppy following its owner. You tried, and failed, to contain your smile at his actions. The media might paint him as some sex god (you weren’t going to lie…if he wanted to be, he could be) but you saw him for what he was: the epitome of a little golden retriever at times.

“Well you aren’t a hormonal pregnant woman with super powers,” you shot back at him, taking the opened jar of spaghetti sauce from Herbie’s hand and dumping it into the pot on the stove top, turning up the heat on the boiling pot of water for the noodles Herbie had laid out for you.

“No, but Johnny is a hormonal guy with super powers, who adores your cooking,” bumping his hip with yours, Johnny stole the wooden spoon from your hand with ease, dipping it into the simmering sauce to stir. With that same ease, he leaned down just slightly, leaving a kiss to your bare shoulder that felt as if it had left a brand into your skin. “Johnny also happens to just adore you, and loves when you stay for dinner.”

You had given up on the blush by now. He’d surely seen it enough over the years with his incessant flirting, there was no use in hiding it. Bumping your hip back with him, biting into your bottom lip in a failed attempt to conceal the smile spreading across your lips, you stole the wooden spoon back from him.

“Johnny also talks in the third person too much, and is an insufferable flirt half the time,” he dipped his hand into the sauce, coating his fingers in red as you whacked lightly at his hand, forcing him to withdraw as quickly as he’d dipped in. “What have I told you about doing that!”

He’d laughed, one of your favorite sounds, as you glanced over at him with a bright smile, unable to truly stay mad at him…ever.

That was, until he dipped his sauce-covered ring finger and middle finger into his mouth to lick the sauce clean off, eyes never leaving yours and a smirk curling up on his lips. It forced you to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and look away as quickly as you could, feeling a different kind of heat swelling in your body: yeah, Johnny knew exactly what he was doing.

“Not sure, baby, that look you’re giving me right now doesn’t scream that I’m insufferable-”

“Oh, that’s exactly what it’s screaming,” you shot back, even with the ghost of a smile pulling at your lips as Herbie readied the garlic bread on the counter behind you. “If you’re not going to help, you can leave this kitchen. I don’t care if you live here.”

Johnny rolled his eyes in response, hopping up onto the counter next to the stove where you worked. You caught the box of noodles he knocked over before they could fall to the ground, shooting him a look as he held his hands up innocently, dumping them into the boiling water pot.

“You basically live here, too,”

“I don’t-”

“Yeah, because you keep refusing the room that Sue prepared for you,”

He…wasn’t wrong. Two years ago, Sue had transformed what was previously the guest room into a room that looked like it had been built just for you. Your favorite color on the walls, a matching quilt set on the bed, and she’d offered it to you. A place to stay, to live, given that Reed sometimes had you in the Baxter Building until the oddest hours of the morning.

You declined, still desperate to keep that line between your work life and your personal life separate, as tempting of an offer as it was. Sue wasn’t slighted by your decision at all, instead offering it to you to use whenever you needed to. There had been times in which you had taken up that offer, a few changes of clothes tucked away in the room on the odd chance that you’d need them.

“This place is your home, not mine,” you didn’t look at Johnny as you spoke, simply shaking your head as you stirred both the sauce and the noodles in their respective pots. “I’m Reed’s assistant, I’m not family-”

“Stop it,”

Even with the heat that rolled off Johnny Storm, every time his bare skin touched your own it sent a shiver straight down the length of your spine. His hand curled around your jawline, thumb and index finger pinching at your chin to force you to look up at him, to gaze into those intense blue eyes and the look on his face that had morphed so quickly from playful to serious.

“Johnny-”

“You are family, whether you like it or not,” the statement didn’t surprise you, it wasn’t the first time in your four years of knowing him that Johnny had said something like this to you, or anyone on the team for that matter. It always made you feel warm inside, though, to hear him say it, to see that loyalty and love for the people he cared about shine through in his words, such a stark contrast to the way the media sometimes portrayed him. “There’s not a thing I wouldn’t do for you.”

That was new. He hadn’t made a declaration like that to you before.

It was something about the look in his eyes as he said it–so genuine, so soft–that had you melting into his touch. His hand curled back up to your cheek, thumb just barely caressing the apple of your cheek, leaving a trail of heat with every swipe of his finger against your skin. Your heart betrayed you, fluttering in that moment like it always did.

These moments used to be few and far between. You didn’t know how else to describe them besides just calling them moments. Over the first few years of knowing Johnny Storm, there were small moments where that empty flirts verged on the edge of something different, something raw and real. But in the last year, they happened more often than they didn’t. Johnny wasn’t pictured out with as many women anymore, wasn’t brazenly caught flirting with anyone with legs and a pulse at events. And in moments like this, even in front of his family, he’d touch you, caress you, speak to you in a way that felt so genuine, that felt like it was real. Like the flirting was no longer just empty, meaningless fun.

That line between your work and personal life might have been a muddled mess, but the line between being Johnny Storm’s friend and something entirely more was practically non-existent now.

“You say that to all your women?” you quipped back, trying to hold your own, even as you were melting inside and your voice came out as a whisper. The playful look on Johnny’s face returned in a second, his fingers instead pinching the cheek he’d just been so softly caressing.

“Never, honey. Those words are reserved for my brother-in-law’s pretty little assistant,”

In typical Johnny fashion, he was able to dissolve and ruin whatever the moment was in an instant with his usual ‘charm’. Swatting his hand away, you returned your attention to the food on the stove in front of you, smiling to yourself as Herbie beeped out a popular song you’d heard on the radio behind you.

“You always have a line, don’t you?”

“Hey, you know what you signed up for, being friends with all this,” he jokingly motioned to his body, and you caught sight of the smile lighting up his face again as you laughed incredulously at his actions. “As part of the package deal, being friends with me, you are legally required to attend movie night in the living room with me after dinner.”

You hummed in response, even if you were smiling the entire time just from listening to him talk.

“This sounds like an impromptu movie night-”

“All of our movie nights are impromptu, babe-”

“I saw earlier that channel 2 is playing The Sound of Music tonight,” you shot back at him, finally looking up at him with an expectant look on your face. “That’s what I want to watch.”

Johnny groaned, throwing his head back and knocking it against the cupboards with a wince on his face. You couldn’t help but chuckle at his overdramatic antics, as usual.

“But channel 3 is showing Psycho!”

“And you dipped your hand–which, god knows where that thing might have been–into my sauce for dinner,”

Johnny opened his mouth to speak, before mulling over your words, and effectively shutting it with a nod.

“You know what, if it gets you to have a movie night with me, then I’ll take it,”

God, you adored this man, more than you should. More than you wanted to. In his presence, especially now, you were pretty sure the smile on your face was a constant, that it would never leave, as you laughed at him once more. 

Finishing off the special blend of additions to your sauce, giving it another swirl with the wooden spoon, you brought it up to your lips for a quick taste. Satisfied, you held one hand under the spoon to keep it from dripping, holding it up toward Johnny.

“Alright, give it a taste,”

His eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar intensity and warmth in them keeping you locked in place, holding your breath, as he took a quick slurp from the spoon. Smacking his lips together, running his tongue out along his lips, he gave a definitive nod.

“As always…perfection. Though, I expect nothing less from you,”

Before you could retort to his cheesy comment, his hand reached out, eyes still locked on yours, as he cupped your chin once more and ran his finger over your lips. With the slightest of glances down, you saw the small spot of red on his finger, the remnants of the sauce he’d so gently just wiped from your lips.

Glancing back up to those blue eyes you loved more than you cared to admit, you caught the way they finally glanced down at your lips, before looking away as if to not get caught.

“...am I interrupting something?”

As if Johnny had burst into flames and burned you, you jumped away from him immediately the second you heard the voice of Sue Storm across the room. You never even looked back up at Johnny, or turned around to look at the woman by the dining room table, just stared down into the sauce pot as you continued to stir it and the noodles.

“Actually, sis, you very much are interrupting something here,” Johnny called out across the room, and you could see him gesturing with his hands between you both from the corners of your vision.

“Johnny,” you rolled your eyes, glancing over at him with flushed red cheeks from what had just transpired. “Sue isn’t interrupting anything.”

“She kind of is. We were kind of having a moment here-”

“Johnny, we were not having a moment,”

You very much were having a moment, but you weren’t admitting that to him. His ego burned hot enough, no need to stroke the fire.

Sue laughed, rounding into the kitchen as she stopped by Herbie, thanking him and taking the garlic bread tray from him to pop into the oven he had preheated.

“Johnny, why don’t you go get cleaned up for dinner and stop bothering the poor girl. Bad enough I’m making her cook for me, she doesn’t need you hovering,”

The man let out a sigh, muttering something mocking toward his sister, as he threw himself off the counter with dramatic flair. He wasn’t done making your heart race, though, his hand curling around the back of your head as he planted a kiss directly to your hairline, before he disappeared from the kitchen with a pat to Herbie’s head.

The pots on the stove were forgotten as you turned around, simply watching him disappear with an incredulous look on your face. Quickly, your eyes shot to Sue, who was watching you with a smirk as she leaned against the island counter.

“There was nothing happening there,”

“I didn’t say there was,”

“But you’re giving me that look,”

“I’m not giving you any kind of look,” the blonde laughed, stepping up beside you to take the wooden spoon from your hand, tasting the sauce herself with a happy little sigh. “Just…enjoying watching the show from the sidelines, waiting for one of you to make a move.”

“Sue, there’s no move to make. He’s just…he’s Johnny,”

“And Johnny is my brother,” she shot back with a grin. “And Johnny has never been like that with someone, just with you.”

You didn’t get to respond, before Herbie cut in with another series of beeps. Your eyes shot wide as you listened to what he was saying, cheeks flaring an even brighter shade of red as Sue choked on air, laughing to herself at your side.

“HERBIE! THAT’S SO INAPPROPRIATE!”

❤︎

It had been two weeks, and Reed had somehow managed to scan Sue a total of 142 times, now. Sometimes, you wondered how she was able to put up with his hovering, the hovering that had gotten exponentially worse since she announced she was pregnant.

“I’m not getting clear imaging,” Reed called out from the other side of the lab, the only sound in the room being the incessant beeping of the machine he’d built to monitor the baby, and the solder iron in your hand as it worked away on the small device in front of you. You shook your head at his comments once more, adjusting the eye protectors resting on the bridge of your nose as little sparks jumped up as the last piece of the triangular device was finally attached. “I’m going to have Herbie recalibrate this, I don’t like the data output I’m getting, I want a clear image on the next scan. Is the second bridge device ready?”

“Just finished fixing the soldering on the stand, so it should be good to go,” you shot back, tossing your eye protectors down at your workstation, lifting the device carefully and carrying it over to Reed’s station, setting it down with the matching device. “And, once again, you really don’t need to scan the baby again.”

You were met with silence, unsurprisingly. Until, the workstation down the room set off its alarm bell, a familiar tone that had you stand up straighter where you stood.

“New deep space transmission,” there was a hint of elation in Reed’s tone as he said it, quickening his pace across the room with Herbie hot on his trail. “Let’s identify the origin, then record it for further analysis.”

Quickly walking back over to your workstation, your eyes drifted to that desk calendar sitting next to you, and to today’s date: a poorly drawn flame, and the time “2:15” scribbled in a barely legible handwriting that you recognized instantly. Even if you hadn’t, the terribly drawn heart with your initials in it scribbled in the corner would’ve given it away.

“Your analysis is going to have to wait, Reed,” you called out with a sigh, knowing you weren’t the one who put this meeting on the calendar, but you sure knew who had. “You have a 2:15 incoming.”

“2:15? What 2:15?” Reed never even looked in your direction, focused on the new transmission. “You didn’t tell me there was anything on my calendar.”

“Well, I didn’t put this one on the calendar myself, but you must have cleared it at some point…”

Just then, the elevator doors to the lab popped open with a familiar ding sound.

“Ah–Reed!”

Good god, Johnny Storm was trying to kill you. You weren’t even sure if that was an exaggeration at this point, because you wouldn’t put it past him.

Blue looked good on him, it always had, but the navy blue button up he was wearing was doing nothing for your mind that was screaming at you to “keep it professional.” It didn’t help that the first few buttons were already undone, giving a slight peak to his chest. The white chinos–those were the nail in your metaphorical coffin. They had no right to be that tight, and he had no right to look so damn good in them.

“Ah…that 2:15,” you tried your best to conceal your laugh at Reed’s comment across the lab. “Johnny, do we have to today?”

“Johnny, do we have to today? As if I didn’t ask to put it on the schedule,” the blonde man in question mumbled mockingly to himself as he slid up to your side at your workstation as you laughed at his antics. One of his hands grabbed the back of your neck, tugging you closer before you could even think about it, pressing another kiss to your hairline. Suddenly, you felt like you were back in the kitchen weeks ago. “Darling, have I ever told you how breathtaking you look in your lab coat?”

“It’s a white coat, Johnny, it’s nothing special,” you deflected, taking just a short glance up at him before you had to look away, already knowing you were as red as the table beneath your hands.

“But the girl wearing it is-”

“Johnny, do you want to have this meeting or do you want to flirt with my assistant?”

You hung your head with a groan, even as Johnny laughed at the comment from his brother-in-law. His arm slung around your waist, hand settling on your hip as the heat that rolled off his body enveloped you for a moment, letting yourself lean into the side hug he gave you and the squeeze to your hip, before he was gone.

“There’s enough time in the day to do both! No, I had some thoughts about the new suit designs,”

“There are no new space suit designs-”

You glanced over at the pair as they met face-to-face in the middle of the lab, Johnny holding up the sheet he was concealing behind his back.

“You finished them years ago…they have dust on them,” Johnny deadpanned, letting out a sigh as Reed took the design sheet from him. “Look, I get it. You’re going to be a father soon, you’re scared-”

“I’m not-I’m not scared,” Reed cut in immediately, and you could hear the anxious undertone that overtook him immediately at Johnny’s words. Without even having to be summoned, knowing how his brain worked after all this time, you simply shrugged off your lab coat and stalked over to the pair, taking the design sheet from Reed’s hands without a word and placing it on his chalkboard full of equations. “I’m-I’m busy, Johnny. I’m busy. I’m busy, there’s a difference.”

“He means busy on his pace to scan Sue at least 200 times before she gives birth,” you shot back, sending Reed a bright smile that he frowned at, clearly seeing that you were siding with Johnny here. “Not terrified of becoming a father at all, those two things definitely don’t correlate.”

Johnny laughed, smile bright, and it only brightened the one on your face, a tug somewhere deep in your chest pulling on you when he locked eyes with you. Reed snapped your attention back to him in an instant, running a hand down his face as he gestured in Herbie’s direction.

“Just handle the new deep space transmission, please, instead of ganging up on me with Johnny,”

You laughed, heels clicking against the floors of the lab as you joined Herbie’s side as he waited for the transmission to be scratched into the record. There was a woosh of air, the air beside you heating up instantly as a hand found its way to rest on your lower back.

“Have you listened to it yet?”

The smile on your face softened as you glanced over at Johnny, who was staring down at the record in front of you both with pure excitement in his eyes. Beyond the physical moments, his flirtatious moments, these were the moments that had your plan to not fall for Johnny Storm splitting at the seams, if it hadn’t already.

“Seems to be a lot more of the same, just another complex signal,” Johnny left your side, the heat going with him, as he leaned against the blue table behind him. Herbie took the record from its place, rolling over to Johnny to hand it directly to him. “You’re more than welcome to take it with you, give it a listen.”

He twirled the record in his hands with a grin, absentmindedly reaching out to scratch the top of Herbie’s head. That simple little action elicited a giggle, hand coming up to cover your mouth as Johnny glanced up at you with a smirk.

“What’s so funny?”

“Herbie isn’t a dog, and yet you treat him like one,” you explained, stepping up just in front of him and grabbing his hand lightly, stopping the twirling of the record in his hands. “Also, you do know you aren’t supposed to get your fingerprints all over these, right?”

It was Johnny’s turn to laugh as he spun his hand, catching it in his palm and bringing it up to his lips, leaving a scorching hot, but gentle, kiss to your knuckles, sending a shiver straight through your bones. He didn’t even have a retort to your comment, just simply held your hand in his, thumb stroking along your skin, while your entire body flushed with a feeling you wanted to ignore.

“Johnny, what have I told you about flirting in my lab? I need my assistant, we’re trying to run a test,”

The moment was gone in seconds, your hand dropped from Johnny’s as he raced to the other side of the lab, following closely behind Reed and tossing the record onto the closest table.

You could only shake your head with a laugh, walking beside Herbie to join them, knowing Reed would be mumbling to himself the rest of the week about this moment and how much Johnny liked pissing him off.

“Cool! I got time,”

Reed didn’t roll his eyes as you and Herbie joined them back at your workstations, but you could see how much he wanted to. Holding the device you’d just finished off in his hand, you watched in the same awe you had for four years as his arm stretched across the length of the lab, placing it right back beside your own workstation.

“Bridge teleportation test one,” grabbing the notebook lying beside the device that contained your notes on the project, you flipped to a new page, prepared to note down any disparities that occurred during the test, as Reed placed an egg on the newly soldered stand. “Movement of organic matter six meters.”

Johnny grabbed the protective glasses beside the work desk, about to slip them on, before Reed took them with no hesitation and slipped them on himself. The blonde turned to you with an incredulous look that simply drew a laugh from you.

“Those are his pair, you can’t touch his pair,” you teased the man, who simply shot you a wink in return, as you both took the pairs that Herbie was holding out to you both. Johnny gave the little robot a quick fist bump.

Such a simple action that still had you grinning in childlike adoration at the side of his face.

Reed gave you a simple look, confirming you were ready. You gave him a nod, as he took hold of the switch to activate the device.

“Let’s run it,”

The whirring of the machine sounded, three silver beams of energy emitting from the device and encasing the egg within a sphere of energy. There was a shift in the room as that energy grew, as the hum of the machine filled the air, before there was a simple POP–and the egg was gone.

One glance from each of you over your shoulders was enough to confirm that the egg was, in fact, sitting on the opposite platform. Completely untouched and intact.

“It worked!” Johnny exclaimed, gesturing toward the egg.

That’s when the power to the building cut out.

It wasn’t surprising, given the notes you both had taken. The amount of energy that needed to be funneled through the device in order to channel enough energy to actually move organic matter without hurting it was sure to be beyond the energy limits of the Baxter Building. A full power outage…not what you were expecting. Not that you could write that note down in the pitch black of the room.

“Johnny,” Reed’s voice called out in the dark, steady with no hint of any emotion you could decipher in it. The man in question came to life beside you, body engulfed in flames, the flame resistant fabric of his specially tailored clothing working overtime to keep him from being stark naked. He stood with his hands on his hips, and even from the side you could see the smirk curling up on his lips. “Could you reset the breaker?”

You’d known Johnny long enough now, been his friend for enough years, to know him. Know him better than a colleague should. The instant dip in his smirk to a frown was clear, the tension in his broad shoulders, as he tossed his glasses down onto the table. He didn’t spare either of you another look, crossing the room to grab the record.

“Other way-”

“I know,” Johnny snapped, beside his flame engulfed body was on the other side of the lab, flipping the breaker as the electricity of the building roared to life again. The second it did, he was in the elevator, doors shutting without another word.

Neither you nor Reed spoke for a moment, simply looking down at the bridge teleportation device on the table in front of him.

“I’ve upset him,”

Reed didn’t phrase it like a question, he said it like a statement. Both were true, though. Reed always knew when he had upset Johnny, but never how he had really upset him.

You took a deep breath, nodding, as you scribbled a note in your notebook before turning on your heels, stalking back to your own workstation.

“Well, he went out of his way to put time on your calendar just to talk to you about the suits, and you did dismiss him…” you trailed off as you reached your station, eyes flickering back down to that desk calendar beside you. You couldn’t help it, letting your fingers lightly trail over that little heart with your initials, smiling to yourself, wishing it meant more than what it did mean: nothing. “Johnny loves space, he only got to go up once before…this all happened. You can’t blame him for wanting to go back.”

It was quiet for another moment in the lab, before Reed spoke up again.

“You know him well…better than I think I do,”

The flush in your cheeks was inevitable at that, embarrassment flooding you as it was easy for you to read between the lines of what Reed was trying to insinuate.

“I-I just listen to him. I always listen,”

It was quiet again.

“Go check on him,” was all Reed said. “If there’s anyone he’d want to talk to right now, it’s you.”

You wanted to argue, to save the crumbling bits of that wall between work and personal, but even you knew it was too late for that.

Johnny’s bedroom door was just two down from the guest room Sue had offered you years ago, a bathroom being the only thing that separated them. Ben’s room was at the other end of the hallway, along with the nursery where the soon to be baby Richards would sleep.

You may not have stayed in that guest room often, but you’d been in these hallways enough to know it like the back of your hand. To know it like it was your own home. 

There were countless nights, before you’d make the short walk back to your apartment, where Johnny had coerced you into movie nights in his room. He’d never try anything, never push you into something, always leaving the door open to make sure you knew he wasn’t bringing you upstairs for some alternative reason. His room was just quieter, and felt more private. It gave you the chance to see the side of Johnny that the world didn’t get to see.

The space lover, who spent his life dreaming of being an astronaut, of going into space and seeing the stars. He was a thrill-seeker, always wanting to live his life on the edge, to find joy in those rushes of adrenaline. But beyond it all, just a good man. A man who had an entire collection of records lining one wall of his room, organized from his favorite records to his least favorite, even though he claimed there wasn’t really a least favorite. The world got to know the Human Torch, but in  the confines of those four walls, you got to know Johnny Storm. The second you did, you knew your heart was fucked.

You found him in a spot you’d found him in before: leaning against the floor to ceiling windows of his room, staring out at the spaceship he hadn’t stepped foot in for four years. Your heart broke slightly from where you stood in the doorway, able to see the longing that was woven into his frown, that shone through his eyes that never strayed far from the Excelsior.

“You know,” with a few steps into the room, standing beside the record player, you lifted the needle to stop the replay of the foreign language from the deep space transmission that played on a loop. Johnny looked over, a soft smile overtaking his frown at the sight of you, as you kept your own voice soft and light. “I don’t think deep space transmissions are the right background music if you’re going to stare longingly out your window.”

Johnny laughed in a huff, turning on his heel to flick through his record collection.

“And suggestions then for a melancholic moment such as this?”

“Elvis typically has some hits that can set that mood,”

You watched him, the slight shake in his body that hinted he was laughing again, before he plucked a record from the shelves and rose back to his feed. Standing beside the record player with you, he slid it into your hands without another word and plopped into the chair just across from the player.

With care, like you’d done it a hundred times before (you had, right here in this room), you slipped the record onto the player, dropping the needle down as it coasted along the grooves etched into the record.

When no-one else can understand me, when everything I do is wrong…you give me hope and consolation. You give me strength to carry on.

The lyrics settled in you heavily, but it made your body feel lighter. It was impossible not to read into them, to not think too hard about the deliberate music choice that Johnny had made. You couldn’t help that, somewhere deep in your heart where you had buried your feelings for the flaming man years ago, you were hoping these lyrics were a personal message to you.

“Reed send you to check on me?” Johnny asked after a moment, leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest as he watched you. Composing yourself for a moment, shoving the flurry of butterflies beating against your chest down, you turned to face him and his blue eyes with a shrug.

“Technically, but I would’ve come on my own,” Johnny hummed, the ghost of a smile on his lips, as his gaze found its way back to the spaceship taunting him just beyond the window. “Come on, matchstick, talk to me.”

He huffed out another laugh, stretching his arms above his head as you tried your best to keep your eyes trained on his face and not drift down his torso. Eventually, his arms settled back across his chest, his gaze still stuck out the window.

“I don’t know…it’s stupid. Last time we went up, we came back with superpowers, trust me, I get that. Now, he’s got a kid on the way. But I know–I know–that he knows how much space means to me. So, when he just dismisses me like that-”

“It makes you feel inadequate? Like you’re a child?” Johnny’s gaze found you again as you shrugged with a light smile. “I’ve worked in an enclosed space with him almost every day for four years, Johnny. He used to make me feel that way all the time, until I realized that Reed’s never trying to make me feel like that.”

“I know he’s not doing it on purpose…doesn’t mean I’m not going to shit talk him in the confines of these walls,” he gestured around the room as you laughed, coming to stand beside his chair, looking down on him as he sighed once more. His hands fell, gripping his knees, as he rubbed them back and forth against the fabric of his pants. “I love space. Simple as that.”

You hummed, bending down beside the chair Johnny sat in so that you were essentially squatting before him, having to look up at him. Hesitation caught you for just a second, your brain actively fighting a war with your heart as you raised your hands, but you ultimately took his hands in yours. 

All it took was a second for your eyes to drift over to the table beside him. One lamp, a stack of books, and the flash of a polaroid photo leaning against those books: a photo of you. Taken at some point in the lab, laughter written across your face, your hand almost blocking a portion of the lens as you tried to stop him from taking the photo. You didn’t even remember it being taken in the first place.

Good god, he was really going to be the death of you.

Eyes quickly back on him, with a little squeeze to his hands, you gave Johnny the most comforting smile you could, even as your heart did somersaults in your chest.

“I know you do. You’ll go back to space, Johnny, I promise,”

His eyes watched your hands, and you could see it on his face: that hint of adoration, that hint of something genuine that suggested it wasn’t all just a game, that you weren’t imaging moments for more than they were.

“What if I don’t?”

“You’re Johnny Storm, I’ve never seen you not get something you wanted before. Especially not something you want this bad,”

His mouth parted just slightly as he hesitated. You watched as his tongue darted out, just barely grazing over the edge of his bottom lip, before you flicked your eyes back to his.

“You’re wrong…I think there’s something I want more. Been trying to get it for awhile, but…she just keeps slipping through my fingers somehow,”

That tug on your heart was back. Your heart was surely beating so fast that it could be heard, hammering against your ribcage, as his thumbs glided back and forth across your skin. You could barely think of a response, too stuck on his words: the closest thing to a confession of any kind you’d heard in four years. Raw, real, genuine.

Johnny stood quickly, barely giving you a chance to potentially think of a response as he tugged you back to your feet. His arm enveloped your waist, your hand falling to his bicep as he still held your other hand in the air beside you both. You weren’t sure now if the flush crawling up your neck into your cheeks was from the moment, or from the heat radiating off of him.

“W-What are you doing?”

“We’re dancing,” he said it as if it was the most casual thing in the world, that usual smirk of his back on his face. Whatever had happened moments before, whatever confession may or may not have been said, was brushed away in an instant, that charming, flirty personality of his back in full force. “Can’t turn on Elvis and not dance, I think that’s a literal crime.”

“I didn’t know you even knew how to dance,”

“Oh, I don’t, Sue’s been telling me for years that I have two left feet,” Johnny shot back, shooting a wink down at you as his hand readjusted its grip along your waist. “Can’t be that hard with the prettiest girl in the building in my arms, right?”

Swaying back and forth, wrapped up in the heat of his body, in the faint smell of the cologne that coated his clothing, you were very certain that Johnny Storm was going to be the death of you.

And when you smile the world is brighter. You touch my hand and I'm a king. Your kiss to me is worth a fortune, your love for me is everything.

Johnny tilted his head back from you by just a hair, and you followed suit. Deep blue eyes, as captivating to you as they were the first time you ever saw them, shone with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. If you could, you weren’t sure you would survive knowing. 

Faces just an inch away, the closest and most intimate moment you’d ever shared with the man you knew in your heart was never going to be just your friend, your colleague, you were verging on the edge of making a terrible choice. Of opening the floodgates, of unlocking the feelings you’d buried away so long ago and letting them flow.

“This is an interesting little relationship you and I have, you know,”

Johnny always found a way to ruin these moments, and this was just another example. Lips tugged up into a smirk, mischief swarming his eyes as he teased you, that fleeting moment of raw vulnerability was gone.

Hand slipped from his, body pulled back from his and a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heel within seconds.

“So typical of you, Storm,”

“What-? What did I do!”

You huffed out a laugh, a smile creeping onto your lips even as you tried to keep it at bay, as you threw your comment over your shoulder as you walked toward the door.

“You went and killed the moment, Johnny, as per usual,”

“...so you admit it, we WERE having a moment!”

You barked out a laugh, shaking your head as you crossed through the doorframe. You could never stay mad at him, not when your heart yearned for him in a way you wish it didn’t.

“Come on! At least let me make it up to you. Will you stay for dinner?”

With a final glance cast over your shoulder toward him, you shot him a bright smile.

“If you’re lucky, flame boy!”

❤︎

Yeah, you really couldn’t say no to Johnny Storm.

Not when he’d spoken so sweetly to you, held you so tenderly, and all around just invaded every part of your brain and your heart. To be fair, he barely had to try honestly to do that.

It wasn’t shocking to see Ben in the kitchen, it seemed to be one of his happy places. You weren’t complaining: on the nights you did stay for dinner, and Ben was cooking, you knew you were going home with the best leftovers the city of New York had ever seen.

“Decided to stay for dinner again?” Sue called out toward you with a smile, giving Herbie a pat on the head as he worked away at carving a pumpkin. You shot her a smile in return, pouring yourself a quick glass of water before making your way toward Ben.

“Johnny asked…and I decided to be nice and oblige him,” you didn’t miss the teasing hum that Ben let out, lightly whacking him on his rocky shoulder. Not that it did you any good, hurting your hand more than it would ever hurt him. His laughter was ignored as your eyes lit up, catching sight of the familiar black and white cookies he was dumping onto a plate. “Oh my god, did you go grab these from Maisie’s?”

“Yes,” Ben waved your hand away when you went to reach for the cookies, producing another paper bag and sliding it your way. “These ones are yours.”

The smell that wafted from the bag was enough to have you almost moaning in the middle of the kitchen, eagerly digging one of the cookies out. Maisie’s famous snickerdoodle cookies, the perfect blend of cinnamon and sugar that you had adored since you were a little girl. One bite of the cookie had you in absolute heaven.

“Oh my god, I haven’t had these in ages!” Ben and Sue both laughed at your excitement as you took another bite of the warm cookie in your hand. “How did you know these were my favorites?”

Ben’s smirk wasn’t hard to miss at all.

“Oh, I didn’t. Johnny asked me to pick those up for you,”

It was probably time to accept that blushing around this family was the only thing you were capable of.

Sue’s laughter rang loudest as she rounded the island counter, high fiving Ben as she shot you a pointed look.

“You really have my brother wrapped around your finger without even trying, huh? You know, before I went to get scanned–again–in the lab, I stopped by the nursery to check out the crib progress. Heard a little The Wonder of You from down the hall, thought I’d peek in…”

The groan you emitted could probably be heard from the other side of the country, leaning down to barely bang your head against the countertop. Ben and Sue’s laughter rang through the air again as you looked up, desperately waving your hands.

“I swear, it wasn’t what it looked like-”

“What wasn’t what it looked like?”

Of course, Johnny chose to make his grand entrance at that moment. Thankfully for you, he’d changed out of that ridiculously hot button up. Unfortunately for you, he was still wearing those god forsaken white chinos.

“Your little dance Sue was telling me about earlier,” Ben teased, easily catching your hand as it came up to whack him again in his rough, oversized one. “What’s with the long face?”

“Oh that dance was exactly what it looked like. Thanks for coming to dinner though, sweetheart, glad you like the cookies,” Johnny tacked on a wink in your direction, one you affectionately rolled your eyes over, before his smile was back to a frown. “And what of it, Ben?”

“Sounds like your 2:15 with Reed didn’t go well. I’m sorry, pal,”

From across the room, you could see Johnny’s shoulders move in a huff of laughter as he clapped, bringing down the cabinet shelf that held the same box of cereal you had taken from him two weeks ago. You moved around the island counter, filming your cup with more water before standing opposite of Ben while Johnny made his way back over.

“Hey, I’m fine,” he spoke, though the edge in his words was clear as he did, coming to stand directly at your side. “I don’t mind or anything, it’s just, uh-”

“I hear you, pal. We’ll go to space again,”

“That’s what I was trying to tell him earlier,” you tacked on, bumping your hip with Johnny’s, who quickly did the same back to you.

That smile you adored was back in moments, though, as he dug his hand into the box and produced the action figure waiting inside: a miniature Johnny Storm. His bright grin was turned in your direction as he waved the toy toward you, his signature catchphrase from the cartoon–flame on–ringing through the air as Reed entered the room, greeting his wife by the dining room table.

“They captured my likeness so perfectly, don’t you think?” he quipped, activating the catchphrase once again as you rolled your eyes. “Do you still have the one I gave you a few months ago?”

“Yeah, buried in the junk drawer of my kitchen,”

Johnny feigned shock, pinching your side quickly as you squirmed away with a laugh.

“At least upgrade me to your bedside table so I can be with you while you sleep,” that stupid line was accented with another wink before Johnny thrust the toy in Ben’s face. “Come on, admit it’s cool.”

That catchphrase just kept repeating.

I’m Johnny Storm! Flame On!

Flame On!

Flame On!

Ben grabbed the toy from Johnny’s hand in seconds, crushing it to nothing but dust and blowing it back in Johnny’s face with a smirk. You tried everything to conceal your laughter, but it was inevitable.

“Flame off!”

Sirens rang outside the balcony of the building’s living room. The flying cars of the police force raced past, bathing the room in red and blue lights. The second they disappeared, another squadron flew past in the other direction, the sirens all intermixing in the air.

These were the moments you never got to see often, when the team sprung into action. It was clear in Johnny and Ben alone, how their silly little moment was forgotten as they thrust into action, prepared to go running out of the building into danger. Reed simply held up a hand, shaking his head at the group.

“No, no, it’s alright. This is me,”

Ben and Sue followed Reed out onto the balcony, but Johnny hung back, his gaze stuck on you as you hadn’t moved from the kitchen. He simply tilted his head toward his family, holding his hand out for you. Such a simple move that shouldn’t have kickstarted your heart into what was surely an irregular rhythm, but it did.

The second you were at his side, Johnny’s hand rested at the small of your back, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt just so to tug you slightly closer to his side. Together, you stepped out onto the balcony of the Baxter Building beside Ben, overlooking New York as it was bathed in every corner in red and blue.

“For the past few months, I’ve been tracking a small number of criminal organizations throughout the city,”

You shot a look down at your boss, eyebrow raised.

“That’s what you’ve been doing in that notebook by your desk?” Reed simply waved your comment off, pointing just down the block, fairly close to the area in which your apartment resided.

“47 of them, to be exact. Including the Puppet Master in the Bowery, the Wizard in Gramercy Park, and Diablo in Washington Heights,”

Everyone on the balcony went quiet for a moment.

“You…baby-proofed the world,” Ben finally spoke. Sue’s sigh could be heard from the other end of the balcony as she tried to defend her husband.

“It’s a sweet gesture,”

“It’s a little insane,” you mumbled to yourself, just loud enough for you and Johnny to hear. The blonde at your side simply shrugged, glancing down at you and catching your gaze.

“It’s not totally crazy. He’s trying to protect the things he loves, what’s most precious to him…” Johnny’s lips quirked up just slightly. “I’d do it too…I’d do it for you.”

He said it so…so earnestly. With so much conviction in his tone, as if this was a certainty to him. That protecting not just his family, but you, was something he needed to do. That if it came down to it, he’d do it without a second thought.

“You…you have to stop saying things like that to me, Johnny,” you hated how breathless your voice came out, how wrecked you sounded as you whispered your response back to him, the conversation still droning on in the background between the other three.

The smile on Johnny’s face only widened, his hand slipping around from your lower back to your waist, as he gave you a light squeeze.

“Stop saying what, the truth?”

No, you need to stop saying things that are making me fall in love with you.

Love. That was a word that had only crossed your mind once when it came to Johnny Storm. 

It was two years ago, a week to the day that you had lost your mother, your biggest supporter in life. You stood at that funeral, surrounded by estranged family members you hadn’t spoken to in years, and family friends who wept for your loss. Reed, Sue, Ben and Johnny had come, offered their condolences, paid their respects.

When the others left, Johnny stayed. He stood by your side through the first viewing, never left it during the second viewing, and stood with you in the pouring rain an hour after they’d put her in the ground. You had cried, he held you, and he’d simply never left you alone that day. The colleague that had quickly become a friend, who flirted with you every chance he got, never uttered a single flirtatious comment that day. He’d simply been there, been the shoulder you needed.

That was the day you realized you may have fallen in love with the one man you told yourself not to fall in love with, and you buried those feelings in your heart for what you thought would be forever.

“Stuck in your head over there? Come on, it’s dinner time,”

Ben’s voice broke you from your stupor. The team had all started to make their way inside while you were left at the balcony railing, hands white knuckled on top of the rail. 

Johnny’s hand was held out toward you, and you ignored every part of your brain that told you not to and slipped your hand into his, letting him pull you back in toward the living room.

That’s what their watches all went off, alerts blaring in sync with one another.

It was like a firework went off, a boom shattering the night air of the city. The clouds, the sky, were painted in gold, streaks of meteors and debris crossing the sky as they fell to the earth. The sound that emitted from the golden cloud that stretched across the sky, bathing the city in its light, felt…otherwordly. Like a scream, like a warning.

A warm hand enveloped your face, turning your wide eyes away from the scene.

There were very few times you saw Johnny as serious as he was now. Jaw locked, eyes narrowed but still soft as they looked at you, the cascades of gold shone over his face, highlighting his features as another boom sounded off in the distance.

“Go inside, don’t come out,”

Words were caught in your throat. All you could manage was a nod, his thumb doing a single swipe over your cheek, before he patted Reed on the shoulder and launched himself over the railing and into the air, igniting himself as he went.

If not for the moment, you would have stopped to admire him as he flew, bathed in the reds and oranges of his fire. You were awestruck every time you got to witness those cosmic powers firsthand.

Reed, Sue, and Ben had followed not long after, as you could hear the familiar whirled of their car through the air, chasing after Johnny through the city, following whatever had just appeared from the sky.

You? You sat on the living room couch, wringing your hands together to keep them from shaking. You’d been there as they had dealt with Red Ghost, or even Moleman, but this? 

This was different. This was otherworldly. This was terrifying. And when Herbie flipped the switch of the television, rolling to your side, you were greeted with the sight of the silver alien woman hovering in Times Square for the first time.

“Your planet is now marked for death. Your world will be consumed by the devourer,” 

Her voice sent a single chill down the column of your spine. Herbie’s robotic hand reached out for yours, ceasing the endless wringing of your hands together. You took it without hesitation, though you wished in your heart it was someone else’s hand holding yours in this moment.

“Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak. Use this time to rejoice, and celebrate, for your time is short. I herald his beginning…I herald your end…I herald, Galactus.”

And thus began the longest night of your life since the day your colleagues went into space and came back forever changed.

Sending the team into space was the only option, to confront this mystery at its source. Reed had given you the basics in passing: the threat was real, there was documentation of plants across the universe disappearing entirely, the chrome woman’s signature left on each of them. He’d tasked you to the launch team, to prepare Excelsior for launch in T-16 hours.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

Those words rattled around your brain the entire night, into the wee hours of the morning. Even as you helped Lynn set up the press conference, as you conferred with the launch team to ensure that the Excelsior was prepared in every conceivable way, as you checked and double-checked every data point throughout the entire ship, her words never left you.

Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak.

The anxiety was clawing at you, even as you threw yourself into work. The notion of what her words meant, of what could happen, of how close the end could be.

The clock read sometime around 2 a.m. when you had finally stepped foot in that guest room made for you. There was no way you were walking home tonight. Besides, come morning, there would still be too much to do, too many data points that needed to be checked, too many scenarios that would need to be run through to make sure your team came back to you.

You knew sleep wasn’t coming to you, though, not when that metallic voice was rattling around your head. Not when an alien threat was upending your life. Not when, two doors away, there was a man that you did, in fact, want to hold close…in case you never got the chance to again.

You loved him. All it took was the end of the world to admit it.

Clad in nothing but an old t-shirt with the 4 logo on the front, one you were sure was Johnny’s, and a pair of shorts, you didn’t care what you looked like as you tore out of the room and into the hallway. Not now, not when your world was being threatened, not when your entire life could be ripped from you in a matter of seconds.

Johnny was awake, just as you knew he would be. White shirt, plaid blue pants you’d seen him sleep in so many times, he stood in his dark room by the windows once more, watching the crews rush around on the ground as they prepared the ship for launch in just a few hours. That same record from earlier in the day was still playing.

I guess I'll never know the reason why you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

With a step into the room, shutting the door behind you and flicking on the lamp just beside the door, Johnny finally met your eyes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” was the only thing you could manage to say. Johnny tilted his head, studying you silently, before he held out his hand just as he had done hours before.

“Come here,”

Crossing the room in a matter of moments, you all but fell into his arms. His outstretched hand ignored, he was frozen in place for just a moment as you curled your arms around his neck, throwing yourself into his arms. The faint smell of his cologne lingered, as did his bodywash, and the sigh you let out the second the smell hit you was in comfort.

It didn’t take Johnny long to unfreeze, his arms finding their place around your waist. One hand rested on your upper back, one pressing into your lower back. A faint kiss was placed to the side of your head, heat lingering for a second. Heat lingered in your entire body, radiating off of him in waves.

“You have to talk to me, baby,”

Talk? The truth was, you didn’t know where to start. How were you supposed to explain that, since the moment you had met Johnny Storm, your heart was already his. That in all your moments over the years, you’d fallen for the man you told yourself not to fall for. And as the threat from the metallic woman loomed over the world, as he prepared to try and save life as you knew it, the only thing you wanted was to be held by him. To know he was here, that he was okay, that he was with you.

“I-I’m scared,”

Those were the only words you could settle on. Johnny pulled back, his hands sliding gently around the fabric of the shirt hanging loosely from your body until they reached your face. He cradled you, so softly and gently in his hands, it was almost involuntary the way you closed your eyes and leaned into his touch, his warmth, chasing the feeling of security it brought you.

“It’s okay to be,” the gentle tone in his voice washed over you, covering you like a blanket. It’s exactly how he had spoken to you that day, standing in the rain when you refused to leave your mother’s side, reassuring you he was there. “I don’t care what the herald said, I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You know that, right?”

Of course you knew that. If there was anything you knew for certain in this world, it was that when Johnny Storm said he’d protect you, he meant it. He’d spent long enough proving that to you.

There was no hesitation on your part when you laid your own hands overtop of his. Fingers curling around them, tugging his right hand just barely from your cheek, you turned and pressed the lightest of kisses to the palm of his hand.

Johnny froze. You could feel it. The slight tilt of his head, the questioning look that flickered across his face in the moonlight that shone through the windows. It was all fair. You were never the one to cross the boundary like this, to make a move such as this.

“I can’t stop thinking about what she said,” was how you tried to explain yourself, stopping and starting your sentence over and over as you tried to find the right way to explain yourself, the walls crumbling and the floodgates bursting wide open. “Hold your loved ones close, and speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…it’s why I came to you.”

A single emotion crossed Johnny’s face in seconds: understanding.

That signature smirk of his was back in moments, even if it was twinged with a softness reserved only for you. The heat left your cheeks, but found your hands as Johnny’s fingers intertwined with yours, hanging your joined hands down between you both. There was a bright light that passed over the window for just a moment, bathing the two of you in bright light, before you were plunged back into the darkness of his room yet again.

“You did come to me…why’s that?”

“You know why-”

“I do,” he said it so matter-of-factly, that smirk growing just a tad as he leaned into your personal bubble by just a hair. “This push and pull, four years of ‘will they’ or ‘won’t they.’ I want to hear you say it, baby.”

“It’s not that easy,” you immediately shook your head, teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as Johnny simply watched you. “Saying it…makes it real.”

He scoffed, the sound mixed with laughter, as his head cocked slightly more to the side.

“You came into my bedroom at 2 in the morning–wearing my shirt, might I add–is that not real enough?”

“When you’ve spent years trying to ignore how you feel and refusing to say it, it’s not that easy to say,” you desperately tried to explain. “If I say it…then everything changes.”

Johnny took barely another step forward, and you almost wanted to step back, to bring back the space between you and preserve the small, crumbling wall that still stood between you both.

“A sexy, naked alien woman came to earth and basically prophesied our demise, darling. If there was ever a time to ‘change everything’ and lay it all on the line, I think it’s now,”

Your heart wanted to hang onto the word darling, but your brain was too stuck on the ‘sexy, naked alien woman’ part of his sentence. The sigh that escaped you was instantaneous, as well as the frown, as you shot the blonde man a pointed look.

“Sexy, naked alien woman, Johnny? Seriously?”

“Come on! She was–objectively–attractive. You can’t deny that!”

It was your turn to scoff, tearing your hands from his in a heartbeat, before spinning on your heel. You felt like an idiot–on the precipice of finally confessing your deepest, darkest secret you’d kept locked away for years, and this is what you got.

“I try to be serious with you, Johnny, and you turn it into a joke once again-”

You didn’t get far from him. A hand enveloped your upper arm mid sentence, tugging and spinning your back around. A gasp fell from your lips as you collided with the chest of the man before you.

Whatever you were going to say never saw the light of day. Not when Johnny Storm gripped at your hips, tugged you as impossibly close as he could, and finally–finally–kissed you.

The kiss you’d dreamed about for four years, finally yours.

Johnny’s lips were soft as they slanted against your own, enveloping you in his warmth. They moved against you in a steady rhythm, passionate but still gentle, still testing the waters of the line you had never crossed before. 

His hands curled into the fabric of the t-shirt clinging to your body, pushing it up just enough so that his hands could dip underneath. Your breath caught, even as his lips continued to move against yours, as his heated skin made contact with yours, and any part of your brain begging you to stop this was silenced as you melted into him.

Hands landed on his broad chest, gripping the fabric as you let him mold your body to his, the scent of his bodywash enveloping you as your body almost became one with him. In the pits of your stomach, as those heated hands trailed up your waist and ghosted over your ribcage, another flurry of butterflies erupted as a moan slipped past your lips, swallowed by his mouth.

A moan left Johnny’s lips at the sound of your own, one hand leaving your waist to curl around the back of your neck. Those slender fingers buried themselves into your hair, gripping just enough to have another groan of pleasure tumbling from your lips, as he guided your mouth against his own.

“You can’t keep making little noises like that,” his mouth barely left yours as he spoke, lips moving against yours, as he dove back in for another kiss the second he was done speaking.

“Your fault,” was all you could manage out, trying to back away just enough to speak, but Johnny never let your lips go far. Your hands glided up his chest, his neck, curling into his short hair as your thumb crested the ridge of his ear. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Be mad at me later,” was his immediate response, his lips leaving yours just to find their place along your jawline and slide down into the hollow of your neck. His tongue danced its way across your skin, leaving tingles of electricity everywhere he touched you, his words murmured into your neck as he buried himself there. “I’m trying to kiss you.”

There was some part of you that wanted to protest him–over what, you weren’t even sure at this point–but you couldn’t. Not when his teeth dug just so into the side of your neck, leaving his mark on your skin as if he was claiming you as his.

You were always his.

“You c-called–oh god–you called the alien sexy while I was trying to confess,” you just barely managed to get the words out through your moans. Johnny was slowly walking you backward, straight in the direction of his bed while his lips never left the side of your neck, leaving his mark on every inch of skin he could see.

Your foot caught on the raised edge of the platform his seating area sat on, your feet stumbling backward. Johnny was there–he was always there–and tugged you back into him. And god, if you loved those blue eyes before, you loved them even more now: pupils blown wide, Johnny Storm looked about as wrecked as you felt.

“Your confession was four years late, and I’m impatient,” he stole another kiss from you, his teeth sinking just barely into your bottom lip, tugging gently. He let go, pressing a messy kiss to your lips to soothe the pain of his bite, words fanning out over your lips. “I’ve been trying to tell you I’m in love with you for four years now, so please just shut up and let me show you instead. Now–jump.”

At this point, you’d do just about anything he asked of you.

Johnny caught you with ease, both of his hands splayed out across the bare skin of your thighs, locking your legs around his hips. A choked moan fell from your lips the second your core was dragged against the painfully hard length bulging against his own pants, hands curling into his hair as you, this time, desperately pulled him into a kiss.

I’m in love with you. Those words repeated like a mantra in your head. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, the world’s fire boy and hero that they painted like a sex symbol. The ‘playboy’ with a new girl all the time, never able to hold down a girl…was in love with you.

Your back hit the bed, body bouncing just slightly before settling. His eyes never left you as you crawled back just slightly, propping yourself up on your elbows to look up at him in the dark of the room, lit only by sky and the lamp by the door. The music played faintly in the background, but at this moment, it meant nothing to you.

Johnny’s hands gently touched your knees from where they dangled off the edge of the bed, parting them just so in order to step between them. You watched, entranced by every move he made, body flushed from the heat that coursed through your bare skin at the slightest of touches from him. With a practiced ease, his hand took hold of the back of his shirt, yanking it over his head without hesitation. It found a place to lay somewhere across the room, discarded until the following morning.

It was impossible not to stare. His broad chest, those biceps that always threatened to bulge out of every shirt he wore. His toned abdomen and the trail of hair that led straight to the waistband of his pants, the outline of him still prevalent and straining against the fabric.

“I need to know that you’re sure…about this,” you weren’t used to it, the vulnerability in Johnny’s tone. He leaned over you now, hands splayed across the bed on either side of you, barely a few inches from your face. Those blue eyes flickered down to your lips time and time again. “Because if I kiss you again, I’m not stopping until you’re mine.”

There was no hesitation on your part. Just a single movement of your arms, tossing the old shirt hanging from your upper body across the room to join his. As simple as that, you sat bare before him, chest heaving with every deep breath you took in.

“I was already yours. I always have been,” there was only certainty in your tone as you held his gaze. “Speak the words you’ve been afraid to speak…that’s why I came to you. Because if this is the end of the world, I needed you to know that I love-”

He didn’t let you finish your words. His next kiss was anything but gentle.

Messy, spit coating your lips as Johnny’s tongue seemed to invade your mouth and every one of your senses, his lips devoured yours as if you were his first meal in decades. He kissed with the hunger of a starved man, his hands grasping at every part of your skin they could–your waist, your hip, before finally your ass. The squeeze he gave to your skin, the uptick in heat you felt as if he was burning himself just slightly hotter on purpose, had another moan tumbling from your lips and into his mouth.

The hand still gripping your ass tugged you upward on the bed until your head fell against the silk pillows at the headboard. Your hands never left Johnny’s hair, carding through the strands as you frantically kissed him back, addicted to the feeling, as his hips ground into yours. That bulge in his pants pressed heavenly into your core, the friction rolling your eyes into the back of your head as you let your head fall to the pillows with a moan.

Johnny’s lips were everywhere. From your jawline, to your neck, until they finally reached your collarbone. He lavished you with his lips, tongue running over your skin as his hands trailed up the sides of your lower abdomen, stopping just as they reached the swell of your breasts.

“Since the day you walked in, I’ve thought about this,” his voice was raspy, the words barely understood as they were spoken against your skin. “Since the moment Reed introduced you to us.”

“I-I was wearing a lab coat,” you choked on your words as Johnny’s lips reached your sternum, trailing kissing down your chest, but never where you wanted him. “Hardly sexy, I’d argue.”

“It is when I’m picturing you in that coat and your heels, and nothing else,” he tacked on, before his lips wrapped around your nipple without warning.

You mewled at the sudden contact, one hand returning to his hair on instinct as your back arched off the bed and into him. Johnny’s hand on your abdomen was quick to push you back down, holding you down against the bedding beneath you.

God, with the fire that felt like it was burning through your body, you could’ve sworn that Johnny had caught you on fire. His teeth just barely grazed the sensitive bud in his mouth, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips on instinct. He was quick to soothe you, tongue swirling around the erect and sensitive bud with rapt attention. A moan slipped through him, felt through your entire body, as your other hand tore into the bedding. Desperate for something to hold onto. Something to ground you in your pleasure.

“I’ve dreamed about you under me. Kissing you, tasting you, loving you,” his practically purred out every single word, tongue flicking back and forth over your sensitive nipple. He moved to the other one easily, delivering the same rapt attention to it.

“I’ve thought about you, too,” you relented, divulging every secret you held dear to the man who lavished every inch of you in love and adoration. “In the kitchen, the lab, in that stupid button up from earlier-”

“I knew you liked that shirt. Wore it just for you,” his husky tone sent another shot of pleasure through you, heat curling through every inch of your body.

The tips of his fingers trailed lightly down your stomach. When Johnny’s head lifted for just a moment to lock his eyes with yours, that familiar smirk on his face, you weren’t given a second to react before heat poured through his touch.

Gasps mixed with moans of pleasure fell from your lips on instinct, that unnatural heat of his pouring through his touch and into your skin. Every movement of his fingers over your ribcage and down your abdomen felt as if it was leaving your skin on fire, branding his touch into your skin so that you would never forget the feeling. Burning him into your memory so that you would always feel the phantom sensations of his touch on your skin.

“You’re absolute perfection, you always have been,” Johnny moaned into your skin, lips trailing over the mounds of your breasts with another series of a thousand kisses. Those heated fingers dipped past the waistband of your shorts, pressing directly against your clothed clit without a warning. The moan you let escape mixed in the air with the moan that tumbled from Johnny’s lips against your skin. “Jesus Christ, baby, you’re so soaked.”

The heat was still there in his fingers, setting off every little nerve ending in you even through the soaked fabric of your panties that you desperately wanted gone. Your hips ground up into his hand, whimpers falling from your lips as you chased after the feeling of him, desperate for friction.

“All for you,” even this hint of pleasure had you stumbling toward the edge, babbling almost incoherently. With a tug to his hair, you were quick to bring Johnny’s lips back to yours, arms wound around his neck. He gave into your needs immediately, devouring you in a kiss as heated as his touch was, fingers rubbing slow circles over where you needed him so desperately. “Please–Johnny, please! Please, I need you. Need you–need you so bad.”

“I got you, baby. I got you. Keep moaning my name like that, and I’ll give you the world”

Those whispered words stayed on your lips, lingering, as Johnny left you. His touch wasn’t gone long. Fingers curling into your shorts, they were discarded across the room in a flash, panties gone with them as well.

For the first time, you laid completely bare in front of the man you loved–the man you denied loving for so long. And Johnny Storm was a mess. His hair stuck up in multiple directions, skin flushed, but he was still beautiful. The most beautiful man you’d ever met, inside and out.

Johnny didn’t give you a second to truly breathe once he was done admiring you. He sprawled out along the end of the bed, head dipping between your thighs, as he licked a single stripe with his flattened tongue directly up your center.

“Fucking beautiful, and all mine,” his words were growled into your core, two fingers lazily moving between your folds and spreading every ounce of wetness around, holding you open so he could see every inch of you. “Sweeter than I ever dreamed you could be.”

He dove into you like you were the only thing that mattered. Fingers spreading you open, giving him access to every square inch, his mouth devoured you. A cool drink of water for a starving man in the middle of the desert. Johnny moved his tongue with precise expertise, as if he knew exactly what your body craved.

Delving into you, flicking back and forth as he drank in every secretion of arousal that dripped from you. That same tongue dragged its way up to your clit, swirling around in figure eights, flicking back and forth.

Cries fell from your lips wantonly, hands digging into his hair. Eyes fluttered shut, head tilted back to the ceiling, there was only one word you could repeat over and over again: Johnny, Johnny, Johnny. 

His name was all you knew anymore, too lost in your own bliss and pleasure.

In one fell swoop, your thighs were settled over his shoulders, before his head was back where you wanted it more than anything. His lips and tongue focused on your clit, still swirling back and forth, as his fingers dipped slightly lower, dancing right across your opening.

It started with one long, slender finger sliding into you. One of your hands was forced to leave Johnny’s hair, falling over your own mouth to try and conceal the cry that threatened to burst from you, afraid that the others would hear you.

“Let me hear you, baby,” he laughed against your core, his finger curling just perfectly against your walls as they clenched around him every time he dragged his finger back and forth. “Want to hear you.”

“Don’t want to–fucking hell, Johnny–let the others hear,” 

“Let them. Let them hear me love you,”

Fuck Johnny Storm and his stupid lines. His stupid dirty talk that had your walls clenching around him again and again.

Another finger joined the first, followed by another, before you were stretched as wide as you could be around Johnny. The squelch of your juices rung through the air with every move of his fingers–dragging so deliciously into you, curling up, before dragging out just to the edge of your opening. His mouth–god, his mouth–never let up, lapping away at your core like it was his job, what he was meant to do.

That coil of pleasure deep within your lower body came out of nowhere, sneaking up on you just like your love for this man had.

“Johnny–baby–I can’t. I can’t–I’m gonna-”

“Let go, darling,” came that growl in his voice again, the speed of his fingers increasing. “I got you baby, let go.”

That coil snapped in seconds after he spoke. The precipice of your orgasm was earth-shattering, like you’d never felt before. Like trails of fire through your veins, the pleasure coursing through you had your head buried into the pillow behind your head, desperately trying to conceal the wails of pleasure that tumbled from your lips. Your thighs snapped shut around Johnny’s head, but his ministrations never let up as he eagerly drank up every bit of your arousal that leaked from you.

The come down was slow, like waking up. Your breath was uneven, heart beating erratically when you finally pulled your head from the pillow. Eyes bleary, it took a moment to blink them back to life.

Johnny stood at the edge of the bed, discarding his pants and boxers to the pile of clothing littering the other side of the room. And even in your fucked-out, blissful state, one look at him for the first time had that burning desire coursing back through your veins.

He was big. There was no way around it, no denying it, no other way to put it. Flushed, hanging with that beautiful reddened tip, one large and prominent vein throbbing along the edge of it. Beads of precum collected at the tip, his hand smearing it down along his length as he gave himself one single pump before he was crawling back onto the bed.

Johnny knelt between your legs again. Even with limbs that felt like Jell-O, you met him halfway, dragging yourself into a seated position. It was the smile on his face right now, the one erupting those butterflies once more, that you decided was your favorite: soft, adoring, loving.

It was your hands that cupped his cheeks, bringing him into a soft kiss. The taste of you lingered on his lips, sweet just like he said. You poured every ounce of emotion into your kiss, trying to convey to him the years you’d spent loving him so quietly that you couldn’t admit it.

“I might be addicted to you, Johnny Storm,” your words were mumbled into his lips. He laughed so gently, stealing another peck.

“Glad you finally caught up with me, princess, I’ve been addicted since day one,”

Pressed to him, his lips stealing a thousand pecks from yours, the lust in your bones was back in full force. All you could do was hum in response, one of your hands trailing down his chest, nails dragging slowly over his abdomen, before you finally took his throbbing cock in your hand.

He felt even bigger than he looked, which didn’t even make sense in your mind. But he was hot, the skin searing into your hand in the best way. You gave him one squeeze, one tug, and you smiled at the hitch in his breath. The twitch of his cock in your hold.

Johnny’s hand quickly grabbed yours, though, unlatching it from him. All you could do was shake your head, practically whining as you tried to take your hand back.

“Johnny-”

“God, it’s so hot how eager you are to touch me,” he laughed again, tilting his head to leave a single kiss to the column of your throat. “This is about you, doll. Save that for next time. It can be a ‘welcome home from space’ gift for me. A ‘thanks for saving the world’ gift, if you will.”

Space. 

That word was enough to have your next words caught in your throat as the weight of everything came crashing back down on you. The threat, the herald, the space launch commencing in a matter of hours now, the events that brought you here in the first place.

You weren’t sure when you started crying, when a single tear slipped down your cheek, but Johnny caught it. Eyes full of concern, but understanding, he simply wiped the tears from your cheek, laying a kiss to the wet splotch of your skin.

“No crying, none of that. Just lay back, baby,”

You listened, letting his hands guide you gently to rest back against the pillows once more. Parting your legs, Johnny placed himself between them, holding himself up over your body on his forearms. Right where he belonged.

Your hands rested on his chest, sliding up so gently to his neck. His eyes never left yours, his length sitting right against your soaked and sensitive core, gliding back and forth with each gentle twitch of his hips.

“You didn’t let me say it earlier. So let me say it, for the first time outloud,” you gave him a watery smile, lips quivering as you looked up at him. “I love you, Johnny Storm. I’ve loved you for so long. I’m sorry it took the world maybe ending for this, that I didn’t let myself be yours sooner.

He smiled, that same charming smile he always did, as he rolled his hips once more. His cock caught just along the edge of your opening as Johnny dipped down, breath fanning over your lips.

“Like you said: you’ve always been mine,”

The first press of his length into your core stung. As wet as you were, as prepared as you were for him, it had been so long. He stretched your walls little by little, taking his time as your body adjusted to him. Then, inch by inch, he sunk within your walls that clung to him tightly.

His cock bottomed out, sunk fully within you, bare hips pressed to bare hips as you both let out shaky breaths. Your nails dug into the hair at the nape of his neck while his hands trailed up your ribcage, squeezing every moment or so as choked out moans fell from his lips.

“God–so tight for me, baby–you feel like heaven,”

His name was the only thing you could manage to choke out between your moans as he dragged himself back to the tip, before burying himself again to the hilt. Your moans, your cries and the way your hands threaded into his hair only spurred him on more, Johnny’s hips snapping into yours again and again and again.

His lips found yours amidst every snap of his hips, every drag of his cock against your walls. Every moan that slipped through your lips was drowned out by him, by the feverish movements of his lips against yours. They trailed away, back to your neck, leaving a trail of saliva connecting you together as he bit another love bite into the side of your neck. It didn’t matter to you how this would look to others, how scandalous you might look in the light of day to others.

All that mattered was Johnny Storm.

“Oh god, Johnny!” your head fell to his shoulder, teeth sinking into his skin as his hips snapped against yours over and over, driving him deeper with every thrust into you. “Holy fuck, w-why weren’t we doing this for years?”

“Because you’ve been a stubborn–fuck–little tease all these years,” his tongue dragged up the column of your throat, peppering kissing up and down your skin as his cock dragged against your walls. “Bent over your workstation in the lab–oh god–you don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. Thought about walking in and taking you right there, making a mess right at your desk.”

“R-Reed would walk in and you’d scar him for life,”

“Sounds like a win-win to me,” there was shared laughter, punctuated with a shared moan as his cock dragged right against that spot nestled within you. “And try not to talk about my brother-in-law when I’m fucking you.”

There was no time to reply as Johnny scooped up your wrists in his hand in a single motion, pinning them down above your head. He adjusted your waist, suddenly driving into you at a new angle that had you mewling his name all over again.

Johnny whispered your name into your skin with every kiss, timed just so with every snap of his hips against yours. That coil of heat was burning, wounding itself tighter and tighter for the second time that night. All you could feel was him, was Johnny.

His warmth, the heat that burned off of him. It warmed your skin, it had beads of sweat dripping down your forehead. It was uncomfortable in the best way. His one hand still trailed up and down your ribcage, every so often tweaking your sensitive nipple between his thumb and index finger and coaxing another moan of pleasure from you.

He worshiped you, every inch of you, like you were the greatest thing to ever grace the earth. To him, you might have been

“Fucking perfect, baby. Fucking made for me,” his lips found yours again, slick with spit as his tongue dipped into your mouth to taste every inch of you possible.

His stroke faltered, the rhythm uneven, and you knew he was close. That coil of heat in your stomach was threatening to snap any second every time his cock pulsed and throbbed within your walls. His grip on your wrists was tight, even as you struggled against him, desperate to just hold him.

“Johnny–baby–please I-I’m so close-”

You choked on your words once more, the hand still trailing across your stomach heating up again, leaving a burning trail of heat in your skin. Those heated fingers found your clit like it was second nature, a cry of pure pleasure leaving your lips as they circle that bundle of a thousand nerves over and over again, hips still snapping into you as quickly and desperately as they can.

“Let go,” his voice was husky, eyes blown wide as he looked down at you. Your wrists were finally let go, your hands immediately finding their place in the strands of his hair again as his free hand cups the back of your neck, smashing your lips into his in a flurry of moans. “Let go, baby, let go.”

Your second climax burned hotter than the first.

The pleasure burned so hot, so bright, you were practically sobbing, every cry and moan of pure bliss muffled by his kiss. Your legs locked around Johnny’s waist–tightly–so tight he could barely move away from you. It was overwhelming, the shockwaves of bliss that ran through your veins, the shaking of your thighs as you held onto his hair like it’s a lifeline.

He ground himself into you over and over, rhythm so far gone he was struggling. But all it took was your lips lazily finding his neck, teeth sinking in to leave your matching mark to his, for his hips to still as he spilt into you.

Johnny breathed out every moan into the side of your head, your name tumbling from his lips along with a flurry of swears. The grip he had on your hip was bruising, so tight you think he could snap the damn bone if he held any tighter. And his cock? Seated so deeply inside of you it’s as if you are one, heat pooled within your lower abdomen with every wave of cum that filled you to the brim.

On the other side of the room, the record was still playing softly. Bright lights still flashed by the windows every so often, crews still at work on the spaceship set for launch by mid-morning.

None of it mattered in the silence of the bed.

You aren’t sure how long either of you laid there. Your heartbeat, eventually, returned to normal, even as your chest still heaved to take in every breath that it could. Johnny still laid half on top of you, pressing repeated kisses to the side of your head, but said nothing. Your hand stayed in his hair, carding through it, as your core pulsed. It would ache come morning–hell, it already did–but it was worth it. It was so worth it.

Neither of you were quite sure when he pulled out of you, or how long you simply laid there and basked in the afterglow of a moment that should’ve happened years ago.

Eventually, Johnny shifted down. His lips trailed down your body in worship, like they’d done already that night. From your cheek, to your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, and down your lower abdomen.

“Careful…not sure I’d survive a round three,” your voice was hoarse, mouth dry. Johnny laughed against your skin, still kissing every inch he could see.

“I don’t think I would, either,”

His hands were heated once more, but not for the same purpose as moments before. Now, his touch was gentle, massaging every piece of you that he could get his hands on. His thumbs rubbed into your wrists, your waist, and your hips, digging into the muscles. A sigh escaped you at the comforting feeling, taut muscles loosening at the feeling of the heat and the movement of his hands.

With every kiss pressed to your skin, you could feel it: Johnny was humming. It didn’t take long to know which song he was humming, which lyrics: that same song once again.

I guess I'll never know the reason why, you love me as you do. That's the wonder, the wonder of you.

“Is that our song now?” you laughed, even if your heart was clenching at the mere thought. The mere idea of that song belonging to the two of you–the idea that Johnny Storm belonged to you.

You could feel his smile against your abdomen as he spoke. “It should be. It’s accurate. Because I don’t ever think I’ll get over the miracle that is you…loving me.”

It’s not a miracle. What you really want to tell him is that falling in love with him was so easy, you barely realized you had done it. It might be the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

Johnny crawled back up your body, slotting himself onto the bed beside you, before tugging you in. There’s no hesitation on your part, simply curling into his side with your head over his chest and arm slung around his waist. Words aren’t needed in the silence, not when you’ve both clearly laid everything out on the table now. Instead, you just listened to the beat of his heart, the natural rhythm that lulls you into a state of peacefulness.

He’s yours. Johnny Storm is yours. He’s always been yours, you just didn’t know it.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, hand cradling the back of your head as he said his next words confidently.

“We’re going to go up there tomorrow, and we’re going to stop this guy. We’re going to protect this Earth, like we’ve sworn to do. But me? I’m going to do it so I can come home to you, and love you for the rest of my life. I promise,”

He can’t promise that, you knew he couldn’t. There was no telling what might happen when that ship took off tomorrow, what they might encounter, or who this Galactus really was.

But Johnny Storm loved you. For now, in the quiet of the night, just between the two of you, that’s enough.

[luveline]

May I request a Johnny Storm x reader where reader is a spy that was sent to get info out of the fantastic four but ends up falling in love with Johnny

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.1k “What’s that?” 

“That?”

You nod, fingertip pointing at the box under Johnny’s bed. He, having been sat rather unassumingly in his favourite chair, follows your gaze, and goes completely still.

“That’s my, uh. Collection.”

“Your collection.”

“Uh-huh.”

His collection of what?

You lift yourself up where you’d been laying on his floor and turn onto your stomach, shuffling toward the end of his bed to reach beneath it. The box is slim and flat but hefty, bending your hand where you attempt to grab it one handed. The other hand keeps Johnny away, and your giggling is only a quarter fake at this point as he mutters expletives. 

“Be careful!” he says. 

“I’m not gonna ruin your pornography, Mister Storm,” you croon. 

“I mean with your hand. It’s a heavy box.” 

“Oh.”

His laugh borders maniacal as you pull out his box, but you don’t get why. He’s like, always like this. Always happy. Even when he’s angry, it’s like he’s not truly angry. He runs on fight or flight, flight flight flight, but you’ve learned he gives it good when he needs to. 

He’s half adrenaline, you think. Makes sense for a boy who can spontaneously catch flame whenever suits. 

“What is this, then?” you ask. 

“My box.”

“Thank you, Johnny. You’re truly one of the greatest minds of your generation.”

“Open it.”

You look at him from over your shoulder. He’s joined you on the floor, a warm hand pressed to the small of your back, his blond hair softer in the warm lighting. You’d make a joke about being ginger-headed if you thought he’d take it well. You’re uninterested in becoming human kindling, and you don’t trust Johnny Storm to keep you safe. 

Or, that’s what you insist. 

“I better not see any pin-up girls in here,” you warn lightly. 

Right, ‘cos, unfortunately, unkindly, Johnny Storm thinks you’re in love. Like, you’re going steady, monogamously, and another woman’s photo might piss you off. 

“I wouldn’t have that kind of stuff,” he says. His cheeks seem to pink with your knowing stare. “Anymore! I don’t need pin-up girls, do I? Got the real deal right here.”

“Shut up.” 

He obeys. 

Johnny pulls you into a sitting position. He’s gentle. You want to hit him (you wouldn’t) (it’s about protecting your best interests, even if you know you couldn’t hit him now, not when he’s only ever touched you nicely). 

“Promise it’s not illicit?” you ask. 

“Baby,” he laughs, which is a whole other thing. Like, who does he think you are. “Just open it.”

You crack open the cases latch and flick the lid. The hinges are tightly sprung, and it stands at three-quarter mast by itself. There, inside two velvet borders, lays a circle rattle in the shape of a duck, and a letter folded into a thick square. 

You realise you’ve stumbled onto something precious, but Johnny stops you before you can close the box. 

“That was mine,” he says, “and my mom’s, before.” 

“It’s carved?”

“It’s wood.”

You hesitate to pick it up. “Can I?”

“Sure you can. I told you to open it.”

You put the box between you and Johnny and bring the rattle closer for inspection. Shaking it gently reveals a sound like dried rice plinking against thin walls. There’s a notch at the bottom where the rice might’ve been poured inside. It’s… so human. So fragile. It’s nothing like you thought Johnny would be. 

Even his room. You’d expected a grand, almost palatial sort of thing full of modern gadgets and, perhaps, a few distasteful posters —Johnny Storm, the single sweetheart of Manhattan, you hadn’t believed it for a second. Thought him rude and boyish, scowled at his infomercials and rolled your eyes whenever his infernal billboards darkened your apartment window. You’d figured him out before you got here. You knew exactly how to make him want you: rich boy wants what he can’t have. He needs intrigue, delight, a fight and a good long chase, and then, before he could lose interest, a kiss. Maybe something rather less chaste, only, Johnny doesn’t let you get him into bed. He kisses ardently and laughs into your mouth whenever your fingers flirt with his belt. Talks about movies and shopping and dates, instead. 

“I should’ve given it to Franklin, I know, but I couldn’t, you know. Couldn’t bear to give it away yet,” he says, starting brave, ending soft. 

“That’s okay,” you say, though you can’t work out why. “You don’t have to give it to him yet, or ever. Franklin has enough. You can keep it safe.”

“It was selfish, though. He should get something from his grandma.”

“Mm, maybe. I don’t know, though, baby. I think Franklin has more than enough. You can share it with him later, when he’s older. When he knows how important it is.”

“Yeah.” 

You squint at his tone. “What?” 

“Nothing, just… can’t trust myself to take it out of the box.”

“Why not?” you ask.

“I’m sort of made of fire. Like, I’m made of fire? You’ve seen me do that, right?”

“Sure, but you control it.”

He shrugs. “And one day I won’t be able to.”

“Shut up. You don’t believe that. Shut up!”

His eyes widen slightly. “It’s not always easy.”

“I didn’t say it was. I figure that’s why you’d never do that. It’s not easy, and Johnny doesn’t do easy.” 

“You know I love it when you talk about me like I’m not here–”

You press your hand to his face, annoyed, worse when he licks at your palm, slightly less when he gives it a nibble. 

You place the rattle back carefully into the box and close it.

“You could’ve read it, you know,” he says, taking your damp hand and pressing it to his neck. 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you let me?”

He doesn’t look sick, but it’s a shade of nausea. Too much sincerity for the poor guy, you think, turning your hand in enough to stroke the slope of his neck. He relaxes some under the touch. The pit of your stomach gives a sickly twist.

“Don’t let me, Johnny,” you say, rubbing at his jaw with your thumb. 

He snorts, turning his head to bite your thumb. “Quit it,” he says, muffled from behind your skin. You wrinkle your nose at him, not that that matters to him. He just keeps on biting you. “Let you do whatever you want. But me first.” 

You take your hand back and wipe his spit into his thigh. You have no idea why it makes him cackle. 

[kovrikkk]

Finished piece

[fromsil]

: ̗̀➛ Guilt of the quiet one

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Luthor!Reader

synopsis : Your life was unraveling, little by little. Bored and drained by your job, terrified of your brother, and silently denying the weight of your own depression. Nothing made it easier, especially when one of Metropolis’s most persistent reporters began digging into places he definitely shouldn’t have.

cw : smut, angst, slight enemies to lovers, slight morally grey reader, depressed and suicidal thoughts, implied voyeurism from superhearing, unprotected p in v, mentions of torture, mentions of human trafficking. luthor and chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 22.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3

Boredom.

That’s what you felt every time you set foot in LuthorCorp. It wasn’t the worst job in the world, it paid well, but it left you utterly uninspired. The work was mind-numbingly dull. You were in charge of your brother’s legal team, yet he never let you be an actual lawyer.

Lex trusted you just enough to manage his public image, filing lawsuits against anyone who dared tarnish the pristine version of himself he insisted on maintaining. The number of cease-and-desist letters you sent to the Daily Planet was absurd. Especially to two particular reporters : Lois Lane and Clark Kent.

But beyond that? You were on the outside looking in. Lex kept you out of the real business. He didn’t let you in. Not really. He didn’t trust you, not with everything.

You had never set foot in his big office, the one with the sweeping view of the city. You had no idea what went on up there. Whatever it was, it was a secret he shared with his latest girlfriend, but not with his own sister.

Shaking your head, you stepped forward in the line at the coffee shop on the main floor. Nothing much had happened at LuthorCorp lately. Nothing thrilling, nothing exciting. Just the same routine, day after day.

Eve breezed past behind you, shouting your name in that high-pitched voice of hers and waving like it was a reunion after years apart. You rolled your eyes slightly and gave a lazy wave in return. You liked Eve, she was sweet. A little dim, maybe, but a breath of fresh air compared to your brother’s cynical, brooding behavior.

Once you were seated in your office, you opened your inbox and were immediately greeted by a flood of emails, dozens of them. Most were about the latest failed experiment at Lex’s military base. There was a list of names : people who’d been fired, others who had quit, and new hires who still needed their NDA signed.

Just more messes for you to clean up. More people to bribe. More lies to hold together with duct tape and NDAs.

It was all starting to feel like too much. But the paycheck? More than generous. Your brother might not trust you, but he made damn sure you’d never want for anything, at least not financially.

By the time lunch rolled around, your head was already pounding.

You had a rare hour alone. The entire legal team was on their lunch break, including your assistant. You didn’t mind. In fact, you liked it this way.

You’d gone down early to grab your food, so you had the luxury of eating at your desk, half-working as you chewed through both your lunch and another batch of legal threats. The further you were from your colleagues, the better.

You were halfway through drafting yet another cease-and-desist when your phone rang.

You let it ring a few seconds before remembering : no one was going to answer it for you today. Sighing, you wiped your hands on a napkin and picked up the receiver.

“LuthorCorp, Head of Legal,” you said mechanically, not bothering to check the number calling.

“Miss Luthor.” A deep voice resonated on the other end of the line.

You groaned. You were not in the mood for this.

“Mr. Kent,” you sighed, drawing it out with deliberate irritation. His amused chuckle came through loud and clear. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”

He chuckled again. “Still charming as ever.”

Slumping back into your chair, you hit the speaker button and let the handset drop onto your polished mahogany desk with a soft clunk. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhaled slowly. You were really not in the mood for the Daily Planet circus today. 

Still, if you had to deal with one of them, you supposed it was lucky it was Clark Kent and not Lois Lane. At least he had the decency not to shout.

“Make it quick,” you snapped, irritation curling in your voice. “I’m on my lunch break.”

“Believe me,” Clark said smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your overpriced salad unless I had a reason.”

You rolled your eyes. “If this is about that cease-and-desist from last week, I'll let you call back to get in touch with LuthorCorp lawyers, as I don't deal with those.”

“Not this time,” he replied. “It’s about the recent firings at the LuthorCorp research division, the ones connected to Project Tonite.”

Your fingers froze just above your keyboard. How did he know about this? This happened in the last two days. 

“Never heard of it,” you said coolly.

Clark gave a small, skeptical laugh. “Come on, Miss Luthor. Three scientists let go in twenty-four hours, all under suspiciously vague NDA conditions? One of them told me, off the record, that they weren’t even allowed to collect their personal items. That usually happens when someone’s trying to bury something.”

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the desk. “And let me guess, you want to dig it up?”

“That’s kind of my job.” You could hear the smirk. 

“I know you’re good at your job, Mr. Kent,” you said coolly, already clicking through the internal database. “But let me assure you, I’m very good at mine.”

Your tone didn’t waver as you scanned the list of recently terminated staff, searching for any names connected to the classified project.

“Also,” you added, eyes narrowing as you located the relevant files, “thank you for informing me that some of our former employees have been violating the contracts they signed. That’s… helpful.”

You found the three names instantly. With practiced efficiency, you forwarded their files to your best in-house counsel, including a brief note : One of them talked to the press. Find out who, and get the paperwork ready.

The goal was simple. Identify the leak. Then sue them into silence.

There was a pause on the line. Clark’s voice came back, just a little more pointed this time. “So that’s it? One of them speaks out, and your first move is to sue them into the ground?”

You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other as you stared at the phone like it had personally insulted you.

“My first move,” you said evenly, “is to protect my company’s legal interests. What they signed was very clear, Mr. Kent. Confidentiality. Non-disclosure. No public commentary. If they broke that, they don’t just get a slap on the wrist, they get consequences.”

“You don’t even know which of them talked.” Clark deadpanned on the other side of the phone. He must of known it was a stupid thing to say. 

Scoffing, you grabbed a bit of your meal, answering with a mouthful. "We'll find out." 

You heard him sigh, and you knew that sound, he was about to launch into another one of his noble little speeches. You cut him off before he had the chance.

“Listen, Mr. Kent,” you said flatly. “Whatever they told you is irrelevant, and illegal. You want to use it? Go ahead. But you and I both know how this ends. Same circus, different headline. Every time the Planet comes sniffing around our business, it’s the same tired routine.”

You leaned forward, voice like ice.

“Let’s just skip to the part where your editors get a not so polite letter from my office. Save us both the effort, and your lawyers the headache.”

Clark didn’t back down. Of course not.

“I have reason to believe LuthorCorp is moving forward with something dangerous. If you're hiding—”

“If,” you snapped, cutting him off again, “LuthorCorp is hiding something dangerous, then it’s buried for a reason.”

You paused, letting the weight of your words settle.

“And unless you’ve got something more substantial than your hero complex and secondhand paranoia, I suggest you stop fishing before you fall into waters you can’t swim in.”

There was a long silence. You didn't fill it. Let him sit in it.

You were just about to hang up when Clark spoke again, quiet, but deliberate. "I know about the Superman Project."

Your fingers froze above the keyboard. How could he know? There was no possible way he actually did. 

You weren’t even supposed to know.

You had been tired of your brother keeping things from you. Of being left in the dark while he handed off his most secretive, most dangerous operations to a hidden legal team that answered only to him. Meanwhile, you were left dealing with the fallout. The lawsuits, the corporate scandals, the media fires. Always cleaning up after his messes, never trusted with the truth.

So, you had started digging.

It hadn’t been easy. Lex had buried the trail deep, tucked behind fake departments, encrypted files, and names scrubbed from every system. But you were a Luthor. And when a Luthor wants the truth, they find it, no matter how deep it was buried.

What you uncovered was worse than you imagined.

Project Superman was, in a way, connected to Project Tonite. The latter was part of Lex’s broader plan to enter politics by offering authorities a method to control, and, if necessary, eliminate,  metahumans. Lex was obsessively working to recreate Kryptonite, aiming to engineer it into a universal weakness for anyone with meta-genes. Though deeply unethical, the project could be easily justified under the guise of public safety, a means to protect civilians and prevent the fear of becoming targets in a world increasingly influenced by alien forces.

It was your job to handle Project Tonite. Unethical, certainly, but not lethal.

Project Superman, as you later discovered, was something far darker. It was Lex’s attempt to create his own metahumans, an army of loyal enforcers to protect him and his interests. He was experimenting on people in a hidden lab in Boravia. Officially, they were “volunteers.” In truth, they were either brainwashed soldiers, convinced they were dying for their country, or desperate civilians lured by promises of money.

This was harder to bury. No amount of spin could justify it. No one would stand for such atrocities, not even you. You'd seen how they handled those who tried to speak out. Death would have been a mercy.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, slightly knowing the phone was tapped. “Now, if that’s all, I’d like to get back to my lunch, Mr. Kent.”

You hung up, your hand lingering on the phone just a moment too long. You weren’t ready, not for the fallout that would come once your brother realized you knew about his most secret, most dangerous project.

Hanging up was the only way to delay that reckoning.

For the rest of the day, you were on edge every time someone knocked on your door. Each phone call made you flinch slightly, every email felt like it could be a threat in disguise. But nothing came. It was as if Clark Kent hadn’t told anyone he called your office, like he had made sure to reach you when you were alone.

Normally, when reporters tried to contact you and couldn’t get through, they’d go after someone else on the legal team. That would always end the same way : Lex finding out. And then he’d storm into your office, acting as if you had invited the scrutiny, as if your actions had put the corporation at risk.

Yet, as you locked the door of your flat, you finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Kent's call. You turned down the alarm, slid every bolt into place, and only then started peeling off your shoes and vest. It wasn’t until that moment that you realized just how tightly wound you’d been all day.

You kept replaying it in your head, over and over. You still couldn’t understand how the hell a Daily Planet reporter knew about Project Superman. It made no sense. Everyone who had been terminated from the project had also been… terminated from life itself. Either dead, or locked away in whatever deranged side project your brother had been developing on that goddamn beach of his.

You didn’t know which fate was worse. And you weren’t interested in finding out.

Slumping onto the couch, you stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it. Why hadn’t it been front-page news the moment Clark Kent found out? Why the quiet call? Why the restraint? You sat up. Maybe he didn’t know much. Maybe the call was a bluff, an attempt to catch you off guard, to shake you just enough that you’d slip. That had to be it.

Scoffing, you shook your head at your own stupidity. He’d played you. And you’d almost walked right into it like a debutante at her first scandal. 

You were about to get up when your phone buzzed.

Unknown number 

"Hello," you answered, hesitant.

“Miss Luthor,” came Clark Kent’s voice, calm, low, unmistakably his.

You let out a heavy sigh and collapsed back onto the couch. It was late. The day had already been a disaster, and this felt like the final insult.

“How the fuck did you get this number?” you snapped, not bothering to be polite.

A soft laugh came through the speaker, calm, maddening. It only fuelled your irritation. It was almost like he didn’t realize the weight his words carried, or worse, he did and simply didn’t care.

You knew your personal phone was clean. You checked it weekly. Lex had tapped your work line, of course, listened to every conversation, tracked every call. You let him believe you didn’t know. Occasionally, you even used it to call friends just to maintain the illusion.

“You told me yourself,” Clark said, voice smooth and infuriatingly gentle. “I’m very good at my job.”

You frowned, confused by his tone, the softness, the restraint. He sounded patient. Not like a man cornering someone with a bombshell. Not like someone planning to go public.

Why wasn’t he pressing harder? What the hell did he want?

“Tell Jimmy he’s going to have real problems if Lex finds out about him and Eve,” you said, dropping it like a bomb. It was the only explanation that made sense, how else would Clark have your personal number?

“He didn’t—” Clark started, then cut himself off. He refused to take the bait. Refused to treat you like an idiot. “I’m not calling about Jimmy. Not even about what I called you about earlier.”

You scoffed, your patience nearly gone. He was playing you again, acting calm, composed, pretending like he wasn’t pushing some carefully constructed agenda. You weren’t a fool. You knew manipulation when you heard it. He spoke like someone who thought his sincerity was a weapon.

“What do you want then?” you snapped.

There was a pause. And then, in that same calm voice, he asked : “I just want to know why you defend him.”

You stilled. 

"Of the records." He added at your silence. 

Of course. There it was. Another angle. Another motive. You recognized this game, draw out the sympathy, lower the defences, build just enough rapport for the truth to slip out. He wanted you to pity yourself. To question your loyalty. To crack. 

But you wouldn’t. Not for him. Not for anyone. Not anymore. 

Lex had played this game too many times, for far too long. It left scars, sure, deep ones, but it also taught you how to bury your feelings, how to do the job without letting guilt cloud your judgment. It made you sharp. Unshakable.

You wouldn’t let Clark Kent be the one to undo all of that.

“Listen, Clark,” you said, spitting his name like it tasted wrong. “I don’t know what you want, or what you think you’re going to get by being all honeyed and soft-spoken, but it’s not going to work. People have tried before you. People smarter, more ruthless, more desperate. And they failed all the same.”

Your voice hardened.

“I don’t want your sympathy. I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anything from you. Not your questions. Not your insight. Not even your damn voice.”

Silence stretched on the line. Heavy. Intentional.

“I can help you,” his voice came through, calm, measured, infuriatingly composed. “I have nothing to gain if your brother finds out I called you. This is a safe line. I made sure of it. But a lot of person have something to gain if you leave that company.”

“Leave the company? And then what?” you shot back, the words sharp and fast, your anger rising. “Vanish into thin air so Lex never finds me again? You think I can just disappear?”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond.

“I don’t need your help. I don’t even know what the hell you think you’re helping me with. Do I look like some poor damsel waiting for a knight in shining armour? Because let me tell you something—” You stood abruptly, pacing the living room now, one hand in your hair, the other clenched at your side.

“There is no one, nothing, that can take my brother down. Everyone who’s tried? You know exactly what happened to them.”

You stopped pacing and stared at the wall, breath heavy, heart pounding in your ears.

“So if you really want to help me, like you say you do, then here’s what you’re going to do : you’re not going to call this number again. You’re not going to contact my office talking about project neither of us should known about. And for the sakes of both our lives, you’re going to forget Project Superman ever existed.”

Silence. You didn’t care what he said next. You were already reaching for the button to end the call.

“Don’t call this number again,” you said coldly, and hung up.

The line went dead, but the tension didn’t leave with it. You pressed the heel of your palm against your eyes, breathing hard, trying not to cry. From the anger. From the pressure. From the horrifying things you’d seen while snooping around Project Superman.

You were a coward. You knew it.

Maybe that’s why you resented Clark Kent so much. He’d had the nerve to reach out, to ask the hard questions, even knowing the risks. You hadn’t even been able to speak about the things your brother had done. The things Lex Luthor had done in the dark, to others, and sometimes even to himself.

You knew the consequences. You’d seen them firsthand. And you didn’t want to be next.

Even if speaking out could help hundreds. Maybe thousands.

You sat down slowly, hands shaking in your lap.

You were a coward. And for now… you were okay with that.

Weeks passed in total silence from both the Daily Planet and Clark Kent.

No headlines about LuthorCorp. No reason to threaten them with lawsuits. Just silence.

And honestly, it made your job easier. A lot of your day-to-day involved clashing with reporters, especially them. So when they left LuthorCorp alone, your workload lightened, and your days felt strangely manageable. Almost peaceful.

You were on the roof, smoking a cigarette, your lunch long forgotten beside you. From here, you had one of the best views in the city, skyline stretching wide, sunlight brushing against the tops of the tallest towers, but it meant nothing. You hadn’t felt anything in a long time.

Just boredom. That’s all that was left.

Bored of covering up messes. Bored of threatening people into silence. Bored of your brother constantly looking down on you. Bored of your life.

“You know those things kill you?” The deep voice snapped you out of your thoughts. 

You jumped, startled, spinning around to see who had disturbed your rare moment of quiet. And froze.

Superman. Standing just a few meters away.

You frowned, instinctively scanning the sky, expecting to find some incoming threat, maybe a drone, a villain, a building seconds from collapse, but there was nothing. Just blue sky and distant clouds. Calm.

You turned back to him, confusion painting your face. He let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused.

“Can I help you with something?” you asked, dumbly. It should have been the other way around, you knew that, but you were too off-balance to care.

“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied politely. His voice was warm, even amused. He stepped a little closer, his boots landing gently on the gravel. “I was just flying by and saw you sitting here all alone. Looking kind of sad. Thought I’d check in.”

“Just flying by…” you echoed, mocking him with a dry tone, taking another drag of your cigarette.  “What, you checking rooftops now?”

“Only the ones with interesting people on them,” he said with a faint smile.

You weren’t sure what bothered you more, the fact that Superman was here, talking to you, or the fact that some small, treacherous part of you actually appreciated it.

Running into metahumans in Metropolis was nothing new. Practically routine. You were used to it, numb to it. And honestly, you didn’t care about them. Not really. Especially not this one.

Not the one your brother had developed a borderline obsessive fixation with.

The thought made you laugh under your breath. If Lex could see you now, sitting on a rooftop, casually chatting with his so-called nemesis, he'd probably have a stroke. Or throw someone off a building. You were fairly certain Superman didn’t even care about Lex, at least not in the same way Lex cared about him.

You figured ignoring him would be enough to make him leave. But no, of course not.

Instead, the man in spandex sat down right next to you, just a couple of meters away. Calm. Relaxed. As if this was all perfectly normal. Then he blew. A gust of air, deliberate, sharp, and your cigarette sailed out of your fingers, flicked clean into the sky.

“Okay, now,” you snapped, sitting up straighter. “Those things are expensive.”

He gave you a mild look, clearly unbothered. “They also kill you slowly.”

“Maybe I wanna die?” you shot back.

“Problem in paradise?” He smiled, almost teasing. 

You scoffed. Anyone with half a brain knew LuthorCorp was anything but a paradise. Lighting another cigarette, you let the silence hang between you. Truth was, you didn’t know what to say to him, not to him. What was there to say?

“Don’t make me do it again,” he teased, eyes locked on your cigarette like it had personally offended him.

“If you do,” you said flatly, taking a long drag, “I’ll jump off the building.”

He laughed, genuinely. Since when did Superman have dimples?

“Dramatic,” he said, still chuckling. “Besides, you know I’d catch you.”

And just because he knew he could, he blew again. Your cigarette vanished into the sky.

You sighed, stood up without a word, and, before your mind could stop your body, you walked to the edge of the roof. And stepped off.

“What the— NO!” came the shout behind you, his voice laced with panic as you tumbled from the tallest building in Metropolis.

Wind tore past your face. The ground rushed up to meet you. And for the first time in months, maybe years, you felt something. You giggled, wild and breathless, as the city blurred around you. It was chaos. It was stupid. It was reckless.

But for one glorious second… it was freedom.

You were caught mid-fall, arms of steel wrapping around you, pulling you hard against a solid chest. The impact wasn’t rough, but it jolted you all the same. Warmth surrounded you instantly. The wind disappeared.

Your arms, on instinct more than intent, wrapped around Superman’s neck as he steadied you both, slowing until the momentum was gone and you were simply floating. Suspended above the city like a feather caught in still air. His grip didn’t falter. Not for a second.

At first, you were just looking into his eyes, breath heaving from the adrenaline, heart pounding in your chest, while he remained perfectly calm, just as he had been before. Of course, you’d known he would catch you. He’d said it himself. But there was something exhilarating about catching Superman off guard.

And then, for the first time in months, you laughed. A real laugh, raw, unfiltered, shaking your whole body as it spilled out of you, rocking you gently against him in midair. It caught both you and the metahuman by surprise. The laughter felt genuine, liberating, like something had cracked open inside you.

For a few long seconds, he just held you there, floating above Metropolis, watching as you laughed like a madwoman in his arms. His expression was soft, confused, maybe even concerned but never judging.

“You really did it,” he muttered, voice low. “You actually jumped.”

“I told you I would,” you replied, breathless.

A beat of silence passed between you. His heartbeat was steady. Yours was not.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, not angry, but something quieter. Something that stung more.

You looked away, eyes scanning over Metropolis before looking down. The world looked so tiny from up here, it was almost addicting. “I think I just wanted to feel something.”

His arms tightened just a little. Protective. Anchoring. Without a word, he flew you back to the rooftop of LuthorCorp, setting you down gently, right in the middle of it, very far from the edge. The choice made you laugh, just a little. It was almost sweet.

“I’m not jumping again, don’t worry,” you said quietly, stepping out of his warm embrace.

You walked back to the spot where you’d been before, beside your barely touched lunch, your pack of cigarettes, and your phone, and sat down again, staring out over the city. You could feel his eyes on your back. The way he’d looked at you, genuinely concerned, not out of duty but something almost human, left a strange warmth in your chest.

How pathetic did your life have to be, for the only person who seemed to care, even for just a moment, to be Superman?

Nobody would’ve truly cared if he hadn’t caught you. Not really. You wouldn’t have cared, either. Just one last rush of adrenaline before the long, quiet sleep. It might’ve even made a decent headline : Lex Luthor’s sister falls to her death, dramatic, poetic even, if anyone had been paying attention. They wouldn't even say your own name. 

Lex probably wouldn’t have mourned, not really. Maybe for the cameras, because it would be expected of him. Clark Kent would’ve gotten his front page. LuthorCorp would’ve named a new Head of Legal. The world would’ve kept turning. And you, you would’ve finally had peace.

It all came tumbling down at once. That invisible wall you'd spent years building, the one between feeling and function, cracked. Funny how the mind could carry so much until it just couldn’t. Until, in one fragile second, everything became too much.

You had no one important in your life. No real friends. No boyfriend. No one waiting for you to come home.

You never made time for it, and honestly, you didn’t want to. Letting someone in meant dragging them into Lex’s orbit, into his world of control and consequences. And you knew, sooner or later, when everything finally came crashing down, you’d be caught in the blast.

No one deserved to go through that for you.

Without even realising it, tears had started slipping down your face. Quiet and relentless. You’d carried so much for so long, buried it deep, locked it away ever since the day you said yes to Lex’s job offer. Maybe the real mystery was that you hadn’t broken sooner.

And just your luck… it had to happen in front of fucking Superman.

Still, in a strange way, maybe that made it easier. He wasn’t someone who would haunt your life later. He wasn’t someone you’d have to explain yourself to. Just a stranger, powerful, distant, untouchable. Someone you could fall apart in front of for a moment, and never see again. And in that moment, as you sat there, broken and small on the rooftop of your brother’s empire, you could pretend, just for a second, that you weren’t truly, utterly alone.

In a world this massive, this overwhelming, it was easy to forget that people like you didn’t get to be the heroes. By name, by blood, by inaction… you were one of the bad ones.

It felt almost comical, crying over how your brother had ruined your life, all while sitting on the rooftop of his building. As if you weren’t part of it. As if you hadn’t played your role.

You could have said no. Could’ve turned down his offer. Could’ve taken the harder road, fought your way to the top, maybe even become one of the best lawyers in this goddamn city. But you hadn’t. The promise of money, luxury, and an “easy” career had won. And the rest of you, the better part, had lost.

Even now, three years later, you weren’t sure if you would’ve made a name for yourself. Maybe you’d still be stuck in that old, crumbling apartment. But maybe, just maybe, you’d still have your friends. Maybe you’d have someone, a boyfriend, a partner, a life outside of this cold marble empire. Certainly you'd be happier.

“You should have let me fall…” you said, barely above a whisper.

But he heard it. Of course he did.

He was beside you in seconds, sitting just like before, only this time, a little closer. His warmth was a quiet comfort as the wind picked up, brushing through your hair, while dark clouds slowly crept into the Metropolis skyline.

“You know I can’t do that,” he said gently.

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“No one would know. And trust me, no one would care enough to ask questions,” you said, your voice low, bitter. Before he could answer, a thought surfaced, sharp and sudden, and you added, “Well… maybe The Daily. Maybe your little buddy Clark Kent would’ve called just to have the perfect front page.”

It was his turn to scoff, the sound laced with something close to anger. You glanced at him through blurry eyes and saw the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow.

“Don’t say things like that,” he replied, frustration barely held back in his voice.

Ever the saviour, you thought. Of course Superman wouldn’t be the kind of man to let you spiral, but it felt like if you didn’t speak now, your brain might just implode. Like some switch had flipped inside you, and there was no turning it off.

“No, but really. You should’ve let me fall,” you said again, firmer this time. “It wouldn’t have changed a thing. Might’ve even made a few people happy.”

You stared out at the skyline as your voice hardened. “Laura would finally get her promotion. She’s hated me ever since I took her spot three years ago.”

You sniffed, eyes stinging, glancing over at him.

“Lex… he’d be relieved. Wouldn’t have to keep watching me out of the corner of his eye, worrying that maybe I’ll grow a conscience and talk to the press. I know he’d still come after me if I did, but I like to think it’d be harder with me than with a regular employee. You know?”

Leaning a little closer to the edge, your eyes settled on the ground far below. You heard Superman shift beside you, subtle, but ready, as if he thought you might jump again.

The thought made you laugh, quiet and bitter. Of all the places to have a complete mental breakdown, it had to be on the roof of LuthorCorp, with the strongest metahuman alive standing beside you like some guardian angel you never asked for. 

“I’d finally be at peace,” you murmured. “No more complaints. No more threats. No more bribes. No more guilt. Just a coward lying cold in her grave.”

You whispered the last part, almost to yourself. More tears slipped down your face, blending seamlessly with the rain now falling in heavy sheets, as if the sky had decided to cry with you.

"You're more than just this job," Superman said softly, his hand wrapping gently around your arm as he pulled you back from the edge.

You let out a genuine, tear-filled laugh, harsh and wet in the rain. Always the optimist. But he couldn’t have been more wrong.

You weren’t more than this job. This job was you now. It had devoured every part of the person you used to be, every ideal, every boundary, every line you swore you’d never cross. Now you were a void version of yourself, filled with legal jargon and lies, a polished shield for monsters in suits.

It had rotted you from the inside out. Turned you into everything you grew up hating : a corrupted executive, pocketing blood money and defending the indefensible for the sake of a paycheck and an office.

This wasn't who you had wanted to be. And why? Because you had never known how to stand up for yourself in front of Lex. 

"I'm really not..." you murmured, rubbing at your eyes. "But... thanks for saying it, I guess."

You rose to your feet, water dripping from your clothes. The Metropolis rain was rare, but when it came, it never held back. At least now you had a decent excuse to go home early. The office had been slow all day, nothing you couldn’t handle from your laptop if needed.

As you gathered your thing, your half-eaten lunch, your phone, the crumpled, now soaked, cigarette pack, you stole one last glance at him.

He looked almost human like this.

Soaked from the rain, seated quietly with his cape clinging to him, his expression caught somewhere between concern and sympathy. The image the media had built around him didn’t do him justice, not enough. Not the way his hair curled when wet, not the way his blue eyes held entire conversations shining with so many emotions, not the dimples still ghosting along his cheeks even when he wasn’t smiling. And certainly not the softness of his lips.

You blinked the thought away, scoffing silently at yourself. Of course, the only man you found attractive was also the most unreachable one. Classic.

"Thank you," you said at last, your voice softer now, more sincere. "For not letting me fall."

"Always," he replied simply, his voice steady as he watched you disappear behind the rooftop door.

You took the stairs down slowly, each step heavier than the last. You felt like hell, worse than you had in a long time. As if your own mind had finally decided to punish you for every cry for help you’d ignored. For every night you spent awake, staring at the ceiling with a racing heart and hollow chest. For every morning you dragged yourself out of bed, feeling like your skin didn't fit right.

For every moment you scratched your arms raw just to feel something through the guilt and pressure. For every hour spent dissociating in your office, staring at legal documents you didn’t care about, defending things you didn’t believe in.

Now it was all crashing down, and it couldn’t have picked a worse time.

But maybe, deep down, you believed you deserved every second of it.

The sound of your office door slamming open yanked your head up from your folded arms. In truth, you didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Lex.

He stormed inside like he owned the place, which, of course, he did, trailed by your assistant, who wore a familiar apologetic look. Without a word, the young man gave you a regretful glance before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.

Lex dropped onto the large leather sofa across the room with an air of theatrical exhaustion. He didn’t even bother to take off his coat.

You had to admit, it was a beautiful office. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered one of the best views in the city. Your mahogany desk alone was worth more than most people’s rent for a year. The latest computer sat, the expansive bookshelf filled with legal volumes you rarely touched anymore. A pair of sleek leather sofas flanked a marble coffee table no one ever used.

You never had clients in here. Never held meetings. Most of your team knew better than to knock unless absolutely necessary. That reputation, distant, cold, unapproachable, had followed you ever since. Maybe you hadn't done much to stop it.

"We have a problem," Lex said, his eyes closed as he leaned back into the couch.

Your heart skipped a beat.

Still, it was somewhat reassuring that he came alone, without the usual pair of silent goons who tailed him like shadows. If he didn’t bring muscle, chances were you weren’t the problem.

"Do we?" you asked, keeping your voice even, doing your best to hide the anxiety curling in your stomach. Lex had always been too good at reading you.

"I think yes, we do," he replied, tone laced with mockery, almost daring you to guess. Daring you to slip. To reveal something he didn’t already know.

Opening one eye, he glanced your way, clearly waiting to see if you'd take the bait. When you raised an eyebrow at him, he only smirked.

"The Planet has been snooping around too much lately," he said, his voice calm and measured. "Reporters asking questions they shouldn’t be asking. Digging in places they shouldn’t even know exist."

You rolled your eyes, already unimpressed. You weren’t sure why this warranted Lex barging into your office like the ceiling was about to collapse. Your legal team was probably already handling whatever nonsense the Daily Planet was stirring up. And if it was more serious, if they were digging into the same shadows Clark Kent had called you about a month ago, you were certain Lex’s personal legal hounds were already biting at their heels.

“Sounds like a regular Tuesday,” you muttered, rubbing the space between your eyes as a headache began to bloom.

“Kent hasn’t published anything, but he’s been sniffing around again. More than usual. And this time, it’s not just the public projects he’s asking about. Classified-level stuff.” He said, watching for your reaction. 

You gave a small shrug, feigning indifference. “Then maybe it’s time to sue them again. That usually quiets the barking.”

Lex smiled thinly. “Not this time. He’s being careful. No paper trail. No sources willing to go on record. Yet somehow… he knows things. Enough to be dangerous.”

Frowning, you sighed. You had to play this carefully. You hadn’t spoken to Clark Kent since those calls, and you hadn’t told anyone about Project Superman. But if Lex wanted to pin the blame on you, he would. He always found a way.

“How do you even know it’s him, if he’s being this careful, Lex?” you asked cautiously, choosing your words with care. You didn’t want to provoke him, but you hated how he danced around the point like he was waiting for you to slip.

He sat up straighter, his cold gaze locking onto yours. “I have my ways,” he said with that familiar, dangerous smirk. “Little ears here and there.”

You leaned back slightly, your throat suddenly dry. “And did those little ears tell you I was involved? Because it sure sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”

He stood, slowly making his way around your desk until he was behind you. You stiffened as his hand came down on your shoulders, firm, not painful, but unmistakably controlling.

“Of course not,” he said with a mockingly sweet tone. “What kind of brother would accuse his own sister?”

You didn’t move. Not when his thumb absently dragged over the curve of your shoulder, not when the silence stretched long enough to chill the air between you. You knew better than to flinch. That’s what he wanted, fear dressed up as respect.

He leaned in slightly, just enough for you to feel the brush of his breath near your ear.

“I just worry, you know?” he said softly. “This kind of scrutiny… it makes people act irrationally. Makes them do things they shouldn’t. Say things they regret. He even got in the head of some of my most trusted employees once…”

He paused, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could hear the smile in his voice. Too calm. Too rehearsed.

“And he did call your number a few weeks ago.” Another pause. Dread filled you, fear gripping you strongly. “I’d hate to think he had put ideas in your head.”

His hand slipped away like a shadow, but the pressure lingered in your skin.

He moved with the slow, calculated confidence of someone who never had to hurry. Circling the desk, he didn’t sit, Lex never sat when he could loom, but rested a hand casually on the edge, watching you like a scientist studying a specimen under glass.

His voice lightened, almost amused. “You know, I’ve always trusted you.” A pause. A tilt of the head. “But I pulled the call recording anyway. Just to be sure.”

He gave a small shrug, smooth, almost dismissive, though the smile that followed was razor-thin. “I knew you wouldn’t say anything. You’re smarter than that.” Another beat. “You know what would happen if you weren’t.”

He left your office on that note, not even waiting for a response. The door clicked shut behind him, and only then did you exhale the shaky breath you'd been holding since he walked in.

He knew.

He couldn’t prove it, not yet, but he knew. Whether you’d stumbled onto the truth before Kent or started digging after that call, it didn’t matter. Lex didn’t care about the details. All he cared about was ensuring your silence.

And his message had been clear : Talk and you end up like them. Family or not. 

Your phone buzzed.  It was a message, from your brother.

Opening it, your breath caught in your throat. A strangled sound escaped you.

Lying strapped to a medical table, bruised and bloodied, was Thomas. Your ex-boyfriend from law school. The only man you’d ever introduced to Lex. Someone you hadn’t seen, or even spoken to, in years.

And now he was a rat lab. All because of you. 

All because Clark Kent couldn't stop. 

That how you ended up on the roof again, standing just at the edge of the building. Your eyes fixed on the floor below. Dark clouds were coming toward Metropolis, still far but advancing quickly. A storm was coming. 

It was late, all your colleagues at gone home already. You had waited in your office, trying to play it cool, not wanting to be suspicious. You were certain Lex had bribed someone of your team, most likely your assistant, into telling him your every move. Every call. Every mails. 

Looking down, you wondered. What would it be like to fall again? Would it feel exhilarating, like the first time? Maybe even more, knowing no one was here to catch you this time. It was mesmerising how small the world looked from up here.

Ironic, really. From this height, you'd once felt powerful. In the early months of the job, standing on this rooftop made you feel untouchable, like you were finally someone. But that illusion had long since crumbled. This place had taken everything from you.

“You’re not gonna jump again, are you?”

The voice cracked through the silence like a whip.

Startled, you turned too fast. Reflexes dulled by the cold and the weight of sleepless nights, your foot slid on the slick rooftop, gravel scattering under your heel.

And then, you were falling. The edge vanished behind you as gravity seized your body. Wind roared in your ears. Your scream tore free as Metropolis' concrete rushed up to meet you. Truth be told, it was just as exhilarating as the first time, but a thousands time scarier. 

The wind howled in your ears. Your mind blanked, panic flooding every nerve. You didn’t even know if you wanted to be saved, not really. But as the ground rushed toward you, instinct took over. You didn’t want to die like this. Not yet. 

And then, closing your eyes, you waited for the impact.

But not the one you expected. Strong arms wrapped around you mid-air, a blur of red and blue cutting through the grey skyline. Your fall halted with a jarring stop as your body slammed into Superman’s chest, breath knocked from your lungs.

His grip was tight, almost desperate.

Your arms instantly wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like a lifeboat in open water. You were breathing heavily, gasping in sharp, uneven bursts, but you felt the rapid rise and fall of his own chest against yours. 

You had scared Superman.

You. You had done what even aliens from other worlds hadn’t managed to : make him panic. To be fair, it was his own damn fault.

Silence settled between you, save for the harsh rhythm of your breaths. You looked up, eyes locking. His gaze roamed across your face, scanning for injuries, intent, urgent, while yours traced his features in quiet awe. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe it was the weight of thinking you were seconds from death, but right now, he was the only real thing in your world.

His eyes dropped to your lips, just as yours lingered on his. Time seemed to pause, holding its breath with the two of you suspended in midair. You didn’t know him. He didn’t know you. But in that fragile, trembling second, none of it mattered.

And then, a crack of thunder rolled across the distant sky. The moment shattered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Superman said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he gently ascended, bringing you both back to the rooftop.

He spoke to you like someone coaxing a frightened stray animal : patient, careful, almost painfully kind. It was sweet. Unexpectedly so.

As your feet touched the gravel of the rooftop, back in the centre, far from the edge, you let out a breathless laugh. His arms were still wrapped tightly around you, like he was afraid you'd vanish the moment he let go.

But it was you who stepped back first, untangling yourself from his hold. You bent slightly at the waist, hands on your knees as laughter bubbled up uncontrollably, sharp and strange with adrenaline, dizzy in your chest.

Then, just as suddenly, the laughter crumbled.

Tears spilled from your eyes without warning. Heavy, wracking sobs tore from your throat, years of pressure snapping loose like cracked glass. Three years of holding it in. Of surviving instead of living. Of becoming someone you didn’t even recognize.

And now it was all pouring out. Right here, in front of Superman. Again.

You sank down onto the gravel, knees giving out beneath the weight of everything. You didn’t even try to stop it, the tears, the ragged sobs, the chaos clawing through your mind. You just let it all go. And strangely, it felt good.

Not pretty. Not peaceful. But real.

For once, you weren’t pretending. Weren’t holding anything back or biting your tongue. You were breaking, fully, openly, and somehow, that honesty felt like a release. What made it bearable, what made it safe, was the quiet presence that lingered nearby. Superman didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, or fill the silence. 

He just stayed. Not looming, not judging. Just there. And in that small, powerful kindness, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a very long time. Protected.

So safe, you talked.

“Next time you see Clark Kent,” you muttered through the last of your tears, “tell him that if I suddenly disappear because of his little investigation… he better make a damn good front page out of it.”

You tried to make it sound like a joke. You even forced a smile. But the fear didn’t budge, it had rooted itself too deeply now, curled in your gut like a sickness.

Superman didn’t smile. His brow furrowed, gaze sharp with concern. “What do you mean?”

You snorted, shaking your head. It was laughable, really, how tangled everything had become. And maybe it was reckless, telling Superman anything at all, but what could it hurt? Deep down, you hoped maybe he could talk to Clark, get him to back off before Lex did something irreversible.

“He’s getting too close,” you said finally. “Too close to something Lex doesn’t want exposed. Something I shouldn’t even know about. And if he keeps going, Lex is going to blame it on me.”

Superman didn’t speak right away. You saw the shift in his expression, quiet, calculating. Not judgment, but focus. And you realized then : he was listening. Really listening.

“I can help you.” His voice was deep, sure, but there was something gentler beneath it. Genuine.

You let out a soft, tired laugh, wiping your face with the back of your hand. There was no point in hiding the tears anymore. “You sound just like him,” you said, voice still shaky. “No wonder you two are friends.”

That earned the smallest smile from him, barely a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it was there.

You didn’t know what made you keep talking. Maybe it was the adrenaline crash, or maybe it was just the comfort of being heard without being judged.

“He said the same thing… Clark. When he called. Said he wanted to help me. But people like you, like him, you don’t realize how dangerous it is to be helped in my situation. Lex isn't scared of anyone, not even you.”

You met his eyes then, and something flickered in his, something beyond concern.

“He’s getting close to something Lex would kill to protect because it could destroy him. And if I get caught in the middle of that?” You shrugged. “Let’s just say Lex doesn’t always send warnings twice. Not even to his sister.”

The metahuman approached you gently, crouching so he could meet your gaze without towering over you. A flash of lightning split the sky, casting a pale light across half his face, making him look almost unearthly. Like he didn’t belong to this world at all. Like maybe he never had.

“I can really help you,” he said softly. “I can take you somewhere he’d never find you. I can take you to—” He stopped himself mid-sentence. Whatever he’d almost said, it hung in the air between you like something too fragile to speak aloud.

His hands rested on your knees, not forceful, not firm, just grounding. As if reminding you that, despite everything, you were still here. Still alive. Then he looked at you again.

You weren’t prepared for it. That kind of kindness. It was the sort of look no one had given you in years, not pitying, not clinical. Just real.

He sighed, steadying himself. And when he spoke again, it was with purpose. 

“Listen,” he said, voice low but sure. “If you’re willing to speak out against your brother, I can promise you, there’s a place he’ll never find you. Not even Lex Luthor can reach everywhere. You’ll have time, space. Peace. With Clark’s help, we can protect you. You can be safe from him. For good.”

You frowned, confusion clouding your already stormy thoughts.

“Lex can reach everywhere,” you murmured, voice thin and cracking under the weight of truth. “He knows people, high places, deep pockets. There’s nowhere in this city, in this whole damn state, he wouldn’t find me.”

Another tear slipped down your cheek. You didn’t bother wiping it away.

Superman’s hand tensed where it rested against your knee, as though he were physically restraining himself from doing more, comforting you, pulling you away from all this. From him.

It was a tempting proposition, you had to give him that.

The promise of safety. Of silence. Of finally breathing without the constant weight of eyes watching, judging, threatening. If he could really assure that, if he could promise you a world where Lex Luthor wasn’t a shadow at your back… You might just give in.

You had nothing left anyway. Nothing but your life. And right now, that felt like the most worthless thing of all.

But then, before you could argue back, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Just the faintest glint of something lighter behind the concern.

“I never said anything about Metropolis,” he said softly, with a quiet kind of defiance.

What the hell were you doing here?

In a car. Headed to god knows where. And sitting next to the man who, in a way, had put you in this mess to begin with. Superman had convinced you to trust Clark Kent, insisting the reporters could protect you better than anyone else. That he—Superman—would always be nearby, watching from the shadows, ready to step in if Lex ever found out.

You didn’t know why you trusted him. Maybe it was the look in his eyes, so full of concern and quiet determination.

Maybe it was something else.

So here you were. For the past seven hours, you’d been curled up in the passenger seat of Clark Kent’s car, heading out of Metropolis. The road ahead was dark and endless, and the farther you got, the lighter you felt.

For now, it was a peaceful ride. The heater hummed softly, the music playing low and unobtrusive. Clark didn’t talk much, which you appreciated. He seemed to understand you weren’t quite ready for conversation.

He’d shown up at your door at exactly 7 p.m., just like Superman had promised. Same concerned look. Same gentle voice. That same quiet steadiness that made you say yes before you could second guess yourself.

Now, after hours on the road, you were beginning to realize just how similar the two men were. Too similar. It was strange, every time you looked at Clark for more than a few seconds, something pulled at the edges of your mind. Nothing overtly wrong. He was handsome, annoyingly so, you’d admitted that around hour two of the car ride. But there was something… off. Familiar.

Yet completely out of place. You shifted slightly in your seat, your fingers brushing the strange phone he’d given you earlier, sleek and impossibly light, clearly not something off the shelf. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific, Clark had said, untraceable. The device had only two contacts programmed in : Clark Kent and Superman.

Two names, side by side. Almost like two sides of the same coin. 

Clark Kent. Superman.

By hour eight, the safety of being far from Metropolis and the lull of the moonlight hanging high above had made you a little petty. Restless. Bold, maybe. Or maybe just fed up.

After all, you were stuck in a car with the reason you'd had to flee your entire life. If Clark had just dropped it, had actually listened to you when you warned him weeks ago, none of this would have been necessary. You would still leave your miserable life, but at least, you'd be home. 

But no, he had to snoop in.

"You know what?" you said suddenly, eyes narrowing as you looked at him sideways.

He glanced at you, quick and cautious, like someone easing into a trap. One brow arched in confusion, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “No?”

You turned your body a little more toward him, expression sharp. “This whole mess? It’s your fault.”

You didn’t even raise your voice. You didn’t need to. It landed like a punch anyway. Clark blinked. The smile dropped. You could see it hit him, and part of you hated how guilty he looked, because it meant he already knew you were right.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied softly. “Just know I never meant for any of this to come back on you. This was never supposed to boomerang in your direction.”

You scoffed, dry and sharp. “Oh, yeah? Then who was it supposed to boomerang on, Kent? Please, enlighten me.”

The sarcasm dripped off every word, venomous and tired.

Gone was the woman who broke down sobbing on a rooftop under thunderclouds. That version of you had receded into the shadows, tucked away where no one could see her. In her place now was the version the world expected. The one who wore tailored suits and litigation like armour. The Head of Legal. Ice-blooded, sharp-tongued, impossible to shake.

Not quite you. Not quite not you either.

Clark didn’t answer right away. He kept his hands on the wheel, eyes on the road, the soft hum of tires filling the silence. But his jaw clenched. Just enough for you to notice.

“In a perfect world? Your brother,” he admitted, after a few seconds of silence. His sigh was heavy, resigned, even.

You bit your tongue before another petty remark could slip out. It wouldn’t change anything. And truth be told, he was helping. Whether it was because Superman told him to, or because Clark Kent genuinely wanted to, it didn’t matter. He was here. And that was more than most people had ever done for you.

So instead, you chose to shift the conversation.

“Where are we even going, anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting out the window into the thick darkness. Every road sign you passed only confused you more, you couldn’t piece together the route.

“Somewhere safe,” he answered, maddeningly vague.

You snorted, unable to help yourself. “You sound like you’re gonna murder me in the middle of nowhere, Kent.”

It was his turn to laugh, a warm, low sound that curled in your chest in a way you didn’t expect.

“I don’t think I’d live very long after that,” he said, a playful edge to his voice. “Not with your new little friend watching over you.”

There was a glint in his eye as he glanced sideways at you, and something in his tone made the hairs on your neck rise, not from fear, but from a flicker of recognition. Familiar. Almost too familiar.

“You’d get a thank-you letter from Lex, though,” you joked lightly. “And that means a lot in a city he practically owns.”

Clark’s smile vanished almost instantly. The mention of your brother had yanked him right back to reality, reminding him of why you were really here, why you’d spent the last eight hours tucked into the passenger seat of his car, fleeing the only life you’d ever known.

Silence settled between you again, heavy but not uncomfortable. The quiet hum of the tires against the road and the soft rhythm of the engine created a strange kind of peace. The car was warm, the music still playing low, something old and soothing.

Your body, pushed to the edge for days, finally began to surrender. The tension in your shoulders loosened. Your eyelids grew heavier with each blink. It had been a brutal week. You’d run on power naps and caffeine and sheer will.

And now, somehow, this car felt like the safest place in the world.

So you let your guard down. Just for a moment. Just to rest your eyes. As Clark kept driving into the night, your breathing slowed, and sleep took you before you even realized it had come.

You jolted awake as the driver’s door slammed shut. Disoriented, your heart kicked up in your chest as you blinked rapidly, trying to get your bearings. Your neck ached from the awkward angle you'd slept in, stiff and sore from hours pressed against the window.

Squinting into the sunlight, you groaned. The sun was already high in the sky, blinding and unapologetic. Glancing down at your phone, you read 9:57 a.m.

Shit. You’d slept far longer than you'd meant to.

Pushing open your door, you stepped outside, wincing as you stretched your limbs, popping joints and shaking off the lingering fog of sleep.

“Morning,” came a voice behind you.

You turned, blinking again, and saw Clark Kent standing next to the car, casually filling up the gas tank like he hadn’t just driven fourteen hours straight. His shirt was barely wrinkled, hair still mostly in place, and he looked fresh.

Not even remotely tired.

"Are we close yet?" you asked, squinting as you looked around, trying to piece together where the hell you were. Some tiny, nowhere town in the Midwest, Indiana or Illinois, maybe. Either way, very far from Metropolis.

"About another eight hours or so," Clark replied casually, like that was completely normal.

You frowned at him, studying his face. No dark circles, no signs of fatigue, not even a yawn. Maybe he’d pulled over during the night to sleep and you’d just slept through it? But you doubted it. You were a light sleeper, and the car stopping would’ve definitely woken you.

“What?” he asked with a small laugh, noticing your suspicious expression.

“What?” you echoed mockingly. “You’re seriously gonna drive like what… twenty-two hours straight? Without a single ounce of sleep? Are you on drugs or something?”

He snorted. “No drugs, no.” You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Clark just grinned, annoyingly unreadable. “Just built different, I guess.”

"Built different? That’s it?" you muttered, still not buying it. "Well, I hope you don’t drive us into a freaking tree because you’re built different," you grumbled under your breath, already turning away as you headed toward the small convenience store by the gas pumps.

Coffee. That would fix your mood. Hopefully.

The little bell above the door chimed as you stepped into the nearly empty shop. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, completely absorbed in her phone. She didn’t glance up, not that you cared. You weren’t in the mood for small talk.

Wandering the narrow aisles, you grabbed a few snacks for the road and the least bored-looking book they had on a spinning rack. The coffee machine was either out of order or didn’t exist, so you settled for a canned iced latte from the fridge. As an afterthought, and maybe out of guilt, you grabbed a second one. If Clark didn’t like it, you’d just drink both.

At the counter, the girl scanned your things at a snail’s pace, barely lifting her gaze. You told her to add the gas pump Clark had just been at. But before you could pull out your credit card, a large, warm hand wrapped gently around your wrist.

"You don’t wanna do that," Clark said calmly, stepping up beside you. He slipped a folded wad of cash from his coat pocket and handed it to the girl.

Suddenly, the cashier perked up, her phone forgotten as she blinked up at Clark like he’d just dropped from the sky. You couldn’t blame her. He was handsome. And kind. In that steady, patient, maddeningly unbothered way.

Back in the car, your sour mood returned like a headache that wouldn’t quite leave.

“I could pay, you know?” you muttered as you buckled your seatbelt with a little more force than necessary. “I probably have more money than you.”

A smirk tugged at Clark’s lips as he started the engine. “Oh yeah, my bad,” he said casually, letting the words stretch a beat too long. Then he added, with a touch of mock innocence, “You know, you could just call your brother, tell him exactly where we are. How does that sound?”

His tone was light, but the edge in it was unmistakable. Your eyes narrowed. It was his turn to be snarky, and unfortunately, he was good at it.

You disappearing after Lex’s threat told him everything he needed to know. You hadn’t needed to say a word, Lex never needed much. And you both knew he’d stop at nothing to find you. Pulling your bank records wouldn't been hard either. Not when he practically owned the bank.

You didn’t answer. You were too proud for that. Instead, you turned your face toward the window, watching the endless stretch of land roll by. Without a word, you reached into the plastic bag at your feet and handed him one of the iced lattes you’d grabbed at the gas station.

He took it instantly, barely a pause. The can disappeared from your fingers like he’d been waiting for it. You heard him chuckle, soft and breathy, almost like he hadn’t meant to. A whisper of amusement. It lingered for a second longer than it should have.

You didn’t look at him. You just let the silence stretch between you again, quiet, but not empty.

The rest of the drive passed quietly, a kind of exhausted peace settling over the car. Around midday, you’d stopped for lunch at a small roadside diner in Kansas City, one of those unremarkable places with red vinyl booths and chipped coffee mugs. That’s when he finally had told you where you were going.

Kansas. Specifically, Smallville. Even more specifically, his childhood home.

It had been awkward, to say the least. The words had hung between you like something delicate and misplaced. You were going to stay with Clark Kent’s parents. You were going to sleep under the same roof where he’d grown up, eat meals at the same table he had as a kid.

Had you been together, it might’ve felt like something monumental, a next step kind of moment. A milestone for the scrapbook. But you weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure what you were.

A witness? A burden? Another helpless case? Still, he hadn’t hesitated. And maybe that was the strangest part.

He explained that he had taken ten days off, claiming a family emergency. You couldn’t help but notice how conveniently timed it was, for both of you to disappear at once. Lex would connect the dots easily. He always did.

But Clark had reassured you: his parents’ place wasn’t on any record. It hadn’t been for years. He’d made sure of that.

It struck you as odd. He wasn’t a criminal, why go to such lengths to keep them hidden?

He’d just laughed, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Exactly for situations like this,” he had said. “Working at the Daily Planet means going after people with real power, no conscience, and a long reach. You don’t poke the devil without having somewhere safe to run.”

A safe haven. And right now, it was the only one you had.

Finally arriving at the Kent farm, you felt unmistakably out of place.

You were a city girl, through and through. Your tailored coat and designer boots stood out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of open fields and grazing cattle. The air smelled fresh, too fresh. You were used to exhaust fumes, coffee shops, and wet pavement. Not dew-covered grass and distant hay. There wasn’t a neighbor in sight, just endless land stretching toward the horizon. It was peaceful. Isolated. A perfect hidden haven.

You’d braced yourself for a lie, certain Clark would come up with some excuse to explain your presence, an old friend needing a break, a colleague tagging along for fresh air. But when he introduced you to his parents, he told them the truth. Every word of it.

He told them how he’d gone poking around places he shouldn’t have, how that had put you in danger, not him. How you'd been left to deal with the fallout while he got to keep writing. “That’s why I had to help her,” he said. Simple. Honest. Sincere.

It caught you off guard, how human he was. How kind. The past three years of your life had been about leverage, power plays, cold threats and airtight lawsuits. You were always the hammer, and others were always the nails. You had buried people’s reputations without losing sleep. But Clark Kent wasn’t like that.

He hadn’t asked for anything in return. Not a confession, not information, not even details about the secret project that had started this whole mess. He had simply brought you here, because it was the right thing to do.

And it didn’t take long, just one meal at the dinner table, to see exactly where he got it from. The Kents were among the kindest people you’d ever met. Genuine warmth radiated from them, compassion, patience, trust. They welcomed you without question, offered you food, a room, and the kind of quiet grace you hadn’t known you were missing.

They didn’t want anything from you. And somehow, that unraveled something deep in your chest more than any threat ever could.

“Well, it’s not much, but…” Clark trailed off, glancing around the room like he was seeing it for the first time. “Yeah.”

He looked awkward now, scratching the back of his neck, shifting his weight from foot to foot. The guest room wasn’t anything fancy: just a bed, a dresser, and a mirror. The wallpaper was fading at the edges, and the floor creaked when you stepped on it. But there was warmth here. And peace.

“It’s perfect,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you, Clark.”

His shoulders relaxed a little at your words, and the tension he’d been holding in his jaw softened. That awkward smile returned to his face, shy, boyish, almost bashful.

“I’ll, uh… let you settle in,” he said, backing toward the door like he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. If you need anything... I’m just across the hall.”

“Goodnight, Clark,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He paused at the door, turning slightly with that familiar, gentle smirk. “Goodnight, Miss Luthor.”

Even after only a few hours in this house, you understood now where Clark Kent’s kindness and unwavering sense of morality came from. Was this what a real, loving family felt like?

Later, lying on the guest bed after your shower, tears returned, slow and quiet. How had it come to this? How had your family shattered so completely that you were now hiding from your own brother? When had Lex become someone so ruthless, so untouchable, so far above the law?

The sheets smelled like lavender and woodsmoke, a scent so unfamiliar it only made you feel more out of place. You turned to your side, staring at the wall as if it held answers. But there were none. Just silence, and the soft creaking of the old house settling into the night.

The quiet here was different than in Metropolis. There, silence came with the hum of neon lights and distant sirens, noise that reminded you you were still alive, still in motion. But this, this quiet made your thoughts louder, crueler. Every regret screamed a little louder in your head.

You should have said something years ago. You should have fought harder, sooner. You should have said no. Maybe then your life wouldn't be reduced to running, hiding in someone else’s safe haven.

You clutched the blanket a little tighter. Somewhere in this quiet house, Clark was probably still awake. Maybe writing, maybe just thinking. Maybe wondering if you were okay. You weren’t.

You closed your eyes and let the tears come again. Softer this time, slower. You didn’t sob. There was no energy left for that. Just salt and silence and the quiet ache of someone who had spent too long holding everything in.

Just across the hall, the man’s heart quietly broke. Clark sat on the edge of his childhood bed, hands clasped between his knees, eyes trained on the wooden floor like it might somehow offer a solution. But all he could hear was you, silently weeping. 

Guilt was eating him alive.

He hadn’t listened to you. He’d kept digging, kept pushing, even looped in Mr. Terrific for help, convinced he was doing the right thing. But all it had done was draw unwanted attention. And not onto him. It had landed on you.

All because he had made that call.

The image of you standing on the edge of that rooftop haunted him. Something in him had cracked wide open when he saw you there, your posture brittle, your eyes hollow, like the life had been drained out of you. He couldn’t shake the thought : This is my fault.

With a heavy sigh, Clark laid back on his bed and closed his eyes, willing the ache in his chest to dull. But it didn’t.

Whatever it took, no matter the cost, he would make this right. He would tear down Lex Luthor’s empire.

And he would set you free.

It took a couple of days to finally settle into the rhythm of life at the Kent farm.

You tried to help out wherever you could. Mornings began early, walking through the fields alongside Jonathan, tending to the cows. At first, you felt completely out of place, the cliché city girl, useless with her hands and awkward in the dirt. But Jonathan never laughed. He didn’t mock or criticise. Instead, he stayed patient, calmly guiding you when you made mistakes, his voice always steady and kind.

After lunch, you'd join Martha by the chicken coop to collect eggs for dinner. She often filled the quiet with stories about Clark’s childhood or the latest gossip from the town market. You weren’t allowed to go into town, everyone had agreed it was best to avoid attention, but you found yourself eagerly listening to her tales, learning the names of townsfolk you’d never meet and becoming surprisingly invested in their dramas.

The Kents had told you more than once that you didn’t need to do any of this. They insisted rest was what you deserved, especially after everything Clark had told them. They thought you needed peace. And maybe they were right. But you couldn’t sit still for long. The silence gave space for darker thoughts to creep in. Helping around the farm was the only thing that seemed to keep your mind quiet.

Clark helped around the farm too. When he wasn’t out in the fields with his pa or fixing something around the barn, he was on the phone with someone from the Daily Planet or typing furiously on his laptop. So much for a “family emergency,” you’d joked once, raising an eyebrow at him.

He had laughed, genuinely, that quiet, warm laugh that made his dimples show, and replied, “News doesn’t wait.”

You were pretty sure that wasn’t the actual saying, but you let it slide. The way he said it, you almost believed it was.

It was about an hour before dinner. Clark’s parents chatted softly in the kitchen while Martha moved around preparing the meal. You sat on the couch, trying to focus on the book in your hands, but it was nearly impossible with Clark just a few meters away, perched at the dining table, typing away on his laptop.

The look of concentration on his face was one of the most captivating things you’d ever seen. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, lips bitten in focus, fingers dancing over the keys, and when he paused to jot down notes in his little notebook, you caught yourself staring at those unexpectedly graceful hands. Since when did he have such pretty hands?

Shaking your head, you tried to force your attention back to the pages in front of you, but the steady clicking of the keyboard pulled you back. Your eyes locked on his slender fingers as they moved. You couldn’t stop your mind from wandering, imagining how those fingers might feel against your skin : curling around your hands, pressing softly to your throat, tracing paths between your legs.

Your heart quickened, breath catching as your thoughts spiralled. You shouldn’t be thinking like this, he was the reason you were tangled in this mess to begin with. But you didn’t hate him anymore. Maybe you never truly had.

In fact, you had envied him. His courage, his fearlessness. He did what you’d never managed to do, not scared of the consequences, while you’d hidden away like a coward. You hated yourself for it, more than you could admit. So much of that self-loathing had been projected onto Clark Kent.

“You alright?” His voice pulled you back from your daydream, soft but curious.

You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d squeezed your thighs together, searching for some kind of relief. Suddenly, the room felt unbearably warm, despite the crisp late October air outside. You could feel heat flushing your cheeks and neck.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m fine. Why?” You tried to sound casual, hiding the flutter in your voice.

“Well, I could hear your—” He cut himself off, a flicker of panic flashing in his eyes. “You just looked lost in thought.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry…” you apologised quickly, frowning at yourself. Why were you even apologising?

He brushed off your awkwardness with a gentle laugh before returning to his work. For the next hour, those restless, lustful thoughts kept sneaking into your mind, while Clark shot you sweet, knowing smirks from time to time, almost like he was aware.

Dinner was good, as always. It felt refreshing to share a meal with others, to sit around a warm family table instead of being alone in your cold Metropolis penthouse. This felt almost too good, and a part of you dreaded the day it would end.

So, when Jonathan suggested a poker night, you said yes without hesitation. Of course you did. You knew moments like this might never come again, and you wanted to savour every second. If that made you selfish, then so be it.

The game stretched well into the early morning before everyone finally agreed it was time to call it a night. Every one looked exhausted, but your mind refused to settle. You’d always considered yourself smart, but watching Clark quietly calculate his moves—counting cards, playing his tricks flawlessly, winning again and again without making a fuss like it was second nature—something stirred inside you.

That feeling spread, crawling from your brain down to somewhere much more intimate, a subtle, tingling heat that had been simmering for the past hour. You tried to focus, to play properly, but you kept losing. And the way his fingers toyed with the coins, the deliberate way he revealed his cards on the table, it was almost unbearable.

Now lying in your bed, your mind refused to quiet. Those thoughts crept in faster than you could push them away, relentless and insistent. You imagined his hands on your skin, his lips tracing yours, his deep voice murmuring close to your ear.

A warmth gathered between your thighs. At first, you tried to ignore it, close your eyes, tell yourself to sleep. But the images persisted, vivid and demanding. You saw him, naked and moving above you, the bed creaking with every thrust, his hand pressed firmly over your mouth to stifle your moans so you wouldn’t wake his parents.

You opened your eyes, breathing quick and shallow. You were burning up, both frustrated and aching.

It had been so long since you’d touched yourself, even longer since you’d shared a bed with someone. Without overthinking it, knowing it might ruin the moment, your hand slid inside your panties. You were drenched, soaked with desire.

Your other hand moved to your breast, first tracing over your shirt, but when that wasn’t enough, you shed it quickly. Pinching and teasing your nipples, your fingers began their slow dance on your clit. Eyes closed again, you imagined those hands, bigger, warmer, gentler, how soft they’d feel, how small you’d seem beneath their touch, as they traced every inch of you.

You let out a shaky breath, your body arching slightly against the bedsheet as your fingers circled over your clit in lazy, experimental strokes. Every movement sent a thrill through you, a contrast to the heavy silence of the house. The distant sound of the wind outside barely registered over the pounding of your own heartbeat.

Your mind refused to stop painting him there, Clark. His mouth against your neck, trailing slowly down your body with a patience that felt unbearable. You imagined him watching you now, those deep, perceptive eyes noticing every twitch, every sigh. Would he kneel beside the bed, take over without a word, his calloused fingers replacing yours, teasing you until you begged?

The need to moan his name burned at the edge of your throat, threatening to slip out with every gasp. But you bit down hard on your lower lip, your teeth sinking into soft flesh until you tasted copper. A sting of pain. A grounding sensation.

He was just across the hall. You glanced at the door when that thought crossed your mind. 

That thought alone was enough to make your pulse race harder. One sound, one sigh too loud, and he'd heard you. The farmhouse was old. The wood creaked with the slightest shift. The walls were thin, not made to keep secrets.

You squeezed your eyes shut again, hand still moving against your slick heat, slower now, more purposeful. You imagined how his hand might replace yours, rough from typing all day, sure in its touch. Not teasing. Not hesitant. Like he knew what you needed before you even asked. 

The ache grew sharper. Your thighs tightened as your hand moved faster, chasing that release you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly. Your breath came out in short gasps now, quiet, but desperate. One hand pressed against your mouth out of instinct, muffling a soft moan as pleasure spread out in waves, warm and all-consuming.

When it finally released you, your body softened with a quiver, sweat cooling on your skin. Your thighs twitched. Your lip throbbed where you’d bitten it. 

Lying there in the dark, you blinked up at the ceiling, heart still stuttering in your chest. It took some moment for your breathing to go back to normal, but you couldn't help thinking this wasn't enough. It had felt amazing, but your body craved more. Almost like Clark had put you in a trance, with his easy charm and dimpled smile. 

Shaking your head, you got up when it all became too much. Slipping your shirt back on in haste, you quietly padded toward the door. Maybe some cold water would cool your flushed skin, maybe those herbal pills you always kept on hand would finally lull your mind to sleep.

Carefully, you cracked the door open, only to freeze when the door across the hall opened at the exact same time. Clark.

He looked, disheveled. Not just sleep-rumpled, but wrecked.

His hair was a wild mess, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his cheeks tinged pink, and his glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, as though he’d thrown them on in a hurry. His eyes widened when he saw you, surprised.  

Caught. Which was odd. He always seemed to hear you coming.

The hallway was silent, save for the thunder of your heartbeat in your ears and the unmistakable sound of his heavy, uneven breathing. His shirt clung to his chest like he’d just worked up a sweat. Or hadn’t bothered to redress completely. Your gaze dropped for the briefest second, just a flicker, and then back to his face.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, careful not to wake his parents.

Clark opened his mouth, then closed it again, jaw tightening slightly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, clearly caught off guard. Not like him at all.“Uh, yeah. Just need to hum… use the bathroom.” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

You nodded, mirroring his awkwardness. The silence stretched a beat too long before your eyes drifted up to meet his, and not before you noticed the quick flick of his gaze. From your face, down to the outline of your breasts under your tank top then back up, almost too fast to catch.

Almost.

“Are you okay?” he asked next, his voice gentler now. Too soft. Too intimate.

“Yeah. Just… thirsty.” You meant water, but the way your eyes lingered on the way his shirt stretched around his arms told a different story. You were definitely thirsty. But for what, exactly, well, that answer was becoming harder to ignore.

“Okay,” he said after a pause, clearing his throat like he was trying to reset the tension.

“Okay,” you echoed, the word falling flat between you.

And then, without another glance, you both turned and hurried in opposite directions, your footsteps echoing in the quiet hall like the aftershock of something neither of you were ready to name.

Hastily making your way back to your room, you caught the soft glow of the bathroom light still spilling into the hallway. The door was closed. Still.

You didn’t linger. You didn’t want to know what he was doing in there.

The conversation, or whatever that awkward exchange had been, was still playing on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with fresh waves of secondhand embarrassment. The silence, the stolen glances, the heat.

You shut your bedroom door behind you with a quiet click, leaning back against it for a second. No way. He couldn't have been doing what you thought he had been doing…

Right?

And yet, the look on his face. His breathing. His flushed cheeks. The way his hand had been gripping the doorframe like he needed it to stay upright. 

Fuck. You were getting bothered again.

You huffed out a breath, forcing yourself to focus, to move. Rummaging through your bag, you searched for the herbal pills that usually helped you sleep. Something, anything, to quiet your mind and body.

But instead of the soft bottle, your fingers brushed against something small and metallic. Frowning, you pulled it out. A sharp breath escaped your lips.

An old USB drive. That USB drive.

The one where you had dumped every scrap of evidence you found about Project Superman. All of it. The hidden files, the encrypted memos, the off-the-record lab reports. The pictures. Proof of what your brother had done. What he was doing. You had told yourself it was just leverage. A safety net. Something to keep in your back pocket if Lex ever turned on you.

But you had never planned to use it. Not really. You had been too scared. Too loyal. Too broken. Your fingers curled tight around the metal. It dug into your palm, grounding you in the now.

From beyond your door, you heard his shut, soft and final. Clark.

Superman had told you Clark could help, and you had trusted the metahuman. It had felt scary at that time, diving into the unknown. 

But now? Now it was time to stop running. To stop hiding. To stop letting fear write your story.

It was time to trust Clark Kent. 

For real.

“Here,” you said, slamming the USB drive onto the dining table, the same table that had become Clark’s makeshift desk over the past few days. “That’s everything you need to take Lex down.”

You didn’t wait for his reaction. Didn’t want to see it. Couldn’t.

Spinning on your heel, you headed for the door, where Jonathan was already waiting outside by the old truck. You were grateful he hadn’t come in to fetch you. Grateful you could escape before the weight of what you’d just done caught up to you.

The storm was coming. Jonathan had said so the night before at dinner, heavy wind, maybe even hail. There was work to do. Crops to secure. Cattle to shelter. It was the kind of hard, honest labor that demanded your full attention. The perfect distraction from the bomb you’d just dropped.

Clark had offered to help, of course, but his father had waved him off with a quiet look and a pat on the shoulder. “We’ve got it,” he’d said. “Besides, I think she wants to help.”

And you had.. Especially now.

Your hands still felt shaky from what you’d done, but the physical work steadied you. You had given Clark everything he needed. If he used it, if it worked, Lex could finally be exposed. Stripped of his power. Stopped.

But if Lex caught wind of it before justice came? If he vanished into the shadows with all his money, influence, and contingency plans? You’d be left to face the consequences alone. There’d be no more running. No more hiding. 

Nothing in those documents mentioned your name. You weren’t cited, not even once. And that was good, because with a decent lawyer, you could walk away from this without consequences. It wasn’t the justice system you feared. It was your brother’s power.

And the unknown future.

What would you do, once Lex was behind bars? His downfall meant the end of your job. With a scandal of this scale, no reputable firm would want your name anywhere near their letterhead. That thought had twisted your stomach with dread before you’d handed Clark the USB. But still, you’d done it.

It was the right thing to do. You’d worry about the fallout later. When Lex was finally out of your life.

“Clark told us you was some kinda lawyer.” Jonathan said, getting you out of your mind. His tone easy but with something thoughtful behind it. Like an idea was forming.

You let out a soft snort, raising your eyebrows. “Technically, yeah. Got the diploma to prove it. Just haven’t done a whole lot of actual lawyering.” You tried to joke, but it came out a little too close to the truth. A little too heavy.

“I hate to ask, but…” He trailed off, the pain in his eyes surprising you.

It never failed to catch you off guard, how kind the Kents were. Genuinely human in a way that felt untouched by the kind of darkness you’d grown used to. As if tragedy had knocked but never found a way in.

“You can ask me anything, Mr. Kent. Really,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with something close to gratitude. If it mattered to him, then it mattered to you.

"You see, there’s this young man we hire every spring and summer to help out around the farm," Jonathan began, his eyes drifting toward the horizon instead of meeting yours. "There’s just too much work for the two of us sometimes, you know?"

You nodded gently, letting him continue at his own pace.

"He’s Mexican. Not many folks around here wanna do farm work anymore, not like the old days. But he’s a good kid, real good. Kind with the animals, never complains, not afraid to get his hands dirty. Works hard. Honest."

Jonathan’s voice tightened slightly, the weight of something unsaid hanging between you.

"He’s got a heart of gold, that one. But…" he hesitated again, rubbing a weathered hand across the back of his neck. "His papers aren’t exactly in order. And now, well, someone’s been sniffing around town asking questions."

He finally looked at you, something quietly desperate in his eyes. "I know it’s not your job, and you’ve already got so much on your plate. But I thought… maybe you could help him. Just take a look. Talk to him. Tell us what we should do."

For some reason, the way he spoke, with such genuine care for this young man, and the quiet embarrassment in asking for help, brought tears to your eyes. It hit you then : no one had ever cared for you like this. Not selflessly. Not without expecting something in return. Not the way the Kents cared about people.

"Of course I’ll help," you said, your voice barely above a whisper, as a single tear slipped down your cheek.

You hadn’t expected it, but Jonathan gently pulled you into a warm, fatherly hug. It had been so long since someone held you like that, like you were precious, like you mattered. Like someone truly cared.

You’d only known him for about a week, but somehow, he already treated you like family. Like someone worth trusting.

If he had known you before all of this, back when you were still hiding behind sharp suits and sharper lies, you were certain he would’ve seen you as something else entirely. Cold. Ruthless. Maybe even a monster.

But now, melting into his embrace, you let yourself feel. Really feel. A few tears slipped free, but you didn’t hide them. Not this time. Because in that moment, you weren’t being judged. You weren’t being pitied.

You were just appreciated.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of hard but honest work. The cows were restless, as if they could sense the approaching storm. The mothers stuck close to their calves, letting out low, warning moos every time you got too near. Milking them had been a challenge, they weren’t having it, but you weren’t about to leave them full and aching until tomorrow. They didn’t deserve that kind of discomfort.

By the time the sun began to set, dark clouds had already taken over the sky. The wind howled across the fields, fierce and fast. Walking back toward the house felt like trying to walk through a hurricane, it tugged at your clothes, your hair, nearly lifting you off your feet.

You laughed despite yourself, catching sight of Martha running after the last few chickens, ushering them into the coop and locking it up tight for the night.

But the moment you stepped into the house, the laughter drained from your face.

There he was, Clark Kent, zipping up a bag.

He looked up, almost like he’d sensed your presence. His brows furrowed when he caught the look on your face.

“What you gave me…” he began, carefully, as if trying not to startle you. Or say the wrong thing. “I can’t do this alone. It’s too much. We only get one shot at this, and I can’t afford to screw it up. Not if it means you’ll get hurt.”

“You’re leaving?” you asked quietly, eyes flicking from the bag back to his face. He nodded. Your gaze shifted to the storm now raging outside. “But… the storm.”

“It’ll hit in a few hours. I’ll be out of Kansas by then,” he said gently, even though the thunder was already rumbling in the distance. His voice was soft, reassuring, but you could see the tension in his jaw. “Don’t worry about me.”

You could tell he wasn’t lying, but he was definitely hiding something. Biting your lip, you nodded gently, unsure of what to say. The week you’d spent here had been one of the best of your life. And it wasn’t just because of the gentle kindness of his parents, it was because of him. 

What you’d once assumed was a cocky reporter, willing to do anything for a front-page story, turned out to be the sweetest, kindest man you’d ever met. He was a bit goofy, hopelessly nerdy about certain topics, but never once did he mock anyone. Never once did he act like he knew better, or like he was above the people around him. He believed, truly believed, that there was still good in the world.

Even in you.

And somehow, through his gentle patience and quiet presence, he made you feel at home. He never pushed. Never demanded answers about your brother, even though you’d told Superman you would share what you knew.

Clark had just waited. With warmth. With humour. With dimpled smiles. With a softness that felt like sunlight after too many years in the cold. He had been patient. Kind. Funny. And so incredibly sweet.

And you were only realising it now, just as it was ending.

Clark leaving Smallville meant your brother was going to be exposed. It meant that soon, you’d either be safe to return to Metropolis and try to start over… or you’d have to disappear forever, vanish before Lex could find you.

Either way, Clark didn’t belong in either version of that future. He wouldn’t be part of your life.

And that broke your heart. This wasn’t just him leaving town. This was goodbye.

A forever kind of goodbye.

The weight of that truth hit you hard, and tears slid silently down your cheeks before you could stop them. It felt unfair, the way you were reacting. Selfish, even.

Because he was doing the right thing. The brave thing. The thing you had once been too afraid to do. And you? You were no one to him. Just a stranger he’d offered a hand to while you were drowning. That’s what you had told yourself, what you had clung to in the quiet moments to keep from hoping too much.

But now you realized, it was more than that. He made you feel warm. He made you feel safe. Like maybe you weren’t broken beyond repair. Like maybe you deserved more than just survival. And now he was walking out the door, carrying all of that with him.

"Hey," Clark said, just above a whisper, stepping toward you with that familiar gentleness that made your chest ache. "When I come back, all of this will be over. We're going to do things right. He won’t get away. I promise."

God. The gentle soul he was.

He thought the tears were from fear, fear of what was coming, fear of retaliation, of the unknown. And sure, part of you was scared. But the real reason your heart was breaking was something else entirely. It made no sense.

You’d truly known him for a week. Seven days.

It was rushed. Unreasonable. Too much, too fast. And yet, in that short time, he had looked at you like you mattered. Like you weren’t just Lex Luthor’s sister or some tainted shadow of a woman walking through her own life. He made you laugh. He made you feel seen.

Not like your parents ever had. Not like Lex ever could. Not even the men you’d let close before, who saw only your face or your name, but never you.

Here, in this small safe heaven, you had been yourself. Your real self.

You had laughed. Joked. Talked until midnight with people who didn’t want anything from you. You had gossiped in the kitchen and helped mend fences. You had been happy. In just a small, fleeting week. 

And now he was leaving. And your heart didn’t know how to hold itself together.

Without thinking, you threw yourself into his arms, wrapping around him as best you could, given how much taller he was. His arms instinctively closed around you, strong and warm, pulling you into the safety of his chest.

Behind you, the back door creaked open, followed by a small gasp of surprise, then the quiet click of it shutting again. Silence settled in the room, thick and still. You and Clark stood alone in the living room, though you could feel the eyes watching from outside. His parents. They were giving you this moment.

A soft, genuine smile tugged at your lips. They truly loved their son.

His body felt strangely familiar. Like you’d stood here before, wrapped in this exact embrace. A strange, aching déjà vu pulled at your chest. A memory you couldn't place. A feeling you couldn't explain. As if, somehow, you had been here already.

Breaking the hug, you noticed the rosy tint on his ears, his cheeks flushed to match. You could feel the heat on your own face, knowing you weren’t any better.

“Thank you, Clark,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Truly.”

Then, with the last bit of courage you had left, you rose onto your tiptoes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

You owed him more than words could say. And with time, you hoped you’d find a way to give it back, to him, and to his parents.

With Clark gone, the days felt a little grimmer.

You still helped around the farm, but those long afternoons spent quietly sharing space with him were over. You didn’t want to intrude on Martha and Jonathan’s intimate moments either, they’d earned their peace. So, you found yourself alone again. But somehow, it didn’t hurt as much. You were starting to appreciate yourself again and even the silence. The thoughts that once plagued you were mostly quiet now.

It helped that Jonathan brought Luis around not long after Clark left. He hadn’t been lying, Luis was just a kid, and a very sweet one at that. He came with all his paperwork, every document and paychecks he’d received. You went through them all, piece by piece.

Helping him felt good. It felt right. Like this was what you were always meant to do. This was why you went to law school. Not to make the rich richer, but to help people. To do good. To give back.

Word spread quickly that the Kents were housing a lawyer willing to help. Soon, people were showing up daily, asking for guidance, hoping not to lose their homes, or their jobs, or custody of their children. And when Luis returned one day, clutching his official American papers, the news travelled like wildfire.

After that, your days on the farm were done. You no longer had time to milk cows or fix fences. But Jonathan and Martha never said a word. They were just happy you were helping people, like family did.

Whatever slow moments you had, you spent them scrolling the Daily Planet website, waiting. Hoping to see a big article with Clark’s name under it. But it never happened.

Not after a few days.

Not after a week.

Not after a month.

There was so much on that USB key, and you knew it was a one-shot deal, they couldn’t afford to mess this up. Still, you had hoped the fallout would be quick. You loved the farm, but you longed to be back in the city. Now that you understood how powerful you could be when you did your job right, there were so many people in Metropolis you wanted to help.

Clark texted every few days. He told you things were going well, that they were making progress at the Daily Planet. He asked how you were doing, and he said he was proud of what you were accomplishing, his Ma told him all about it. Every little texts of his filled you with warmth. 

Sitting down on the couch, you let yourself enjoy a rare moment of peace before your next appointment arrived. Appointment, that word still made you smile. Back at LuthorCorp, you’d never taken appointments. Everything had been done through layers of emails, assistants, and pressure. Nothing like this.

Cradling your tea, you watched the winter sunlight settle across the fields, December leaving its quiet trace on the farm. The wind outside shook the windows lightly, and the kettle still hissed faintly in the kitchen.

You were lost in the calm until Martha’s voice called your name from down the hall. Looking up, you saw her leaning slightly around the doorway, her apron dusted with flour. “Would you mind grabbing Clark’s radio from his room? The one in the kitchen finally gave up.”

“Of course,” you said with a soft smile, rising to your feet.

You had never actually stepped into Clark’s room before. You’d only caught glimpses through a half-open door when he was still home. It felt personal. Like you were trespassing on something private. But you pushed the feeling aside and walked in carefully, quietly.

His room smelled faintly of cedar and something else, something familiar. The walls were lined with old posters, framed articles, photographs of the Kents, and a few hard-earned trophies from another life.

Then you spotted the radio near the window.

Just as you stepped toward it, something red caught your eye, half-hidden behind the bookshelf, draped carelessly like someone had shoved it there in a hurry. You squinted, drawn to it by instinct. Your fingers reached out, brushing over the fabric. It was soft, unnaturally smooth almost and familiar.

You tugged gently, freeing the red cloth from where it had been wedged. And then you saw it, fully.

Superman's cape.

You gasped, a quiet, involuntary sound escaping your lips as your hand tightened around the fabric. Of course. It all made sense now.

Why his body had felt familiar. Why he was never tired, no matter how long the days stretched. Why Superman had said Clark could help. Why Clark looked at you with such real concern, as if he knew your pain firsthand.

Your thoughts spiralled, the weight of the truth crashing down on you like a wave.

Then, another gasp, loud and sharp, cut through your haze. Followed by Martha’s voice, shouting your name.

Heart pounding, you sprinted toward the kitchen, but froze in the living room. The television was on, the screen glowing bright. Martha and Jonathan were standing still, their eyes wide, glistening with tears they hadn’t yet let fall.

Your gaze followed theirs to the screen.

Lex Luthor Arrested After Daily Planet Accuses Him of Human Trafficking and Other Crimes 

That was the headline. Everything stopped. They did it. 

You were free. 

Home. Finally.

It felt strange to be back.

Clark hadn’t been able to return to Kansas, but he had booked you a flight to Metropolis, along with a taxi waiting at the airport. You knew why. It was all over the news. Superman had been needed.

Lex hadn’t gone down quietly. His arrest had made headlines around the world, but it was the footage of Superman, restraining him, shielding civilians from his outbursts, that had dominated every screen. There was no way Clark could just vanish back to the quiet of Smallville right now.

Your penthouse hadn’t changed. It was still cold. Still too quiet. Still not home.

You’d taken a long shower, trying to wash away the dust of the farm, the small guilt of having turned your back on your own blood. Your old phone, finally charged again, buzzed relentlessly with texts, missed calls, emails, hundreds of them. From old colleagues, contacts, reporters. People wanting answers, or wanting to know if you were okay. Or worse, if you were complicit.

You wandered through the apartment slowly, your eyes catching every tiny detail. It had been searched. Meticulously so, almost invisible. But you knew. You felt it. Drawers slightly off, a coat pocket turned the wrong way, your files just a touch out of alignment. Lex must have sent someone after you disappeared.

You were so focused, checking every corner, scanning every surface for hidden mics or cameras, that you didn’t notice the figure landing silently on your balcony.

The metahuman stood there quietly at first, watching you. Admiring you. He felt a pang of guilt. You clearly had no idea he was there yet, no idea he’d come. You were barely dressed, just an oversized shirt draped over your body, brushing the tops of your thighs, leaving your legs bare. It looked like you had been ready to call it a night. He couldn't blame you, it was late, and he had meant to arrive earlier. But the world had other plans, and so had Lex.

Still, there you were, moving with a quiet intensity, checking corners and closets. Clearly worried. Clearly unsettled. You weren’t just back in Metropolis, you were back in enemy territory. You were searching for anything Lex might have left behind.

Understanding immediately, he activated his X-ray vision, scanning the walls, shelves, electronics. Nothing. No bugs, no hidden cameras. You were safe. Satisfied, he let out a soft breath.

You jumped when you heard the knock on the glass door behind you. But the moment your eyes found him, standing tall in the red and blue, your tension melted into a smile.

Superman. Clark.

And now that you knew, they were one and the same, it was impossible not to see it. How had you missed it? The same dark hair, the same kind, thoughtful eyes. The same dimpled smile that made your stomach flutter.

You were sure of only one thing in that moment, you were safe now.

Rushing to the door, you threw it open without hesitation, and then threw yourself into his arms. He caught you instantly, as if it was second nature. As if he had been waiting for that exact moment, arms open just for you.

It felt strange to feel this way again, relieved, happy, safe. Relaxed.

You had almost forgotten what that felt like. Your days had long been filled with fatigue, stress, and a dull kind of numbness that clung to your skin like a second layer. Even back in Smallville, where the quiet and the kindness had started to peel it away, it had still lingered, dormant, but ever-present.

But right now, here in Superman’s arms? It was gone. There was only warmth. Strength. And the overwhelming calm that came from knowing, finally, that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

“You did it,” you whispered, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Strong. Constant. Comforting.

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied softly, humble as ever. “It was all you… and Clark.”

That made you laugh, a soft, breathy sound muffled against him. Looking up, you tilted your head back, stretching to meet his gaze as he leaned down slightly.

His eyes.

God, those eyes.

An endless ocean of blue, warm, gentle, filled with hope and that quiet, unwavering kindness. The same eyes you’d seen every day in Smallville. The same eyes that watched you over a cup of coffee. That had crinkled with laughter when you made some dumb joke.

You could see it so clearly now.

Deciding to play along with his little charade, you smiled, something soft and knowing curling at the corners of your lips.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen Clark yet,” you said sweetly, feigning innocence as your gaze stayed locked with his. “You think he’ll be around soon?”

“He might be busy dealing with the fallout from the article,” Superman said, his voice steady but his posture shifting ever so slightly, like he was trying to find an exit that didn’t exist. “But I’m sure he’ll text you soon.”

“Hmm, yeah,” you murmured, finally stepping out of the embrace, letting your hands slide slowly away from him. The warmth lingered, but your tone had taken a teasing edge. “You two seem real close, aye?”

His eyes flicked to yours, briefly amused, mostly flustered.

You folded your arms across your chest, tilting your head with one brow arched. “I mean, the way you talk about him… how you said he could help me, that he could be trusted. It’s almost like you’re two sides of the same coin.”

He let out a breath of a laugh, nervous, uncertain. “We get along well.”

You hummed at his answer, the corner of your mouth curving into a teasing smirk. “And physically, you’re very similar,” you added, your tone playfully innocent. “Same height, same build, same hair, same eyes… same cute, dimpled smile. Someone might even say you’re the same person.”

Superman opened his mouth, but no words came out. You caught the flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly replaced by something that looked an awful lot like resignation.

“And it’s strange,” you went on, stepping forward just slightly, “that Clark Kent is the only reporter who’s ever interviewed you. Yet… there are no pictures of the two of you together? It’s almost like no one’s ever seen you in the same place at the same time.”

His jaw twitched, barely. But you caught it.

A beat passed, tense, heavy with unspoken truths. His cape fluttered gently in the breeze drifting in from the balcony, but he didn’t move. He just watched you with those painfully familiar eyes.

“Coincidence,” he said finally, though not even he sounded convinced.

“Mmhmm.” You arched your eyebrow higher, letting the silence speak louder than your words. He shifted, just slightly, and ran a hand behind his neck, Clark’s tell. The exact nervous habit you’d seen a couple of times before.

“Yeah, must be,” you added, nonchalant, turning back toward the open window.

Behind you, you heard a soft sigh, the kind that sounded suspiciously like relief. It brought a slow, wicked smile to your lips. He didn't think you were that clueless, did he?

“Oh, and it’s also just a coincidence that Clark Kent happened to have Superman’s cape tucked away in his old bedroom?” you said over your shoulder, turning around just in time to catch the relief drain from his face.

He closed his eyes, the smallest groan escaping him, then shook his head with a tight, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He opened his eyes again, no glasses now, no disguise, and for the first time, he let you really see him. Not as Superman. Not as Clark Kent. Just him.

“You weren’t supposed to find that,” he said softly, almost embarrassed.

You shrugged, your smile still lingering. “You left it in plain sight.”

“It was behind a bookshelf.” He deadpanned. 

"Blame your mom," you replied quickly, raising your hand in defence. "She's the one that send me in your room."

That earned a quiet laugh from him, but there was a nervous energy underneath it. You could see the vulnerability now, the way he stood slightly straighter, like bracing for impact.

“I just knew there was something so familiar about the two of you,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to fish for more answers. “I just couldn’t figure out what.”

“It’s the glasses,” he admitted with a sigh. “They’re designed to distort facial recognition, subtle enough to confuse the brain, make it hard to fully picture my face. Courtesy of Mr. Terrific.”

“They look cute,” you admitted with a teasing smile. “Almost as cute as the guy wearing them.”

You were shooting your shot. If not now, then when? Your heart thundered in your chest, terrified he might just turn and leaven, vanish off your balcony and out of your life.

His eyes snapped to yours, darker now, swimming with an emotion you didn’t dare name. “Your heart…” he whispered, taking in a deep breath like he was trying to calm his own.

Dread crashed over you. He could hear it. He could hear your heart. He had heard you. Oh no.

Oh fuck.

You gasped, slapping a hand over your mouth as your eyes went wide with embarrassment. The realisation dawned on his face, and with it, a slow, smug grin that turned him from sweet and sincere to infuriating.

“Oh yeah,” he said, sniffing lightly, voice dropping into something teasing and low. “I heard that, too.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks and down your neck. You opened your mouth, trying to come up with an explanation, but nothing came. What could you say? That his intelligence had turned you on so badly you ended up touching yourself? Yeah, no. That definitely wouldn’t do.

Trying to save face, and maybe flip the power dynamic, you raised your chin and replied, voice just as smug, “Well, I seem to remember you looked pretty bothered yourself.”

That shut him up.

The grin faded, laughter dying in his throat. His eyes locked on yours, a different kind of tension suddenly filling the space between you. The playful air cracked into something heavier, charged, as if the truth had landed and neither of you knew what to do with it.

The atmosphere shifted instantly, thickening with unspoken desire.

“It was hard not to be when you sounded so sweet,” he murmured, voice dropping even deeper, his dark eyes locked on yours. You caught the quick gulp, the subtle bob of his Adam’s apple. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, threatening to burst.

He must have heard it too.

Moving closer with careful intention, giving you the chance to pull away if you wanted, his soft hands cupped your cheek. Then, without warning, his lips crashed against yours, fierce and demanding.

The sudden contrast of emotions hit you like a whip. 

Your breath hitched as his lips pressed firmly against yours, the heat of the kiss melting away all your worries, that had clung to you for so long. His hand moved gently from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you closer as if you belonged there, like this was where you were meant to be.

For a moment, the world narrowed down to just the two of you, his warmth, his steady heartbeat beneath your palm, the taste of him lingering on your lips. You felt the tension in your body unravel, replaced by a fierce, aching need.

Taking hold of his suit, you gently tugged him toward the inside of your flat, walking backward without breaking the kiss. You could only hope nothing got knocked over, though honestly, you wouldn't have cared. You’d burn the whole damn place down if it meant keeping his lips on yours for even a moment longer.

Once inside, the warmth of his body, combined with the cozy heat of the apartment, sent shivers cascading down your spine. You melted deeper into him, your fingers curling into the soft fabric of his suit. His lips were everything you had imagined, soft, warm, deliberate. Not rushed or demanding, just present. As if he had all the time in the world for you.

A quiet moan slipped past your lips at the realization, and he took that as his invitation. His tongue brushed gently against yours, slow and exploratory, dancing in a rhythm that left your knees weak.

Without breaking the kiss, he slid his arms beneath your thighs and lifted you effortlessly, as if you weighed nothing. You let out a soft gasp into his mouth, wrapping your legs around his waist instinctively, your hands finding their way into his hair.

Of course, you were just about to make some self-deprecating comment about your weight, some old habit, a leftover from past lovers who made you feel too much. And then you remembered who he was.

This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t like them.

This was Superman, a man who could lift buildings, outrun sound, and fly through storms. Your soft stomach, your thick thighs, your so-called imperfections, none of it could possibly scare him.

The thought hit you all at once, and something in you gave in.

You deepened the kiss with renewed intensity, your fingers threading deeper into his hair. Your thighs instinctively tried to clench for some friction, to ease the growing ache between your legs, but you were only met with the hard wall of his body. Solid. Unyielding.

You whimpered softly in frustration, which only made him smile against your lips. That damn dimple again. One of his hands slid up your spine, the other under your thigh, holding you so effortlessly close it made your heart stutter. 

Looking up quickly, he returned his gaze to you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. Before you could ask anything, or make some kind of comment, you felt your stomach drop softly. The floor was no longer under your feet. You were floating. Held securely in his arms, Clark flew the both of you gently upstairs, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Easier than taking the stairs, apparently.

Looking down, you felt the same flutter of excitement you’d had the first time you fell off the roof, minus the adrenaline spike. Flying felt like freedom. Like being weightless, untouchable. If you were him, you’d never stop. You’d stay up there forever.

He landed gently just in front of your bedroom door. You expected him to set you down, maybe let you walk in on your own, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes glazed over for a second, scanning the room with silent intensity. You realized he was checking everything.

When his gaze finally settled back on yours, it had softened again. “No cameras. No bugs. Nothing,” he said, his voice low, reassuring.

Then his lips were back on yours, and he pushed the door open with his foot like he belonged there, like this was already his home, too.

The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it. All you could focus on was the way his hands gripped you, firm, but gentle. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he was still holding back.

You didn’t want him to.

Still holding you in his arms, he leaned down, your back finding the soft comfort of your mattress as he settled above you. His weight didn’t crush, it grounded. A reminder that this wasn’t a dream. That he was here. With you. Wanting you.

His lips found your neck, slow, deliberate, teasing, sending warm shivers down your spine. You gasped, fingers threading through his hair, urging him closer. His breath caught at the contact, lips trailing lower, skimming across your collarbone with featherlight grace.

His hands, warm and sure, slipped beneath your shirt. They explored the curve of your thighs, his touch loving and careful, before gliding higher. He bypassed the most sensitive place between your legs with a restraint that made your breath hitch, instead resting his palms on your stomach. He kneaded the soft flesh there gently, almost like a cat finding comfort, as if he wanted to memorise every inch of you.

All the while, his lips stayed at your throat, moving down, then returning to the beat of your pulse like it was calling to him. Drawn to it. To you.

Craving more, you shifted your weight and flipped the two of you over. You knew he let you. With his strength, he could’ve taken control in an instant, pinned you down with barely a thought, but he didn’t. He let you lead, and the heat that flooded your core at that realization was overwhelming. You were already soaked, and he’d barely touched you.

You leaned down to kiss his neck, what little you could reach, your lips grazing over warm skin and the edge of his jaw. His breath caught, just slightly, and you grinned against him. Fingers fumbling, you tugged at the edge of his suit, trying to find a seam, a signal that it could come off. Was he even wearing anything underneath? The material felt barely there, sleek, smooth, almost too easy to remove.

Before your mind could spiral any further, his soft chuckle pulled you back. With a gentle but firm push, he shifted you off him and stood. Your breath hitched as he made quick work of the suit, fluid, practiced movements, and you couldn’t look away.

You clenched your thighs instinctively, trying to ease the pulsing need between your legs, but it only made the ache worse. Watching him undress, knowing what was coming, had your entire body lit up with anticipation.

He was, indeed, completely naked beneath the suit. His cock stood fully hard, pressed against the firm plane of his stomach, practically begging for attention. You licked your lips, unable to tear your gaze away. It was beautiful, clearly above average in size, with thick veins tracing along its shaft. A bead of precum had already gathered at the flushed, angry-red tip, taunting you. Carefully trimmed hair sat nicely on top on it all. 

Clark noticed the look in your eyes, but he didn’t take it for granted. As he stepped toward the bed, clearly intending to sit down beside you, your hands on his hips stopped him. You lowered yourself onto your haunches, settling near the edge of the bed.

Your breathing had already quickened, your heart pounding unnaturally fast. Still, your eyes remained fixed on his arousal, mesmerised. Then soft fingers tipped your chin upward, gently guiding your gaze to meet his.

Kind blue eyes stared back into yours.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice filled with genuine care. He wanted you to know this wasn’t expected, he wouldn’t cross any lines.

“I want to…” you whispered, leaning closer. You pressed a soft kiss to his tip. “You’ve been so good to me.” Another kiss. “So patient… so helpful.” A gentle lick followed. “I just want to say thank you.” Another slow, deliberate lick.

The sound he let out in response might have been the most perfect thing you'd ever heard.

His breath hitched, chest rising sharply as your tongue teased him again, a little more boldly this time. The tension in his thighs was unmistakable, muscles flexing under your hands where they still rested on his hips. Yet he didn’t move. He didn’t rush you. He let you set the pace, just like he had before. 

Your lips wrapped gently around the head, tasting the salt of his arousal. A soft hum escaped your throat at the heat and weight of him. He groaned, low, rough, and utterly unguarded, and your whole body reacted to the sound, warmth pooling deep in your core.

You answered him by taking him deeper, slowly, savouring every inch as your mouth stretched to accommodate him. He was thick, and the way he filled you was dizzying. You used your hands to steady yourself, one gripping his thigh, the other gently stroking what you couldn’t take yet. 

Clark’s hand remained at the back of your head, not guiding, not insisting, just there, his fingers threading tenderly through your hair. It wasn’t just a touch, it was a silent kind of worship. His palm was warm, soft as it caressed your scalp, and the sensation sent a fresh rush of heat surging through you. You could feel it, wetness gathering again in your panties, your body aching with want.

You found a steady rhythm, working him with your mouth and hand in perfect coordination, slow, deliberate, controlled. Your tongue swirled around the head each time you rose up, then slid back down with delicious pressure, your hand stroking what your lips couldn’t reach. His hips twitched slightly, and you could feel the restraint in him, the way he was holding himself back.

As your confidence grew, so did your need. The hand that had rested against his hip slid downward, past your stomach, over your waistband, slipping beneath the hem of your panties. The moment your fingers brushed your clit, a quiet moan vibrated from your throat and against him, making his body shudder in response.

You were soaked. Every nerve ending felt electrified, your clit pulsing and swollen with need. You circled it gently, teasing yourself as you sucked him a little deeper. The contrast, his weight in your mouth, your fingers pressing into your own heat, felt like heaven. Your thighs clenched instinctively, chasing the pleasure building inside you.

Clark groaned above you, his voice hoarse, laced with disbelief and pleasure. His moans and grunts grew louder, more desperate, as you gradually took him deeper, your throat adjusting to him with every pass. Looking up at him through tear-filled lashes, you caught the moment his gaze dropped to yours. His cock twitched violently in your mouth, and his head flew back with a broken, helpless whine.

The sound made you moan around him, low and needy, sending another ripple of sensation through his body. He had to love the sight. And honestly, so did you.

He was a mess. Sweat clung to his chest, dampening the dark hair there, his neck flushed, cheeks glowing, ears pink with heat. He looked utterly wrecked, just like he had that night at the farm.

The memory made your thighs clench, need spiraling higher. The wetness between your fingers had grown slicker, hotter. You couldn’t stop now, not with the way your body was pulsing for release.

You rubbed faster, chasing it, matching the rhythm of your mouth around him, both of you slipping closer and closer to the edge. His hands gripped your shoulders suddenly, stopping your movement.

“You’re gonna make me—” But the rest of the words were swallowed by a guttural moan as his hips involuntarily bucked forward. His control was fracturing, and you loved it.

“Come here,” he groaned as he pulled his cock from your mouth. The sudden absence made you whimper, but the sound was quickly silenced by his lips crashing onto yours.

You instinctively tried to turn away, after all, you’d just had him in your mouth, but he didn’t seem to care. His kiss was fierce, messy, his tongue forcing its way between your lips like he needed to taste himself on you.

Pushing you back onto the bed, he climbed over you, his body radiating heat. Without hesitation, with a sharp tug, your shirt was torn apart, ripped down the middle like it was nothing. Your panties followed, shredded in his hands, leaving you gasping beneath him.

You gasped, staring down at the wreckage of your clothes, your chest heaving, before his mouth found your skin again. Hot and wet, his lips closed around one nipple while his hand claimed the other, squeezing and teasing in perfect rhythm.

A moan escaped you, hips grinding up instinctively, desperate for friction. Sensing your need, Clark shifted and pressed one of his thick thighs between your legs. The pressure was immediate and perfect. You cried out, rubbing yourself against the strong muscle, your slickness already coating his skin. He groaned against your chest, the sound sending shivers through you.

Clark groaned into your chest, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and raw. "Doing so good."

Then he was back on your lips, kissing you fiercely. The kiss was messy, teeth occasionally knocking together, but it felt like the most electric moment you’d ever lived. His warmth pressed against you, solid and unyielding, as he shifted some of his weight onto you, pinning you gently but firmly against the mattress. Locked against him, breath mingling, your bodies pressed tight in an intoxicating, perfect embrace.

With a particularly hard thrust of your hips against his, you begged, “Please, Clark.”

His mouth brushed against yours as he laughed softly, a light, breathy sound that cut off the moment your warm hand closed around his cock. You tried to guide him toward your entrance, but your movements were rushed and a bit awkward, causing him to press against your sensitive clit. The sharp sensation made you bite down hard on Clark’s shoulder.

“Okay, okay…” he said calmly, as if your teeth sinking into his skin barely registered. Gently shooing your hand away, he replaced it with his own larger one.

His fingers nudged at your entrance with care, waiting patiently. Waiting for you to look up, to meet his gaze, to show him you truly wanted this, wanted him.

Your eyes met his, wide and shining with need. The vulnerability there made his gaze soften even more, filled with a mixture of tenderness and desire that made your heart skip.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice low and gentle, as if asking permission without pressure. This filled you with warmth. 

You nodded, breath catching in your throat. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”

With that, he pushed forward slowly, inch by inch, allowing your body to adjust to every new sensation. You gasped softly, fingers clutching at the sheets as the fullness spread inside you, warm and deep.

When he was fully inside, he paused, resting his forehead against yours again. “You feel—,” he whined, his voice thick with emotion, out of breath. "Perfect. So warm."

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “Please move.” You moaned in his ears. 

He began to move, slow, steady, a rhythm that matched the pounding of your heart. Each thrust was deliberate, filled with both passion and care. Your bodies moved together as if they were made for this moment, for each other.

His movements grew more confident, a little rougher but still measured, as if he was memorising every reaction, every shiver that ran through your body. You clung to him, nails digging lightly into his back, needing to anchor yourself as waves of pleasure built inside you. He never stopped kissing you, in between moans and grunts. 

Clark’s breath was ragged now, lips brushing the curve of your jaw with every thrust. “You feel so good,” he groaned, voice thick with need. 

You pressed your forehead against his, your voice barely a whisper. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He responded by picking up the pace, hips rolling with a deeper, more urgent rhythm. Your body answered instantly, every nerve ending on fire, every touch setting off sparks. The heat between you built rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter until your breath hitched and your chest trembled. Clark’s hand slid down your side, slipping between you to find your clit, circling it with gentle, insistent pressure.

The combination, his body moving inside you, his fingers teasing you, was almost unbearable. You cried out, clutching him tighter, your body arching up to meet his.

“Clark…” you gasped, voice thick with need.

You could feel his cock twitching inside you with every clench of your cunt. You were both so close to the edge, the sensation overwhelming. You could count on one hand the number of times a guy had made you come through penetration alone, and Clark was dangerously close to that milestone. And this was the first time he was fucking you.

His fingers never stopped moving on your clit, perfectly synchronised with his heavy thrusts. What finally pushed you over the edge was the sound of his deep voice grunting in your ear as his forehead pressed against your shoulder. He was whispering your name, telling you how good you felt, how warm you were, how perfect.

Then he said something that was almost too much to bear.

“I’ve been wanting you since I saw you, so pretty, at the farm,” he whined, struggling to hold back his release. “A soft city girl like you, all pretty on my family’s farm… I couldn’t help thinking this was the—” He stopped himself with a filthy moan. “The prettiest sight I’ve ever seen.”

That broke something inside you. Knowing he had been dreaming about you just as much as you had about him made everything shatter. Scratching down his back, your own body arching, you let it all go.

Your body trembled as the waves of release crashed over you, every nerve ending alight with fire. Clark didn’t pull away; instead, he held you tighter, his own breath hitching as he followed you over the edge.

A desperate moan left Clark's lips. His hips stuttered, movements faltering as he tensed inside you, the warmth of his release flooding deep. You felt the mix of him and yourself, a messy, intimate testament to the moment you’d just shared.

Before he could crush you beneath his weight, he quickly rolled onto his back, pulling you flush against him. Your body pressed warmly against his, his softening length still nestled inside you. The shift made you instinctively clench around him, and he responded with a low, warning groan.

“Sorry…” you murmured, laughing softly.

Looking up, you smiled gently, and he was already watching you.

It felt strange.

Just a few months ago, you’d hated this man. Not really him, but everything he stood for. The Daily Planet. The goodness. The righteousness. The morality.

He had barged into your life, unwanted and uninvited, turning everything upside down. But he hadn’t left. He stayed. Helped when everyone else had walked away the moment they got what they wanted. Not him.

Now, as you laid your head back against his chest, you didn’t know where any of this was headed. But for once, you were ready to take a leap of faith into the unknown.

As long as he was with you.

©sillyswriting 2025

this took all my energy for days, but i think it was worth it !

[soapysoapysoapysoapy]

taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

[rawme-price]

Yes we've heard of healer!reader, but what about necromancer!reader??

You can fix people, heal them from any wound, but only after they die. Sure, you still carry around a medkit for any minor injuries, but you also have a trusted knife for anything more serious. You extensively explained ur powers to the 141, emphasizing over and over that you *cannot heal living people*.

Yet price brings you gaz anyways, a desperate and feral look in his eyes. Gaz has multiple wounds, but the most notable are two bullet wound in the right side of his chest, impossible to survive when evac is so far out. You dont hesitate, you've been doing this for years. Healing is worse when the body is distressed, so you instruct price to talk to gaz, comfort him, whatever.

Then you shoot him. Back of the head, painless.

Price genuinely gasps, shooting to his feet as if hes about to attack you. Its only by ghost stepping in that ur not also dead within minutes. But you cant console the captain, necromancy is delicate, time sensitive work.

You fix gaz, he comes back with a start. You can usually make it gentle for the subject, but price looks like he'll shoot you if you take any longer. You dont waste time on consoling gaz or his team, learned that it doesnt really do much. While they crowd around gaz, asking if hes alright and checking him themselves, you slip back out into the shadows, lips pressed thin. You'll never get used to the feeling of death beneath ur hands.

[stellewriites]

cw: soft & sweet, stud gaz, ace gaz

thank you to woolie who practically wrote half of this fic with me on discord and to birdy who continues to get me hyped and inspired about butch 141 as a whole <3 ily guys

the bar wasn’t new, but you’d never been inside despite how your friends had raved about it in the group chat over the last few months.

you weren’t one to go out late often, your work kept you busy and tired more often than not, and the rest of the time you just didn’t like to have to explain that you don’t drink.

but it was a gay bar, a good gay bar from what you’d heard, and your friends had reassured you that the alcohol-free menu was more than just a glass of oj or a can of coke. so you went.

it didn’t take them long to recognise other regulars there, each of your friends nipping off one by one with a quick, “i’ll be right back, i just want to say hi,” until you were stood alone. you debated joining one of them, making new friends with any of the numerous people they knew already, but ultimately decided to head to the bar first and grab yourself a drink before joining whoever was nearest when you turned around.

the place was smoky, low lit, like something out of an old movie; and with its live band and carefully curated secondhand furniture, you’d have been tempted to call it pretentious if the authenticity wasn’t really working for the vibes of the place.

you hopped onto a barstool and picked up a little menu, humming in disappointment when you couldn’t find the alcohol free section. you noticed the lack of prices on the other drinks however and sucked your teeth, recognising it as a sign of an expensive establishment; you knew your pockets would be woefully empty by the end of the night.

“can i help you with a recommendation?” a smooth voice had you looking up into gorgeous, deep brown eyes. even the bartender looked like she belonged on the big screen with the way her locs framed her slim face. your breath caught. “i bet you like something sweet,” she continued now that she had your attention. “fruity?”

“do you have a non alcoholic beer?” you asked. you’d be paying through the nose for it in comparison to the other dives you usually haunt, but it’d give you a baseline for how much anything else would be costing.

the bartender winced. “sorry, honey, we’ve only got a local brewery’s ipa on tap.”

you looked back to the menu as if it will have suddenly spawned the information you wanted.

“prefer something earthy then? hint of spice?” she asked you. “we have a few non alcoholic gins.”

it was your turn to wince. “i like something with a bit of bite,” you admitted.

she grinned. “i’ve got just the thing,” she said and turned to start making your drink. “i’m gaz, by the way.”

you introduced yourself and she grinned over her shoulder, her attitude was infectious and you felt yourself relax as you sat there.

“did you come alone tonight?”

“no, i came with some friends but they’re just saying hi to a few people so i figured i’d check out the menu while they were busy,” you said.

“there you go,” she placed your drink down in front of you. it was a deep red that faded in to orange, garnished with a slice of lemon. “clean whiskey sour.”

you took a sip and felt your eyes widen. she laughed at your expression and dusted her hands off exaggeratedly.

“wow, that’s amazing. how much was that? think i’ve found my drink for the night,” you chuckled.

“mocktail so it’s cheaper than the real stuff,” she said and gave you the price. you ordered a second as you pulled out your purse and handed her a note.

you turned to see if you could locate one of your friends and pursed your lips as you saw them all engaged midway through their conversations. it’s maybe be a little awkward to go and interrupt to join now, but you didn’t want to sit alone all night either.

“hey, honey,” gaz called gently. you turned back to her and she reached forward with an empty hand towards your ear, you didn’t have time to frown or flinch before she was pulling it back in front of your face, a £2 coin suddenly perched between her fingers.

you blinked before you processed that the hot bartender had just given you your change via sleight of hand magic.

fucking hell. as if you weren’t already interested in her.

you bit back your budding smile and gently took your change, your grin breaking free when you made eye contact with her and she waggled her eyebrows.

“that part of the usual service or does it come with the ‘sour?” you asked as she placed the second glass in front of you.

she moved to clean up what she’d used to make your drink with a casual shrug. “reserved for my more interesting customers.”

you hummed.

her eyes flickered to the booths dotted around, the thin crowd sat at your back.

“i know you probably have your friends to go find soon,” she started coyly. “but if you don’t think they’ll miss you too much, i’d enjoy having some good company for once.”

she came to stand in front of you again, placing her palms on the bar-top and broadening her already impressive, toned shoulders. you were glad it was warm inside and that she’d decided to go sleeveless for her shift if only for the current view of her as she leant ever so closer into your space. “it’s a slow night; if you’re willing to stick around here with me it might keep me from going stir crazy.”

“we can’t have that,” you said, playing along. “who would make me another one of these if you started climbing the walls?”

“exactly,” she agreed. “it’s a public service you’d be doing really. without me, the bar would close.”

“oh is that so? your boss know you have such a high opinion of your drink making skills?” you joked.

“i own the bar, babes,” she said with a gloating grin. “and you don’t think i deserve to talk big?” she nodded to your almost empty glass and you pursed your lips.

“ok, yeah,” you admitted. “and it’s pretty impressive that this place is yours too.”

“yeah?” she asked with a teasing grin.

“i think i need to test your knowledge, though, to see if it’s all for show or not,” you pushed back, not letting her gain the upper hand in the flirty conversation.

“go ahead, honey, i’m ready,” she curved her fingers in a bring it on motion.

“ok, how do you make a mojito?” you asked pulling your phone out.

she reeled off the ingredients one by one confidently and you checked she was correct via google as she laughed.

“ok, that was an easy one.” you sniffed, squinting your eyes jokingly. “now the real challenge begins.”

you continued to quiz her in between the orders made further down the bar until one of your friends tapped you on the shoulder.

“hey, i came to collect you, you strayed from the group for a while there,” vanessa teased.

“oh i was just having fun with gaz,” you said and grinned at the bartender. “keeping each other company.”

“making sure i know my stuff,” gaz added with a wink sent your way. “i think i convinced you enough for one night. go have fun with your friends, honey.”

you reluctantly stood from your stool, but when you grabbed your drink - a non-alcoholic mai tai gaz had made without hesitation when you said the recipe had sounded yummy - you realised you’d not paid for your last two drinks. turning back to the bar you moved to pull out your card but gaz was already at the other side, serving someone else.

you sat down with your friends and made a note to pay later in the evening, but when time came to corral your drunk group into the taxi, the thought never crossed your mind and you didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to her.

——

next time you go, it’s a weekend and a lot busier.

your plan to sit with gaz, reacquaint yourself and pay her back for the drinks goes out the window.

by a stroke of luck you manage to get to the bar as she’s serving instead of her colleague mixing drinks at the other end.

“hey,” she greeted you happily, tipping the brim of her cap up an inch to better see you looking up through her lashes as she half-focused on the drink in her hands. “same as last time?”

you glowed at the idea of her remembering what you’d had over a week ago, but you shook your head.

“surprise me,” you offered, felling butterflies run rampant when she grinned in return.

“take a seat,” she offered before setting to work. you pulled out one of the stools that had been tucked beneath the bar and sat patiently as she mixed your drink. it was a deep blue when she brought it over but she poured the final ingredient in and the top half turned a shimmery purple. she plopped in a straw for you and you took a sip, pleased to find that she’d stuck to non-alcoholic for you again.

“mm, that might be my favourite so far,” you gushed, biting your lip when she grinned at you. her upper lip glinted in the low light and you paused, noticing the new philtrum piercing. “you got a piercing? it’s cute.”

gaz raised a cocky eyebrow and licked her plush lips. “noticed that quick. did you spend that long staring at my lips last time you were in here, babes? cute.”

you flushed, unable to deny it, and took a flustered sip of your drink to give you time to gather your thoughts.

she chuckled and went to deal with another customer, talking to you over the raised voices of the busy bar as she started fixing the drink.

“it’s still healing but i’ll be swapping it to a gold sun when i can,” she said as she came closer again to grab a slice of lime.

“oh? we’ll be matching, look!” you said without a second thought. grinning, you pulled up a moon shaped necklace from beneath your shirt. “bought it on a whim the other day, must be fate,” you teased and snorted a quiet laugh. gaz weakly laughed along.

“must be,” she said softly, her deep eyes heavy and focused solely on you. she cleared her throat before moving to finish up the drink, leaving you alone again for a moment.

your eyes followed her along until you heard a mean snicker from your left, a muttered, unbelievable. you turned and saw another woman clearing her throat and covering her mouth with her palm, her eyes darting away from yours when you turned your head.

a bout of self-consciousness hit and you faced back towards your drink with hot cheeks. you’d not thought twice before speaking to gaz, it was second nature to be genuine with her since it’s what she gave back, but thinking back on it you could see why calling your jewellery matching would be cringey. possibly even seen as desperate on your end.

you swallowed and stood from the stool and separated from the crowd around the bar with your drink in hand. you found a small table near the edge of the room and took a seat, watched gaz from afar instead as she made the orders proficiently.

it didn’t take you long to notice how gaz didn’t linger with the other customers like she did with you; she knocked back clear flirty attempts for her attention and turned away other gorgeous women.

you watched the lemon slice go around and around as you stirred the melting ice in your cup. the fact that gaz’s gaze didn’t linger for a moment on those beautiful women had a stray thought that maybe she wasn’t interested in women flicker to life in the back of your head.

“refill?” you looked up from your glass to see gaz hovering by your table. she put down a second drink and took the first from your hands. “on the house, my treat.”

“oh, thanks,” you said with a shy smile. “busy night.”

“mm.” her hum was noncommittal. “is that why you moved seats?”

“felt like i was getting in the way,” you shrugged, avoiding her eyes. “i was thinking of leaving soon anyway, i’ll finish this off and probably head home.”

her free hand rose to pet your cheek. “i’ll save you a seat next time. i prefer it when you’re smiling at me while i work.”

“even when i make it awkward?” you couldn’t help but ask.

she frowned. putting her serving tray on the table between you, she pulled a chair close to yours and sat. “when have you made things awkward, babes?”

“that thing i said about fate, it was silly.” you tried to move past it, rolling your eyes at yourself.

“i liked it.” that shut you up quick. “a pretty girl calling me her soulmate? you think i’m letting you take that back now?” she joked, leaning in so that your shoulders knocked. “me and you are like this, now.” she crossed her fingers in front of you. “whether you like it or not.”

you snorted. “i can deal with that,” you hummed. “thanks for the drink, gaz.”

she nodded and stood reluctantly to go back to the bar, noticing her coworker growing flustered on their own. “i need to get back, but enjoy. stay as long as you want.”

though you appreciated her offer, you left soon after. you made sure to pause where she could see you and wave to her on your way out and she held up her crossed fingers again with a grin. you felt a giddy feeling bubble at the back of your throat as you headed home.

——

you started to tag along with your friends more and more often when they mentioned gaz’s, always spending a good portion of the evenings sat at the bar with gaz.

and she kept her promise, saving a barstool for you in the corner on even the busiest nights with a fierce scowl and well placed coughs to anyone that tried to sneak into it.

anyone that didn’t get the message would be ignored, no drinks made, until they’d moved again.

on a slow night, when she rolled a pound over her knuckles back and forth you asked her about her magic tricks.

“what even got you into all of that?” you gestured to the coin and then vaguely at her as a whole.

“magic?” you nodded. gaz smiled and looked down at the coin before placing it flat on the bartop between you. “my nan. she was an magician’s assistant when she was younger. she could’ve been the main star with how much she knew, but it was the 50’s. people weren’t willing to bank on the main talent being a black woman,” she scoffed and you nodded along with a sympathetic hum.

“she taught you?” you asked.

“everything i know. i’ve loved it ever since.”

her hand hovered over the pound coin, snapping her fingers on her other hand. your eyes darted away for a split second and when you looked back she was moving her hand away to reveal a penny.

you laughed and picked it up, turning it around as if it would reveal the real coin when it was in your own hand again.

“you’ll have to tell me how you do it,” you said.

she sucked her teeth. “a good magician doesn’t reveal her tricks,” she sing-songed and took the penny back from you, letting her hand hold yours for a second too long to be casual.

“aren’t you two cosy in this corner?” gaz’s coworker asked from over her shoulder. gaz turned and rolled her eyes at chris as he smirked at the two of you. he leant by to grab a chopping board before leaving the pair of you alone. as he left, he spoke, “i’m sure our gaz could show you a trick or two,” he said with heavy innuendo.

you snorted and didn’t notice how gaz stiffened.

“it’s a work night,” she said to you suddenly. “getting late. you’ll be wanting to go home soon, won’t you?”

you blinked at the sudden change in tone and nodded. with only half a drink left, you downed the bitter drink in one and stood from the bar.

“i think the girls are planning on coming in sometime soon again so i’ll see you then?”

gaz’s smile grew less shaky and she wiggled her fingers back at you as you headed out to the carpark.

——

sat at home, cross legged on the couch, you leant over the coffee table and practiced the rudimentary card trick you’d found from an online video.

“and then use the heel of your palm and the pad of your thumb to flip the correct card over the top,” the video said and you bit your lip as you tried it. you huffed when it didn’t work and tried again until the card moved how you wanted it to.

it was far from smooth and the other cards fell to the floor, but you were slowly getting the actions down. it just had to become muscle memory.

it’d take over two more months of practicing before you’d finally feel confident enough to show gaz.

——

you sat at the bar and grinned when she set down your drink. when you sniffed at it, gaz chuckled and answered your question.

“prickly pear flavour, i think you’ll like it,” she said.

you were inclined to agree, she’d not been wrong once so far. taking a sip, you hummed and took a bigger drink. you palmed the pack of cards in your jacket pocket nervously before pulling it out.

“ok don’t laugh, i’ve been practicing.” you spread the pack out in your hands as gaz stared with wide eyes, slowly growing more amused by the second as you fanned the cards out towards her. “pick a card.”

your showmanship was stiff, the words you’d memorised the man on the video saying coming across a little less flamboyant, and you fumbled the trick a little. nerves left your grip a little sweaty, but gaz reached out in time to keep the pack from falling out of your grasp. she cupped your hands and adjusted your fingers, smiling sweetly when she pulled back again and nodded for you to go on.

you cleared your throat and remembered the next step for the trick, pulling out the card fourth from the bottom and presenting it with a little more flourish.

“is this your card?” you asked.

it wasn’t.

“it is,” gaz said with an excited smile and started clapping. too smitten to bring your mood down by telling you where exactly you’d gone wrong, not when you were smiling at her like that and not after you’d obviously put so much effort into this for her.

you grinned triumphantly, ignoring the few people that had looked over at gaz’s enthusiastic applause, and put the pack to the side. you leant over the bar and snatched the sharpie from her shirt pocket; you wrote your number on the back of the card she’d claimed was hers alongside a wonky moon and sun then presented it once more to her with a softer smile.

she laughed and pulled out her phone to add your number in straight away, adding a moon emoji after your name. she rang the number and you pretended to ignore the call with an eye roll to make her laugh.

snatching your phone from you gaz huffed and muttered, “guess i’ll have to add my own cutesy nickname, huh?”

“i can be cutesy,” you argued but didn’t change the name when you saw it. you snorted.

super sexy bartender (the one with the eyes and the smile and the arms and the…)

“would’ve been quicker to type ‘humble bartender’,” you said with a snicker.

“oh, babes has jokes now?”

“i’m a barrel of laughs,” you sniffed. you turned when you heard your friends call for you. “see? i’m missed already.”

“hmm, you’ll be missed here too,” gaz hummed. “go back to your friends, i’ll text you later.”

“promise?”

“‘course.” she smiled widely.

——

the next couple of weeks were filled with you messaging back and forth during your breaks at work and throughout the day on the weekends before the bar opened and gaz got busy until the late evening… or more accurately the early morning.

one day she offhandedly mentioned that her replies might be slow because it was stock day, and her coworker had called in sick so she wouldn’t have anyone to help until their cover arrived at opening time.

you’d quickly offered her a hand (claiming you may not have muscles like her, but you could carry a box or two without sweating) and headed down when she’d eagerly agreed and the pair of you spent the afternoon together just hanging out and fixing up the stock room, music playing tinnily from gaz’s phone.

it became a habit, you going by when she had stock taking to sort out and more often than not she let her staff come in a little later so she’d have the time with you to herself.

> if you’re not busy do you want to come down to the bar later? xx

> around 12? xx

> it’s kinda important xx

< yeah of course! what’s up? xx

> my mums are in town, wondered if you want to meet them? xx

< i’ll be there for 12 xxx

despite just being friends with gaz - though you were self-aware enough to know you’d like more - you were nervous to meet her mums. you wanted to make a good impression. in fact, you wanted to impress them; leave them wheezing with laughter and contemplating your intriguing and thoughtful insights on the hot topics of the afternoon for months to come.

however likely that would be.

gaz seemed nervous too from where she stood outside the bar smoking. she dropped the cig and stubbed it dead with her trainer when she saw you however, and a wide grin overtook her face, her nervous energy calming considerably as you got closer.

“you look gorgeous,” gaz said before you got a chance to say hello. you laughed, flattered and feeling less nervous yourself as she made you do a spin in front of her before you were allowed inside.

you weren’t wearing anything special, but you supposed the last few times you’d seen gaz you’d been dressed practically to help her lift heavy boxes or dressed for your own work. your short denim skirt was maybe a little more daring than you’d first thought, despite the casual way you’d styled it.

“come on in, they’re dying to meet you,” gaz said as she led you in finally. she rubbed a hand nervously over the back of her neck, tugging at two short locs as you got closer to the table her mothers were chatting at. “might’ve talked about you a fair bit.”

“a fair bit? try a hell of a lot,” one of her mum’s said and you turned to them.

they were like chalk and cheese to look at. one dressed head to toe in flowing light cotton - a dress or skirt, you couldn't tell with the way the layers folded and sat - dyed vivid colours that seeped into each other in no particular pattern and complemented her rich skin tone. her hands were adorned in gold rings and her arms rattled with the layers of beaded bracelets she wore up her forearms. her hair, styled in passion twists, was half tied back with what looked to be a scrap piece of glossy ribbon. "i'm jasmine, kyla's mum."

“nice to meet you,” you said cheerfully and shook her hand when she held it out. her returned smile was reserved and her eyes watched you sharply.

you nervously turned to the other woman. her pinstripe suit fit her like a glove, the trousers flaring at the bottom, and her short, natural curls highlighted her round cheeks. she was just as gorgeous as jasmine, but the stern frown she was sending her wife had your hand almost shaking as you reached out for another introduction. your plan to charm them both didn’t seem as realistic as you’d hoped all of a sudden.

she turned to you and her frown broke, a splitting grin like gaz’s spread to flash the gap between her front teeth and she used your hand to pull you close for a tight and warm hug; she cooed excitedly in your ear as she swayed side to side with you still pressed close.

“we’ve been wanting to meet you ever since kyla first mentioned her new friend,” she said and finally let you go to sit down.

“mama,” gaz groaned a little embarrassedly, sitting next to you. her arm slipped to rest on the back of your chair.

“oh calm down, kyla,” jasmine tutted teasingly, swatting a jingling hand over the table at her.

you turned to her and mouthed, ‘yeah, kyla.’

she pouted but managed to hold back a second groan. menace, she thought fondly, a bashful smile tugging her pout loose.

“we were eager to see who caught our baby’s attention enough to be pulling extra shifts,” jasmine said before turning to gaz. “even tho she should be taking more breaks instead,” she finished pointedly at her daughter.

“i tell her this all the time! she works so hard,” you agreed immediately, nudging gaz’s side as if to say, ‘see?’

“not you too, honey, please. i get enough of it from my mum, i don’t need you siding with them.” gaz shrunk in her seat slightly, her hand drifted from your chair back and closer to your neck.

“‘honey’?” imani hummed, eyes bright and flicking between the pair of you with a knowing smile. “mhm.”

it was easy to see how gaz had grown to be so confident given the women she’d been raised by and the community of loving, intelligent women back in her home town that imani and jasmine spoke so fondly of like they were family. they were, really.

you spent the afternoon listening avidly as they told you about how they came to buy the bar with gaz after she finished what would be her second and final tour in the military; their hurdles when getting it set up; how much they missed her at home but loved seeing her grow and thrive here.

kyla reached out and squeezed her mums’ hands at that and you rubbed her back when you saw the glassy shine to her eyes.

“you know i’ll come back to visit soon,” she promised them. “i’m not waiting ‘til christmas again this time,” she huffed.

“your aunties will give you hell if you do,” imani warned with a wink.

“i was thinking of getting a taper and line up since these have grown in a little more anyway, and ty would kill me if she found out i went to anyone else when i could’ve seen her for it,” gaz said with a chuckle, gesturing to her locs. “i won’t leave it long.”

satisfied with her promise of future plans, her mums took advantage of their small audience and for the rest of the conversation showed you photo after photo on their phones of gaz growing up. a photo of her open-mouth smiling with her front teeth missing as a child; dressed in a small, ill-fitting suit at her prom; stood with three men in uniform, her hair shorn shorter then but with the familiar cap on her head; a picture with her mums’, this one more recent, with jasmine wearing a graduation cap and gown stood, in between to the two masculine women.

even as gaz pretended to sigh and groan in embarrassment at the memories shared, you could tell she was enjoying herself. that even if you weren’t wowing her mums like you’d imagined, your first impression had still been a good one.

you spent the afternoon with them and it was only when your stomach grumbled, having only grabbed a small lunch before setting off to meet gaz so you weren’t late, that the conversation stopped. all three women turned to you in concern and you flushed hot under the heavy attention.

“oh kyla, you dragged the poor girl over here and now she’s starving to death,” imani tutted.

“take her out for an early dinner,” jasmine said, deciding your time together was finished. “we’ll meet you back home later, there’s a few things we wanted to do before the evening anyway.”

gaz turned to you with a hopeful glint in her eyes. “wanna go grab some food? my treat.”

you nodded.

“that settles it!” imani pulled you into another long, tight hug when she stood to leave, rubbing the tops of your arms and smiling at you. “it was lovely to meet you, i can see why she’s so smitten,” she said, causing your stomach to flip and your smile to falter momentarily before widening again bashfully.

gaz was too busy grinning at her mum to hear her mama gossip, and you smiled softly at the pair as jasmine cupped her daughters cheeks and pet the soft skin beneath her eyes gently. jasmine looked the gentlest she had all afternoon, her edges softened.

she turned to you and you expected her gaze to harden a little like it had when she’d sat opposite you across the table, but she stayed soft and took your hands in hers while imani pulled gaz down for a kiss on the cheek and the forehead.

“you’re not what i’d expected,” she admitted, then moved her hand to pull our your moon necklace from beneath your shirt. her smile became knowing and satisfied, like she’d confirmed what she’d already thought true. “have a lovely dinner.”

“thank you,” you said and let her pull you in for a quick hug. “you too.”

you waved as gaz led the pair out, lingering only for a moment at the door before turning back to you.

“got a place in mind?” you asked, grabbing your jacket and bag.

“how does thai sound?” gaz asked as she opened the door for you again.

“perfect.”

——

“so you were in the military?” you asked as you ate. gaz nodded and put her chopsticks down as she spoke about her time with the 141.

“they’re still in the service but they visit when they can,” she said with a shrug. “that’s reminded me actually, johnny should be down soon enough. pretty sure he mentioned having a few weeks of leave coming up. he’s a bit full on, like a puppy, but you’d get on with him.”

you snorted. “i can’t wait to meet him.”

gaz laughed along with you as a warm, gooey feeling spread in her chest.

you walked back to her bar afterwards and lingered outside for a moment.

“want to come in?”

you shook your head. “i shouldn’t. work night and i’ve got laundry to put away when i get back.”

“ooh exciting,” she teased.

you stubbed the toe of your trainer against hers with a roll of your eyes.

“i had fun, we should do this again,” you said.

“yeah, we should,” she stepped a little closer. “thanks for coming to meet my mums, they’ve been hounding me about it.”

“oh really?” you asked with raised eyebrows and an expectant smirk.

gaz licked her lips and nodded. “yeah.”

you noticed her lidded eyes and slow breathing and sucked up the courage to make a move. you lifted a hand to rest on her hip and began to lean in to kiss her, when her eyes widened and she stepped back.

your hand hung in the air for a damning second before dropping.

“sorry, i should get inside. people will be arriving soon and i’m behind on the opening procedure because of dinner, need to cut some lemons,” she joked weakly.

“right,” you agreed faintly. “uhm, of course. sorry. i’ll see you around then.”

“i’ll text,” she said before slipping inside.

you stood there for a moment, a heavy frown settling in as dread and regret pooled low in your stomach.

you turned on your feet and walked to where you’d parked your car and headed home with an uneasy feeling roiling in your gut.

had you read it all wrong? had gaz ever really given you a signal that she was into you or where you only suddenly confident in her interest after her mums mentioned it teasingly?

you spent the evening pissed off and frustrated at yourself, roughly folding your laundry and when you were still full of an anxious energy after you’d finished, you vacuumed, changed your bedding and wiped down all of your kitchen until it was sparkling.

you collapsed on your sofa hours later with an exhausted sigh but when you closed your eyes that nervous energy still buzzed under your skin. so much for an early night before work.

“fuuuuuck it,” you threw yourself back up onto your feet and stormed to the front door, shoving on your shoes, grabbing your jacket and your keys and leaving without a second thought to how sweaty and unkempt you looked after your manic cleaning spree.

you arrived at the bar and bit your lip when you saw how busy it was, unusual for a sunday night, but maybe there was a bank holiday you were unaware of. it wasn’t as if your work gave you them off.

you pushed through the crowd and leant against the bar, waiting for gaz to notice you.

her eyes widened and her lips twitched up in a smile, faltering when you only frowned back.

“what’s up?” she asked, concern slowly bleeding into her tone.

“have i been reading this wrong?” you asked bluntly, not wanting to skirt around the topic any longer. you gestured between the two of you. “have i been pushing for something you don’t want?”

gaz shook her head and put the glass bottle she was holding down on the bar top with a thunk. her eyes were sad as she swallowed and she looked at her coworker behind the bar serving the crowd before deciding she had a moment to spare.

“full disclosure? i’m ace,” she said with a shrug. “and i guess i’ve felt like i’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop with you.”

“oh.” you nodded. she nodded too, looking resigned. “‘waiting for the other shoe to drop’, you like me that much, huh?” you grinned and she looked taken aback. “does being ace mean you don’t like kissing?”

gaz blinked before stuttering out a reply. “n-no i do, i just— it’s the rest of it i could go without.”

you nodded again and tapped your fingers on the bar as you pushed closer, your stomach pressing into the wood.

“were you going to kiss me earlier? outside?” you gestured to the front door and bit your lip.

“yeah,” she said softly, her eyes dipping to you mouth before flitting between your eyes.

“because you like me?”

“yeah, babes,” she laughed.

“and i like you,” you confirmed eagerly, excitedly, as she leant in on her elbows.

she slowly grinned, her piercing shifting and glinting under the smoky lights. “yeah.”

“great. well. stop me if i’m wrong then.” you leant over the last few inches of the bar and kissed her, cupping her face with one hand and using the other to balance yourself. you felt her own hand trail along the back of your hand as she kissed back fervently.

“met your bloody mums and then you had me thinking i was going crazy for thinking you wanted this,” you grumbled when she pulled back for a second.

“i’ll make it up to you,” she promised with a peck to your lips again. “prickly pear?”

your eyes brightened and your pour was immediately replaced with a grin.

“oh, yes please!” you tapped your hands on the bar again, no longer full of an anxious energy but an excited one instead.

gaz leant in for another quick kiss, her lips twisting into a fond smile against yours. when she pulled back she lifted a hand to your ear and twisted it, revealing an orange slice held between her fingers.

“christ, it’s unfair how sexy that is,” you whined. “but that better not be the one going in my drink.”

butch/stud masterlist

and the moodboard!

[lostintransist]

Coffee Shop Meet Cute

Kyle meets a cute reader at a coffee shop who instantly plays off the attraction but is willing to discuss philosphy and likes puzzles. You think this pretty man is entirely to good looking to be into you so you are willing to accept a friendship, but what if feelings start to grow?

AO3

1 - I Don't Know Sign

2 - Plato, Coffee, & Cyphers

3 - The Real Problem With The Trolley

4 - Flaggilation and Funny Names

5 - Too Damn Pretty

6 - Mother Knows Best

7 - Nuclear Power Plant

8 - Sore Loser

9 - Confrontations and Calls

Kyle Masterlist | Masterlist

Dividers found here!

[astriferias]

thinking a lot rn about melshi being so passionate about the injustices happening in the empire's prisons, the PORD and the over-sentencing just to supply bodies to work and build for the empire.

thinking about how it's likely that those prisons are forgotten, at least for a long time, after the republic's final victory on endor. how we don't know just how many work camps and prisons there are scattered around the galaaxy. how maybe some of them are liberated by the rebellion, but most probably aren't. how they continue to operate for unknown amounts of time - maybe even years into the new republic. how the guards realize something is dead, dead wrong when their relief units don't come to cycle them out, or when supplies don't come (i.e. would entire prison systems die if the empire wasn't making deliveries?) and haulers don't show up to collect the products of prison labor, but how some are self-sustaining enough that they manage to keep going for months, perhaps even years. how it takes some bureaucrat looking through a massive stack of documents in mon mothma's offices to uncover references to these prisons, and to dig into it just enough to realize the scale and injustice of these operations. how it could take years to untangle, to figure out who was sentenced when, what they allegedly did, who actually DESERVES to be in prison and who is rightly there. how to differentiate and separate prisoners, to retry and re-sentence those with troubling records, to free those who were unjustly incarcerated.

thinking about how, if melshi had survived, he would have railed on about it at every opportunity from the moment palpatine and the empire fell. how quickly this aspect of the empire's systemic injustice would've come crashing down with him leading advocacy efforts. how mon might have created a special office, given him a special title and team responsible for untangling and correcting this mess.

but melshi died. how many nameless, faceless victims of empire cruelty and overreach died with him? how many thousands and thousands of families never got answers, or closure, for why their loved ones just disappeared one day and never were found?

[kaseyno]

sith who lets agent assigned to him hit him with hammers

[scrollofgrease]

My wife and I saw you across the room and [lightsaber ignition noises]

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 8: And The Life Of The World To Come] [Series Finale]

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church…and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 5.7k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg and also her mum (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle, more in comments! 🥰

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Like all things here, it is a ritual. When a cardinal receives the two-thirds majority of votes required to win the papacy, amidst the applause of his peers, he is asked by the dean in Latin: Do you accept your canonical election as Supreme Pontiff? And he agrees and answers: Accepto. No one ever says Non accepto. No one ever refuses the waiting adoration of over one billion souls.

Next the dean asks what papal name he wishes to be known by—Quo nomine vis vocari?—and the pope-elect gives it, Thomas I, Nicholas VI, Innocent XIV, you get the idea. Then the stove is lit and the ballots burned, along with a mixture of potassium chlorate, lactose, and pine rosin that will ensure the smoke billows from the chimney white and jubilant. The cardinals file out of the Sistine Chapel, the bells of Saint Peter’s Basilica ring, and the crowds filling the square outside cheer; and the new Holy Father dons his white cassock and zucchetto and steps out onto the balcony to introduce himself to the flocks of the faithful, to the world, to the pages of history.

Some popes were prominent voices in the Church long before entering the conclave, like the erudite Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger of Germany who became Pope Benedict XVI in 2005. Others were relatively unknown, like Cardinal Karol Wojtyla of Poland who became Pope John Paul II in 1978, elected as a consensus candidate when neither of the favorites—the conservative Giuseppe Siri and the liberal Giovanni Benelli, both of Italy—could amass a supermajority of votes. In the old days, some won the office through bribery and threats, shades of fraud that reveal a myriad of deadly sins: exorbitant pride, glittering greed, envy for acclaim they have not earned.

And yet no matter how it happens, once a man is a pope he never stops being one. Even if he resigns, even when he dies, the Church will never allow a Holy Father to be torn down or forgotten or disgraced, even if he deserves to be; and when the time comes he is entombed in Saint Peter’s Basilica or the Vatican Grottoes beneath it to become a relic like all the others, aged brittle yellowed bones of popes and nobles and royals and saints.

~~~~~~~~~~

“So you were the one killing them all along,” Rhaena says as you stand together by the koi pond. She grins at you, crooked and mischievous. She keeps flapping her arms around; she knows she doesn’t have much longer to enjoy her white wool habit and is making the most of it.

“Yeah,” you admit with a sigh. “I was.”

“You’re lucky Sister Augustina already carked it. Otherwise she would have terrorized you, she’d have been mad as a cut snake.”

“Righto.”

“We’ll need to read up on proper care for koi fish before we get our own. We can’t have you going all Ivan Milat on them, can we now?”

You look out into the horizon, trees and hedges and fountains that have turned to greyscale ghosts, the vast shadow of the wall that surrounds Vatican City. It’s been raining off and on, and the mist hangs low and heavy, opaque like the future. You can just barely hear that the crowds are singing in Saint Peter’s Square, reverberations too soft and distorted for you to decipher the song. Without realizing you’re doing it, you clasp your medallion of Saint Agatha, cold plain iron that turns warm in your hands. “Rhaena, I have to tell you something.”

“Okay,” she says, and then immediately bursts into tears.

“No, no, don’t cry, mate!” you plead, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

“I know you want to leave,” Rhaena sniffles, not angry or betrayed but only wounded, deeply and defenselessly. “I know you weren’t just saying those things because you got a concussion. I just don’t understand why. You were always so genuine and so happy. I’ve met sisters that do seem kind of miserable, but you weren’t like them!”

“My calling to be a nun was genuine,” you assure her gently. “And so is my conviction to leave now. I’ve felt it for a while. That’s why Mother Maureen sent us here, to either renew my devotion to my vows or help me hear that the Lord is leading me elsewhere.”

Rhaena paws a travel-sized package of Kleenex tissues from a pocket of her habit and noisily blows her nose, sniffles some more, peers miserably down into the dark water sparkling with flashes of scales, red and black and white and gold.

“Rhaena,” you say, and she reluctantly looks at you, her eyes swimming with tears. From her throat hangs a medallion depicting Saint Jerome, the patron saint of orphans. “I’m leaving the convent, but I’m not leaving Sydney. And I’m not leaving you either.”

“You’ll forget about me.”

“No, I won’t. I’ll get a flat in the city somewhere, but I’ll visit you and Mother Maureen all the time. I’ll still volunteer at the shelter and go to Mass every Sunday. I’ll still help you build the koi pond.”

“Really?” Rhaena whimpers, wanting very badly to believe you.

“Defo. I love you, mate. You’re my family. I don’t want to be anywhere else.” But if Aemond ever flew to visit Athens, I’d go with him, you think, a thought that seems to come from nowhere. To find his son that he’s never met. To find his grandchildren.

Rhaena dabs at her eyes with a fresh Kleenex, the tears slowing. “But I’m still so confused…I mean, renouncing your vows, that’s heaps drastic! Why do you have to go right now? What do you think you need that you can’t get as a nun?”

“Well…” You smirk, and when she realizes what you mean you both laugh.

“Seriously?” Rhaena asks.

“Yeah. I thought I was alright without it, but turns out I’m not.”

“You want a husband?”

You nod, smiling a little to yourself. “I can’t stop envisioning myself with a partner. Maybe kids too, I’m not sure. That part is still fuzzy.”

Rhaena sighs. “I can’t relate, but I guess that gives it some context.” Then a disturbing notion strikes her. “You and Cardinal Targaryen, you’re not…you’re not, like, interested in him or anything, right?”

“Oh no, of course not,” you lie very convincingly.

“Good, because I know you two get along and all but he’s deadset not available. And you can’t do anything to hurt his reputation once he’s the pope.”

“No wukkas.” You stare into the thick grey mist, breathe in the cool December air that tastes like metal. Soon you’ll be in Sydney, Australia, where the sand is golden and the air hot and dry and buzzing with the hymns of cicadas, and Aemond will still be here: moving into the Apostolic Palace, greeting multitudes of the exuberant faithful, holding audiences with world leaders. “He’s very committed to the role.”

“He’s going to do amazing things,” Rhaena says softly, dreamily.

“Too right,” you murmur in reply, faint like an echo ricocheting back through decades.

“Should we go help with brekkie so Sister Penny doesn’t have an aneurysm?”

“Yeah, we probably should.”

But you walk slowly, not wanting to see Aemond, not believing that you’ll be able to keep your eyes from drifting to him and getting ensnared there like the iron combs in Saint Blaise’s flesh, stained with crimson blood and torn ropes of muscle. But Aemond is not in the dining hall. Nobody else seems especially alarmed by this; they assume he is praying—or, if they are a cynic like Auclair, at least pretending to—in these final moments before he is given one of the greatest responsibilities in human history, something no good man would ever crave.

As you bring fette biscottate, coffee, and hot chocolate to Aemond’s usual table, Lucky decides to go check on him. He waves goodbye to his friends and gives you a deep nod before he leaves the dining hall, like he’s acknowledging a sacrifice you’ve made. You blink at Lucky, startled despite the fact that you shouldn’t be by now.

Is this really happening? Is this really over?

Cam, cleaning his round eyeglasses with a microfiber cloth, is asking Kazi: “When are you coming to visit me again?”

“Never, if you’re going to make me sleep in a yurt.”

Cam laughs. “They’re called gers. And the ger is a beloved and ancient fixture of Mongolian culture!”

“If I wanted no hot water or television, I could have stayed in the Eastern Bloc.”

“Gers are older than the Catholic Church.”

“So are caves, and I don’t want to sleep in one of those either.”

“We had fun in the ger last time.”

“You made me play Parcheesi until 4 a.m.”

“Yeah, like I said. We had fun.”

Kazi rolls his eyes and then turns to Lando, puffing on his vape. The vapor is sweet and fruity, maybe strawberry. “You must be very excited to get back to your orphans.”

“You would think so,” Lando replies. “But I woke up this morning and, much to my own surprise, found myself a little sad to be leaving. There is so much history here, and so many new people to meet always coming and going. It’s all very inspiring, you know? I’d like to return someday. Perhaps I could find a way to make myself useful.”

Kazi shrugs. “Well, there are orphans everywhere, I suppose.”

Now the dean Cardinal Seaborn is rushing over, his grey hair ruffled, his red zucchetto slightly askew. “Cardinal Nowak, I beg you, please stop smoking inside,” he says.

Kazi grins as he slides his white-and-red vape into a pocket of his scarlet cassock, thirty-three buttons fastened from his throat to his ankles. “I hope you are enjoying yourself, Brother. It is your last chance to scold me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Lucky finds him outside in the mist, leaning against the sand-colored concrete exterior of the Domus Sanctae Marthae and smoking a Karelia cigarette. From Saint Peter’s Square, he can hear the crowds singing The First Noel.

“Pre-wedding jitters?” Lucky jokes, then he turns serious when he sees Aemond’s face, the unscarred right half shellshocked and full of dread. “Aemo, what’s wrong?”

“I just, um…” Aemond takes a drag and exhales smoke while he searches for the words. His bandaged hand is shaking, Lucky notices. This shocks him; he has never seen Aemond rattled before, not when he visited sites of earthquakes and landslides and wildfires, not when he blessed people who had been pulled from the rubble, maimed like he was on Nea Kameni. “I guess I’m feeling a little…conflicted.”

Lucky tries to soothe him. “It’s an immense responsibility. It would give anyone pause.”

Aemond flicks ashes off the end of his cigarette, avoiding Lucky’s eyes, large and dark and sympathetic and wanting so sincerely to help.

“This isn’t about the nun, is it?”

“No,” Aemond says. Then he winces and confesses. “Yeah, it is.”

Lucky is exasperated. “You’ve wanted to be the pope for as long as I’ve known you, even longer than that, I’m sure, and I’ve always felt that there was no better candidate. Now suddenly you see her again after all these years and you become a different person? If you believe God is telling you to leave the Church and be with her, you can share that with me. You can unburden yourself, and we can discuss it. I cannot argue with God. If He has called you away—”

“God doesn’t speak to me,” Aemond says. “He never has.”

Lucky’s brow furrows. Never? he must be thinking. That can’t be right. Never?! “What is it that led you to the Church?”

Aemond admits in a whisper: “Pride.”

“But…you do have some faith, don’t you…?”

Aemond doesn’t reply; he just stares back at him miserably, his cigarette smoldering between his fingers.

“Aemo,” Lucky says slowly, trying to stay calm. “You are my brother. And you are my friend, and I love you, always, unconditionally. But I don’t know how to help you right now. I don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I don’t know either.”

Lucky points at the building. “Those men in there are going to elect you in half an hour. It’s happening.”

“Right,” Aemond says, like he can’t quite comprehend it.

“I don’t think I could stop it even if I wanted to. People think you are a saint, Aemo. They think you’ve been chosen by God. I think you’ve been chosen by Him.”

Aemond nods and stares into the mist, silent, forlorn, his cassock a long gash of red like an open wound, like a stigmata.

“Who else?” Lucky asks softly. “Who else could we trust to lead the Church in the right direction? Who else could get enough votes to win? Give me a name and I will see what can be done. I’ll do it for you, even if I believe you are a miracle worker and a gift to this world. But I can’t think of anybody else. Can you?”

“No,” Aemond says.

The cardinals begin leaving the Domus Sanctae Marthae, pouring out into one of the narrow streets that wind through Vatican City like veins, and Lucky swiftly conjures a broad, blithe smile and greets them, then leads the procession towards the Sistine Chapel. It is the last time they will be ceremonially locked inside to vote, a symbolic holdover from the days when cardinals were not permitted to leave the chapel at all until a new pope was chosen, not even if it took weeks. After all, the word ‘conclave’ comes from Latin: cum clave, meaning ‘with a key.’

As the ballots are tallied, Aemond hears Cardinal Jahoda’s name called twice, Lando’s called a handful of times, and his own name called again and again and again. He gazes at the vast sky blue fresco painted on the altar wall of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo’s The Last Judgment, illustrating the Second Coming of Christ and the resurrection of the dead. He sees Saint Lawrence with the gridiron he was roasted alive on, and is reminded that Lawrence—the patron saint of cooks and comedians—is Kazi’s favorite, just as Lucky wears a medallion etched with the likeness of Saint Valentine and Cam has a ring depicting Saint Catherine of the breaking wheel. Aemond sees Saint Bartholomew clutching his own flayed skin, Saint Sebastian riddled with arrows, Saint Peter holding the Keys of Heaven. And Aemond does not believe in any of this, and he never has, not even in moments of weakness, not even as a metaphor; but she does, and he can’t stop thinking about her.

I left her once, and it was hell for both of us. How can I do it again?

Aemond glances over at Lando, who sits beside him, and sees that he is making absentminded sketches in red ink as he waits for the last of the ballots to be counted. Lando has drawn a menagerie of tiny animals: a gecko, a manatee, a stork, a shaggy-haired yak...and a kangaroo, bounding across the white paper. Aemond closes his eye and sees them again: hopping on the beach in the early morning hours, grazing on tufts of grass that grow out of the sand dunes, nibbling on tangles of seaweed that wash up onto the shore, leaving pawprints that he and a nine-year-old girl kneel down to trace reverently with their small fragile fingertips.

Through the veil—time and space woven together until they become impossible to separate—Aemond realizes that the cardinals are clapping and gathering around him. Kazi and Cam are competing to see who can cheer louder. Auclair is scowling at them as he performatively pats his palms together, not making a sound. Lucky is smiling, but he is watching Aemond with trepidation, perhaps even with fear.

“Aemo, are you alright?” Lando whispers with concern.

Cardinal Seaborn is asking: “Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?”

When Aemond doesn’t instantly accept, panic crosses the dean’s face.

Seaborn says again, more urgently: “Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?!”

~~~~~~~~~~

You hear applause coming from inside the Sistine Chapel, and you stare at the tall wooden doors, locked and flanked by two Swiss Guardsmen wielding their halberds.

“I reckon we should go tell Sister Penny, Sister Nuru, and Sister Helvi that it’s almost time to hear his first homily,” Rhaena says excitedly.

“Sure thing,” you reply. But then you sprint for the doors.

“What are you doing?!” Rhaena yelps as she follows you.

You rip through the Guardsmen when they try to block your path, drop to your knees on the grey marble steps, press yourself against the wood so you can hear what’s happening inside.

A Swiss Guardsman snaps: “Sister, no one is permitted near the doors.”

“Quiet.

“Sister—”

“Be quiet or I will pray for God to do horrible things to you!” you say, and the man appears shaken. The Guardsmen blink at each other, uncertain of how to proceed. After some hesitation, Rhaena apologizes meekly to them and then perches on the top with you.

“What’s going on?” she murmurs. And you listen, through the rush of blood in your arteries, through the pounding rhythm of your heart, until you hear his voice.

“Non accepto!” you shout from where you kneel just outside the Sistine Chapel. “He said non accepto!”

Rhaena gasps. “What?! Why?!”

“I don’t know!”

One of the Guardsmen seizes your arm and tries to drag you away. You don’t flinch at all, and you don’t move either. “Sister, forgive me, but you must not—”

“Shh!” you hiss fiercely at him, and he recoils, and again you lay your palms and ear flat against the door.

~~~~~~~~~~

The cardinals have erupted into chaos. People are yelling, protesting, interrogating, surely they could not have heard him correctly. Jahoda, Auclair, and Ferrari have huddled together and are chattering eagerly. Lucky is rubbing his forehead and staring vacantly at the floor. “What the fuck?” Kazi mutters to Cam, who shakes his head; he doesn’t understand either.

Aemond stands and walks down into the aisle, then addresses his audience. “Thank you, Brothers, for your great faith in me. But I believe I am being called to a different sort of life. And I…” He touches the gleaming gold cross that hangs from his neck, then takes it off and sets it on a table that’s been brought in for the conclave. There are sharp, scandalized intakes of breath. “I must confess that I am in love with a woman and I intend to live with her as a layperson, and therefore I am not fit for this office, nor even to cast a vote for the next man to hold it. So I’ll be leaving now.”

There are more outbursts of shock and despair; some men are weeping. Cardinal Seaborn collapses limply into a chair and clutches his chest.

“In my last act as a member of this conclave, and as a cardinal,” Aemond says. “I implore you to turn to someone who best embodies the qualities of Christ: humility, compassion, charity, faithfulness, forgiveness.” Then he looks at Lando, a long meaningful stare, until the other men start to notice. Lando gazes back at Aemond, speechless. What, me? the expression on his face reads.

Aemond bows his head, a hushed farewell, and strides towards the locked doors. In seconds, Lucky has grasped his plan and surged to the center of the roiling crowd, his voice booming, his gestures dramatic and rousing.

“Brothers, I invite anyone who has a single criticism against Cardinal Almazan to speak now! Who here can give voice to even one instance of pride, or wrath, or envy? No, we are all well-acquainted with his character...”

When he reaches the tall wooden doors of the Sistine Chapel, Aemond thumps his fist against them. “Unlock the doors!” he commands, and then when the Swiss Guardsmen outside are reluctant, Cardinal Seaborn joins him.

“Open up!” Seaborn orders. “This is the dean! We have one cardinal leaving. Do this quickly, so the conclave can resume!”

There is the metal scraping of a key in a lock, and then cool December daylight streams in through the space that appears like the vastness of the ocean. The nuns that had been kneeling on the marble step skitter out of the way, but Aemond only sees one of them. She staggers backwards and gapes at him, waiting for him to speak. After a moment, he does.

“What you said about us leaving together…is that still something you’re open to?”

She nods, thunderstruck but beginning to smile. “Yeah, defo.”

“Do you think we could get a driver to take us to the airport?”

“If you’re the one who asks, sure.”

And he offers her his bandaged palm, and she takes it, and he pulls her in like he did in the golden candlelit glow of the Clementine Chapel in the Vatican Grottoes and kisses her, not for the last time but for one of the very first, his hands now perfectly clean.

~~~~~~~~~~

They have placed a Christmas tree in Saint Peter’s Square, towering and covered with ornaments and lights, right in the center beside the ancient Egyptian obelisk that has stood there since the 1500s. Today, tourists who have flown in from all over the world take selfies in front of it, and when the holidays have passed the tree will not be simply discarded but repurposed into toys for children in need, and so it will be passed on and on and on again, like a cherished heirloom, like the Keys of Heaven.

As the Fiat Panda skirts around the piazza, you look out through the tinted window into the crowds, carrying their homemade signs and waving their miniature flags and waiting for white smoke to billow from the Sistine Chapel. There are reporters interviewing attendees in front of video cameras labelled CNN, BBC, ABC, the Hellenic Broadcasting Corporation, Mega TV. There has been an altar of sorts assembled at the spot where Aemond freed you from the burning car, a display of white candles and red poinsettias; and there are statues and banners of Saint Agatha too. Someone must have told the press that she is your favorite saint, perhaps Mother Maureen when they called the convent.

Beside you in the back seat, Aemond wears something inconspicuous so he won’t get mobbed at the airport, black trackies and a white crewneck. He has also procured a pair of black sunnies from the driver. You are dressed in Levi’s and a red turtleneck sweater with reindeer on it. Back in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, you and Rhaena folded up your habits and stowed them away in your luggage; but your rosary is still in the pocket of your jeans, white pearls, a silver chain. As you gaze out into the crowds, you clasp the small iron medallion you’ll wear for the rest of your life, Saint Agatha and the torture that broke her body but left her soul unscarred.

“Dear God, you’re both famous,” Rhaena says from the passenger’s seat as she scrolls through her phone, social media posts and news articles and YouTube videos that have circulated prolifically while the conclave was trapped in seclusion. “People are calling the two of you their Roman Empire. They say they ship it. And you’re a meme, look!”

She shows you and Aemond a viral photo of him cradling you in one of the fountains of Saint Peter’s Square, the white Fiat engulfed in flames and screaming pedestrians in the background, both of you drenched with water, your eyes closed and his blood cascading down your face as he smooths back your hair, like you’re being baptized with it. The text box superimposed over your body reads: Me contemplating driving off a bridge during my morning commute. And then in the box on top of Aemond: A $9 iced coffee.

“Hm,” Aemond says, tapping his chin in that way that he does when he’s thinking. “So I guess we’re not going to be able to disappear into anonymity quite so easily.”

“Yeah nah, not a chance.” Rhaena beams at him. She keeps accidentally calling him Cardinal Targaryen, but that’s not his name anymore. “I think you’ll be inspiring people for a long, long time.”

Aemond smiles and drapes his arm across the back of your seat. There is no medallion around his neck, no rosary in his pockets, and there won’t be until he truly believes, and perhaps he never will. You’ll love him even if he doesn’t. Aemond tells the driver to turn on the car radio, and then makes him change the station until he finds Christmas music: O Come, All Ye Faithful.

At the airport, the customer service agents are remarkable unhelpful—swamped with holiday traffic and wearing jingling felt reindeer antlers or oversized Santa hats—until Aemond takes off his sunnies and they recognize him, their mouths falling open, their eyes filling up their faces.

“Father, aren’t you supposed to be getting elected pope right now?” one of them asks in a thick Italian accent.

But Aemond just shakes his head and flashes a grin. “God has other plans for me.”

Almost immediately, the agents find three seats for you on an outbound flight to Sydney, ten thousand miles southeast, eight hours ahead of the time zone here in Rome, twenty-nine years in the past. You sprint through the airport to find the gate—yanking Rhaena along when she tries to stop at Starbucks for a cuppa—and arrive just minutes before boarding begins. You take this opportunity to call Mother Maureen while Rhaena races back to the Starbucks, promising she’ll be quick. You have thousands of texts and DMs to reply to from your time in seclusion. At least you’ll have something to keep you occupied on the twenty-two hour journey, including a layover in Dubai.

The phone rings only once; she must have been waiting for you. “Hello?”

“Hi, Mum.”

“Hi, darling!” Mother Maureen cries, and you can feel the warmth of the hug she’ll give you when you land, and you can see the crinkles at the corners of her eyes and the long silver braid down her back. “How’s it going, love? You’re done there, yeah? We saw the white smoke. We’re all gathered around the telly waiting to see who walks out onto that balcony.”

They voted again already? “Yeah, I’m on my way home. And Rhaena too, of course.”

And then there is a pause, like the lull between the tolls of a bell. “Are you coming to visit, or to stay?”

You look to Aemond, who is wearing his black sunnies again and trying very hard not to be noticed, clasping your left hand, skating his thumbprint over the bumps of your knuckles; now he is allowed to touch you, and he never wants to stop. “Just for a visit.”

Mother Maureen can hear the smile in your voice. “Rather chuffed with yourself, aren’t you?” she teases. “I’m happy because you’re happy.”

“And I’m bringing someone with me.”

Now you’ve surprised her. “Really? Who?”

“A friend from a long time ago.”

Mother Maureen is confounded. “What?”

“I’ll explain when I get there.”

“Oh, they’re about to announce the next pope!” she says, and you can hear the other sisters in the background, indistinct ambient squeals of excitement. “It has to be that Targaryen bloke, right?”

You glance over at Aemond again. “I doubt it, Mum.”

“Oh, it’s...it’s...” Mother Maureen gasps. A chorus of bewildered turmoil fills the lounge room at the convent. “It’s some Filipino man that no one has ever heard of!”

Lando?! “Okay, I have to go, Mum! We’re about to board.”

“Text me your flight number so I can track you!”

“Sure thing. Cheers.”

You hang up, and before you can say anything, you hear a crescendo of a roar, like a concert stadium, like ancient Romans filling up the Colosseum to watch Christian martyrs get fed to lions. You and Aemond twist around in your chairs to see that passengers are turning up the volume on a flatscreen television mounted on the wall, CNN, urgent red graphics, breaking news. Rhaena returns with three gingerbread chai lattes and gawks at the television.

There on the screen, Lando steps out onto the balcony of Saint Peter’s Basilica. And applauding all around him are the cardinals of the conclave, and the loudest among them are his friends, their faces beaming and their cheers triumphant, and perhaps even more than that, proud: Lucky, Kazi, Cam. Jahoda and his supporters are clapping politely; this is a compromise they can live with. The dean Cardinal Seaborn looks like he could cry with relief.

Lando, now Pope Nicholas VI and dressed in white, speaks into the microphone with a dazed, shy smile: “Brothers and Sisters, I did not expect to be here, and you surely did not expect to see me either.”

The crowds in Saint Peter’s Square laugh, so deafeningly you can hear them through the television. You catch glimpses of tourists waving miniature flags of the Philippines. The Holy Father pauses to collect his thoughts before he continues. Here in the Leonardo da Vinci International Airport, more and more travelers are stopping to watch the small soft-spoken man on the luminous screen, their suitcases rolling to a halt, their expressions curious and then hopeful.

“In recent events, God has shown us the power of His miracles to heal, and to comfort, and to bring people together, and to revive faith that has been lost to us,” the new pope says. “It is my most sincere wish to define my pontificate with these same attributes. And it would not be right to address you here today without thanking one of my dearest friends, Cardinal Aemond Targaryen of Greece, for everything he has done for the Church and for the world. You will not see him here today. He has been called to a different vocation, just as noble, just as important, and I’m sure he will speak to you directly to share more about that when the time is right.”

A middle-aged man standing behind you whispers to his wife: “I knew he had something going on with that nun.”

“Would you save me from a burning car, babe?” the wife asks playfully.

“Oh yeah, totally,” the husband says, but he doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

The Holy Father continues: “Today, Brothers and Sisters, I ask for your patience and your prayers. To be entrusted with the Keys of Heaven is a sobering honor, and I am still at this moment very much in awe of their weight.” The people in Saint Peter’s Square cheer for him again: Bless you, Father! We love you, Father! “I am reminded of the Lord’s teachings that we are all God’s children, the beneficiaries of His boundless peace and mercy, the recipients of His promise of everlasting life, and as children we can never expect ourselves to be faultless, but rather to respond to inevitable missteps with compassion for both others and ourselves...”

But now your flight has begun boarding, and a life on the other side of the planet awaits you, something new but something old too, something mortal and yet divine, something resurrected.

Upon examination of the tickets, Aemond and Rhaena’s seats are together, while you are across the aisle. You tell Rhaena that you will switch with Aemond to sit with her, but she shakes her head. “No, you two should sit together,” she objects, and then when you try to decline, she insists. “I have to get used to giving you some space, don’t I?” she says, smiling warmly even if her eyes are still a bit sad. She is wearing a green velvet dress freckled with silver Christmas trees, and she looks so young. Was I really her age when I took my vows? I didn’t know anything yet. “It’s not like I’m going to move in when you get married. So go on, enjoy your flight. I have a lot of YouTube videos to catch up on anyway. We can meet up by the bathroom to have a yarn every hour or two. I’ll fetch you. Don’t think I’ll forget. Don’t get too distracted by your snogging or whatever.”

You chuckle and embrace her, only for a moment but very tightly. “I love you, mate.”

“I love you, sinner.”

And you both burst out laughing, and then you part ways, Rhaena to one row as you and Aemond take your seats in another.

The plane barrels down the runway, becomes weightless somehow and lifts into the sky, pitches and shudders until it is high above Rome and ascending rapidly, soft white clouds and an endless blue horizon. You gaze through the oval of clear glass, cold beneath your palm and fingerprints, thinking of froth on the ocean and the crumbling slopes of sand dunes. Beside you, Aemond types and retypes the same message over and over again in his Notes app, trying to figure out what to say to the son he’s never met. Then he opens Spotify and puts his AirPods in your ears, and his bandaged right hand lingers afterwards, cradling the curve of your jaw and stroking your cheek, threading his fingers through your unbound hair. And then he plays you a song. It’s Atlantic City, and it’s about the mafia, and escape, and love, and things that have died coming back to have a second chance at life.

You see yourself there again, a pizza place on the boardwalk when Sydney is hot and radiant with summer, and Aemond is not a twelve-year-old boy but a man, and instead of vanishing through the doorway into a labyrinth of night and stars and streetlights he is walking in to join you at the table, and he is smiling. Then Aemond’s son is there too, and his daughter-in-law and his grandchildren, and Sister Rhaena and Mother Maureen; and after twenty-nine years everything is right again, and everyone is home.